The Back of Beyond

by Doris Davidson

  ‘A jug of water’s all I need … a big jug.’

  ‘You’d better come in till I see what we’ve got. You’ll have a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sat down at the table and laid his forage cap on the floor beside him. ‘As I recall,’ he began, watching her fill the second cup which had been set out, ‘your sister said you were evacuees from London.’

  ‘Well, our husbands insisted that we take the kids away from the bombing.’

  ‘How many kids do you have between you?’ he asked, conversationally, curling his hands round the large cup she handed him.

  ‘Marge has nearly given up hope of having any, but I’ve got two, a girl and a boy.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence,’ he smiled, ‘I’ve got a girl and a boy, as well. Pam’ll be nine in five weeks, and David’s ten past.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s another coincidence. My son’s David, too, but they’re the other way round – he’ll be eight in August, and Leila’s nine in May.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs … em … Ken Partridge, by the way. At your service.’ He gave her a smart salute.

  ‘Gwen Ritchie.’ Her face had coloured at talking so freely to a man she had just met, but he didn’t feel like a stranger, somehow. ‘My husband’s in the Artillery.’

  ‘I’m Ordnance Corps attached to the Black Watch.’ His smile broadened. ‘So now we’re old friends, but I’ll be in trouble if I’m late. I’ve to take the boys back to camp, and some of them get a bit rowdy if they’re kept waiting.’

  ‘Don’t forget the water,’ she giggled, jumping to her feet and opening the door of the cupboard at the side of the fireplace. ‘Will this old jug hold enough?’

  ‘That’s perfect, but let me fill it.’ While they waited for the water level to rise to the brim of the ewer, he said, ‘Will it be OK if I bring this back another time? It’ll take me a while – it’s quite a walk from the main road, isn’t it?’

  ‘A mile.’ Gwen would have offered to walk with him and take the jug back herself, but she wasn’t exactly dressed for a late-night hike. It crossed her mind, as she closed the door behind him, that it would be quite nice to see him again, but the thought made her feel guilty. She was a happily married woman, why on earth should she want to see Ken Partridge again?

  Giving this due consideration, she decided that it wasn’t for his good looks, anyway, though his cheeky grin was what had made her feel at ease with him. Nor was it the colour of his hair, for she had never liked red-headed men, she didn’t know why, and his was the brightest ginger she’d ever seen. His eyes had been really nice, though – an unusual green, but soft and kind with an attractive twinkle – she’d felt like a young girl every time he looked directly at her. Not that she had fallen for him, nothing like that; maybe it was because he seemed a kind of kindred spirit, yet she’d only known him for, at the most, twenty minutes.

  Before sitting down again, she took a good look at herself in the overmantel mirror, and was sure she could make out a glint of silver in her hair, not so blonde as it had once been, and her skin was rougher, with working outside so much. For all that, she looked fit and healthy. The open air life was doing her good. It hadn’t done much good for her hands, though, she thought, studying them ruefully. Her nails were broken, her fingers and palms always ingrained with dirt, no matter how much she scrubbed them and smothered them in cold cream at nights. Still, she consoled herself, sitting down at the table again, at least the children were safe from air raids up here.

  Her mother’s letters didn’t tell them much – she just said ‘our friends still pay us calls’, which obviously meant they were still being bombed – but Peggy wrote, in her less frequent scrawls, that some weeks they were in the shelter for nights on end, and hardly any houses in their street had escaped having windows blown out … or in.

  There’s been a few incendiaries, but we’ve escaped so far. Alf and I both signed up as fire watchers – not for the same nights, of course, because of Mum – so I’m on duty every fifth night with old Mr. Hornby from No. 16, patrolling our little patch and making sure we don’t miss any of the blasted things, though God knows what good I could do with only a 70-year-old dodderer to help me. But I’m being unkind. Cyril Hornby’s dedicated to the job, pail and stirrup pump always at the ready. He sends regards to Marge and you.

  By the way, you might be interested to know that I’ve persuaded Alf not to wait until the war’s over before we get married, (he might be past it by then. ha ha!).

  ‘She’s come out of her shell lately,’ Marge had commented. ‘She wouldn’t have said anything like that before. Thirtieth April at Caxton Hall, no big fuss.’ She sniffed. ‘I wish we could see her, though.’

  Remembering, Gwen heaved a prolonged sigh. Peggy had also told them not to feel bad about not being there, she knew they’d be thinking of her. She had no idea how they felt – their baby sister …

  She sat up abruptly. For heaven’s sake, she was getting as maudlin as if she’d been drinking! She’d have to pull herself together and finish writing to Alistair. Thank goodness she had something different to tell him tonight. Lifting the Swan fountain pen he had given her for Christmas some years before, she described the short interlude with Ken Partridge in as interesting a way as she could, telling all the facts yet studiously avoiding anything that might hint at how relaxed she had felt in his company. She didn’t want to make her husband jealous of a man she may only see once more, and that only if he kept his promise to return the chipped willow-patterned ewer.

  At five to twelve, she boiled the kettle for Marge coming in. The dances in the church hall did not go on until all hours like the Hogmanay Do at Ardley Camp. The Rev. James Lennox made sure that everyone had left the hall by 11.30, so that his beadle could sweep the floor and lock up while it was still Saturday, and so that he, himself, could be in bed at a decent time of night. Even in his student days, he had never been one to burn the midnight oil.

  As she always did, Marge came bouncing in, stopping in her tracks when Gwen observed, with a touch of mischief in her eyes, ‘I’d a visitor while you were out.’

  ‘A visitor? At night?’ Marge was astounded. ‘Who was it? It wasn’t a man, surely, and you here on your own? Or were the kids still up?’

  ‘Give me a chance to tell you. It was Ken Partridge from the camp – the one who gave you a lift on New Year’s morning, remember? All he wanted was a jug of water for the bus, and the kids were in bed asleep, and …’

  ‘You didn’t take him in, did you?’

  ‘Of course I did. I gave him a cup of tea, as well, and he’s coming back …’

  ‘Oh, Gwen, no!’ Marge wailed. ‘After all the times you’ve lectured me about giving men the wrong idea, you invite back a …’

  ‘I didn’t invite him, he has to return the jug.’ She explained the circumstances in as much detail as she could.

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Marge said, impatiently. ‘From what I remember of him, he’s quite a nice chap, really – missing his wife and kids something awful, and a bus would be far too wide to come up the track. I suppose he was on the level.’

  ‘Of course he was! Why on earth should be walk all the way up here if he didn’t have to?’ Gwen paused, her eyes clouding. ‘Unless it was you he wanted to see, and the water was just an excuse.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’d say he was one hundred per cent genuine, but for goodness’ sake, don’t let any other strange men in. The village women would love to get their teeth into some juicy gossip about us, and if any of the men, soldiers or not, overheard them saying you were on your own here on the nights there’s a dance in the church hall …’

  ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ Gwen smiled. ‘Now, drink that tea before it gets cold, and let’s get to bed.’

  Another horrifying thought had struck her sister, however. ‘You weren’t dressed like that when Ken Thingummy was here, were you?’

  Looking down at
Alistair’s old flannel dressing gown, which she’d taken to using because it was so cold in Forvit in the winter nights, Gwen couldn’t help laughing. ‘Yes, I was, but I hadn’t put my curlers in nor put on my cold cream, thank heaven, otherwise he’d have run a mile when I opened the door.’

  Both young women doubled up with laughter at the thought of this, but later, before she fell asleep, it occurred to Gwen that Ken was a married man and would probably be used to seeing his wife similarly adorned … unless her hair was naturally curly and her skin smoothly perfect, and she wore a flimsy negligee instead of a man’s thick robe.

  Quite late on Monday afternoon, when Gwen was inside because it was her turn to make the tea, Marge heard a vehicle coming up the track, and straightened up from weeding the winter cabbage patch. It was a few moments later before the jeep came into view, negotiating the stony surface slowly and carefully. ‘Hi, there!’ she greeted the tall sergeant who got out. ‘So it was you?’

  ‘It was me,’ he laughed, ‘and I’ve brought back the jug your sister so kindly lent me. Is she anywhere about? I’d like to thank her.’

  ‘Inside,’ Marge said, laying down the hoe and leading the way.

  It was she who offered him a cup of tea, she who hogged the conversation, but quite often, Ken turned to include Gwen. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and looked up with a start and glanced at his watch when David burst in, Leila a little way behind him.

  ‘Good grief! Look at the time! I’ve been here for over an hour.’

  Nevertheless, he took time to introduce himself to the boy and girl before he made his way to the door, saying, as Marge saw him out, ‘Good company doesn’t half make the time fly past.’

  She didn’t stop to think. ‘Well, look, Ken, you’re welcome here any time. We’d be glad of some more of your good company.’

  ‘Are you sure I won’t be intruding on your privacy?’

  ‘I’m sick to the back teeth of privacy,’ she grinned.

  David, who had also taken it upon himself to see this very first visitor off the premises, now put in his tuppenceworth. ‘Auntie Marge, why can’t he come to tea on Saturday, when me and Leila don’t have school?’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ she smiled, thinking that the boy needed a man around, even for an occasional afternoon. ‘That’s if you can manage?’ she added, turning to the sergeant.

  ‘Yes, I’m not on duty this Saturday … unless I’m on jankers for being late today.’ Grinning, he turned to David again. ‘Would you like a run in my jeep? Just a bit down the track.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I just?’ The boy climbed aboard eagerly, and waved to his aunt as the vehicle rattled off.

  She returned to the kitchen. ‘I suppose you heard all that?’

  Gwen nodded wryly. ‘I certainly did, and you’re the one who told me to be careful …’

  ‘Sshh!’ warned her sister. ‘Walls have ears, remember.’

  Leila gave a most unfeminine snort. ‘I know you mean me, but why are you telling Mum to be careful? Ken’s a very nice man.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ Marge assured her.

  After that first Saturday, when the two women joined and enjoyed the game of rounders in the afternoon, and sat with their new friend listening companionably to the wireless after the children were in bed, Ken Partridge became a regular visitor, but never again while Gwen was on her own. He gave most of his attention to David, showing him how to dribble a football, how to hold a cricket bat (a flat piece of wood) and judge the speed of an oncoming sponge ball – all the knowledge a father might pass on to his son, Gwen thought one day, but unfortunately Alistair had been in the army before the boy was old enough to take any interest in these skills.

  When Ken learned that Alistair was arriving home on leave on the last Monday in May, he said, ‘I’d better stay away till he’s gone back.’

  This put Gwen’s mind at ease. She hadn’t mentioned in any of her letters that Ken was visiting regularly, though she couldn’t say why. There was nothing going on that her husband shouldn’t know about.

  Marge, however, said, ‘There’s no need. I’m sure Alistair would like to meet you.’

  ‘I’d better not. I know how I’d feel if my wife produced a man who’d been visiting her while I wasn’t there. I go on leave myself in the middle of June, so it’ll be four weeks before I see you all again.’

  After he left, on one of the bicycles made available at Ardley, Marge gave her sister an enquiring look. ‘Haven’t you told Alistair about Ken coming here?’

  ‘I just told him about the first time,’ Gwen said, a little on the defensive. ‘It didn’t seem fair … when he’s so far away … I thought he might feel jealous, though nothing’s going on – how could it, with you and the kids always here, too?’

  ‘You’ll have to gag your David, then. He’s got a mouth like the Dartford tunnel.’

  A horrified expression crossed Gwen’s face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  After a moment’s concentrated thought, Marge burst out, ‘I’ve got it! We could tell him it’s against army rules for any soldier to visit another soldier’s home.’

  ‘But that would be a downright lie!’

  ‘Lying’s not a criminal offence, and it’s either that or tell Alistair the truth. David won’t question it, not if I say it’s a grown-up secret and he’ll have to keep his mouth shut so Ken won’t get into trouble.’

  ‘What about Leila?’

  ‘I think she’ll fall for it, too, and nobody else knows Ken comes here. I’ve never said a word to a soul in the village, have you?’

  ‘No, it was nobody’s business.’ Gwen eyed her sister as if begging for assurance. ‘Do you really think it’ll work?’

  ‘I can’t see why not.’

  On his first night home, Alistair had done so much travelling and hanging around railway stations over the previous twenty-four hours that he tumbled into bed and was asleep in a few seconds, and Gwen, curlers in and skin shining from the cold cream she had rubbed in and wiped off, felt her heart turn over at how vulnerable he looked. She loved him so deeply it hurt. They’d all been in the house when he arrived, and he had only kissed her once before David and Leila clamoured for his attention, and the moment had passed, the moment he should have taken her in his arms and shown her how much he’d missed her.

  Of course, it was natural that he wanted to hug his children, and he’d said he had fourteen days’ leave altogether, but the army didn’t allow for the time it would take to travel from the south of England and back. That meant she would only have him for twelve days … maybe just eleven nights, and he was sleeping through one of them.

  Awake first in the morning, Alistair felt ashamed that he’d been too tired the night before to make love to his wife, but surely she would understand? Something else was niggling at the back of his mind, though, if only he could remember what it was. It had nothing to do with Gwen, nor Marge … nor Leila, even if she had been a bit reserved with him.

  That left David, who had definitely been different towards him after the initial joyful welcome. Of course, it was months since they’d seen each other – when he’d been David’s age, the two months between his birthday and Christmas had seemed like a year – but it wasn’t just that. There was an excitement, a nervousness, about him. Had he done something really bad and his father was being left to administer the punishment?

  Feeling Gwen stirring now, Alistair leaned across to kiss her, then everything else was blotted from his mind as he made up for lost time. It was wearing on for an hour later, and thankfully they were lying peacefully, when the bedroom door crashed back against the wardrobe and David leapt in.

  ‘Dad, Auntie Marge says to ask if you’re needing the bathroom before me and Leila go in to wash?’

  ‘Maybe I’d better.’

  Gwen sat up. ‘I’ll go after you, then, because they take ages.’

  ‘And Auntie Marge says your breakfast’s ready and just go down in your jim-jams.’

&nbs
p; Her face reddening, his mother said, ‘Off you go, my lad, and make sure you brush your shoes before you go to school.’

  Listening to him running down the stairs, Alistair burst out laughing. ‘Go down in our jim-jams,’ he spluttered. ‘Just as well she didn’t say to come as we are.’

  Swinging his feet to the floor, he went over to the chair by the window to get his underpants and trousers, his naked body more muscular than it used to be, his stomach muscles taut from the discipline of drills and marches.

  David and Leila off to school, Gwen upstairs in the bathroom, Alistair took the chance to have a private word with his sister-in-law. He hadn’t said anything to his wife, in case he was being oversensitive because of what he would have to tell her soon. ‘Is David in trouble of any kind, Marge?’

  ‘Not that I know of. What made you think that?’

  ‘It’s … I dunno, the way he looks at me, I suppose, as though he was expecting me to get on to him for something.’

  Marge gave a low chuckle. ‘Somebody’s always having to get on to him for something, at home and at school, but I’m sure his conscience is clear just now. He’s growing older, maybe that’s what it is? Maybe he wants you to show him how to do things, like … um, like other fathers show their sons.’

  Alistair didn’t notice her slight hesitation to cover the gaffe she had been on the point of making. ‘That’ll be it,’ he smiled. ‘Well, I’ll kick a ball around with him for a while when he comes home, how would that do? And I could take him to the burn where Dougal and me used to guddle for fish.’ Noticing her puzzled expression, he laughed loudly. ‘It means catching them with our hands.’

  ‘Great!’ she enthused. ‘That’s the kind of thing he’ll enjoy.’

  ‘How are you and Gwen coping here?’ he asked now.

  ‘Like old stagers,’ she smiled. ‘I was bored stiff before the dances started, but one evening’s dancing sees me through the four weeks till the next one.’

  Alistair frowned. ‘Dances?’

  ‘The vicar or whatever they call him puts on a dance once a month for the men at the camp, and he gets a three-piece band from Aberdeen to play. They’re quite good, the band and the dances, though everything stops at half past eleven.’