Avalanche of Daisies

by Beryl Kingston

  Sighing, he dipped his pen in the ink and tried to settle to work. Another five minutes and he could cut off for dinner. Spikey and Tubby had invited him to join them at their works canteen and, although the food would be foul, he’d agreed for want of anything better to do. Food was foul everywhere these days, and at least old Spikey would make him laugh.

  As it turned out old Spikey did a great deal better than that.

  ‘Got some news for you, Victor,’ he said happily as they clattered their trays onto the nearest table. ‘The Desert Rats are off on manoeuvres.’

  It was like a great light being switched on. Heaven-sent. Couldn’t be better. It cheered him up at once. ‘When?’ he asked, setting his plate on the table. ‘How long for?’

  Spikey pushed a chunk of wet white cabbage towards his forkful of Woolton pie and considered it before he lifted it into his mouth. ‘Went yesterday,’ he said, chomping. ‘Whole kit and caboodle. For a fortnight.’

  ‘Smashing, eh?’ Tubby beamed, trellissing his portion of the pie with ribbons of HP sauce. ‘Now we can have our gals back.’ He spoke as if they’d been torn away from him in droves although, in fact, he’d never persuaded a single one to give him so much as a glance. ‘Be a different story this Sat’day night, bor.’

  Vic could already see himself dancing with Barbara again. How quickly things change in wartime! With that lot out of the way, they could all get back to normal. The Woolton pie was almost palatable – if you swallowed it quickly. ‘Wizard!’ he said. He’d get Ma to wash his white shirt – there wouldn’t be time to send it to the laundry – and he’d wear his blue tie with the red and orange flowers, because she always teased him about that one. Have a haircut, maybe. Buy her some chocolate if he’d got enough coupons left. He’d been a bit heavy on the sweet ration this month, being in a low state, but Ma would help him out. Roll on Saturday. In the meantime – while the cat’s away – he might just go and see old Ma Nelson. Drop her a few hints about what was going on. In case she didn’t know. Be a kindness really. Public spirited. And it would do Barbara some good too in a roundabout sort of way. All gals needed warning about the way soldiers went on and she wouldn’t listen to him. Glowing with righteous concern, he decided he’d call in at the yards on his way back to the bank.

  Dodger’s Yard was full of people that lunch hour, for the fishing fleet had come in on the morning tide so the women were all out cleaning and untangling the nets, and just to complicate their lives, the kids were home from school. They sat placidly on the doorsteps eating hunks of bread and jam or prowled the yard in arguing gangs or played football as well as they could among the nets, dodging the dripping water, the seaweed and their mothers’ irritation.

  Maudie Nelson was hard at work in the middle of the mêlée, with a sacking apron over her skirt, a navy-blue gansey over her ample bosom and one of her husband’s caps on her bush of greying hair, worn back to front to protect her neck from the drips. She looked up mildly at Vic as he picked his way towards her.

  ‘You come to give us ’and, bor?’ she asked, pulling a lump of weed from the net.

  He moved his legs deftly out of the way, struck, yet again, by how completely unlike her daughter she was; she so dumpy and slow moving, Barbara so skinny and quick; she all beige and navy blue except for her grey hair, Barbara all bright colours and bright eyes. ‘Not in my working clothes,’ he said. ‘Good catch, was it?’

  ‘Middlin’. What d’we owe the honour then?’

  ‘I’ve got some news for you,’ he said and told her about the manoeuvres.

  She wasn’t particularly interested. ‘Sort a’ rehearsin’, I s’pose,’ she said mildly. ‘How’s your mother goin’ along? She still got the rheumaticals, hev she?’

  Vic wasn’t interested in his mother’s ‘rheumaticals’.

  ‘Be glad to see the back of them,’ he said.

  ‘You hain’t got rheumaticals an’ all, have you bor?’

  ‘No,’ Victor said struggling to stay calm. ‘I was talking about the soldiers.’

  ‘Thass on account of gettin’ wet all the time on those thing-a-mees.’

  Victor stifled a groan. ‘What I mean’, he said heavily, ‘is Barbara won’t be seeing so much of them.’

  ‘Not if they hain’t there, bor. Stands to reason.’

  Was she deliberately misunderstanding him? Vic thought. Or can’t she help it? He would have to spell it out to her. ‘Your Barbara’s been going round with one of the soldiers.’

  Maudie Nelson took the news with perfect aplomb and total disbelief. ‘Don’t you worry about our Barbara,’ she said easily. ‘Thass just the way gals go on. She’ll marry you in the end, you see if she don’t. She’s a good gal.’ And she shook out a swathe of net so suddenly that weed and water spun out all over his jacket before he could dodge it.

  ‘I’m off back to work’, he said, making a joke of it, ‘before I get drowned.’ And went at once, thinking what a waste of time it had been. Silly old mawther. She should’ve been glad I came to tell her. Not shook water all over me. Still, the great thing is they won’t be at the dance. And I will.

  He couldn’t wait for Saturday night and grew short-tempered with impatience at its slow approach, arriving at the Corn Exchange before the doors were open, even though he was perfectly well aware that he would lose face among his friends if he appeared too eager. He’d managed to get the chocolate, he was wearing his clean shirt and his flash tie, he’d even polished his shoes. Come on! he urged, as he waited beside the band. Hurry up and get here! But the hall was full before she arrived.

  She was wearing the same dress she’d worn the previous Saturday, when she’d danced with that damned soldier all the time, a sort of wine red which looked gorgeous on her. And she was the old bold Spitfire again, dancing with everybody, doing the jitterbug with one of the Yanks and the foxtrot with Spikey, wise-cracking and laughing all the time. That’s more like it, he thought. I’ll wait till the end of this one and then I’ll stroll across and say hello.

  But in fact he was misreading the signs. Barbara’s gaiety was a shield, deliberately held up to her friends to protect feelings that were suddenly and achingly raw.

  She was in the oddest mood, unaccountably listless one moment, irritably restless the next, as if there were a great weight pressing down on her shoulders that she couldn’t shake off. If it hadn’t been for the fact that a change of routine would have provoked questions, she would have stayed at home with Becky Bosworth that evening. She certainly had no appetite for the dance and no desire to go anywhere if she couldn’t be with Steve.

  The first three days without him had been unexpectedly difficult. True to his promise he’d sent her a letter every day, but she missed him all the time, dreaming of him most erotically by night and suddenly remembering his kisses as she stood behind the counter by day, so that it was a struggle to pay attention to her customers. On the second day, the sun had been obscured by cloud and a cold wind roistered through the town, hurling the blossom from the boughs and stripping the new spring flowers to tatters. It was the first time she’d ever felt disturbed by the destructive force of nature. Until then she’d simply accepted it. Now the sight of all those shattered flowers made her separation from Steve seem unnecessary and destructive too. Still, it wasn’t in her nature to complain, nor to stay at home and mope. That Saturday night she brushed her hair, put on rather more lipstick than usual and went off to the Corn Exchange with her friends, horsing around and laughing so much that she felt sure that one of them would see how false she was being.

  None did. They all said what fun she was. ‘Thass our Spitfire. She’s a one.’ And when Vic came strolling round the edge of the floor to say hello, they greeted him with the news that she was ‘on form tonight’.

  ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘’Lo Spitfire.’

  ‘’Lo Vic,’ she said, smiling at him brightly. ‘When you gonna put that ol’ tie out fer jumble?’

  ‘Like a dance?’ he offered hopefully and
was delighted when she said, ‘Why not?’

  They danced energetically, he concentrating on the perfection of his steps, she enjoying the beat and glad that there was no need to talk while they were bouncing about the floor. It was like old times for both of them. But when the music stopped, the lights dimmed for a waltz and she walked him off the floor before he could offer to dance that with her too.

  ‘Nice to see you two together again,’ Tubby said, looming in upon them. ‘You soon forgot that ol’ soldier then.’

  She swung round to face him and even in the dim light he could see how bright her eyes were. ‘What?’

  ‘The one you been hossin’ around town with,’ he elaborated. ‘Off on manoeuvres, so they say.’

  ‘Thass none of your business,’ she told him sharply. ‘Careless talk costs lives or ain’t you heard.’

  He wasn’t the least bit abashed. ‘Thass no secret, though, is it?’ he said. ‘Like a dance?’

  She looked him up and down with disdain. ‘No thanks. I got more respect for my feet.’ Then she was off to join her friends, pushing through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor, hair bouncing, red dress flicking like a flag in a gale.

  Vic turned on his friend in fury. ‘Why don’t you keep your big nose out of things?’ he said.

  ‘Well thass nice,’ Tubby said, looking aggrieved. ‘I onny asked. I mean to say … Thass a free country.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Victor called after the red flag. ‘I bought you some chocolate.’

  But she was lost behind a mass of uniformed backs and he didn’t find her again until the waltz was over and the floor was clearing. Then he heard her laughing on the other side of the hall.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, when he pushed through the crowd to join her. ‘But that Tubby’s such a know-all, him an’ his big mouth. He get on my nerves.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he told her, happy to be her ally even against his oldest friend. ‘I’ve give him what-for. Like some chocolate?’

  That was what was so nice about Vic, Barbara thought. He might holler a bit now an’ then but he took your side when you needed it and he was really generous. She was touched to be offered part of his sweet ration especially after the way she’d treated him these last few weeks. ‘Keep it for on the way home,’ she said, smiling her thanks at him. ‘We’ll eat it then.’

  So they danced again – and again – and joked with their friends in the old easy way, and when the dance was over the entire gang walked back to the North End together. But although she seemed to be herself again, he wasn’t such a fool as to think that the soldier was out of her memory. He noticed that she hadn’t danced a single waltz with anybody and there was something different about her, even when she was laughing and horsing around. Bright but too bright, laughing with her mouth but not her eyes. He’d have to play his cards very, very carefully if he was to win her back.

  ‘Pictures Wednesday,’ he suggested, casually, as they reached the North End.

  There was general agreement. ‘Yeh!’ Joan approved. ‘You comin’ an’ all, Spitfire?’

  Barbara considered it, but only for a second. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

  It wasn’t until later that night that she faced why not. Although she’d exhausted herself at the dance, she couldn’t sleep for troubling thoughts. She lay, wide awake beside her snoring bed-mate, and tried to make sense of them. It infuriated her to think that she and Steve were being gossiped about. Her love for Steve – if it was love, she wasn’t even sure about that yet – but if it was, it was simply theirs, a world of their own, too precious and private and delicate to be made a public display. The thought of being watched by a great fat oaf like Tubby was like standing in a gale while all the lovely bloom of it was stripped to tatters. How dare he spy on them! Horrid creature. Well I’ll soon see about that, she thought. Just watch if I don’t. He got no business prying into my affairs. We’ll go somewhere private from now on, somewhere out of town where he can’t see us. We made it too easy for a spy, always meeting in the market square and going to the same places.

  It was horrible to think that they were such public knowledge. She hadn’t told anyone how she felt about Steve, not even Joan and Mavis, and they’d always known everything there was to know about old Vic. And that was another thing. She knew quite well she wasn’t being fair to Vic. He’d been really nice that evening, buying her chocolate and sticking up for her and asking her to the pictures and everything, and all the time she’d been thinking of Steve and wishing he’d been there to waltz with her. If she’d seen anyone else going on like that, she’d have said she was giving him the run around. I ought to tell him, she thought. But what could she say? She wasn’t sure enough of her feelings to tell Steve. It was impossible. And yet she did miss him. So much. She simply couldn’t wait to see him again. It made her yearn to think of it. But was that love? Six more days, though. A whole working week. It was an achingly long time. Just as well we’re going to the pictures. At least that’ll be something to do.

  They went to all three pictures that week, safe in the gang with lots of giggling and teasing and no chance to talk to anyone seriously. And Steve sent her a letter every single day, just as he’d promised, joking about the mud, the iron rations and sleeping in the open, and saying over and over again how much he was looking forward to being back in Lynn. ‘I can’t wait to see you again. Roll on Saturday night.’

  That Friday, when there was just one more day to endure without him, she went to the shops in her lunch hour and blew half a crown and four clothing coupons on a new short-sleeved blouse, made of cream cotton, embroidered all over with little green flowers, with a row of little pearl buttons all down the front. It was a wicked extravagance, which made it all the more pleasurable. With her green skirt and her green clogs, she’d be worth looking at. And it was important to be worth looking at, when he couldn’t wait to see her again.

  It took her a lot longer than usual to get dressed that Saturday night. Her restlessness was so bad it was making her clumsy. She smudged her lipstick and had to do it all again, broke a comb in her hair and spent several painful minutes disentangling it, and finally snagged her last remaining pair of stockings, swearing as she watched the ladder run inexorably from calf to ankle.

  Becky Bosworth laughed at her. ‘You’ll jest have to dance bare-legged, thass all gal,’ she chuckled. ‘Good job thass a warm night.’

  It had been pleasantly warm all day, almost as though it were already summer. Now it was a gentle evening and the dusk was pearl pink. And she would see him again in a matter of minutes. Half an hour at the outside.

  Joan and Mavis were waiting for her at the bandstand. The warmth of the day had left the hall decidedly stuffy. They’d made themselves fans from folded newspaper and elastic bands and were flapping them energetically.

  ‘You look glam,’ Joan said approvingly. ‘New, is it?’

  ‘Thass like an oven in here,’ Mavis complained. Her dark hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat. ‘D’you wanna fan?’

  ‘No ta,’ Barbara said, ‘I’m not hot.’ And was then caught up in such a rush of heated pleasure that her cheeks burned with it. For there he was, striding towards her, looking tanned and wind-blown and heart-stoppingly handsome. Oh the rhythm of those long long legs. The set of that jaw. The love in those brown eyes, smiling, smiling.

  He caught her about the waist and pulled her towards him as if he was going to kiss her, there and then, in front of everyone. ‘You look gorgeous!’ he said.

  They were held in a trance of delight and desire. ‘Do I?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Good enough to eat,’ he told her. He was breathless too but he remembered his manners. ‘Hello Joan. Hello Mavis.’

  The greeting brought Barbara back to her senses and allowed her to move again. She seized his hand and ran into the crowd on the dance floor, pulling him after her, and then they were in each other’s arms, which was all right because it was a waltz. ‘Oh I have missed you,’ s
he said.

  He kissed her hair as they swayed. And remembered the dream that had woken him yearning for the last ten lonely nights, lying beside her, both naked and kissing and … It took an effort of will not to tremble. ‘Me too,’ he said.

  The waltz swung them together for delicious minutes, she with an arm round his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin, he with both arms about her waist, holding her close, aware of the lovely length of her body, the swell of her breasts, her breath against his cheek.

  ‘Let’s go out,’ he said. ‘There’s too many people in here.’

  They went to the Walks – where else? – and stood beneath their favourite elm as the dusk lapped about them, silky soft and secret as water, and kissed until their lips were sore, immersed in the sharp, sweet, endless pleasure of sexual feelings fully roused and tantalisingly ungratified. It wasn’t until they paused for breath and realised that the clock was striking eleven that she remembered her plan.

  ‘Let’s not meet in the square tomorrow,’ she said.

  He was too taut with desire to care where they met. ‘Um. Kiss me.’

  ‘I’ll be on the quay,’ she said, struggling to be sensible, ‘by the Custom House. D’you know it?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Three o’clock?’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘I thought we’d go somewhere different.’

  He accepted that too. He would have accepted anything. They had less than an hour now and he hadn’t kissed her for thirty seconds.

  Sunday afternoon was as warm as summer and the air was so still that the river Ouse was as pale as milk and flowed without a ripple.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked as she came tripping towards him, bright in her green skirt and her new blouse, barelegged and bare-armed and glowing in the unaccustomed sunshine.