‘I know exactly how that bird feels,’ she said, looking up into the sky at the black speck above their heads. ‘I’m so happy. I’d like to stop the world an’ stop time an’ stay here like this for ever an’ ever an’ ever.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I want to get to bed.’
She laughed with delight, picking up her hat. ‘You would!’
‘And you don’t?’ he dared her.
The answer was clear as sunshine on her face. ‘You know I do.’
‘Well then. Come on. We’re nearly there. See that clump of trees by the bend. It’s just behind them.’
There were three ramshackle buildings behind the trees, set higgledy-piggledy round a small scruffy green, each made of roughcast and with a corrugated iron roof, and all obviously empty.
‘Which one is it?’
‘The one at the end,’ he said. ‘With the tiles.’
She’d seen red tiles from the corner of her eye as they rounded the bend, but she’d assumed it was the roof of a shed. Now she realised that it was a fourth house, that it was standing in a hollow and that it was made entirely of red tiles. The low roof was rosy with them and the front was hung with brick-red pantiles, warm against the black paint of the three square windows and the door.
‘Well?’ he said hopefully. ‘What d’you think?’
She was already running down the slope, hat in hand, too excited to wait. ‘Thass smashing!’ Fancy spending your honeymoon in a little house!
But when they reached the doorstep, they couldn’t open the door. The lock took the key easily enough but the door wouldn’t budge. He pushed it, she pushed it, they pushed it together.
After the third attempt, his face was dark with frustration. ‘Bloody thing! What’s the matter with it?’
She was surprised to see him in such a temper over something as trivial as a door. ‘Thass been shut a long time,’ she said calmly. ‘Thass what ’tis.’
‘All through the war,’ he said. And remembered his army training. ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to kick it open.’
Which he did, taking a short run and kicking it so violently that it swung wide with a crash, much to her admiration. Inside was a narrow L-shaped hall with very thin walls covered in faded wallpaper and four doors leading from it, all covered in flaking brown paint. Little drifts of dust lay heaped on the brown lino and there was an odd musty smell like a cross between a broom cupboard and a coal cellar. A row of iron coat-hooks protruded from one side wall and there was a huge gas meter on the other, both grey with dust. But Barbara was thrilled by it. Four doors, she thought, four rooms. Four rooms. Imagine! It was like being offered a box of chocolates. She didn’t know which to choose first and, while she dithered, Steve opened the right-hand door.
‘No,’ he said, as she stepped inside. ‘Wrong one.’
She was torn between desire and curiosity. It was such a pretty room, a real living room, the sort of thing she’d seen at the pictures. She caught a glimpse of a fireplace made of brick, a tiled hearth and a tin fender with two tin coal-scuttles at each end, with brown leather lids that made them look like little stools. There were wicker armchairs, a wooden dresser covered in dusty china, a deal table and two plain chairs by the window, gaslights with pretty pink shades, a divan covered by a hand-made blanket, crocheted in lopsided patterns of brightly coloured wool. And wonder of wonders, just inside the door, pushed right up against the wall, the dearest little piano, half the size of an ordinary one and covered in carvings and decorations.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Thass like a palace. Fancy living in a place like this!’
He was too busy kissing her neck to look at it. ‘Come and see the bedroom,’ he urged, gentling her back into the hall. ‘It’s got a double bed.’
The delight of such a thought. No more snatched kisses. No more scratchy straw. Just peace and privacy in a bed of their own.
They went through another brown door and it was a bedroom. She was vaguely aware of an iron bedstead painted black, and a high bed with a beige cotton coverlet, but then they were both tumbling down onto it and there was nothing in the world and nothing in the room except their hunger for one another.
Afterwards, as they lay dishevelled and satisfied, sharing a cigarette, she became aware that the coverlet was marked with brown rust stains and felt decidedly damp.
‘We shall have to air this bed ’fore we sleep in it,’ she said.
He was easy with gratified desire, his skin glowing and his eyes half shut. ‘Who said we were going to sleep in it? I’ve got other plans.’
She turned back the bedspread and pressed the palm of her hand against the mattress. ‘Thass soaking wet.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Is there a clothes line?’
He pretended to groan. ‘Five minutes married and she’s going all housewife on me.’
‘I haint sleepin’ in a damp bed,’ she told him. ‘I had enough of that at home.’ Her younger brothers had wet the bed she’d had to share with them every blessed night, and she’d always hated it.
He groaned and sat up. ‘Oh come on then,’ he said. ‘We’ll find you a clothes line. I expect it’s round the back in the garden.’
It was and the blankets and pillows were soon hung on it. But the mattress was too heavy to haul into the garden and too damp to dry in the sun.
‘We need a fire,’ Barbara said. ‘Nice big one. If we prop that up in front of a fire, that’ll be dry in no time. Is there any coal?’
There was a coal-shed in the garden full of it and a box full of old newspaper and enough twigs for kindling lying about on the grass. ‘I’ll have that going in no time,’ she promised. ‘I’m good with fires.’ And although this one took a long time to catch, she coaxed it alight eventually. They heaved the mattress from the bed, lugged it through the hall and stood it in front of the blaze to steam. Soon their pretty living room was full of the musty smell of its stale, damp flock.
‘Phew!’ Steve complained. ‘What a stink!’ And went to open the windows. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
So they explored their kingdom and discovered that the fourth door led to a front bedroom crammed with furniture – a double bed covered by another rust-stained bedspread, a black travelling box, a deal washstand painted pale blue and a dressing table painted white – and that the kitchen, which they’d rushed through to get to the garden, had a larder and a broom cupboard, a sink complete with tap, draining board and plate-rack, and standing on its own, looking extremely modern and grand, a grey and white gas cooker.
‘I’m sorry about the bed being damp,’ Steve said. ‘I wanted everything to be perfect for you.’ He grimaced. ‘Didn’t make a very good job of it, did I? We have to kick the door down to get in and the bed’s running water and God knows what else we shall find.’
He looked so downcast that she flung herself into his arms and peppered his face with kisses. ‘It is perfect,’ she said. ‘We’re here. That’ud make anywhere perfect.’
‘You’, he said, overwhelmed by such a fierce, loving, perfect reply, ‘are my own dear darling.’ And when she beamed at him, ‘This is better though, isn’t it? This kitchen, I mean. Every mod con, as they say.’ And he looked at the cooker hopefully.
‘I’ve never used one of them,’ she admitted.
‘Never?’ Now it was his turn to be surprised.
‘We cooked on the fire at home. Don’t worry. I’ll get used to it.’
He was himself again. He’d provided a touch of luxury for her. ‘There’s nothing to it,’ he said, demonstrating. ‘You just turn on the tap and light the gas and Bob’s your uncle. Simplicity itself.’ Talk of cooking reminded him that he was hungry. ‘Where’d we leave the shopping basket?’ Aunt Mabel had pressed it upon him as they got into the train, saying it was ‘a few things to be going on with’ and he’d carried it down without giving it much attention.
Now neither of them could remember where it was. Out in the hall probably.
; It was still on the doorstep beside his kitbag and her hat, where they’d flung it before they ran inside. And now that they weren’t in such a rush, they noticed that there was a card lying on the doormat beside it. ‘Passengers’ Luggage in advance in shed.’ That was a puzzle because their luggage was limited to a change of clothes in the kitbag and there’d been nothing in the coal-shed except coal. So they went back to the garden to investigate.
This shed turned out to be a lean-to propped against the brick wall at the end of the garden and obscured by an elderberry bush and a profusion of nettles and couch grass, and the luggage was a wooden trunk lashed shut with two leather belts and yards of elderly rope and boldly labelled ‘Mr and Mrs Wilkins’. It took the pair of them to haul it through the back door into the kitchen.
‘Aunty Sis,’ Steve said, as they unfastened it.
‘You got lot of aunts. Which one was that?’
‘The fat one. Had a red suit on. Smoked cigars. Her friend owns this place. That’s how I got it. She said she was sending something down for us. I didn’t think it would be a trunk.’
It was a treasure trove. Packed across the top were a pair of white sheets and two old fashioned pillowcases with a note attached ‘They’re not new but they’ll do a turn!’ Then came two towels, one blue and one green, four tea towels neatly darned, and a checked tablecloth. Then two pairs of plimsolls with another note. ‘They might be a bit on the big side for you, Barbara but you can stuff them with newspaper and they’ll save your shoes.’ Then an army blanket and a cardboard box full of goodies – a tin of stewed steak and a tin of spam, a jar of home-made marmalade and a small tin of condensed milk – Nestle’s what’s more, very grand – a bag of potatoes, flour, part of a string of onions, a packet of salt and another of tea, a jar of pickles and a bottle of vinegar both wrapped about with several protective layers of newspaper, even an Izal toilet roll, a large box of matches and a packet of soap flakes. And tucked in one corner were two flannels made out of an old towel, a bar of scented soap and a leather strap for sharpening Steve’s razor.
‘She’s thought of everything,’ Steve said, holding the strap in his hands. ‘This was Uncle Percy’s. She must have kept it.’ And when Barbara looked a question at him. ‘He was killed at Dunkirk. I thought she’d thrown all his things away. And look at all this food. She must have spent her coupons on those tins.’
But Barbara was scowling. There’s altogether too much of his family, she thought, looking at the tins. What’s the matter with them? ‘Don’t they think I know how to feed you?’
He changed the subject, deftly. ‘How long’s it going to be before that lot’s dry? I haven’t kissed you for ages.’
‘I thought you were hungry.’
‘So I am,’ he said, stroking her bare arms. ‘I just don’t know which appetite to satisfy first.’
She wasn’t in the mood for love at that moment. ‘Well I need food if you don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m starvin’.’ And she unpacked.
‘We can’t eat in that stink,’ he pointed out, admiring her as she filled the kettle and rinsed two cups and saucers and two plates under the tap in the sink.
‘We’ll have a picnic.’
So they ate their first meal together sitting on the rough grass out in the garden. Bread, cheese and pickles and one of Aunt Sis’s onions – which turned out to be very tasty despite Barbara’s misgivings – and all washed down by their first pot of tea, sweetened by condensed milk. And the sun went on airing the blankets.
When they’d eaten every last crumb, Steve tore himself away from her for five minutes to make up the fire. He returned to report that the mattress was still steaming and the room was like a Turkish bath.
‘I had a bath this morning,’ she remembered. ‘Bath salts an’ all. Seems like years ago. I lay there thinking what if Ma comes down an’ tries to stop us.’
‘There’s no stopping us,’ he told her happily. ‘We’re invincible. We’re married.’ He paused, looking at her closely. ‘Promise me something?’
‘Depends,’ she said. She’d recovered enough to tease him.
‘Don’t let’s talk about our parents.’
She didn’t agree with that. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘We shouldn’t have secrets from one another. We should talk about everything.’
‘But not now,’ he urged. ‘Not on our honeymoon.’
For the first time in her outspoken life, she saw the need for caution. ‘Well …’ she said. ‘Maybe not now then.’
‘Or the war?’ he said. ‘Or the Second Front or anything like that?’
That was easier to agree to. She didn’t want to talk about the war either. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
So they pushed all unquiet thoughts from their minds and gave themselves up almost entirely to the pleasure they needed. That night they slept – eventually – on a warm mattress under Aunt Sis’s sheets and their sundried blankets. And woke late to love again and to plan their meals for the day. Toast and marmalade for a very late breakfast, tinned steak and mashed potatoes for supper.
By Monday morning their food stocks were running low. They had condiments in plenty but no bread and butter. So they found their emergency ration cards, walked to the nearest road and caught the morning bus to the nearest town. The bus stopped at the station, where, feeling very virtuous and far-sighted, they arranged for the trunk to be collected in a week’s time. Then they strolled into the centre of town and did their shopping – two large loaves, chump chops, bacon, sugar, butter, marg, cheese and another packet of tea. They also discovered that there was a milkman who would deliver the odd pint to their door now and then and a travelling greengrocer who did his rounds on Tuesdays and Fridays.
‘We shan’t want for anything,’ Steve said, as the afternoon bus rattled them home.
Only time, Barbara thought, but true to her promise, she didn’t say so.
The ease of the next six days stretched enticingly before them. For a week at least they were unassailable. For a week at least they could love when they wanted, eat when they wanted and be totally and utterly private.
On Tuesday they stayed indoors all day because it was raining and having found a dust-shovel and brush, an old cloth and the remains of a tin of polish in the cupboard and an old broom in the shed, they set about putting the house to order, working together as Steve said happily, ‘like an old married couple’; on Wednesday evening when the sky cleared, they strolled the half mile to the local pub for a couple of pints; on Thursday when the sun was blazing again, they put on their plimsolls and went for a walk in the fields where they met the farmer who was out inspecting his crops and stopped to talk to them, amiably but for much too long.
But for most of the time their world was shrunk to the four thin walls of their red-tiled kingdom, to the warm, musty nest of their well-used bed. As dusk fell, they drew the curtains and lit the gaslight and returned to enchantment.
‘Your eyes are like mirrors,’ he told her. ‘I can see my face in them. Like a little photo.’
‘I’d like a photo of you,’ she said. ‘Just as you are. To keep for ever.’
He was in the full pride of a splendid erection. ‘Just as I am?’ he demurred.
‘Just,’ she told him, and when he grimaced, ‘well head an’ shoulders then. I wouldn’t show it to no one else. It’ud be mine.’
He ran a loving hand down the long curve of her naked spine. Without the boxiness of her clothes, she was all luscious curves, her flesh golden in the gaslight. He was bewitched by the sight and scent and sensation of her, those rounded arms so soft about his neck, those lovely sloping shoulders – which he hadn’t suspected when they were squared by shoulder pads – that belly so wondrously rounded, those tip-tilted breasts so full and beautiful that he grew taut with desire simply to see them.
‘And you’re mine,’ he said, pulling her towards him. ‘All mine. I still can’t believe it.’
‘I know,’ she said, lifting her mouth to be kissed again. �
�Thass like a dream.’
From time to time, as they lay in one another’s arms, the dream was interrupted by the steady drone of Allied bombers heading out to France and Germany, but neither of them spoke of it. Once they saw a squadron of Hurricanes hurtling through the sky on their way to strafe the German defences, but they watched without comment. They were out of the war for the time being and sated by pleasures great and small. And that was all they needed.
On Saturday it was so warm and they were so exhausted that they spent the morning out on the green, lolling about on the grass.
‘This is our first anniversary,’ he said. ‘D’you realise that? We’ve been married a week.’
She smiled at him lazily, replete with happiness. ‘Happy anniversary!’
‘Yes,’ he said, admiring her. ‘It is. You’ve caught the sun.’
‘So have you,’ she told him, returning his admiration. ‘You got freckles all over your nose.’
‘I have not,’ he protested and leant forward to kiss her into silence. But as he moved, he caught sight of a distant figure heading towards them down the footpath. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody coming.’
‘There can’t be,’ she said, turning to look too. ‘There’s nobody here but us an’ nobody knows that, do they, except the milkman an’ the greengrocer. An’ your aunt Sis.’
But she was wrong. There was a postwoman peddling towards the green and she was waving a letter.
Steve’s heart sank. ‘Maybe it’s not for us,’ he said, hoping against hope. ‘I mean, it could be for someone in one of the other bungalows. They could be coming down. For the weekend.’ But of course it was for him, as he knew only too well, and it was in an official brown envelope, OHMS. He held it in his hand, waiting for the privacy to open it, afraid of what it contained.
Unfortunately the postwoman was chatty. ‘Here on holiday?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Barbara told her, after an anxious glance at Steve. ‘Thass right.’
‘You’re not from round these parts, are you,’ the postwoman observed. ‘I can tell.’
Avalanche of Daisies Page 10