Motherland

by William Nicholson

  ‘Bloody mess as usual,’ says the brigadier.

  ‘Better than last time,’ says Parrish. ‘At least they found the beach.’

  Seven assault landing craft are rolling in the grey water of the bay, as men of the Canadian Eighth Infantry Brigade flounder ashore. Each man wears an inflated Mae West and carries a rifle and a full battle pack. They move slowly through the water, blurred by rain, like dreamers who stride ever onward but never advance.

  The watchers on the clifftop command a view that is almost parodic in its Englishness: a river winds through green meadows to a shingle beach, framed by a line of receding hump-backed white cliffs. They are known as the Seven Sisters. Today barely two of the Seven Sisters are visible. The beach is defended by concrete anti-tank blocks, scaffolding tubes and long rolls of barbed wire. Small thunderflashes explode among the pebbles at random, and to no obvious purpose. The popping sounds rise up to the officers with the binoculars.

  One of the landing craft has cut its engine out in deep water. The tiny figures of the men on board can be seen jumping one by one from the ramp. Parrish reads the craft’s identifying number through his binoculars.

  ‘ALC85. Why’s it stopped?’

  ‘It’s sunk,’ says Colonel Jevons, who devised the exercise. ‘Further out than I intended. Still, they should all float.’

  ‘A couple of six-inch howitzers up here,’ says the brigadier, ‘and not a man would make it ashore alive.’

  ‘Ah, but the advance raiding party has cut your throats,’ says Jevons.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ says the brigadier.

  Behind the staff officers the two ATS drivers are seeking shelter at the back of the Signals truck. The Signals sergeant, Bill Carrier, finds himself in the unfamiliar situation of being outnumbered by women. If a few other lads from his unit were with him he’d know how to banter with these English girls, but on his own like this, unsure of his ground, he’s feeling shy.

  ‘Look at it,’ says the pretty one. ‘June! You’ve got to admit it’s a joke.’

  She laughs and wriggles her whole body, as if the absurdity of the world has taken possession of her. She has curly brown hair, almost touching her collar, and brown eyes with strong eyebrows, and a wide smiling mouth.

  ‘Don’t mind Kitty,’ says the other one, who is blonde and what is called handsome, meaning her features are a little too prominent, her frame a little too large. She speaks through barely parted lips, in the amused tones of the upper classes. ‘Kitty’s perfectly mad.’

  ‘Mad as a currant bun,’ says Kitty.

  The rain intensifies. The two drivers in their brown uniforms huddle under the shelter of the truck’s raised back.

  ‘Christ, I could murder a cup of tea,’ says the blonde one. ‘How much longer, O Lord?’

  ‘Louisa was going to be a nun,’ says Kitty. ‘She’s tremendously holy.’

  ‘Like hell,’ says Louisa.

  ‘Sorry,’ says the sergeant. ‘We’re still on action stations.’

  ‘Only an exercise,’ says Kitty.

  ‘My whole life is only an exercise,’ says Louisa. ‘When do we get to the real thing?’

  ‘I’m with you there,’ says the sergeant. ‘Me and the lads are going nuts.’

  He answers Louisa but his eyes are on Kitty.

  ‘All you Canucks want to do is fight,’ says Kitty, smiling for him.

  ‘That’s what we come over for,’ says the sergeant. ‘Two bloody years ago now.’

  ‘Ah, but you see,’ says Kitty, pretending seriousness, trying not to laugh, ‘that’s not what Louisa’s talking about at all. She’s talking about getting married.’

  ‘Kitty!’ Louisa pummels her friend, making her crouch over, laughing. ‘You are such a tell-tale.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with wanting to get married,’ says the sergeant. ‘I want to get married myself.’

  ‘There!’ says Kitty to Louisa. ‘You can marry the sergeant and go and live in Canada and have strings of healthy bouncing Canadian babies.’

  ‘I’ve got a girl in Winnipeg,’ says the sergeant. He thinks how he’d ditch her in a flash for Kitty, but not for Louisa.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Kitty, ‘Louisa’s tremendously posh and only allowed to marry people who went to Eton and have grouse moors. Did you go to Eton, Sergeant?’

  ‘No,’ says the sergeant.

  ‘Do you have a grouse moor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then your girl in Winnipeg is safe.’

  ‘You really are quite mad,’ says Louisa. ‘Don’t believe a single word she says, Sergeant. I’d be proud and honoured to marry a Canadian. I expect you have moose moors.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Bill Carrier, tolerantly playing along. ‘We hunt moose all the time.’

  ‘Isn’t it meese?’ says Kitty.

  ‘They’re not fussy what you call them,’ says the sergeant.

  ‘How sweet of them,’ says Kitty. ‘Dear meese.’

  She gives the sergeant such an adorable smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, that he wants to take her in his arms there and then.

  ‘Stop it,’ says Louisa, smacking Kitty on the arm. ‘Put him down.’

  A ship’s horn sounds from the bay, a long mournful blare. This is the signal to the men on the beach to re-embark.

  ‘There she blows,’ says the sergeant.

  The two ATS girls get up. The officers on the clifftop are on the move, talking as they go, huddled together in the rain.

  ‘So what’s your names anyway?’ the sergeant says.

  ‘I’m Lance-Corporal Teale,’ says Kitty. ‘And she’s Lance-Corporal Cavendish.’

  ‘I’m Bill,’ says the sergeant. ‘See you again, maybe.’

  They part to their various vehicles. Kitty stands to attention by the passenger door of the brigadier’s staff car.

  ‘Ride with me, Johnny,’ the brigadier says to Captain Parrish.

  The officers get in. Kitty takes her place behind the wheel.

  ‘Back to HQ,’ says the brigadier.

  Kitty Teale loves driving. Secretly she regards the big khaki Humber Super Snipe as her own property. She has learned how to nurse its grumbly engine to a smooth throb on cold early mornings, and takes pleasure in slipping into just the right gear for each section of road, so that the vehicle never has to strain. She carries out the simpler operations of car maintenance herself, watching over oil levels and tyre pressures with an almost maternal care. She also cleans the car, in the long hours waiting at HQ for the next duty call.

  Today, driving home through the little towns of Seaford and Newhaven, she resents the drizzle because she knows it will leave a film of grime over every surface. At least she’s not in convoy behind an army lorry, enduring the spatter of mud from high back wheels. Louisa, who is following behind her in the Ford, will be getting some of the spray from her wheels. But Louisa has no sense of loyalty to the car she drives. ‘It’s not a pet,’ she says to Kitty. ‘It’s got no feelings.’

  To Kitty, everything has feelings. People and animals, of course. But also machines, and even furniture. She’s grateful to the chair on which she sits for bearing her weight, and to the knife in her hand for cutting her bread. It seems to her that they’ve done her a kindness out of a desire to make her happy. Her gratitude is the tribute she pays, as a pretty child grown accustomed to the kindness of strangers, afraid that she does too little to deserve it. She’s been brought up to believe it’s wrong to think herself attractive, and so is caught in a spiral of charm, in which those who seek to please her must be pleased by her in return. This gives rise to frequent misunderstandings. Unable to offend, she is forever encouraging false hopes. There’s a young man in the navy who supposes her to be his girlfriend, after two meetings and a dance. It’s true they kissed, but she’s kissed other boys. Now he’s written her a passionate letter asking her to meet him in London this Friday, when he has twenty-four hours’ leave.

  The officers in the back are talking about the coming big sho
w.

  ‘All I pray is the flyers do their job,’ says the brigadier. ‘I want those beaches bombed to buggery.’

  ‘Do we have a forecast?’ says Captain Parrish. ‘This is no good to anyone.’

  He indicates the rain blurring the car windows.

  ‘Supposed to clear by tomorrow,’ says the brigadier. ‘Then we have to wait for the moon. We’ve got a few days. Not that anyone ever tells me anything. Bloody liaison officer knows more than I do.’

  The Humber turns off the road up the long drive to Edenfield Place, where the battalion is based. The great Victorian Gothic mansion looms out of the drizzle. Kitty pulls the car to a gentle stop before the ornate porch, and the officers clamber out. Behind her, Louisa brings the Ford to a noisier halt on the gravel.

  ‘Thank you, Corporal,’ says the brigadier to Kitty. ‘That’s all for today.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  He signs her work docket.

  ‘If you have a moment, be nice to our friend George. The boys have made a bit of a mess of his wine cellar and he’s rather cut up.’

  The rightful owner of Edenfield Place, George Holland, second Lord Edenfield, has opted to go on living in the house through this period of wartime requisition. In the sacrificial spirit of the times he has retained for himself a modest suite of three rooms that were formerly occupied by his father’s butler. George is barely thirty years old; soft-spoken, shy, in poor health.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ says Kitty.

  She drives the car round to the garage at the back, followed by Louisa in the Ford. They go together to hand in their work dockets at the Motor Transport Office.

  ‘Fancy a drink at the Lamb?’ says Louisa.

  ‘I’ll just give the car a wipe-down,’ says Kitty. ‘Meet you in the hall in half an hour.’

  She takes a bucket and cloth and swabs the Humber’s flanks, patting the metalwork as she goes. Then she fills the petrol tank back up, and finally immobilises the car by removing its rotor arm, as required by regulations.

  Her route through the big house takes her down the cloister, across the galleried hall, past the organ room to the nursery stairs. The room she shares with Louisa is on the second floor, under the eaves, in what was once the night nursery. As she goes she ponders the best strategy to deal with Stephen and Friday. She could say she’s run out of travel warrants, which she has, but she’s always hitch-hiked before. And anyway, she’d like to see him. They could go to the 400 Club and dance and forget the war for the night. Surely there’s no harm in that?

  In the attic nursery Kitty sits on her bed and unrolls her regulation lisle stockings. She stretches out her bare legs, wiggling her toes, relishing the sensation of cool freedom. She possesses one pair of rayon stockings, but they won’t last for ever, and she has no intention of wasting them on the crowd in the Lamb. Friday, maybe, if she does decide to go up to town.

  She sighs as she touches up her lipstick. It’s all very well having boys be sweet on you, but why must they all try to own you? Louisa says it’s because she smiles too much, but what can she do about that? You’re allowed to smile at someone without marrying them, aren’t you?

  At No.2 Motor Transport Training Centre in North Wales there’d been a girl her age who said she’d done it with four different men. She said it was ten times better than dancing. She said the trick was to pretend to be tipsy, then afterwards you say you don’t remember a thing. She said if you were lucky and got a good one it was heaven, but you could never tell from the outside which ones would be good.

  On the way back down the narrow carpetless stairs Kitty meets George himself, loitering on the first floor. Somehow since being billeted in Edenfield Place she has befriended its owner, rather in the way you take in a stray dog.

  ‘Oh, hullo,’ he says, blinking at her. He has poor eyesight, apparently. ‘Are they still keeping you hard at work?’

  ‘No, I’m off now,’ says Kitty. Then remembering the brigadier’s request, ‘I’m really sorry about the wine.’

  ‘Oh, the wine,’ he says. ‘All the ’38 Meursault is gone. I’m told they drank it laced with gin.’

  ‘That’s terrible!’ Kitty is more shocked by the gin than by the theft. ‘They should be shot.’

  ‘Well, not shot, perhaps. You know the Canadians are all volunteers? We should be grateful to them. And I am grateful.’

  ‘Oh, George. You’re allowed to be angry.’

  ‘Am I?’

  His unfocused eyes gaze at her with silent longing.

  ‘I suppose they meant no real harm,’ says Kitty. ‘They’re like children who don’t know what damage they’re doing. But even so. You’ll get compensation, won’t you?’

  ‘I expect I’ll be paid something.’ Then with a sudden rush, ‘The thing is, Kitty, I was hoping we could find a moment to talk.’

  ‘Later, George,’ she says. ‘I’m late already.’

  She touches his arm and gives him a smile to soften the implied rejection, and runs on down the main stairs. Louisa is waiting by the ornate fireplace in the great hall. She’s wearing her now-obsolete FANY uniform, made for her by her father’s tailor, with the lanyard on the left, yeomanry-style, in the FANY colours of pink and blue. Kitty raises her eyebrows.

  ‘To hell with them all,’ says Louisa cheerfully. ‘If I have to wear uniform when I’m out in the evenings, I’ll bloody well wear one that fits me.’

  Kitty and Louisa both volunteered for the FANYs, so much more socially acceptable than the ATS, and met at the training camp in Strensall.

  ‘I don’t mind being bossed about by lesbians in trilbies,’ says Louisa, ‘so long as they’re my own class.’

  Two years ago the proud FANYs were merged with the ATS, which is not at all Louisa’s class, and has the least fetching uniform of all the services.

  Outside the rain has stopped at last. There’s a crowd of Camerons by the pub, sprawled on the damp grass strip between the door and the road. From inside come cheers and waves of laughter.

  ‘You don’t want to go in there, darling,’ one soldier calls out to them.

  ‘I don’t see any drinks out here,’ responds Louisa.

  They go into the saloon bar and find a mixed bunch of Camerons and Royals banging on the tables, roaring out encouragement. A trooper from the Fusiliers Mont-Royal is dancing on a table.

  ‘Frenchie! Frenchie! Frenchie!’ they chant. ‘Off! Off! Off!’

  The trooper, a gangling French-Canadian with a craggy stubble-dark face, is performing a mime striptease. Without removing a single actual garment he is managing to create the illusion that he’s a sexy young woman peeling off layer after layer.

  Kitty and Louisa watch, mesmerised.

  ‘Bravo, Marco!’ shout his comrades. ‘Baisez-moi, Marco! Allez Van Doo!’

  The trooper writhes with seductive sinuousness, as little by little, with careful tugs, he eases invisible stockings down his legs. Now mock-naked but for brassiere and panties he plays at coyly covering his crotch with his hands, opening and closing his legs. Looking round the faces of the watching men, Kitty realises they’re genuinely aroused.

  ‘Show us what you’ve got, Frenchie!’ they call out. ‘Knickers down! Off, off, off!’

  Teasing inch by teasing inch, down come the imaginary knickers, while the performer remains in full khaki battledress. Kitty catches Louisa’s eye and sees there the same surprise. It’s only a joke; but the male sexual hunger on display is all too real.

  Now the knickers are off. The legs are tightly crossed. The ugly soldier who is also a gorgeous naked woman holds his audience spellbound with anticipation. Now at last he throws up his hands, parts his legs, thrusts out his crotch, and a great sigh of satisfaction fills the smoky air.

  The show over, the young men packing the bar become suddenly aware that there are two actual females in their midst. Laughing, jostling, they compete to get close.

  ‘Look who’s here! Let me buy you a drink, gorgeous! This one’s on me. Budge up, p
al! Give a guy a chance.’

  Kitty and Louisa find themselves pushed back and back until they’re pressed to the wall. The friendly attentions of the excited soldiers become uncomfortable.

  ‘Take it easy, boys,’ says Kitty, smiling even as she tries to fend off reaching hands.

  ‘Hey!’ cries Louisa. ‘Get off me! You’re squashing me!’

  None of the soldiers means to push, but the ones behind are surging forward, and the ones in front find themselves thrust against the girls. Kitty starts to feel frightened.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please.’

  A commanding voice rings out.

  ‘Move! Get back! Out of my way!’

  A tall soldier is forcing himself through the crush, taking men by the arm, pulling them aside.

  ‘Idiots! Baboons! Get back!’

  The crowding soldiers part before him, all at once sheepishly aware that things have got out of control. He reaches Kitty and Louisa and spreads his arms to create a clear space before them.

  ‘Sorry about that. No harm done, I hope?’

  ‘No,’ says Kitty.

  The man before her wears battledress with no insignia of any kind. He’s young, not much older than Kitty herself, and strikingly handsome. His face is narrow, with a strong nose over a full sensitive mouth. His blue eyes, beneath arching brows, are fixed on her with a look she’s never encountered before. His look says, Yes, I can see you, but I have other more important concerns than you.

  The soldiers he has displaced are now recovering their poise.

  ‘Who do you think you are, buddy?’

  The young man turns his faraway gaze on his accuser, and sees him raise a threatening hand.

  ‘Touch me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll break your neck.’

  There’s something about the way he says it that makes the soldier lower his hand. One of the others mutters, ‘Leave him alone, mate. He’s a fucking commando.’

  After that the crowd disperses, leaving Kitty and Louisa with their rescuer.