Miss Carter's War Page 13

  ‘I’m – Marguerite.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘A teacher. That’s all.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because two of my ex-pupils asked me to come. And I want to rid the world of this evil thing. You?’

  ‘Oh, we thought there might be a few laughs and some totty. It’s proved to be a bit short of both.’

  Stan chimed in, ‘Up till now, Jim.’

  ‘Shut up, you erk.’ Boxing him round the ears Jimmy said, ‘This is not totty, Stan.’

  ‘But back there you said—’

  The Dish interrupted, ‘This is class, you useless animal. Forgive my friend. He’s a bit short on the old social graces.’

  Marguerite asked, ‘Where did you serve?’

  Jimmy looked into the distance.

  ‘I think we’re stopping. Where are we?’

  Marguerite looked at a sign.

  ‘It’s called Turnham Green. Chiswick, I think.’

  It was now pelting down with rain, and everyone stood around in depressed damp groups on a small area of sodden grass. Jimmy produced a military rain cape and draped it solicitously over Marguerite. Hazel came running up to tell them that there was shelter in a school round the corner; it turned out to be a primary school, so the tiny toilets and washbasins were not ideal. Eventually Hazel used the loudhailer to explain that men would sleep in the hall, and women and children in the classrooms round it. There were some mattresses and sleeping bags provided.

  Stan climbed up on a table and turned a picture of the Queen round to face the wall.

  ‘I can’t take my trousers off in front of Her Majesty,’ he announced.

  Then Jimmy started to vamp pretty badly on an out-of-tune piano, and everyone sang. ‘If I Had A Hammer’, ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’ and of course ‘Jerusalem’. Marguerite was relieved that Tony was not there to give his rendering of ‘How Much Is That Doggie In The Window’. In fact, truth be told, she was just relieved that he was not there, with his ambivalent attitude to the cause.

  When the party had broken up and she was preparing for sleep, she looked through the window of the classroom and saw Jimmy looking back at her. He blew her a kiss, and she curled up on the hard floor, chuckling to herself. It was a novel experience to be ‘totty’ – classy or otherwise. And she quite liked it.

  Chapter 16

  The next day it snowed. It was declared the coldest Easter in forty years. Chiswick sold out of Wellingtons. The local Quakers did a wonderful job rounding up boots and umbrellas for the remaining little band of valiant marchers. The rude comments from passers-by grew less dismissive as the marchers’ dedication became evident. The worst they encountered was shaking heads, one sad-faced old man in a wheelchair, who could have been a veteran of both wars, holding up a scribbled notice saying, ‘You march in vain.’ Some of the children from the school brought them a colourful new placard reading, ‘The human race, we could lose it.’ And another was given to them by the local church reading, ‘Love your enemies.’ Uplifted by these kindnesses and fired by their absolute belief in the rightness of their cause, the walkers trudged on through the sleet. Jimmy and Stan acquired some beer, which lightened the mood no end. They were entertained by a jazz band and some skiffle groups, so the whole thing, despite the appalling weather and the blisters, became more fun.

  At the next stop Jimmy, Stan and Marguerite were at the end of the column as Jimmy had insisted on their stopping off at a country pub for a drink or two, so there was no indoor accommodation left. The Co-op van that was travelling with them issued some heavy-duty tents, which a farmer allowed them to pitch in his field.

  Jimmy was concerned for Marguerite.

  ‘Will you be all right? It’s going to be bloody cold. I suggest we throw propriety to the wind, and all share and snuggle up together. I’ll protect you from Stan.’

  ‘That’s very gallant.’

  ‘I don’t like a lady having to sleep rough like this, but I’ll take care of you.’

  ‘Don’t worry I’ve done it before.’

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘They won’t find us here.’

  The borie is in the corner of a field halfway up the Grand Luberon. The night is turned to daylight as the lightning flashes, thunder cracks and the rain thrashes the fields. He lies down on the earth floor inside the egg-shaped drystone shelter and enfolds her in his arms. The dank earth, the heat of his body protecting, exciting her. If they come and kill her in the morning she will have had this perfect night.

  Jimmy was as good as his word. He had Stan gathering what little dry wood he could find and, the snow having at last stopped, they cleared a patch of sheltered ground, and with some difficulty got a blazing fire going. Marguerite enjoyed playing the wilting maiden while they inexpertly raised the tent, Stan doing most of the hammering in of pegs, and pulling of ropes, whilst Jimmy sat on a log and smoked a fag, issuing orders.

  ‘I always do his dirty work,’ moaned Stan.

  ‘You’re doing very well, Sergeant. Give that man a medal.’

  ‘I’ll have yours then.’

  Marguerite interrupted, ‘What medal?’

  ‘The DFC, miss. He got the bloody DFC.’

  Jimmy stood up and said firmly, ‘Shut up, Stan. I’m going to that pub we saw, to get some of the hard stuff. Cook some of the sausages. And shut up,’ he repeated firmly.

  In the absence of any cooking utensils Marguerite demonstrated with Stan’s penknife how to sharpen and shave sticks to pierce the sausages to grill over the fire.

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ Stan said.

  ‘Girl Guides.’

  As they sat, wrapped together in a rug that had been issued, and holding the sticks, Marguerite asked, ‘So what about this medal?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.’

  Such was the man’s pride in his friend, it took little persuasion to get the story out of him.

  ‘We were coming back from an op and got hit by flack. We had to ditch into the North Sea. Which he did, although the plane was on fire – he’s a wonderful pilot. Me and two of the others got out, the rest didn’t make it. I can’t swim but I clung on to a bit of debris. He stayed in the burning plane to get the dinghy. He had a broken leg, fractured skull and burns – he’s still got the scars – but he managed to throw it out, inflate it and get us into it. By the time he struggled in himself he was spent. He was gurgling in the water at the bottom of the dinghy, too weak to lift his head, and I managed to get my foot under his chin, which was all I had the strength to do. We had no oars, but thank God we drifted away from the burning plane. Then, would you believe it, miss, he made us bloody well sing “Roll Out The Barrel” and tell jokes, all the sodding night, sprawled like dead fish, till a destroyer picked us up the next day. But he kept us alive. And there were other times . . . Shush, here he comes. Not a word, miss, please.’

  ‘Stan, you don’t have to call me miss.’

  ‘But you’re a lady, miss.’

  ‘It’s true I’m a woman, Stan, and privileged to be your friend. It’s Marguerite.’

  Jimmy was weaving between the tents, with his arms full of bottles of beer and whisky.

  ‘This should set us up nicely. Bought some crisps to go with the sausages. A positive feast.’

  Despite downing a large quantity of beer and whisky chasers, the men became talkative, in turns cheerful and maudlin, rather than roaring drunk. The anecdotes flowed from them, and it was obvious that Stan’s fierce guardianship of Jimmy landed him in awkward situations. Marguerite learnt that, having been a budding welterweight boxer before the war, Stan was, on several occasions, forced to use his skills to protect his friend. Jimmy, devastatingly handsome in his uniform, was prone to make eyes at attractive women in the pubs they visited, using the technique that had singularly failed with Marguerite. Should the bewitched female respond with a quick snog in the corridor – or more – Stan was frequently left to deal with violen
tly angry local men, after Jimmy had disappeared with or without the errant lass. Stan described how, on one occasion, he got his own back on Jimmy.

  Finding their bombing targets was a chancy business. Especially at night. Frequently they got completely lost, sometimes even finding themselves in the wrong country. Trying to recognise a river or town from the map in the flares left by the pathfinders, was not easy. Thus, it was the rule not to release the bombs unless the targets were found; Jimmy more than most obeyed and returned to base with his bombs still on board. After several ops like this, and flying back with a damaged wing, he decided to lighten the plane for landing by letting go of the bombs harmlessly in the English Channel. After they landed, Jimmy went to take off the layers of clothing necessary in the freezing plane. He was down to his latest girlfriend’s silk stockings, which he wore under his two pairs of trousers and flying boots for extra warmth, when Stan came in long-faced.

  ‘You’re for it now.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The bombs hit some of our bloody fishing boats.’

  When Jimmy walked into the debriefing room, there was silence and glum faces all round. The squadron leader challenged him, ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Richardson?’

  ‘I didn’t want to risk killing civilians, sir.’

  ‘Well, you may have saved a few jerry, but you’ve managed to wipe out some of ours instead.’

  Stan and Jimmy were now roaring with laughter at this, though Marguerite was not.

  ‘Don’t worry. It was a jape. They were all in on it. Set up by this bastard. Gave me a fright, I can tell you.’

  ‘It’s not that—’ Marguerite broke off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How callous war makes us. It’s all right to kill some people but not others. And we can laugh about it.’

  Jimmy nodded.

  ‘True. It’s how you get through it. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not just you.’

  The Milice burst into the barn as Marguerite and the men sleep. ‘Traitres’, shouts Jacob. They herd them to one end of the barn with two Milice on guard, talking and laughing about the meal they will be having that night and the women they will be seeing. Four at a time they push the men outside with their rifles, where a machine-gun burst is heard. Another Milice beckons through the door for the next batch to be dispatched.

  As young Antoine, who is seventeen, is taken through, he says to his captor, ‘Hello, Marc.’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Antoine. We went to school together.’

  The man pushes him through the door, hitting him on the head with his rifle butt.

  ‘Well, now we’re grown-up.’

  ‘Anyway you’re here. On the march. We’re going to stop all that.’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled at Marguerite, his charming wonky smile.

  Stan stood up.

  ‘I’m going for a slash. Pardon my French, Miss Marguerite.’

  Jimmy took a swig from the whisky bottle.

  ‘I’m not as callous as you think, old girl. All that stuff about coming for the totty wasn’t altogether true. Fact is, I don’t want any other poor bastard to do what I did. I used to go to the pub and get shot to ribbons. That’s how I coped. Blot it out. My mucker, rear gunner, his flesh melted as I tried to smother the flames. It was carnage all round. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. Oh Jesus. I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. I’m a bit blotto.’

  Marguerite took him in her arms. He looked surprised, and then clung to her for a while before kissing her on the mouth, long and hard. And she responded. Enjoying the sense of yielding to his strength. Or was it his need? Or hers? Whatever it was, it felt good. He ran a finger down her face.

  ‘I suppose you know how beautiful you are? Lots of men must have told you. I just thought I’d mention it though. This time I’m not shooting a line. I mean it.’

  Stan came back and tactfully picked up his sleeping bag and was about to leave the tent.

  Jimmy stopped him.

  ‘No, Stan. As you were. You are guarding this lovely lady from my lustful ways.’ Then more quietly he said, ‘This is different, Stan. Not my usual love ‘em and leave ’em stuff.’

  ‘I can see that, chief.’

  As both men could hardly stand now, it was difficult to take this show of chivalry very seriously. Marguerite had drunk far less than them, so it fell to her to help them get out of their outer clothing, and into their sleeping bags. She got into hers, between the two cocooned men, who were instantly fast asleep, and lay for some time wondering at the novelty of her situation. From years of chastity to sleeping with not one, but two heterosexual men, both of whom were oblivious of her presence. Tony would have something to say about that. If she told him. For some reason that didn’t seem a good idea. How would she describe Jimmy? Or what she had felt when they kissed? Lust? Desire? Alive? Whatever it was, she hadn’t felt it for a long time. And she’d missed it.

  The next day, Easter Monday, was supposed to be the triumphant culmination of their pilgrimage. Her two new friends were blindingly hungover and she had slept very little. The sun was attempting to shine, and as they made their way to Falcon Field for a final rally, they saw hundreds of new supporters had joined the demonstration. They drowned out the objectors, still bellowing through loudspeakers about Russian influence, with their cheers for a succession of rather dull speeches. Jimmy and Stan persuaded her into the Falcon Inn for ‘the hair of the dog’, and they were much more cheerful afterwards, but on the whole the event was an anti-climax.

  On the coach back to London they said little. Marguerite was disturbed by the previous night’s events. She felt achy and exhausted and desperate for a bath. They alighted from the coach at Trafalgar Square and the two men walked her to Charing Cross Station. They had a cup of tea in the snack bar, making awkward small talk as they waited for her train. Stan said he was going to wash his face in the Gents and when he had gone Jimmy handed her a piece of paper.

  ‘It’s my telephone number. I won’t ask for yours because I don’t want to be a pest. I don’t suppose you’ll want to contact an oik like me, but if you should, well, I would like that very much.’

  She put it in her purse.

  ‘Thanks, Jimmy. That’s very kind. I have a pretty busy life but—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand. Say no more. I’m an idiot. Why would you, for heaven’s sake? But it’s been a wizard jape. Thank you.’

  Marguerite could think of nothing to say. She had thought of the events of the last few days as something peculiar that had happened in a heightened atmosphere, fuelled by alcohol, after which everyone would go their own way. And on the whole that seemed the sensible course.

  ‘I think I’ll go and wash some of the mud off my face and hands before I get on the train.’

  Splashing her face and brushing her hair in the ornate Victorian washroom, only slightly spoilt by the warning notices about venereal disease, she steadied herself. As she came out, Stan was waiting.

  ‘Miss – Marguerite, forgive me if this is rude. He doesn’t usually talk like he did last night. Life’s a bit tricky at the moment for him. The war, and all that. He took it all to heart too much. Now it’s over, he’s a bit at sea.’

  Marguerite was embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He had tears in his eyes.

  ‘Please don’t hurt him.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘I’ll get off now. Leave you two alone.’

  Marguerite was alarmed at the responsibility that appeared to be landing on her shoulders. When she got back to the cafe, Jimmy had gone.

  Chapter 17

  It was good to see Tony when she returned. With him she felt on firmer ground. He came to her flat and made some chicken soup.

  ‘Good mangarie for chills – you poor little drowned rat. Tell all, did you get off with any bearded gentlemen? I hear there was folk dancing and Pet
er Seeger songs. You must help me to bear missing that.’

  ‘Stop, Tony. It was very serious.’

  ‘Bit middle class for me, by the sound of things.’

  ‘It wasn’t, there were all sorts of people. One at least was working class. He called me miss.’

  ‘Not madam? I hope you put him in his place, you French intellectual aristocracy and all.’

  ‘The French have no class structures, I’ll have you know. We are a republic.’

  ‘But when you’re English you love a bit of curtsying and crowns, don’t you, sweetie?’

  ‘What have you been up to without me? No good, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Well, yes, a bit of no good in Portsmouth, but I missed you. And worried about you.’

  She opted not to tell him about Jimmy, lest he took it more seriously than it warranted.

  ‘I was fine. It all feels a bit flat now though. What are we going to do with the rest of the holidays? Let’s have some fun.’

  ‘We could go somewhere on the bike.’

  Marguerite decided this was the moment to broach a subject she had been mulling over for some time. With increases in both their salaries, plus Marguerite taking on private pupils for tutoring for the eleven-plus, and Tony teaching swimming at the local lido, they actually had a bit of spare cash.

  Marguerite ventured, ‘Tony, I’m over thirty, and a respected teacher at a grammar school. I think it may be a bit undignified to be still riding pillion on a motorbike.’

  Tony looked shocked.

  ‘You’re not becoming staid, are you?’

  He said the word as though it was a capital crime.

  ‘Maybe, but’ – and it came out in a rush – ‘how about buying a car?’

  He gulped.

  ‘Well, you can’t drive, for a start.’

  ‘I can. I’ve been taking lessons and I passed my test.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed – not as often as I would like, mind you. You secretive little hussy.’

  She described her examiner, who had been a wizened middle-aged man with the unfortunate name of Mr Worms. At the end of her test he put his hand on her knee and said, ‘I am delighted to tell you you have passed, Miss Carter. How about a little drive to Brighton to practise?’