‘Let me go.’ Wilkins not shouting, not sounding too interested, but still repeating, ‘Let me go.’ While a lanky W/Op frisked him as if he’d searched people before and took charge of his matches.
‘Let me go.’
‘He’s ruined that bit of bloody carpet.’
‘Christ, it takes you enough time to get things decent.’
‘Fancy’ lighter to Sergeant John Hanson.
Alfred – not wanting to look at Wilkins, or hear him – had started to scoop up the charred papers but then couldn’t think where to put them and just stood reading an item about a plucky submarine crew – sixteen ships sunk and 40,000 tons – two VCs, one DSO. That and an advert for Barney’s pipe tobacco, an overseas flying officer saying how fine it was – The Barney’s ‘EVERFRESH’ Tin has conquered time, distance and climate. In the desert of Sind Barney’s opens out as sweet, fresh and fragrant as when it left Tyneside.
‘Let me go.’
Miles appeared soon after that with Chiefy and some burly chaps in tow. They didn’t seem surprised, only highly keen to get Wilkins out.
‘Clean that bloody mess up, will you.’ Chiefy in a rush. ‘Don’t just stand there. Inspection at 16.30 tomorrow.’ And he two-sixed their man off.
‘Let me go.’
The mess adjusted itself with chatter. Kicked about the ruins and lit new cigarettes.
‘Poor bastard.’
‘Poor bastard nothing – I was reading that Picture Post.’
‘Reading nothing – you were eyeing up that bint with the bathing cap in London Opinion.’
‘Bugger me. He hasn’t tried burning her, has he?’
‘He’ll be cleaning fucking toilets for the rest of the war.’
‘Quite bloody right. If he’s ruined page seventeen. She was all that got me through.’
‘Oh, yes. Poor sod.’ Hanson dropping into an armchair with the air of a man who intended he should stay. ‘Scrubbing away at that porcelain, while we have all the fucking fun. We’re the lucky boys, we are.’ He yawned, scratched inside his shirt and pulled out a London Opinion – opening it carefully and then licking his lips. An unscathed paperback was flung towards his head, its previous owner protesting as it flew.
‘Oh, now look, you bleeders – I was reading that.’
A couple of bods laughed, Alfred heard them. Last week, he’d have laughed as well.
My books, what there are, I give to Sergeant A.F. Day. He’s read them all, anyway.
Other effects to family if crew don’t want them.
With apologies for any inconvenience and my thanks in advance.
drop
Vasyl caught Alfred about nine o’clock, ran across the junction between huts that a bright and patriotic spark had christened Charing Cross – but after the one in Glasgow, apparently. ‘I saw when you were talking to that German cunt.’ A kind of anguish in the Ukrainian’s face and the evening falling down at his shoulder – colours heating, deepening.
‘Seemed a pleasant type.’ Alfred sure Vasyl wanted to take his arm, so he drew off to one side, which would seem defensive, but never mind. ‘What’s it to you?’ Alfred had wanted to watch out the end of the day, be undisturbed.
‘He tells you he suffered?’
‘Not particularly, no.’ Now he could see it coming. Vasyl was the type who’d want to have suffered, whose suffering was special, who’d want to tell that kind of story. ‘Have to go, now, Basil. Spot of tin bashing to get on with. Trying to make a coffee pot. This time, if it works, I can take it back home.’ Which would be pointless, given that no one in London – not even Ivor – would care for a tin-can coffee pot.
Vasyl pushed at his Jerry headgear, some kind of thought going on, then made a tiny lunge forward. ‘Please. No.’ Hands up in surrender, but preventing Alfred moving off, eyes attempting to be gentle, innocent. ‘You should know. People should know.’
‘All right.’ Alfred sighed, folded his arms. ‘What is it I should know?’
‘I was prisoner, too. Of the Americans. I was mislaid for a while and caught and then put in the Rhine Meadow. I ended in Remagen and the Amis took my watch.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘But no, this isn’t right. Some Amis with five watches, six. They steal our watches. But they give us no food. It rained. In that April it rained. And we were sleeping in holes – no tents, no huts, they put us in fields like animals and some they were drowned like this in these holes.’
It was odd, Alfred almost believed him: the way his palms waved in front of him, helpless-looking, and his voice wavered. It was somebody’s true story, anyway – even if it wasn’t Vasyl’s.
‘We could see the boxes of food, but there was nothing for us. Almost nothing. I ate grass. You ever eat grass?’
‘As it happens.’
Vasyl ignored the interruption. ‘At night sometimes they fired tracer over our heads, so we would be down all the time, on our hands and knees – to make us crawl. Why would they want this?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘Policemen, firemen, postmen they just take everyone in a uniform. I was in a good uniform. They could tell I was not SS. I had a good uniform.’
And you could see then a little tick of truth and Vasyl paused for a moment and blinked at you. He’d got himself a Wehrmacht uniform, or a policeman’s, fireman’s, postman’s, and he’d tried to hide and been taken anyway. He’d been SS.
Alfred grinned at him. ‘Well, none of us enjoyed ourselves too much. What with one thing and another.’
The hands rose again. ‘They keep me ten months like this. Men dying everywhere – men have the Ruhr.’
Ruhr – you haven’t heard that for a while – the German slang for dysentery. A sense of humour there – all of that heavy industry in the Ruhr Valley making its river the colour of running shit. All of that heavy industry making you bomb it, bomb the Happy Valley, night after fucking night. Some places have no luck.
‘Very bad Ruhr among everyone, you understand.
‘Dysentery.’
‘I –’
‘Yes, that’ll kill you, often as not. By the way – that bod you gave the third degree – that man you beat. What had he done?’
Now it was Vasyl’s chance to grin. ‘I don’t beat anyone. I could never do such a thing.’ He sloped his fists down into his pockets. ‘But there are bad people here – ones who have done terrible things.’
‘I’m sure there are, Basil. And I’m sure there are other people who want to say so.’ Alfred began walking, Vasyl staying with him.
‘Perhaps.’
‘How did you come to be a DP – that’s for civilians, isn’t it?’
‘But I was forced. We didn’t wish to be soldiers, we were just glad to be free from Stalin when the Germans came – and then – and then I was a kind of slave.’ He made a different, softer smile, as if such a bad lie was a disappointment to him, an amusing example of human frailty, and so he would disown it as he spoke. ‘They have to keep us as DPs – if they don’t we are sent back to the Russians, the Communists, and nobody loves the Communists any more. Everything changes, Mr Alfred, and one must be on the clean side when they do. A man must be clever.’
‘I’m sure. Sehr schlau.’ And rather than have to put up with this any longer, Alfred stepped up into a hut he didn’t know, hoping that Vasyl wouldn’t follow.
Although they hadn’t seemed to be there a moment before, he found himself walking into a pair of quite large gentlemen – ‘Hello there’ – solidly made. ‘Can we help you?’ They were friendly enough – in a brick shithouse kind of way. ‘We’re busy in here, you see.’ But Alfred knew they wouldn’t mind a fight and probably wouldn’t lose it, not unless he did bad things to them, and they might have learned some bad things of their own. ‘Yes, laddie. Highly occ
upied.’
Alfred half turned, checking for Vasyl: but the Ukrainian was yards away now, a queer look about him – amusement and worry blended. He gave a carefully insolent salute, turned on his heel and sloped away.
‘Laddie?’ The voice at Alfred’s side rumbling so deep he could feel it in his arms. ‘You really should think of fucking off.’
‘No, no – he’s all right.’ Somebody calling from further indoors. ‘He’s one of ours.’ A Scottish twang and a sense of authority, of matters being taken efficiently in hand. The guards shrugged, parted, and Alfred was facing a slim, restless man dressed in filthy long underwear – very blue eyes in a filthy face, filthy hand extended. ‘You are, aren’t you?’ The man glanced down at his own general disarray and let his hand drop before Alfred could shake it. ‘You’re the boy who fainted, aren’t you?’
‘I . . .’ An odd clank and scrape started up at the far end of the hut. ‘Yes . . . You . . . You’re not . . . ?’ The guards settled themselves down to crouch either side of the door – each of them looked like a stack of normal people. The din continued and Alfred had to ask, ‘You are, aren’t you?’
The man clapped his knees and laughed, teeth showing white. ‘Yes, yes we are. Couldn’t help ourselves.’ He scratched at the back of his head, producing a small shower of sand. ‘Come away in and see.’ Alfred followed as the man barefooted it over the floorboards. ‘Apologies, by the way – Gad, they call me – should have done the introductions first. The two bruisers are Binns and Duncan. And you?’ There was a happiness about him that seemed too fierce.
‘Ah, I’m . . .’ But there it was, really there at his feet, preventing speech, ‘I’m . . .’ Neatly sawed planking and joist, shoring – and another man, you could hear him, lost inside the hole, over his head and digging, tunnelling out a dream. ‘You’re . . .’
‘Had to be done.’ Gad peered down almost shyly. ‘Didn’t imagine I would when I came here, but –’
He was interrupted by a shout from the excavation. ‘Gad? Who are you gossiping with now? Another bloody pair of hands, I hope. We’ll never get anywhere near at this rate.’
Gad turned to Alfred, all benevolent enquiry. ‘You heard the man . . . You being someone who was here before – you’ll understand.’
A hollowness spreading in everything: the walls, the chairs, the view stuck up against the window, the lies walking past alive, and you’re thirsty suddenly and very tired, head pressing your neck. ‘I’ll . . . I can’t today. Tomorrow. I’ll maybe come back tomorrow.’
‘Awful decent of you if you could.’ Gad’s joy shading itself slightly. ‘Such a lot to do, if we’re to put up a proper effort. And the film and that – it takes up our time so.’
‘I’ll . . . if I can.’ Already easing your weight back, starting your first move for the door. ‘If I can.’
‘Cheerio for now.’
‘Yes. Cheerio. You take care.’
‘Oh, we do. We do.’ He pats the cut edge of the wood. ‘We take care.’ He’s proud.
You nod, have to close your eyes as you spin round to leave.
‘You, ah . . . you won’t . . .’ Gad too polite to continue.
‘Of course. I won’t tell anyone.’ Talking to the open door, can’t face him again. ‘No one to tell.’
‘Splendid, splendid. Well, must get on.’
And you run after that, run through the evening light that’s thready with dust, run to the shower block – the one with real plumbing for practical use – also employed as a background in several light-hearted scenes. You stand in beneath the water and you wash.
Bod you recognise from Hut 26 comes in. He nods vaguely towards the wall behind you and leaves. He saw that you’re fully dressed but didn’t mention. Because everybody is mad here, all permanently mad.
drop
You’re sitting with Joyce and the world is beneath you, set out in a long, slow scoop that rises to the far slopes and their trees.
‘This is good, is it?’ You have to check, because perhaps she isn’t happy and perhaps you can’t make her be – something in your day feels lost and you want to mend it, ease it. ‘The view and the tea and everything. Isn’t it good?’ Tea and plum bread given you by a large-handed, powdery woman who says you should call her Dot and come back for more if you want it and smiles as if you and Joyce are a couple when you can’t be. ‘God bless the WI.’ The city rolling down from you to the meadows and the wreck of the Bishop’s Palace at your back, honey walls shedding the May heat, making the air seem heavier, tighter, and behind all of that the cathedral.
See it from miles off, even on the ground – the big box of a spire, calm on its hill. The only proper hill you could find on that plain, that level which did so nicely for building airfields. Drive to it from the drome in about an hour along roads the fens make too easy, too smooth – ditches hiding in reeds to either side if you risk yourself and race, misjudge a bend, stop caring. Pilot broke his neck that way – motorcycle. Can’t recall his name and there’s no need to since he’s gone.
Joyce leans back slightly, stretches out her hand into the grass – she’s sitting on your jacket. You love that’s she’s sitting on your jacket, it makes you delighted.
‘It is very . . . it’s pretty.’ But everything about her is only sad.
You would like to ask why, but don’t in case this has to do with you. ‘Bit too hot?’
‘No, it’s just right. London never really seems to get any proper weather. And I don’t get out into the country any more. Sorry.’
‘For what.’
‘Complaining.’
‘Complain if you want to. I won’t tell anybody.’
She smiles at the view, but only gently, maybe tired. There’s a dance tonight and you want to go with her, hold her that way, to music – if she’s tired, though, perhaps she’ll say she’d rather not.
But you won’t think that, haven’t a way to stand it and so you let yourself lean, lean further, then topple – gently, safely, control the descent – so that your head is rested up against her. Not in her lap, you wouldn’t chance that, but your skull is touching, leaning maybe halfway along her thigh – something about which you cannot think too hard.
The light of her – made you want to cover your ugly face – made you want to be so much a better man.
Joyce reaching down then, setting her palm beside your cheek, the too-hot mess of your cheek, and the cool of her was perfect, the mercy of her perfect and lifting you out of your chest, your self, the touch of her gloved in the touch of your mother when she woke you – some old, unfurling memory you can’t prevent – her gloved in your mother and your mother gloved in her so that you shake, so that you are terrified.
‘Alfie?’ The edge of her thumb brushing by the corner of your eye, finding the start of a tear that you hadn’t known about, the start of something you can’t finish, not here. ‘You all right? Alfie?’
‘Glare.’ A wild, hot noise inside you that you should never let out. ‘Not used to so much daylight.’
‘Well then, close your eyes.’
And you do as she tells you and in the red dark you are not alone because her hand is there, so near, so smooth beside your mind.
‘Thank you.’ For taking care of you, when you should take care of her.
Close to a laugh in her voice, a new lightness, ‘For what, silly?’
You should have noticed that, how it worked – that if you were sad it made her happy.
But you never will know if that was true. If she’s been as happy for all of these years as you’ve been sad.
At the time, you don’t mind and she asks you, ‘What are you thanking me for?’
‘For coming all this way. For seeing me. You’m a fine wench. Yo am.’ A fast, hard weariness hitting you now, a wish for sleep.
To sleep w
ith her.
Wouldn’t work.
But I can want it anyway.
And sometimes, when you want, you ask and then you get. But you shouldn’t overdo it, should only try just every now and then.
It’s the second time she’s travelled up to meet you.
It’s the second time you’ve asked.
The first trip was truly awful – having to rush out to Lincoln in the evening and the crew along with you. They said they would like to meet her, that she’d cheer them up, and they were your crew and you couldn’t refuse them, not even Cyril Parks. But it turned out they almost ignored her and did what they would have anyway – drinking to not talk about Pluckrose, drinking his money, until they had to say he’d been a pal and a good man and a bloody fool and an utter shit and an excellent navigator and a madman. Joyce had stayed quiet, tucked in between you and Molloy, who was playing the gentlemen very well.
But then he leaned across her and asked you, ‘I’d want to know.’
‘What’s that, Dickie?’ You stroked Joyce’s arm to keep her feeling she was safe, but she was staring across the room and keeping herself beyond you. No chance to even tell her your mother’s gone. And you don’t know if you want to, if you can. ‘Dickie?’
‘What they put on his stone, now – I’d have liked a say in that.’
‘The usual, I’d suppose.’ You tickled your finger across her hand. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. But that was about not wanting any talk and should have no particular meaning for you. ‘The squadron crest. I don’t know.’
Molloy nodded heavily, agreeing with himself before he spoke. ‘Should put something he’d have wanted.’
And because you knew what that would be – what he’d have wanted – and you missed your poor bloody Pluckrose and were slightly drunk and you fucking bloody missed him, you said out loud what you shouldn’t – not with Joyce at your side. ‘I wasn’t fucking finished. That’s what he’d want.’
Knowing it was a mistake as soon as you said it and Joyce having to leave and head for her hotel not too long after, maybe because she was offended, uneasy, maybe because she was frightened you had no chance, were a rotten bet, and you walked her along and up that bastard hill that winded you both, stopped you talking.
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