Dover Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  Cotton swallowed heavily. ‘What sort of gun?’

  ‘Like a machine gun.’ Her face had gone white.

  ‘Mum,’ groaned Harold. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  Cotton said: ‘I’d like to see it.’

  Harold turned but his mother said: ‘I’ll get it. I know it’s under your bed.’

  ‘It’s heavy,’ said the boy. He looked defeated.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she repeated going out. ‘I’m used to carrying things.’

  Sullenly the boy regarded Cotton. ‘We found it.’

  Cotton felt his jaw sag when Doris returned down the stairs. He stepped to help her but Harold got there first, taking the weapon from his mother and heaving it on to the table. ‘Mark 2 Bren gun,’ he announced.

  Almost timidly Cotton touched the barrel. ‘In working order?’

  ‘A few bits missing,’ said Harold. ‘And no ammo.’

  There came a knock on the front door and Harold seemed alarmed. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ responded his mother going quickly into the passage.

  Cotton studied the boy and then the Bren gun. ‘What next?’ he breathed.

  As though in answer Doris ushered two boys through the passage, Spots and Boot, the Polish boy. They stared at the policeman and the gun.

  ‘We’ve been betrayed,’ Harold said to them.

  Doris handed each of the boys a biscuit from the tin. Boot glanced about him as if considering making a run for it. Harold took another biscuit, then, on a thought, passed another to Cotton who took it. ‘There’s no ammo,’ said Spots.

  ‘Where,’ asked Cotton, ‘did you get it?’

  ‘Found it,’ put in Boot defiantly. ‘Somebody lost it.’

  ‘Careless,’ sniffed Spots.

  Harold said: ‘I’ll do the talking.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Cotton turning to him. He sat him on a kitchen chair. ‘Where did you get this weapon?’

  Doris dabbed her wet eyes.

  Harold said: ‘Up the Folkestone road. Those Local Defence blokes, the LDV . . .’

  ‘Look, Duck and Vanish,’ smirked Spots.

  Harold said: ‘’Ome Guards now. They was supposed to be practising fighting. We was hiding in the grass and watching. Talk about a laugh.’

  ‘Like Keystone Cops,’ put in Spots.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Harold impatiently, ‘they were up there with a couple of old rifles and some spear things that was in the museum and an axe and that, and their armbands saying “LDV”, and they were putting some tin dinner plates in the road . . .’

  ‘Mines,’ said Boot. ‘Supposed to be.’

  Harold grinned. ‘It was funnier than the pictures.’ The two other boys began to snigger.

  ‘And this?’ pressed Cotton nodding at the Bren gun.

  ‘They left it behind,’ shrugged Harold. ‘Forgot it. It was up in the ferns at the side of the road so we took charge of it . . . and there it is.’

  Doris regarded Cotton anxiously. ‘Are they in a lot of trouble?’

  The boys eyed each other. Boot looked as though he might start to cry. Cotton said: ‘I’ve got to get my car. They’re putting in the windscreen. Then I’ll take this weapon to the police station.’

  ‘What are you going to tell them?’ asked Doris.

  ‘I’ll say I found it,’ he said. ‘The Home Guard must have missed it by now, but they may have tried to keep it quiet. But you three . . .’ He regarded them grimly. ‘Keep out of trouble. You can’t fight the Germans, even if they do turn up. They’ll kill you. You’re . . . you’re not old enough.’

  When Italy had entered the war in June, Giuseppi Laurenti, manager of the Marine Hotel, had in a day become Joseph Laurence. He was as English as Dover and he now had his British passport displayed above the reception desk in a glass frame which, like much else in the hotel, had been cracked to a spider’s web by the reverberations of the bomb. He had taken his Italian grandfather’s name only in the cause of business and at a time when Italians had been old friends. When Italy, under the dictator Mussolini, entered the war after German forces had conquered Europe, angry civilians in Britain, eager for action, had taken local revenge by wrecking harmless Italian hotels, unprotected restaurants and ice-cream carts. Now Joseph had not only abandoned his former name but with it the professional operatic accent. He also shaved off his romantic moustache.

  ‘Ladies,’ he addressed the six American women who had entered the hotel dining room in a file. He revolved to face Cartwright. ‘And sir. Good day. I would have liked to offer you a table at the window but, as you see, we have no window.’

  The women smiled and shook their heads. ‘And,’ he was beginning to spread his hands but then dropped them, ‘if you find a piece of glass in your soup, then I will not be the least surprised.’

  Everyone laughed bravely. Lunch was limited because of the kitchen ceiling. Mushroom soup, lamb and vegetables, and Kentish strawberries and ice cream. The only other guests in the dining room were two unsuitably suited businessmen immersed in papers, and a sadly thin old lady who lunched there every day.

  The Americans’ tour of the town had been disappointingly short; most places they had wanted to see, including the Roman lighthouse, had been guarded by soldiers with fixed bayonets and with little idea of what they were guarding. The lady with the notebook had earnestly asked one of the sentries when the Roman lighthouse had last been in use. ‘No idea, missus,’ he muttered. ‘It weren’t shinin’ last night.’

  The party had gone back for a second view of the bombed Co-op. Men were burrowing through the debris. ‘Digging for the cat,’ said the informative man who had been there earlier.

  At the table the visitors drank Italian wine for which Joseph apologised. ‘We are saving the French wine for the victory celebrations.’ Once again he stopped himself spreading his hands.

  Cartwright asked the woman with the notebook if she had found enough to write about. ‘History,’ she said happily. ‘I’m recording history.’ They voted their enjoyment of the Kentish lamb.

  Giselle, serving the vegetables, said: ‘Best lamb in England.’

  Sarah sat next to Cartwright at the end of the table. ‘I’m sorry the tour has been so unsatisfactory,’ he said. ‘A week ago it would have been much better.’

  ‘But then we would not have seen the bombed store,’ she said. ‘Tonight they’ll be writing home like crazy, bragging that they have been in the front line.’

  He thought there was some sadness about her. Something that had happened to her perhaps.

  To his surprise she suddenly asked: ‘Are you married?’

  He replied slowly: ‘I suppose I am.’

  Sarah said: ‘I’m a widow.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You are very . . .’

  ‘Young,’ she finished. ‘I know, I know. I didn’t plan it like this, believe me. We had just come to the London embassy. Last November. He was run down by a taxi in the blackout and he died three days later in Guy’s Hospital.’ She smiled slightly. ‘That sounds very American doesn’t it, Guy’s Hospital.’

  ‘That’s very sad,’ he said. ‘The blackout’s killing more people than the war.’

  ‘I believe that.’ She was eating the ice cream and strawberries. She extracted a small triangle of ceiling plaster from the ice cream and said: ‘Well, he did warn us.’

  He took the spoon from her and handed it to Charlie who said: ‘Looks just like vanilla, don’t it.’

  ‘How long they are going to let me remain at the US embassy I don’t know. I was lucky to get a job in the archives department and that’s saved me so far. Sooner or later, though, they’re going to ship me home. They’ve sent some folks already.’

  Cartwright regarded her. She had green eyes, almost grey. ‘We came to London from Washington knowing it could be dangerous, that was okay, but we hadn’t reckoned with an invisible taxi.’ Charlie had brought another dish of strawberries and ice cream but, without fuss, she waved it away. �
�You only suppose you are married?’ she said.

  He made a grimace. ‘My wife is Irish, and she left for her home town in County Wicklow on the second day of the war – on Monday 4 September last year. She said she didn’t agree with it. I haven’t seen her since although we write now and then. I don’t think she’s coming back.’

  ‘How long can Ireland stay neutral?’ Sarah said. ‘If the Nazis occupy this country then they’ll be next.’

  ‘Clare says she trusts them.’

  ‘You don’t look like a soldier,’ she smiled.

  Cartwright shook his head. ‘I don’t imagine I ever will.’ He tugged at his battledress. ‘None of this seems to fit. Uniforms are not meant for some people.’

  ‘And some people are not meant for uniforms,’ she replied.

  Then there was an explosion, distant but enough to make the room tremble, followed belatedly by the warbling air-raid siren. All the talk stopped, all eyes turned towards Cartwright. Charlie, big eyebrows arched, hurried from the lobby followed by Giselle. ‘I think we should withdraw to the cellar, ladies,’ Cartwright said.

  The old lady, who had lunched as if she were alone in the room, said loftily to Charlie: ‘The Hun will not prevent me finishing my dessert.’ The two businessmen hurriedly gathered their papers before leaving a shilling tip on the table and making for the door. As they reached it there was another explosion which made it tremble. A pane of glass slowly slid out.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cartwright rising, ‘I think the cellar.’ The woman with the notebook was scribbling furiously, not even halting as they were ushered out by Charlie and Giselle. Then Charlie put a steel helmet over his sparse hair. He returned at an amble. ‘Can’t see ’em,’ he said.

  The solitary old lady was unhurriedly gathering her belongings. ‘I am prepared to leave,’ she announced.

  The hotel cellar was down a double flight of wooden steps. It was lit by only two bare bulbs which made stark shadows on the old brick walls. There were ancient barrels and dusty wine racks and three wooden garden benches which Charlie attempted to brush down with newspaper before the Americans sat on them. ‘You are quite safe down here, ladies,’ he said solemnly. ‘Unless we get a direct hit.’

  Cartwright said to him: ‘Where’s the old girl?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, she’s gone off. She’s got a car and a chauffeur so she’s off home.’

  Another explosion sounded and the cellar trembled. Brick dust trickled from the ceiling on to the women’s hats and they took them off and shook them. The scribbling lady hardly looked up.

  Charlie uncovered a bundle of candles in a dark corner and they set them up and lit them. ‘I wonder how long the enemy – I mean the Germans – will keep it up?’ said the American woman with the pout.

  ‘Till they get bored, I ’spect, missus,’ said Charlie.

  Sarah quietly said to Cartwright: ‘I would love to see Canterbury.’

  He said: ‘Perhaps I could show you around. I was born there.’

  ‘Is it still possible to visit?’

  ‘It was possible last week,’ he said. ‘Before all this serious stuff started.’

  ‘You will show me around? The cathedral?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  The group sat in the dimness. ‘What luck,’ enthused one of the Americans. ‘We can say we’ve been bombed by the Nazis.’

  There came a further explosion, though still distant. The group huddled closer. Cartwright was conscious of Sarah’s slight form against his battledress. Then the lady with the notebook slammed it shut and began to sing badly but determinedly:

  ‘There’ll always be an England . . .’

  The other Americans joined her.

  ‘While there’s a country lane,

  Wherever there’s a cottage small

  Beside a field of grain.’

  The big latch on the door of the cellar sounded. The singing stopped. The door swung open to frame the large uniformed legs and waist of a policeman. He bent his helmeted head and peered in. ‘Bombing in the east of the town,’ he said solidly. ‘Hit some houses and there’s some casualties. But they look like they’ve cleared off.’

  Cartwright said to him: ‘I’d like to get these people to the station.’ The all-clear siren began to sound its steady groan.

  ‘Train to London is in twenty-eight minutes,’ reported the policeman, still bent almost double but managing to consult a large watch. ‘I’ll get a couple of taxis. That ought to do it. They been sitting in the bus shelter doing nothing but counting the bangs.’

  Chapter Three

  CIVILIAN TRAVELLERS WERE still boarding the Dover ferries for France even during the first year of the war. Motorists, intent on holidays and with reservations, arrived expectantly at the ferry dock only shortly before the British army, fleeing Dunkirk, came in the opposite direction. In the months before that advertisements had appeared persuading well-off people that the Côte d’Azur was still a place of sunny peace; Paris – soon to be a subjugated city – was seen to be bright and unchanged. In the first winter of hostilities some snow resorts of the Alps retained their attractions and there were special excursions to ever-neutral Switzerland where, from cleverly constructed lookout platforms on the German border, tourists could view enemy soldiers goose-stepping on the other side of the Rhine.

  Dover had been designated a ‘safe area’ by breezy estate agents hoping to induce the gullible to buy houses there, and 400 London children were evacuated into the town in the autumn of 1939 – although many became bored and missed their home streets, so their mothers took them home.

  When the expected early mass destruction by dive-bombers did not happen people came out from the chalk caves, blinking, into the Dover sunshine. They sniffed the ozone, had tea in the promenade cafés, and bathed in the sea-water pool; some even skated in the outdoor roller rink.

  Life and conversation became normal: the films at the cinemas, the new bill at the Hippodrome music hall, births, deaths and marriages.

  Then the sweeping German victories in Europe brought the enemy to the doorstep of Britain, and Dover was that doorstep.

  During the Dunkirk evacuation more than 100,000 defeated soldiers disembarked in the port. The wounded were taken off in trains and were angered to see from the windows white teams playing at cricket as if nothing had occurred. Hundreds of other men were left to wander about the town after dumping their rifles. They shuffled along the pavements among the Dover housewives occupied with their Saturday shopping. They were sunburned and dirty and some seemed to be sleepwalking. They drank the pubs dry and slept on park benches. Some gladly took off their boots and paddled in the sea.

  The convoy bombing of mid-July was the start of the everyday war. Air raids on the town caused death, damage and consternation. In the harbour HMS Sandhurst, a supply ship loaded with high explosives, caught fire and three Dover firemen had earned themselves the George Medal before the flames were put out. The population was urged to evacuate because of the immediate threat of invasion and many did. The armed forces took over. Barrage balloons floated above the roofs.

  Conversation in public houses was often tense.

  ‘Fourteen thousand quid for a footballer – for one blinking man!’ said the sailor to the soldier in the four-ale bar. ‘That’s bloody madness, mate.’ There came a remote explosion and the glasses on the bar quivered musically.

  ‘Folkestone,’ said someone.

  ‘Not too much for Bryn Jones,’ argued the soldier.

  ‘He’ll be a lot of use to the bloody Arsenal now,’ the sailor said. ‘They won’t be playing for years.’

  Giselle, on the other side of the full, dim and smoky room, asked: ‘Why is it the soldiers and the sailors argue so much?’

  Toby Hendry, a young airman, realised she was asking him. They had not spoken before. ‘They’re getting ready to fight the Jerries,’ he suggested. ‘Getting their dander up.’

  ‘I have not heard that, dander,’ she smiled.

  ‘
Temper,’ he said. ‘Bad temper. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Merci, I would like a glass of wine. I came to meet a friend who is not here.’

  He went to the bar. The bald barman rolled his false teeth in his mouth. There came another distant explosion. ‘Folkestone,’ he confirmed. He looked at the clock over the bar. ‘Time the Jerries went home, anyway. Past their bedtime.’

  Hendry returned to Giselle with the drinks. ‘They had French,’ he said. He held a pint of Kentish beer in a glass mug with a handle. They exchanged names.

  She said without looking at him: ‘I saw your name in the Marine Hotel register, pilot officer. I work there.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he tapped the bands on his sleeve. ‘Defence of the Realm by Air.’

  She studied him quietly. He looked boyish, and his uniform accentuated his boyishness.

  ‘I booked the room because I was expecting to see a lady friend for dinner,’ he said. ‘We were engaged once but then it was off. Tonight was supposed to be making-up time. But she didn’t turn up.’

  The sailor and soldier were still arguing among the smoke on the far side of the bar. ‘Listen, mate, how is Hitler going to get across the flamin’ Channel? Swim?’

  The soldier sniffed. ‘They said ’e could never get through France. But ’e did.’

  ‘This time he’ll need boats,’ pointed out the sailor. He patted a badge on his sleeve. ‘We got a navy. And what about ’is ’orses. They’ve got thousands of ’orses. The Jerry army can’t move without the ruddy things. ’Ow does he get them over ’ere?’

  ‘So you fly in an aeroplane?’ enquired Giselle. She made a movement with a small flattened hand.

  ‘I didn’t today because I bent the prop – the propeller – when I was landing yesterday. On a tree. But I’m up there again tomorrow. Give me a wave.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And you? How did you get here?’

  ‘I came with the soldiers from Dunkirk. I hitched a lift, as you say. My mother also. But she has gone back to France.’

  Hendry looked astonished. ‘Back? Why did she do that? How did she do it?’