When they had easily filled the jam jars the trio turned down the slope and squatted, eating the blackberries, purpling their mouths and hands and looking towards France. It was clear that day, etched along the edge of the Channel; it seemed hardly out of touching distance. Harold put his jar on the grass and took out his catapult and a ball-bearing. He wound himself up and fired it into the air shouting: ‘Take that, you Nazis!’ The ball-bearing landed among some gorse down the slope. The other boys set aside their blackberries and took their catapults from beneath their shirts.
Boot fired first and the morning sun caught his missile as it flew. ‘Take that for Warsaw!’ he called.
Then Spots. His shot had a lower trajectory and had fallen before he could shout: ‘And for Dunkirk!’
Harold looked a touch peeved, as he always did when the others thought of ideas first. He loaded his catapult again, deliberately, and fired it high and long. ‘That’s for . . .’ He faltered. He lowered the weapon and muttered: ‘What’s the bloody use.’
Below them was a single-track road, hardly more than a footpath, and they were surprised to see a military car approaching, going slowly and tilted by the incline of the land. Their interest increased when it stopped and three army officers got out of it. Two were French with distinctive flashes on their uniforms; the third was a Royal Engineers captain.
‘This is about the best view at this time of day,’ Cartwright said.
The French officers stood in the breezy sunshine and looked towards their homeland. ‘Calais,’ said one. ‘Poor Calais.’
Cartwright reached inside the car and the driver handed up a bulky pair of binoculars. It was only then that he saw the three boys. ‘Hello, lads,’ he called up the slope. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Eating black ’uns,’ said Spots holding up his jam jar.
Harold scowled at him. ‘Keeping watch,’ he said pointing to France. ‘Just in case they try something. The blackberries are just a cover.’
‘I am from Poland,’ Boot informed them stoutly. ‘I want to kill Hitler.’
The men laughed. ‘We also want that,’ said one of the French officers.
Cartwright was focusing the binoculars. He wiped the lenses and handed them to the Frenchman nearest who, in deference to rank, handed them on to the other man. ‘It’s very clear,’ said Cartwright. ‘You can even see the town-hall clock.’
‘It looks peaceful over there today,’ said the Frenchman looking through the glasses. ‘And very near. We could swim maybe.’
He handed the binoculars back to his compatriot who studied the distant coast. ‘My uncle winds the clock,’ he said to their surprise. The boys, standing in a line, got closer and listened intently. ‘Every week,’ said the man, ‘he winds it. If things are okay then the clock is right; if they are so-so, then the clock is one minute fast. If times are bad then it is one minute slow.’
‘And today?’ asked Cartwright.
‘It seems things are not so bad.’
They seemed suddenly aware of the riveted boys. ‘Careless talk,’ said Cartwright nodding towards the trio. ‘You could get your uncle in trouble with the Germans.’
The Frenchman looked in a surprised way at the boys. ‘These are Nazi spies?’
Harold was horrified. ‘We’re not spies!’ he said. He turned to the others. ‘Are we?’
‘Nothing will go past our lips,’ said Spots.
‘We’d die first,’ said Boot.
Again Harold looked aggrieved. ‘Even under torture.’
Boot persisted: ‘I am Polish. We are good at dying.’
All three officers laughed. The second Frenchman handed the binoculars to Harold and helped him to focus them on France. ‘Cor!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see the lot. I can see a Nazi lorry moving.’
Reluctantly Harold handed the glasses to Spots who was nudging him. Spots swept the coast then came back to the town. ‘We could get over there,’ he said. ‘In a decent boat.’
He handed the glasses to Boot who kept them on the town then turned along the horizon. ‘There are the roofs of the houses,’ he said. ‘We had a good house once.’
‘We’ve got to be going, lads,’ said Cartwright. ‘Keep watch.’
‘We will,’ said Harold hurriedly before the others could speak.
‘They will not come,’ said one of the French officers, reassuringly.
‘The bastards cannot swim,’ said the other.
The boys hurriedly finished the blackberries, so hurriedly that Spots pushed his face into a handful. Harold and Boot laughed. ‘You got more spots now!’ scoffed Harold and they rolled on the grass laughing.
‘’S not that soddin’ funny,’ Spots retorted. ‘The doctor says they’ll all be gone when I’m twelve.’ Boot gave him a filthy handkerchief but he refused it. ‘Don’t want to get poisoned, mush,’ he said. He picked some dandelion leaves and wiped his face with them.
Their encounter with the officers, especially the Frenchmen, had put a new purpose into their morning. Harold took a much-folded bicycling map from his pocket and spread it on the grass. It covered the coast from Folkestone to Deal. ‘We’ve got to know everywhere,’ he insisted as he always did when the map was unfolded. ‘We’ve got to know every inch of ground. We’ve got to strike at the enemy and then like . . . melt away.’
As they crouched over the grubby map they heard a female sound, a laugh, then another, lighter. All three heads raised themselves. Harold put his finger to his lips. They stared about them. The scene was unchanged, grass and sky and sea. Then Spots pointed along the bank. A wisp of vapour was rising above the ground. Harold jerked his head sideways and they crawled in that direction. There was more female laughter.
It was fifty yards. They got there on their hands and knees and knew they were over the extremity of one of the cliffside caves. They crept to the top and saw two glass apertures, ventilation windows masked with hessian, now slightly open and emitting threads of steam. Eyes lit, Harold led the way. He lay on his skinny stomach and put his face close to the aperture, closely followed by Spots.
Down below was the shower room of the shelter. Boot crept alongside the other two and looked through the other open pane. His body stiffened.
The bare room was lightly wreathed in steam and in the steam were two naked young women, laughing and dancing on the wet floor. One was called Maisie Watkins – she lived in the same street as Harold and Spots – and they all knew the younger girl as Loopy Lovestock. She went to their school. The girls were streaming with steam and sweat. They were trying to dance the cancan.
‘La . . . la, la, la, la . . . la, la . . .’ they sang kicking their bare legs high and throwing their hair back. The boys stared down at their glistening shoulders, exposed breasts and streaming stomachs. Spots edged Boot to one side so he could look too. None had ever seen such an erotic sight. The girls swung about and their steaming backsides were bent upwards. They stopped dancing through exhaustion but laughed and hugged each other. Harold’s erection was digging into the loose ground and he shifted, sending a small shower of earth through the aperture in front of him. The two girls halted, transfixed. ‘There’s somebody up there,’ said Maisie hoarsely.
‘I can see ’is starin’ eyes,’ said Loopy.
‘And another lot,’ said Maisie. Both girls screamed and ran towards their towels.
Harold turned and ordered: ‘Evacuate!’ and the three boys scrambled to their feet and ran down the grass.
Voices bawled from below. ‘Dirty sods! We know who you are! We’ll tell the police!’
The trio kept running. After ten minutes they reached the bottom of Seaview Crescent and, not slowing, they scuttled up through the alleyway into Harold’s back garden and down into the Anderson shelter. They pulled the curtain across and sat panting on the bottom bunks.
‘That was good, wasn’t it,’ said Harold eventually.
‘Both starkers,’ said Spots rolling his eyes.
‘What titties,’ sighed Boot.
> ‘Did I get a bonk-on,’ said Harold.
‘And me,’ said Spots.
‘I could ’ardly stand up,’ said Boot. They all began to laugh.
Seriously Harold said: ‘I liked that Maisie Watkins’s big ’uns.’
Spots said: ‘I liked Loopy’s little ones.’
‘I’ll ’ave a really good wank tonight,’ announced Harold.
The other pair stopped and turned, suddenly serious, towards him. ‘It sends you mad, you know,’ said Boot solemnly.
‘Turns your brains to milk,’ confirmed Spots.
‘That’s bollocks,’ said Harold. He studied the younger boys aloofly. ‘If you’ve never had a wank,’ he said, ‘you ’aven’t lived.’
Ardley caught the afternoon bus. The summer was dying on its feet; the sun had browned the fields and the trees on the country roads were golden topped, and they had begun to rattle. There was still no sign of the Germans.
‘Can’t understand it myself,’ said a man with a shaking head on the top deck. ‘It’s like paying to watch a boxing match and one of the fighters don’t turn up.’ He appeared to think that Ardley, with his corporal’s stripes, might have an answer. ‘What do you think, soldier?’ he asked almost belligerently. ‘It’s all been a bit of a let-down.’
Ardley said: ‘All I know is it hasn’t happened. There’s still time. Maybe he’s waiting for Christmas.’
The man gave him a withering glance. ‘He won’t come now,’ he said. ‘It’s October.’ It was odd how people referred to Hitler as if they knew him personally. Indicating that was his final word on the war situation the man stood up heavily and went down the curve of the stairs with a wave that might have been dismissive. Ardley did not care; he was eager to see his wife. The lanes looked different after a few weeks; the colours had changed and the sky between the trees had taken a different shade.
The bus driver stopped just short of the farm and waved to him as he clambered down with his pack. ‘How’s married life?’ he asked opening his window. ‘My missus did the flowers. The cows ’et them afterwards.’
Spatchcock was sitting on the old wooden chair in the sunny autumn garden, his shotgun handy. He squinted at Ardley coming through the gate and around the side of the farmhouse. ‘Don’t shoot, Spatchcock,’ called Ardley. ‘It’s a friend.’ He rounded the corner and shook the knotted hand. ‘In fact, it’s a relative.’
Spatchcock cackled. ‘Is the war finished? Or have you deserted?’
‘Forty-eight hours’ leave,’ said Ardley. ‘Where’s Rose?’
‘Top field,’ said Spatchcock pointing. ‘Want a drink? She’s got some up there if you can’t wait to see her. She worries about you.’
Ardley laughed. ‘She needn’t do that. I’m quite safe in the army.’
‘Safest place, probably,’ said Spatchcock. He examined the sky. ‘I reckon ’Itler’s give up.’
Ardley dropped his pack in the kitchen and climbed the ragged track that led to the upper meadow. He could barely wait to see her, and when the land flattened out at the top he did. She was loading stooks of corn with half a dozen other land-army girls. He even recognised the horse now and it was mutual. From between the shafts Pomerse snorted as he saw him in the distance.
Rose stood and pushed her full, dark hair from her face. She saw him and shouted delightedly. The other girls stopped working and waved. She ran to him and they embraced. Her body was hot from the work, sweat coated her cheeks. ‘How long?’ she asked at once. ‘How long have you got?’
‘Forty-eight.’ He kissed her warm lips and her damp, brown face.
‘I’m such a bloody mess,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’
They put their arms around each other’s waists and began to walk back to the working party. Again Pomerse snorted. Ardley went to him and patted his snout.
‘Why?’ asked Rose suddenly suspicious. ‘Why did you get leave now? They’re not sending you anywhere, are they?’
‘It’s a course. God knows what it’s about. I don’t. Sergeant Dunphy says it’s probably maypole dancing.’ He patted his new stripe.
‘You’re a corporal,’ realised Rose. ‘I’m Mrs Corporal Ardley!’
By now it was four o’clock. ‘Look,’ said Rose, ‘we’ll be finished here in an hour.’ The field was mostly stubble with the corn stooks still to be loaded standing together like a small crowd. Again she looped her arm around Ardley’s waist. ‘You take a nap and I’ll be done.’
He said: ‘I could do with that. I’ll stretch out here. Have you got a drink?’
‘Cider,’ answered one of the girls who had been watching them with affection. ‘I’ve got some left. I’m not a guzzler like this lot.’
They all laughed. The sun was gentle and the air still. Birds sounded in the hedges and the horse farted. The bottle was produced. ‘I’m dry,’ said Ardley unscrewing the top. ‘Can I take it all?’
‘Watch out, she’s had a pee in it,’ giggled one of the other land-girls.
The girl who had given the bottle pushed her. ‘Would I do that?’
‘I’ll soon know,’ said Ardley. Rose kissed him and he walked towards the side of the meadow. There were two bales of straw there, left as a lunch-time sitting place. He sat gratefully and drank half the bottle. It tasted all right. Then he stretched out in the sun, unbuttoning his heavy khaki battledress, and pushing his cap forward over his eyes. The warmth was good and he went to sleep.
He woke with Rose carefully pushing an ear of corn up his nostril. He smiled before he opened his eyes as he remembered where he was. The sun was lower, dusty and golden, and the shadows deeper. ‘Wake up,’ she whispered. ‘I want your body.’
‘You can have it,’ he murmured. ‘Any time.’
She eased herself beside him on the bales. ‘I’ve even sent Pomerse home,’ she said. They kissed deeply and he circled her with his arms. ‘Unfortunately, I niff like a compost heap.’ Her face was tanned, her cheeks red and her hair awry. ‘We finished in record time,’ she said. ‘We’ll probably get the Women’s Land Army award for quickness.’
‘Lie against me,’ he said. ‘Just lie there. I don’t care if you niff.’
They held each other warmly. Then she said: ‘Let’s go to the pool.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Other side of the hill, where the stream comes down. It’s not far.’
She helped him to his feet. ‘Finished with the bottle?’ she asked. She glanced mischievously at him. ‘It was cider.’ She undid the stopper and drank the rest. ‘There,’ she said.
Arms about each other they walked across the harvested field, the stubble crunching beneath their steps. A rabbit ran headlong and a startled pheasant dashed away. The countryside fell away around them, coloured and subdued, becoming misty at the edges. ‘One day,’ said Ardley, ‘I won’t have to go back.’
‘One day,’ she said sadly. ‘This bastard war. We could just go back to the farm together.’ She stopped at a thought. ‘You will want to live here, won’t you? I mean, it’s never occurred to me. You might want us to go back to your own part of the country. I don’t know.’
‘I’ll be happy here for the next hundred years,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to learn about farming.’
She grinned. ‘Spatchcock will teach you. He’d like that,’ she said confidently. ‘Not that he does much now.’
When they had reached the ridge he saw where they were going. Below them, like a scene in a fantasy, was a stream falling over a brief fall and into a pool that now reflected the bronze evening light.
Rose began to trot down the slope leaving him behind. As she went she began to peel off her clothes, her green pullover, her shirt and then her brimmed hat which she flung like a discus so that it whirled and fell accurately into the middle of the pool with a light splash. She turned towards him and threw off her brassiere. She stood in her rough land-army jodhpurs and her heavy shoes. Her neck was burned brown and so were her forearms, her breasts white as chalk, the nipples c
herry-red. ‘Come on, darling,’ she called back to him. ‘The water is lovely. It always is.’
In his bulky black army boots and cumbersome uniform he lumbered towards her. She waited until he was on the grass bank of the pool before she stripped away the rest of her clothes and her shoes, and jumped in feet first making a heavy splash and sending a moorhen squawking. Peeling off his clothes swiftly he stood as if to attention and then jumped in beside her, the water taking his breath away but then coolly engulfing him. They came up together, standing on the bottom, and held each other’s nakedness. Rose put her hand down between his legs and pulled, laughing: ‘Ding, dong!’
Up to their waists in the pool, with the small waterfall splashing behind them, and the stream running on its way, they embraced and nakedly kissed. ‘We used to come here as kids,’ she said. ‘All through the summer. It was here I realised that boys and girls were made different.’
‘When you were eighteen,’ he joked. She pushed him and he stumbled away. ‘It’s too shallow to swim,’ she said. ‘Not like when you’re ten years old.’
They scarcely noticed the evening was closing around them. ‘I’ll only work half a day tomorrow,’ she promised. ‘I’m owed a lot of time. I’ll work in the morning so you can have a lie-in. We’ve nearly finished, anyway.’
‘What’s next?’ he asked.
‘Sowing winter oats,’ she said with a smirk. She clambered on to the bank. Her backside was firm as were the tops of her legs.
‘You’re beautifully made,’ he called to her. ‘Well put together.’
‘I used to be a tub,’ she said. ‘A real fat thing. But all this wartime work has got rid of that. Can I dry myself on your shirt? The army won’t mind, will they. I’ll wash and iron it tonight.’
She climbed up the bank and instead of drying herself on the shirt, she spread it on the grass and lay back on it as if she were in luxury. There was a late skylark singing miles above. On his hands and knees he moved to her and putting his knees firmly on the shirt, closed his body with hers.
Dover Beach Page 24