Thalia

by Frances Faviell

  Should he go on towards the road and get a lift to Doncaster? Or should he sleep a bit in the sun and then make his way back to camp making some excuse for having got separated from the others? What would Mike do if he did this? The prospect was too frightening . . . some of the things which Mike could force him to endure were still vivid in his mind. He remembered the day when he had first discovered that Mike was only making use of him. It had been during a pause in an exercise. The troops had all been lying or sitting about on just such a piece of moor as this. He and Mike had been a little apart from the others near them. It was then that Mike had first put to him the plan for both of them to get away to Ireland. It had been so audacious that Neil had refused immediately. Mike had said nothing at first, but later in the day, during another pause, he had said quietly. ‘You just listen to me. You’ve seen for yourself that I can make people do what I want them to do. Haven’t you? Well, how will you like it if I use my power—call it what you will. Suppose I were to use it to encourage the chaps to ridicule you even more than they do now? I could you know.’

  Neil had been aghast at the vision which this threat conjured up; he stared unbelievingly at Mike. This was his one and only friend. The one person who had stood up for him, fought for him, and in a thousand unobtrusive small ways smoothed his thorny path at the camp and made it easier for him to endure. The very thought of Mike joining the ranks of those whose delight it was to make his life there unbearable was an unthinkable nightmare.

  ‘You’re joking, Mike,’ he had said feebly. But the tightly-closed lips and the now hard, unsmiling eyes of a new Mike denied anything in the nature of a joke. Mike meant what he said.

  It was from that day that he knew suddenly that he was afraid of Mike Andersen—more afraid of him than of any of the petty daily miseries which his so-called friend helped him to endure. ‘I don’t want to quit again,’ he had said stubbornly. ‘I did fifty-six days at Colchester the first time. The C.O. talked to me. He made me see how stupid it was. I had to opt whether I’d do the fifty-six days he gave me or go up for court martial. He was decent about it.’

  ‘Why did you do it again then?’

  Neil had been silent for some time, and then at last he had said, ‘Nona, my twin, was getting married. I was mad. I can’t stand the fellow she’s married.’

  ‘You got a hundred and twelve days for that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mike had looked curiously at him. ‘Catch me doing a stretch like that—I’d take damned good care they didn’t get me.’

  ‘My grandmother gave me away to the police,’ said Neil.

  ‘I’d have killed her for it, Old Judas!’

  ‘She has strict ideas on duty and keeping the law and all that.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Ninny!’

  Neil’s heart had sunk. It was the first time that Mike had used the name by which he was generally known to his tormentors. ‘The old girl’s almost dead, isn’t she? And your brother’s dead and buried. And for what? A bloody medal which the family can hang up in a case? You know we’re due to get shipped to Malaya, don’t you? D’you want to get stuck out there? It’ll be quite another matter getting away from that dump.’

  ‘I’d like to see Malaya,’ Neil had said, obstinately. ‘Only I may not go. I’ve got a bad record here.’

  ‘You’re just the sort they send there. Get rid of all the rubbish quickly. Got to have some cannon fodder—time hasn’t come yet for guided missiles only. Look at your brother—killed the first few weeks, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well you don’t want to bleed your bloomin’ guts out in the bloody jungle, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then. You listen to me.’

  ‘It’s no good, Mike. I don’t want to desert again.’

  ‘Not want? Not want? Who said so? I’ve got plans for us both my dear Ninny—and they include you. In fact you’re indispensable to their success.’

  Mike had said no more but he had got to work in various ways, and soon Neil’s life became a nightmare. He shivered now as he lay there on the dry heather even at the remembrance of it. Even now, had it not been for this terrible fear of Mike he would have gone back. He might get some punishment for getting separated from the others—that was all. But it was the thought of what Mike would do to him should he dare turn up again at the camp which prevented him from turning round and going back. Suppose he went to the C.O. and told him about Mike? He had contemplated this on several occasions. But the thought of what would happen to him afterwards if his tormentors and Mike became aware of his treachery had made him desist.

  No, there was nothing to be done—but to desert. But he was not going to desert with Mike. A future with him was unthinkable. He would get to London and Nonie would help him to double-cross Mike somehow. She must. Len was gone—buried in Cyprus—Nonie would have to help him now. She could influence their grandmother. The old woman was rapidly becoming more and more helpless and was almost bedridden now. She depended on her granddaughter entirely. Nonie would have to persuade her. His decision made, he got up and started walking rapidly in the direction of the telegraph poles. It was surprisingly hot and his battle-dress was horribly thick and irritating to his sensitive skin. He took off the jacket and walked in his shirt. It was further than he thought and he was thirsty and tired. Walking on the clumps of heather and scrub was not easy. At last he reached the road and sat down on the edge to mop his face and neck.

  The road stretched winding and treeless like a steel-blue ribbon away among the moors. There was nothing on it at all. It was early afternoon—the time when the long-distance drivers take their afternoon snooze until it is cooler. Neil sat down and looked in each direction. Nothing to be seen. He didn’t know in which direction was the camp and which Doncaster. Maps were puzzles to him, and although he had been shown several times how to read one he seldom seemed able to concentrate.

  A car was approaching now . . . he stood up and hailed it. It shot past, the driver not even turning his head in the direction of the would-be traveller. After a long wait another car appeared. It scarcely slowed down, as the driver put his head out and shouted, ‘Where d’you want to go?’ When Neil shouted, ‘Doncaster,’ the man jerked his thumb in the direction from which he had come. Neil crossed to the opposite side of the road. Nothing was in sight. He was aware that he was shivering again although it was hot. He put his jacket on again after looking all over the horizon to see if there were any signs of his fellow men or of the army lorries which would presently come hunting up the stragglers. Nothing . . . the moor was as empty as the road.

  Mike had said that it was easy to get a lift. Maybe it was for Mike. Neil had come to recognise that for himself nothing was easy—because he was in constant fear. If Mike had been here with him he’d have made that motorist stop, turn round, and drive him back the way he had come, to Doncaster. Mike was like that. He scanned the long empty road again. Should he start walking along it? He had better—surely he must be too near the camp here for safety should any of the army lorries come along. He began walking slowly and wretchedly along the road. He had gone about a mile before the van caught up with him and slowed down. A red-faced cheerful man leaned down from the driving seat. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction for the camp, son,’ he said. ‘I want to get to Doncaster,’ said Neil.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. He whistled. ‘Not on the exercise then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to get to Doncaster station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hop up, then.’

  Now this was a contingency Mike had not advised him on. Did one ride outside in the cab with the driver—or did one ask to get in behind under cover? Surely it would be asking for trouble to flaunt his uniform in the driver’s cab; but to ask to get under cover might also arouse suspicion.

  ‘Better get in back there,’ said the man, pointing to the canvas covering on the lorry. ‘You can sleep a bit. There’s plenty of sheeti
ng there with the furniture—and some cushions.’ ‘Thanks, thanks . . .’ muttered Neil so gratefully that the man knew his suspicions to be correct. This lad had no travel warrant in his pocket—of that he was certain. His look of relief when he had suggested that he get under cover was sufficient answer to his doubts. The kid was on the run. What should he do?

  ‘Going on leave?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Yes. Unexpectedly. That’s why I’ve got to get a lift to Doncaster.’

  ‘Get in, then. We’ll be stopping on the way for a cuppa—that’s the only stop. Should make it between five and six. Got far to go from there?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘I may be able to put you on to someone going that way. We’ll see. Get in, mate.’

  He noticed the delicate flushed face, the almost white blonde hair and the narrow shoulders. Poor little devil . . . I know what it was like back in ’43, he thought. Lots of ’em aren’t cut out for it—and nor’s this one by the look of him. He felt no compunction about helping the lad. It wouldn’t be the first time. The kid hadn’t asked for a lift. He’d been trudging along the dusty road when he’d overtaken him. The driver’s sympathies lay with those who wanted to be free of military service. Let those who wanted war form the bloody army themselves. He hoped his sons would never have to go through what he’d gone through in ’43. ‘Okay there?’ he called, as the lad climbed up and through the canvas flap. ‘Fasten it at the top and leave yourself a bit of air. Gets stuffy back there. Got something to lie on?’

  The lorry started up again and they were off. It was bumpy—and the furniture none too securely packed. Neil was in constant fear that a large wardrobe would fall on him and when he dared to take his watchful regard off that he saw that a heavy mirror was balanced above him. True, it was tied with rope—but it did not look any too safe. What would be the use of running away if either the wardrobe or the mirror fell on him? He moved as far as he could away from them, so that should they fall they might possibly just miss him. He was dangerously near the flap though and the draught was strong. He saw a hollow place between two upturned armchairs and, crawling over, pulled two of the seat cushions down with him and, curling himself up, lay there gratefully and exhaustedly. He did not sleep for some time. Waves of fear swept him so that he alternately sweated and shivered. Fear of what he was doing, fear of its consequences, fear of the reception he could expect at the end of his journey, fear of being caught even now, that at any minute the van would be overtaken and he removed ignominiously by the Red Caps. But stronger than these loomed Mike and the urging drive to get away from him. So obsessed and tortured was he by the thought of life under Mike’s domination that he had even contemplated death as an escape. But he was afraid of death, too.

  He was dead asleep when the van reached a pull-in for lorries and the driver woke him. ‘Hi there! Want a cuppa, lad?’ Neil awoke with the instinctive terror of the fugitive—his hands out on the defensive.

  ‘Want to oil the throttle and stretch your legs?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Come on. You’ll be okay here. Don’t look so scared. No questions asked. Mind their own bloody business in this line—pity other lines can’t do the same.’

  ‘Got any money?’ he asked later, as the two sat drinking tea and eating great slabs of fruit cake in what had once been a Nissen hut and was now a popular stop for long-distance drivers. There were several customers there, and their studied disinterest as they relaxed over their tea or lay back after it was soothing to the lad’s jagged nerves. Got any cash?’ repeated his host.

  ‘Yes. How much do I owe you for the lift?’ asked Neil quickly.

  ‘No, no. I don’t mean that. You’re welcome, lad. How are you fixed for going on further?’

  ‘I’ve got enough money for my ticket.’

  ‘But you’re not going by rail, are you?’ The keen blue eyes bored into his and Neil said abruptly, ‘No, I hope to get a lift, but everybody isn’t as easy as you.’

  ‘I can fix you for London. But it’s an old, slow van. Take you some time. But Pat is safe—and he’s not inquisitive. He’ll drop you somewhere on the outskirts very early in the morning. How’ll that suit you?’

  Neil considered. Mike was intending to follow-on twenty-four hours later. That would be tomorrow afternoon. It would be easier for Mike because he’d got civvies and he intended to wear them. If he were to be successful in double-crossing Mike and getting away before he arrived to join him then he mustn’t arrive in London too late himself. But if it were very early in the morning it would be safer. He could get in his grandmother’s window. She slept below street level and her window opened on to a little piece of grass which sloped up to the street. He’d got in that way last time he’d deserted. A lorry was always safer than a train. If one travelled by train there was always the risk of the R.T.O. or the Red Caps at the stations. They could ask to see your warrant, your leave ticket if they liked. A lorry would be safer.

  ‘Thanks. That’ll be fine.’

  ‘Why are you going home unexpectedly? Anything wrong at home?’

  ‘My brother’s been killed in Cyprus.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Army?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Service or Regular?’

  ‘Service. He’d almost finished it.’

  ‘Bad luck that.’ He offered Neil a cigarette, studying his face, his hands, the details of his uniform carefully. Later on he might have to remember them. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. If the boy was just running away nothing more would be heard of him. But if, as sometimes happened, he’d done some damned silly thing and was running away from its effects then the details might be needed and given.

  ‘Come on. We’ll get along,’ he said, when his cigarette was finished, ‘or we might miss Pat.’

  It was getting dark when they pulled up again, at another similar pull in. And here, sitting at a table playing shove ha’penny, was Pat, a large genial Irishman with a blue peak cap and bright red hair.

  ‘I’ll take him. But it’s slow. We’ll make Putney about five with any luck. That do you, boy?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How much?’

  ‘Sure! nothing at all. I’ll do it for love of the uniform!’

  He threw back his head and roared. Neil was frightened. The other customers were regarding their table with interest. But no one questioned him, no one looked in the least curious.

  ‘You don’t need to look so frightened, lad.’ The driver who had brought him and who was addressed as ‘Pug’ by his pals said concernedly to him as he was saying good-bye, ‘If you look so worried and frightened, people will notice you. Try to behave normally—as if you really were going on leave.’ These last words, whispered with a chuckle, alarmed Neil more than anything else. So Pug knew. Did this Pat know too? Did they all? He looked round at the impassive faces drinking tea, smoking, playing shove ha’penny or twitting the two women serving them. Well, and if they did? They were all right. Pug had said so. He had nothing to fear. He tried to arrange his features into a mask of impassiveness like theirs. It was difficult. He showed every emotion on his transparent face. He kept his mouth open when he was frightened. He’d been told that. He shut it firmly and, glancing in the mirror over the counter in which the waitresses prinked, he saw that the firm set lips were most unnatural-looking. He opened his mouth again and accepted a cigarette from Pat.

  The van which Pat drove was slow indeed. There was little space to lie down for the load consisted of sacks of some cereal and Neil had to squeeze in between two sacks which he managed to shift. He was quite hidden, but there was not much air and it was far more bumpy than Pug’s furniture van had been. Nevertheless he slept again, fitfully, dreaming horribly of the camp, of the exercise, of Mike. It was half-past four when they reached Putney. Pat dropped him near the Underground station by the bridge, refusing to accept anything for the lift. ‘Sure, you’ll do the same for another lad one day. Good luck to you. . . .’ And he was off quickly so as not to arouse suspicion should any cops be on
patrol there as he said.

  Neil found there was a train very shortly to West Brompton. From there it was only a short walk to his home. He sat down in the deserted station. A negro porter was sweeping the stairs and singing cheerfully. He could not shake off his feeling that he was being followed. He put the exact money in the ticket machine and got a ticket. No one looked at it or clipped it. He sat down on the empty station to wait for a train. He was so frightened that his teeth chattered and his stomach was queasy.

  A Furrowed Middlebrow Book

  FM7

  Published by Dean Street Press 2016

  Copyright © 1957 Frances Faviell

  Afterword copyright © 2016 John Parker

  All Rights Reserved

  The right of Frances Faviell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her estate in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 1957 by Cassell & Co. Ltd.

  Cover by DSP

  ISBN 978 1 911413 84 4

  www.deanstreetpress.co.uk