by Rosie Archer
Maud poured the boiling water into the teapot. ‘Look, it’s Christmas afternoon. What say we three relax in front of the fire and make a start on Jo’s apricot flan?’
Chapter Eleven
May 1940
Blackie had no idea of how much time had elapsed. It came to him one morning that the shock of what had happened with the corporal and the tank was passing; it would never entirely leave him but he must go on living. He no longer broke out in a sweat at every burst of gunfire. He had no map, no compass or rations. He had prised a water container from one of the dead Germans’ belts. He had a haversack containing his gas mask and his own canteen of water. He also had a rifle and rounds of ammunition. The incessant enemy machine-gun fire made the nights long, and the air stank of cordite and death.
It seemed to him that it would be only a matter of time before he was taken prisoner or killed, or perhaps so badly wounded that he would wish he were dead. Arras: the name was familiar. Was that where he was? Or had he dreamed it in one of the snatches of sleep he allowed himself?
For some time now he had existed by living rough in the countryside, stealing from deserted derelict farms that had already been ransacked. Wherever he went he was conscious of the smell of rotting flesh – farm animals and human. The snow and ice that must have disguised the stench had long been replaced by a thawing sun and he noticed green shoots pushing through the earth; the chill in the air had been replaced with blessed warmth that only reminded him of how strongly the stench of his own stale sweat clung to him.
When he came upon human habitation in a wrecked village he thought at first his imagination was playing tricks on him. He discovered two British men cowering in the cellar of a house.
‘You were lucky we didn’t kill you,’ one of them, Pete, said. He was a weedy man, tall and thin, like a tree that had outgrown its strength.
The sky showed through the ceilings. They’d found the makings for coffee. Water boiled courtesy of a Primus stove. Blackie had been so long without living company that his confidence was knocked sideways.
Malc, Pete’s mate, said they were part of the rear-guard of the British Expeditionary Force. ‘We were blowing up bridges until we got cut off from our unit.’
Blackie took an instant liking to him. He was a family man who insisted on showing photographs of his wife and kids. It made Blackie think of the picture of the girl he kept in his top pocket, the corporal’s daughter.
While they were waiting for the little stove to heat the large pot of water the shelling began again. Sitting there, Blackie could almost believe they were like three youngsters camping out, until the nerve-racking shriek of incoming shells and explosions got nearer.
Malc stirred in the coffee. ‘Might not be like yer mother makes it but it’ll taste just fine.’
Blackie was thankful he wasn’t alone any more. His mouth watered at the thought of the hot drink. ‘The bloody mortar bombs are close,’ he said, automatically ducking as noise rent the air.
A volley of shells made the three men dive for cover.
Shrapnel scored a hit in the big saucepan. The hot coffee spurted everywhere.
Blackie cursed, but the word was lost in the swearing coming from Malc and Pete! A hasty retreat across fields and into woodland saved their lives. Blackie was fagged out – his legs felt like lead – but he knew that to rest would be his undoing.
‘I can smell the sea,’ said Pete. Blackie thought he was off his head.
Soon they met up with two more British soldiers, who were trying to get to the coast. Dunkirk, Blackie was told. Their orders were to get to Dunkirk.
‘We’re well and truly scuppered,’ said a wounded man with a stick. ‘If we can get to the beaches we’ve been told we can be taken home across the Channel, evacuated, by our own people. It’s our only chance. The Germans have taken over the Frenchies’ territory and are picking us off like bleedin’ fish in a barrel.’
The five men ploughed onwards.
Approaching Dunkirk was like going into Hell. More soldiers joined them. Constant aerial attacks by the Germans meant men fell like flies.
‘The town’s on fire!’ shouted Pete, then copped it with a stray bullet. The hole in his neck was gurgling blood. Malc dropped to his knees. Blackie could see Pete was already out of it. ‘Leave him!’ he screamed, tackling Malc into a ditch as a plane roared overhead, strafing the ground with gunfire.
‘My fuckin’ knee!’ Malc groaned. ‘I’ve been shot.’ His face was running with sweat and dirt.
‘Could have been worse,’ said Blackie. ‘At least we’re still alive.’ He knew then that he wouldn’t leave Malc until they were safe . . . or dead.
Oil tanks blazed. Huge cranes that normally slid along the dockside rails were crumpled and smashed, like broken spiders. Thick smoke covered everything, making it difficult to breathe, but at least it gave them cover from the marauding planes.
Not so the beaches,where live mines awaited them.
‘For fuck’s sake, would you look at that!’ blurted Malc.
Boats of all sizes, warships and small craft, seemed to be running a ferry service.
‘The beaches are our best bet,’ said Blackie. ‘Look! The harbour’s packed with sinking and burning ships.’
‘No!’ gasped Malc. Blackie felt the older man sag against him. He was out for the count but Blackie knew he would somehow find the strength to haul him across the dunes. If only he had something to give the poor bugger. The pain must be excruciating. Blackie had used his shirt as a kind of tourniquet above Malc’s knee. ‘Go on without me,’ Malc mumbled, and his head lolled back again.
‘Shut up,’ said Blackie. ‘I hate Southampton Scummers but I’m buggered if a Pompey bloke would leave one behind.’ Malc had let it be known he lived in Southampton. Portsmouth and Southampton football fans hated each other and their fights were legendary.
Blackie dragged Malc across the dunes, the blackened marram grass cutting every spare bit of flesh it could reach. Masses of men were doing the same, all with one idea: to reach the ships in the sea. Another air raid had the men screaming and cowering. Hundreds of men were in the water queuing to be rescued, and the constant firing from the planes was turning the water red as the bullets hit them. There were corpses floating in the sea. Some still had their tin helmets on. So many bodies, some still alive, but it looked like they were drowning in their own blood.
Blackie waded into the sea, breathing in the stink of cordite. It burned the back of his throat.
He saw a piece of billowing blue material and moved towards it but the nurse who had come to help the dying was dead. He felt as if the carnage about him was not real but a passage in a book or a scene in an uncensored film and wished he could close the book or leave the picture-house.
Malc, buoyed by the water, seemed lighter now.
Blackie pushed him into an over-full rowing boat that wasn’t going to stop. He too managed to climb aboard. Something caught at his upper leg, like the bite of sharp shrapnel, perhaps a bullet? The boat was heading towards a destroyer. Shells whistled above his head.
Suddenly the destroyer was hit and began listing. The deck was so close that Blackie could see injured men sliding into the water. They were dragged down by their heavy uniforms. All around him men were dying and Blackie feared for the pull of water that would be the end of him. He’d got this far but death was everywhere. Still he wouldn’t let go of Malc.
And then the miracle occurred. A motor torpedo boat threw out rescue ropes. Amazingly, Blackie was able to grab one. The thirty-foot vessel was low in the water and Blackie managed to shove Malc onto the webbing, then strong hands pulled them both aboard.
Blackie was soaking wet and packed like a sardine with the other men. Shivering with cold, and the fear that the small boat would be attacked, he didn’t let go his hold on Malc.
‘Aw right, mate?’ A gaunt man nudged up against him. Blackie could only nod. He was aware only of the pain in his leg.
‘With
God’s will and a few more hours, we’ll be out of this carnage,’ the man said. ‘We’re hoping to follow the French coast, then sail west to the North Goodwin Lightship.’ Blackie stared at him. The route meant nothing to him. He felt Malc’s body twist beneath his tightly curled fingers.
‘Poor buggers,’ Blackie heard the man say. He wasn’t sure who he was referring to, him and Malc or the poor sods in the water.
‘Let’s pull him out of the wet.’ The man grabbed at Malc, lifting him clearer of the sludge swirling in the bottom of the boat.
Blackie looked about him. There were fishing boats, pleasure craft, yachts and men shoulder high in the sea still waiting and scrabbling to board one. And all the while planes screamed overhead, bombs fell, ships hit mines and bodies disintegrated.
There was still enough feeling in Blackie’s hands for him to know that Malc was hanging on to life and that comforted him. He thanked God for the clement weather but the slight wind encouraged the stench from the burning gasometers, the flaming town and the wrecked ships to linger in the air, like mist.
Blackie watched the chaos receding as the thirty-foot vessel chugged further into open water. The gaunt man was staring at him.
‘When, if, we reach the Goodwin Sands, Dover’ll be our next stop,’ he said.
Blackie could only nod.
*
When the boat docked at Dover, Blackie was handed a mug of tea and a paste sandwich that he thought was manna from Heaven. It was the first food he’d eaten in three days. He watched as Malc was loaded into the back of an ambulance, then he was helped in beside him. Blackie, unable to believe he was home, fell asleep.
His dreams were unreal, lurid, of the corporal and how he had come to be in the foxhole.
Chapter Twelve
‘Goodbye! Goodbye!!’
The voices in the charabanc rang out loud and clear, perhaps not in tune, definitely not with the right words, but enthusiastically.
‘Wasn’t it lovely?’ Ivy turned to Rainey, sitting next to her. ‘I know I’ll always remember tonight.’
Rainey stopped singing long enough to squeeze Ivy’s hand. ‘We could do that,’ she said. ‘Us three. Our voices are good enough to sing on a stage.’
Ivy thought of the lavish production of White Horse Inn at the London Coliseum that Mrs Wilkes had arranged for the choir to see. ‘I’d never have enough courage to sing in front of a proper audience like that.’
‘Audiences are just people and we’ve been singing to people.’
‘I hardly think singing in the drizzle to passers-by down at the ferry counts as an audience. Nor does warbling away to bedbound people in hospital,’ Ivy said. Rainey had more courage than Ivy. It was she who suggested they sway in time to ‘The Bluebird Song’. Mrs Wilkes had liked that.
‘If you can grab just one person’s attention, you have them in the palm of your hand. The rest of the audience will follow suit,’ Rainey had said.
Ivy smiled at Rainey. ‘I wish I was more like you.’
Rainey said, ‘You’re an individual. We three complement each other. Our voices are different but we blend well. Otherwise Mrs Wilkes wouldn’t bother with us.’
Just then, Mrs Wilkes heaved herself up from her seat at the front, leaving Toto to jump onto it. She motioned for silence. Toto, of course, was not allowed in the theatre so the driver had been in charge of him while the choir watched the production. The man had not been happy about that. He’d mumbled, as the charabanc had emptied, ‘I’m a driver not a bloody dog minder.’ Nevertheless, when everyone had boarded the vehicle at Charing Cross for the return journey, he’d had the little dog nestled safely in his arms.
‘I hope you all enjoyed that treat.’ She was interrupted by cheers. ‘Pish! Calm down. Now, as you know, St John’s School kindly financed our trip for educational purposes and I hope this won’t be the last show they’ll pay for. I feel it’s important for you to see how paid singers, dancers and actors behave on the stage – though, of course, there’s only a few of you who can trip the light fantastic.’
‘We go dancing, Mrs Wilkes,’ shouted Bea. ‘At the Sloane Stanley Hall!’
‘Is that what you call it, Bea? Dancing?’ Mrs Wilkes smiled at her. Everyone laughed, including Bea.
‘If my mum had had to pay for this I wouldn’t be here,’ Rainey said quietly, to Ivy. ‘There’s no spare money in our house.’
Waving her hands for silence, Mrs Wilkes continued, ‘Because we’ve been collecting money for charity it seems St John’s have made us ambassadors for the school. Though, sadly, some of our singers couldn’t be here.’ Maud hadn’t been able to leave Granddad, so Ivy had been told, and Jo had had to work, but most of the choir had taken advantage of the trip. ‘I hope you were aware of the strong, harmonious singing during the many crowd scenes. There can only ever be a few outstanding voices but the background singers, the villagers, I shall call them, are every bit as important as the stars. You are a choir.’ She waved her hand expansively. ‘Not one of you is any more important than the next singer.’
The charabanc lurched and Mrs Wilkes stumbled but, gripping the back of the seat, managed to stay upright.
Bea called, ‘I thought it was lovely. I especially loved Gretl with her lisp.’
Another voice shouted above Bea’s: ‘Josepha was the star!’
‘Well, I’m glad you all enjoyed White Horse Inn .’ Mrs Wilkes had waved her hand again for silence, but the choir’s high spirits had taken over and once more the charabanc was filled with songs from the show. Ivy heard her say, ‘I think they all liked it,’ as she gathered up Toto and placed him on her lap. Ivy also saw the smile of contentment on her face before she sat down.
She said, ‘My mum’s agreed I can go to the dance on Friday night as long as I come home when you do.’
Rainey grinned. ‘Well, my mum said it’s all right for me to go as long as I walk back with you.’
They beamed at each other, then joined in with the singing.
*
Through the open doorway of the Sloane Stanley Hall’s Spring Dance Rainey could see Bea in the garden. The young soldier had his arms around her and was kissing her fiercely. When Rainey had first spotted the dark-haired man in khaki he had been pulling Bea across the dance-floor, but she’d seemed eager enough to follow him outside.
Rainey hated herself for watching, like some Peeping Tom, but she had the feeling something was wrong, especially in the way the soldier had tipped the small bottle to Bea’s lips. Bea had thrown back her head afterwards and laughed, then stumbled against him but had, nevertheless, taken another drink.
The couple were partially hidden behind an elm tree and Rainey felt guilty. After all, Bea was older than herself and Ivy. Maybe that was normal behaviour for eighteen-year-olds.
A shiver went down her back as she remembered the scenes she’d stumbled into when her father, drunk, was mauling her mother. Intervening had resulted in her getting in the way of a fist but she’d seen the sorrow and gratitude in her mother’s eyes.
‘Are you a wallflower?’ Ivy sat down heavily beside her. She was breathless after a foxtrot. Rainey never expected to be asked to dance. She knew she was pretty – someone had told her she looked like Rita Hayworth – but she thought that somehow she exuded the sort of unscented perfume from her pores that told the opposite sex to stay away from her. Even at school, where almost every girl had a boyfriend, or at least someone who fancied her, she couldn’t stand in the cloakroom swapping tales: there was nothing to tell.
‘Thank you,’ said the tall, skinny lad, who had brought Ivy back to her seat. He melted into the crowded dance hall that smelled of cheap perfume, sweat and cigarette smoke.
Rainey said, ‘Yes, and I thought there was no drink allowed here.’
‘You know there isn’t. It’s just tea and lemonade.’
‘If Bea has any more she’ll fall over.’ Rainey hadn’t meant to sound so scathing, but since the sherry episode at Christmas, she’d been wary of B
ea’s motives.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Just look out of that door and you’ll see.’
Ivy stared into the garden. Then she leaped from her chair and battled her way through the dancers.
Within moments Rainey saw Eddie moving swiftly along the seated people at the edge of the dance-floor. A girl with long dark hair and a face like thunder was staring after him. Ivy tagged behind him, trying to keep up with him.
As Eddie and Ivy charged into the garden, the back door slammed.
Rainey wanted to follow them, but thought Eddie and Ivy could cope quite well. Bea wouldn’t be happy that too many people should witness what was about to happen or, indeed, had already taken place.
The five-piece band was still playing and couples were smooching to a waltz when the back door snapped open. The young soldier staggered through, blood streaming from his nose that his red handkerchief wasn’t capable of staunching. He didn’t speak or look around, simply hurried out of the big front doors. Drops of blood made small shiny circles on the parquet flooring.
Rainey drank some of her flat lemonade.
A few surprised dancers watched the soldier’s exit but the band continued playing and the couples didn’t falter in their steps.
With the soldier gone Rainey could imagine Eddie and Ivy attending to Bea. She wanted to go out to them but her imagination had taken over. Supposing the soldier had hurt Bea. It would be like seeing her mother after her father had attacked her. She’d rather not have to look at the damage.
Her mind drifted back to before the dance when she and Ivy had called for Bea at her house. They’d lounged in her bedroom, while Bea put finishing touches to her make-up, and admired her discarded dresses. Rainey had even picked up a couple and put them on hangers, hooking them up on the picture rail. One, a soft green wool, was featherlike to the touch and Rainey wanted so much to try it on, knowing its colour would enhance the orange lights in her hair. ‘This is gorgeous,’ she’d said.