by MARY HOCKING
Mary Hocking
A TIME OF WAR
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
To Jean, Pat and Sheila
To every thing there is a season . . .
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of wat, and a time of peace.
Chapter One
One person alighted from the train. She was not in a hurry and for a moment she stood breathing in the night air which was crisp and smelt of winter. She watched the train go, a dark cylinder, the wheels sparking, leaving nothing but a dim blue blur at the end of the platform. She went forward slowly, the heavy suitcase dragging one shoulder down. As she walked, her quick breath cooling in the keen air, she looked from side to side at the undulating fields, black and silver in moonlight. Among the tall, bare trees there were stars, but below no glow from cottage or street lamp intruded in the pattern of darkness. Nothing human: this was the kingdom of night. Her own face, the green eyes alert, had an elfin look.
From the cubby-hole at the end of the platform where the blue light burnt, a hand in a frayed mitten stretched out and fingers, purple and swollen, fumbled for her pass; the voice was husky with sleep.
`You the only one?’
`Yes.’
`There’s transport outside.’
The marine driver loomed up, a dark, sweat-smelling shape like the beast in the fairy tale. The flap at the back of the truck was unhooked. She looked up into the dark interior, momentarily distracted from her dream by the problem presented to her short, tight skirt by the high step. The driver took the suitcase from her and slung it into the truck.
`You a new Jenny?’
`Yes.’
He put his hands beneath her armpits and tossed her in beside the case. The flap was hooked up and the man walked round the side of the truck. The engine coughed, choked and died on a hollow, consumptive rattle. She could hear the man swearing. There was a rhythm in his imprecations: the battle with the engine was a familiar ritual. The truck surrendered, its body began to shudder and finally it lurched into the lane. The driver turned contemptuously from the wheel to peer at her through the open panel.
`What are you – watchkeeper?’
`Yes.’
`B camp, then.’
She stared out of her dark cavity, the throb of blood bringing warmth to her cold limbs. Hedgerows scraped the sides of the truck. The land twisted and tilted, dark and undisturbed, while a single beam of light stole into the sky, swept in a wide arc, probing aimlessly, and withdrew as stealthily as it had come. She was glad that it had gone. She had looked forward to her first service raid, but it would be inappropriate now: no man-created enchantment could equal this. The truck jolted over a bridge, throwing her off the seat. She clutched at the back flap and peered out, unconcerned on bruised knees, as the truck hurtled through a village, the houses dark and introspective with only a yellow streak between drawn curtains to hint at an inner life. The truck began to labour up a hill and the valley spread out beneath with here a wood, there a farm, imposed on the swelling patchwork of fields. The truck swayed over the hill and down into the next valley, goaded on by the ferocious hatred of the driver, past an old mill, the water still as glass. From time to time shadows streaked across the road and eyes as bright as her own stared up from a ditch; once they passed a man on a bike who turned away up a narrow track that seemed to lead nowhere. Later, there was another village, mute and anonymous except for an inn at a corner where there were sailors outside singing beneath the sign of The Sycamore Tree. Then trees overhead and a long, rutted lane at the end of which the truck shuddered to a halt. Voices, then on again, leaving two dim figures on either side of a wired gate.
The wood closed in again, but; now between the trees there were long, caterpillar huts. In a clearing there were three bigger huts, the door of one of which stood open. The driver stopped the truck and came round to the back. While he unhooked the flap, the girl stared up at the dark-limbed trees, their leafless branches curling like a myriad crooked fingers. The wind caught them and as they moved backward and forward the crooked fingers seemed to beckon.
The driver had her case on the ground; he had stretched out his arms to take her weight. She dipped towards him and then, as he lifted her, she twisted in the air and her light body swung outwards as though she might swirl away into the branches of the trees.
`Where do you think you are?’ he grumbled, pulled off-balance. `In a circus?’
`Sure and why not? I swung on a trapeze before I could walk.’
`Did you now?’
Usually they were like peas in a pod with their dark uniforms and the short-cut hair fluffed up so that their heads looked like a chicken’s behind. He didn’t even bother to whistle any more. But this gnome-like creature compelled attention.
`I was born in a covered wagon,’ she said as he set her down.
`You’ll be at home here, then.’
In the Wrens’ regulating office the duty petty officer was not very interested in the new arrival. She studied the list on her desk.
`Let me see, you’re . . .’
`Kerren Nolan.’
`From Ireland? What a long way to come.’
She tried to visualize it, but failed. The girl said:
`Oh, it’s a very far country, to be sure. And wild. I’m from Connemara which is just about the wildest part of all.’
`Indeed?’ The petty officer looked uncertainly at the pale, puckered face.
`Why yes! I would go to bed at night and see the stars through the half-door – which we always had to leave open because of the smoke from the turf fire-and there would be the cows breathing down me neck as I lay in me bed . . .’
The petty officer frowned. `Well, we can’t promise you any cows here. But as for the rest . . .’ She unhooked a duffel-coat from behind the door. `You’re meteorology, aren’t you?’
`Yes.’
`You’re in Cabin 8, with Robin Egan. She’ll take you to the airfield tomorrow.’
A cinder track led into the wood with huts at intervals on either side. Cabin 8 was the most remote.
`The end of civilization!’ Kerren exclaimed.
`There’s something in that,’ the petty officer murmured and opened the door. Smoke billowed out. `You’ll be used to this atmosphere, no doubt.’
There was a stove in the middle of the room; scraps of paper and pieces of coke littered the floor and a thin layer of soot was settling on the top of the nearest chest of drawers. Ranged on either side of the long central aisle were six two-tier bunks, their iron frames supporting bedclothes in varying stages of disarray; they appeared to be the sole spectators of Cinderella’s nightly drama. Cinderella herself, in bellbottoms and a seaman’s jersey, crouched on the floor by the stove, amber hair curling thick at the nape of her neck; she was throwing lighted paper into the stove and crooning, `Burn, you sod, burn!’
`A new Wren,’ the petty officer announced. `She’s a great one w
ith smoking fires.’ She shut the door behind her.
Cinderella said, without turning:
`Can you really light fires?’
`If you’ve plenty of wood.’
`Wood?’ The soft, caressing voice was shocked. `The navy doesn’t give us wood – that would make it easy.’
Kerren unhitched the heavy gas-mask and looked around her. `Where do I sleep?’
`By the door, starboard side. Not the top bunk.’
It didn’t matter which was starboard because one lower bunk was already occupied by a coiled figure. Kerren went across to the other bunk. It looked very dark and closed-in down there; she would be sure to bang her head every morning until she got used to it.
`When do I get a top bunk?’ she asked.
`You get a top bunk when you’re very old.’ Cinderella turned at last and smiled. The tip-tilted nose wrinkled and the dimples in the cheeks emphazised the soft fullness of flesh. She lowered her eyelids and dark lashes brushed her cheeks. `When you’re very old, like me.’
Kerren, disconcerted to find enchantment so entirely a thing of flesh and blood, asked abruptly:
`Who are you?’
`I’m Beatie.’
She brushed a dirty hand slowly across her thigh and reflected dreamily on the delicious enjoyment that it was to be Beatie. She did not ask Kerren about herself, which was a pity because Kerren had her Dublin story ready. Instead, she asked:
`Have you any cigarettes?’
`I don’t smoke.’
`But Sam does. And I’m not in the mood to give him anything else, so . . .’
She went round the hut, opening drawers until she found a packet of cigarettes; then she went out and soon returned carrying a small bottle. `Petrol,’ she explained, crouching over the stove.
`Isn’t it difficult to get?’ Kerren asked as flames leapt up alarmingly.
`Not if you’re nice to the stoker.’ She stood for a while gazing into the stove, her face glowing red-gold, the full lips slightly parted. `Of course, it’s very wasteful and naughty of us. Think of all those poor sailors toiling in tankers.’ She bent down to wipe stains off the floor.
`Where do I put my suitcase when I’ve unpacked?’ Kerren asked.
`There’s a luggage-room at the far end; and an Elsan closet, but we don’t use that unless we really have to.’ She picked up a greatcoat and struggled into it, then wound a heavy scarf round her head and neck. `I’m duty Wren tonight,’ she explained. At the door of the hut she paused, turning the collar of her coat up around her chin. `Do you like emptying S.T. bins?’
`I’ve never done it.’
`You haven’t lived.’
The door closed behind her. Her shoes crunched on the cinder track. Then silence. For the first time since she left home six weeks ago, Kerren had reached a more or less permanent base. She stood by her bunk trying to accept the fact of arrival, to make it real. She noted the wrinkled counterpane, the anchor embroidered on it. She looked in the open drawer of the chest near by, crammed with collars, ties, face cream, soiled cotton wool, broken biscuits, paper novels, dirty handkerchiefs, all covered with pink powder spilt from a broken carton.
It was true: she had not lived. But now . . . She closed her eyes and tried to feel the miracle of birth taking place within her: all that happened was that she realized she was tired and hungry, her shoulders ached from the weight of her case, her face was caked with dirt and her mouth tasted foul. She went across to the bunk on the other side of the door and addressed the coiled figure.
`Do you mind telling me where I can get food and a wash?’
`Ablutions next to regulating office,’ a deep, muffled voice answered, `mess next to ablutions.’ As Kerren went to the door the coil unwound itself; dark, tangled hair and a long, haggard face appeared momentarily above the bedclothes. `There won’t be anything to eat at this time of night. But there’s some bread and dripping in my top drawer.’ The figure humped over and coiled up again.
There wasn’t anything to eat; and although regulating office reluctantly provided soap and a towel, there were no plugs in the baths and the water was lukewarm. Kerren stood naked and trembling on the wooden, slatted foot-rest and saw how her stomach caved in. She felt one of her black moods coming on. She went back to the cabin, made up her bunk and undressed. It was cold, but the stove was burning well and the long arm that went up to the roof glowed red; the room reeked of sulphur. She took the proffered bread and dripping and crawled into her bunk. She hoped that someone would come quickly: the magic of unknown personalities was urgently needed. The dripping made her feel sick. She became conscious of a darkness in the centre of her being, a quagmire into which her spirit would be sucked, dragging her down to the uttermost depths of despondency.
Voices rescued her; her nerves pricking with an almost unbearable expectancy, she crouched in her bunk watching the door. The handle jerked but failed to open; from beyond the door there was a soft skirl of laughter. And then a voice came, carrying clear on the frosty February air:
`What is the child doing?’
The voice went on, light, mocking, impersonal, as inhuman and unconcerned as a bird singing alone on the topmost branch of a dead tree.
The door opened suddenly and a figure crashed against the side of the bunk.
`Ooops!’
A face hung down close to Kerren’s; a round, downy face with indeterminate features that one would never need to remember. There was a smell of some kind of spirit which Kerren was too inexperienced to recognize: she hoped that it was gin because that was what her mother would most have dreaded. The voice was slurred and husky: `Someone here!’ Another skirl of laughter. Behind her shoulder another face came into focus; a very long, white face with a thin mouth that would always know what it wanted to say and eyes that were intelligent but indifferent, penetrating but uncritical. The head tilted to one side and the brilliant red hair gashed one cheekbone.
`That’s our new met. Wren,’ the bird-like voice said. `Come away. Hazel. You musn’t give her a bad impression of the Women’s Royal Naval Service: think of Dame Vera and go to bed.’
`I don’t want to go to bed with Dame Vera.’
`Now, now, let’s not be nasty.’
There was a third person in the group who stood with her back to the door watching the redhead warily. As the others moved away, Kerren saw a thick little body and a broad, coarse-skinned face. The girl breathed heavily and the thick, sandy eyebrows drew together over mild, bewildered eyes.
At the far end of the hut the redhead was helping Hazel to undress.
`I danced with Peter Shaw,’ Hazel said. `Do you think Beatie will be jealous?’
`Frankly, no’.
`You are a bitch, Robin. She’s not getting anywhere with him.’
`Give the girl time; she hasn’t been at work long.’
Darkness intervened between Kerren and the two girls; the silent member of the party had come across to the bunk and was pulling back the counterpane. She put a pair of crumpled pyjamas on top of the chest of drawers. Then she said in a slow, north country voice:
`I don’t think I’d want him. He gives me the jitters, the way he looks.’
`Oh, the man has something.’ Robin considered the matter idly while she unbuttoned Hazel’s shirt. ` “The way he looks” – as you put it – is part of the attraction.’
Jessie frowned and muttered to herself. She took off collar and tie, shirt and skirt, and flung them over a chair; a brassiere, stockings and a torn roll-on followed. The vest and `black-outs’ stayed on and the pyjamas were pulled over them with surreptitious haste. She put one foot in the middle of Kerren’s stomach and hoisted herself into the top bunk. A rather sour odour came from her. When she was settled she leant sideways until her face hung above Kerren’s, the blood running into the already bright cheeks and turning them mauve.
`I’m Jessie Buck.’
`I’m Kerren Nolan.’
`Where you from, matey?’
She sounded as
though she meant to be kind; Kerren, not valuing kindness, answered:
`I’m a relation of Molly Malone.’
`Who’s she when she’s at home?’
`She means she comes from Dublin,’ Robin said.
`Why doesn’t she say so, then?’ Jessie withdrew her head. After some heavy breathing, she announced, `There’s lots of folk come from there in Liverpool. Shocking the way they live. Like pigs.’
`I’ll have you know my mother was a fine lady! She knew Yeats and Synge and all the great people at the Abbey.’
After another longish pause, Jessie said:
`What about your dad?’
`Oh, he was a very dull fellow. But my grandfather was the great character: Mad Mike of the Mountains, they called him.’
Jessie plumped her pillow and lay down.
`Take the black-out down, Robin,’ she said.
Robin turned off the lights so that there was only a blue lamp in the centre. She began to unhitch the boards which were fastened against the windows. As she came across to the window near Jessie, Jessie whispered, `I don’t think I’m going to like her much.’ Robin only laughed softly.
Hazel blundered across the room and leant against the end of the bunk.
`When I danced with Peter Shaw . . .’
`Oh, bugger off, Hazel!’ Jessie shouted.
`You shouldn’t use bad language, Jessie,’ Robin admonished. `You haven’t the essential nonchalance. It sounds coarse and dreary when you do it – rather as though you didn’t know any better.’ She put the last board down and pattered swiftly across to her bunk near the stove. Jessie turned away from the stove’s brightness.
Now the window let in moonlight. It slanted across Kerren’s face, shining, the bright eyes devouring the night. In the top bunk, Jessie was crying, her face raw and crumpled as a baby’s.
Chapter Two
The stove was out, choked with grey cinders. The cabin windows were dusted with a light glitter of frost. It was too cold for restlessness, each unwary movement offered a chink for the thrusting air, so the humped figures in the bunks were still beneath the mounds of blankets, greatcoats and raincoats. In her dream Kerren thought it was Christmas. She lay on her back, her mouth slightly open; occasionally she flicked her tongue across her lips. Her breath was quick and shallow and she slept with the light expectancy of childhood, ready to wake in a flash to reach for the Christmas stocking. Now advent came with an asthmatic gasp as the tannoy in the ceiling came to life.