Long and the Short

by Saddler, Allen

  As for the army, the soldiers would be coming home, resuming their roles in civilian life. The demobilization would be on a ‘first in, first out’ basis, which everybody agreed was fair. It had to be restricted to manageable batches, otherwise the labour market would be swamped, leading to unemployment. This meant that the younger soldiers, who had been called up halfway through the war, were going to be in the army for at least another two years, some more.

  Harry, who was called up from the Territorial Army at the start, was first out. He and the Major had seniority by reason of length of service.

  Harry went home with a set face. He had a task to perform, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Renee was ecstatic when he changed from his uniform to his demob suit. In fact the demob suit, with the pastel-coloured shirts, pork-pie hat and standard shoes, soon became recognized as a uniform because it was such a familiar sight. She made his tea and he sat looking at her, wondering how to break the news.

  ‘Renee.’

  She had put on a print frock, blue with a flowered pattern, lovingly ironed for the occasion. She had attempted to curl her hair with tongs, but singed tufts stuck out in odd places, making for a clownish effect.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What?’

  There was some anxiety in her voice. It took him a while to work out what it was that was troubling her. She thought he wanted a screw. He didn’t. She’d never been very keen; even the first time in her mother’s sitting-room. There was distaste on her face and fear in her eyes. She knew this was something that she had to do. If she wanted to get a man she knew that you had to submit to these indignities. It was something to be endured. It never occurred to her that it might be enjoyed. And then, scarcely three weeks later, he found himself at the registry office. ‘Just in case,’ Renee had said.

  ‘I’m not staying,’ he said.

  ‘What? You going back in the army?’

  ‘No,’ he said brutally. (There was no other way.) ‘I’ve met someone else.’

  ‘What?’ Renee said, her eyes registering disbelief. ‘But we’re married, aren’t we?’

  ‘I know. You’ll have to take me to court for desertion.’

  ‘But why?’ Her voice had gone up two octaves. Any higher and it would be a scream. ‘What’s wrong? I let you have it, don’t I?’

  ‘That’s part of the trouble,’ he said. ‘You letting me.’

  Renee suddenly let out a huge sob. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Christ Almighty! You sod. You’ – she searched her vocabulary for a suitable epithet – ‘you … shitpot!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll send money for Tom.’

  ‘Leaving your wife and baby,’ she sobbed. ‘What for? Why?’

  ‘It’s not your fault. We got married too quick. I wasn’t thinking straight. We were just kids.’

  There was no way he could explain. He and Joan were on a different plane. It wasn’t just chalk and cheese. Renee didn’t have a spark of excitement in her. She just went through the motions of what she felt was expected.

  ‘What’s she got that I haven’t got?’

  It was the standard question.

  The answer was ‘Everything’, but she was upset enough already.

  ‘But when are you going?’

  ‘I’m going now. No point in prolonging the agony.’

  This was the signal for another burst of sobbing. Her eyes were running. Her nose was running. She looked pathetic. Like a wounded animal. Yes, he was sorry for her, and yet there was an element of distaste. If she had any pride she would have told him to fuck off. Her brain worked in such an elementary way. She didn’t think. She just reacted to circumstance. It never occurred to her that they might sit down and try to examine how this situation had come about. She was trapped in the mores of working-class society. Got married. Had kids. Looked after the home. Did the washing. Cooked Sunday dinner. Had a party at Christmas. Visited relatives. Went to Clacton or somewhere for a holiday. Let the old man maul you about a bit until he got too old to bother. No great romance. Just jogging along until death made the break. A life in service to the convention of the time. He knew he was a selfish bugger, but why should he settle for second best?

  ‘But where?’ she wailed. ‘How will I be able to get in touch with you?’

  ‘I’ll write. Soon. You’ll soon see that this is for the best. You’ll find someone better than me. At least more reliable.’

  ‘You sod,’ she said. ‘You bloody sod!’

  As he got up to leave she seemed stunned. The war was over. It was a time for rejoicing, but this bombshell had fallen on her. She was defenceless. He had struck at the heart of her world and wrecked it. She moved swiftly across the small kitchen and barred the door.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t make it harder than it is already.’ He pulled her aside. ‘You don’t want me. I’m a rotten bastard.’

  Then, suddenly, reality broke through. ‘Will I still get the Army Allowance?’

  ‘’Course you won’t. I’m not in the army now, am I?’

  ‘How am I going to manage?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’ll send money. Until you get fixed up with somebody else.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody else.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Renee. I can’t live your life for you. Have a bit of pride.’

  He felt wobbly as he walked down the street. He had to get to Euston. It was a long way to Blackpool, but he aimed to get there by nightfall.

  The further he walked the easier he felt. He’d known that it wasn’t going to be easy. He’d steeled himself to face up to it. And now it was done. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but he was glad he wasn’t facing it with Renee.

  The Major packed up his kit, carefully holding the creases in his trousers. If the war hadn’t ended he would have had to tender his resignation. They couldn’t hold him. He was well over age for the job. Just lately he had felt the strain. Harry was going, and God knows how he was going to manage without him. The chap that had kept his uniforms immaculate had volunteered for active service, and the young lad Jimmy was willing enough but was hardly a substitute. He’d phoned his sister. It was time to hang up his boots. The court martial had been an inconclusive affair. The young private had been reprimanded for not looking after his weapon, and the German bod was given two years but with a recommendation for mercy. The question arose about sending him back to Germany, but there was no government there any more and no structure to deal with criminal or disciplinary cases.

  He thought he must make a courtesy call on Mrs Grantley. It would have been bad form just to leave without saying goodbye. He rang and arranged to call the night before he left. She opened the door and pushed her face up to be kissed. She looked at him critically. She was cool and controlled. It was almost as though she was putting him in his place and letting him know it. As though he had been tried and found wanting.

  ‘We can keep in touch,’ he murmured, but she didn’t take him up on the offer.

  The visit left him with an uneasy feeling, and he was glad to leave. He’d booked a taxi for the morning. Once he got on the train the last three months would feel like a dream. The fact was that he’d got away with it. Only just, maybe, but he could take an honourable retirement. Not a stain on his character.

  Chalkie found himself the centre of an international wrangle. He had been convicted of the manslaughter of GI Charles Lannigan, which meant anything up to ten years in prison, but the American government had protested at the leniency of the sentence. They wanted an eye for an eye. The American ambassador visited the War Office. The government haggled, promising a review. At the time the government was negotiating a deal called the Marshall Plan, in which America would lend money to help Britain out of bankruptcy. The truth was that Britain had spent every penny in the Treasury to fight the war and borrowed a lot more as well. Industrial plants needed an injection of capital to replace worn-out machinery. New enterprises needed to be started, and this when Britain had hardly recovered from the wa
r debt of the previous war.

  So Chalkie’s fate was held in balance. The government was told, in no uncertain manner, that America would be displeased if the assassin Private White were let off with life imprisonment. He should face the gallows. The issue was the subject of heavy editorials in heavyweight newspapers. ‘Is British Justice for Sale?’ As the case dragged on Chalkie became increasingly depressed. He got to the state of not caring whether he lived or died. He was watched all the time in prison in case he pre-empted the verdict by finding some ingenious way of committing suicide. He threw his dinner on the floor and walked in it. He started counting the bricks in his cell and dividing by ten. He rolled up his mattress into a punch bag and punched it all around the cell, imagining it was Jock. He got down on his knees to pray, but no words came. When they came for him he didn’t really care.

  Boris Mayer was also in prison, but his prospects were altogether brighter. The court-martial proceedings were reported in the press, and his part in the murder of the German SS man was generally applauded. When the East German government was set up he was hailed as a national hero, a freedom fighter in fact. One of the first things the new government did was to issue a citation for Mayer, awarding him a medal. He didn’t actually get the medal, as most of Germany’s industry had been razed to the ground and they couldn’t find anywhere to strike the medal. The British Communist Party started a campaign to get him released, and his image, taken from a newspaper photograph, was to be seen on postage stamps issued in Bulgaria. Because of the publicity Mayer was having a comfortable time in prison. At a meeting with the governor he raised the question of him being granted British citizenship and received word that his request was being considered favourably.

  Jimmy Fossett, who joined up only in the last year of the war, was told that he would be held in the army for another two and a half years. The unit he was in was being broken up, and the disbanded remains of the unit were being posted all over. He and Peggy had decided to get married, but she still had eighteen months of training to do, so they would both be free together. Jimmy was clear that they would have to set up house in London.

  ‘There’s millions of Jews in London. In the East End, Barnet, Golders Green. You’ll be all right there.’

  ‘You think there’s safety in numbers?’ Peggy said.

  He had become a regular visitor to the house in Cheetham Hill. He liked the place, and he liked the people. They had accepted him. Nobody asked him any questions. They were all a bit gone on politics and were excited at the prospect of the coming General Election. They assumed that everyone was going to vote Labour. Jimmy, who had never thought about politics, found himself drawn into the assumption that the Conservatives were all stuck-up toffs sitting on piles of money, which they got by making people work like pack mules and giving them just enough money to keep them alive. These Jews had many enemies. They’d just finished with the Fascists, so now they were on to the Conservatives. But they were so cheerful about everything. Dour maybe but cheerful. They found happiness in opposition. Their general outlook was pessimistic, but this did not bar them from joyful moments. Above all, they were a family. Anybody’s business was everybody’s business.

  Jimmy, an only child, found the family life of Peggy’s family a tonic from the insular life he was used to. They talked about the wedding as though it was a family business. There were meetings about the arrangements. Jimmy’s mother and father would have to be accommodated, and if any aunts or uncles wanted to come there were friends down the street who would put them up for the night. Suddenly the whole business was taken out of the hands of the couple. A tide had been set in motion, and there was no way of stopping it.

  He phoned his mother. ‘I’m getting married,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about? Getting married! Who to?’

  ‘Peggy. Well – Stella. You’ll like her.’

  ‘Which is it? Peggy or Stella? Or are you marrying both of them?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you. You’ll have to come up.’

  ‘Come where?’ said his mother irritably.

  ‘Manchester.’

  ‘Manchester!’ She made it sound like Siberia. ‘I don’t want to go up there. I’ll have to ask your dad.’

  ‘And, Mum …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s a Jew. Well, a Jewess.’

  There was a noise like his mother was choking. ‘A what? Have to see what your dad says about that.’

  George Gross was sitting in the lounge of the Midland Hotel. He had taken to dropping in now and then. He liked the atmosphere. He always spruced himself up for these occasions. Creases in trousers, clean shirt and underwear, socks. He could wear his civilian shoes now. He sometimes saw Blanche, who was very generous and affectionate, but when she wasn’t there there was always someone to take her place. He still had eighteen months to do. He hadn’t any clear plans of what he was going to do in civilian life. He intended to apply for a place at RADA, but acting was such an insecure profession. Blanche had said he could be the manager of her toffee factory. He thought at one time that she wanted to get married, but she soon put him out of that misery. ‘And have you doing the dirty on me with some young scrubber?’

  Some other woman, an aristocratic type, was giving him the eye. She seemed nervous. She must have been sixty. Sixty and still at it. He smiled at her, and she lowered her eyes, confused.

  He went to her table. ‘Are you with anybody?’

  ‘No. Not at the moment.’

  ‘Well, can I sit down?’

  ‘Or course,’ she said, rallying to the occasion. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Word must have got round that this was a pick-up place for elderly ladies in need.

  ‘Gordon,’ he said.

  ‘Grace. I was a friend of your commanding officer.’

  ‘The Major. Yes. He went off yesterday. Grand old fellow.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A bit out of his depth, I thought.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Grace Grantley lowered her eyelids in way she hoped was a coquettish manner. ‘Oh, I suppose he was all right at his job.’ She left in the air the implication that the Major was good enough at his military duties but was a bit of a wash-out at human relationships.

  ‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ said Gross. ‘Are you staying here?’

  After a suitable interval he took her to her room.

  ‘Now look here, young man. I may be old, but I’m not a fool. You must know that this is a strictly commercial transaction.’

  He smiled. ‘Have you been here before?’

  Mrs Grantley hesitated before she replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ She looked flushed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We all have our needs.’ He laid her down gently and kissed her. ‘Are you going to miss the Major?’

  ‘Never mind about him,’ said Mrs Grantley.

  Charlie finished his signalling course and the next week got the dreaded forty-eight-hour pass. Rosa pleaded her cause with the Matron, and she, in a fit of compassion, allowed Rosa to join Charlie. They went down to London, bundled in like luggage on the usual crowded train. Everyone could see the end of the war approaching, and there was a general air of tolerance and good humour. Charlie looked fit and well. She could hardly believe the change in him, smiling, laughing, pulling her towards him in a masterful but tender way. They went to her parents’ house. Benji seemed to remember Charlie but probably didn’t.

  They didn’t do anything special. Charlie seemed to want to familiarize himself with everyday matters. He sprawled, read the papers, laughed at the inspired daftness of It’s That Man Again on the wireless, went to the pub, took her arm to walk round the open market. They stood together at Speakers’ Corner, laughed at the jibes from the crowd and the indignation of the speakers. They went in the Corner House and listened to the mock-Hungarian gipsy ensemble in the Brasserie. They walked by the Thames at Charing Cross, bought small plates of cockles from a barro
w and sprinkled them with vinegar and pepper. He seemed to want to fix these things, the sights and the smells, the atmosphere, in his head. He was going off to France. There was still some fighting to do. It was mainly mopping-up operations. The worst was over. These were the dog days of the war.

  ‘I won’t be there five minutes,’ he said cheerfully.

  He went off looking the picture of health; a young man in his prime. It was like he was going to play in a football match.

  His unit was only a night in reserve. Then they were ordered to replace another unit who were due for a break. He was on a Bren-gun carrier, busy with his wireless. The carrier was hit by a shell. It was badly damaged, but no one was hurt. The crew climbed out and proceeded on foot. It was strangely quiet. Had the Armistice been declared already?

  Everybody knew it was only a matter of days, even hours. Charlie was reeling out the telephone cable when his foot tripped over something half buried in the mud. It was an unexploded mortar shell. There was a small explosion, almost a polite cough of an explosion, and Charlie, who had got through most of the war by acting daft, was caught up in almost the last spasm of the fighting. He didn’t suffer any pain. The explosion killed him outright. In fact there was hardly anything of Charlie left to make a diagnosis. Rosa got to know about it in the middle of the general high jinks of VE Day. The news left her winded. It was like a heavyweight boxer had punched her in the stomach. She was in pain, mental and psychological pain, but at the back of her mind she had expected it. Somehow she had known that Charlie’s death was inevitable.