‘I don’ expect you have, my darlin’,’ she replied expansively. ‘There’s not many as ’ave.’ She dropped her chin towards her small, riven husband. ‘Him,’ she said, but without disparagement. ‘Been terrible drunk since Christmas. Shot it by mistake.’
Her potato face closed in on Gilman. Hurriedly he took a bite. The strong, strange meat and the doughy bread filled his mouth like mud. It left him no room to speak. Minnie, seeing the blockage, said it for him: ‘A bit oily, but not too bad.’ Horace leaned around her furtively and saw Gilman’s situation. His eye drooped further as though admitting someone to a conspiracy. ‘’Ow it be, then?’
His wife barged him powerfully. ‘There’s no eating swan and talkin’,’ she admonished. ‘You know that. Jesus, it took oi twenty minutes afore oi could say a bluddy word.’
She bellowed cheerfully and slapped Gilman on the back. He wanted to drink but his mouth was still clamped over the sandwich. Eventually he managed to clear sufficient room to drink and then to speak. ‘Never had a swan sandwich before,’ he repeated ruefully. ‘It’s strong …’ He glanced at the waiting Minnie and the fragile, eager Horace who still peered around his large wife. It looked as though she were carrying him under her arm. ‘… But tasty, very tasty.’
‘Nearly time, ’tis,’ announced Minnie suddenly. She half stood up, her huge lap pushing against the table. ‘Near midnight. Oi reckon that sleepy bugger Willum is going to forget.’ She bawled across the room. ‘Midnight Willum! You’m missing the year!’
‘’Nother five minutes,’ the landlord shouted back heftily. ‘Nobody’ll be missing it, Minnie. You just keep your Horace to order.’
The simple return provoked a great roar of approval and laughter through the bar. Gilman sat and watched. The low ceiling, dark as a storm sky from generations of smoke, the smell of beer, the tang of cider, the cheerful glasses and bottles behind the heavy wooden bar, the rough faces, the country voices.
‘Ah,’ breathed Minnie at his ribs. As she breathed he felt the force of her lungs. ‘Now that Doey and that Lenny Birch, they be gone outside. I knows what they’re at. I knows …’ She abruptly expanded with laughter, crushing Gilman against the window. ‘Look! The buggers! Oh … the buggers!’
The whole company heaved with mirth, holding on to each other, spilling their drinks, the landlord’s protesting voice above the uproar. Gilman endeavoured to stretch to his feet. Two men, one pulling, one pushing, were manoeuvring a donkey into the bar. Patient but adamant, the beast was allowing them to push him an inch at a time. ‘I do reckon he be enjoying it!’ exclaimed Minnie. ‘Go on, shove ’un, Lenny, shove ’un!’
When the donkey was entirely in the room, at a stance in the middle of an area briskly cleared on the flagstones, it looked about with deep unfrightened eyes. Then it laid its ears back and emitted a momentous and trembling bray before lashing back with its hind hooves. Lenny Birch moved swiftly but not enough. The right shoe caught him a blow on the thigh and he fell back howling into the hilarious crowd. The donkey returned to sedateness, looking straight ahead. Minnie gripped a slab of bread from Gilman’s swan sandwich and passed it through the customers until it was offered to the donkey which munched it without expression. The door curtain rattled on its wooden rings and into the room came Tom Barrington and Howard and Beatrice Evans.
They stood laughing at the scene. Tom went to the bar and ordered two pints and a sherry. Gilman also moved forward and bought a half bottle of scotch from across the counter. Barrington said, raising his eyebrows a trifle: ‘Expensive now, scotch.’
Gilman said awkwardly: ‘It’s for someone who can’t get out.’
‘Have one with me?’ asked Barrington.
‘Thanks. I haven’t bought one myself yet.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’re in uniform. What is it?’
‘A pint. Thank you.’
The farmer said, ‘You from the gun-site? Don’t answer, I might be a German spy.’
Gilman shrugged. ‘It’s easy to guess. We’re the only soldiers in Wilcoombe,’ he said.
‘At the moment,’ said Barrington.
Howard Evans, behind him, called to the landlord. ‘Nearly time, Willum.’ He took his beer from Barrington and raised it. ‘Happy New Year everybody.’ He glanced at his wife and she smiled seriously and kissed him on the face.
It was time. Willum had turned up the volume of the big brown-faced radio behind the bar. Like the echoes of the sea, Big Ben sounded from London. It was nineteen-forty-four.
Warmth and fellowship engulfed everyone. They joined arms across their chests and country stomachs and began to sing, loudly, raggedly, the old heart-felt chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. In that confined room there hardly seemed space for so much sound. There was scarcely leeway for definite movement and they had to jog by inches one way then the other, their arms going up and down like those of sailors desperately at the pumps.
Gilman found himself with Minnie Smith on one side, his hand crushed in her large, hard paw, and with the delicate fingers of Beatrice Evans holding his on the other. He smiled apologetically and made room so that Tom Barrington could take his place, so that she was flanked by her husband and their friend. Now he found himself dancing between Minnie and her poacher husband. Across the room the heads rose and fell with the voices. Doey and Lenny were standing on the bar bending under the low ceiling as they sang, and somewhere in the middle of it all was the donkey.
At the very climax of the final chorus Tom Barrington looked around and saw a small, bespectacled American officer standing at the door. He leaned across Beatrice to Howard Evans and said quietly: ‘They’re here.’
Evans, hot-faced, still holding hands, turned to see the anti-climax of the apologetic man in the smooth olive uniform standing gazing nonplussed into the room. His spectacles made his stare all the more innocuous. For some reason he took his cap off. The singing had finally dragged to a stop and people were kissing each other. Howard kissed his wife again and then Barrington kissed her before quickly turning back towards the American. Gilman was released from the sturdy hug of Minnie Smith and he too saw the stranger. Others, as laughingly they released their friends and loved ones, quietened and turned towards the man. Doey Bidgood and Lenny Birch had hoisted two robust landgirls on to the bar and were the last to relax their rural embraces. When they finally did, they turned too and faced the green man with surprised silence.
‘Excuse me,’ he began. The accent was from Georgia but they would not have known. ‘Excuse me, but I guess we’re lost.’
Howard and many of the others glanced towards Tom Barrington. He moved a pace forward. ‘Where did you want to go?’ he asked stiffly. Gilman was surprised at the attitude and tone of the man who had a few minutes before bought him a drink because he was in uniform.
‘Well,’ said the American with an embarrassed smile. He unfolded a tiny sheet of paper. ‘Telcoombe Magna.’ He said it ‘Telcoomby May-gna’ and looked up, hoping he had pronounced it right. ‘Burrell’s Farm Camp. It’s a former Royal Air Force camp, I think.’ He shrugged lamely. ‘I’m supposed to be conducting officer.’
‘What might you be conducting?’ asked Barrington. ‘Or is it a rude question?’ The people by the window of the inn had pulled the blackout curtains aside and were peering out. ‘There’s those jeeps outside,’ Horace Smith called to the people behind him.
‘It’s just a small unit of the US Army,’ replied the American defensively. ‘Is it possible, sir, that you could give me the directions?’
The people in the bar were looking at Barrington with as much curiosity as that with which they regarded the American. His tone was still sharp, official. ‘Yes, there’s no harm in that, I suppose,’ he said. ‘We’ve always had instructions here not to give directions to strangers. That was on account of the invasion threat, you understand. That’s why there are no signposts.’
‘I’ve already figured that out,’ said the officer. He remained smiling politely but was not backing
away from Barrington’s manner. ‘That’s why we got lost.’
Instead of an answer Barrington turned towards the bar. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he called almost over his shoulder. ‘It’s New Year you know, yours as well.’
‘Yes, I realize. I’d really like the directions.’
Beatrice Evans stepped forward, smiling. ‘You continue down the hill towards the sea,’ she said kindly. ‘On the front you turn left and drive for about a mile along the side of the beach. It’s a straight road. You’ll come to some cottages and a hotel. That’s Telcoombe Beach. Turn left there, going inland, and that road takes you to Telcoombe Magna. It’s another half a mile up a hill. The camp at Burrell’s Farm is just through the village. You’ll see the nissen huts just past the church. Is that all right?’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said the American. ‘That’s all I need to know.’ He gave a little bow in her direction and, putting on his flat cap, went out.
He went to the staff car. Albie Primrose lowered the window. Colonel Schorner looked over wearily. ‘Jeeze, sir,’ said the conducting officer. ‘The natives are not too friendly. I thought I was going to be lynched.’
‘Did you get the directions?’ asked Schorner. It was all he wanted.
‘Yes, I got them. In the end. It’s only a couple of miles.’ He hesitated at the window. ‘You won’t believe this, but they’ve got a donkey in there.’
Schorner looked sideways at him. The man was not smiling. The colonel had a sudden thought that he ought to look into the inn. ‘Maybe I ought to take a looksee,’ he said, more to Primrose than the officer. ‘Maybe I’ll get some idea of what we’ve got to deal with.’
Reluctantly, stiffly, he eased himself from the car. He was in his middle forties; five foot eleven. There was no rain here, but there was a chill breeze on the moonlight. He pulled his coat higher around his neck. His escort, two white helmeted military policemen, left the truck behind him and followed him towards the door of the pub. With misgiving the conducting officer followed.
Doey, who was now at the window and looking out, withdrew his head and called into the bar: ‘They be coming in. Looks like the gaffer.’
The talk was squashed in a moment. All faces turned to the door. The thick curtain was agitated and in walked Schorner and the military policemen. He had not noticed they were behind him and a look of annoyance touched his mouth when he saw them. ‘There now,’ said Minnie Smith under her breath, but so that everybody heard. ‘There’s ‘andsome. Oi loikes the looks of ’ee.’
It missed Schorner because he did not understand the accent. The locals scarcely grinned at it. ‘Good evening,’ said the American. ‘And a Happy New Year to you.’
The greeting was generally mumbled back. They had taken their suspicion from Barrington. ‘We’ll be in this district for a while and I thought I’d just say hello.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there anybody … ?’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Is … is the mayor here, maybe?’
A genuine laugh went up. Barrington stepped forward. ‘I’m the chairman of the parish council,’ he said quietly. ‘Tom Barrington.’
‘Ha, thank you. My name’s Schorner. Carl.’ He held out his hand and Barrington formally shook it. Schorner looked unhappy. The people in the bar were puzzled by Barrington.
Howard Evans said: ‘I’m the local doctor, Howard Evans, and this is my wife Beatrice.’ Schorner’s expression relaxed and he shook hands. Barrington mumbled an apology more to Evans than to the American.
Barrington looked sideways and then behind him. ‘And these are the people of this village,’ he said almost dramatically.
‘I’d just like to say hello,’ Schorner straightened up and said firmly. ‘We’ll be around for a while, folks. I hope we’re all going to get along.’ He looked across the bar and pretended to see the donkey for the first time. ‘Does he always come into the bar?’ he grinned.
Beatrice smiled. ‘He didn’t come of his own free will,’ she said.
Schorner thought: ‘I know how he feels.’
Howard said: ‘Will you have a drink? Can you?’
Schorner shook his head. ‘I guess not right now, but thanks. I have a company of tired soldiers outside and I want to get them into camp.’
There was a commotion from the back of the room, shouts and the gush of water. Schorner and everybody looked.
‘’Tis all right, sir,’ called Lenny Birch cheerfully. ‘’Tis just the donkey having a widdle.’
While everyone’s attention was on the Americans, Gilman had eased his way through the crowd towards the back of the bar. There was a small door there, the one through which they had brought the donkey. Unnecessarily, he excused himself to the people standing near it and slipped out into the yard of the inn. He had the unpleasant thought that as soon as the Americans reached the foot of the hill they might stop at the gun-site to check the directions. Bryant was the sort of officer to turn out the guard for them.
The short convoy of American vehicles, their engines still running, was a few yards up the hill as he emerged into the bare street. He turned away from it and began to walk with brisk care down the incline. Behind him, to his alarm, he heard the Americans emerge from the inn and the engines of the convoy increase in volume. Keeping his eyes solidly to the front he continued down the hill, keeping as far from the gutter as he could. The leading car went by him, and the next, but the third stopped. ‘Hi, soldier,’ called a voice. ‘Want a ride?’
The British soldier stopped and turned. The man looking out at him was, without doubt, the American colonel who had been in the inn. Gilman saluted clumsily. The jeeps in front had stopped now, some way down the hill. ‘No … thanks … thank you … sir. It’s only just down the road. It’s very kind of you, but it’s no distance.’
‘Get in,’ said the American. He pushed open the heavy door of the car. Gilman knew an order when he heard it. A final hesitation was of no use. He stumbled into the seat alongside the colonel, his rough army sleeve against the smooth uniform of the American.
The car was a left-hand drive. He could see the driver looking across, a large pair of eyes behind glasses split by a large nose. He had a smooth uniform too. In the interior light of the car, which they had switched on, he suspected, to get a better look at him, he could see the driver was wearing brown, patent leather shoes. Schorner said: ‘Okay, Albie, let’s go. Drop this gentleman at the bottom of the hill. Is that right, soldier?’
‘Yes, sir,’ swallowed Gilman. He could imagine Bryant calling out the guard and seeing him alighting from the side of a US colonel. That would take some explaining. He sat tightly like a prisoner.
‘Royal Artillery,’ Schorner said, reading Gilman’s shoulder flashes. They went past the house of Mary Nicholas, where he had promised to return.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a gun at the bottom of the hill here. By the harbour. Anti-aircraft.’
‘You have bombing raids here?’
‘No, sir. Not for a couple of years. But the gun’s here — well, just in case.’
‘Good to know you’re well-prepared,’ said Schorner.
Gilman stared directly ahead. ‘Could you drop me just before the bottom of the hill, sir, please?’ he said. ‘Otherwise it will be out of your way.’
Schorner smiled in the dark. ‘Okay, soldier,’ he said easily. ‘We’ll do that.’
He said to the driver, ‘Stop where the soldier says, Albie.’
‘Okay, if you say so,’ said Albie. He glanced towards Gilman and added: ‘Sir.’
The car stopped and brought the rest of the convoy to a halt. Gratefully Gilman got out. He made to close the door but Schorner closed it first. Gilman stumbled his thanks and, just as the cars were pulling away, threw up a belated salute. He stood in the shadows of the first house on the hill and watched the vehicles turn along the coast road. They had only done that so they could get a look at him. He was sure of it. Christ, what an army that must be, wearing patent leather shoes and the colonel calling a private Albie
. He turned and walked cautiously back to his familiar home at the gun-site.
In the car Albie said: ‘Jeeze, was that a soldier, sir?’
‘A real British soldier, Albie. That’s the first one you’ve seen. Me too. What do you think?’
‘Those clothes,’ whistled Albie. ‘That rough brown stuff, right up to his throat like it was choking him. And did you get a look at the boots? Maybe they kick the Germans to death.’
Schorner nodded. ‘He certainly looked … well, different,’ he said.
‘Sure did,’ muttered Albie. ‘The poor guy looked like a half-starved bear.’
Just after midnight Eric Sissons, the vicar of Telcoombe Magna, stared from his chair to the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. From it his wife, Cecily, was quietly slipping towards the floor. Her eyes were closed tightly as though she feared the drop; the lines around her eyes were drawn together like thread, the firelight incised deep shadows in her face. Her emptied glass remained held desperately in her fingers, the last thing she would ever relinquish. The light of the fire shone through the Johnnie Walker bottle. The vicar’s father, Conrad, had taken his aged stance, shoulders sloping left, staring out of the window as if his vision took him beyond the night to the far and private distances of the sea. He had pulled the heavy curtains six inches apart.
‘Nineteen-forty-four,’ the old man announced eventually in a tone which indicated he had arrived at the end of a complicated calculation.
Sissons knew he would expect an acknowledgement. ‘Nineteen-forty-four,’ he said back. ‘The year of Our Lord.’
‘Don’t know about Him,’ grunted his father. ‘All I know is I’m eighty this year.’ He waited, continuing to peer searchingly into the darkness. ‘Is Cecily still with us?’ he asked. With difficulty he looked over his shoulder. ‘Did she see the New Year in?’
‘Gone,’ answered Sissons without emphasis. ‘She missed it by one swallow. Like the summer.’
‘Always said she could drink year in, year out,’ joked the old man. He chortled and Sissons grinned grimly with him. They were very accustomed to it. Sissons said: ‘Perhaps this will be the year she packs it up,’ he said without hope. ‘She did promise.’
The Magic Army Page 3