The Magic Army

by Leslie Thomas

  Now she manoeuvred herself close to the window and the wall so that she could view the sentry. But the angle was too tight. There was a shadow and a dark movement within the shadow but that was all. Sherree Ann tiptoed mischievously back into the bedroom.

  The plan came quickly, as it often did when she was drinking. She went into the small hall and once more opened the low cupboard. ‘Bider,’ she called softly. ‘Where are you, Bider?’

  With obedience that pleased but did not surprise her, the spider appeared and came once more out of the door as she held it open. ‘Hello there,’ she greeted it. ‘I just knew you’d be waiting. Come on, Bider, this girl needs you.’

  Without qualms she picked up the creature in her cupped hands. It struggled momentarily but then gave up, curled its legs into its body and crouched against her skin. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ she grinned.

  Carrying the spider back towards the bed she lifted the eiderdown, blankets and sheets and dropped it into the middle before folding over the covers once more. ‘Now don’t you suffocate,’ she warned. She sat on the side of the bed again and counted another minute, before drawing in a lovely breath and emitting a controlled cry. She had counselled herself against making it too loud. She did not want to wake the whole of the complement of the officers’ mess, nor even the whole of the guard. Jumping up and pulling her robe close about her she hurried towards the front door, sobbing wonderfully.

  She reached the door and unlocked it to a rattle of questioning knocks from the outside. It was opened and the small, worried and white face of Albie Primrose poked in. Half his thin body followed. ‘A spider!’ Miss Lorner was already crying. The words collapsed on her lips as she saw who had answered the call. ‘A spider,’ she repeated, deflated. Jesus Christ, didn’t she get some luck.

  ‘Where, ma’am?’ blustered the little man as he came into the hall. He had a huge revolver with a great webbing holster and a lanyard around his neck that looked, on him, like a hangman’s rope. As he rushed into the cottage he drew the revolver which seemed half as long as the arm that held it. His eyes were blinking and bright behind the rimless glasses.

  ‘No!’ cried Sherree Ann. She hurried and closed the door. She hardly knew why. ‘It’s only a spider. Put that gun away.’

  Albie looked down at the revolver in amazement. ‘Gee,’ he breathed, ashen-faced. ‘I didn’t know I’d pulled it out. I’m not used to one of these. I borrowed it from the other guy.’

  ‘The other guy?’ she said. Her act had gone now. She looked at him, almost relieved that she had somebody else to pity.

  ‘He was supposed to be on duty outside the door,’ explained Albie. He looked abruptly concerned. ‘Don’t … don’t, please, Miss Lorner, don’t tell anyone that. Not Captain Scarlett. There’ll be a whole lot of trouble.’

  She walked into the bedroom and sat on the end of the bed. He remained outside in the hall. From there he said: ‘Those guys, they been on duty all day, like getting ready for you to arrive and follow you around, and they were all pooped out, you know. So I don’t sleep any good out of my own bed, so I told the guy I’d do his guard.’ He added shyly: ‘He gave me two bucks.’

  ‘You were the driver,’ she said, pointing at him standing in the hall. ‘I remember you.’

  ‘It’s because I’m smaller than the rest of the army,’ he nodded philosophically. ‘I kinda stand out in reverse.’

  She smiled. He smiled sheepishly. ‘Where’s the location of the spider?’ he inquired.

  Sherree Ann had forgotten the spider. ‘Oh, God, yes, he’ll suffocate!’ she exclaimed. To his astonishment she began frantically to pull the bedclothes away. Albie stepped halfway into the room. ‘Come and help,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He’s trapped in the bed.’

  Astonished, Albie moved in to help. ‘Okay, ma’am, Miss Lorner, don’t worry, I’ll catch him. I’m real good at catching insects. It’s being small …’

  ‘Don’t,’ she admonished suddenly. She turned and sat upright on the bed. Her robe had fallen open and Albie felt pink points of embarrassment and fascination glow on his cheeks. Her bosom was undulating in its silk hammock. He made his eyes crawl away. ‘Don’t you hurt him,’ she said. ‘Not a hair on his I’il head.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ he said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. The situation was going mad. ‘I’ll be gentle with him. But you still want to find him?’

  ‘Yes, he’s all lost in there.’ She leaned over and Albie was almost sick as the lovely breasts rolled forward. They both began to search the warm sheets. Albie looked up and saw that the teddy bear which had been propped up against the headboard on the opposite side of the bed had toppled out. The doll was leaning like a one-eyed drunk. ‘Your teddy has fallen out of bed,’ said Albie.

  She sprang from beneath the covers. ‘Darryl Eff!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh poor Darryl Eff!’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ offered Albie. He was surprised at the sweat running from his neck. It must be the weighty and unaccustomed gun. He went round the bed and lifted the teddy bear into the sheets again.

  ‘Is he okay?’ Sherree Ann asked anxiously.

  ‘I think so,’ said the bemused Albie. She crawled across the bed, those wonderful udders swinging. She pulled the teddy bear close to them and ran her hand across the bear’s brow.

  ‘I hope he’s okay,’ she said. ‘He’s my oldest friend.’ She regarded Albie like a co-conspirator. ‘Don’t you have a teddy?’ she asked.

  Albie felt himself blush. ‘It’s difficult in the army to have a teddy bear,’ he explained honestly. ‘The other guys would laugh.’

  She sighed. ‘I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why soldiers have to be so tough.’

  Albie said: ‘I’m not tough. I’m not going to find it easy to kill anybody. I hope I don’t have to. Even a German.’

  A pointed look entered her fine eyes. ‘Will you have to go?’ she inquired. ‘I mean, across there. To France or wherever the place is? When we land?’

  ‘I guess so. On the very first day.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ she said stoutly. ‘You’re not big enough. And you wear glasses. I’m going to tell General Eisenhower …’

  Albie held out a hand and accidentally touched hers. ‘Please don’t,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t think he would listen and it would get me into a scrape. I have to go because I’m Colonel Schorner’s driver and he’s the kind of commander who is going to be right at the front of the fighting.’ He sighed. ‘I’m the guy who’s got to drive him there.’

  ‘You poor kid,’ she said. ‘Here. Sit down. I’m going to get you a drink. I need one myself.’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ started Albie. He touched her hand, again by chance, and muttered: ‘Very much …’

  Her eyes widened. ‘That’s exactly how it is with me,’ she said as if they shared some rare ailment. ‘I don’t drink very much – at a time.’ She got up and rolled towards the sitting-room. ‘But there seem to be more times … all the time.’ He heard her pouring the drinks. He looked around full of wonder.

  Sherree Ann returned. She had pulled the robe decently about her again. She carried two glasses and her smile was serene. Albie blinked when he saw the amount of liquid in his and backed away as the power of the bourbon got to his nostrils. ‘I’m supposed to be on duty,’ he said, taking the glass.

  ‘Since your duty is guarding me, I’ve taken you off duty,’ she said firmly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Oh, gee, I’m so sorry. I’m Pfc Primrose. Albert … well, Albie.’

  ‘Primrose?’ she said. ‘That’s a beautiful name, Albie.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t think so,’ he said dolefully. He regarded her longingly through his lenses. ‘I have a lot of trouble sometimes with the guys. We got guys with uglier names, plenty, but nobody with a more embarrassing name.’ He looked into his glass and was amazed to discover it empty.

  ‘I’ll get another,’ she said, seeing his look. ‘Just one more.’
>
  ‘Take it easy,’ he called as she went out to the other room. He was amazed at the firmness of his voice. It even seemed deeper than usual.

  ‘Don’t worry, Albie,’ she called back. ‘The US Government thinks I run on bourbon.’ She returned to the room. The gown was open again. Desperately he tried not to look at the tops of her legs moving under the silken slip. ‘Maybe they’re right,’ she said. She gave him the glass and they touched the rims.

  ‘How about the spider?’ he heard himself say.

  ‘Oh, sure, the spider,’ she said seriously. ‘He’s in there somewhere. Do you think he’ll be able to breathe?’

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ replied Albie adopting the air of one who knows about spiders. ‘As long as we’re not sitting directly on top of him. There may not seem a lot of air under there to us humans, but there’s plenty to a spider. Let’s see where he’s hiding out.’

  Confidence such as he had never known, or even known about, was sprouting within Albie. Things like this did happen after all.

  ‘Take that silly gun off,’ she suggested. ‘You could frighten him to death.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ agreed Albie. ‘It has the same effect on me.’ He began to struggle out of the harness, the lanyard and the holster. She leaned forward and helped him, the warm smell of her body wafting to him. His fingers got in each other’s way as he tried to undo the buckles. ‘I never thought I would ever have a chance to be with you like this, Miss Lorner,’ he blurted. ‘I mean, looking for spiders and everything.’

  She smiled like a sunrise. ‘Albie,’ she admonished, ‘my name is Sherree Ann.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then call me Sherree Ann. Now let’s locate this spider. I know he’s got in there somewhere.’ Determinedly she pulled the covers of the bed fully back and began to search the crevices of the sheets. ‘Come on out, Bider,’ she said softly. ‘We know you’re in there.’

  ‘Bider?’ said Albie, moving across the bed from the other side. He could not believe he was doing this. Was this what drinking bourbon did for a man?

  Suddenly, shockingly, she eased herself across the sheet and slid her fine soft arms about his thin neck. They travelled around him like white snakes. Had they been snakes Albie would scarcely have reacted differently. He froze, stiffened, solidified and then, when he felt he could move his face, he looked up and straight into her blissful and beautiful countenance. The neck was pale, swinging away to the revealed shoulders and the turbulent bosom. Her mouth moved to him again and he managed to frame his dry lips sufficiently to receive the kiss. ‘Albie,’ said Sherree Ann Lorner. ‘I’m so lonely.’

  ‘But me?’ he croaked. Jesus, he could still blow the chance. Jesus, don’t let him blow it. ‘I mean, yes, sure, of course.’ He forced himself to crawl across the bed towards her, like an invalid, deliberately getting his knees up to the mattress and using them to propel himself forward.

  ‘You, Albie,’ she confirmed as if she had waited for him for her entire life. ‘And me.’ She slid around the bed, bringing her legs beneath her in a graceful and athletic circle like a gymnast. Her arms remained circling his neck as though she feared he might want to escape. She used them to pull him to her and then, once he was horizontal, rolled luxuriously on top of him. Albie choked and coughed. ‘Gee, sorry baby,’ she crooned next to his head. She kissed him with soft passion.

  Albie still didn’t believe it. ‘Will I be able to tell the boys about this?’ he pleaded.

  Each morning when Dorothy left her hill house at Wilcoombe the sound that first she heard outside her door was that of the children shouting in the playground of the school. It never failed to make her smile, a smile of recognition, familiarity and pleasure. She had always taught small children; the school for the older pupils was at Totnes and sometimes she had idly wondered at what age they stopped shouting.

  The everyday sensation was always heightened as she turned the corner from the hill to the brief, dipping road into the coombe, for into her view at once came the enclosed playground with its running children, the voices louder because she was clear of the houses. It was fully spring now, the coombe clothed in fresh leaves with poplars fingering the sky on the upper slope, and the vale hawthorn and ash growing greener with the lengthening days. Daffodils ribboned the sides of the valley and the air had warmth. She was happier than she could ever remember. Even Miss Parsons, the other teacher, would not worry her today.

  The little school was grey stone, built before the 1914 war. Generations of villagers had learned their lessons there, chanting their multiplication out into the air of summer afternoons, watching the first mysterious curves of the written word on the blackboard, making their first stammering attempts to read, singing lustily to the off-key piano. The playground was small and surrounded by a fence of chicken wire. In one corner were the red-brick lavatories.

  Village children were very punctual, few of them having far to travel and mothers taking a pride in ensuring they were on time. As she neared the gate she, of habit, ran her eye over the small, busy figures in the yard. No Mary Steer or Billy this morning.

  Miss Parsons came to the single step and waved the bell violently. She wished Dorothy a businesslike good morning and turned into the building.

  The pupils, irrepressible, jumping, skipping, chattering, formed two lines in the playground. ‘Quiet now!’ called Dorothy standing on the step. ‘All quiet.’

  Obediently the noise ceased; they still shuffled and fidgeted, but calmed quickly. ‘Right,’ said Dorothy. ‘Miss Parsons’ class, march in.’ The first crocodile, the original children of the school, tramped in their sandals, boots and plimsolls into the building. Dorothy scanned the line of her own class which she had brought from Telcoombe Beach. She knew each bright face intimately. ‘Where is Mary Steer?’ she asked. ‘And Billy Steer?’

  ‘Don’t know, Miss Jenkins,’ chorused the voices.

  ‘They was with Bobby Bewler,’ piped a voice.

  ‘Bobby Bewler?’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Yes, miss, ’im that’s mazed.’

  The observation brought a furrow of giggles. Briskly she told them to be quiet and marched them into the classroom. A worry was already growing in her. Bobby Bewler was a simpleton, harmless but no companion for a seven-year-old boy and his younger sister. Before reading out the names in the register she went back out into the sunshine of the playground and, going further to the road outside the gate, searched both ways. The road was empty. Now the children had gone inside, clear birds sounded in the trees about the school. She decided to give Billy ten minutes and then do something about it; organize a search or call the constable.

  Returning to the desk she began reciting the names in the register. ‘John Billman, Josie Billman, Edgar Cornford, Billy Durley, Mary Dandridge … Sylvia Dandridge …’

  Her voice slowed as she saw the top of a head at the windowed door. The door was pushed hesitantly open and Mary Steer walked into the class. Her face was pink with guilt. She sidled towards her small desk.

  ‘Mary Steer,’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘You’re late. Where have you been? Where is your brother?’

  ‘Billy be just comin’, Miss Jenkins.’

  ‘Sit down, then.’ Dorothy returned to the register. ‘… Georgie Farthing, Brian Harrington, Nancy Jennings …’ There was a heavy metal bump from the desks. Dorothy glanced up. Mary Steer had reached her desk and was bending trying to retrieve something which had fallen on the floor. As Dorothy watched, it rolled out into the aisle. A hand grenade.

  The little girl started forward as though to pick it up like a runaway ball.

  ‘Don’t!’ Dorothy screamed at her. The child, immediately shaking with fright, jumped back to her desk. The ugly metal pineapple stopped rolling and lay against the leg of the desk of Georgie Farthing, who stared down at it. The other children were trying to see what it was.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Dorothy, forcing control into her voice. She felt her whole body shaking and was amazed that the
words sounded firm. She knew enough about hand grenades to see that the ringed detonation pin was still in position.

  ‘Children,’ she said, reducing her tone to a cold calm. ‘Without running, everybody must leave the classroom. Wait! Leave your desks by the outside, keep away from the middle. Now, all stand.’

  The pupils stood stiffly, the small faces and fear-filled eyes looked towards the centre aisle and at Mary Steer. Georgie Farthing began to sob softly. ‘Don’t cry, Georgie,’ said Dorothy. ‘It won’t hurt you.’ Nancy Jennings, a fat ginger girl who sat next to Georgie, put her freckled arm about him. He pushed it away. ‘Right,’ said Dorothy. ‘Leave the classroom, very quietly.’

  The children obeyed, going out in two tiptoeing lines that curved away from the spot where the hateful weapon lay on the wooden floor, like a round rat, its head against the iron stanchion of the miniature desk. A nausea consumed the teacher.

  Still watching the object she backed from the room and then turned into the other classroom. The sturdy Miss Parsons revolved an ill-pleased face from the blackboard. ‘Why have you let your class out?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Parsons,’ said Dorothy, still fighting to keep her voice level, ‘can you just come outside for a moment? In the corridor.’

  The other teacher frowned, the face setting into ready grooves; she put down the chalk and moved towards the door. ‘No talking,’ she warned her class. Some of them looked out of the window as soon as she had gone and saw the other children, huddled in a group near the gate. They were looking back at the window, except for Mary Steer whose small blue eyes were fixed on the lavatories at the corner of the playground.