‘You should have been here in March,’ Beatrice called, attempting lightness. ‘The weather was beautiful.’
‘I was,’ he reminded them as they let him in. The house was so familiar now, the low ceiling, the home-feeling of it. He automatically turned into the sitting-room. Beatrice had put a vase of early summer flowers in the vacant fireplace. Howard asked him if he was cold but he said not. ‘I find this place really warm,’ he said as he sat down.
‘You arrived in time to drain the last bottle of sherry,’ said Howard, walking into the kitchen. ‘I was just going to get it.’
‘I thought that was for victory,’ suggested Schorner.
‘We’ll drink it now. No time like the present.’ He came back with the glasses. They raised them silently and with sadness.
Eventually it was Beatrice who framed the words. ‘God go with you, Carl. And with your men.’
Schorner stared down into the sherry to hide his embarrassment. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ve known real friendship from you both.’ He laughed grittily. ‘I was a stranger in a strange land,’ he said. ‘And looking out at that weather I realize I still don’t know anything about it. I mean, is this June or is it June?’
‘It will clear tomorrow,’ forecast Evans. ‘Wilcoombe play Totting in the afternoon. They always have that match on a Sunday and it’s always fine.’
‘Cricket?’ asked Schorner.
Howard looked abashed. ‘Yes, cricket,’ he said.
‘Maybe I’ll come over and watch,’ said Schorner. ‘I’ve got to find out about this game sometime.’
‘I won’t be playing,’ said Howard. ‘Not just now.’ He went to the window and looked out on the stormy Channel.
It was Beatrice who said: ‘It’s going to be quite soon, isn’t it, Carl?’
The American shrugged good-humouredly. ‘Any time in the next six months,’ he answered. ‘Nobody seems to be able to get a free afternoon. I hope it’s soon. My boys are going to start fighting among themselves before too long.’
He rose. His face composed, he said: ‘I just called by to say thanks for everything – being so civilized to a foreigner.’ They were speechless. They stood shaking their heads and then they both embraced him together. Beatrice had to turn away and go into the kitchen where she said something was boiling over. Schorner went out soon after. Out into the rain.
After he had gone Howard stood staring out of the window for a long time. ‘He makes me feel like half a man,’ he grunted eventually. ‘I feel ashamed to be here, staying safe, when he is going like this.’
‘You’d be a liability,’ she said with careful cheerfulness. ‘With your poor old lungs you’d be carried off before they’d even landed.’ She put her arms about his shoulders and they stood like that, facing the miserable sea, for several minutes.
Schorner had just driven the jeep to the point where the hill began to rise into Wilcoombe when an old, pristine Rolls-Royce drew up on the other side of the street and he saw Mrs Mahon-Feavor waving violently from the rear seat. He stopped and was about to leave the jeep when the old lady’s spectral chauffeur left his seat and opened the rear door so that Mrs Mahon-Feavor could get out. She motioned Schorner back towards the jeep and then climbed rheumatically into his back seat. ‘Rest, colonel,’ she advised. ‘Have plenty of rest. You’ll probably find you will need it at some time.’
He grinned at her affectionately. ‘Now, listen,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask you if I could take my armchair down to the beach. I’d like to see the boats go off.’ She looked directly into his amused but ambivalent face. Her large eye winked with theatrical exaggeration. ‘You know what I mean,’ she said. Not needing a response, she went on. ‘I used to like to go and sit on the beach in the summer but I find those silly striped deckchairs intolerable. So I get that old fool driving the car over there, I get him to bring down an armchair to the sands. Now, I don’t suppose there is a spot left where I can sit?’
He knew it was a question. ‘Mrs Mahon-Feavor,’ he said, ‘as you know the whole length of Telcoombe Beach is a restricted area …’ Her face continued grave. ‘But … there is a short stretch, about thirty yards, of shingle, I guess, just to the east of the harbour down there, almost under the wall, which has never been wired off and is clear of dangerous obstacles.’ A smile was already cracking the old lady’s face powder.
‘Yes, colonel,’ she encouraged. ‘Do go on …’
‘If you took your chair down there and restricted yourself to that little piece, I don’t think anybody is going to bother you. I’ll tell the military police you’re not a spy.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said sincerely. ‘I want to see the boats go off and to wish them God’s speed, you know. When exactly will that be, colonel? I won’t tell anyone, honestly.’
Schorner grinned at her again. ‘You’ll only want to sit there when the weather is fine, won’t you,’ he said. ‘There’s no point in sitting out in the rain.’
‘Ah, no indeed,’ she agreed sagely. ‘Thank you, thank you enormously.’ Her expression calmed. Her gloved hand touched him on the shoulder. ‘I want to tell you how very sorry I was about the men you lost,’ she said. It was the first time he had ever heard her say anything in other than a forthright voice.
‘Yes, thank you.’
She pursed her wrinkled lips. ‘Sounds the sort of idiocy that my family might have perpetrated. Whose fault was it?’ The tone was of one who had always demanded to be told and invariably was.
‘I think it was the Germans’,’ said Schorner serious-faced.
‘Ah, I see. Yes, they would.’ She began to clamber from the back of the jeep. ‘Good luck, colonel,’ she said briskly. ‘Our prayers will go with you.’ She suddenly leaned and kissed him on the cheek. He sat transfixed, the smell of violets wafting about him while she stumped across the road back to her car. ‘Come on, you old dolt,’ she bawled to the chauffeur. ‘Let’s get a move on.’ She waved royally as she drove away and Schorner waved back.
He had not intended to go into the Bull and Mouth but as he was driving up the hill he saw the creaking sign and it recalled the first night, New Year’s Eve, when he had gone in there. He stopped the jeep and walked through the door, pushing his path through the old thick curtain, now hanging in holes and threads. The bar had only half a dozen drinkers. Tom Barrington was one. Gilman, sitting moodily on the far side, a pint between his elbows, was another.
‘Colonel Schorner,’ said Barrington. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘It needs to be a small one, thanks,’ said Schorner. ‘This is getting like Christmas.’
‘People saying good-bye,’ suggested Barrington. He smiled. ‘You can’t answer that, I know.’
Schorner said he would have a beer although he was not sure how it would mix with sherry. He vaguely recognized Gilman. ‘You were on the gun, on the LST, one of Lieutenant Bryant’s boys,’ he said.
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Gilman, standing up.
‘Take it easy,’ said Schorner. Barrington told the landlord to put another pint in front of Gilman and the soldier thanked him.
Horace Smith, sitting in mid-bar, watched the beer go along the counter under his eyes. ‘’Evening, colonel, sir,’ he said. Schorner wished him good evening. Horace knew a poacher could never expect a drink from a farmer, even if they were in the same Home Guard unit. ‘When they started the Home Guard ’ere,’ he said conversationally to Gilman on his other side, eight feet away, so he spoke loudly, ‘they only had one bloke as was a stretcher bearer. One stretcher bearer. T’was a good job they Jerries never came, oi’ll tell you …’
Privately Barrington said to Schorner, ‘I was wrong, and I’m sorry.’ His face was rueful. ‘I think that’s the first apology I’ve ever made in my life,’ he said.
‘I know how you felt,’ acknowledged Schorner. ‘As a farmer I would have felt the same.’ He lifted his glass and Barrington did also. ‘Soon it will be all yours again,’ he said. ‘They’ll start clearing the
area as soon as we’ve moved out. That daughter of yours will be herding those nice Devons across the meadow again.’
Barrington laughed shortly. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘She went off to join the ATS and now she’s engaged to one of your Air Force chaps in Norfolk. Nice lad he seems. It might last, it might not.’
‘You never can tell,’ nodded Schorner. Gilman got up to leave. ‘Excuse me,’ said the American to the farmer. He turned to the British soldier. ‘You okay now, son?’
Gilman was surprised. ‘Yes, sir, thanks. I wasn’t hurt. It was just my pal. He was killed.’
‘Right,’ said Schorner. ‘I’m glad you came out of it all right.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Lieutenant Bryant,’ he said, ‘do you get along with him?’
Gilman looked puzzled. ‘Yes, sir. He’s a very good officer.’
‘He’s staying with us, on attachment. I guess he’s going to need a driver.’
Gilman looked nothing less than shocked. ‘Oh, sir. I see. Well I’m being sent on a course, sir. Next week. I’ve already been posted, sir.’ He threw up a quick and unnecessary salute and made for the door.
Schorner laughed. ‘I don’t blame you, soldier,’ he said. ‘I wish to God they’d send me on a course.’ Gilman went out hurriedly.
Schorner glanced back to see Barrington regarding him solidly. Horace Smith said: ‘Be you wanting any rabbits, colonel? How be you off for hares?’
Schorner politely refused the offer. He said to Barrington, ‘I hear you have a big cricket match tomorrow?’
Barrington shook his head. ‘No cricket match in these parts is ever big. If this weather continues the ground will be soaked anyway. I suppose we could get the vicar to pray.’
‘How does the reverend feel about you playing on a Sunday?’ asked Schorner. ‘Does he think it will bring the wrath of God down?’
‘He’s umpiring,’ shrugged Barrington. ‘I don’t think he’s worrying about God so much these days. He’s joining the RAF, you know. Volunteered. Not even as a padre. Just an ordinary aircraftman. He ought to be trained in time for the next war.’ With only a quick pause, he said: ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you and your men coming ashore at the quay that morning. Somehow war had never seemed so terrible to me before. You’ve taught a lot of people a lesson in these parts, me not the least. I’m proud to have known you.’
*
Once more Schorner went out into the dusky rain. He was climbing into the jeep when he saw Doey Bidgood and Lenny Birch sauntering downhill towards the inn, string around their trousers at the knees, hands in pockets, ragged faces wide with smiles. ‘Best o’ luck, zur,’ said Doey. He took on much the same confiding expression as Mrs Mahon-Feavor had assumed, as if the secret was held by only them. ‘Over there, I mean,’ said Doey, nodding his head towards the growling Channel.
‘Thanks, boys,’ replied Schorner. He had often wondered how old this pair were. Lenny touched the jeep. ‘Do you reckon that these jeeps will be sold off to anybody once the war is over, loike?’ he asked. ‘Oi wouldn’t mind ’aving one o’ they myself.’
‘I’ll save this one for you,’ said Schorner with a laugh. They joined in unsurely. He started the engine and drove up the hill.
‘’Ee be a real gentleman,’ decided Doey. ‘Makes you feel you wouldn’t even mind being in the army with an officer like ’ee.’
They went into the inn and were gone from view by the time Schorner slowed the jeep at the summit of the rise. He turned it in by the mouldy barn and left it there. Then he walked around to Dorothy’s door and knocked. She answered at once. Her face lightened when she saw him. ‘Thank God you’ve come, Carl,’ she whispered. ‘I was so afraid you’d go without saying good-bye.’
She opened the door and he stepped into the small hallway and then into the room where they had sat before the fire that night. Dorothy turned and rushed against him, holding her arms about his body, hugging and crying at the same time. He lifted her wet face and kissed her on both cheeks. Then they kissed closely. ‘I’m sorry, Carl,’ she stumbled, needing to say it quickly. ‘How could I ever blame you for Billy Steer? As though you could help it.’
‘We’re all contributing,’ he shrugged. ‘It was the most terrible thing I can ever remember.’
‘Please sit down,’ she said, still flustered. ‘I’ll get some tea, or would you like a drink? I’ve got some wine.’ Schorner sat in the fireside chair. The room was chill. A strange sense of formality had come between them.
‘No, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘I won’t have anything. I need to get back.’ Aware of the awkwardness, she sat in the opposite chair, hands in her lap.
‘You won’t be coming back to this country I suppose,’ she said.
‘I don’t know about that. Once things get going, once we’ve pushed on a little, I’ll probably need to come back for briefings or conferences. They’ll always think up excuses for them.’
‘But that would be in London.’
‘Yes, I figure it would be London.’
He put his fingers into his breast pocket and took out a military envelope. ‘I wrote you a poem,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not Robert Frost or even Helen Holland, but I wrote it for you. Read it sometime when you have a moment.’
Her hand trembled as she took it. Schorner rose and said: ‘I’ve got to get back, Dorothy.’
She was trying not to cry. She went to the door with him and they kissed gently for the last time, hardly brushing each other with their bodies, their hands just touching arms. ‘Remember me to the kids,’ he said when he was outside the door. ‘And take care.’
He turned quickly and walked up the few yards of hill before turning the corner. She did not watch him go but closed the door slowly and with sadness. Taking the envelope she sat down by the cheerless fireplace and stared at the chair he had just vacated. Suddenly with a cry that filled the small house she stood and ran to the door. She looked down the hill and saw the jeep was almost at the harbour, its brake lights bright red in the grey rain. It was too late. Everything was. She returned to the house.
Stiffly she went back to the chair. She felt frail and cold, like an old woman. Sitting there she opened the army envelope and, tears dropping on the paper, she read the poem he had composed. It was called ‘For Dorothy’.
Sometimes I will think about this town
Of seagulls,
Singing in its streets.
The doorstep sea, the shingle sound.
When the war is done and gone,
When the dust of battle and of men,
Is stilled,
And we that are left, if we are left,
Have left for home.
Then, in my inland place,
I will taste again the salt,
See a star above a wave,
And listen to the narrow wind about your house.
*
Damp June evenings made for cold houses. People did not light summer fires and after two or three days of Devon rain the interiors of their rooms became comfortless. Mary Nicholas was sitting eating bread and jam reading the Daily Mirror at her table, with the two small children bickering unheeded on the floor. There was a double knock at the street door. She looked up and then to the late clock.
She went down the passage and opened it. Private First Class Wall was standing in the drizzle, a stretched expression on his face. ‘What do you want?’ she asked brusquely.
‘I got to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Just for a couple of minutes.’
After hesitating, she opened the door and allowed him into the narrow hall. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘This will do, won’t it. The children are making a noise in there.’
‘Okay,’ he said. Rain and sweat smeared his face. He looked as if he had been running. ‘I came to tell you that I’m going to the British police,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell them I pushed her in the harbour.’
She laughed outright, but quickly stifled it. ‘Why do that? You didn’t push her anyway, she slipped. I’m a witness.’
/> ‘Right, lady. You stay a witness. If the police ask you, say you saw me do it. Say we were together down there like it was, and she came along and saw us and started making trouble. Tell them about what happened. Except you say I pushed her.’
The woman’s face creased, then cleared with realization. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You’re no hero are you. You prefer a safe police station cell to being shot at by the Germans.’
Wall’s face was a white disc in the dark passage. ‘I ain’t going,’ he said. ‘Jesus, on that goddamn landing ship … That was plenty. I’m not going through that again, for Uncle fucking Sam or anybody. I’m going to give myself up – tell them I pushed her in and let them take it from there. Anything’s better than that shit beach over there. I’ll tell them you’re a witness.’
She smiled grimly. ‘So, you save your skin, then when it comes to court you change the story and say it was an accident after all. You were just confused.’
‘That’s about the width of it,’ he answered. ‘Stay with it, okay?’
Mary Nicholas said laconically: ‘The things I do for the Yanks.’
‘Yes, sure you do. What about Hulton, Captain Hulton? I heard about him, too.’
‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘At least he didn’t run away.’
‘Call it what you like, honey. I just want to stay alive. I’ve got a lot of reasons for living.’
She pushed him towards the door. ‘Tell them to the police.’
On Sunday morning the rain eased across the West Country, although the sky was cold and scudding and the sea lumpy. At noon Schorner, in battledress, was sitting in his hut watching the telephone, waiting, like so many others, for the order. On the desk, across the blotter, lay his sub-machine gun and his field glasses. He had written his soldiers’ letters and now there was nothing to do but wait. For the twentieth time he went through the orders, maps and documents in his case. He knew they were complete but it occupied the time. In the camp the men – their equipment piled around them – were still playing cards and dice under the drying tents.
The Magic Army Page 54