In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “I think so. What else bothers you?”

  “That’s the simple part. As far as we can tell, nobody reported Gloria missing; there was no hue and cry. It looks as if nobody cared. Somebody has to. I seem to be good at it, overburdened with compassion, a natural.” Banks smiled. “Am I still making sense?”

  Annie brushed his sleeve with her fingers. “I care, too,” she said. “Maybe not for the same reasons or in the same way, but I do.”

  Banks looked into her eyes. He could tell she meant what she was saying. He nodded. “I know you do. Home?”

  Annie stood up.

  They walked out into the street, much quieter now night had fallen. The fish and chip shop was still serving, and two of the kids who had been in the pub were leaning against the wall eating from newspaper. A whiff of vinegar drifted by.

  At the top of the ginnel that ran past the churchyard was a swing gate, and after that the narrow, flagged footpath curved around the steep banks of Gratly Beck about half a mile up the daleside to the village itself. Luckily, there was a moon, for there was no other illumination on the path. Sheep scampered out of the way and bleated. Again Banks thought of the blackout. His mother had told him a story of a friend of hers who made her way home from work at the munitions factory by touching 176 railings along the canal-side before her left turn, then five lampposts down the street. It must have been in the early days, Banks thought, before Lord Beaverbrook ordered the collection of all railings for the war effort. His mother had also told him about the enormous mountain of pots and pans on the cricket pitch that were supposed to be turned into aircraft.

  Once through the narrow stile at the other end, Banks and Annie turned left past the new houses. The pavement was broader there, and Annie slipped her arm through his. The small act of intimacy felt good. They crossed the stone bridge, walked along the lane and stood at Banks’s front door.

  “Coffee?” Banks asked.

  Annie smiled. “No, but I’ll have a cold drink if you’ve got one. Non-alcoholic.”

  He left her in the front room rummaging through his compact disc collection while he went to the fridge. It was eerie how the kitchen always gave him that feeling of peace and belonging, even at night when the sun wasn’t shining. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell Annie about it without feeling like an idiot.

  He took out a carton of orange juice and poured them both a glass. An old Etta James CD started playing in the living-room. Funky and fiery. He hadn’t played it in years. Annie walked in, clearly pleased with her find.

  “You’ve got a hell of a CD collection,” she said. “It’s a wonder you can ever decide what to play.”

  “It is a problem sometimes. Depends on the mood.” He handed her the glass and they went through to the living-room.

  Soon Etta was belting out “Jump into my Fire” and “Shakey Ground.”

  “Sure you won’t have a nightcap?” Banks asked when Annie had finished her orange juice.

  “No. I told you, I’ve got to drive back. I don’t want to get stopped by an over-zealous country copper.”

  “It’s a pity,” said Banks. “I was hoping you might change your mind.” His mouth felt dry.

  “Come to Mama” was playing now, and the music’s rhythmic, slow-moving sensuality was getting to him. He had to keep telling himself that Annie was a detective sergeant, someone he was working with on a case, and he shouldn’t even be thinking like this. But the problem was that Annie Cabbot didn’t seem like any detective sergeant he had ever come across before. And she was the first woman, apart from his daughter, Tracy, to visit his new home.

  “Well,” said Annie, smiling. “I didn’t say I had to go just yet, did I? You don’t have to get me drunk to get me in bed, you know.” Then she stood up, crossed her arms in front of her and pulled her T-shirt slowly up over her head. She stood holding it in her hand, head tilted to one side, then smiled, held her hand out and said, “Come to mama.”

  There are giant redwood trees in California, they say, that can grow another layer around the dead and blackened wood if they ever burn in a forest fire. Matthew’s disappearance burned out my core like that and while, over time, I did grow another skin over it, a harder skin, there was part of me inside that was always black and dead. There still is, though over the years the new skin has grown so thick that most people take it for the real thing. I suppose, in a way, it is real, but it is not the original thing.

  Of course, life went on. It always does. In time, we laughed and smiled again, stood on the fairy bridge and discussed the Italian campaign, lamented the shortages and complained about Lord Woolton Pie and the National Wholemeal Loaf.

  Gloria threw herself into her work at the farm, making it clear that she was indispensable because the government was putting even more pressure on women to work in the aircraft and munitions factories, the idea of which terrified her. Rumour had it that there were spies from the Labour Exchange all over the place just looking for idle women. If there were, they left me alone, too, as I had enough work on my hands looking after an invalid mother and running the shop, as well as fire-watching and helping with the WVS, taking out pies and snacks to the field workers in the area.

  In October, Gloria had her hair done like Veronica Lake, with a side parting, curling inwards over her shoulders. I had the new, short Liberty Cut because it was easy to manage and my hair just wouldn’t do the things Gloria’s did, even if I put sugar-water on it.

  That month also, Gone With the Wind finally came to Harkside, and Gloria and Mr Stanhope practically dragged me to see it. As it turned out, I enjoyed the film, and found it was made even more poignant by the death of Leslie Howard, whose aeroplane had been shot down by Nazi fighters in June. Mr Stanhope, battered hat on his head, tapping with his snake-head–handled cane as we walked back, was enthusiastic about the use of colour and Gloria, needless to say, was potty about Clark Gable.

  Autumn mists came to our shallow valley, often making it impossible for the aeroplanes to land or take off for days. In September we heard that the Rowan Woods Aerodrome had been closed and the RAF had gone somewhere else. It was hard to get a clear answer to any questions in those days, but one of the ground crew told me that the two-engined bombers they had been flying were old and were being phased out of operation. The runways at Rowan Woods had to be converted to be able to handle four-engined bombers. He didn’t know whether his squadron would be back or not; things were so uncertain, people coming and going at a moment’s notice.

  Whatever the reason, the RAF moved out and a crew of labourers, mostly Irish, came in. Over the next couple of months, they brought in tons of cement, gravel and tarmac to bring the runways up to standard. They also put up more Nissen huts.

  Of course, the character of village life changed a little during this period: we had a few fights between the Irish and the soldiers at the Shoulder of Mutton, and we got used to the whiff of tar that would drift through the woods when the wind was blowing the right way.

  Early in December the labourers finished their work and shortly before Christmas, Rowan Woods became the new home to the us 8th Air Force’s 448th Bomber Group.

  Just like that.

  The Yanks had arrived.

  Ever since she had seen Gloria’s image and heard her name on television, Vivian Elmsley had been expecting the police to come knocking at her door. It wasn’t as if she had taken any great steps to cover her tracks. She had never consciously sought to hide her past and her identity, although she had certainly glossed over it. Perhaps, also, the life she had lived hinted at a certain amount of conscious escape. At every stage, she had had to reinvent herself; the selfless carer; the diplomat’s wife; the ever-so-slightly “with-it” young widow with the red sports car; the struggling writer; the public figure with the splinter of ice in her heart. Would that be the last? Which was the real one? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if there was a real one.

  Though the worry and fear gnawed away at her after the TV broadc
ast, Vivian tried to live a normal life: wandering up to Hampstead in the morning; reading the newspaper; sitting down in her study for the day, whether she wrote anything worth keeping or not; talking to her agent and publisher; answering correspondence. All the while waiting for that knock on the door, wondering what she would say, how she could convince them she knew nothing; or thinking that perhaps she should just tell them what she knew and let the chips fall where they would. Would it really make a difference, after all this time?

  Yes, she decided; it would.

  When it came, though, the shock came in a form she hadn’t in the least expected.

  That Tuesday night, the phone rang just as she was dropping off. When she picked up the receiver, all she heard was silence, or as much silence as you ever get on a telephone line.

  “Who is it?” she asked, gripping the receiver more tightly. “Please speak up.”

  More silence.

  She was just about to hang up when she heard what she thought was a sharp intake of breath. Then a voice she didn’t recognize whispered, “Gwen? Gwen Shackleton?”

  “My name’s Vivian Elmsley. There must be some mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. I know who you are. Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You will. Soon.”

  Then the caller hung up.

  Ten

  Christmas 1943. It was a gloomy, chill and moonless night when the 448th held their first dance at Rowan Woods. Gloria, Cynthia, Alice and I walked there together along the narrow lane through the woods, our breath misting in the air. We wore court shoes and carried our dance shoes because they were far too precious and flimsy to walk in. Luckily, the ground wasn’t too muddy, because none of us would have been caught dead wearing wellies to a dance, even if we had to walk through Rowan Woods in a storm.

  “How many of them do you think there are?” Cynthia asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Gloria. “It’s a big aerodrome, though. Probably hundreds. Thousands even.”

  Alice did a little dance. “Ooh, just think of it, all those Yanks with money to throw away. They get paid much more than our boys, you know. Ellen Bairstow told me. She went out with a GI when she was working at that factory near Liverpool, and she’d never seen so much money.”

  “Don’t you try to tell yourself they won’t want something in return, Alice Poole,” said Gloria. “And don’t you forget your poor Eric away fighting for his country.”

  We were all a bit quiet after that. I don’t know about the others, but I couldn’t help thinking of Matthew. A fox or a badger suddenly flashed across the path and scared us, but the adrenaline at least broke the silence. We were still excited, and we giggled like silly schoolgirls the rest of the way.

  Most villagers had already seen the newcomers around, and I had even served some of them in the shop, where they had looked puzzled at our meagre offerings and confused by the unfamiliar brand names. Some people disapproved of their arrival— especially Betty Goodall—thinking it would lower moral standards, but most of us quickly accepted them as part of the general scenery. I even helped the local WVS set up a Welcome Club for them in Harkside. Thus far, in my limited experience, Americans had always been friendly and polite, though I can’t say I really warmed to the way they called me “ma’am.” It made me feel so old.

  They were certainly far more casual and confident in their manner than our lads, and they had much smarter uniforms. They even wore shoes rather than the great clodhopping boots the Ministry saw fit to issue to our poor armed forces. Of course, our view of Americans was still almost entirely formed by the glamour of Hollywood films, magazines and popular songs. To some, they were all cowboys and gangsters; to others, the men were handsome heroes and the women beautiful and rather vulgar molls.

  That evening as we trudged through the forest, we had little real idea of what to expect. We had all fussed about what to wear for days, and we had taken special care with our appearance— even me, who was generally not overly concerned about such superficial matters. Under the overcoats we wore to keep out the chill, we all had on our best dresses. Gloria, of course, looked gorgeous in her black velvet V-neck dress with the puff sleeves and wide, padded shoulders. She had added a red felt rose at the neckline on the left side. I was a little more serviceable in the Utility dress I had bought in London.

  One big problem was that we had all run out of fashion stockings and either we didn’t have enough coupons to get new ones or we couldn’t find any in the shops. When Gloria dropped by to meet me after I closed up shop, the first thing she told me to do was stand on a chair.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Go on. You’ll see.”

  I could have said no, but I was curious, so I stood. The next thing I knew, Gloria was lifting up my skirt and applying some sort of cold greasy stuff to my legs.

  I squirmed. “What is that?”

  “Shut up and keep still. It’s Miner’s Liquid Make-up Foundation. Cost me two and seven pence ha’penny, it did.”

  I kept still. When the stuff she had slathered on my legs finally dried, Gloria had me stand on the chair again and she carefully drew a seam all the way down the backs of my legs with a special sort of pencil. It tickled and again she had to tell me to keep still.

  “There.” She bit down on the corner of her lip and stepped back to admire her handiwork. I stood on the stool feeling like an idiot, holding my skirt up around my thighs. “That’ll do” she pronounced at last. “Me next.”

  As I “did” her, rubbing the foundation on her soft, pale skin, she started to laugh. “Marvellous stuff, this,” she said. “I was at my wits’ end the summer before last, before Matthew . . . well, anyway, I was so desperate I tried a mixture of gravy powder and water.”

  “What happened?”

  “Bloody flies! Chased me all the way from here to Harkside, and the damn things even buzzed around my legs inside the hall. I felt like a piece of meat in a butcher’s window.” She paused. “Ooh, Gwen, do you remember what that looked like? All those lovely cuts of meat in the butcher’s window?”

  “Don’t,” I said. “You’ll only make us miserable.”

  We met the others by the fairy bridge. Cynthia Garmen was going for the Dorothy Lamour look. She had a black page-boy hairdo and wore a lot of make-up. She even had mascara on her eyes, which looked really strange, as women tended not to use a lot of eye make-up back then. It wasn’t good quality mascara. When she got hot from dancing later in the evening, it started to melt, and she looked as if she had been crying. She said she had bought it on the black market in Leeds, so she could hardly go back and complain.

  Alice was in her Marlene Dietrich period, plucked eyebrows pencilled in a high arch, wavy blonde hair parted in the centre, hanging down to her shoulders. She was wearing a Princess-style burgundy dress with long, tight sleeves and buttons all down the front. It came in at the waist to show how thin she was: almost as thin as Marlene Dietrich.

  The dance was held in the mess. We could hear the music before we even got there. It was the song I remembered hearing in Piccadilly Circus a few months earlier: “Take the A Train.” We stood outside the door touching up our hair, checking our appearance one last time in our compact mirrors. Then we took off our coats—not wanting to walk in wearing bulky winter overcoats—stuffed our court shoes in our pockets and put on our dance shoes. Ready at last, we made our grand entrance.

  The music didn’t stop, though I swear it faltered for a moment the way records do sometimes when they become warped. It was a sextet, playing on a makeshift stage at the far end from the bar, and they all wore American Air Force uniforms. I suppose the odds are that when you gather so many disparate people together, you’re bound to end up with enough musicians for a band.

  Already the place was crowded with airmen and local girls, mostly from Harkside. The dance floor was busy and a knot of people stood laughing and drinking by the bar. Others sat at the ricke
ty tables smoking and chatting. I had expected the large Nissen hut to be cold, but there was a peculiar-looking squat thing giving out heat in one corner, which I later discovered was called a “pot-bellied stove” (a very apt description, I thought). Apparently, the air force had brought it all the way from America, having heard English winters were cold and wet, like the summers.

  They hardly needed it tonight, though, as the press of bodies and motion of dancing exuded all the heat we needed. The men had already covered the walls with photographs taken from magazines: landscapes of vast, snow-capped mountain ranges; long, flat plains and prairie wheatfields; deserts dotted with huge, twisted cacti; and city streets that looked like scenes from Hollywood films. Little bits of America brought over to make them feel less far away from home. A Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with tinsel and fairy lights, and paper trimmings hung around the ceiling.

  “Take your coats, ladies?”

  “Why, thank you,” said Gloria.

  It was Gloria who had turned the heads, of course. Even with Dorothy Lamour and Marlene Dietrich for competition, she still stood way ahead of the field.