Dover Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘It is a bit crowded,’ said a tubby woman.

  ‘I mean air raids,’ said the lance-corporal. ‘We’ve just come down from Yorkshire.’

  ‘It’s not an air raid, it’s only a warning,’ said a man puffing at a fuming pipe. ‘They don’t always turn up.’

  ‘Look,’ said Sproston pointing out to sea. ‘Planes.’

  The soldiers threw themselves down to the concrete floor. The local people observed them with curiosity. ‘They’re heading inland,’ summed up the man with the pipe. He blew a foul cloud of smoke. Some of the old people coughed.

  Shamefaced the troops gradually stood. Ardley shielded his eyes against the sun. A man with a holey red pullover said: ‘He won’t bomb the harbour because he’ll be needing that when he invades.’

  ‘If he ever does,’ puffed the man with the pipe. ‘He’s dropped leaflets, ain’t he, saying he wants peace.’

  ‘He’ll come,’ said a woman. ‘If Hitler says he’ll come, he will.’

  She rose and went out to walk along the promenade. ‘I’ve got my cat to feed,’ she said.

  Jenkins, keeping his eyes on the sky, came into the shelter and found Ardley who was standing near the open front. ‘I’ve done a letter,’ he whispered. ‘All on my own.’

  Ardley said: ‘That’s very good, Welshy.’

  ‘Look, if you want,’ said Jenkins. From the top pocket of his tunic he took a folded piece of lined paper and modestly gave it to Ardley. It was written in capitals. ‘DEAR MUM AND DAD AND DORSI.’

  ‘Good start,’ nodded Ardley. ‘Nice name, Dorsi. Is it Welsh?’

  ‘Doris,’ said Jenkins looking ashamed. ‘It’s Doris.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘No, the dog.’

  The all-clear siren sounded across the sea front. ‘He went home the other way,’ said the knowing man with the pipe. ‘Over Folkestone.’

  The cave was dimly lit, patterned with shadows. Some of the soldiers were already asleep. Jenkins sat upright in his bed, Welsh eyes wide, and began to read aloud, ponderously. In one hand he held a gnarled paperback book and in the other a torch.

  ‘“Hell-o, Big Dick,”’ he declared loudly. ‘“Want to buy a puss-y cat?” She led him up the street to her room. It was hot and dim . . .’

  ‘So are you, Welshy,’ groaned Tugwell. ‘Shut it, will you.’

  The men began to stir irritably. ‘For Christ’s sake . . . stop ’im, somebody . . . Welshy, pack it up, you bugger . . .’

  Jenkins ploughed on flatly. ‘She took her pant-ies off. Her big breasts shone in the . . .’ He stopped and handed the book to Sproston who was leaning on his elbow. ‘What’s that say?’

  ‘Luminous moonlight,’ said Sproston wearily. He handed the book back.

  Jenkins looked discomfited but then compromised: ‘Moonlight.’ Continuing: ‘“What big tits you have got.”’

  Men began to sit up, dull-eyed, half asleep, one by one. ‘Pack it in, Welshy,’ pleaded one.

  ‘Don’t stop him,’ said another. ‘I’m getting a hard-on.’

  ‘I’m on bonk as well,’ whispered Jenkins lifting his blanket and shining the torch into the space. ‘I’m glad I can read now.’

  Cartwright pressed the ‘A’ button and the coins dropped clumsily. ‘Hello, is that the US embassy?’

  ‘This is the Embassy of the United States of America.’

  The forceful voice made him move a fraction away from the telephone. The box was at a bare crossroads on Romney Marsh. ‘Oh, right. I’m glad I got through.’

  ‘There’s a war going on,’ said the American.

  ‘So I understand. I’d like to speak to Mrs Sarah Durrant, please. She’s in the Archives Department. I’m in a public telephone box.’

  Sarah picked up the telephone at once. He heard the operator say: ‘It’s a man who’s in a booth somewhere.’

  ‘God knows where,’ said Cartwright.

  ‘Robin!’ Sarah said. ‘Oh, am I glad to hear you. I thought they’d send me back Stateside before we spoke.’

  ‘Is that likely to happen soon?’

  ‘It could just have been. But I’ve been smart. I’ve got myself a new job. Somebody did go home. She got scared here because of the bombing, so I got her job.’

  ‘You’ve had bombs near you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Sarah, I’ll have to be quick. Can we meet up?’

  ‘It would be fine. I don’t work weekends.’

  ‘On Saturday then? I can’t get to London. Can you get a train to Tunbridge Wells station? By say noon.’

  ‘I’ll be there. I can hear the bleeps going. Your pennies are running out.’

  ‘See you Saturday.’

  The train came in punctually at ten minutes past twelve. Cartwright was waiting on the platform and he saw her at once, in a slender summer dress, stepping towards him happily, her hair caught by the station sun shining through the steam. She wore a neat hat which fell over her forehead as she hurried. She laughed and straightened it. They shook hands and then impulsively embraced, the first time they had held each other.

  ‘I was so glad to get through to you. The war gets in the way, doesn’t it,’ he said. ‘They’ve given me a new job. Let’s go and have some lunch.’

  She smiled her clear smile and took his arm. ‘I’ve been reading up on Tunbridge Wells,’ she said.

  They walked across the quaint street. ‘They’ve had some raids,’ he said. ‘A few bombs.’

  Sarah looked about her. ‘All these cute shops and walkways.’

  ‘And,’ he said pointing, ‘a restaurant.’

  It was called the Brass Lantern and there was one hanging outside the small curved-paned windows, swinging a fraction in the early August breeze. There was a pink-faced waitress on the pavement, blinking at the sun.

  ‘You’re the first for lunch,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Everything you see on the menu, today, we’ve really got.’ Her accent was Scots. She opened the door for them. ‘We had two land-mines yesterday,’ she said smoothing down her white lace apron. ‘Only up the street. Three dead.’

  They chose a table in the window but the girl looked doubtful and indicated one in a further corner saying: ‘You never know, Jerry might be back. It was lunchtime yesterday.’

  They moved to the other table and each had a glass of wine. ‘I was evacuated down here,’ said the waitress determinedly. ‘From Scotland. My folk thought it would be safer in the south.’

  ‘Do you want to go back?’ asked Sarah glancing up from the menu.

  ‘Och, no,’ the girl laughed. ‘I’m having too much fun. The Polish airmen come in every night to the pubs. They’re a hoot.’

  After she had gone Cartwright said: ‘By the time this war is finished half the population will have been transported somewhere else. People who once didn’t even own a suitcase.’

  Sarah looked gently over her glass at him. Her eyes were deep, her hair showed below her small hat. ‘They keep trying to send me home,’ she said. ‘And I just don’t want to go. The others think I’m crazy. They think there’s going to be a lot of bombing.’

  ‘But you’re keeping one step ahead?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Well, at last the army have found a job for me,’ he laughed quietly. ‘I didn’t know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing. There’s not a lot of call for archaeology just now or guided tours for American ladies. They’ve sent me out to look at some churches.’

  ‘That sounds peaceful enough.’

  ‘The authorities are worried that some of the old church treasures in this area, from here down to the coast, the screens, communion plate, relics and suchlike will be in danger of destruction or looting if the German invasion happens. And not necessarily from the Germans. I’ve got to get around and, because I have a history degree, advise on their removal or protection. It’s a weird job. Precious stuff has got to be removed and stored somewhere. Fortunately there are plenty of caves in Kent.’

  ‘Where
will you start?’

  ‘On Romney Marsh. It’s a strange part, very misty, very mysterious. It used to be a favourite place for smugglers and it’s still a bit like that. Lots of tales. It’s south-east of here towards the coast.’

  Sarah said almost shyly: ‘I copied the poem “Dover Beach”.’ She opened her handbag and took out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve almost learned it,’ she smiled. ‘Sitting in my bed. It’s the middle words that are so beautiful.’ She took a sip of the wine and spread the written lines on the white tablecloth.

  In her soft American voice, but unselfconsciously, she began to read:

  ‘Ah, love, let us be true

  To one another! for the world, which seems

  To lie before us like a land of dreams . . .’

  ‘Och, poetry,’ said the young waitress abruptly appearing and leaning over. ‘I write poems. I’ve written hundreds.’

  They regarded her soberly. ‘Only yesterday I began one.’ She politely examined the lines laid on the tablecloth. ‘Did you write that?’ she asked Sarah.

  Sarah said: ‘I’m afraid not. It’s by Matthew Arnold.’

  ‘What did I write last week now?’ said the girl. ‘Something like . . . oh yes . . .’

  She smoothed her hands down her apron.

  ‘The moon shines down on Tunbridge Wells

  And there a lot of people dwells.’

  ‘But I can’t remember the rest. Would you like to order now?’

  Even on the late summer afternoon the marsh looked shadowed and secret. He drove the small khaki-coloured car through lanes where the overhang of trees closed out the sky. ‘England,’ Sarah said, ‘is really strange. In a small country who would know that there could be such differences, all in a few miles.’

  ‘People even talk in different ways,’ Cartwright said. ‘And they’re almost neighbours. Here on Romney Marsh some speak like their great-great-great grandfathers spoke.’

  He eased the small car to a stop at a crossroads and checked a map. ‘Had one heck of a job getting hold of this,’ he said rustling it. ‘If you ask for a map they think you’re a German spy, even if you’re in uniform. I convinced the Dover library I wasn’t one. The army didn’t have any maps spare.’ He looked both ways. The lane was empty, punctuated with sharp-edged black shadows. Crows flapped over the trees, their calls cracking the silence. He turned left and after three hundred yards and three more corners said: ‘This looks like it.’

  The church was almost buried beneath its yews. The graveyard smelt of mildew; it was deep, green and unkempt except for two tombstones which had been kept clear and on which wild flowers had been placed in jam jars. One jar had toppled on to its side and as they entered through the gate Sarah stepped aside and righted it. She said: ‘That’s me. House proud.’

  Inside the wooden porch of the church they stood for a moment. It was dim under there and the wood smelt rotten. Sarah moved a step towards a noticeboard.

  ‘Village Dance,’ she read aloud. ‘In aid of the War Effort.’

  ‘Every little helps,’ grinned Cartwright.

  ‘Reading Circle,’ she continued, ‘Gardening Club and Knitting for the Forces. Life goes on.’ One of the notices was faded. ‘Bell Ringing Practice. Cancelled for the Duration.’

  ‘Unless paratroops drop,’ continued Cartwright. They pushed the grunting church door and at once they heard a voice.

  It echoed from the pulpit, raised above the pews, shiny and empty. There was a strong smell of flowers and furniture polish. In the pulpit, his head just above the rim, was a gesticulating man. He called to them: ‘Be down in a minute.’

  They waited in the aisle and watched him descend carefully. ‘I find it even more difficult climbing up,’ he said cheerfully. ‘God knows how I am going to ascend into heaven.’ He took on a thoughtful smile. ‘But I imagine He does.’

  He knew why Cartwright was there. They shook hands. ‘Bernard Cowling,’ he said. ‘I am the vicar. Referred to in the parish as the Old Vic.’

  He motioned them to sit in the front pew. ‘On Saturdays I come in slyly to try out my sermon for Sunday,’ he said. ‘A sort of dress rehearsal from the pulpit itself.’ He shrugged and waved his hand at the empty pews. ‘We don’t get many more people than this anyway.’

  Sarah said: ‘So many people are away right now.’

  ‘And many will stay away, I expect,’ sighed the clergyman. ‘Who would want to come back to Romney Marsh once they’ve seen Cairo or Singapore?’ He glanced at Cartwright. ‘You want to see the church treasures,’ he said. ‘How we can stop Hitler getting his thieving hands on them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the idea,’ said Cartwright. ‘We don’t know what they might do.’

  ‘Snaffle the lot, I expect,’ said the vicar. Sarah smiled towards him. He added: ‘I bet the Bayeux Tapestry is in Berlin by now. And Mona Lisa.’

  ‘The story is that the Germans have allowed the French to move the tapestry to a place of safety,’ said Cartwright uncertainly. ‘I don’t know about the Mona Lisa.’

  ‘Still smirking, I expect,’ said the vicar. He waved towards the altar. ‘Well, as you will have doubtless already perceived, the screen here is nothing to shout about. Victorian and very ordinary, local carpentry. Nobody would want to swipe that. But we do have quite a nifty communion set, plate, chalice and everything. Come, I’ll show you.’

  They followed him up the spongy red carpet to the altar rail. He gave a short bow to the cross as if greeting an everyday acquaintance and then opened a cupboard below. ‘It’s quite decent,’ he said. ‘Fifteenth century. I don’t think it started out in this church. We probably offered to look after it for another parish during the Civil War.’

  Carefully, but without reverence, he took the chalice, the silver plate and the smaller dish from the cupboard and, oddly like a salesman, set them out on the altar. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Sarah. The afternoon light, changing colour as it came through the stained windows, touched the silver. ‘It is wonderful that you can leave these in a closet in the church.’

  The vicar handed the chalice to Cartwright and half-turned to Sarah. ‘A locked church, I have to emphasise. These days the insurance company insists. A few years ago we would not have found it necessary but churches in Kent have had things taken during the recent bombing and shelling. Quite often it’s their roof.’

  He looked pensive, then said: ‘I will show you where we can hide it so the Germans won’t sniff it out.’

  They went down the aisle. Sarah let her eyes move along the ancient memorial panels on the wall. ‘“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep”,’ quoted the vicar. ‘Quite how rude they were,’ he paused near the font at the door, ‘we can only guess. Would you mind signing our visitors’ book?’

  They both signed. It was a thick, aged book. ‘It goes way back,’ said the vicar a touch proudly. ‘There’s even a highwayman in there.’ He turned back the discoloured pages. ‘There,’ he pointed. ‘Davie Hawk. See.’

  They leaned forward as he pointed to the brown scrawl. ‘Davie Hawk, he signed that when he took sanctuary in the church,’ said the clergyman. ‘Not that it did him much good. They took him out and hanged him anyway.’

  He emitted a strange chuckle. ‘The things they did in those days. Almost as bad as now.’

  They followed him into the churchyard overgrown with wild flowers. The sunlight was coming in fingers through the yews. Mr Cowling looked up towards the sky fragmented by the trees. ‘Jerry hasn’t shown up today,’ he said. ‘Not over here. It’s strange how you can stand below these yews and listen to them fighting in the sky. You can tell our planes from theirs, just by the sounds.’ He patted one of the yew trunks. ‘The village men used to cut these for their bows at one time. Our Home Guard, as they call them rather hopefully, have asked if they can cut a few branches for the same reason.’ He shook his head: ‘They want to oppose the Third Reich with bows and arrows. But now, some rifles have turned up
– from your country, madam.’ He gave Sarah a short bow like the one he had offered to the altar. ‘They arrived covered in twenty years of grease. The wives have been boiling them out. The stench from the Women’s Institute is powerful.’

  ‘Let’s hope there’s some ammunition as well,’ said Cartwright.

  ‘That, I understand, is on the way. I personally can’t make up my mind, as a man of God, whether I should attempt to mediate with the invaders or shoot the swine. I have a 12 bore in the vicarage.’

  He stopped his walk along the shaggy path by a tombstone almost leaning against the church wall and hung with honeysuckle. ‘Here it is.’ He tapped the stone politely like a man knocking on a door. ‘After they’d hidden the chalice and the other pieces from the Roundheads they were not discovered for some time – about two centuries, in fact. 1845. Whoever concealed them probably did not survive the Civil War.’

  He leaned towards the wall and, with a brief grunt, firmly pushed the gravestone from its right-hand edge. It obediently eased over as if it were hinged. An opening appeared. Sarah put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘We’re rather proud of it,’ nodded the vicar. ‘But nobody, not even the churchwardens or the parish council, will be told that the communion silver will be put into the hole again if the invaders come.’ He pushed his hand inside the oblong aperture and moved it to show the space. He regarded Cartwright. ‘I think it ought to be safe in there, don’t you, captain?’

  Cartwright agreed. ‘And nobody will even guess,’ said Mr Cowling. ‘If they did, and they told, they would have to deal with me. And my shotgun. In some circumstances England must come before Christendom.’

  He made to push the stone upright again. Cartwright moved forward and unnecessarily assisted him. ‘I can say in my report that things have been taken care of,’ he said. ‘Precautions taken without going into detail. Eventually the Germans may read it.’

  They shook hands with the vicar and he returned to the church saying: ‘Must finish my sermon rehearsal.’ He paused and half-turned. ‘I wonder if the Germans would come to church? Might do them the world of good.’