Long and the Short

by Saddler, Allen

  ‘Harry!’ she exclaimed, surprised. ‘If that’s the name you’re using today.’

  ‘When you thought that all Londoners were Fred or Alf or Len.’

  ‘What are you doing here? I thought all leave was cancelled.’

  ‘I’m here with my boss. Only one night.’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘No,’ he said, feeling quite roguish. ‘I want you to come with me. To a hotel. For the night.’

  She looked down, pouting. ‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’

  He realized that he had been too brash. ‘I know it looks like that, but I haven’t got much time. It’s taken a lot of time to set this up.’

  ‘You shouldn’t take people for granted.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about you so much.’

  That was better. Her expression had softened.

  ‘Well, will you come? Unless you’ve something else on …’

  She moved towards him. ‘You’re a cocky bugger, aren’t you?’

  They wandered down the scruffy patch of gorse to the road, he trying to look chastened and she trying to look calm but unable to subdue the excitement in her eyes.

  ‘Better get a bus,’ she said.

  He put his arm around her on the upper deck and felt her soften.

  ‘You soldiers are only after one thing.’

  ‘I know,’ he said boldly. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Might be,’ she mumbled.

  Harry smiled contentedly. This was going better than he expected.

  They found a hotel. It wasn’t on the front, and wasn’t the smartest, but it was clean and comfortable with an attached bathroom, which was unusual. He was in a serious frame of mind. He wanted sex. He wanted to fuck her to his and her satisfaction. But he wanted to do it slowly, lovingly, almost reverentially and almost in slow motion. They soaped each other in the bath. He patted her dry with the towel. Joan felt she was being anointed for some serious rite of passion; he was so careful, so considerate.

  ‘Oh no!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No nightie.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t look.’

  ‘You are a fool,’ she giggled.

  He held her breasts, as though they were precious, and kissed her solemnly, as though this night might be their last.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I think I love you.’

  ‘But what about your wife?’

  ‘Yes, I loved her, too.’

  ‘Loved. You mean you don’t now?’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know about you then, did I?’

  She got into bed.

  He came out of the bathroom with a packet in his hand. ‘See, I remembered this time.’

  ‘You won’t need those. You hit the bull’s-eye last time.’

  He was excited. ‘Did I? Are you pregnant? With our baby? Well, what about that!’ He was as delighted as a small boy with his first train set. ‘Hubby will be pleased.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘But he thinks you’re pregnant already, doesn’t he?’

  She stared at the wall. ‘He doesn’t think anything. He’s dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I had a letter. Killed in action. They didn’t say how.’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’

  He sat on the side of the bed, his head in his hands. ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Come on. Get in. It’s all right. He was all right, but it was no love match. I wouldn’t have married him if it weren’t for his parents. At least I’ve got them off my back.’

  Harry hesitated. ‘Should we be doing this?’ His voice was unsteady. He stood in his underpants, uncertain of his next move.

  ‘You’ll get cold.’

  ‘Yes. I know, but …’

  ‘Don’t make a difference to you and me. I went with you, and I never expected to see you again.’

  ‘But your husband is dead. It don’t seem right.’

  She sat up, annoyed. ‘This sort of thing is going on all over the world.’

  ‘But … This was going to be so – special.’

  ‘Well, it can be. But hurry up and get at it. Look. It’s a different world up here. We don’t have much time for sentiment. We just have to get on with things.’

  He got into the bed beside her and felt the warmth of her body.

  ‘You’re such a baby,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know,’ he said, as he eased himself on top of her.

  Joan fell asleep, but Harry couldn’t settle. Was it right to be screwing a recently deceased soldier’s wife? That was the trouble with the war. It scooped people up and put them down in alien environments. In the normal course of events he would never have met Joan. He might have left London for a brief stay in Brighton, Eastbourne or Margate. But he would never have travelled north.

  At four o’clock in the morning he was sitting at the window smoking. Moonlight streamed into the room. He looked over at Joan. She was smiling in her sleep. What the hell was he going to do now? There was Renee and the two kids and another on the way. Renee wasn’t a bad kid. Nothing special, but she didn’t deserve this. But somehow he’d fused with this Joan. He knew the difference. She was right about Londoners. Sentimental, blindly patriotic, with a sense of morality out of their class. Everybody knew that the so-called upper classes were always swapping around, having a good time. Morality was for the working classes, to keep them in their place. But what could you do about it? Nothing. Fuck all. Like it or lump it. He opened the window and Joan woke up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Praying. Praying.’

  The Major sat in the lounge bar sipping a whisky and soda. It was a quiet place, almost sedate, with heavy brown curtains and dark brown sofas on a bright Turkish carpet. He felt at one with the world. He deserved this break. Just an hour or two away from the responsibilities of being the company commander. When it came down to it, everything revolved around him. He was in charge, so if anything went wrong he was the man responsible. And, of course, he could make mistakes. Anyone could. He was only human, and why was that woman smiling at him from the table near the door? She was a handsome women, looked well bred; a dark-blue dress and a little fur cape. Aristocratic features. Probably waiting for someone, but, if so, why was she smiling at him?

  He was looking forward to dinner. There were farms around here, so something off ration might be on the menu. Good Lord! The woman had got up and was coming over. He felt the onset of panic.

  ‘I hope you don’t consider this an awful cheek,’ she said. ‘But would you have dinner with me?’

  The Major’s mind raced up cul-de-sacs. The woman seemed perfectly decent. Maybe there was a different social code in these areas. Did they have dinner parties, hunt-club balls, that sort of thing?

  He stood up. ‘Major Ian Le Surf.’

  ‘Bella,’ she said. ‘You see, my husband is a major, too. Please sit down. Another whisky?’

  The Major relaxed slightly. The woman was married. He sat down, and she sat opposite him.

  ‘Which outfit is your husband with?’

  ‘The Artillery.’

  ‘Ah. Overseas.’

  ‘Italy. Last time I heard.’

  The self-composed woman called the waiter as though she was used to dealing with servants.

  ‘And you live here?’ he asked, feeling easier by the minute.

  ‘I get so fed up with eating alone. God knows, we can’t stand on ceremony these days, can we?’

  The woman’s wrist was heavy with jewellery. ‘I’ve been staying here for ever. I can’t bear being on my own. Algy –’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘I know it sounds like someone from Bulldog Drummond, but that’s his name, bless him.’

  The waiter brought the menu. The woman called Bella whispered to the waiter and pressed something into his hand.

  ‘Do you
all right here,’ she said. ‘But you have to pay for it. What do you do in Civvy Street?’

  ‘Antiques,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she said knowingly, as if she suspected he was either a fine-art dealer or a secret agent.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Little place in Chichester.’

  They went in to dinner.

  She took his arm. ‘This is very good of you. The war has dragged everything down so, don’t you think?’

  He got a plateful of chicken, with splendid vegetables, followed by ice cream and, joy of joy, cheese and biscuits.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Bella. ‘Sort of civilized. As things ought to be.’

  When they had eaten he waited for the bill, but it never came. Maybe they would add it on in the morning.

  He did not find the woman’s conversation very enlightening. She went to the cinema a lot. She had seen a film where George Raft was shot and when he smoked a cigarette the smoke came out of a bullet-hole in his chest. ‘Extraordinary!’ she confided.

  After what he judged was a decent interval the Major said, ‘Well, I’d better get down to it. I’ve got an early start in the morning … It’s been delightful,’ he finished lamely.

  The woman looked up at him, in a sort of challenging way. ‘We could have another drink. Upstairs.’

  ‘Oh. Is there another bar upstairs?’

  The woman seemed to find this amusing. ‘There will be.’

  So they walked up the staircase as though they were in an Ivor Novello Ruritanian operetta. She insisted on holding his arm.

  When they got upstairs there was just the usual corridor. No sign of a bar.

  ‘This way,’ she said firmly, guiding him along the rows of bedroom doors. She had a key and opened one of them. ‘Bar in here,’ she said. It was a sumptuous bedroom with a four-poster bed. Drury Lane would have been proud to have it as a set. The bed had been turned down, and a small table with glasses and various bottles stood beside it.

  ‘Sherry?’ she said. ‘I always think that’s a good start. As long as it’s light.’

  The Major’s general uneasiness had now grown into a certainty. This wasn’t an overture. It was a demand. ‘I’m afraid you might have got the wrong idea.’

  She stared at him. It was a strong face; a face that could quell lions. A face that was used to getting its own way.

  ‘You’re not a poof, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Well, then. Algy’s been away for over three years now. He’s had leave, but not much. I’m a red-blooded, healthy 38-year-old woman. What am I supposed to do? In a few years I’ll have lost interest.’

  This frank talking left the ball in his court. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very experienced in this sort of thing.’

  ‘So much the better. I can seduce you. That’ll be a novelty.’ She had slipped off her cape, and she was unbuttoning her dress.

  ‘No. Really. Your husband …’

  ‘You don’t think he’s sleeping on his own tonight, do you?’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘Don’t you think you should oblige a lady in her hour of need?’ The dress was around her waist, disclosing mounds of flesh. Two ponderous breasts were on view and were still expanding.

  He was aghast.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Bella ordered. ‘Help me off with this thing.’

  He felt that he was back at his prep school, being scolded by Matron for some unspecified infringement of house rules.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just not my kind of thing.’

  ‘You are a poof!’

  The Major sat on the end of the bed watching the woman struggle with her clothes. There seemed to be a lot of them – and a good deal of Bella.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he said quietly. ‘I just can’t do it.’

  The woman stared at him as if he was a freak. Finally she realized that the man just wasn’t capable of responding.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to stay the night. Don’t want the hotel staff thinking I’m losing my grip.’

  10

  BRAG was a game you could play in snatches. A fifteen-minute break or a five-minute break. You could play it anywhere. You didn’t need a table. On a bed. A blanket on the grass. An upturned drawer. It appealed because it was a game of bluff. You didn’t have to remember anything. You didn’t even need to count. If you had an hour you might opt for two-pack rummy, but for most situations brag was best. It was called ‘the poor man’s poker’, although it pre-dated the more sophisticated game. Jock and Chalkie had a system. Jock played, and Chalkie hung around at the back of the other players trying to get a glimpse of their cards. After Jock had a spell of scooping the pool more times than was logical the other players realized what was going on. When Chalkie came sniffing around at the back of them he was greeted with ‘Fuck off, you fat-faced bastard.’

  This time Jock had a run of ten, jack, queen, and he was trying to keep quiet about it, hesitating when it was his turn to add to the kitty. Taffy had his cards beneath the flat of his hand, and Alf was carelessly whistling as though he knew it was in the bag.

  Corporal Gross came in. ‘Jock, you’re wanted in the MO’s room.’

  ‘Sod it.’

  ‘I’ll play your hand,’ said Chalkie.

  Jock got up and made his way to the MO. Halfway there he realized that this could be the result of his test. He suddenly felt shaky. That stupid bastard Chalkie had got him into this. Nobody had heard any more about the Yank that was killed. So the whole exercise had been pointless.

  He sat in the waiting-room sweating. He was all right here. Some fatigues, guard duty about once a fortnight, plenty of free time, some fiddles. It could be a lot worse. He could be lying in some muddy field with his arms and legs shot off. He could be holed up in some bunker, frightened to move in case he got a bullet in his head.

  ‘Come in.’ Martin’s dry voice broke through his musings.

  Oh yes. This would do him all right until the danger went away.

  ‘Good news,’ said Martin dryly.

  There was an undertone to this greeting that Jock didn’t like.

  ‘You’re A1. All that chest business seems to have cleared up.’

  ‘It don’t feel like it,’ said Jock weakly.

  ‘Nothing on the X-ray. Clean as a whistle.’ It was clear that the Captain was experiencing some sardonic pleasure from delivering this information.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  Martin looked at the sweating Jock, who looked as though he might faint quite soon.

  ‘It means that you’re fit for active service. You will be able to return to your regiment. Congratulations!’

  Jock reeled out of the room in a state of shock. He felt that he had been given a death sentence. The shock turned to black rage when he thought about the sunny Chalkie who had got him into this mess. He opened the door of the barrack room and launched himself on him like a wild animal that had been caged for months on low rations. Cards and money went flying. Great clumping blows to the stomach made Chalkie cry out, while Jock grunted with satisfaction. These were followed by wild punches to the face, causing a nosebleed. Then he got Chalkie by the throat. He managed to scramble clear, but Jock started banging his head against the wall.

  Chalkie was totally unprepared for the assault, and the others were clearly stunned by the ferocity of the attack. Chalkie’s eyes closed as though he was blacking out. His face was a mess of blood.

  ‘Jock. For Christ’s sake!’ pleaded Alf.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Taffy. ‘You’ll have him in hospital.’

  And then a strange voice, which seemed to have a note of authority: ‘Put him down! Now!’

  Nobody seemed to know where the voice emanated from. It was clearly someone in the room. Jock looked around, stunned by the intervention. He knew everyone’s voice. Then his eyes alighted on Daft Charlie, who gave him a vacuous grin.

  By now Chalkie was beginning to regain some breath and composu
re. ‘You won the pot. Fifteen shilling. I was going to give it to you.’

  But Jock was still puzzled by the mysterious voice. ‘Who said that?’ he demanded.

  The silence was oppressive. Then the firm voice said, ‘I did’, and the whole room found themselves looking at Daft Charlie.

  ‘Why – you!’ stuttered Jock.

  ‘You might have killed him,’ said Daft Charlie. ‘Don’t be such a fool.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ mumbled Chalkie. ‘We’re mates. Ain’t we, Jock?’

  Jock, clearly puzzled at the turn of events, nodded his head in agreement. ‘I’m A1,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to prove it,’ said Alf. ‘We believe you.’

  ‘Don’t mean nothing,’ said Chalkie. ‘Don’t mean that you’ll have to go away or anything.’

  Jock shot Chalkie a glance of sheer malevolence. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said darkly.

  Harry emerged from the hotel feeling uneasy, hunching his shoulders against the early-morning breeze. There was nothing wrong with honest lust between two willing participants, but Joan’s attitude towards her dead husband was slightly disturbing. It was obvious that she didn’t feel much for him. Never had, it seemed. Should she? Or was that just false sentiment? She said she hadn’t loved him. He was just someone she got involved with, and her pregnancy forced the pace. Two silly young buggers falling into the usual trap. But was her way of dealing with his death cold-blooded?

  He meandered along, walking back to the junkyard to pick up the van, when somebody called to him from across the road.

  ‘Hold it, soldier. Sorry, Corporal.’ It was two burly redcaps, probably looking for someone who had gone AWOL. Their normal beat was railway stations or bus depots.

  Harry crossed the road.

  The redcaps always looked as though they had been upholstered into their greatcoats. They moved slowly, almost portentously. Harry knew that if he had to make a run for it these two wouldn’t be able to catch him.

  ‘Have you got a pass?’

  ‘No. I’m here with the guv’nor. I’m just on my way to pick him up.’

  The two Military Policemen had an inbuilt sneer. It was as though they had heard all the excuses ever uttered and didn’t believe any of them. ‘Who are we talking about?’