Ralph’s always pushing his spectacles back up his nose, as if they are too big for him since they were mended with tape. His brown hair flops onto his forehead, and he flicks it back. When he speaks there’s some quiet authority about him that makes the others listen attentively.
And dear Bill, graceful and languid, lounging on the bed, so easy in his body, quietly telling our story to the others, smiling sometimes like a switch has been flicked, which makes other people smile too even if they don’t intend to. I look at him and know I would go anywhere with him, even if it was my last day on earth.
After a while I look out farther into the bunkhouse, through the gathering thickness of cigarette smoke, watching the patterns of the men, how they form into small groups, most two but some of three, talking or reading, or writing in notebooks or on lettercards, but most playing cards. Scotty is sitting in a foursome around an upturned carton, playing cards with a screwed-up face and an air of absolute determination. Many cigarettes lie on the carton, obviously as bets. Tucker is playing cards too and still watching me.
“Shall we turn in?” asks Bill.
I don’t know what this means.
“Go to bed,” he explains. “Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. See if we can sleep.”
I nod gratefully. Perhaps I’ll wake up and find all this has been a nightmare, and Bill and I are still out on the road, walking west, waiting for my father to find us.
As we stand, Ralph breaks off his conversation and comes close to us, indicating the apple tub near the door.
“Do you need to use this?” he asks me. “We can stand around you.”
I think about my bladder. I’ve not had much to drink since the last visit to the latrine, and I decide I can hold it until morning, but I’m so grateful for his thoughtfulness and kindness. I try to put all that into a slight shake of the head and a smile.
“Sleep well, then,” he says. “Sweet dreams.”
Nobody’s paying any attention to me as I climb up to the middle bunk. Bill pops his head up and touches my shoulder fleetingly, before he drops down to the bed below. From the safety of my bunk, I look out at all the men, engaged again in their games or books, or deep in their private thoughts. The smoke seems to hang in the air up here, and it makes me cough. When I turn to my right, the shuttered window is within reach; to my left is another bunk, where at arm’s length a strange man will lie watching me, close as husband and wife. I take the newly issued blanket—as rough as those we use for horses at home—and tuck it under the slats above, making a curtain to hide behind.
On the foot of my bed are the little offerings the men have made: There are seven single squares of chocolate. I want to call out my thanks, but I know I mustn’t. I wonder if I should eat them all now, in case this is my last night alive. I wonder if I’ll have the willpower to limit the chocolate to one square a day, to make it last a week, if I manage to live so long. It seems odd to wonder if I have a night or a week left to live. All my hopes and dreams closed down to this place, these few hours, Bill’s body on the bunk beneath me. I carefully line up the chocolate squares, above my kit bag pillow. I must be hoping to last for a week.
It’s too chilly to take off any clothes, so I lie down as I am in my British army uniform, and wrap my home blanket over me. I look at the bruise forming on my hand and think I’m lucky to have escaped so far with so little injury. I lay Jan’s coat over my feet to pull up if it gets colder in the night. The straw mattress is hard and lumpy, and it smells of farms, under the powerful reek of cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies that fills the hut. I could almost be in my family’s stable, wrapped in a blanket still carrying the faint scent of my mother’s laundry soap. I close my eyes, and I’m somehow comforted to know I’m resting my head on my kit bag filled with clothes from home, my brother’s long underwear and cast-off sweater. As I wriggle to get comfortable, the whole bed rocks a little. The underside of the top bunk is close above me, and I hope there aren’t any spiders. How stupid to be scared of spiders with the whole Nazi army just outside the walls, ready to drag me from Bill, and shoot me for a spy, or do much worse.
I drop my hand down the side of the bed out of sight of the hut, beside the shuttered window, and Bill reaches up and gives it a squeeze, as I knew he would. My new-wife’s body longs for his, to wrap my arms around him and sleep in his arms just one more time.
Then he releases his grip, and I withdraw my hand. I feel for one square of chocolate and put it on my tongue to melt as slowly as possible. It tastes of all the happiness we’ve known in the last ten days.
Listening to the hum of voices from around the hut, I think I should work harder at being Algernon Cousins, a boy who grooms and feeds the horses and wants to ride to the races; a boy who left home young to fend for himself in the world, self-reliant and tough. A boy who’s almost invisible. He’s not a thoughtless chatterbox like me, but is silent because he prefers the company of horses to people. You know where you are with horses, he’d think. He watches and listens, alert as a mare to a little click of the tongue, but speaks only when it’s absolutely necessary. He’s considered in all his actions, not impulsive like me; he wouldn’t frighten the horses with sudden movements or loud sounds. He’s schooled himself in self-control, which makes him slow to anger. Cousins has spent so much time with horses that he seems to have taken on some of their qualities, their alert wariness, but also their patience, strength and endurance. That’s who I’ll be tomorrow. The new me. Gee-gee Cousins.
I curl into myself and count up—I’ve not slept for twenty-seven hours, apart from a few minutes in the truck and the town hall. They have been the most exhausting hours of my life. I say my prayers. I pray most ardently for a miracle to keep me undiscovered, to keep me alive with Bill, for us both to survive unscathed. I pray for my family, and when I think of my mother, tears prickle the back of my throat. I force myself to think of something else: how the square of chocolate has almost melted in my mouth, how all this is worth it for even one more day with Bill.
Thirteen
When I wake the next morning, with a sick lurch in my stomach, I know immediately where I am. The wooden bunk bed is hard through the thin straw mattress, and my kit bag makes a lumpy pillow. I lie for a moment, listening to the sound of so many men breathing, snoring, snuffling like pigs. I’ve woken up because I badly need to pee. Terror grips me. How am I to do this?
I hear the voice of Gee-gee Cousins, the new me, in my head. Easy now, he says, as if I were a skittish pony. Easy now. The shutters are still closed outside the window, and a thin streak of gray light appears around the edges of them. It must still be very early.
I pull the blanket around me and swing my legs over the edge of the bunk on the window side. I feel for Bill’s bed below mine with my feet, then ease myself out and down. I stand beside him, bending to try to make out his face in the dark; then I edge cautiously out into the gangway. Nobody else is moving. I smell rather than see my way to the apple tub, and feel around the rim.
Praying that this will not be the moment that the shutters are thrown back, or the door flies open, or a strange man wakes to urinate, I unbutton my army trousers, push down my brother’s shorts, cautiously lift the blanket behind me so I don’t wet it and struggle uncomfortably into a position where I can wee into the tub and not onto the floor. Letting go of my full bladder is a relief, but I have to shake like a boy, and have nothing to dry myself with but my hand. I hope it won’t be long before I can wash.
I pull up my clothes and creep back to bed, pausing only to kiss the fingers of my other hand to lightly touch Bill’s hair. He stirs but doesn’t wake. I throw the blanket up ahead of me, and climb back to my bunk.
In bed, I sit back against the wall and reach up under my clothes to adjust the bust-flattening corset. It’s the first time I’ve slept in it, and it feels tight and uncomfortable. I feel sorry for my poor little breasts, squashed under it. When it’s in
a better position, I wriggle back down to lie curled toward the shuttered window. Sleep won’t return, so I lie and look at the gray sliver of light becoming whiter and wonder if these are the last hours when Bill and I will be together. If this will be my final day in this world.
When the shutters are thrown back, with a simultaneous loud rapping on the door and a shout of “Raus,” I jerk up and hit my head on the bunk above. My heart is beating wildly and misery sweeps over me. I know the time has come for discovery and all that means.
I fold my blanket and smooth the top of it with my hand as if it were a friend I must say good-bye to. Everything in life suddenly seems so precious. I touch the kit bag, which has come from home with me, and pull Jan’s coat with me as I climb down. Bill winks at me anxiously and quickly pats my arm.
The door’s hurled open, and a cold blast of air swirls round my legs, even through the army trousers. I thrust my arms into the coat sleeves, wrapping it around me, and sit on Bill’s bunk to pull on my boots, ever grateful for the felt lining my mother made, blessing the thought of her, in case it’s the last time I have the power to do so. We form up into a line. Ralph is at the head with Max behind him, then me, then Bill, then Scotty, then Tucker, and all the nameless others stretching out behind.
Ralph leads us out of the hut into the cold air. I guess it’s about seven a.m., and the sun is just rising over the compound. We follow Ralph between the huts onto the parade ground and form up into rows to be counted. The guard who’s counting approaches me along the row. It’s a man I haven’t seen before. As he walks, he scratches himself obsessively, first one arm, then the other. The closer he comes, the faster my heart beats. As he comes level, I hold my breath and look straight ahead, but he’s not really looking at me, just muttering numbers under his breath. I see an angry patch of eczema rising from his uniform collar. He probably wants to finish as soon as possible to get inside for a hearty breakfast and a good scratch. As he moves away, my fear ebbs a little.
The count is not satisfactory in some way and has to be done again, to the loud groans and jeers of the prisoners. This time the guard looks more closely at me, and I fold my arms over my chest, but he goes on past without comment. It begins to drizzle lightly, and I turn up my coat collar. My wrists are covered with goose pimples. I’m glad my brother’s coat sleeves are long enough to almost cover my hands.
Eventually the count is complete. Ralph turns to me. “You must be hungry.”
I nod, watching the ground, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, not to be visible. I want eggs and cheese and a big hunk of my mother’s rye bread.
“It must be the devil of a job not to say anything; I wouldn’t have a hope,” he says.
I lift my head and smile at him. If only he knew what a chatterbox I am.
“That’s better.” He grins. “Now, then, I’ve got a little present for you.”
From his pocket he draws half a roll of toilet paper. I hesitate.
“Can I spare it?” he continues. “Yes. Look: I’ve got another. Been stockpiling them, just in case we get a chance to scarper.”
I reach out and take it, nodding my thanks, wondering how long I have to make it last.
Most men, including Ralph, Max and Tucker, set off for the latrines and washroom, but first Bill and I have to double back to the hut to pick up the apple tub containing the night soil. Scotty has volunteered to help us. He says the tub will be too heavy for me and Bill. I want to protest that I’m stronger than I look.
Scotty crouches down beside it and indicates to me and Bill to get around so we can take the weight between the three of us.
I hope that having Scotty to help won’t draw undue attention to us, but the tub is surprisingly heavy, and the contents slosh about alarmingly as we make our way to the latrines to empty it. It’s difficult for three people to walk in rhythm. A powerful stench of ammonia comes off the urine, and we all walk with our heads turned aside and our eyes watering. Somehow we maneuver it into the latrines and tip it down one of the holes, splashing everywhere.
Bill carries the empty tub over to the taps, and Scotty shows us where a stiff brush and carbolic soap are kept on a window ledge. I take them from him, and kneel on the washroom floor, scrubbing out the tub. The water is freezing, and my hands turn bright red, but the tub is clean, and I’m glad to have done something useful.
* * *
To wash myself, I choose the tap nearest the wall, where the water runs down into the drain. The tall guard regularly passes the doorway to the washroom, but Bill or Ralph or Max or Scotty or Tucker or another of the twenty prisoners we’ve trusted with my secret seems to be able to casually position himself between me and the door. Now I begin to see why more men had to be told. Some of the prisoners around me strip to the waist, while others just splash their faces. I wash my face with my cupped hands, like a man, and use a rag to wipe beneath my clothes. I sense the other men casting curious glances at me—the ones who know. Some of them are unshaven, but Ralph makes a show of carefully scraping his face. “It’s a way of proving to them they haven’t beaten us,” he says.
Bill moves to the sink next to me and hums as he shaves in a scrap of mirror. When he’s finished, he hands me the razor and soap. For a moment I don’t understand, then go through an act of soaping my face and gently pulling the razor through the thin scum on my cheeks. Max and Ralph saunter off so the guard can see me “shaving” if he looks my way. I must think more like a boy if I’m not going to give myself away. Bill holds my hand for a second as I give him back the razor.
“All right, chum,” he says reassuringly.
With ablutions done, Max leads the way to the cookhouse. I dart my eyes around at everything, aware all the time of the guards and the guns, trying to watch the other prisoners and do whatever they do, sick to my stomach with anxiety. I lengthen my stride to match Max’s.
Walk like Gee-gee Cousins, I tell myself in English. Tough boy.
“Don’t bother with the acorn coffee,” Max says. “The mint tea isn’t so bad once you get used to it. And you can have a brew of your own once you get a parcel.”
Back in the hut, I sip my mint tea, and Bill and I share another thin slice of the loaf we were given last night. I’m already so hungry that my stomach seems to be glued to my spine. Ralph has disappeared and comes back triumphantly with a Red Cross parcel for me and Bill. Apparently this one is Canadian, which means it doesn’t have cigarettes like the British and American parcels. I think, That doesn’t matter since we don’t smoke, till Bill explains, “We need the cigs to trade. Fags are like cash here.”
I cut the string with my ID tag and open the brown paper like a child, impatient to see what’s inside. A woman far across the sea has carefully packed neat rows of tins. I lift out each and study the label carefully, trying to translate the English: milk powder, butter, cheese, corned beef, pork luncheon meat. Luncheon. What could that mean?
“That’s the pink meat we had last night,” says Bill. “We’ll give some back to Max and Ralph.”
I’m pleased to see soap and puzzled by things called kippers, prunes and marmalade.
Tucker saunters over to our bunk and scans the contents of our parcel, nodding to Ralph. “Good going to get one so quick.” He winks at me as he walks back into the hut, and I’d like to run after him and knock him to the ground.
“Bloody coffee, not tea,” says Bill ruefully, though I am delighted.
“I’ll swap you my tea,” offers Ralph, and I want to shout no, but Bill looks overjoyed, so I turn my face to hide my disappointment. I prefer coffee, but if I’m meant to be an English boy, I realize tea is what I’m supposed to drink.
“I’m for a brew,” says Bill, and Max lends him the ingenious little blower and retreats to his own bunk with a book. The dark circles under his eyes seem even deeper today, and I wonder why he can’t sleep. Straining my eyes in the gloom, I see he has a
small library above his bunk. I’d like to know what he’s reading and where he’s found books.
“What’ll we have for breakfast?” Bill asks me. “This lot has to last a week—maybe more if the parcels don’t get through. A little slice of cheese?”
I nod with one eye on the biscuits. They are called Pilot biscuits. I begin to see that while I can’t speak, Bill will make all the decisions for both of us. How astonished my mother and father would be to see me so docile when I fought them for my own way over every small thing.
“You are a selfish, willful girl,” my mother used to say. I pick up the biscuits, pleadingly.
“Just one, then,” says Bill.
But as I’m about to take one, someone shouts, “Goon up!” and the bushy-eyebrowed guard marches noisily into the hut, directly toward us. I grip the wooden edges of the bunk, like someone on a raft in a storm. He’s come for me. It’s over.
The guard takes the contents of our precious parcel and stabs the lid of each tin with a knife, but nobody seems surprised at this strange behavior. When he’s done, he looks around casually and then leaves. I breathe again and release my grip on the bed. Did I think I could hold on as they dragged me out?
Bill explains, “It’s so we can’t hoard the food, for escapes. It starts to go off as soon as the tin is pierced.”
He turns to Ralph. “Do we need rackets bags?”
“Not here. Not in this hut. We never leave it empty.”
Bill nods and turns to me again, and I can see it pleases him to be able to tell me things about this life, to be the expert. “In some camps, some huts, men steal each other’s food and clothes while they’re out, so they have to carry it round all day in bags. Seems like we’ve landed in a good hut here. No tea leaves—thieves.”
Max looks up from his book. “All down to Ralph.”
Ralph waves a deprecating hand.
The Prisoner's Wife Page 14
