Avalanche of Daisies

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘What you reckon to a country walk?’

  ‘Smashing. It’s too nice to be indoors.’ And the country was quiet and private.

  They took the ferry across to West Lynn, sitting side by side in the stern and apart from the other passengers. Then they walked through the village hand in hand, past the two pubs and the church until the road petered out and became a footpath and they were all on their own in the open country, free to stroll arm in arm through fields of green corn, between hedgerows that chirruped with nesting birds, busily darting back and forth with beaks full of insects for their young. The sky was summertime blue, there were bees buzzing in the blossom, and from time to time a swarm of midges rose from the rankness of a stagnant ditch to dance about their faces, once so thickly and incessantly that Steve had to beat them off with his beret.

  ‘It’s too warm for this sort of caper,’ he said, folding the beret and tucking it into his epaulette.

  Barbara was comfortably warm – but then she hadn’t been fighting off midges and she wasn’t wearing a coat. ‘That uniform’s too thick,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take your tunic off?’ Which he did, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for good measure.

  He looked devastating, his forearms brown and sinewy and covered with soft golden hairs. Being the only girl in the family, she was used to the sight of hairy males. Norman had so much dark hair on his arms and legs that she used to kid him he was related to a gorilla. But this hair was different, not bristling and dark and threatening, but soft, tender and strong, all at the same time. And wondrously sexy. She put out her hand and stroked it gently.

  It was too much for his fragile control. He threw his tunic to the earth, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her with such passion that it made them both breathless. Now that he’d removed his battledress, she realised how much the thickness of it had been getting in the way. With just a shirt and blouse between them, she could feel his heart thundering as he kissed her, could run her fingers down the length of his spine, from the sharp short hair at the nape of his neck all the way to the leather barrier of his belt. Oh the wonder of being kissed like this. By the time he finally lifted his head she was panting and so giddy that she had to cling to him for support.

  ‘We should be sitting down,’ he said. Or lying down. But where could they lie in this huge open landscape? ‘There ought to be a grass bank or something somewhere.’

  ‘Let’s look,’ she suggested.

  He picked up his tunic, holding it over his shoulder with one hand while he cuddled her with the other, and they strolled on along the empty footpath, clinging together and kissing at every other step, following their instincts – and the curve of the path. And there, in the shade of a burgeoning oak tree, was a half-used haystack, one side straight and neat and thatched, the other scooped into an untidy straw cavern. It was just the thing.

  They scrambled up, dislodging straws with every movement, and he threw his tunic inside the cave and they tumbled into it together, mouth to mouth, rolling over and over in an ecstasy of sensation. He was unbuttoning her blouse, kissing her throat, her breasts, her nipples – should he be doing this? probably not, but oh, how she wanted him to – his lips hot and searching as she held his head between her hands. ‘Steve, Steve, oh my dear darling Steve.’ And then everything happened too quickly to weigh up the consequences or even to give them a thought. He was inside her, and they were moving together, fitting together, made for each other, sensation growing and growing, higher and higher, until it exploded into such a crescendo of pleasure that she caught her breath. And at that he made an odd groaning noise and after a little while he stopped moving too.

  She lay where she was with her eyes still closed. It was amazingly peaceful. The sun was warm on her head and her bare arms and she could hear a dog barking a long way away and a mouse rustling in the straw next to her ear. And doubt rustled into her mind. We shouldn’t have done that, she thought. Now that she was reasonable again, she knew it quite well. I should have stopped him, said no, before we … She remembered the warnings. Nice girls don’t go all the way. Nice girls keep themselves pure until they’re married. She wasn’t even sure whether nice girls were supposed to enjoy it.

  His voice came to her blurred and from a distance. ‘Are you all right?’

  She opened her eyes and looked at him for a long thoughtful second. His face looked so happy and so satisfied, although there was a shadow of anxiety in those brown eyes. My darling Steve! Whatever her worries she couldn’t say anything about them. Not to him and certainly not now. ‘I’m wonderful,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  He leant over her, supported on one elbow. ‘No reason,’ he said, gently picking straw from her hair. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘You’re sayin’ we shouldn’t have done it. Is that it?’

  ‘No,’ he told her seriously. ‘That’s not it. I just didn’t want you to be upset. I wouldn’t upset you for worlds. You’re too precious to me.’

  It was necessary to reassure him. To reassure them both. ‘Look,’ she said, arguing against the warnings, ‘I know they say you shouldn’t till you got a weddin’ ring on your finger but I think thass a load of ol’ squit. If thass all right when you’re married, thass all right when you’re in love, ain’t it? What’s the difference? Thass love what matters.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, kissing her fingers, ‘I do love you, Spitfire. So much. More than ever now.’

  It was the time for declarations. She couldn’t doubt her feelings any more. Not after all this. ‘An’ I love you,’ she said, knowing it was true and that it would always be true. ‘Very, very, very much.’

  ‘Oh my dear, lovely girl!’ And he pulled her towards him to kiss her again.

  The movement made her aware that she’d lost her clogs and that the straw was scratching her feet. Then she realised that she was lying on the pocket of his tunic and that it was full of small, bulky objects. ‘Just a minute,’ she said, shifting her body to a more comfortable position. ‘What you got in your pockets?’

  ‘Fags,’ he remembered and that made him yearn for a smoke. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘They’ll be squashed,’ she laughed.

  They were, but he picked out the two least battered, lit them both and handed the best one to her. And they tasted all right. They lay side by side on the straw and smoked companionably, like film stars. But the mouse and the doubt were still rustling.

  ‘I s’pose other people would say I’m a fallen woman,’ she mused. It was a good description because that wonderful exploding feeling was just like falling. Not falling down and hurting yourself but falling up, as if you were flying through the sky, lifted up on great surging wings of pleasure. A fallen woman.

  The words upset him, because that was exactly what he’d been worrying about, that she’d feel sullied or ashamed, that she’d regret what they’d done. And he simply couldn’t allow that. Fallen women were the lowest of the low, the sort that went with anybody, the sort they made coarse jokes about after lights out. She was beautiful and pure and entirely his. ‘No you’re not,’ he said hotly. ‘You’re not to even think it. You’re my own dear, darling, beautiful, wonderful Spitfire and you’re going to marry me as soon as I can arrange it and stay with me for ever and ever.’

  Marriage hadn’t entered into her scheme of things at all until that moment. ‘We can’t get married,’ she said. ‘Can we?’

  But he was in command now, seeing everything with total clarity as if making love had sharpened his wits. ‘I’ve got seven days leave owing,’ he told her. ‘I been saving it up for when they move us to the ports. A last holiday, sort of thing. To say goodbye.’ That thought cast a shadow into his mind too so he shrugged it away at once and began to make detailed plans. ‘So. I’ll write to my mum and dad tonight and let them know, and then I’ll put in for my leave first thing tomorrow and we’ll call the banns, or whatever it is we have to do, tomorrow evening. I can wangle an hour or two after work s
o we can go together. It might be better to get a special licence and I expect we’ll need permission being under twenty-one. But that’ll just be an extra form to fill in. What do you think?’

  He was making her feel so protected and special that she could feel herself drifting into a sort of dreamy satisfaction. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ It was the right thing to do, the natural thing. They loved one another. They belonged to one another now. But she couldn’t take it in. Not fully. Not yet.

  He was busy making plans. ‘We’ll get a room or a flat or something. In Lynn probably. Then I can stay there whenever I get any leave. We’ll have our own bed and our own wireless and a shelf for our books. And we’ll cook our own food and have breakfast in bed …’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘Did I ought to see your father?’ he wondered. ‘Ask his permission sort of thing? That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?’

  That question woke her up. ‘No,’ she said. That wouldn’t do at all. ‘Let me tell Ma first. He can be pretty horrible when he likes. We don’ want him hollerin’.’

  He allowed that but pointed out, ‘He’ll have to be told.’

  ‘I’ll work him round to it,’ she promised. ‘He’s at sea at the moment so we can’t tell him yet anyway.’

  He kissed her gently and lovingly. It was all possible. One short ceremony and they could be together whenever they liked. Until he had to go to France. But there was no point in thinking about that. ‘That’s settled then,’ he said, smiling into her lovely green eyes. ‘I’ll arrange it. I’ll write to my mum tonight and we’ll tell your mum when we’ve called the banns. It’ll be a piece of cake.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘It’s a joke,’ Heather Wilkins said, holding out the letter to her husband in disbelief. Her nose was sharp with distress, her mouth downturned. ‘He’s having us on. He must be. He can’t be getting married. He’d’ve said something before. I mean, you don’t just write to your mother out the blue and say you’re going to get married. We don’t even know who she is.’ She’d been clearing the breakfast things when the letter arrived but now she stood by the kitchen table with her right hand splayed against the oilcloth, looking down at the faded blue and yellow checks, noticing how frayed the edges were, too upset to move. ‘It’s so unlike him,’ she complained. ‘He’s such a sensible boy.’

  Bob Wilkins took the letter and let her run on while he read it. This was the moment he’d been half-expecting ever since Steve had been called up. The boy was too full of life not to fall in love sooner or later. You had to expect it. But he’d always known it would upset poor Heather when it happened. She was so bound up in him. Always had been. Being the only one, that was the trouble. He glanced at her now, standing by the table in her flowery apron, her long face set and stubborn. Poor old gel. She’ll be better once she’s got the first shock out of her system. But no matter what she might hope, he knew Steve wasn’t joking. He could see that by the strength of the handwriting, even before he digested the words. ‘I have met the girl I am going to marry. There is not much time now before we go. A matter of weeks. I have got a 36 hour pass on Wednesday. I will tell you all about it then. Love to you both.’

  ‘You see what he says,’ Heather said, her face anguished. ‘A matter of weeks. He’s going in a matter of weeks.’

  So that’s it, Bob thought, and he moved towards her at once to comfort her. He was due at the signal-box in ten minutes so he’d have to set off soon otherwise he’d be late, which was unthinkable because he’d never been late in the whole of his working life. But he couldn’t leave her. Not when she was in a state. ‘He’ll be all right,’ he said, putting his arms round her. ‘You’ll see.’

  That only made her worse. ‘Oh talk sense for crying out loud,’ she cried. ‘How can he be all right when the Germans’ll be firing shells at him? An’ bullets an’ bombs an’ God knows what else. You don’t imagine he’ll be able to get out the way a’ that do you? It’s a bloody nightmare. Bad enough he’s got to go, without springing this on us at the last moment.’

  How grey she’s getting, Bob thought, kissing her hair and remembering how it had been when it was young and auburn. He was aching with pity for her. ‘She’s probably a very nice girl,’ he soothed. ‘I mean you couldn’t imagine our Steve picking anyone who wasn’t, now could you?’ And when she gave him a wry look, ‘Well there you are, you see. He’s a good lad. An’ he’s bound to marry sometime. I mean it’s only natural. Let’s not be hasty. Wait an’ hear what he’s got to say about it. That’s the best plan.’

  ‘Say?’ she cried, looking up at him, blue eyes wild. ‘What’s the good a’ saying things? It don’t matter tuppence what you say. Not in the middle of a war. I mean who’s going to listen? It’s all “Grin an’ bear it.” “See it through.” “We can take it!” Be just the same if we couldn’t. We’re stuck with it. We just got to sit here and take whatever’s slung at us. An’ I tell you Bob, I’m sick to death of it.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, stroking the nape of her neck, the way he always did when he was trying to console her. ‘I know. It’ll be over soon.’

  Her face was wrinkling towards tears. ‘It’s all so unfair.’

  ‘I know,’ he said again, his voice so full of tenderness the words were a caress.

  She blinked away the need to cry. ‘Anyway,’ she said taking refuge in renewed irritation, ‘he’s too young to get married.’

  ‘He was twenty last week,’ Bob pointed out. ‘You’ve only just sent him his parcel. Don’t say you’ve forgotten that! Well then. Not much younger than I was when I met you.’

  ‘There’s no comparison,’ she said. ‘You were twenty-four. You’d been at work nearly ten years. In an’ out the army. You were in the signal-box by then. An’ I was twenty-five. He’s barely out a’ school. Much too young.’

  ‘I can remember your mum saying just the same thing,’ he reminded her. And he quoted, ‘“Ain’t got the cradle marks off yer bum the pair of yer.”’

  His mimicry was so accurate it made her smile.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, cupping her face in his hands to kiss her goodbye. ‘Look on the bright side, eh?’ And when she smiled again, ‘I got to go or I’ll be late.’

  She began to tidy her outburst away, smoothing her apron, tucking stray hairs back into their restraining kirby-grips, resuming her workaday self. He was right. There was no point in making a fuss. But it was hard not to, just the same.

  ‘Don’t go worrying your head about it,’ he advised as he picked up his snap. ‘Concentrate on how nice it’ll be to see him again.’

  She turned her attention to the breakfast things to show him she’d recovered. ‘I got much too much to do to waste time worrying,’ she reassured him. Which was true enough for she worked behind the counter at the butcher’s and there’d be queues there today because the offal was due in. And when he looked at the clock again, ‘You cut off. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes. Go on.’

  He left her slowly, smiling at her before he closed the door behind him. He’s such a good man, she thought, touched, yet again, by how patient and gentle he was. I shouldn’t’ve gone on at him. It’s not his fault. I’ll see if I can sneak a bit of liver for supper Wednesday. He’ll be on late turn by then so he’ll be home too. We can all have it together. I wish there was some fruit around. Bit too soon for that. Still I could make potato cakes for tea. They like potato cakes.

  But despite her most determined efforts to be practical, irritation seethed in her chest all the way to the butcher’s. Who is this girl? she thought crossly. We don’t know anything about her, who she is, or what she does, or where she comes from, or what her parents are like, or anything. We don’t even know her name. It seemed ominously significant that Steve hadn’t told them anything about her. She’ll turn out to be some brazen hussy who’s been setting her cap at him because he’s away from home and feeling low. One of those tarty women you see hanging around wit
h the Americans. There’s a darn sight too much of that going on. The more she anguished about it, the more agitated she became. I’ve half a mind to take a day off work, she thought, and go up there and see for myself. Girls like that need putting in their place. She needn’t think she can up an’ marry my son without someone having something to say about it. Horrible girl.

  The horrible girl had been uncomfortably idle that day and just at a time when she had more energy than she knew what to do with. Since cloth and clothing had been rationed, trade at the draper’s shop had fallen steadily. Now it was so low that the manager complained there were days when he wondered why they bothered to open the doors at all. But sales – or the lack of them – were the last thing on Barbara’s mind that day. Her life had changed so dramatically and at such speed that she was tangled in the sheer pace and wonder of it. It hardly seemed possible that a mere ten weeks ago she hadn’t even met Steve Wilkins and now they were lovers and engaged to be married and, once this boring day was over, they were going to call the banns. She was in a state of such confused happiness that she felt as though she was growing out of her skin.

  Outside the shop, the street was as restless as she was. Rapid cloud dappled the pavements with a shifting pattern of sunshine and shadow and the sea breeze was so strong that it flicked coats and skirts like flags, tossed hats into the air and bowled them along the road, lifted the shop blinds as though they were sails so that they heaved and strained, cracking like whips. At twenty to five, she caught sight of Steve, striding along the windswept High Street and watched him as he stood in a doorway to light a cigarette, cupping the flame with his left hand, the pink desert rat brave on his shoulder.

  Now that she could see him, standing there, a few feet away from her, having to wait another twenty minutes was intolerable. On an exuberant impulse, she asked the manager whether they couldn’t shut early for once. ‘Seein’ we ain’t ’xactly overwhelmed with custom.’