Sarah said, ‘Yes, medem.’ Compassionate, yes: but no doubt there was derision there, a forgivable allowance, in the circumstances.
‘Yes,’ said Betty. She was in the grip of the oddest compulsion. Like Daphne, she could have tugged at her locks with both hands; instead she passed her hands across her face, wiping away whatever expression might be there – she didn’t want to know. And now, she couldn’t help herself, she let out a short barking laugh and clapped a hand across her mouth.
‘Yes, medem,’ said Sarah, sighing. She turned and went off.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Betty. She took a last hopeless look at her friend who was lying there, struck down. Somewhere over the horizon, that soldier was on his way north into the dark of the Indian Ocean.
Betty went to her house, sat on her dark steps, and in her mind’s eye persisted the sight of Daphne, lying white-faced and hardly breathing.
‘Oh, no, no, no, no, no,’ said Betty wildly, aloud, and sank her face into her hands. ‘No. I don’t want it. Never.’
Sometime later Joe’s car came up, Betty went to intercept him. At once he began talking. ‘Betty, Henry won’t be back tonight, he asked me to tell you, it’s been a real dingdong these last few days, you’ve no idea, getting in enough supplies and everything, it’s not been easy – for the ship, you know, the one that’s just left.’ He was talking too loudly, and walked past her up his steps, and turned. And stood talking into the garden, where she stood. ‘We lost a ship – the Queen of Liverpool – no, forget I said that, I didn’t say it. Five hundred men gone. Five hundred. It was the same sub that was chasing the – the ship that’s just left. But we got her. Before she sank she got the sub. Five hundred men.’ He was now walking about, gesticulating, not seeing her, talking, in an extreme of exhaustion. ‘Yes, and the ship that’s gone, they left us twenty-five. They’re in a bad way. They’re mad. Claustrophobia, you know, stress. I don’t blame them, below the water line, well, they’re in hospital. They’re crazy. Henry saw them. When he gets home, he’ll need looking after himself. Five hundred men – that’s not something you can take in. Henry hasn’t really slept since the ship got in.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘So, you must make allowances. He won’t be himself. A pretty poor show all around, these last four days. And I’m not myself either.’ And he went striding towards the bedroom.
‘Daphne’s not well. She’s taken a sedative.’
‘If there’s any left, I’ll take one too.’
Betty went with him into the bedroom.
The sight of his wife stopped him dead.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Probably some bug. Don’t worry. She’ll be all right tomorrow I expect.’
‘Good Lord,’ he said again. She took pills from the bottle by the bed, gave them to him, and he downed them with a gulp from Daphne’s glass.
He sank down to sit on the bed. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘five hundred men. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ He stood up, pulled off his boots, first one, thump, then the other, thump; walked around to the other side of Daphne, lay down and was asleep.
Betty went to tell the maids that no supper would be needed. ‘Go off home. That’s right.’
‘Thank you, medem.’
Betty returned to stand near the bed. Daphne had not moved.
Joe lay there, beside his wife, Good-fellow Joe, everybody’s friend, rubicund and jovial, but there he lay, and Betty would not have known him. He kept grimacing in his sleep, and grinding his teeth, and then, when he was still, his mouth was dragged down with exhaustion.
Betty switched off the light. She returned to her house over dark lawns and sat for a long time, in the dark. Four days. There had been so much noise; soldiers with their English voices, telephones, cars coming and going, dance music, the same tunes played over and over again on the gramophone, while feet in army boots scraped and slid, but now the noise was subsiding, another voice that had been speaking all the time was becoming audible, in an eloquence of loss, and endurance. Four days the troopship had been in. A long way off, on the other side of a chasm, of an abyss, smiled life, dear kind ordinary life.
Down the gangways they came, between the guns that had been ready to defend them all the way from Cape Town, lines of men, hundreds, to form up in their platoons and companies on the quays, where James was already standing at ease, though at ease he was not, for his feet hurt like, it is safe to say, the feet of most of those young men, some of whom had been there for over an hour, under an unwelcoming sun. These soldiers were not in as bad a way as getting on for a month ago, in Cape Town. Beneficent Cape of Good Hope had loaded the ship with food, and above all fruit. Poor boys who had scarcely tasted a grape in their lives had consumed luscious bunches until the bounty ran out. Three weeks this time, not a month, and the Indian Ocean had been kind except for a four-day storm halfway across, when conditions had been similar to those in the Atlantic. James stood narrowing his eyes against the glare, holding himself so as not to faint; and he watched the great ship and, if hatred could kill, then it would have sunk there and then and be gone forever.
It was very hot. The air was stale and clammy. Thin dark men in loincloths hurried about being told what to do by dark men in uniform, who were being supervised by white men in uniform. No smell of sea now, though it was so near, only oil and traffic fumes. At last the endless lines did end, while men were still forming into their companies. Some had already moved off, to the accompaniment of the barking sounds of the sergeants, which James now found soothing, being reminders of order and regularity. James’s company were marched to a barracks, where they were fed, and showered off the seawater which on some skins still festered. Hundreds of naked young men, but while they were in nothing like as bad shape as in Cape Town they were still the walking wounded, patched with red rough skin and fading bruises. They would be sent to the train tomorrow, which would take them to their destination: unnamed. The name, its harsh alien syllables was whispered about through the hundreds of soldiers who were already thinking of it as a haven where they would at last keep still, lose the sway of the ship. Camp X was what they had to call it. The smell in the barracks was enough to make them sick, despite the showers.
Authority on this second stage of the voyage, remembering the twenty-five madmen they had left behind in Cape Town, the dozens that had gone into hospital to be patched up, and the shocking physical state of the disembarking men, had chosen not to notice that more and more slept on the decks, and, disregarding regulations, simply did not turn up for the ritual of the seawater douches. All that voyage had been very hot. The sickroom was full of cases of diarrhoea, and again officers had to double up so as to provide accommodation for another sickbay. There were always queues for the ship’s doctors. That fruit in unaccustomed stomachs, the feasting and drunkenness at Cape Town, added to the queues for the latrines. If an epidemic broke out – and why not? – what was to be done? Five thousand men, most already run down, many coughing: it was a poor show, and no ship’s officers had ever been more relieved to see a port appear at last.
In the barracks that night the soldiers lay on top of their bedding and cursed, and sweated. The attendant corporals and sergeants, as sick as their men, dismayed and homesick, advised patience, in raucous voices. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll fucking well be patient,’ shouts Sergeant Perkins.
As for James, he did not divide the voyage into two stages, England–Cape Town, Cape Town–Bombay. It had been one long suffering, consuming him, body and soul, interrupted by four days of heaven.
Through the three weeks of the Indian Ocean James, sick and sore, sat with his back against a cabin wall and dreamed … It was a dream, that place, with its mountain spilling cloud like a blessing over its lucky inhabitants. A dream of big cool houses in gardens. He held in his mind that scene of two young women, one dark, one fair, in their flowery wraps under a big tree, that scene; and the nights with Daphne, and one memory in partic
ular, Daphne seeming to shine in the lamplight, her yellow hair spreading on white shoulders, holding out her arms to him. And dancing cheek to cheek. And how the sea had thundered over them, deep in love, crashed and banged and sucked, but then retreated, harmless.
A dream of happiness. He would hold it in his mind and not think of anything at all, only that, until this bloody war ended.
Meanwhile he was in a barracks with fifty men, cursing and scratching and calling out in their sleep, if you could call that sleep, and in the morning he marched with the others to the trains that would take them to Camp X, which it turned out was two days’ travelling away. The conditions on the train matched those on the ship for discomfort but at least a train goes straight, more or less, it doesn’t sway and lurch about. James watched the landscape of middle India go past and hated it. The Cape wasn’t alien, with its oaks and its vineyards and its fruit, he had felt at home in a landscape where nothing said: You don’t belong.
When they at last reached Camp X, somewhere in the middle of India, and marched in their companies on to the parade ground – the maidan – half the camp was of new shiny huts, or sheds. In other words, Nissen huts, and white tents covered the rest of the ground. There was a race, everyone knew, though no one had told them, to get the huts up before the monsoon started. Under their feet as they marched or stood at ease was a powdery dark dust, that puffed up and fell in drifts. The smell, what was the smell, wood smoke and pungency and much else, and the soldiers sniffed and tasted the air, this dusty foreign air, while a sun like a brass band blared down on them.
In lines and in queues the men waited at Medical. Rashes and bad feet, eye infections, stomach disorders, coughs, these soldiers were more fit for an infirmary than for fighting, and James’s knee was up again, like a lump of uncooked dough, with a scar stretched across it. His feet were swollen.
A couple of hundred men were taken to hospitals in the region and the rest were told they would be given two weeks’ leave. If they had nowhere to go – and most would not – they would stay in camp and provision would be made for their relaxation. It seemed there were clubs and bars in town that were prepared to entertain Other Ranks. James was told he was among those invited to stay with a certain Colonel Grant and his wife, to recuperate. That is, he was in a category not bad enough for hospital, but not fit enough for drilling and exercising.
He and nine others were driven off to a big bungalow in a garden full of heavy dark trees that were spattered here and there with pink, red and white flowers. The smell, the smell, what was it? – a heavy flower smell but the other, pungent, hanging in their nostrils like a reminder of their foreignness. Unknown birds emitted unfamiliar noises. In a garden a black man in a white shirt squatted doing something to a bush. This one had a twist of cloth on his head, but in Cape Town the gardeners in the young women’s gardens wore cast-off good clothes, and old canvas shoes.
Colonel Grant was Indian Army Retired, and a friend of the colonel in James’s regiment, and was now waiting for the war to let him go Home to England. The Grants’ war effort was to entertain soldiers needing a respite. The men did not know each other, though some faces were familiar because of the weeks on the ship. These were all soldiers, Other Ranks, and this was because of a decision by Colonel Grant, since it was always officers who were asked out. James who had been Other Ranks now in various places for two years, had ceased to notice that his way of speaking marked him apart. The sergeants had sometimes picked him out for sarcasm but there was something about how he took this attention that took the fun out of it for them. Here was this quiet, obedient young man, obviously straining to keep up, to hear what was said, to do his best, but not too painfully: James was not victim material. He did not notice now that he was the odd man among these ten soldiers but the Grants did. And he had brought books in his kitbag. The supper was at a long table, once used for formal and probably grand occasions, but now accommodating men not used to them. The food was English, heavy and plentiful.
Mrs Grant was gracious, she was trying hard. A large, red-faced woman, she was uncomfortable in her skin, for she was sweating, and kept holding her face up to the draughts of warm air – not cool but at least moving – from the punkahs. She had patches of dark under her arms, and her pleasant, or at least trying-to-please face smiled conscientiously as she made conversation.
‘And what part of Home do you come from?’
‘Bristol …’ in a strong West Country voice, ‘I’m a plumber by trade.’
‘How nice. How very useful. And do you – I’m afraid I didn’t get your name …?’
Then it came to James, who sat preoccupied, apart from the others in spirit, which showed on his abstracted face that was frowning with the effort to be here, to be part of things, to behave well, ‘And you, forgive me for not remembering … where are you from?’
‘Near Reading. I was still at college when the war started.’
‘How nice. And what were you studying?’
‘Office management and secretarial.’
Here, Colonel Grant, who had exchanged glances with his wife, because of this more refined voice among the other rougher ones, said, ‘You’ll all have a full day tomorrow. The Medicals will be here early. We start things early here – because of the heat, you know …’
‘It doesn’t matter how early we start, you can never get the better of the heat,’ fretted Mrs Grant.
‘So, I suggest you all get your heads down early and tomorrow we’ll see.’
‘I am sure you would all like some coffee?’ Mrs Grant said.
Now the men hung about, exchanging looks. James said he would like coffee, but Colonel Grant said, ‘Probably you’d prefer a good cup of tea. Yes, well, that’s easy. When you are in your billets just clap your hands and ask for chai.’
The men were disposed in cottages in the gardens: except for two. One was James: he found that his name, down for a cottage, had been without explanation changed for a guest room in this house.
No explanation needed, when you thought about it, and now he did. He was uncomfortable, but consoled himself that his fellow house guest was an electrician from Bermondsey, who said he fancied a cup of tea if they didn’t mind and shot off into the dark towards the cottages. That left James, drinking coffee with the Grants, who told him to make himself at home, borrow what books he liked, and play the gramophone.
James lay on his bed in the dark, too hot between covers, and saw bats swoop past the window gauze. The smell, had there been a characteristic smell in Cape Town? He didn’t think so. Only the scent of Daphne’s skin and hair … and so he drifted off to sleep and if he woke and cried out there was no one there to hear.
Next morning a couple of young women in the uniform of some nurses’ voluntary service arrived to check them over. Again James’s knee was strapped. All ten soldiers sat about in the cottages with their feet in strong-smelling potions, all had their sore skins medicated: all were on their way to recovery.
Now, a problem: nine men already half-mad with boredom, and here they were in this refined and subdued household and what they wanted was some fun – precisely, to get drunk.
But the Grants had thought of that. In the town was a club which would welcome them, and a short walk would take them there. Better wait until evening until it cools down a bit.
That left James, who didn’t want any club, other soldiers, distractions from his private thoughts. He wanted to sit on this verandah and watch the birds and think about Cape Town. That meant Daphne, but not exclusively. He was thinking, ‘Imagine, we could have been stationed there – couldn’t we? But instead we are here.’ The enormity of Chance, or Fate, preoccupied him, and he sat for hours, a book open on his knee, thinking so deeply that the Colonel’s approach was not noticed until the old man coughed and sat down.
‘I hope I am not disturbing you?’
‘No, no, – of course not, sir.’
On James’s knee was Kipling’s Collected Verses. Kipling had not been offe
red in the summer schools of that year which now seemed so long ago. Kipling! What would Donald have said?
The bookshelves of the Grants’ living-room were full of red leather volumes tooled in gold – and many of them were Kipling.
The Colonel leaned forward, took in the title, leaned back. He said, ‘A good lad, Kipling. Though he’s out of favour now.’
‘I haven’t read him before, sir.’
‘I’d be interested to hear what you make of it. Your generation … you see things differently.’
Outside this bungalow, beyond the tree-shaded garden, on the dusty road, groups of Indians went past in their many colours.
‘What’s that bird, sir?’
‘Crows. Indian crows. Not like ours, are they?’
‘They sound as if they’ve got sore throats. Like mine.’
The Colonel laughed: clearly, he was relieved to laugh. James’s pale intensity disturbed him.
‘We’ve got all kinds of germs. It’s the dust. Filthy. But you’ll get immune, with luck.’
‘And do you get immune to the heat, sir?’
The Colonel looked at the patches of dressing on James’s arms and legs, below the uniform shorts; he knew there were more dressings, where they were invisible. The redness on James’s neck was prickly heat. ‘No, you don’t get used to that, I’m afraid.’ A pause, ‘I’m afraid my wife takes it hard, after all these years. She spends as much time as she can in the hills but at the moment she wants to do her bit, so she’s here, and she’s not made for it. You must have noticed.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And where are your comrades?’
‘They’re exploring the town.’
‘Poor lads, not much for them to do.’
‘We’re all pleased to be off the ship, sir.’
‘Yes, I heard you had a bad time.’
He got up, nodded, and went off. But he took to dropping in to join James on the verandah, for chats that were brief, but as James saw, not without purpose.
The Grandmothers Page 26