Scarlett escorted her down the churchyard path, the six-man escort had climbed from their vehicles and were following. ‘All these dead people,’ she sighed, looking at the dark teeth of the graves. ‘And what’s that?’ She stopped and pointed. ‘That little house with a roof and a door.’
‘It’s a vault,’ said Scarlett. ‘They put whole families in there.’
‘Gee,’ she sighed. ‘It’s a wonder they can breathe.’
He found it difficult to tell when she was joking. He led her into the porch and pushed open the saloon bar doors. Fifty GIs, warned by the man from the gate, stood staring; weary, dirty, white-faced, grown urchins. ‘Hi, fellas,’ said Sherree Ann Lorner with her famous smile. She let her mink drop away from her front. To a man they shouted with appreciation and moved hurriedly to her.
‘Steady. Hold it,’ warned Scarlett. The soldiers skidded to a collective stop. ‘Okay, guys, give Miss Lorner a little room. Come on, fellows, move back. Take it easy, now.’
Obediently they shuffled back but with no man taking his eyes from the vision.
Her smile tightened and a young sadness came to her face. ‘Hi,’ she repeated but softly. ‘I just thought I’d come and see you boys.’ She pushed forward. ‘You got any music here? Maybe we could have a song.’ She looked at Scarlett. ‘And don’t forget the bourbon. I think we all need a drink.’
The officer in Scarlett faltered for a moment. ‘It’s … well, it’s only beer and soft drinks allowed here,’ he said. ‘No spirits. Not on operations, you see …’
Her eyes tightened into spikes. ‘Bourbon,’ she said threateningly. ‘Let’s have the bourbon. Beer? Who d’you think I am, Marjorie Main?’
Scarlett grinned involuntarily and the GIs burst into cheering. Sherree Ann moved forward down the aisle with the soldiers around her, following her like an excited Sunday School. As she swayed towards the east window with its Jesus and attendant saints, she slowly took off her mink and revealed the shimmering dress and the splendid form it clothed.
Albie Primrose and Ballimach appeared at the door at the head of another contingent of soldiers from the tents. The news had rapidly spread. More were on their way, running in oddments of clothing across the cold camp. The little eyes of Albie and the large creased orbs of Ballimach took in the momentous scene. Sherree Ann Lorner at the heart of the khaki rabble, but with a decent space left for her to walk untouched down the aisle. At the chancel steps she curiously stopped and bowed to the altar. ‘I’ve been in church before,’ she said airily to the soldiers. ‘Plenty.’
Scarlett had been left at the distant door. He pointed to Primrose and Ballimach. ‘You two men, get the crate of bourbon from the car. Okay?’
‘Sure, yes, sir,’ answered Albie, still looking at the film star now in front of the altar table. She turned, arms outstretched, like a beautiful priestess.
‘I never thought I would be this slow going to get bourbon,’ said Ballimach still in the doorway. ‘Jeeze, see what I see?’
The throng of men had parted and she had revolved again and, slender back to the nave of the church, was performing an impersonation of Carmen Miranda, swaying her delicious bottom to imaginary music. ‘I – eye – eye – I like you veery much …’
‘Gee,’ acknowledged Albie, still lingering. ‘That sort of thing makes you feel like it’s all worth it.’
‘The bourbon,’ Scarlett reminded them from the other side of the aisle. ‘She’ll still be here when you get back.’
‘I sure hope so, sir,’ replied Albie fervently. He and Ballimach, with a final look at the vision in the sparkling red dress, went out into the dewy Devon night.
The two GIs who played the organ had now arrived in the church and together mounted the long stool. One was in wildly patterned pyjamas with an overcoat over them and ammunition boots on his feet. His partner wore a combat jacket and an English fisherman’s sou’wester hat. They played ‘I Danced With The Dolly With The Hole In Her Stocking’ while Sherree Ann Lorner swayed and bawled it to the rafters of the nave. The men began to jolt, bumping their feet on the slabbed tombstones and brass memorials set into the time-worn floor; the jolting became jumping. Beer cans were passed from hand to hand and tossed to friends. Then Albie and Ballimach arrived with the bourbon and pushed their way through the growing crowd of soldiers inside the church door, and outside in the porch, their heads poking over the top of the saloon doors.
Captain Scarlett quickly took charge of the crate. He took two cardboard cups and a bottle and pushed the rest of the crate with his foot towards Ballimach. ‘Okay, big fella. You see everybody gets fair shares. I don’t want any fighting.’
He need not have worried. The attraction of alcohol was easily eclipsed by that of the woman. Soldiers could always drink. Ballimach, his eyes irresistibly drifting down the church, and Albie Primrose, pushing around bigger men to get his share of the view, dispensed the bourbon. It was swiftly passed around. Scarlett poured a measure for Sherree Ann. She stopped her song and watched critically. ‘Hey, more than that!’ she called at him. ‘I’m a thirsty girl!’ There was a huge roar of approval and Scarlett, grinning wryly, trebled the measure and passed it to her, with five or six pairs of hands touching the cardboard cup with as much care as would have been afforded to the Holy Grail. Sherree Ann took it and emptied it briskly, provoking more delighted cheers. The cup was passed back by the same route and Scarlett dubiously refilled it. He took a drink of his own and watched her as she commenced her dance once more. She was like some wonderful Salome in that ancient church, her sparkling body lighting it like a flame, her face glowing with an earnest honest happiness, her long and lovely arms held up and out to the men, her breasts bursting, her backside waving towards the shadowed altar place.
Although they swayed with her and smiled towards her with boyish gratitude for what she was, and what she was doing, the GIs kept shyly at a decent distance until one, braver, shuffled forward, a cardboard cup of whisky in his hand, and began to dance with her. Scarlett, watching carefully over the lip of his own container, moved momentarily forward but relaxed when he saw it was unnecessary. The soldier kept a yard away from the star, dancing before her, duplicating her movements, his gritty grin matching her red and white smile.
‘Hey, Randy, me next!’ demanded one of the swaying, watching soldiers. He edged forward trying to ease his comrade to the side. The first soldier showed no sign of moving over. Scarlett lowered the bourbon and called briskly down the church, ‘Soldier, move over. Let everybody have a little.’ Sherree Ann looked towards him and extended her fruity tongue.
The first GI turned and glared at Scarlett, standing against one of the stone columns, beneath the little wooden frame that had once displayed the hymn numbers but now displayed a drawing of a naked Snow White and seven erotic dwarfs. The officer allowed the cup to drop six inches lower than his face and stared back. Still dancing, the GI moved sideways. His replacement was now swaying with equal extravagance in front of the rolling breasts of Sherree Ann. More soldiers were pushing and agitating on the periphery of the dance. Scarlett glanced around for a sergeant. There was none in his vicinity, only Albie Primrose, thoughtfully drinking a Coca Cola and watching the strange, sacrificial display.
‘Soldier,’ said Scarlett, ‘you’re the colonel’s driver, right?’
‘That’s right, sir. Pfc Primrose.’
Scarlett remembered the name. ‘Okay, Primrose, I’m putting you in charge of this entertainment.’
‘Sir?’
‘Get those guys organized in a line, a proper line. If they want to dance with the lady they’ve got to take their turn. Get them to line up.’
The diminutive Albie looked towards the men clamouring for the next dance with Sherree Ann. ‘What if they won’t line up, sir?’ he queried.
‘Tell them it’s an order,’ Scarlett told him. ‘I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere yet.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Albie, still doubtfully. He moved towards the crowd, b
ut then glanced back. ‘About thirty seconds each?’ he inquired. He counted quickly along the khaki backs at the chancel steps. ‘That makes seventeen minutes of dancing even with just those guys. The lady’s going to be tired.’
‘Thirty seconds,’ agreed Scarlett, marvelling at the soldier’s logic. ‘No, wait, maybe twenty-five.’
Busily Albie went down the aisle of the church and began pushing the men into a line. ‘Come on, you guys. A fair deal for all.’ There were protests and return pushes but he turned with a pointed finger and referred the grumblers to the observing captain lounging against the Norman column. Soon there was a distinct and not disorderly rank passing in front of the pulpit. The soldiers continued to jog on the spot to the music, their heads and arms jerking, jumping, like the moving parts of a long engine. Sherree Ann laughed when she realized what was being organized. Then she burst into louder hilarity, stopping and bending forward with the mink, giving the men the gift of a sudden and glorious view into the dark and delicious cleft between her breasts; her outburst caused by the sight of the bespectacled Albie standing at the front of the line, like an official starter in a race, checking his watch and ushering in a new partner every twenty-five seconds, calling away the bemused man already gyrating before the star.
One solider, his face alight with delight, moved in for his turn but, instead of keeping his distance, moved into close contact with Sherree Ann, his arms going around her neck, his jawbone against hers, the huge softness of her bosom laid against his shirt. ‘Slower,’ he pleaded loudly to the organists. ‘Slower, slower …’
Albie glanced awkwardly towards Scarlett. The officer, smelling trouble, shook his head slowly. Albie gave the soldier a prod with his finger. ‘Break it up,’ he said. ‘Break it up. You’re tiring the lady.’
The man took no notice. Then Albie yelled close to the sweating, joined faces: ‘Okay, guy, time’s up. Let’s keep the game moving.’ Other soldiers began to protest from the frustration of the line. Sherree Ann, smiling and hot, pushed the soldier gently away. He broke off with a drugged grin and stumbled away to the front pews where he sat with his face held pathetically in his hands.
An amazing scene had formed. The music continued its loud and insistent beat, the twin organists jumping like puppets along the long stool. At the centre was the beautiful girl, her face sheened with sweat, her breasts damp, her mouth held open, dancing with her quickly-changing partners. What astounded Scarlett was that, unwilling to surrender the moment, the men who came away from the girl began, by instinct, to dance with each other. They spilt into jitterbugging couples, swinging and twisting and even throwing each other over their backs in the side chapels as the tempo of the music increased. A soldier with two drumsticks established himself behind the church lectern and began to beat out the rhythm on the bald brass head of the holy eagle.
As Scarlett watched the dancing soldiers a lump climbed into his throat. ‘You poor bastards,’ he muttered, in pity. ‘You poor dumb bastards.’
At two o’clock in the morning they reached the Manor House again.
‘You have a small cottage to yourself,’ mentioned Scarlett eventually. ‘It’s nice. It used to be the gardener’s place but we’ve renovated it as a kind of guest house. You won’t be disturbed by all the early rising in the morning. Some officers have to be out tomorrow by five.’
They had reached the sturdy gates and the high wall of the old house. There was a sentry on each side and they checked the car as it went in. They grinned with realization when they saw the officer and the Hollywood woman in the back.
‘The guys who have been with us all night,’ said Scarlett, ‘are temporarily billeted here. You know, the lucky escort.’ He remembered Albie, whom he had told to drive them back, and leaned over. ‘I’ll fix it so you can get a bed here, soldier,’ he said. ‘I need this car in the morning. I’ll check first thing with Colonel Schorner.’
‘It’s okay, sir,’ said Albie easily. ‘There’s a truck going from here every day at five a.m. I can get back before the colonel’s going to need me.’
‘Good. Thanks.’ Scarlett turned to Sherree Ann. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing,’ he said.
‘Each of the escort guys will take an hour on duty outside the cottage. Just in case you feel nervous.’
‘They don’t have to do that …’ she began.
‘We’d be happier if they did,’ said Scarlett. ‘And they’ll think it’s a privilege.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So will I.’
They left the car. ‘I’ll show you around,’ suggested Scarlett.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll find my way,’ she said. ‘It’s only small. Goodnight.’
Scarlett looked seriously at her. ‘That’s the plainest brush-off I’ve ever had,’ he said.
‘That’s what it is.’ She smiled. ‘Goodnight, captain.’
He turned the key in the lock of the front door and gave it to her. She thanked him and went in, leaving him on the step. Scarlett, a little drunk, gave a theatrical salute, turned and walked away.
The cottage had been warmed by a wood fire in the tight sitting-room and another in the bedroom. Sherree Ann Lorner smiled to herself as she looked around when she was alone, walking from one room to the other, her luxury robe over her slip, another bourbon in her fingers.
Although the cottage was small it was not so strange to her. Before Hollywood, before the space and cleanliness and luxury, she had come from a small, threadbare house in Blanco County, Texas. Her people were part of an impoverished community, agricultural workers who existed in dusty settlements on sparse work, for those were hard days in Texas. All they had was a beautiful daughter.
Now, warmed more by the look of the two fires than their meeting heat, she wandered about touching the pale plaster walls, the paint flaking in some corners where hasty decoration had not reached. Someone had put a vase of new daffodils on the tray that held the drinks bottles. She picked two and putting one yellow bloom in her ear and the other to her mouth played at telephones, imagining she was calling her mother at home. She smiled as she saw that the curtains had been pinned to the window frames, obviously transferred in a hurry from some other place. The cottage was on one floor, the sitting-room, a kitchen hardly the size of her Hollywood refrigerator, a newly-installed but basic bathroom, with a set of army towels over the bath, but with a cake of exclusive Parisian soap there also. She wondered where they had obtained that. The box of tissues was American. The painstaking embroidery on the bathmat said: ‘Beach Hotel, Telcoombe Beach.’
She turned into the bedroom. Her teddy bear was already sitting between the sheets, propped against the white pillows. He was always the first thing she unpacked once she was alone. ‘You look pretty sharp there,’ she told him and stepped back a pace for further admiration. Teddy looked almost kingly, sitting in the voluminous bed, six foot across and supported by brass columns with finials, with a brass rail running across top and foot.
Her glass was empty. It took her by surprise but she went without worry to the sitting-room and poured herself a heavy bourbon. Walking back towards the bedroom she saw that there was a cupboard under what may have at one time been a staircase. It had been painted roughly and it opened with one tug of the handle. ‘Just bugs in there,’ she said to herself, peering into the dark cavity. As a country girl she was not apprehensive. An elderly spider appeared and walked sedately from the cupboard and then returned, as if she had courteously opened the door for him. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she saw that, pushed to the far end of the low cupboard, was a carton the size of a shoe box. Leaning down she reached into the dust and took it out. It was coated with dirt. She blew at it and then opened the lid. Inside, almost shocking her, was a china doll. It was broken and scarred, one of its eyes was blank, and mice had been chewing its aged yellow dress and its hair.
‘Oh, you poor darling,’ sighed Sherree Ann. ‘Here, have a drink.’ She put the bourbon glass to the doll’s m
outh and pretended to pour. It was like being a child again in Blanco County.
Cradling the doll in her free arm, she carried it to the bathroom and, taking its dress and its linen pants off, she washed it carefully in the basin, wiping both its good and its malefic eye, and getting a nail brush from her vanity case to brush and arrange its hair. ‘You can’t wear those dusty old things any more,’ she said.
She carried the doll back to the bedroom and went to her portmanteau. Eventually she decided on a pair of silk panties which she manipulated, folding them over, so that both leg holes became one. She slipped this over the doll’s head. ‘Just fine,’ she said in her softly drunken tone. She realized she had drained another glass of bourbon but she did not care. She wasn’t going anywhere. ‘Now I want you to meet my teddy bear. His name is Darryl Eff. I named him after Mr Zanuck.’
She sighed. ‘Except he don’t give me so much trouble as Mr Zanuck.’ Tucking the doll into the bed next to the bear, she said: ‘Darryl Eff, this is … Now, I wonder what your name could be? I guess you’re a Limey doll, so I had better call you a Limey name.’ She tried to think of one and finally, with inspiration that pleased her immensely, decided. ‘Queen Mary,’ she announced. ‘Darryl Eff, this is Queen Mary. Don’t you think she’s cute?’
She puffed her creamy cheeks into the pretence of a pout because the bear failed to answer. Sadly she filled the glass with bourbon for what she promised herself would be the last time before she went to bed.
She sat on the side of the bed, lonely and disconsolate. Her dressing-gown slipped from around her breasts and she looked down at them; her famous breasts, cradled in the expensive silk bodice of her slip. ‘Tits,’ she said addressing them. ‘Tits, you may be big and you may be pretty, but you’re no goddamn use to me.’
Outside, beyond the bedroom door and the small entrance hall, was the front porch of the cottage. She had heard the delegated sentry moving about several times, reassuringly because, despite her self-possession, she was often deeply afraid at night. Now it came again. The movement of feet and a night cough. Inside her the bourbon seemed to wriggle in her stomach. She giggled privately, went to the small side window and spied out on the man guarding her. The six soldiers of the escort had been in the group throughout the afternoon, when she had arrived at Exeter air base, and during the evening, but she had hardly noticed them as individuals. There were so many men around.
The Magic Army Page 46