Long and the Short

by Saddler, Allen

  ‘I can’t see you,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’ll just have to feel.’

  He found the bed and sat on the edge of it. His hands encountered winceyette, which was her nightie, buttoned up all the way.

  ‘I hope you don’t think –’ she began, but he put his hand over her mouth.

  For some reason he couldn’t fathom he felt an unutterably tender feeling for this woman. She was straightforward, even ordinary, but meeting her had been a revelation. A revelation of normalcy; how lives could be lived without the pressure of the war. It had been a time-out-of-mind period, stolen under the noses of the authorities, the army, the government and all the paraphernalia of control that ruled both their lives.

  His fingers started working the buttons until he could feel the swell of her breasts, and she sat up and kissed him fiercely. Moments later he was on top of her moving in a grave rhythmic fashion, almost as though he was performing a rite, which he wanted to fulfil with a solemn grace that befitted the occasion.

  When it was over they lay together panting a little. It was a tight fit, side by side, so he moulded the contours of his body around hers, facing her back and grasping her breasts as though they were a pair of life belts.

  ‘Can I come again?’ he said.

  ‘No. I’d prefer that this part of my life remained a dream.’

  ‘There might be a result,’ he reminded her.

  ‘I know. I hope so. If it’s a boy I shall call him Alfie. You see I’ve never met anyone called Alfie.’

  He wondered whether he could walk away from this situation and never look back. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this seemed different. Joan was someone who he could have got on with. They might have made a go of things. As it was he would never know whether he had rung the bell, whether a child was born as the result of this casual acquaintance. Could he bear not knowing, being used as a stud for a man who was away on wartime business? And if there were to be a child he would never see it, know it. He wouldn’t even know whether it was a boy or girl. Had he done a good turn? What would he feel like if he found that someone was having it off with his wife? It was the war. These sort of things shouldn’t be happening.

  Joan seemed to be asleep, but Harry was miles away. He was wide awake. In a funny sort of way he was pleased and proud of what he had done. He was quite sure that it would work out. It hadn’t been love, and it hadn’t been sex exactly. He hadn’t had that wild feeling of power. He had just solemnly and seriously set about impregnating someone who wanted to have a baby. Was there anything wrong with that? After a while the husband might have his suspicions, sometimes when he looked at the child he might feel that it didn’t have his features, but then they would have settled down by then. Joan might have another baby, and everything would be accepted.

  He could feel Joan’s steady breathing. He worked himself to the edge of the bed and silently lowered himself on to the floor. He sat up against the wall, drawing his knees up. Then he got up and went into the lounge and felt for the Put-U-Up, stretching out and pulling the eiderdown over him. But he still didn’t sleep. He resolved to be out of the place as soon as there was a sliver of light. As far as Joan was concerned there had been a mysterious visitation in the dead of night, maybe Jesus Christ even, almost a dream. He closed his eyes and dozed, waking up every few minutes to check the light.

  He dressed quietly in the dark. He found a wet flannel in the bathroom and dabbed his face. He wanted to get the first train back to Manchester. He didn’t want to get into the position of answering questions. He had come to Blackpool for the day, had a few drinks and lost the way a bit, missed the last train but caught the first one in the morning. The Major would be so relieved to see him that he wouldn’t bother too much about where he had been. He slipped out of the front door. It was nearly dawn. He could see a trace of light and streaks of red at the end of the road.

  There was a mist rising from the fields as he found his way back to the pub which was on a main road. He found a bus stop, but there was no timetable so he started walking. He had no idea in what direction or how far he was from the station. All directional signs had been removed. The idea was that in the event of an enemy landing the invaders would not know where they were; that was, of course, presuming that they could read English. So Harry padded on, down streets of houses.

  A small van stopped, and the driver called out, ‘Which way are you going, soldier?’ It was a van delivering bread and cakes.

  ‘The station.’

  ‘Get in,’ said the driver. ‘I’m going that way.’

  The van had the comforting smell of newly baked bread. It spun neatly through the streets, frequently stopping at corner shops, with muffled shop assistants outside waiting, getting into the densely populated area, stopping at shops at about 200-yard intervals to deliver supplies.

  ‘Which station do you want? Central?’

  ‘For Manchester.’

  ‘Central,’ said the man.

  Harry watched as the houses passed by, turned into shops and the pavements got dirtier with scattered rubbish, chip papers and the skins of busted balloons.

  The driver had a wireless in the cab. When he stopped to deliver he switched it on. When he came back he would ask, ‘Anything?’ He was eager to know how the invasion was going. ‘My son is out there,’ he said. It seemed as though everyone had someone in the expeditionary force. ‘He’ll be all right,’ the driver said. ‘He’s in the Engineers.’ But Harry could see that he didn’t believe it. Even in the half-light the driver’s face was grey, with anxious eyes, always scouring the horizon, looking for the safe return of his son. ‘We only had the one,’ he explained.

  It wasn’t at all strange any more that people poured out their life stories to a stranger within minutes of meeting. ‘Always good with his hands,’ the driver said. ‘Help yourself to anything. A doughnut or something.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll get some breakfast when I get back.’

  He went by the sentry on the gate with just a nod. But the duty sergeant called him into the guard room.

  ‘The old man’s been looking for you.’

  ‘He knows I’ve been on a weekend pass. He signed the bloody thing himself.’

  ‘All leave is cancelled. Ain’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The invasion. It’s started.’

  He went to his room.

  4

  MAJOR Le Surf was worried. Grace Grantley had indicated that she wanted to get serious. She was a tall, angular woman with auburn hair that he suspected was dyed and usually had a casual but formal manner that suited their relationship. The Major had never been married except, in an odd way, to his sister. She was five years younger, and he had always felt responsible for her. When their parents had died they carried on living in the old house. Marjory didn’t seem interested in men, at least not to the point of getting married, and he, after some brief flirtations, never thought about it. They had lived together, as brother and sister, building up a web of common interests but neither making any demands on the other. It was married life, in a way, without any of the friction or commitment and avoided all that distasteful business in bed. He had tried it once and was appalled at the messiness of the operation. It reduced human beings to the level of animals. As it was, he could lead a perfectly civilized existence with Marjory. If he was away for a while on military duties he could rely on her to look after the family interests, run the shop and make sure the house was kept in good repair.

  The fact was that he wasn’t at all interested in entering the married state. His father and mother had been sworn enemies, each out to humiliate the other. Theirs had been a marriage held together by mutual hatred. Ian, who was sent to boarding-school as soon as he was old enough to pull his own socks on, was always appalled on his visits home and was glad to return to the cheerless mansion that served as a public school. He excelled in the school cadet force and saw that the army was a means of escape. And no
w, having avoided duplicating his parents’ mistake for all these years, he was cornered by Grace Grantley with a proposal that shocked his carefully structured outlook.

  The woman had made herself look ridiculous. Sobbing and then apologizing for her mistake, and then pleading that his refusal need not be final. Before she started to deliver her bombshell she had given him a large brandy, which, as she went on, he needed. He felt embarrassed, compromised. He tried to think whether he had given her any sign, any encouragement. Their relationship had been purely social. A drink after bridge, a bit of supper, maybe a Sunday lunch. Nothing but a friendly interchange of opinions and reflections. He couldn’t think of any moment that she could have thought of as an advance. He played the crusty old bachelor and she, he thought, was the faithful widow, mature enough to keep her feelings to herself.

  As soon as he had seen the way things were going he rang for Fortune to come and pick him up on some urgent mission, but Fortune had taken himself off on a weekend pass which the Major could not for the life of him remember signing. And so he had to endure an embarrassing evening during which Mrs Grantley had bared her soul and declared her love in quite a forthright and thoroughly indecent manner. The whole affair had surprised and shocked him. He had thought that she was made of sterner stuff. That was the trouble with women. You couldn’t be friendly with them without them wanting to snare and trap you into a lifetime’s submission. He had got away as soon as he could, leaving her red-eyed and tearful on the porch. Fortunately just at the height of the scene there was news about the invasion on the nine o’clock news, and he told her that his priority now was to be with his men. He had rung the duty sergeant who had sent a dispatch rider for him. Not to the house but the crossroads, a quarter of a mile down the road, and he had felt momentarily exhilarated, swishing along on the back of the Norton.

  First thing in the morning there was a mysterious message from Battalion Home Guard. He was to ring the War Office and ask for Colonel Stepney. Surely they weren’t thinking of sending him and his odd-job men to France? Well, not already. There were crack troops, who had been training for months, steeped in field exercises, fit and ready. Only as a last resort would he expect to be called on. Fortune was in his office, tidying up.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Major. ‘You came back.’

  ‘Heard it on the wireless,’ said Harry Boy.

  ‘Good lad,’ said the Major. ‘Sorry about your weekend. Make it up to you when things quieten down.’ He looked at Harry. The two men got on well. The Major relied on him for so many things. ‘Thinking of putting you up for a second stripe,’ he said.

  ‘Very grateful, sir. Help a bit at home.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Major vaguely. ‘Remind me later. I’ve got to make a phone call. Will you shut that door and stand outside. I don’t want to be interrupted.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The Major dialled the number he had been given and asked for Colonel Stepney. There was a long silence at the other end and then a sound like mice scuffling in paper.

  ‘Major Le Surf?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you hold on a minute, Major. The Colonel will be with you in a minute.’

  In fact it was nearer three minutes before another word was spoken. And then, a dry old voice and a delivery that sounded as though the owner was finding his way across a minefield.

  ‘Ah, Major. Sorry for keeping you. Something’s come up down your way which needs a bit of tact and diplomacy. We’re lucky we’ve got a man of your experience on the spot.’

  The Major held his breath. Whatever was it that justified all this flannel? He had regarded himself as near enough out to pasture as far as the War Office was concerned, assigned to a thankless task at the bottom of the pile.

  ‘We’ve got some German prisoners at one of the local hospitals near you. Something’s happened there that needs a lid keeping on it. I’ve spoken to the Matron there, and I’ve put an embargo on the local press, but people who work there know what has happened.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Major, trying to sound keen and intelligent but knowing that he was all at sea.

  The voice at the other end suddenly became very confidential, almost whispering. ‘One of the officers has been murdered.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes. Murdered,’ the voice went on, getting softer and lower. ‘He was in the SS. Not one of the German Army’s favoured units and, as far as we know, generally hated by the rest. The tricky thing is that the damn fool of a private who was on guard somehow allowed his bayonet to be used as the murder weapon.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Look, Major. This is going to call for some tact and careful handling. Whatever sort of a bastard this chap was he has got to be accounted for. There’s the Geneva Convention and all that.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you reckon you could get down there and make an investigation and report back? Ring this number. Don’t write anything down, and don’t tell anyone in the barracks what you’re up to. Got it? The hospital people know you’re coming. As far as they are concerned it’s just a formality.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Major, trying to piece together this extraordinary story.

  ‘I don’t suppose you speak German, do you?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Apparently there’s someone at the hospital who can translate. Good luck, old boy.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said the Major dryly.

  One shock after another. He resolved to take Harry Fortune with him. ‘Harry,’ he called, and the man stepped smartly into the room.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a job on. An inquiry. Something’s happened at one of the hospitals. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ responded Harry, puzzled.

  ‘Can’t tell you anything about it at the moment. But tell the duty sergeant that you’re excused duties today and maybe tomorrow, too. And get a truck round to the gates. As quick as you can.’

  Harry Boy Fortune didn’t like the sound of this mission. What could you get out of a hospital? No little percentage jobs there. Just long cold corridors and a nasty smell. Hospitals were always old and depressing. But then the Major looked quite excited about his mission, so there could be something happening. He drove through the sullen streets of Salford, across the city and out the other side. It was strange that in between these straggly linked towns there were always patches of green scrubland, something you never saw in London, which was entirely built over with only designated parks and commons as relief.

  The hospital had a dreary forbidding aspect. Abandon all joy those who enter here. He guessed that it had been developed from a workhouse, and he was right. The Major presented himself at the front reception, who seemed to be expecting him, and a scraggy little nurse escorted him to the Matron’s office.

  ‘Wait out here,’ he told her. ‘And don’t let anyone in. Whoever they are.’

  The Major entered the office and closed the door carefully behind him. He turned and felt a little twinge of unease at the sight of the imposing figure seated behind the desk. ‘Good morning, Matron. You were expecting me.’

  The Matron, a plump woman with a bright scrubbed face, dressed in the Dickensian garb of her office, looked a little nervous. ‘Good morning – er – Major. I suppose you know what this is all about?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said briskly. ‘The point is, how many of your staff know.’

  ‘Oh, the whole place is full of rumours, but there’s only a few people who know what really happened.’

  ‘Can I see these people? We need to make sure that the news of this incident doesn’t become widespread. Then we’d have the newspapers here, and the whole business will get more – er – complicated.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll send for the sister who was in charge at the time.’ She picked up the telephone. Her wide starched headgear took off on a freewheeling ballet of its own at her slightest movement. ‘Send Sister Tcherny to Matron’s office.’ She stared at the Major w
ith tight lips. She couldn’t be everywhere all of the time, and she was entitled to her sleep, but she knew that – maybe against all logic – she was going to be held responsible for this unfortunate incident.

  ‘What sort of supervision is supplied by the army?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a single soldier. There’s one on the ward all the time, but these are injured men. Some seriously. You wouldn’t expect them to be very active.’

  ‘And the soldier, the one who was on duty at the time. What’s happened to him?’

  ‘He was taken away. He was a trifle shocked, well, dazed. His corporal came and he went off. These people are not under my jurisdiction. In fact, I’m under theirs.’

  ‘Can I see the ward?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you.’

  The Matron swept down the corridor as though she was leading a flotilla of battleships. Her general air of grandeur increased his sense of unease. He felt even more uneasy when he found himself in a ward in which every bed was occupied by a German soldier. There was a private sitting at the desk and a nurse doing her rounds with dressings. She looked up when she saw the Matron.

  ‘Carry on, Sister,’ said the Matron. She led the Major to the end of the ward where there was an empty bed covered by a waterproof sheet. ‘He was there,’ she said.

  ‘Can any of these chaps speak English?’ the Major asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She marched to a central position and, raising her voice, said, ‘Anybody here speak English?’

  There was no response. Just blank looks and then a thin pipe of a voice said, ‘Hello, Tommy.’

  ‘That’s promising,’ said the Major and walked towards the direction from which the voice had come. It was a small man, very dark, with Asiatic features; hardly a typical German, with dark deep-set eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said slyly. ‘Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘Can you speak English?’

  The man had a thick bandage around his stomach. He levered himself up on one elbow, wincing as he lifted his trunk. ‘I work. In London.’