That Summer

by Andrew Greig

  ‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,’ I said, and it came out more serious than I’d meant, and made her look away for a moment.

  *

  Tad and Stella’s friend, a cheery bouncing blonde called Maddy, reappeared as the band was packing up. They seemed wrapped in some secret glow or joke. Tad proposed we all met up again soon as possible. I made with the eager nods while he kissed hands and bowed all over the shop and generally cut a dash. To my amazement the women were persuaded, we found a date we could all make, and a place – they were billeted just a couple of miles away. So: the Darnley Arms, twenty hundred hours, God and Goering willing.

  Outside in the warm dark, she kissed me on the cheek. Then, as I hesitated, kissed me again, however briefly, on the mouth. Her lips were warm, dry, light. She went back down onto her heels and looked at me.

  ‘Sometimes forewarned is forearmed,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know I was going to do that. Did you?’

  A sparky girl. Something in her look is a challenge I would rise to.

  ‘It was a dead cert,’ I said. ‘Didn’t need no RDF to tell me.’

  I got a quick grin, then she squeezed my arm and walked away. Two shadows detached themselves from behind the hall and Maddy came into the light again and caught up with Stella, straightening her dress. Well, Tad had made his intentions clear enough (I want rolling that Maddy from here to Cracow) and she seemed to have no objections at all.

  We walked home through the warm darkness, humming ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’.

  ‘Did you and Maddy–?’ I asked. No answer but his laugh.

  *

  He’s not what I’d pictured. Not even an officer, for a start. No moustache (not many of them do, that’s for the older ones, the desk men left from the last war). And he’s not posh – quite a marked West Country accent, his father works a lathe in some factory, and while my mother would doubtless describe his background as ‘salt of the earth’, I doubt if she’d want it sprinkled on her back garden, or on her daughter. (Not that it will come to that.)

  He’s a bit gangly and gauche is Mr Len Westbourne. Maybe this is what I liked about him, that he was embarrassed and stood there like he didn’t know what to do when Maddy pushed me towards him at the dance. Because I didn’t know what to do either – I mean, I’d only gone to keep Maddy company, not looking for a man.

  So I teased him to relieve my own embarrassment. As I waited for a response I wondered if he was slow, and I can’t stand slow. But he stood up for himself and forced me to ask if he was asking, because I suddenly did want to dance. No harm in having some fun, just because there’s a war on.

  To my surprise he danced not badly and was good in the turns. He led well, not bossy, just letting the rhythm push us both around. He knows it’s funny, dancing, and for that I liked him. I hadn’t had a man hold me like that since Evelyn, and before that, of course, Roger of cursed memory.

  Anyway, though we’d accepted the date, we’d no real intention of going to meet them at the Darnley. At least, I hadn’t. Far as I was concerned, if Maddy wanted a roll under the hedge with our admittedly well-groomed Polish friend, there was no need to drag me along. But though I’d only nodded, I felt somehow implicated, and his face had lit up so …

  No, I had other things to concentrate on. I’d keep my head well below the parapet on the romantic front for a while yet.

  Then we heard the guns around Gravesend as they hit the docks again, broke off the darts match to step outside and watch the show. It wasn’t much at that distance, looked more like a nuisance raid than anything big. Since the fall of France we were still waiting for the real thing; it had to come sooner or later. In the meantime, we were free to fanny about.

  ‘So why ain’t you lads up there, knockin’ ’em down?’ one of the locals asked.

  I said nothing, just watched our searchlights drain to nothing in the dark. It was rumoured the ack-ack was a waste of time, couldn’t shoot high enough. But the gunners had to keep their spirits up, and reassure the public something was being done. I felt for those blokes, running around with their helmets slipping over their eyes, banging off rounds at invisible aircraft while knowing their shells fell short. So pointless, so human.

  ‘His momma is not letting Lennie fly at night,’ Tad growled. ‘It stunts his growing, you know. And me, I have never liked the overtime.’

  In the dark street I smiled to myself, though our return fire was just a gesture. I’d noticed Tad’s English was good except when it suited him, like when dealing with an irate CO or teasing the natives.

  ‘Let’s hope you shoot better than you speak English, mate,’ one of them said.

  These lads were set on beating us, and with their home crowd looking on it was friendly, but a bit of needle too, no doubt. We shrugged, turned away and went back into the pub, nothing we could do. Tad was right, we were no night-fighters.

  And I’m no darts player, never have been. Too much time to get tense, to start to doubt myself. As a lad with my dad’s old .22, I was always better at a moving target. So exciting to have that power at a distance, hear the crack, feel the recoil and see the rabbit fall over just like that. And I loved rabbit stew. It was the bit in the middle I didn’t like, the glazed eye, the blood.

  In any case, draughtsmanship has always been my thing, not chatting up women. Though I’d thought this time I’d got lucky. But there was still no sign of Stella and Maddy (a wild one, suitable mate for Tad, I reckoned). I glanced at my watch as Tad picked up the darts. An hour late. Not much chance they’d be coming now. I thought again of those ack-ack gunners, shooting off shells knowing it was useless.

  Our opposition, Dave and Tom, two local lads we’d met that evening while jostling for bar space in the Darnley, were frankly in a different class. But we’d had a couple while waiting for the women, and we’d hit one of those hot streaks that comes once in a while, and we were holding them. With their mates watching and making with the wisecracks, it had turned into a bit of a do. Not what I had in mind for the evening, but it was all that was on offer.

  So I took a quick drag and went up to the mark to throw. Went for 19, hit treble 17, pinged one off the wire then on impulse switched to 20 and picked up a double. It had been like that all evening. Lucky in darts if not in love.

  We won that game. Three-all. A last decider. I got another round in first. No hurry, after all we had nothing better to do.

  Shame, really. For a moment I’d thought it might happen.

  But our date had always been a speculative shot. We weren’t officers, I’m no Clark Gable, and Tad’s just too different for most. I checked my watch again. Nearly an hour and a half late. Finish the game, one more drink then leave.

  They got away first throw but so did we, and chased each other down great style from 501. Suddenly I was standing with 50 to shoot, three arrows in my hand, the local aces needing only double tops to wrap it up.

  ‘When the going gets tough …’ Tad whispered. ‘You can do it, Lenny.’

  I put down my cigarette, casual like, and toed the line. With the room silent and all eyes on me, I hit the 10. Then went for tops. Tensed on it, hit the ruddy wall. Someone laughed, I hesitated, and in that bright room felt alone, not tough at all. Certain of defeat, I drew my arm back anyway.

  The street door opened. I saw Stella’s eyes on me, wide forehead beneath that permed-up sweep of auburn hair, and Maddy right behind her. I glanced, turned back to the board, threw.

  The moment it left my hand I was sure. Nothing, no bombs, no ruddy war could change it now. My dart slid through the smoky air and thudded into double 20.

  Hubbub, laughter, Tad’s whoop. Mine host set us up a pint apiece while we shook hands with Dave and Tom.

  ‘Won’t be so lucky next time,’ Dave muttered, and I rather agreed as we pushed over to our girls. She smiled, I smiled. For that moment there seemed no flap, no worry. Though she had class, I had my moments and that might do. Would blooming have to!

  ‘What w
as all the fuss about?’ she asked.

  ‘We got lucky and won against the run of play,’ I replied.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s as well we were late. Missed the boring bit.’

  But she took my arm, just like that, as we went through to the Snug. And when we were seated with the beers and gins and she turned to me again, I seemed to see what she’d say next, what I’d say, how it would all turn out, as though a searchlight had just leapt forward in the dark and we had always been its mark.

  When I got back to my billet that evening – the dour bulk of Mrs Mackenzie standing guard as usual just inside the door – I wasn’t about to go anywhere, particularly not a smoke-filled noisy pub. I was tired and headachy from a day in front of the screen, trying to learn to read those cursed blips and dips, and there were pages of Operational Notes to study. I phoned Maddy and told her. We had a brief falling out then made up again.

  Then after the evening meal – eaten in near-silence as always, to the rhythm of Mr Mackenzie’s chomping and her complaints as though the War had been started to inconvenience her personally – I studied awhile then lay down, looking at the ceiling and thinking about my past love life. For a while I felt sorry for us all, then I sat up in bed and threw the Signals textbook into the corner. Damned if I’d let those sad affairs spoil my life. Anyway, it was only a night’s fun and chat. And that poor pilot would be so sorry if I didn’t show up.

  So I went downstairs and phoned Maddy, then got dressed up – not so much, just enough to look good without being desperate. By the time she got round and we cycled through the blackout, feeling our way between dark roadway and deeper darkness of the verge, hearing the not-so-distant drone of bombers, and finally got to the village, we were badly late. So late we even discussed whether we dared show our faces and if they’d still be there, and we stood outside in the dark, suddenly unsure of ourselves. There was a burst of laughter inside and I felt excluded, wanted to leave yet longed to join in.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to stop us having a drink before we bike back.’

  And I pushed the door open into the brightness and saw him and he saw me then he threw a dart and there was a lot of noise and cheering and I was glad we’d come. So pleased I forgot all caution and took his arm as we went through to the Snug.

  I looked round at us and raised my glass.

  ‘Happy outcomes,’ I said.

  Don’t think I didn’t catch you looking at me, young Len, as Maddy and that eccentric friend of his – apparently I must learn to call him Tad – ran through their routines. I felt your eyes brush over me like very light hands, but they were at least respectful, amused, wondering, and you kept them (in so far as a man can) above rather than below my neck. But look you did, till I had to laugh my way back into conversation.

  We talked of nothing important and with a couple of gins inside it was fun. They tried to explain about darts, we swapped histories in brief. He’s Volunteer Reserve, the non-officer lot, transferred only recently to the RAF with no combat experience as yet.

  ‘Takes all my time just to fly the thing,’ he said. ‘And stay in formation. The sky’s so huge and bright, you’ve no idea.’

  As we talked there were soft thuds from the direction of the docks like someone clearing their throat or coughing and I noticed how he cocked his head a moment, paused, then came back into our conversation as though it was nothing. At least nothing that need concern us, and that I both appreciated and resented.

  ‘Stella tells the future,’ he said to Tad, and I realized he was a little drunk. ‘She sees what’s coming. Like how many and at what height.’

  I shrugged modestly.

  ‘That would be anything to do with the tall masts?’ Tad said. ‘Or are you just psychic, you know?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ Maddy said. ‘And so am I.’

  ‘Prove it to me,’ Tad said.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what you’re thinking about.’

  She bent forward and whispered in his ear while Len and I didn’t look at each other.

  ‘You are psychic,’ Tad whooped. ‘So correct! Or maybe you are just hearing your own thoughts?’

  I had to smile then, thinking of the blips I’d been spending the last weeks with, those shifting echoes. The trick is learning to read them, I thought vaguely through my third gin.

  *

  We had no need for them to walk us home. I pushed my bike, which came usefully between us. Tad and Maddy drifted further behind and disappeared somewhere in the darkness.

  It was a mild night, not long past midsummer and not entirely black though the moon was down. The stars were faint through the sky, the searchlights had gone to bed. He crossed in front of the bike, came round to my side and put his arm round my waist. We walked on a while in silence, both suddenly incapable of speech. The air was soft and moist. I smelled nettles in the ditch then something sour-sweet that may have been hawthorn. Blackout sharpens the sense of smell, I thought, then realized I’d said it out loud.

  ‘You lose one thing and gain another,’ he replied. ‘That’s how it goes.’

  We walked on, his hand now firm on my waist, gripping and not slipping down. And for some reason I was annoyed at his saying so, or doing so. I was supposed to be in charge here.

  ‘So what have you lost recently?’ I said.

  ‘Certainty,’ he replied straight away. ‘Like everyone else. I don’t know what happens tomorrow, next week or next year. We could have an invasion. In a month there could be paratroopers coming down this lane.’

  I shivered. It seemed wildly unlikely, yet it was true ever since the fall of France, everyone knew it. And, I confess, part of that shiver was excitement.

  ‘And gained?’ I asked.

  A long pause, so long I’d started to look at the sky again, thinking I’d been too personal. And I hadn’t been fishing, honest.

  ‘A life,’ he said quietly, and his long-fingered hand gripped my waist tighter for a moment.

  *

  We stood at the crossroads, waiting for the lovebirds if that’s what they were. Honestly, I think it’s happening under every hedgerow in England. Which is no reason why I should add to the numbers. Eventually they appeared out of the darkness. He was pushing her bike, which squeaked; she was hanging on to his free arm like a willing satellite. The four of us stood there a moment, Maddy still straightening her hair. The conversation lit up, fizzled, went out. I was very tired now and ready to get home, look at the ceiling and let sleep come quickly.

  My young man – how I love to patronize him, it saves being alarmed by him – had put his hands in his pockets and run out of words. Was swivelling on his heels, looking down then over my shoulder. I took pity on him, took him aside and on impulse kissed him firmly on the lips though we kept our mouths closed. And again. This time he got the idea, though he seemed a little out of practice. Then we said good night and went our ways, Maddy already debriefing me, incredulous I hadn’t dragged him into a ditch and had my way with him.

  I said nothing, but laughed along with her. It had been a good, merry, insignificant night, a fine way to relax after a hard day with the blips.

  Admit it: said Yes to a date next week, just the two of us, my beanpole pilot and me. Wasn’t apologizing to Evelyn. Wasn’t mourning Roger as I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Early July

  Woke around five, my head still thick from booze and cigarettes. Bit of a carry-on last night! Thought of her face at the pub doorway, my throw, that moment when everything fits. I wondered if it would be like that for my first kill, or if I’d get it first, cannon shells crashing into my tiny cockpit, the plane catching fire and going down with me screaming and trying to get the hood back before–

  Some carry-on. At least two drinks too many. Did we really make complete asses of ourselves? How far did Tad get with Maddy? Should I have pushed things further with Stella so she’d remember me? Even if she wanted to. Her kiss had caught
me off-balance and my response had been clumsy.

  I blushed in the dimness of my billet. If I had another opportunity, the suave or witty things I’d say, the certainty with which I’d kiss her …

  Her lips had been warm. Not unwilling, I thought. How does one know the meaning of these things, or if it means anything more than an evening’s pleasure snatched during a war? The spark of a cigarette in the blackout …

  Seeing her next week. The game’s not over yet, this war has hardly started.

  Then I was on my feet on the cold linoleum floor, drinking a glass of water held to the dawn light. Then another. I changed into running gear, tied my gym shoes then went out the door, glancing at Johnny Staples on his back, arm across his face as though to protect himself. He’d downed two and a probable in France and though only a sergeant like myself, had been promoted to the Hon. Harry St John’s wingman. One of the insiders, while I was still the new boy, getting the jokes too late and struggling to stay in position.

  I stood outside the door, feeling cold water sloosh round my muddy guts. There were low bands of mist wrapping the poplars that lined the flinty road, just their tips showing, still and unmoving. In the farm across the way, a Land Girl was leading horses into the yard. As I tried not to stare at her trousers, thinking what my mum would have said, she saw me and waved silently.

  I waved back, did a few stretching exercises, then set off on my sobering-up run. Loped across the common, feet already damp with dew, then through a stile and down the hawthorn lane. Then ran past the lightning-blasted big tree, turned onto the ridgeway and up across the fields. There was me leaping and dodging nettles and cowpats like squashed hats, scattering rabbits and pheasants, whooping after them. My arms and legs were going like bilge-pumps, emptying my carcass of last night’s slop.

  Into the trees, the big oaks and beeches. Cool in there, soft forest floor under my feet, spotted fox holes but no fox. I came to forks in the path and for once chose on impulse, without hesitation, in love with summer and my youth and the onrush of it all.