A Summer Promise (21 page)

Thinking over that summer conversation, however, Tom found that he was really glad his father could not read his thoughts at the moment, because he could no longer doubt his own feelings. Marigold – and her willingness to be kissed and cuddled – was all he wanted. Maddy was . . . well, Maddy was just Maddy, and Alice was wrapped up in herself, and only herself, and anyway she was in India. In fact for all he knew both Marigold and Alice might have fellows of their own, might not be interested in him any longer.

He signed off the letter to Marigold, which he had been absently copying from Alice’s sheet, and pulled another piece of paper towards him; this last would be to Maddy. Although he did not think of her in the way he thought of Marigold, or even Alice, he was fond of her, and admired her too. She had looked after that miserable old grandmother, worked hard on that tumbledown old farm, growing a good half to three quarters of their food, and still won the top scholarship to a prestigious school. He knew she distrusted the O’Hallorans, though without them her life would have been hard indeed, and now she had taken on war work in the nearby town, which would make her life even harder.

He seemed to have been writing letters for hours, and he briefly considered just scrawling a few lines, explaining that he was too busy to write at more length, but would make up for it when he had more time. Then he hesitated. To palm Maddy off with a short note seemed pretty despicable. Tom groaned, and, dipping his pen into the inkpot once more, began to write.

The rumour was correct; the good ship
Beaumaris Pride
did indeed stop in South Africa to refuel and revictual, though their time there was short. All too soon the troops were herded aboard a replacement ship and saw the
Beaumaris Pride
steam out of the harbour, presumably on its way back to Britain for another complement of troops.

The new ship was a French vessel and the men were aboard her for long enough for Tom to begin to conquer his seasickness, although the length of the journey was beginning to get everyone down. It seemed never-ending, and when they finally landed and were marched across to a small but extremely dirty little station and piled into dusty railway carriages there were mutterings on every side.

‘We joined the army to see the world, so I suppose we shouldn’t complain, but who could have imagined a more slow and long-winded journey?’ Tom grumbled, as the small train chugged towards the receiving camp. ‘Did you want to travel, Ricky? If so, someone’s taken you literally!’

Ricky shrugged. ‘I was studying languages, so of course as soon as I’d made some money I intended to go round the world,’ he said airily. ‘Other men from our school did it, so why shouldn’t we?’

They were sitting on slatted wooden seats and staring out of the dirt-grimed windows as the countryside laboured past, and Tom tried to interest himself in glimpses of what life was like in this very foreign land. Like most young men he, too, had wanted to travel but had always been put off by the thought of the sea voyages necessary to get anywhere interesting, and of course by the cost. Chauffeurs’ sons, even the sons of men as resourceful and intelligent as his father, did not have the sort of money to even consider foreign travel, but it now looked as though his dream might come true, and at the army’s expense.

At last the train stopped and porters, grinning widely, ushered them out of the carriages and into lines.

‘Not far now,’ a sergeant told them comfortably. ‘It’s a hell of a journey but we’re almost there. Got all your gear? Right; then off we go.’

By the time they reached their destination they were too travel-weary to pay much attention, but when they had recovered from the journey they speedily realised that the camp was a soldier’s dream.

‘At last we’ve got something to write home about,’ Tom told Ricky as the two of them were given the number of the two-man tent in which they would spend their nights. They were already wearing tropical kit: shorts, shirt, socks and puttees, as well as stout boots.

Ricky had grumbled over the boots but been told sharply, by a man already experienced in desert warfare, that sand and Germans were not the only enemies. ‘Of course if you ain’t afraid of snakes and would quite welcome being bit by one, then just you trot around barefoot,’ he had added sarcastically. ‘The army ain’t mad, you know. Even the silly hats they make us wear have a purpose – to keep you from getting sunstroke. The sun’s rays get reflected back at double strength once you’re out in the dunes.’

The camp was an enormous one, and a haven to soldiers who had just suffered a long sea voyage and a dusty train journey from the coast to end up here, in Ismailia, where their ‘hardening off’ training would take place. They had expected tough conditions but here there were trees to cast shade, ice-cold lemonade to drink whenever they were thirsty and small, cool buildings full of comfortable chairs, where they congregated for classes in engine maintenance, Morse code and signalling. Very soon they had discovered that there were even dhobi men to do their laundry, carrying it off when they handed it over, and bringing it back stiffly starched six hours later.

They had also soon discovered that it was an agreeably short journey to the centre of Cairo, and as soon as they had finished their lectures they were free to visit the city. Here they could buy almost anything: razor blades, sunglasses, postcards, pens and bric-a-brac. Tom had treated himself to the promised pen, whilst Ricky, who had had his wristwatch stolen within seconds of arriving in the city, had bought himself a new one which he always left behind on subsequent visits, having learnt how neatly his original timepiece had been cut from his wrist as he lolled in a tram with one arm dangling through the glassless window.

‘I never thought life in the army could be like this,’ Ricky said dreamily one evening as he snuggled down beneath his blanket, for despite the heat of the day nights were cold, sometimes unpleasantly so. He reared up on one elbow and stared at Tom through the thickening gloom. ‘Have you seen some of their women? Oh, I know the only thing you really see is a couple of eyes and an outline, but what eyes! Deep pools a fellow could drown in, and somehow only seeing a suggestion of the figure beneath the robes is enough to set a fellow dreaming.’

Tom snorted. ‘I don’t need to imagine what the women here look like; I’ve got a beautiful blonde waiting for me back home,’ he informed his friend smugly. ‘You can have your sloe-eyed beauties. But if you want to be kept on the straight and narrow, imagine that there’s a toothless gob grinning behind the veil, or a nose like the prow of a ship, or cheeks pitted with smallpox scars . . .’

Ricky aimed a punch, Tom dodged and the pair wrestled amiably for a moment before lying down again. ‘It’s our turn to start training tomorrow, so we’d best get what sleep we can,’ Tom said. ‘I wonder how they’ll wake us? If they sound the reveille, they’ll wake the whole camp, and I don’t imagine they’ll want to do that.’

Ricky turned over on his creaking camp bed. ‘No sense in meeting trouble halfway; we’ll find out soon enough,’ he commented. ‘And now for the Lord’s sake stop nattering and let’s get some sleep. If there’s one thing the army has taught me, it is that tomorrow comes soon enough.’

For some time after Ricky’s snores filled the air, Tom lay curled up in his blanket, thinking rather wistfully of home. He had wanted to join the war effort and the desire of his heart had been to fight that war abroad, but his imagination had only carried him to France; the war in North Africa – the desert war – was something he had never envisaged or dreamed of. He examined his innermost thoughts and decided that though he naturally felt fear, even more strongly did he feel excitement. The mere presence of so many fighting men convinced him that the North African war had already started, and he found he wanted to be a part of it. It would test his newly discovered fighting spirit; he just hoped he could carry it off.

But he knew Ricky was right and that they should sleep when they could, for the training of soldiers to fight in the desert was a hard one. Old hands – men who had been over here for several months – advised one to start cutting down on drinks, because the day would come soon enough when even a trickle of water would be a rare pleasure; if one let oneself wallow in tall glasses of cool beer or lemonade whilst in camp one would be ill-prepared to eke out half a pint of water, if that much was allowed, during a day in the desert.

Tom sighed and slid into sleep, and it was no wonder, perhaps, that he also slid into dreams; endless sands, burning blue sky, the sun as hot and bright as a copper warming pan. And suddenly there was Maddy, walking delicately and barefoot across the burning sand. She was giving him her sweet, three-cornered smile, telling him that she was looking after Marigold for him and, sounding almost apologetic: ‘We’re going to join the forces, you know, me and Marigold; we’ve been making parts for Spitfires, but it’s very boring work. We want to be a part of it – the real war, I mean – not just on the fringe. Oh, Tom, I do miss you. It’s not the same here without you.’ And suddenly she was no longer walking across the red hot sand in little bare feet, but treading lightly on the turf at the side of the beck, stopping to dip her cupped hands in the water and offering him a drink . . .

And then he was woken by a hand shaking his shoulder and a voice in his ear reminding him that it was a five thirty start, and if he wanted his mug of tea he’d best get himself dressed before the rest of the unit drank the lot.

Later, it occurred to Tom to wonder why he had dreamed of Maddy, plain little Maddy, when it was glamorous and gorgeous Marigold who possessed his thoughts. But it didn’t really matter; he had dreamed of home, and at that moment in his life home had seemed a very good place to be.

IT WAS A
bitterly cold day, and as Maddy and Marigold passed through the gates of the enormous Durham training camp snow started to fall, stinging their faces and causing them to slow and blink. Marigold heaved a sigh and turned to her companion. ‘We should have known better than to join up in one of the worst winters in living memory,’ she shouted crossly above the howl of the wind. ‘It’s all your fault, Madeleine Hebditch; if we could have waited until the spring at least it wouldn’t have been so cold.’ She grabbed Maddy’s arm and pulled her to a stop. ‘Where do we go from here? All it said on the rail pass was that it was a one-way ticket to this place; it didn’t even tell us that we’d be picked up by a lorry at the railway station and brought the rest of the way in the oldest, noisiest vehicle the army could discover.’

‘Oh well, you must have heard as often as I have that the army never tells one anything except what one needs to know, and as for what we do next, isn’t it obvious? We follow the crowd,’ Maddy said.

‘Suppose it’s like the Pied Piper and the people at the head of the line walk straight over a cliff?’ Marigold suggested. ‘Oh, how I wish I had a thicker pair of shoes. My feet are getting wet, which isn’t going to do much for my chilblains.’

The two girls were at the end of a long line which was gradually making its way into the largest of the brick buildings they could dimly see through the now whirling flakes. ‘Do stop grumbling, Marigold,’ Maddy said impatiently. ‘We’re committed now. I remember someone telling me that a young lad who had volunteered for the army decided he didn’t like it, and when no one was looking he turned round and went home.’ She chuckled. ‘He was brought back the next day by two redcaps – they’re the military police – and was made pretty miserable by his fellow entrants, so if you’ve any idea of changing your mind you can just forget it. And anyway, it was you who forced the issue and said you didn’t mean to spend the rest of the war making parts for Spitfires . . .’

As she spoke they reached the shelter of the largest building, and now a sergeant emerged through the big double doors and began to shout out orders in a broad Liverpudlian accent. ‘Gerrin line, you useless perishin’ gairls,’ he shouted. ‘We’s a-goin’ to make somethin’ like soldiers of you whether you like it or not, so stop whinin’ and complainin’. Straighten up an’ foller me.’

It wasn’t particularly warm in the enormous building, but at least it was dry, and they were happy to be simply out of the snow, which was now whirling so thickly that when Maddy glanced back the parade ground they had crossed was just a hell of white. Marigold stood on tiptoe to look ahead, then nudged Maddy. ‘Where are we heading?’ she hissed. ‘You used to be the same height as me but ever since we started working at the factory you’ve shot up like Jack’s beanstalk. You must be able to see what’s happening ahead, you great beanpole.’

Maddy giggled. ‘Uniforms,’ she said briefly. ‘The girls are being given large paper bags, and they’re writing something on them – their names, presumably – and then they’re being taken off to the far end of the hall. Oh-oh, you aren’t going to like this, Miss Perfect. They’re taking all their clothes off, except for vest and knickers, and putting the new stuff on, and there isn’t even a curtain they can hide behind.’

Marigold gave an outraged gasp. ‘It’s disgusting, but I suppose we’ll have to go along with it,’ she said resignedly. ‘And I know all the services are the same. That girl who was invalided out of the Wrens when she threw up every time she got into a boat said she had to strip to the buff to have her FFI, whatever that is, and she said you had it every six months.’

Maddy nodded abstractedly, remembering the many arguments which Marigold had put forth against all three of the services open to them. She had refused completely to even consider the Land Army, and Maddy knew very well why this was. Marigold was physically lazy and had baulked at the mere suggestion of tackling a field full of sprouts when the rain was pouring down and the only other workers were either females or elderly men. She had said she wouldn’t mind driving a tractor but would refuse to do so in adverse weather conditions, and at the mere thought of milking a cow she had shuddered with revulsion.

‘But you can’t tell what the ATS will ask you to do,’ Maddy had protested when Marigold had finally declared her choice, for she thought her own experience on the land would be valuable to the war effort.