by Andrea Levy
She hardly spoke any English. Just a few words learned by rote from other men who’d passed through.
‘Tommy. You are liking me, nice clean girl?’
I told her to shut up.
She lay back on the bed. Rested on her elbows. Examined me while I unbuttoned my trousers. ‘Turn away,’ I told her. Said it twice. Silly girl only smiled. Obviously never heard those words come from a Tommy’s lips before. Carried on eyeing me. Batting her eyelids sleepy slow. I turned my back to her.
‘How you are liking it, Tommy?’ she asked.
‘Doggy,’ I said, over my shoulder.
She came up behind me, started wiping her hands down my back. Hadn’t a clue what I meant. ‘Doggy,’ I said again. She brushed a hand over my chest. I watched her tiny brown fingers pushing down over my nipple. Threw her off as I turned round. ‘Doggy. On your hands and knees.’
She frowned.
‘Like this.’ I showed her how just like Spike had for me. Eventually she wriggled up the bed on all fours. The cheeks of her bottom curving tight as a doped kite. Sleek as marble. Breasts dangling like a cow’s udder. She looked back cursorily to see if she’d got it right. My erection was fierce. I got on the bed behind her. On my knees, I grabbed her where I could. Rammed her in one. She cried out. Something. Tommy. Something. ‘Shut up,’ I told her. And she started wiggling side to side like a blasted dancer in a bazaar. ‘Stay still,’ I shouted.
She was panting, ‘Aah, aah.’ And writhing the way her Tommies usually enjoyed it.
Nothing for it, I grabbed her hair into a bunch. Held it firm in my fist to keep the wriggling whore still as I thrust at her. Riding her hard – just as I had been promised.
Didn’t take long. Yelled out (I admit). Ejaculation was a blessed release, like lowering myself into a cool bath. Leaning back, closing my eyes, breathless. A few moments of peace before I realised I still had her hair wrapped tight in my fist. Her head, wrenched back, was baring its teeth in a rictal gape. I soon let go and she quickly pulled herself away from me. Got up from the bed. Jumped out of my reach. And only then did I see that she was nothing but a girl. Surely no more than fifteen. No younger. Fourteen or even twelve. A small girl. Hadn’t noticed before. Just took in a whore’s room. The coloured lights, the trinkets on the walls, the overpowering smell of jasmine. The breathy whispered, ‘Hello, Tommy.’ Her scanty robe, bare breasts, naked behind. And my pathetic need of it all. But now the fear in her black eyes – harmless as a baby’s – was denouncing me as depraved. What was I doing?
What would Queenie think of her husband now? Trousers round my ankles in a brothel, defiling someone’s daughter. ‘Is this what the war’s done for you?’ she’d say. This war hadn’t made me a hero. It had brought me to my knees.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I told the girl. She didn’t understand. I put out my hand to her. ‘I’m so terribly sorry.’ But she cringed, fearful. She was covering her body as best she could – with her arms, her hands. ‘Never done this sort of thing before. I’ve no idea what came over me.’ She was feeling for her robe, obviously too scared of me to let me out of her gaze. ‘Please forgive me.’ As I moved again, the merest shift off my knees to sit on the bed, she took a startled breath. ‘I won’t touch you,’ I told her. She cringed lower to the ground like a cornered animal. ‘I’m an Englishman,’ I explained. ‘In the RAF. Back home I was a bank clerk. It’s a very responsible position. I’m a married man, you see. An Englishman . . . me English-man . . .’ But I felt like a beast. It was then, as if from nowhere, a sob fierce as a child’s rose in me. I gulped for air. Mouth open – a long, breathless pause ended with the release of an anguished howl. Great spasms convulsed through me. My hands trembled. I covered my face. Gasped for more breath, which came in short bursts of pitiable whimpering.
She came and stood before me. Her face softening back to a girlish sweetness. I doubt she’d ever seen a Tommy cry. She put her hand out to touch my cheek. To wipe a tear. The tenderness of it stung. Shocking as a bolt from a current. ‘Terribly sorry,’ I said again, my breath coming in puffing gasps. I wiped my face as best I could. She patted my arm. Her hand no bigger than a monkey’s paw. And she said, ‘Johnny. Johnny. No cry, Johnny.’
It was the name that did it. Not the thought that Johnny Pierpoint had probably been through earlier. It was the way she said the name. It gave me the jitters. Like the Japs calling to me and Maxi, ‘Johnny, help me, Johnny.’ It soon pulled me together. ‘Don’t call me that, my name’s not Johnny,’ I told her, which sent her stepping smartly back away from me once more.
Nothing for it, I just threw the money at the wretched whore, then left.
Forty-five
Bernard
Nothing to do on the sea journey back home. Hundreds of servicemen wandered aimless on the decks. What a change from the adventure of the journey out. Frigates circling. Lifeboat drill every day. U-boat watch. Chaps up on the deck in twos, staring at the sea in case of something odd. Not a clue what we were looking for, most of us having only ever been familiar with boating ponds. But now, returning, mine was not the only dull-eyed gaze that drifted to the horizon as I thought of home. Could I go back to the bank after what I’d experienced? Silly, I know, but I thought of the Wellington bomber. Thirty-six thousand five hundred pounds of metal, Perspex and cloth. Wings that spanned eighty-six feet. Nose to tail in sixty-four. Two engines and room for six crew on board. Bolts as big as my fist on some parts. Propellers that dwarfed me. Wheels wider than an arm span. When she flew, her massive propellers spun so fast they were invisible. She would edge along the ground until thirty-six thousand five hundred pounds of metal, Perspex and cloth lifted into the air as light as a handkerchief. What could compare with that sight for me now? My old bicycle with its dicky chain that I used to fix and fuss over in the backyard? A bus? Tiny miniature creature. A tube train? You could step into a tube train with one hop. You didn’t have to climb up seventeen dizzying feet just to get into it. A car? A lorry? Now, all puny as tin toys.
I slept in a lifeboat under the stars. Not in a hammock below the water-line with hundreds of others. Shoving and pushing for space. Arguments. Shocking language. Endless talk of women – Johnny-Pierpoint-style: what they could and would do to them once they got home. I gave my cigarettes to an old sweat who worked the ship. In return he knocked on the lifeboat before the decks were swabbed. Warned me out before I was caught or washed overboard. Swarthy fellow. Came from Argentina. Didn’t speak English. Conducted the whole transaction with gestures and mime.
Just as on that ship out years before, two days in, everyone got seasick. A wretched nausea. Head like a sponge. Stomach in my boots. Constant dull tang of salt on my lips. Nowhere to fix my sight. Giddy. Praying for just one settled moment. A minute to stand firm. But nothing stayed still. Least of all the grub in my belly. The old sweat laughed. Slapped me on the back and used his tattoos to insult me. Pointed to something on his left arm – a badly drawn bird of some sort. I got the idea. Couldn’t blame him: all day vomiting over the rails of the ship I was a pitiful sight.
Thought nothing of it at first. Too sick to worry. A bite, perhaps, from some rogue mosquito. Could feel it under my fingers as I urinated. Just a small lump. But the next day it was considerably bigger. I borrowed a torch from a chap. Needed to get a clear look. But I could only get the worthless torch to blink on and off. Under this stroboscope in the gloom of the lifeboat it appeared not much smaller than a halfpenny. I convinced myself it was the flashing light that gave it that dimension. In the light of day, locked secure behind a toilet door, the enormous throbbing sore had produced a hat of pus. I felt it pop like a grape in my pants as I sat down in front of another meal of sausage and potato. It was ringed with a blue line clear as if drawn with a pencil. I vomited twice. Once when I saw its seeping pus matted into my pubic hair. And the next time as I wrapped the sore in a bandage. It was unbearably itchy and clammy inside this wrapping. And useless – a small spot of yellow brown muck had soon staine
d it through. When I eventually unwrapped it, the bandage clung like paper to a sticky toffee. I bit the leather of my belt to stop me yelling out. Nothing for it. I had to face it. I knew what this angry pustule on my penis was.
The medical officer, on the boat when we first came out east, had warned us RAF recruits. Ulcers, inflammations, colourful discharge, swellings. All the result of sexual relations with the wrong type. He’d given us lectures. Colourful pictures were passed round. Lurid photographs. Quite shocking. Parts of the body unrecognisable as human. Turned some of the chaps a sorry shade of grey. Had them worried. Frowning. Thinking back. Stopped their bragging for a while. One of them, I recall, fainted – blamed seasickness. ‘Always use this,’ the MO had said. Took a rubber sheath out of his breast pocket. Waved it around in the air.
Some joker had shouted, ‘Is there just the one, sir?’ Got everyone laughing.
Apoplexy, mental failure, nervous disease, blindness. And, of course, eventual death. Syphilis!
The inevitable result of my sexual relations with the wrong type. A small girl with black eyes harmless as a baby’s. The wretched whore in Calcutta – still left clinging on me. Syphilis! In the day, I felt this ulcer’s presence like a galloping pulse. And at night we both wept. Syphilis! I couldn’t imagine what Queenie would say to that. I tried to conjure her admonishment. A wagging finger. A tutting tongue. A turned back, perhaps. All useless when faced with the shame of a husband riddled with the clap.
Clinging to the rail of the ship I looked down into the sea. Only one step would be needed. A big one. Over the rail, off the side of the hull. It would be days before I was missed. No one would see my scrawny figure slip under the foaming wake of the ship. If they did they’d blink twice, thinking the ocean light was playing tricks on them. It was the only honourable thing for a man in my position to do. They would have to declare me missing. And Queenie, like Maxi’s two sons, could keep me as I was. A middle-aged bank clerk who’d thought his life was set. Who even started whistling once he was part of a team. An RAF aircraftman fighting a just war. An Englishman proud of his country, right or wrong. Sitting there at the rails of the ship the moonlight was brighter than an English February sky. All night I waited for courage or despair to overwhelm me. To slip me into the navy sea. But neither came.
Would the military now have to drop me off at home by truck? A spectacle in the street (everyone out to stare). A parcel being delivered to number twenty-one. Would two men march me up the steps and knock at the door? Queenie untying her apron, would she smile at her hero’s return? Would they tell her that syphilis had made me lose my mind? Would it now be Pa who hoped that if someone found it they’d bring it home for me? And would they have to give me a little shove to get me inside?
1948
Forty-six
Bernard
I expected Queenie to be shocked. Could hardly blame her. Husband back from the dead. But I didn’t foretell that ‘appalled’ would play for quite so long around the corners of her mouth. Sitting there clutching her stomach. Speechless. Pale. Shaking. Eyes rimmed red. She looked older. More careworn. She’d put on some weight. I’d watched her wither away during the early part of the war. Day by day. I was not the only husband who’d felt impotent about that. So a little plump looked well on her.
‘How’s Pa?’ I asked.
Suddenly she was crying. Weeping into her hands. I lifted my arm to caress her head. But she moved. Brushing her nose on her sleeve, she’d never know I was trying to comfort. Thought it an innocent question. Except she walked the room demented.
‘Oh, Bernard. I wrote to you . . .’
Letters went astray. Part of many chaps’ grievances. We moved so much, you see. In India, it could take months for a letter to catch up with our RSU. Some never made it. Misunderstandings passing unknown in the post. Silly question (I know), hardly worth asking, but I did. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘Bernard, you’ve been away such a long time . . .’
Who could doubt I owed Queenie an explanation? But describe snow to someone who’s lived only in the desert. Depict the colour blue for a blind man. Almost impossible to fashion the words. How to begin to tell? It had been over two years since my ship docked back at Southampton. A long time, I admit, to get from there to here. After demob, I’d made my way to Brighton. Found lodgings in a seaside boarding-house. Just a room. Landlady was called Mrs Joy Bliss. Miserable woman. But discreet. Or, at least, too ungracious to ask many questions. I just came and went as I pleased.
England had shrunk. It was smaller than the place I’d left. Streets, shops, houses bore down like crowds, stifling even the feeble light that got through. I had to stare out at the sea just to catch a breath. And behind every face I saw were trapped the rememberings of war. Guarded by a smile. Shrouded in a frown. But everyone had them. Private conflicts. Scarring where touched. No point dwelling on your own pitiful story. Chap next to you was worse off. The man over there far more tragic. Silence was the only balm that healed.
I never doubted I was doing the right thing. Even on days when the longing for familiar was as substantial as hunger. To lie with Queenie. To sit with Pa. To gaze on objects that communed in memories. I had no idea how long the awful disease would take to claim me. No thought of doctors or cures. Shame saw to that. My only worry was that I would lose my mind. Do something rash without sanity’s firm hand.
But in waiting to die I felt fit. Found employment, cleaning tables in a café. Kept my head down, had a job to do, just got on with it. Proprietor, rather dim fellow, needed a hand with his bookkeeping. He was tickled pink when his worthless waiter turned out to be useful. I helped him out. He told all his chums. Soon I had a few of them calling on my services. Became quite a little business. All very informal but regular. I stopped being a waiter. Double-entry bookkeeping earned me enough for board and lodging.
I found Maxi’s house, of course. Up near the station. A modest house. Painted pale blue, its bow-front window hung with thick yellowing nets. I walked his street often, my footsteps marking the pavement where Maxi’s should have been going about their business. Rushing to work. A pint or two in the pub. A game of football in the park. Or cricket. Maybe even church with his family on Sunday.
There was a graveyard nearby. I sat on the bench there. Saw his two sons coming out from the house. His wife tying a headscarf against the wind, calling for the boys to wait. Them, boisterous, running up the street. Clambering up walls to walk balancing along their length. As the younger one passed me he dropped his model car. I picked it up for him. Got a faint smile. Little chap staring at me. Spit of his father. A natural successor. He grabbed the car from my hand and ran. Maxi had never seen this younger son. I felt like a thief, stealing a sight that should have been his.
They soon got used to seeing me sitting in the graveyard. His wife would nod to me. Some days she’d raise up her brown eyes to say, ‘Lovely day.’ Attractive woman, her black hair always hidden by scarves. Short. Not much taller than the elder boy. I only spoke to her in polite greeting. Silly, I know, but I was anxious not to befriend, just to watch over. I never told them I knew Maxi. Scared she’d ask the unanswerable. Want to know what befell us all out east. With the war over, even the truth seemed sordid. Loving memory was the best resting place for George Maximillian.
It was Mrs Bliss who called the doctor. My temperature raged, sweating my sheets sodden as freshly used bath towels. I could feel every bone in my body. Even the smallest of them ached. Any movement – to roll in the bed, even to blink an eye – felt impossibly exhausting. I told her not to bother but she brushed me off with a ‘Nonsense.’ Couldn’t blame her. Must have been a pitiful sight.
The doctor, after examining me, said flu. I pulled him to one side. Out of the keen hearing of Mrs Bliss. Whispered, ‘Afraid it’s considerably more than just flu.’ Got the landlady to leave us before I told him, ‘It’s syphilis.’
‘Syphilis?’ he repeated. Quite unsettled.
‘Pi
cked it up in India.’ He wanted to know why I thought it was syphilis. Told him of the indiscretion and the disgusting pustule. ‘How long did this boil last?’ he asked.
‘A week, maybe two.’
I detected a certain distaste as he said, ‘And?’
I didn’t quite understand.
‘And what other symptoms?’
‘And this, Doctor . . . this . . . flu.’
‘Right,’ he said. He began writing notes. Checked for something in his bag while asking, ‘How long have you been back from India?’
‘Two years,’ I said.
He stopped. Turned slowly to face me again. ‘Two years?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean it’s been two years since you noticed this lesion on your private parts? Two years since the . . . indiscretion?’
Hesitated my next yes. Sensed that answer might be wrong.
He began folding his book away. Said tersely, ‘Flu – like I said, Mr Bligh.’
‘But . . . India . . .’
‘I can do you a WR test if you want – put your mind at rest. But you’ll be wasting everyone’s time. Two years! You should be mad or dead by now. No. Flu. That’s what you have, Mr Bligh. Wretched, horrible flu. But it needs to be taken care of. I’ll talk to your landlady on the way out.’
‘Are you sure?’ I called after him.
‘Flu, Mr Bligh. Trust me. Flu. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in a couple of days.’
And I was.
Wasn’t even a miracle. I never had that awful disease. The pustule had probably been picked up from some straying insect after all. Or something gone septic. Nothing to do with that little madness in India. There was no one to tell of my silly error, of course. ‘Feeling better now?’ was all Mrs Bliss could ask.
