Blue Smoke

by Deborah Challinor

  But between the route marches and intensive exercises there had been time for leave, and it had been on one of these breaks in their training, late in September, that Billy had met Violet Metcalfe. He, Harry and another mate named Rangi were in the village one morning when the alluring smell of fresh bread had compelled them to follow their noses to a small bakery at the end of the row of shops that made up the short main street.

  The shop window displayed a selection of loaves and buns, and inside they could see more arranged temptingly on the counter and on the wooden racks behind it.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Billy said. ‘Let’s go in.’

  Ferreting through their pockets they came up with enough change to buy themselves a decent feed, and jostled each other through the doorway to get in first.

  The day was already warm, but inside the air was hot and humid, the vicious heat from the big brick ovens permeating the entire shop. A sweating, red-faced man in a cook’s whites was removing steaming loaves with the aid of a long tool like a flat shovel, and at the counter stood a young girl.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said shyly in a lilting Surrey accent. ‘Can I help you?’

  Oh yes, Billy thought immediately, I’m sure you could help me. The girl had shoulder-length hair that was almost white and as fine as silk, parted to one side and clipped back above her small ears to keep it off her face. Her eyes were the most vibrant blue, and her lips a natural, strong pink, almost matching the flaming patches on her cheeks and neck caused by the heat. Elsewhere her complexion was alabaster, and her eyebrows and long lashes were fair, but not as pale as her hair. To Billy she looked like a patupaiarehe, a fairy, for some reason condemned to stand behind this shop counter flogging loaves of bread to mere mortals.

  The three soldiers filled the small shop, but she did not seem intimidated.

  ‘Morning,’ Billy said. ‘We’d like, um, what do we want, boys?’

  ‘Two loaves, the ones with the seeds on, and six of those buns with the currants,’ Harry said immediately.

  ‘That won’t be enough to go around.’

  ‘No, that’s just for me. You can order your own!’

  The girl dipped her head, and Billy was sure she was trying to hide a smile.

  ‘All right then, we’ll have four of the loaves, and a dozen buns, thanks, love. No, make that fifteen. And two of those custard things, eh? They look nice.’

  The girl set about putting the baked goods into bags and lining them up along the top of the counter. When she’d finished, she added up the amount and Billy handed the money over.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘And have you got a name?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Have you?’

  Billy whipped off his cap. ‘Billy Deane, Private, D Company, 28 Maori Battalion, Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force, at your service.’

  ‘A Moo-ree?’

  ‘No, a Maori.’

  She blushed then, at having pronounced the word incorrectly. ‘Oh, beg your pardon. Violet Metcalfe.’

  Billy thought Violet was the perfect name for her — it matched her eyes. He stuck his hand out over the counter.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Violet Metcalfe.’

  Her hand was small and damp, but her grip was firm, not at all what Billy had expected.

  The man came out then, wiping his hands on his apron. He nodded and said, ‘Lads,’ Then, to the girl, ‘You’ve work to do, Vi.’

  Billy took the hint and they left.

  Outside, when he opened the bag containing the custard buns, he found that Violet had given him three instead of two. Turning around, he thought he caught a glimpse of her watching him through the window, but couldn’t be sure.

  Now, sitting in the pub, after having thought about her almost constantly for four days, he’d made up his mind to go back to the bakery and ask her out, even if Harry did think he was wasting his time.

  ‘That might have been her old man,’ Harry added unhelpfully. ‘Don’t think he liked the idea of her chatting up the customers, especially us. He was a big fella, too.’

  ‘Not as big as me,’ Billy shot back.

  ‘No, not as tall, but he was built like one of your koro’s prize bulls.’

  ‘So? I’ll just have to make sure I charm him.’

  Harry finished his beer, and burped satisfyingly. ‘Away you go then.’

  The next time Billy was in Dogmersfield village he made a point of dropping in to the bakery, having first checked his reflection in a shop window a few doors down, slicking down his hair under his cap and making sure his teeth and face were clean.

  She was there behind the counter, as he’d prayed she would be.

  ‘Hello again, Violet Metcalfe,’ he said as he sauntered casually into the shop, although his heart was skittering in his chest.

  ‘Hello yourself, Billy Deane,’ she replied, a smile lighting up her face.

  Billy chanced a quick look towards the ovens, wondering if the old man was there.

  ‘He’s out, if it’s my da you’re looking for.’

  Billy nodded, slightly relieved. He cast about for something clever or impressive to say, but failed. ‘Thanks for the extra custard bun. They were really nice.’

  ‘I’m glad. They’re one of our specialties, although we might not be doing them for much longer, because of the rationing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Billy said with just the right note of interested concern, although he couldn’t really give a stuff about custard buns.

  He stared at Violet, wondering how to ask her to come to the pictures with him on Saturday night in Farnham, without just blurting it straight out. Today she was wearing a V-necked pale green dress with short puffed sleeves, under an apron patterned with brightly coloured pansies, and her face was flushed again from the heat of the ovens. He had no idea how she managed to work in here all day without dying of dehydration. She was even prettier than he remembered.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘I was thinking, well, I was wondering whether you might like to come out with me some time.’

  Violet raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps to the pictures over in Farnham? Would your father let you do that?’

  ‘He might.’

  Billy sighed exasperatedly to himself — she wasn’t helping him out much here.

  ‘Would I have to ask him first?’

  ‘No, but it would be a good idea if you at least met him and my ma. They’re not against me going out, but Da especially is quite strict about who with.’

  ‘Right. Fair enough.’

  Billy was about to ask for her address when he realised she hadn’t accepted his invitation.

  ‘Well, I mean, would you like to come out? I’ve got leave this Saturday night, and we could get the bus into Farnham.’

  She studied him thoughtfully for a few moments.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Billy Deane. I think I’d like that very much.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  October 1940

  Billy had been ribbed mercilessly by the boys while getting ready to go out, and when he’d taken the lid off his jar of hair pomade he’d found that someone had thoughtfully put a condom in it. Harry, probably.

  But by the time he was ready to leave, he was spit-shined and polished, had money in his pocket and two tins of fruit in his rucksack for Mrs Metcalfe, and the loan of a bicycle for the evening.

  It took him less than twenty minutes to cycle from the camp to the village, and he arrived with time to spare so he wobbled up and down Violet’s street for another ten minutes, looking at the quaint little red-brick cottages lining both sides. Violet lived in the one second to the end, so he kept clear in case she was looking out of the window and saw him dithering about.

  Finally, at half past six exactly, he parked the bike against the fence outside Violet’s house, straightened his cap, tugged his jacket down and walked purposefully up the path to the front door.

  His knock was answered almost immediately by Violet,
who smiled shyly as she ushered him into the short front hall.

  ‘Ma and Da are in the parlour. Ma’s made scones and a pot of tea, so we’ll have to stay for at least a little while.’

  Billy looked at his watch. ‘That’s fine, we don’t need to go yet.’

  Violet took his hand and led him into a compact, low-ceilinged parlour room. There was a small fire going in the grate, even though it was still more or less summer, the blackout curtains were drawn against the encroaching dusk and the atmosphere was somewhat stuffy. Mr Metcalfe, who really was almost the size of one of Kepa’s bulls, was ensconced in an armchair next to the fire wearing slippers and smoking a roll-your-own. His wife, a small woman with greying hair and laughing eyes that Violet had clearly inherited, was perched on one end of a sofa, its threadbare cushions covered with a crocheted rug. A large radio sat on a bureau against the opposite wall, its volume turned down but still audible, several small highly polished tables held an assortment of china ornaments placed carefully on lace doilies, and two or three faded prints of innocuous rural scenes decorated the whitewashed walls.

  Violet made the introductions, and Sid Metcalfe stood and shook Billy’s hand while Nancy Metcalfe smiled at him nervously. Billy thought his height in the small room might be putting her off, and was relieved when Violet’s father invited him to sit down.

  When he handed her the tins of fruit, however, she seemed to relax a little. They’d been told that if they were ever invited to one of the locals’ homes for tea they had to take something. It was koha, really, which was fine with the battalion, for most of whom the gesture was customary any way. They’d also been warned not eat the local community out of house and home, so when Mrs Metcalfe encouraged him to eat a third scone with butter, cream and jam, he refused, although he could have eaten at least two more quite easily. There was probably plenty of flour, the Metcalfes being bakers and everything, but at camp there was talk of jam and butter being scarce, and Billy didn’t want to risk depriving Sid Metcalfe of his breakfast.

  ‘So you’re a Moo-ree from New Zealand then?’ Violet’s father said after they’d finished their tea and scones.

  ‘Yes, sir, Maori, from Napier. That’s on the east coast of the North Island.’

  ‘Very good. And what does your father do, lad?’

  ‘He’s a sheep farmer. My family has a station in the hills outside Napier.’

  ‘Oh, aye? A few acres then?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And you work for him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, I did before I joined the battalion.’

  ‘Well, you can’t go wrong with farming, and I say that even if I am a baker myself. Brothers and sisters?’

  ‘One of each. My brother Robert is only eighteen and won’t be eligible for conscription until he turns nineteen next year, so he’s still working on the station. Ana’s twenty, but she’s not married yet so I expect she’ll be getting herself involved in something soon.’

  ‘And is soldiering in your family?’

  Billy nodded. ‘My father went to the war in South Africa, and the last one. And Mum was a military nurse in Egypt and here in England. At Brockenhurst, I think it was.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ Mr Metcalfe was impressed.

  ‘My two uncles went as well. Well, three of them did, actually, but only two came home.’

  Sid Metcalfe nodded. ‘Terrible business, that. Let’s hope this one will be a lot easier to stomach, if such a thing is at all possible. The Americans could help, of course, if they got off their bloody backsides and got involved. It could all be over by Christmas if we had them on our side.’

  Mrs Metcalfe gave her husband a reprimanding look, whether as a result of his language or his opinion of the Americans, Billy couldn’t tell. She was fiddling with her serviette, folding it and refolding it until it was a tiny, compressed square.

  Finally, she said, ‘On the radio the other night we happened to hear a German propaganda broadcast, because you can get them here, you know, if you’re on the wrong station, and they had someone on saying that the, the …’ she struggled with the correct pronunciation and gave up, ‘that your people, and I beg your pardon for repeating this, that your people are the descendants of cannibals and head-hunters. I said to Sid, “What a lot of rubbish that is,” but some folk, even from around here I’m sorry to say, are likely to believe that sort of thing.’

  ‘Let it go, Nancy, love. Sorry, son,’ Sid said, embarrassed.

  His wife lowered her eyes and began the long, complicated process of unfolding her serviette.

  Billy was amused, but kept it to himself. ‘It’s true, there was some cannibalism among my ancestors and now and again they took heads. But it was more of a ceremonial sort of thing, and it was all a long time ago.’

  He didn’t want to add that such practices had been most common in times of war, just in case the Metcalfes got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘See, Ma?’ Violet said, laughing as her mother let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘I told you it was just a lot of codswallop put out by the Germans. Cannibals don’t bring people tins of peaches.’

  ‘Oh, I knew that, dear, of course I did.’

  Billy glanced surreptitiously at his watch again; it was almost quarter past seven.

  ‘Should we be on our way?’ Violet asked.

  ‘We should if we want to catch the bus into Farnham in time for the pictures.’ Billy stood up. ‘Thank you very much for the tea and scones. My mum makes a good scone, but not as good as yours, Mrs Metcalfe.’

  Nancy Metcalfe went pink with pleasure.

  Outside, as they stood at the bus stop, Violet said, ‘You’ve got the gift of the gab, haven’t you, Billy Deane? Da will think you’re just marvellous because your family are farmers and soldiers, and Ma will tell everyone what you said about her scones.’

  Billy laughed. The bus was already half full, but as they climbed the step he saw Harry, Rangi and two other lads from the company, Maru and Boy, sitting towards the back, and he groaned.

  ‘What? Oh, look, it’s your friends, Billy.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he replied miserably, envisioning an evening at the pictures with the lot of them sitting right behind him and Violet, throwing things and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

  But when the bus finally arrived in Farnham, after a very slow trip with the headlights almost obliterated, Harry and the lads got off and headed straight for the nearest pub, pausing only to give Billy a series of exaggerated, salacious winks.

  The film was The Philadelphia Story, starring Katharine Hepburn. Billy was interested in, and rather chastened by, the British Pathé war newsreel that preceded it, but in all honesty wasn’t that fussed about the main feature. He was too busy trying to casually drape his arm around Violet’s shoulder in a manner that would encourage her to lean into him so they could enjoy a cosy and intimate cuddle. Her hair smelled of something lovely and flowery, and her hand, when he took it in his own, was warm and smooth.

  He managed one or two quick kisses before the end of the film, but it seemed that Violet really was interested in whether Katharine Hepburn ended up with Cary Grant, John Howard or James Stewart.

  After the film they wandered down the High Street to wait for the last bus back to Dogmersfield. The moon was big, bathing the old town in a still light. It was the sort of night that Fighter Command hated and the Luftwaffe relished, but there were no planes in the skies, and the countryside was quiet except for the muffled lowing of cattle in nearby paddocks and the odd boisterous shout from the pub still open at the other end of the street. The shops and pubs here were allegedly built with timber beams that had come ashore from the wreckage of the Spanish Armada, the vanguard of an earlier nation of invaders. Above the town loomed a hill, black in the moonlight, topped by an old ruined castle that Billy had a good mind to visit one day soon.

  At the bus stop they sat down to wait on the wooden bench thoughtfully provided by the town council. Billy noticed
that Violet was shivering, and considerately put his arm around her shoulders again.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘No, not really. I think a goose just walked over my grave.’

  Billy chuckled at the image, but Violet was serious. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she said. ‘It’s not something to laugh at. Sometimes it can be an omen.’

  ‘An omen of what?’

  ‘Of something bad that hasn’t happened yet. That’s what my gran says, any way.’

  ‘My gran doesn’t hold with that sort of thing.’

  ‘Doesn’t she?’ She turned to look at him. ‘You’re not a proper Maori, are you?’

  ‘Your pronunciation is getting better. Of course I’m a proper Maori.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you as dark-skinned as your friend Harry?’

  ‘Harry’s parents are both Maori. My father is half-Maori and my mother is Pakeha.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘European.’

  ‘Oh. So which side is your gran from?’

  ‘She’s European, from Cornwall, actually. She came out to New Zealand in the 1870s. She’s my dad’s mother.’

  Violet thought for a moment, her face a picture of concentration. ‘Oh, never mind. So your gran isn’t superstitious? The Cornish usually are.’

  ‘I didn’t say she isn’t superstitious, but she doesn’t believe in omens. At least I don’t think she does. She’s a very practical person. My father believes in them, but then he has Maori blood. In fact the story goes that when I was an unborn child my life was saved by an old witch woman who my dad says was ancient when he was a boy.’

  Violet looked at him sceptically, and he laughed again.

  ‘It’s a family story. I don’t know if it’s a hundred per cent true.’

  He bent his head then, and kissed her. Her bare lips tasted faintly of peppermint from the boiled sweets they’d shared at the pictures, and they were warm and incredibly soft. She was confident enough on the outside, and in the short time he had known her she had revealed a rather determined streak, but he sensed that she wasn’t very experienced when it came to the opposite sex. At least he hoped not; he didn’t like to think that she had been with anyone else.