The girl stared into her wine. ‘She came with me to England but she went back on the same boat, when it returned to get more soldiers. We had left my father on the farm. Somebody had to look after the animals. But when she got here, to Dover, she knew she had to be with him, so she went back. I have heard nothing of course. I can only hope they are safe. I think of them.’
There was no moon but it was a luminous summer night with the roofs of the blacked-out town showing pale and the sea glowing. They walked along the promenade and sat on a bench looking coastwards, above the skating rink. ‘It was amazing, crazy,’ said Giselle. ‘When I came here with my mother at the Dunkirk time there were soldiers, English and French, everywhere, walking about like lost ghosts. They were in Woolies – Woolworths – buying some things, like sweets or toys for their children. Others just treading anywhere, or sleeping on seats like this one.’ She nodded towards the skating rink. ‘There were even some soldiers skating.’
Hendry looked that way, then narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s somebody down there now,’ he said. ‘Skating in the dark. Looks like kids.’
Together they unhurriedly rose and walked down the sloping path between the municipal shrubberies towards the low gate of the rink. Harold saw them coming first and spun to a stop. Boot collided with him. Spots ran into the fence.
‘Bit late for skating,’ said Hendry.
‘Just practising,’ said Harold. He saw they were interested. ‘Want to have a go?’
‘Do you skate?’ Hendry asked Giselle.
‘On the ice,’ she smiled. ‘But it is not so different.’
The airman said to the boys: ‘Where did you get the skates?’
‘We only borrow them for a bit,’ said Harold. ‘The rink is closed now. Because of the war and that. We always put them back. Spots’s got the key.’
‘We lock it up after,’ Harold said. ‘If we don’t the council bloke will know and they’ll take the skates away somewhere. They’re rotten spoilsports.’
Boot said: ‘Worse than Hitler.’
‘Shush, mush,’ Harold warned him. Seriously he peered through the dimness. ‘Voices travel at night.’
‘Let’s get some skates,’ suggested Hendry to Giselle. ‘Have a try.’
The boys’ delight was visible. ‘Yeah, get some,’ said Harold. All three turned eagerly towards the dark hut and it was Harold who returned with the first pair of skates. The other two boys carried one skate each.
‘Maybe they are big for me,’ said the French girl.
‘There’s a way you can make them smaller,’ said Harold. After a glance at Hendry he performed a short awkward bow towards Giselle and she sat on a wooden bench at the side of the rink. Then, continuing the gallantry, he knelt in front of her with a skate held ready. Hendry grinned and motioned for the other skates. Boot and Spots were watching Harold and the French girl and held out the skates to him almost absently.
Giselle was wearing a summer dress. She lifted the hem to her knee, slipped off her left shoe and teasingly offered the foot to the boy. Again Harold glanced at Hendry who was adjusting his skates, and then at his entranced friends. He muttered: ‘I’m only helping.’
The twelve-year-old was sharply conscious of the nearness of her shin. The rim of the dress was next to his nose. He fumbled with the skate and, without daring to touch her skin, fitted it to her foot. Then the second skate. She adjusted the ankle straps herself. Harold rose like a pageboy. ‘Don’t you fall off,’ he warned with a croak.
Hendry tested out the skates. He offered his hand to Giselle. Harold hesitatingly offered his too. The young Frenchwoman, taking both, stood unsteadily between them but soon with confidence. ‘The same as ice,’ she said.
They were grouped in a semicircle next to the fence. She released their hands. ‘All right,’ said Harold, ‘let’s start.’
They set off easily around the oval rink. Giselle giggled and held out her left hand to Harold, then the other to Spots who grabbed it. Boot looked at Hendry and shrugged: ‘I’m always last.’
They had made three circuits of the rink, the rollers purring, when voices came from the path above. They braked with their toes and Harold guided them into the shadow beside the ticket hut. ‘It’s the Home Guards,’ he whispered.
A group of shadowy men stopped on the raised path. The skaters crouched in silence.
‘Nice night for fishing, George,’ they heard one man say.
‘Aye, would be one time,’ came the reply.
Harold put his finger to his lips in the dark. The men moved on.
‘They’d shoot anybody,’ said Spots. ‘Soon as look at them.’
‘We’d better go,’ said Harold grumpily.
Regretfully they all removed their skates. The boys put them back in the hut and carefully locked the door. ‘We’re here most nights,’ said Harold to the couple. He began tucking something into his snake belt.
‘What have you got there?’ asked the airman.
‘Catapults,’ said Harold. ‘All of us.’
‘And ball-bearings,’ said Spots. He showed a handful of shining steel balls.
Harold glared at him but said: ‘Go through any German, they would.’
‘Make holes in them,’ said Boot.
They walked, uncertainly and a little apart, along the esplanade towards the hotel. The night remained close and calm, the sky purple. ‘War can be so very peaceful,’ Giselle said.
‘It’s been fairly noisy recently.’
‘Are you very scared . . . frightened . . . when you are flying your plane and there is fighting?’ She paused. ‘You could die.’
Hendry gave a short laugh. ‘That has occurred to me. But there’s not much time for anything. Even dying. Sometimes, you know, I feel almost sorry for them, the Germans. The bombers are so slow, you can pick them off, and the Messerschmitts, good as they are, can only hang around for a few minutes before they have to turn back to avoid running out of juice.’ He waited thoughtfully. ‘And sometimes they send the bombers without the escorts. Sitting ducks.’
She moved close to him and put her arm around his waist. ‘These are not good times,’ she said, ‘for young men.’
They strolled, comfortably now, in silence until a single file of men appeared, progressing along the gutter with a dogged tread. The leading figure halted, raised a heavy sporting gun towards them and the rest of the men came to a ragged stop. One dropped a brass bed knob and picked it up coyly. ‘’Alt,’ demanded the leader. ‘Where d’you think you’re off to?’
To Hendry’s surprise it was Giselle who answered. ‘Bed,’ she said.
There were some murmurings among the men. Hendry guessed they were the same patrol from which they had hidden at the skating rink. The leader continued to direct his bulky gun towards them until Hendry said: ‘I am an RAF officer. I order you to point that thing somewhere else.’
The barrel was reluctantly lowered but only a few inches. ‘More,’ said Hendry with authority.
The man complied sulkily. ‘It’s for shooting ducks,’ he said.
‘We don’t quack,’ said the RAF man. ‘What did you want?’ His eyes travelled along the ragged line. The leading man was wearing a steel helmet and peered balefully from below the rim. The man who had dropped the bed knob had three more slung about his neck like grenades. The one behind him was in a First World War soldier’s coat with a stiff peaked cap, and the last in the line wore a fireman’s brass helmet glowing faintly in the uncertain night. There were two more guns – one of which was no more than an air rifle – a garden fork and a cricket bat.
‘I’d like to see your papers,’ said the man in the front trying to restore some gruffness to his voice.
‘On what authority?’ enquired Hendry. ‘You can see I’m a serving officer.’
‘We don’t take no notice of uniforms,’ argued the man, but uncertainly. Then adding: ‘Sir,’ he continued: ‘There’s spies everywhere.’
Hendry sighed and took out his identity papers. ‘I�
��m a fighter pilot,’ he said. ‘I shoot down German planes.’
‘Good for you, sir,’ said the Home Guard, handing back the documents but not seeming overimpressed. ‘You keep downing them. We’ll round up the swines down ’ere.’ He seemed about to ask for Giselle’s papers, but he desisted, and looked behind him as if to ensure the others were still present. The man with the brass helmet had taken it off but now put it on again and the leader said: ‘Section forward.’ They shuffled off.
‘Christ almighty,’ muttered Hendry.
‘These brave men would not frighten the Germans, I think,’ giggled Giselle. ‘Even the one with the big gun.’
‘The bloke with the brass hat looked like the old German Kaiser,’ laughed Hendry. They held each other’s waists and went towards the darkened hotel. Giselle produced a key and opened a side door saying: ‘This is the secret way.’
In the lobby, shuttered with heavy blackout curtains, a small night-light flickered in a saucer of water like something left for the cat. They turned and stood against each other as they embraced and kissed. When they parted she went quietly behind the reception desk. There was one key remaining on the board behind it, and she removed it and returned to him. ‘Your key, monsieur,’ she said with a droll expression. He took it but she then held out her hand and he returned it to her. ‘I will show you. The stairs are dark.’
‘I’m afraid of the dark.’
They mounted the staircase carefully. Hendry could scarcely believe what was happening. Halfway up, vibrations of a deep snore followed them. ‘Charlie,’ she whispered putting a pale finger to her lips. She pointed down to the lobby.
They reached the landing and then went up a second flight. Outside his door she kissed him again, touching him with her body, and gave him the key. He found the keyhole. She came close again. ‘It is a pity not to use a double,’ she said.
He smiled in her face. ‘A complete waste of three quid.’
Within the room an insipid light filtered from the window. He made to draw the heavy curtains but she touched his arm. ‘Do not,’ she whispered. ‘There is too much dark.’
They stood, Hendry suddenly clumsy, Giselle faintly smiling, at the foot of the large shadowy bed. There was enough light for him to study her face, its pert lines, and the slender silhouette of her upper body. ‘How old are you, Giselle?’ he asked.
‘I am old enough. Twenty. Why do you ask me?’
‘Just . . . well, conversation . . . I’m a bit lost for words.’ He paused. ‘I am twenty-four.’
‘Merci,’ she said. ‘Thank you for telling me.’ With confidence she began to unbutton his smooth air-force tunic. She put her finger against her nose and gave the airman’s wings a kiss. ‘To bring luck,’ she said. ‘Take your tie off yourself, Toby,’ she added like a mother. He did so and she took his hands and placed them on her breasts.
‘They . . . they are very nice,’ he mumbled. She laughed quietly and moved his hands to press the nipples. ‘Ah . . .’ he said. ‘That’s how you do it.’ He could see her smile clearly now.
‘You can continue,’ she invited. ‘The buttons are down the front of my dress.’
‘I spotted them.’ His voice had become gravelly. With care he undid the small buttons, feeling the mounds of her breasts against his knuckles. Almost impatiently she shrugged away the top half of the dress until it fell, revealing her naked to the waist. He smiled suddenly, happily.
‘I am running out of underwear,’ she said as if in explanation. ‘English underwear is for old women.’
‘You’re right,’ he nodded. ‘Absolutely right.’
He reached for her and held her naked top against his shirt and they kissed again, fully, then parted a little as his swift mouth travelled down her neck until he was kissing her breasts. ‘Don’t forget you have a tongue also, darling,’ she prompted.
‘Ah yes,’ he remembered putting it out and against a nipple. ‘Thank God you’re French.’
Her hands were fiddling at his waist and, like a trick, when she took them away his uniform trousers fell down. ‘So easy,’ she said.
Hendry thought he was going to faint with enjoyment. Holding him she eased him towards her and, dropping to her knees, as gently as a handmaid, she put him to her mouth. There was an explosion.
It shook the whole fabric of the hotel. The sash of the window fell. Dust from the bedroom floor rose to meet falling flakes of plaster from the ceiling.
‘Bugger it,’ said Hendry.
Giselle said: ‘Exactement. Bugger it.’
There came bangings on the bedroom doors as Charlie ran around the landings. Hendry called out: ‘I know, I know.’
‘Down in the cellar!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Everybody!’
Giselle was standing in a corner of Hendry’s room, among fallen plaster and floating dust, pulling her dress up over her shoulders. ‘That Charlie,’ she muttered. ‘He should run the war.’
As if he suspected he might be in the right place Charlie shouted at the door: ‘Miss Plaisance – she ain’t in her room!’ Hendry opened the door an inch. Charlie was in a collarless shirt, sagging trousers and toe-less bedroom slippers.
‘She’ll turn up,’ mumbled Hendry. ‘Probably gone for a walk.’
Charlie backed away. ‘At one in the morning?’ He was heading for the stairs.
Hendry closed the door. Giselle was putting on her shoes in the gloom by the wardrobe. She put her finger to her lips. ‘You first. Then me a little after.’ She moved quickly forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Maybe another time.’
The airman went briskly along the landing and down the stairs. Other doors were open but when he reached the cellar only a sulky woman was there, clutching a cat in an open basket. Charlie came in with a fuzzy-looking man wearing a suit but no shirt, and a middle-aged couple with eyes downcast from either sleep or guilt. Then Giselle appeared. ‘What is the trouble?’
Hendry grinned in the flickering light. ‘Trouble? Trouble?’ said Charlie. He glanced towards Hendry. ‘Oh, there’s no trouble, dear, except we could die any minute and it’s the manager’s night off. Didn’t you hear the bang?’
Giselle looked surprised. She shut the door behind her and keeping her eyes from Hendry murmured: ‘I sleep so well.’ Absent-mindedly she stroked the cat in the basket and said: ‘Nice pussy.’
The woman almost tugged the animal away from her. ‘Pardon, Mrs Wilberforce,’ said Giselle sweetly.
‘This,’ said Mrs Wilberforce angrily, ‘is so much nonsense. Dover used to be such a nice town.’
Nobody argued. The cat went to sleep and the humans sat down and began to loll against each other. There were no more detonations. There came a jangling of the hotel’s front doorbell. Charlie went out and they could hear conversation. When he returned he said: ‘It was a mine washed up. It went off right on the beach. One of ours they reckon, though I don’t know who went to look.’
He opened the door and as they all trooped out he called: ‘Goodnight. Sweet dreams,’ to them before making for his cupboard below the stairs. Hendry went up towards the landing. He heard Giselle following carefully. The lobby was empty below. She kissed him tenderly on his cheek. ‘Tomorrow . . . today . . . you must fly your aeroplane,’ she said. ‘You must rest. We love some other time.’
At four fifteen in the first light of the summer morning the famous cliffs of Dover stood like pale ghosts. From the bridge of his wooden minesweeper Lieutenant Commander Instow surveyed them as the vessel came about and began the journey back after the final sweep of that night. At sunrise the cliffs became gold.
It had been an uneventful night. Minesweeping was often like that, although not always. The Germans sometimes sent seaplanes to sow the mines at dusk along the approach to the port. It was like a game – the minesweeper’s crew often tapped the old wooden hull for luck and gave thanks that there was no danger from magnetic mines. Those who could, often worked in stockinged feet; boots were heavy if a man ended up in the sea.
At
times like this, the first wedge of the morning, as they made towards harbour, Instow struggled to keep his tired and middle-aged eyes alert. He often thought about his wife Roz, who remained distant in Cumberland. He had told her he was glad she was somewhere safe, but he knew by her letters, and his, that their lives were inching apart. It was as if the war had been the excuse, not the reason. When he was recalled to the navy he had urged her to expand her life without him and she had done so. For women, war had opened up so many doors, so many exits, so many excuses. With an energy he scarcely recognised she wrote of her work with the Women’s Voluntary Service, the Civil Defence, the Dig for Victory Club and, recently, the Allied Officers’ Club in Workington.
That night there had been three minesweepers in the operation. One was steaming back to Chatham and one to Folkestone. Instow thought he was probably too old for the dangerous routines of war. It was not the first time.
The familiar unfolding of Dover town began. It unravelled like a tapestry. He could navigate now by the spires of churches. Signals began blinking from the defences ordering that the vessel identify itself although its shape was easily familiar. Other signals came from the onshore batteries where, he suspected, they might be tempted to open fire through sheer opportunity. He took the minesweeper through the one negotiable harbour entrance. The second entrance was barricaded by a sunken block ship. Most of his crew were on deck, some still without boots. Full daylight was spreading across the town now and he could see people and some vehicles moving in the streets. They tied up and he sent Sub-Lieutenant Mancroft to naval headquarters with the written report of the night’s uneventful activities.
The cook brought him a cup of tea and a wad of toast. He took off his outer clothes and lay on his bunk where he fell at once to sleep. It seemed only moments later that the young Mancroft appeared beside him with a square of paper. ‘Signal, sir. Something big’s on. “Prepare for sea, prepare for action, await further orders.”’
In half an hour they were once more pushing out of the harbour in the foaming wake of two destroyers speeding towards mid-Channel. The morning was still bright and the French coast stood out clearly. Instow rubbed his sore eyes.
Dover Beach Page 5
