The Forgotten War

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by David Fiddimore


  Alison met me in the yard behind the Abbott house. She was carrying a galvanized iron bucket and was wearing a pretty dress, Wellington boots and a khaki infantryman’s blouse from which the buttons had been removed. She asked me, ‘Why are you smiling? Are you laughing at me?’

  I had been smiling at the memory of a girl I had met in Germany: or, to be strictly true, the wonderful tits of a girl I had met in Germany. The first time I met her, she too was wearing a soldier’s jacket stripped of its buttons. Only hers had been field grey.

  ‘No. Don’t be cross, but I was remembering a girl I met in Germany: she was wearing a soldier’s jacket too. Where’s Bella?’

  ‘She’s in Oxford, silly. It’s Friday. I told her I’d feed the chicks for her.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘There are still the paddocks behind the house, the broilers.’

  ‘I’ll do one for you; you do the other. Then we’ll have a cup of char.’

  I waited until I was alone. Alison was cleaning out one of the low roosting sheds. That entailed digging out the accumulated hen pen of the previous few days. I think that she was just putting off the evil hour until she had to open her books again. I phoned Piers’s number. The woman who answered said she’d never heard of him, and put the phone down on me.

  I needn’t have worried; a minute later it rang almost under my hand, and when I answered Piers said, ‘Back in the land of the living? I’m glad that you’re away from there.’

  ‘What do you mean? I wasn’t hurt.’

  ‘TB clinics, old son: revolting places. People go to die in them – even healthy men die in those places. The TB bacterium forms a spore that lives for years, just like anthrax. It can jump up and bite you on the bum when you least expect it.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, Piers.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. You need someone like me looking out for you until you grow up.’

  I gave it a six-beat, and then said, ‘I’m pleased to hear from you too. Were you really worried about me?’

  ‘I was worried that you wouldn’t be able to finish the jobs you’ve started. Clem’s getting ready to do something about the Rats, and I haven’t got long to make the most of it. Can you come down here again next week?’

  ‘The Gaffer offered me a few days’ crash leave, so I don’t see why not. Can you make sure I’m not wanted for flying?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I had a thought about Grace that might help.’

  ‘What was that, old son?’

  ‘When I first knew her,’ I told him, ‘she was nuts about flying: it was all she did.’

  ‘So I heard: it’s all in her file. What about it?’

  I didn’t reply; I waited for the penny to drop.

  ‘Oh my God! You want me to offer her a job, don’t you? Just like I did to you. Why didn’t I think of that?’ Piers said.

  ‘Can I offer her a flying job with one of your tame airlines or not? It might do the trick, and get her moving.’

  ‘By all means. Offer to make her a Marshal of the WAAF if you have to; just get her out of there.’

  ‘What else do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just another couple of faces. I’ll brief you next week. Tuesday?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘See you in the flat on Tuesday morning, then. Have a nice day, now.’

  The last sentence was something we were copying from the Yanks. It was delivered with all the irony that Piers could muster. Which wasn’t much: he hadn’t the voice for it. He sounded like a constipated cocktail waitress.

  Bella looked dispirited when she returned from Oxford. I knew where the cider was stored: the bottles stood in an old stone sink in the pantry. I brought a couple out and poured them for us. Bella said, ‘Thanks, love,’ and raised her mug to me. Then she saw Alison hovering at the door, and told her, ‘Yeah, get yourself one: you’re old enough.’

  ‘So what’s the matter?’ I asked her.

  ‘Your Mrs Miller’s husband’s the matter. He’s a bit of a creep. He followed me around town all day trying to catch me selling off record.’

  ‘Did he catch you?’

  ‘You think I’m stupid? It just means I didn’t get rid of all I wanted to. It’s a problem, because if I declare what I didn’t sell in next week’s white sales he’ll ask me why my production level has suddenly shot up.’

  ‘White sales?’

  ‘In food production there’s the white market and the black market. You know what the black market is – your pal Tommo is up to his sweetbreads in it.’

  ‘And what are your Oxford sales?’

  ‘I like to think of that as my grey market: neither one thing nor the other.’

  ‘So what can you do?’

  ‘Bleed in this week’s excess bit by bit over the next few weeks and hope that no one notices. It’s just a pain in the backside: juggling what to hold back, and what to feed in. Some are bound to addle in the long run. It depresses me: I hate waste.’

  ‘What about Tommo?’

  ‘Not ready for my eggs for another three weeks. That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘Why don’t I phone him? You never know.’

  ‘Do you really want to get involved, Charlie?’

  ‘I am already, aren’t I?’

  I phoned Tommo later that night: Charlie Bassett, egg baron. When I put it to him he asked me what the split was. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  ‘I’ll take this load of eggs,’ he explained. ‘Ten per cent less than I agreed with her in your seedy pub.’

  ‘It’s not a seedy pub, Tommo, it’s just English. I thought that you were used to them by now.’

  ‘What’s the split?’ he asked again. ‘What you getting outta this?’

  ‘Nothing yet; I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘After this it’s got to be twenty boxes a week to make it worth our time, OK? Is she good for that?’ That was two hundred and forty eggs.

  ‘Of course she is.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back, as if he could have seen me otherwise. I passed Bella the telephone so that she could make the delivery and collection arrangements.

  I danced with Avril on Saturday night. The band was Nat Gonella and his small band – maybe half of his Georgians. His cheeks puffed out around his trumpet’s punchy stream of notes. She saw me watching and said, ‘It’s the pressure. Their cheek muscles go slack eventually. That’s what Joe says.’

  ‘Where is he tonight?’

  ‘Working, I think, but he hasn’t come for a few weeks. He caught me dancing outside with someone, and got into a fight. He might have been banned.’

  ‘I thought you said that dancing with someone else was OK.’

  ‘I think I might have got a bit carried away as well.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the pictures with Joe instead?’

  ‘On Saturdays I dance.’

  ‘And get carried away?’

  ‘If you like.’

  It was as easy as that. Perhaps that’s why I left her, and walked outside for a smoke. It was a fine night and I’d left the car in the car park alongside the pub, with its hood down. I sat in it in the dark, and let the heavy smoke from my pipe dribble from my mouth and up into the night sky. After a few minutes Alison climbed into the seat alongside me. She was wearing the dress Ming had sketched her in; it must have been her best. She smelled of soap.

  ‘Hi, Charlie.’

  ‘Where’s your boyfriend? Stacey, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Dancing with the girl those men fought over a couple of weeks ago. He’s very immature.’

  I couldn’t help myself: I smiled. In the darkness she couldn’t have seen me. There were more stars than you could count. In the war I knew a girl who thought that they were the souls of dead aviators.

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No. Women are more mature than men, year on year. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Come on – I’ll drive you home.’ The tune of ‘
Polka Dots and Moonbeams’ rattled through my head on the short journey. It was the number being played when I walked out. Alison was so quiet that I thought perhaps she had gone to sleep, but when I stole a quick glance she had her head tipped back and was watching the stars rush by.

  Bella was still up when we walked in, playing Monopoly with Ming by tilley-lamp light on the kitchen table. They both looked very content. She asked, ‘Where did you two bump into each other?’

  I decided to let Alison answer: I was interested to see if she would tell the truth.

  ‘The jazz club over at Priors,’ she said. Bella raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Alison scurried on: ‘I went with Stacey, but he danced with someone else all night, and we fell out. Charlie spotted me, and brought me home. Saved me the bus fare.’

  Bella smiled at me. ‘Thank you, Charlie. Who was playing?’

  ‘Nat Gonella. He’s not what he once was.’ I remembered his dance music.

  ‘And a bit screechy for me. Do you two fancy a game of cards before we go to bed? Ming’s got to go in half an hour.’

  We played pontoon, but it was really Happy Families.

  PART FIVE

  Chasing Shadows

  21. Chasing Shadows

  The front of the red-brick farmhouse was half smothered by some plant or other. It wasn’t until the buds began to form that I realized it was a rose: the largest I’d ever encountered. I pushed my bag into the footwell in front of the car’s rear seat. Bella reached over and lodged four bottles of cider alongside them, ‘for the journey’. She gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Not long now, Charlie. You’ll soon be demobbed, and a free man again. How long you going to be away this time?’

  ‘Less than a week. Don’t take any chances while I’m away, but if you do get into trouble phone Tommo.’

  ‘I have Ming.’

  ‘Ming’s a policeman. If he sticks his neck out too far for you someone will cut his head off. Please remember that.’

  ‘OK, Charlie. I’ll remember.’

  This wasn’t the same as saying that she’d do what I said. Deep down inside, women like taking risks: I’ve never quite understood why.

  I called in at the office. Watson was at a meeting somewhere, and Miller was sulking. I don’t know if she was sulking because I was going up to London again, or for another reason, because she didn’t tell me. One of her inexpertly wrapped packages was on the corner of her desk. She sniffed and said, ‘That’s for you. For the journey.’

  ‘Dripping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Marvellous. Thanks.’

  She suddenly looked bashful, and I found that I liked that.

  ‘Come back soon.’ She came round the desk and kissed me. I am sure that if I had tried to do that she would have pushed me away. It’s best not to try to understand them. Miller wanted to know what she should do about Joopeman and the Jedburghs while I was away.

  ‘Keep disrupting their signals traffic, OK? I want them completely fed up with you by the time I contact them.’

  ‘OK: anything else?’

  ‘Marry me?’

  ‘No. I’m already married.’

  ‘Why won’t anyone marry me?’

  ‘Maybe you’re not the sort of man that girls marry, Charlie – too much fun in small doses for that.’

  ‘Fuck me, then.’

  ‘When you come back; so don’t come back exhausted.’ It was always silly to underestimate Miller, because she always came back at you. Then she paused and asked, ‘You’re not really going on leave, are you?’

  ‘No – but I’m not flying either. So you needn’t worry.’

  ‘What makes you think that I will?’ Smiling.

  ‘Vanity.’

  ‘I love you, Charlie.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Trust me to spoil it. Her mouth dropped into the upside-down smile again. She turned away. ‘Suit yourself. Call me if you can.’

  I said, ‘OK,’ but it was only a way of disengaging. I hadn’t said what she wanted me to.

  There was a brand new flying jacket hanging on the back of her door – all sheepskin and smelly leather. Miller helped me on with it: she’d ordered a size too big for me, so it fitted over my clothes perfectly. When I tried to say thank you she just waved me away as if it was nothing. It wasn’t the best note on which to say goodbye.

  You never can tell what will happen if you walk away from a witch, having left her with a sense of grievance. That was the first thing I thought when my car stopped spinning. Then the tops exploded off the cider bottles with gentle pops, one after the other, leaving me sitting under a golden shower of something I’d rather have been drinking. I had thumped my chin against the steering wheel and nearly dislocated my neck.

  I had cleared Oxford, and exhilarated by watery sunshine and an empty road had just let the car open up. On a gently cambered curve, with the speedo needle nudging seventy, I met the biggest pothole in the west coming the other way. Well, that’s what it felt like at the time: it was three feet wide and nearly a foot deep in places. I know because I inspected it afterwards.

  The problem with a car that starts to fly is that it hasn’t the aerodynamic profile and lift to maintain level or ascending flight. I know that: I was in the RAF. I think that I lost the front nearside wheel when we hit the ground again. The impact felt as if it had loosened my teeth. Then the car started to spin in great loops: off the edge of the road, through a hedge and dropping down into a meadow. The wheel chased me, but kept going in long hops after the car and I stopped. In the silence that followed, the song of a skylark lifted into the air. It didn’t give a damn.

  A farm worker walked slowly up to me; I think he wanted to be sure that the accident had ended before he spoke. Two small Jersey cows followed him. I thought that they looked very sympathetic.

  He looked like a halfwit, but observed, ‘The wheel’s over there; in t’corner of t’field if your’n interested.’

  I wasn’t. And I wasn’t ready to say anything yet, so he added, ‘I told ’em to fill up that darned hole weeks ago, but they never listen.’

  They: the council, the people supposed to be in charge. And that was the whole story really, in a single sentence. Here’s another: bollocks!

  The cows began to lick the car. The guy said, ‘You all right, then, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. My head was spinning for a moment there.’

  ‘Not as many times as your car did. I’d sit there a couple of mins if I wast you. Your wheel’s—’

  ‘In the corner. Yes. You said.’

  It wasn’t only the wheel. I walked around the car. Cider was drying on it in the sun. That was what the cows were licking: they worked their way methodically around it. The nearside front wing was hanging from a single twisted bracket, and its front light had disappeared completely.

  ‘They should put up some temporary warning sign,’ I said.

  ‘They did but some of the young RAF boys from that school stole it. They’m mad buggers. There’s a phone at the farm. Boss’d let you use it for an emergency.’

  I stopped momentarily to look at the car as we walked away. I suppose that I wanted to fix in my mind just how lucky I had been. My chin hurt, and so did my forehead. One of the cows reached into the back of the car, found Miller’s sandwiches and ate them: brown paper, string and all. If the dripping was beef dripping, she was discovering the joys of cannibalism.

  There was an AA badge on the car’s radiator grille, so I took a chance and phoned them. The farmer stood alongside me in the hallway of a solid-looking farmhouse. The farmer’s wife had bustled off to make a pot of tea. She told me that a cup of tea would ward off delayed shock. I gave the AA the car’s registration number, and the man who answered their telephone asked, ‘Would that be Mr Abbott?’

  ‘No: I’m a friend of his – I’m just driving his car.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir; Mr Abbott is a life member.’

  An afterlife member actually, I thought – the original owne
r had fallen into Germany in 1944, but I hadn’t got round to telling them yet. This wasn’t the time, either.

  The man went on: ‘I’ll direct the nearest patrolman to come out to you; he’ll arrange for the car to be moved to a garage – and we’ll have a go at the council about the hole in the road.’

  Better late than never, I supposed.

  What goes around comes around. The mechanic summoned by the AA patrol looked very familiar. He told me, ‘I love Singers. Works of bloody art.’

  He was a strong, cheerful-looking young fellow, with a scarred jaw. I wondered if I should tell him that I’d probably slept with his sister not too long ago. In the end I didn’t have the nerve. Then he said, ‘But it will cost a bit to put her back together again, sir.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘About seventy-five quid after I touch up the paint. I’ve probably got most of the parts we need back in the workshop. I cannibalize wrecks.’

  ‘Don’t cannibalize this one: she’s not ready for the knackers yet. Seventy-five would be fine.’

  We shook on it, and arranged that he would deliver the car to the Abbott farm in about a week’s time. He had a mechanic’s oily hands. The AA man took pity on me and broke the rules, which was why I arrived at Oxford railway station on the back of his combination, riding a folded-up towel over the rear mudguard. My bag was stowed inside the curious sentry-box-shaped sidecar. He even saluted me as he left: you’d think that after men got clear of the services they’d want to drop the bullshit, wouldn’t you? But without thinking I threw him one back.

  I had half an hour’s wait for a London train so I telephoned Miller from an old wooden call box on the up platform. Someone had pinned a used johnny to the ceiling. It hung shrivelled and perished over my head, moving gently in the breeze from a broken window. I kept eyeing it as I phoned; ready to jump aside if it fell.

  Miller was stiff and impersonal until I told her where I was and why, and then she turned on the emotion tap.

 

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