Spatchcock produced her mother’s bridal veil. ‘I kept it when she went,’ he told Sergeant Dunphy in the church.
‘Now that’s a nice thing,’ said Dunphy. ‘If only she could come back and see it.’
The vicar’s florid face still betrayed his pessimism. His gas-mask case was slung across his vestments and his steel helmet was looped on his shoulder. He approved of special licences even less than he approved of enemy action. ‘The Church has ordained that the banns should be called for three weeks before the ceremony,’ he intoned. ‘But in these troubled and dangerous times this has been changed, not necessarily for the better. Today the bride and groom have given less than a week’s notice to the Church and to God. I must therefore ask this congregation if there is anyone present who knows just cause or impediment why these two people should not be joined together in holy matrimony. Speak now or for ever hold your peace.’
The only sound in the ancient church was the brushing of the trees outside and the mooing of the cows apprehensive in their new field.
The Reverend Hands was not comfortable. He stumbled through the service and Rose, kneeling beside Ardley, whispered: ‘He’s windy.’
Then as Dover’s siren howled distantly, the vicar stiffened. ‘The air-raid warning has sounded,’ he announced unnecessarily. ‘Enemy action is imminent.’
A distraught voice came from the church door. It was the new clergyman’s wife wrapped in an oriental shawl. ‘They’re coming!’ she bellowed. ‘The bombers are on the way!’
It was all the priest needed. ‘To the crypt!’ he exclaimed waving his arms at the full congregation. ‘We will continue the service in the crypt.’ He placed and adjusted his steel helmet firmly above his pink face and went at a trot up the aisle. The astonished parishioners watched him exit. They went out into the pale and locally peaceful afternoon and then filed into the dark space of the crypt. An embarrassed verger lit two oil lamps and the vicar stood between them spectrally, his shadows crossing. It was more crowded than it had been for three centuries.
‘What’s in them boxes, sarge?’ whispered Sproston.
‘Dead bodies,’ answered Dunphy. ‘Old ones. Have yer never been in a crypt before?’
‘One is moving,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘I can see it.’
The vicar was incanting the service. Rose whispered to Ardley as they knelt: ‘Not many people have a wedding like this.’
‘I bet,’ he said.
Jenkins persisted. ‘There’s something moving. Behind them coffins.’
A shadow materialised. Jenkins gave a moan. A black cat slid between the old caskets, pushing through the cobwebs. ‘They’ve even got the well-known cat in the crypt,’ said Dunphy. ‘Who crapped and crept out again.’
‘You looked beautiful in your dress, Rose,’ Ardley told her.
‘Good stuff this parachute silk,’ she smiled. ‘You looked pretty smart too. Even down in that crypt I could see the toes of your boots shining.’
They were in the village hall. There was the aroma of a large side of beef being roasted on a spit. The cow killed by the bomb had been a touch of fortune. The Ministry of Agriculture inspector would not arrive for several days.
There were sixty people in the hall. A man had come along and offered to play the spoons and another had his handbells; rung fully they were used as a warning of a poison-gas attack, so he played them softly.
‘The sergeant polished my boots,’ said Ardley to Rose. ‘All the boys mucked in. They pressed my uniform. It could stand up by itself.’ He fingered the creases on the sleeve saying: ‘You could cut your finger on that.’ She felt the crease carefully. ‘And they polished my cap badge and my brasses and blancoed my belt. Welshy even scrubbed up my ammunition pouches. Who wears ammo pouches at his wedding?’
Rose said: ‘Let me have a smell of your toecaps.’ Ardley lifted the boot and she put her nose close to it. ‘Smells like something I know. When my horse has a pee.’
Ardley laughed and lowered the boot. ‘You could be right. Something Dunphy learned in India. Spit and urine.’
Spatchcock came across the room. ‘You looked better than your mother did,’ he said reflectively. ‘Mind, it was a long time ago.’
Rose was suddenly forlorn. ‘She would have liked to have been here today, wouldn’t she, Dad.’ She turned to Ardley. ‘I hardly remember her. I was only five when she died.’
Spatchcock said: ‘She’s not dead.’
Rose almost fell from her chair. ‘Not . . . not dead? But you’ve always told me . . .’
The old man was scarcely embarrassed. ‘Well, I had to say something to explain why she wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘It seemed easier . . . more straightforward.’
Rose put her face forward into her hands as though she were crying. ‘My God,’ she said lifting her head. She was laughing. ‘My father!’ She looked directly at Spatchcock. ‘Well, if she’s still alive, where is she?’
‘Don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘She went off with some motor dealer, years and years ago, to . . . what’s that place that sounds so wild . . .?’
‘Timbuktu,’ suggested Rose. Now she had tears on her cheeks.
Her father said: ‘No, not as far as that. In this country . . . in England . . . It’s called . . . Leighton Buzzard, that’s right, Leighton Buzzard.’
One of the village girls brought over a tray with filled wineglasses, red and white. They each took a glass. The old man seemed to think some further explanation was needed. ‘She went off with this chap in a Daimler . . . it wasn’t his, he was just selling it. But she left that headdress behind and I hid it. I’m glad I did. It suits you, Rosie.’ And he kissed her.
At ten o’clock the truck arrived to pick up the soldiers. They were full of beer and beef and Sergeant Dunphy had to be helped up over the tailboard. It had been a glad occasion. There had been dancing to piano music with the rhythm of spoons and hushed handbells. Everyone agreed that they were unlikely to enjoy a meal so much until the end of the war. Spatchcock made a speech which few understood and then slipped slowly but spectacularly beneath the table taking the cloth and everything that was on it with him. Ardley played the piano and they sang.
Between them the bride and groom helped Spatchcock to his bed. ‘Now,’ said Rose, ‘I’ll show you our wedding bed.’
She took him by the hand and led him out of the house. ‘We’re not sleeping with the horse,’ he said.
They held each other in a full and happy embrace in the night-time farmyard while the clouds moved heavily overhead. Somewhere an aeroplane groaned but it was far distant. ‘I’ve moved Pomerse to the far corner,’ she said as she began to open the barn door. ‘And it’s all warm and clean. I cleaned it up myself.’
He helped to open the door and they closed it behind them. There was a candle in a jam jar on a shelf behind the door and Rose lit it. The glow filled her face. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Our marriage bed.’
They walked tenderly towards it, a mattress laid on straw in one of the stalls. It had white sheets and pillows with two blankets folded at the foot of the bed. They undressed and lay on the bed with the jam pot still gleaming and making great shadows in the roof of the barn.
‘Nobody’s ever had a wedding day like mine,’ whispered Rose.
Ardley said: ‘Except me.’
Chapter Eleven
SAID THE SAILOR to the soldier: ‘After this war’s over you’ll be able to go to the doctor, or have him come to your house, for nothing. Not a penny. No more saving up two and a tanner to go to him if you’re poorly. Hospitals, everything, will be free.’
Said the soldier: ‘I’ll believe that when it happens, mate. Where’s all the money going to come from?’
‘The government pays. And rich people. Every bandage, every bit of cotton wool if you’ve cut yourself bleedin’ shaving. All free.’
‘I’ve heard promises before. Plenty of ’em.’
‘Oh, you might have to pay summat. A shilling a month or summat. And there’ll be pr
oper pensions as well for everybody. Not some measly ten bob a week and the means test.’
Giselle came into the bar and looked to the side where the RAF crews congregated. No one was there but an air-raid warden in an oilskin gazing deep below the surface of his beer.
She went immediately to the sailor and the soldier. ‘Where are they gone?’ she asked. ‘The air-force boys.’
‘Spent their pocket money, I expect, love,’ said the soldier. ‘Want a drink?’
‘Thank you, no.’ She stared about the bar again as if someone had performed a trick. ‘All gone,’ she said.
The sailor said: ‘I bet they’ve moved them. Out of harm’s way.’
‘But where?’
‘God only knows, dear. And if you go around asking in that foreign accent they’ll arrest you for a spy.’
The barman, greasy-faced from the cellars, came from the door at the back. Giselle turned to him. ‘I’m looking for Toby . . . Toby Hendry the airman. He is usually here with the others.’
‘They’ve vanished.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Done a flit somewhere. The planes flew off this morning. I heard them, one after the other.’
She looked at the faces of the men, turned decisively and left walking briskly towards the bus stop. It was still early evening. Ten minutes later she was on the bus. She got off at the stop by the RAF station. ‘All flown the roost,’ said the conductor as she was about to leave the platform. ‘Gone with the wind.’
The gate of the airfield was closed, and the field behind was unoccupied, now just a field. Hung on the gate was an Air Ministry warning to trespassers, but the sentry post was unoccupied. She walked in. The airfield was ghostly, a wind parting the grass, the huts and buildings standing dumb. A metal door banged repeatedly. There was only one aeroplane to be seen and that was nose up at the end of the runway. She walked to it and called: ‘Toby,’ up to the empty cockpit but softly, not expecting a response.
Sadly she turned and walked slowly towards the buildings. A door opened and two RAF officers came out. They saw her immediately. She went towards them. ‘Where is everybody gone, please?’ she asked.
‘Who would like to know?’ enquired the senior of the two men.
‘I am Giselle Plaisance . . . Giselle . . . from the Marine Hotel.’
‘Yes, I recognise you.’
‘I am the friend of Toby Hendry.’
‘I know that too,’ he said. He pushed open the door behind him. ‘Come in and sit down.’
His tone gave her a heavy heart. She followed. The room was bare except for a scarred desk and two chairs. The officer motioned her to take one. He sat behind the desk and the second officer said from the door: ‘I’ll make myself scarce.’
When he had gone the senior officer said: ‘I’m Squadron Leader Gidman. I’m locking the place up.’ He moved his hands about. ‘It’s odd to have an empty desk.’
‘What has happened to Toby?’ she asked directly.
‘Missing,’ he said miserably. ‘Missing in action. He could be a prisoner.’
Giselle continued to regard him steadily. ‘But you think he’s dead.’
‘No, no. There’s always hope. But he was operating with another squadron, bombers, and nobody saw him go down, no sighting of a parachute. If he’d been with his chums they would have followed him down and we would know. But bombers are not so manoeuvrable. And they didn’t know him.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ she said, stone-faced.
He sat embarrassed behind the desk until he thought of something to say. ‘His mother is his next of kin and she’s quite cheerful about it. She says he’s had good luck all his life. Something about a motorbike crash when he was seventeen.’
‘This is an aeroplane crash,’ said Giselle.
‘I know, I know.’ He decided to tell her. ‘We are moving to a new air station in Essex. Hitler is going to start bombing London in earnest and we need to be on the spot.’ He looked up. ‘Toby’s car is in the workshop hangar,’ he said. ‘I was wondering what to do with it. I can’t see his mother coming down to collect it.’
‘I will take it,’ said Giselle quietly. ‘I can put it in the hotel garage. There is not much in there. I can look after it for him. Until he comes back.’
The officer seemed relieved. He stood. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘And I’ll get somebody to drive it down there.’ Giselle went out in front of him. He pointed towards the upturned plane at the end of the runway and tried a joke. ‘Wouldn’t like to take the pranged Hurricane, would you?’
Giselle smiled wanly. ‘There is not enough room in the garage,’ she said.
‘We’ve got to get it taken away. The army are coming in here and they moan like fury if we leave any litter.’
He was talking for the sake of it. He led her to the workshop and opened the door with a key. ‘There,’ he said. ‘In the corner.’
‘I see it,’ she said. The place was otherwise empty and the car stood in a patch of light coming through a grimed window. They walked to it and she touched the driver’s seat. ‘I cannot drive,’ she said. ‘So if you can make that arrangement I would be grateful. If you will give me the number, I will telephone Toby’s mother and tell her I have the car.’ She turned and gravely shook his hand. ‘I must go. My bus is due.’
‘I hope to have better news soon,’ he said. ‘I will have to tell Mrs Hendry first, of course.’
‘She will tell me,’ said Giselle. ‘I am sure.’
A pink-cheeked RAF corporal brought the car to the hotel the following morning and Charlie opened the doors to the garage. ‘Handy little runner that,’ said the airman to Giselle when he had the vehicle parked in a dim corner. There was only one other car in the wide gloomy space, a Rolls-Royce with a sepulchral sheet over it.
‘That’s not bad either,’ he laughed picking the edge of the covering from the Rolls-Royce. ‘Whose is that?’
‘Mussolini’s,’ said Charlie his face unmoving. ‘Left it here last time he stayed.’
The airman gave him a joking push and let the sheet drop back into place. He nodded at Toby’s Austin Seven. ‘It’ll be after the war till that’s on the road again. Who knows, we might all have to drive ruddy Kraut cars by then.’ He saw the expression on Giselle’s face and added: ‘But I don’t reckon so. I can’t see anybody in this country driving a German car.’
When he had gone and Charlie had followed him Giselle stayed with the car. Tenderly she ran her hand over the door and polished the handle with her handkerchief. Then she opened the door and sat in the tight passenger seat. She leaned forward and closed her eyes. Please God, make him be safe.
She did not stay praying long. She went up to her desk in the lobby of the hotel and picked up the telephone. ‘Fogmoor 235, please,’ she said to the operator. ‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘Nor me,’ said the man. ‘But it’s not the worst one this week. Somebody wanted Dunkirk and I thought they was joking, naturally. But they wanted Dunkirk that’s near Canterbury. There . . . Fogmoor’s ringing for you.’
It rang for a minute before Toby’s mother picked it up. She sounded so deep and formidable that Giselle almost replaced the receiver. ‘Mrs Hendry?’ she said instead. ‘Toby’s mother?’
There was a slight alteration in the voice at the other end, a touch of anxiety. She said: ‘It is. Who is this speaking?’
‘I am Giselle . . . I was . . . I am a friend of Toby. I work at the Marine Hotel in Dover. I have his little car here.’ She paused. ‘Is there any news?’
‘Not yet, young lady,’ said the older woman firmly. ‘But I have alerted the Air Ministry. They will tell me. But I am quite sure he is safe. His father was posted as missing three times in the Great War and he turned up each time. Just like a bad penny, as they say.’
‘I pray that Toby will be like a penny also.’
‘Don’t worry, I have the greatest confidence in him. You are French?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Belgian or anything like
that? Worse still, Flemish.’
‘No, I come from northern France. I can almost see my house from here on a clear day. My mother and father are still there.’
‘I am sure they’ll be quite all right, dear.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You say you have Toby’s car.’
‘Yes, it is in the hotel garage here. It is quite safe. The air force have moved to somewhere and they let me have the car to look after. I cannot drive but I can keep my eyes on it.’
‘Well done. You sound a sensible gel. Not like some today. Flibbertigibbets.’
‘No, I am not one of those.’
‘Excellent . . . now what was your name?’
‘Giselle. Giselle Plaisance.’
‘What a nice name. The telephone number, please.’
Giselle told her and with an airy farewell Toby’s mother rang off. Giselle sat staring across the lobby. Outside the door three boys were climbing on each other’s backs. She thought they were the same boys as had been at the skating rink on the night she first met Toby. When they all skated together in the dark. The telephone rang, startling her.
‘Marine Hotel. How can I help you?’
‘By opening a bottle of champagne,’ said Toby’s mother triumphantly. ‘I had scarcely put the phone back when it rang again. My friend at the Air Ministry. Toby is safe. He is unhurt and is a prisoner of war. They treat them well. Geneva Convention rules.’
‘Thank God,’ said Giselle deeply. She thought for a moment, then said: ‘I can write to him and send him food parcels.’
‘Yes, indeed. I told you, did I not? He will be home when this idiotic war is over.’
‘I will wait.’
In the third week of September the tides, the winds and weather, and the ominous expectations all began to change. The soldiers remained in their trenches and emplacements and surveyed the ever-vacant sea. Some army units still only had enough ammunition to carry out sporadic fire for fifteen minutes. There were special church services in Dover at which the clergy prayed that the invasion would not come while the Home Guard prayed more fervently that it would.
Dover Beach Page 21
