‘No exercises today then?’
‘Always willing to exercise with you darling,’ he said reaching out with his hand to encircle her waist. ‘I adore you. You know that, don’t you?’
She slapped away his hand. ‘We’ll have none of that, bonnie lad.’
‘What, even though we may be on the eve of battle?’
‘I’ll do battle with you any time you come on strong to me,’ she said, laughing.
Philip watched her as she swept a few crumbs from the cloth into a cupped hand. He pushed his chair back and gathered up some crockery.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he said.
She glanced up at him, pink-faced. ‘No need,’ she said and walked swiftly back to the kitchen.
Apart from Rosie, they were alone in the house. The only other lodger, a thin travelling salesman, amazingly called Roger, always left very early in the mornings. Mr Scott, the landlord, had gone off to his work as a sanitary inspector. He almost never spoke to the commandos, even ‘good morning’ seeming to tax his powers of conversation. Tucker said it was all that looking down bogs must have seized up his vocal cords, but Philip wondered if it was grief that kept him so silent. His wife had died a couple of years before, and there were no children. Mr Scott was a devout Catholic. All around the house were the souvenirs of the various pilgrimages he and his wife had undertaken; in every room a crucifix hung above the bed.
Tucker looked at his watch. ‘We’ve got an hour to kill,’ he said.
The only radio in the house was in the kitchen, where they could hear Rosie moving about. ‘She wouldn’t mind us in the kitchen, would she?’ said Philip.
‘You go if you like,’ said Tucker. ‘I’ve bloody given up with her. All the effort I’ve put into that girl and she ends up fancying you.’
‘What?’
And you’re such a fucking dreamboat you haven’t even noticed.’
‘Noticed what?’
‘See?’
‘No I don’t.’
Tucker sighed. ‘All the times that I’ve been going great guns with her, having a good laugh and then you walk in and she blushes, goes all tongue-tied and whoosh out the door. I should have concentrated on the barmaid at the Prince Consort.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ But he felt suddenly acutely aware of the sound of Rosie washing up in the kitchen. He realised he wanted to hear her talk some more, to find out how she came to be in Falmouth when she was obviously from the north somewhere, had altogether a sudden surge of curiosity about her, just at the moment when it’d become too embarrassing to ask her – or Tucker – anything at all. Philip pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘What about a game of something, then?’
They went into the little sitting room set aside for guests, and Tucker opened the cupboard full of games and puzzles. ‘Fancy snakes and ladders?’
Philip put on a wheezing voice.
‘I don’t think so old man. Sounds like a decided risk to security.’
They both laughed at this imitation of Roger, who had confided in them a couple of nights ago that he couldn’t understand why two commandos were billeted in an ordinary lodging house. ‘It was a decided risk to security,’ he’d said, repeating this line over and over between puffs from his Senior Service.
But that was the best thing about the commandos – it was policy to billet men in Civvy Street. Philip had detested barracks in the regular army; the raucous farting horror of it, like boarding school only worse, boarding school for morons, where every day brought more meaningless square-bashing. After twelve months he had been on the point of breaking his resolve and applying for a commission, when the chance to volunteer for Special Ops came up.
On top of the bookshelf, among a pile of copies of the Falmouth Packet, Philip spotted a recent copy of Reader’s Digest. ‘All right with you if I read instead?’ he said.
‘I knew you’d change your mind.’ But the complaint was half-hearted. Tucker was happily emptying the cupboard of its treasures.
Reader’s Digest seemed dazzlingly colourful, packed with advertisements for American products, pictures of beaming housewives – all teeth and frilly aprons – and the most enormous, luxurious cars; Philip felt like the urchin peering into the sweet shop. Irritated, he flicked through the pages. What the Americans needed was to get stuck into the war, that would soon knock the shine off them. Where the bloody hell were they, anyway? It’d been three months since Pearl Harbour and still no sign of any troops. It was all very well to talk. He stood up and stuffed the magazine back where it came from.
Tucker had settled down to a large jigsaw puzzle of the Queen Mary. Philip watched as he quickly built up a corner with the tiny pieces, though it was difficult to understand how, as the section was entirely ocean, with only the tiniest gradations of colour. ‘I always loved these. My Nan used to give me one every Christmas.’ He was lost in his own world, totally absorbed in his task, his tongue between his teeth.
Philip wished he could be so easily diverted from the fear, the unanswered questions. At first he’d thought it was only the virgins like himself and Tucker who were getting the wind up, but some of those with two missions under their belts already obviously felt it as well. During the Wednesday debriefing some of the experienced commandos had spoken out. The difficulty of the training, the impossibility of meeting time schedules… As one of the older blokes had said, they all knew Special Ops was dangerous, but you didn’t volunteer just to commit suicide. Afterwards, Philip saw the officers in a huddle. That, more than anything, he thought, was behind this sudden visitation from London.
Tucker was now well on with the dark hull of the ship. Philip felt an ungenerous urge to destroy his serenity. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Bet you anything you like it’s France.’
After the darkness of the living room, the sunshine surprised them, a light breeze bearing sea smells to their nostrils. They ambled through the market and its usual drab selection of potatoes, sprouts and spring greens. The only fruit available seemed to be last season’s apples, but as they passed one stall, a fat woman, rosy as an apple herself, called them over. From somewhere in her layers of clothing she produced two beautiful oranges.
‘There you are my ducks. For luck against them Nazzies. Only don’t go telling your pals where they come from.’
Philip peeled and ate his at once, feeling the sweet juice in his mouth with a sort of ecstasy. Tucker put his in his pocket ‘for later’. He was a great hoarder, producing things unexpectedly at what he judged the appropriate moment.
A great swell of noise hit them as they arrived at the entrance of the church hall. ‘He might be in for a rough ride, this London bloke,’ said Tucker as he led the way along a row of seats towards the other members of their unit. They sat down, Tucker immediately falling into conversation with Strang about Norway. Among three hundred men eagerly talking, Philip sat quietly, remembering damp winter afternoons in similar, depressing places. The hall smelled the same, the walls were painted the same yellowish-green and an identical vast tea urn glowered in a corner. Off this room, he felt sure, there were side chambers where mothers unwrapped their wailing babies to be weighed, and cupboards full of musty jumble, waiting to be liberated at the next Christmas Bazaar.
‘Come on then Nibs. You come and help Dad.’
Even from a very small child he’d sensed his father needed him up there on stage to curb the impatience of the fierce ladies of the parish. Philip remembered looking down at the wall of women jumble seekers, jostling for position behind the line of ribbon stretched across the hall. The Heavy Brigade awaiting the order to charge. Behind the stalls the stern lady helpers tensed for action, and one of their number, a tall thin woman, brandished a pair of enormous scissors. The whole world, it seemed, waited for Dad to stumble through his speech and finally arrive at the word ‘open’.
A sudden silence roused Philip from his reminiscing. A tall man in his thirties had entered the room and was making his way to the stage, followed by several oth
er officers. He climbed the steps and turned to his audience, his chest bristling with medals, his expression confident. It was a face familiar from newspaper photographs, a very Big Noise indeed. Philip knew from the excitement in the man’s eyes that he was not going to announce the cancelling of the mission. He bent to murmur something to one of the officers sitting beside the platform and then straightened up with a quick smile. Had to get on. Get them fired up. That was the ticket.
Now, the only hope was in rebellion. But the room did not feel angry any more. It felt ready to listen. The fame of the man, and his patrician good looks, had somehow done away with dissension.
‘If I were in your position,’ he began, looking eagerly around the faces in his audience, ‘I would want to know the answer to three questions. Where? What? How? But I’m afraid that I cannot, yet, tell you the exact nature of your mission, though I can say it will take place very soon. And I can also tell you that your officers adjudge you well prepared for it. We in the Army know what to expect of you. We know you will do your utmost to achieve the objectives set, are confident you can do the job. But the British people do not know that. All they know is that every piece of news from the war is bad news at the moment. They are hungry for good news, anxious to know that we are doing something to stem the flow. And your role is crucial. If you succeed, the boost in morale will be enormous. Even more important is that by this one venture, we will very substantially reduce the power and reach of Hitler. I cannot at this stage tell you in detail why, but your success will keep your families – your parents, your wives, your children – both safer and better provided for.’
He was going for guilt, thought Philip. Do it for your family, for those you love. It wasn’t an argument that carried much weight with him. But with others… Tucker would do it for his dad and mum, for his kid brother; Strang for his farm and for the many other Strangs on their patch of Cornwall; Murray for his beloved Sally and his two girls… The voice became distant, as though heard in a dream. He was telling them it was not going to be easy. It was a daring and dangerous plan, and there would be casualties, perhaps many casualties.
A lot of us are going to die. I am going to die, that’s what he’s saying. I am going to die to keep my mother and father in food, to cheer up the brave British housewife, to impress the king and the little princesses… Suddenly, Philip was aware he was being offered a way out.
‘No slur whatever… and I want you to think for a moment, particularly you men with families, whether that would not be, in your case, the best course to follow.’ The Big Noise looked slowly around the room, his tanned, handsome face almost wolfish. Go on! Chuck it if you dare! No one spoke of course. It was like being at a wedding with the ‘speak now or forever hold your piece’ bit; you wondered to yourself what would happen if you did, but some invisible gag was on.
The BN then got down to practical details on what would happen over the next few days. From today onwards they would be billeted aboard a frigate, the Josephine Charlotte, moored in the harbour. No leave except organised trips out. Security. Had to report in three hours to the vessel. One last thing…
One of the other officers hopped up into his place, told them that they were to collect the forms on the way out, report to the vessel at 15.00 hours and that would be all, thank you.
‘What forms?’ Philip said to Tucker as he stood up.
Tucker gave him a furious look. He was dead white, and his thin ginger strands of hair looked damp, plastered across the top of his head. He took out an enormous tartan handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Why don’t you ever fucking listen?’
They shuffled into the silent queue to get out of the room. By the door, on a table with a green felt top, was a pile of forms. Each man took one as he passed. Tucker grabbed two and thrust one under Philip’s nose. Last Will and Testament. They stepped out into the late morning sunlight. People were drifting away, in pairs or alone, saying little.
‘Brings it home, doesn’t it?’ Under Tucker’s eye, a muscle jumped. Philip felt distanced from everything, watching the young men so unnaturally subdued, seeing in the distance a road, a lorry turning, a woman pushing a pram, people going about their normal business, unaware of what was happening here. Inexplicably, he thought of Rosie, seeing her standing on tiptoe to hang shirts on the line, her shy smile as she met his eyes, that time in the garden. He wanted to know her, or just plain wanted her, when there was no chance of it, most likely no chance of ever touching any girl ever again.
‘Sorry I was mad just then.’ Tucker’s voice quavered a little.
‘That’s all right. I should have been listening.’
‘Away with the fairies again were you?’
‘I suppose.’
Philip could see the specks of fishing boats on the horizon, making their way back to the harbour mouth. He wished Tucker would go away.
‘Coming back to the digs?’ said Tucker.
‘I’ll go for a walk first, I think.’
‘See you later then?’ The colour crept back into Tucker’s face in livid blotches.
‘Yep.’ They looked at each other for a moment, but Philip was unrelenting. He needed all his strength; had none to spare. Tucker dropped his eyes, turned and walked away in the direction of town. Philip watched until the hunched figure, a lost soul among purposeful shoppers, turned a corner and disappeared.
A puff of wind rustled under the open flaps of Philip’s jacket. He turned and started walking, allowing the breeze to nudge him on a slow, meandering course towards the harbour.
4
Falmouth, 8 March 1942, morning
After the men left, Rosie washed up, dried and put away the breakfast things. Then she climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the two soldiers slept in adjoining rooms. Edmund Tucker’s was tidy as usual, the bed made, his clothes neatly folded on a chair. Rosie flicked the feather duster over the photograph of his father, a heavier, shinier version of Tucker, posing proudly in striped apron outside his butcher’s shop in Maidstone; she avoided the chess set with its figures poised in mid-battle.
A pair of trousers hung from the door latch of Philip’s room, several gramophone records were out of their sleeves on the floor and a book lay face down on the crumpled sheets. Rosie began sorting through the records. Jazz. He liked jazz. She remembered he’d been talking about music a couple of nights ago, saying a lot of it came out of slavery.
‘You saying Bing Crosby sings darkie music?’ Tucker had demanded.
The last one was by someone called Duke Ellington. She set the needle on the rim and the fast tempo launched her into a Charleston-like dance around the room. Could Philip jitterbug? Throw her up in the air and catch her? Everybody said she was a good dancer. If he could see her now, he’d sharp change his opinion of her. Then she caught sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. Idiot. What do you look like, waving your feather duster in the air like Mata Hari? She lifted the needle and looked at the record. ‘Hot and Bothered’ it was called. Well, that was right. Ever since she’d first clapped eyes on him, anyway.
‘Could you tell me where the bathroom is, please?’ he’d said the first time they met, those light brown eyes briefly meeting hers before passing on somewhere more interesting. Ten times too posh for you, pet, she’d thought. And it was Edmund Tucker who’d taken notice, following her around, trying to persuade her to go out dancing with him.
The second day, she’d stood with her hands in the dishwater watching Philip in the garden playing with the old brown-and-white spaniel from next door. He was handsome in his shirtsleeves, but so what, she asked herself, so what if he’s a tall, strong lad? So bloody what if he’s got a lovely smile? Plenty of men like that. But she continued to stare through the misting glass of the kitchen window as he threw the stick again and again, the spaniel retrieving and dropping it at his feet, man and dog exchanging panting grins. Philip squatted, laughing, to fondle the curly ears, two brown heads merging for a minute; then sent the stick up into the air again and r
an towards the house.
Rosie had listened to his breathing as they started on a game of tug. She rubbed the glass with her sleeve. He turned, raised one hand in an uncertain wave, let go of the stick, and put his hands in his pockets. She hurried away to the pantry, where she looked blankly at the shelves, wishing herself the spaniel, wishing herself someone else.
A horrible sick nervousness had taken hold, so that now, after only ten days, she could hardly remember when she didn’t feel it. When Philip was in the house, she dropped things, her throat glued. She could not shake off this empty, hollowed out, hopeless feeling. He walked the earth on his long legs just to torture her, to say ‘not for the likes of you’.
She picked up the book. The Waning of the Middle Ages by J. Huizinga, left open on page 79, in a chapter called ‘The Dream of Heroism and Love’. History. That’s what he’d been studying at university when the war started. She imagined him sitting reading, his striped pyjamas open at the neck. Too clever for you. She slapped the book down on the bedside table and tucked the bottom sheet in tight. Then she stood for a moment, blowing at a strand of hair that had fallen over her face. Her hand dipped into her apron pocket for a Kirby grip. But instead of pinning the hair back, she found herself picking up the book, opening it on page 79 and sliding the grip carefully over the paper, marking the page. Notice me, she thought, and ran downstairs before she could change her mind.
She swept the grate in the dining room, emptied the cinders into a tin bucket and carried it outside. Encouraged by the sunshine, the birds were singing. A thrush hopped on the patch of soil her uncle had recently dug over for planting potatoes. Mrs Wells from next door was hanging out washing. She nodded at Rosie and gave her a tired smile, bending rather slowly to the basket of wet clothes. Mrs Wells straightened, putting her hand to the middle of her back. So like Mam, in Middleton, hanging out Pudsey’s old socks, her belly getting bigger by the day. Smiling over the washing line. Doing her little chant. The pain of the memory froze Rosie on the path.
The War Before Mine Page 3
