The Magic Army

by Leslie Thomas

  The post box, Gilman knew, was further up the hill on the same side as his place of concealment. With new concern he realized if he stayed where he was Bryant must see him. On the other hand he could hear the officer’s steps coming up the cobbles of the street, along the flat part just before it rose to become a hill, and if he broke cover now he was just as likely to be spotted. Almost touching his nose on the woodwork of the door frame was a white-buttoned bell. Quickly he pressed it and heard it ring inside the terrace house.

  Nothing happened. The regulated footfalls came rising towards him. He swore through his teeth. Desperately he pressed the bell again. This time the door opened at once. There was no time to explain. He stepped back into the tight hall. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Emergency.’

  ‘Official emergency,’ said the woman who had opened the door. ‘Or one of your own?’ She sounded unexcited by the intrusion. The hall was still in darkness. Gilman only had the impression of an enclosed space and of her standing near. She pushed the door closed and turned on the passage light. He saw that she was neat, dark-haired, about thirty, her face clean of make-up, lines below her eyes but the eyes unruffled. She had been in bed and was wearing an army greatcoat as a dressing gown.

  ‘My own emergency,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry about this. There’s an officer just come up the road and I’m supposed to be on guard at the gun. I was sloping off for a drink.’ He added lamely, ‘It’s New Year.’

  ‘So it is,’ she said calmly. ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Gilman. The awkwardness of the situation overcame him. He said, trying to smile, ‘It’s a bit inconvenient.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she replied. She turned and started to walk back along the short passage. ‘Come on in a minute,’ she said. ‘I’d give you a New Year drink if I had anything, but I haven’t. I don’t generally have anything in the house.’

  Relieved, Gilman followed her down the close corridor. She opened a room door and switched on the light. It was warm in there although only a few red veins showed in the fire-grate. She went over and gave the dying coal an offhand stir with the poker.

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ said Gilman. ‘That could have been a bit nasty. Bryant – our lieutenant – was coming right past the door. He’s not bad but he could be difficult.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘You wouldn’t like to come and have a drink would you? In the pub.’

  She shook her head and laughed without emphasis. She looked more weary than tired, her face was attractive but with a hardness about the mouth and eyes. ‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a kid upstairs and she’s poorly.’ She laughed again. ‘I could offer you a drink of cough mixture, if you like.’

  Gilman grinned at her uncertainly. ‘No thanks. Had enough of that when I was a kid. My mother was a great believer in the muck.’

  ‘We get through gallons of it,’ she said.

  There was a brief silence. They continued standing. ‘Do you just … have a little girl?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’ve got another. A boy. He’s sick as well. I’m bloody trapped.’

  ‘That’s rough,’ said Gilman, ‘New Year’s Eve and all.’ He glanced at the clock.

  She said: ‘Listen, you go on. Don’t miss anything. That’s if your spoilsport officer has gone now.’

  ‘I expect he has,’ said Gilman. ‘He was only posting a letter. He’s always writing to his wife.’

  ‘He must be the only one,’ she said strangely.

  They had walked into the passage and she opened the door and looked out into the street. ‘Not a soul,’ she said. She opened the door wider.

  Gilman hesitated. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I feel terrible … sort of just leaving you here. You’ve been very good. Can I … well, if I go up to the pub … could I bring you something back? You ought to have a New Year drink, oughtn’t you?’

  ‘Yes I ought,’ she said at once. ‘All right. I’ll wait for you.’

  He made to go out. ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. I’ll come straight back.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she answered practically. ‘Have a drink up there first. I’ll wait. I spend half my life waiting.’

  He went out into the street. He said, ‘Do you drink scotch?’

  ‘Anything,’ she said, grinning.

  He was about to step away, but he stopped again. ‘I don’t know your name,’ he said. ‘It’s all been a bit … well, unexpected.’

  ‘Unofficial,’ she agreed. ‘My name’s Mary. Mary Nicholas.’

  ‘I’m Peter Gilman,’ he said. They shook hands and she laughed. ‘Funny business, isn’t it,’ she said.

  ‘Right. It’s the war.’ He started up the hill. ‘I won’t be long, Mary,’ he said. ‘Be right back.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘John.’

  ‘Peter,’ he called back.

  Her giggle came up the dark hill. ‘Sorry. Peter.’

  Wilcoombe had a single straight street canting steeply down to the rounded harbour like a leg terminating in a broad boot. At twenty-five minutes to midnight it was wet and vacant, the mild moon reflected in a fitful sheen on the pavements and making the cobbles of the road look like loaves. No lights showed from the houses. Within them, the other side of the blackout curtains, people bent to listen to the coming of the New Year on their wireless sets, waiting with a curious anxiety, counting the minutes away, as though its arrival were far from a certainty.

  Such noises and excitements as there were that night in that Devon village were contained behind the bulky door and shuttered windows of the Bull and Mouth. Occasionally the door rattled open and somebody pulled the thick curtain aside, permitting the sounds to escape into the street. The inn sign, a demure sailing vessel entering a harbour, creaked in the dark breeze outside.

  Tom Barrington left the bar as secretly as he could, easing and manoeuvring his way towards the door while they were all singing. He loitered by the blanketing curtain. Doey Bidgood, a ruby-faced farm labourer, was standing staunchly on a table, tankard held up like a prize he had won, performing, with actions, a South Devon song of a milkmaid and a licentious landlord. They had all heard it many times and they anticipated every verse, every chorus, every innuendo, with widening smiles splitting into rollicking laughs.

  ‘That b’ain’t the milking stool,

  That be somethin’ else!’

  They were enjoying themselves as only true familiars can. Arms about shoulders, men and women rolling left and right, standing, sitting, their rural faces glowing. The people of Wilcoombe and the villages about it had known each other for generations. Barrington put down his glass and slid behind the curtain. He could smell its roughness. He opened the door as swiftly and quietly as he could and went out into the wet and empty night.

  Just above his head the inn sign swung gruffly. It was as if his appearance had roused it. He glanced at it and looked out over the wide pan of Start Bay, scaly with moonlight, spread from the edge of the land to the dark horizon. Everywhere else was folded in blackness; the shoreline, the village at his feet crammed on its single hill, the other hamlets and the deep coombes, the rift valleys between the coastal hills. All around him lay ancient and settled farmland, worked by families who had occupied the same fields for centuries. He paused on the incline and shook his head. ‘Hell,’ he said bitterly. ‘Bloody hell.’

  He continued his descent down the vacant street. When he had almost reached the harbour, when he could smell clearly the sharp edge of the sea, he saw a man walking up the hill, an army officer, coming from the direction of the anti-aircraft post that had long been a fixture and become a joke in Wilcoombe. He was going towards the post box halfway up the incline.

  The moon had again freed itself from the chaffing clouds and gained sufficient space in the sky to light the street. The officer put the letter in the post box. He and Barrington nodded to each other. Barrington said: ‘First letter home of nineteen-forty-four.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the young ma
n. ‘Happy New Year, Mr Barrington.’

  ‘Yes, and to you,’ said Barrington. ‘You’re Lieutenant …’

  ‘Bryant,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Yes, you played cricket against the village.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Bryant. ‘It seems a long way from the cricket season now. It seems a long way from anything, come to think of it. Let’s hope and pray it’ll all be over this year. I’d like to get home.’

  Barrington said wryly, ‘Praying doesn’t seem to do much. I think even the vicar’s given it up.’

  ‘Maybe God’s got a mean streak,’ said Bryant suddenly.

  Barrington glanced at him and nodded. ‘Perhaps He has,’ he said.

  They had reached the entrance to the gun-site. They wished each other a happy New Year once more and Bryant went into the guardroom. Barrington saw the sentry lurking like a suspect in the doorway. He walked along the wharf until he reached a wooden gate leading out on to the cobbles. Behind it was a pale cottage, its windows faintly outlined with seams of light where the blackout curtains failed to fit. He gave the gate a push and went in. The low front door of the cottage opened immediately he knocked.

  ‘Happy New Year, Beatrice,’ he said. He saw Beatrice Evans smile from the dimness of the hall. He stepped in. ‘Your blackout curtains still don’t fit,’ he mentioned.

  She laughed quietly. ‘You would notice. I’m just hoping they’ll last out the war.’

  ‘Remember when they used to tell us that a cigarette could be seen by a German bomber at thirty thousand feet or something? Remember that rubbish?’ He gave a snort. They had gone into the comfortable sitting-room. A fire was bunched in the grate, almost ready to go out.

  ‘Howard’s gone on a call,’ said Beatrice. Without asking she poured him a sherry from the bottle on the sideboard. She replenished her own glass. ‘Mary Lidstone. She won’t cause him much trouble though. He’ll be back in time for the New Year.’

  They sat down each side of the fire. Barrington, the big awkward farmer, almost filled the armchair. The woman was slight and pale. Like her husband, she was from Wales. He said again, ‘Yes, remember the cigarette end that could be seen from the German bomber? And the pots and pans and church railings that we gave to make Spitfires?’ He laughed caustically. ‘I bet our graveyard railings never flew anywhere.’

  Beatrice glanced at him. ‘You’re a bit downhearted for the New Year,’ she said. ‘This ought to be the year the whole business ends. So they say.’

  ‘At the beginning of the war they said it would all be over by Christmas,’ he recalled. ‘But they didn’t say which Christmas.’

  She glanced at him uneasily. ‘We thought you’d be in the pub,’ she said. ‘We intended to come up there as soon as Howard got back. It’s always a laugh, with Doey and that crowd.’

  Barrington nodded. ‘Doey was performing when I left. The old milkmaid song. They were all swaying about and singing. It’s funny, they all know it by heart and yet it always comes fresh.’

  Beatrice said: ‘Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ll tell you when Howard gets back.’

  She rose. ‘If it’s that serious perhaps we ought to have another sherry. Sorry that’s all we’ve got. It’s the good stuff we keep for weddings and Christmas and funerals. And the end of wars.’

  As she poured the sherry she heard her husband’s little car coming down the hill through the town. ‘Here’s Howard,’ she said. She felt vaguely relieved. Taking a third glass she poured the last of the sherry into it. The mantelshelf clock showed twenty to twelve. ‘The bottle just lasted the year,’ she mentioned. ‘We’ve got another for the rest of the war, and the last one to celebrate victory. We had a whole case in nineteen-thirty-nine.’

  They heard the Austin squeak to a halt outside and Beatrice went to the door. ‘Another boy,’ Howard called through the wind. ‘Six now.’ He walked the few paces and kissed her on the cheek. ‘A few hard bangs on the old saucepan to warn the Steers, up I go and hey presto! There’s another Lidstone. It must be the noise that attracts them.’

  She laughed merrily. ‘Tom’s here,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Are we going to the boozer? It’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he wants to talk about something.’

  Howard glanced at her and she shrugged. He went into the sitting-room. ‘Happy New Year, Tom,’ he said shaking hands with the farmer.

  ‘Mary Lidstone was it?’ said Barrington.

  ‘That’s it. Strong as an outside privy that one. I’ve never got there on time yet. By the time I arrive the baby’s washed and dressed and sleeping it off. She’s wonderful. She’s thinking of calling this one Roosevelt.’

  Beatrice grinned and Barrington muttered: ‘Christ.’

  ‘Harold as well,’ said Howard. ‘It’s got to have Harold in it. Roosevelt Harold Lidstone.’

  ‘I think that’s very nice,’ said Beatrice genuinely. She handed the sherry to her husband. ‘It shows she cares.’

  ‘Roosevelt,’ repeated Barrington. He added: ‘That’s appropriate. There’ll be a few more of them around before too long.’

  ‘You wanted to tell us something,’ said Howard. He pulled a third armchair towards the fire, stretched his legs and stirred the dying coals with his foot.

  Barrington looked at the clock. ‘I’m not supposed to divulge this until nineteen-forty-four,’ he said. ‘And then only to selected people, such as yourself. I’m telling you early.’

  ‘God, it sounds serious,’ said Howard.

  ‘It is. We’re going to be occupied.’

  Beatrice and her husband exchanged glances.

  ‘By the Americans,’ continued Barrington.

  ‘Jesus, I thought you were going to say the Germans,’ said Howard with a puzzled grin. ‘There are plenty of Yanks around already. All over the country.’

  Barrington said grimly: ‘This is different. They are going to take over this entire area …’ He paused. ‘Everybody’s got to be moved out, thrown out. Everybody. Thirty thousand acres, including my farm, from the sea to the Totnes road. Three thousand people. They’re going to use it as a training area for their bloody invasion. They’re using live ammunition. The place will be destroyed.’

  Howard put his glass on the table. It tipped and he failed to catch it. The sherry ran in a pale stream towards the edge. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Beatrice. She rose and got a cloth from the kitchen. When she had wiped it up, Howard said: ‘Here too? Wilcoombe?’

  ‘No. Wilcoombe’s all right. It’s right on the edge of the area, just outside. There are six villages, Burton, Sellow, Normancroft, Telcoombe Magna and Telcoombe Beach, and Mortown. Farms, cottages, churches, the lot. The clergy were told by the bishop last week. I was told at the same time, because I’m chairman of the council. It was decided to keep it quiet until after Christmas and New Year. They’re all going to be told tomorrow.’

  ‘Mortown,’ said Howard quietly. ‘What will Mary Lidstone do?’

  ‘Same as everybody else,’ said Barrington. ‘She’ll have to clear out. Kids, cattle and everything. Lock, stock and bloody barrel. Crops, animals, old people, sick people. Then they’ll start blasting the place to smithereens.’

  Beatrice found herself stuttering. ‘W … w … why here?’

  ‘Because they say “here”,’ said Barrington. ‘Some of the richest farming land in the country. What the Germans never did, the Yanks are going to do.’

  ‘When?’ asked Howard Evans.

  ‘January twenty-first,’ Barrington said bitterly. ‘We’ve got three weeks to clear out.’

  The inn sign of the Bull and Mouth, with its picture of a vessel entering harbour, was suspended like a stiff flag. A sailor from those parts – some said he became the first landlord – used to trade along the Channel coast as far east as the Dover Strait and he had given the inn its name. It was a corruption of the Boulogne Mouth; the entry to the port of Boulogne.

  I
t had seen three centuries of New Year’s Eves. Over the generations they had varied only a little; faces growing, changing, seasons passing, wars occurring, songs to be sung.

  Gilman was near the curtain at the door. The area between him and the bar was a wall of broad backs and drinking heads. A quaintly high voice called from one of the window seats sunk into the wide bays. ‘Over here, boy, come and sit down.’ A full tankard of beer, one of a formation set on the table like large chessmen, was pushed in his direction.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ There were six or seven people on the window seat, crushed together, almost needing to drink in turns, but, because he was a soldier, they cheerfully moved even closer to accommodate him.

  The thin arm that had propelled the beer in his direction belonged to Horace Smith, a poacher of the coombes. He had the face of his kind, worn and pointed, the lid of his left eye permanently drooped as though in readiness for a shot. Gilman recognized him for he sometimes brought game and an occasional unofficial salmon to be disposed of in the bar. Minnie, his wide, red wife sat next to him, and it was against the warm bolster of her thigh that Gilman found himself established. ‘Hungry?’ she shouted in his ear. ‘Oi reckon you are.’ She urgently explored a brown paper carrier bag held in her lap. ‘There,’ she said swelling with kindness. ‘’Ave a swan sandwich.’

  She produced two portions of bread as thick as her hands and only a little cleaner. Between the slices, like mortar, was a wedge of dark meat. ‘’Tis all right, boy,’ she said, nudging him with her powerful arm. ‘’Tis swan, tru ’tis.’

  ‘Never had a swan sandwich,’ admitted Gilman, hesitantly taking the offering. It filled his fist.