Cousins at War (9 page)

After Joe had read the letter, Gracie said, ‘I don’t like him being down there. I’ve heard there’s prostitutes walking about the streets of London, and
what . . .’

‘Prostitutes walk about the streets of Aberdeen, as well. There’s Snuffy Ivy and . . .’

‘Och, her.’ With an irritated movement of her hand, Gracie dismissed the well-known lady whose nasal manner of speaking had earned her the nickname. ‘She keeps to the harbour
area, and doesn’t bother ordinary men, but supposing one of them down in London accosts Neil?’

Her husband gave a great roar of laughter. ‘I wish I was there with him, then, that’s all I can say.’

Tutting in exasperation, Gracie snapped, ‘Could you just be serious for once? He’s too young to . . .’

‘He’ll likely be kept too busy at that college to meet any girls, prostitutes or otherwise.’

She looked a little happier, but took the final word. ‘I hope so, as long as he never gets tempted into doing things he shouldn’t even be thinking about at his age.’

Neil had found the infantry training hard going, but he was fascinated by all the different army vehicles, and at nights he and Alf went to the cinema, or to a pub, or to a
dance hall if they could afford it. He had never had any time for females in Aberdeen, but the girls here were different, and the uniform, which attracted them like moths round a flame, gave him a
confidence he’d never had before. He could take his pick of them.

He had been in London for almost a month when he crossed the great divide. He had seen several girls home before, but had always stopped after a few kisses and had been proud of sticking to the
straight and narrow, although it was really fear of the unknown that kept him from going any further. He wasn’t particularly attracted to Madge when he met her at a dance one evening, she was
too quiet, but Alf had collared the only girl Neil fancied, so, while they were on the floor for the last dance, he asked if he could take her home. She agreed shyly and they set off in the
darkness, walking side by side but not touching.

When they came to a derelict building, he led her off the pavement and was pleased to find that she wasn’t as shy as she seemed, returning his kisses in a manner which told him that she
wasn’t inexperienced, either. He soon learned that she was much more experienced than he was. Her tongue probed his mouth, starting up an unfamiliar feeling in his loins, a feeling that grew
more urgent as she guided his hand to her breasts. It was the first time he’d ever touched a girl like that, and before he got over the shock of feeling how firm they were – he had
always imagined it would be something the same as taking hold of a sponge – she was rubbing her pelvis against him, laughing at his embarrassment as his increasing need became more obvious.
‘Do you want to do it lying down or standing up?’ she murmured.

He was shivering all over, even his teeth were chattering, though it was a warm night. ‘What’s best?’

Giggling at his ignorance, she pulled off her knickers and flopped down. He was scared at first, but Madge was a true connoisseur, a master – mistress – in the art of sex, and it
turned out to be the most thrilling experience of his life. Even in his bed in the billet much later, he perspired as he recalled it – his first time, but not the last. Definitely not the
last! He was on equal terms now with Alf Melville, who often bragged about how he had scored with whatever girl he escorted home. Madge hadn’t lasted long. She was always on the lookout for
the best chance, and when a Canadian came on the scene, she ignored Neil. At first, he had felt peeved, but there had been other girls just as willing, for he wasn’t a greenhorn any more. He
had taken Dolly home one night, Peggy another, and . . . he couldn’t remember half the names now, but none of them had objected to anything he did – in fact, they seemed disappointed if
he didn’t go all the way, and who was he to disappoint them?

During the day, he and Alf were anxious to learn all they could about their trade. It was an integral part of their future, and they never let thoughts of girls infringe on it; they were only a
pleasurable sideline, a hobby to fill the long evenings. Mrs Woods, their landlady, teased them when they went downstairs after the evening meal with their hair plastered flat with water, and boots
polished until they could see their faces in them. ‘I don’t know what you boys do at nights,’ she smiled one day, ‘but I bet you don’t get up to no good.’

Alf winked, lewdly. ‘What I get up to’s good.’

‘Me, too,’ Neil grinned, ‘and the farther up, the better.’

She gave a scream of laughter. ‘Oh, get on wiv yer. You’ve got proper filthy minds, you ’ave. That’s all you ever think abaht, innit?’

As all good things do, their time in Cricklewood came to an end, and the friends were posted to Larkhill in Wiltshire – Ordnance Corps but attached to the Royal Artillery
– and had to face the rigours of army life once again. Luckily, it was not as bad as at Chilwell, and the restrictions imposed on them were amply compensated for by the warmth of the locals,
who were bent on assisting them to have a good time. Free dances and concerts were laid on, and if no entertainment was provided on any specific night, some of the housewives issued invitations to
their homes. As one young gunner observed, blissfully, ‘They’re offering their daughters up for sacrifice.’ The soldiers took advantage of it, seducing the poor unfortunates
– who no doubt considered themselves fortunate to receive so much male attention – wherever and whenever an opportunity arose.

Neil Ferris was no exception, and entered wholeheartedly into the discussions that took place back in camp about the availability and prowess of the girls. They were categorised thus: willing
and experienced, with a further breakdown on a scale of one to ten; willing but not exciting; reluctant but worth coaxing; a dead loss; out for a serious relationship – steer clear. The
accent was on enjoyment, not commitment for life, and any young man who admitted to falling in love was held to ridicule. Those who made no play for the girls were assumed to be
‘pansies’ and were left strictly to their own devices – whatever they were.

‘I hope the blonde with the tits like barrage balloons is there tonight,’ Alf Melville grinned with anticipation as he and Neil walked towards the nearest village hall.
‘I’m going to grab her before anyone else gets their paws on her.’

Neil chuckled. ‘You’re welcome. That wee redhead with the wiggly arse is more my style.’

Their man-talk – as they imagined it to be – grew coarser until they burst out laughing. ‘I’ll likely land up with the flat-foot floozie that looks two ways for
Sunday.’ Alf gave an exaggerated imitation of the poor girl’s squint.

‘At least she’s a decent figure,’ Neil groaned. ‘I usually get stuck with the one like a haystack tied in the middle.’ He sketched an outline with his hands.

Their loud cackles as they entered the hall made most of the dancers turn to look at them. ‘Oh, shit!’ Neil muttered. ‘The haystack’s spotted me. I’m off to the
toilet.’

The next day, Neil had just come out of the NAAFI when he was stopped by a middle-aged woman. ‘You’re Scottish, aren’t you? I heard you talking to your friend the other
day.’

‘Aye, I’m from Aberdeen.’ He spoke with as broad an accent as he could – a lot of the older women seemed to have a soft spot for the Jocks.

‘I was sure you were. My sister-in-law talks exactly like you. She belongs to Fraserburgh.’

Neil didn’t disillusion her, although the people from the ‘Broch’ had an entirely different accent from Aberdonians, and she carried on, ‘You must feel it, being such a
long way from home, and I’m sure you’d like to come to my house for a meal tomorrow night, wouldn’t you? I’m Mrs Baillie of Rose Cottage, and I guarantee my cooking’s
a lot better than the stuff they serve in your mess.’

It was the fifth invitation he’d had in two weeks, but the woman wasn’t to know. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he smiled. After all, she might have a nubile daughter
– she looked old enough – and he was always ready for a bit of this, that and the other . . . especially the other.

Mrs Baillie did have a daughter, Neil discovered, when he turned up at Rose Cottage the following evening – a slender brunette with baby blue eyes and cupid’s bow lips. She was so
beautiful that his spirits sank. Any mother would keep a careful eye on a gorgeous creature like this, and he’d have no chance to get her on her own. Deciding, ruefully, that it was as well
to make the best of things, he tucked into the home-cured ham – done in honey and sliced inch thick – and the green salad and roast potatoes which accompanied it. The apple pie that
followed had melt-in-the-mouth pastry and was coated in thick, clotted cream.

‘My brother has a farm in Devon,’ Mrs Baillie explained.

‘I can’t remember ever having had such a delicious meal,’ Neil said, truthfully, wiping his mouth with the starched, damask napkin and leaning back in great contentment. It had
been worth coming for, even if nothing else was on offer.

Standing up, the woman said, ‘I’ll leave you to give Edna a hand with the washing up. I’ve a meeting at the Institute at half past seven, and I’m needing all my
time.’

He couldn’t believe his luck, not until Mrs Baillie had put on her hat and coat and gone out, by which time he felt surprisingly bashful, but Edna solemnly collected the dirty crockery,
‘I’ll easily wash up by myself.’

He jumped gallantly to his feet, however, intent on making a good impression on this vision of loveliness. ‘When d’your mother’s meetings usually finish?’ he asked, as he
dried the first plate.

‘They last a good two hours,’ Edna gave a shy smile.

Before he left, Neil was head over heels in love, and was still smiling in a somewhat inane manner after walking back to camp. ‘You look like a cat that’s been at the cream,’
Alf observed. ‘I take it there was a girl there? And by the look of you, you must have had a bloody good time.’

Neil rolled his eyes. ‘Edna’s a real corker! A smasher! An angel in disguise. She took a bit of coaxing, for she’s not really a girl like that, but she was worth it.’

Alf’s smile broadened, ‘Edna? Not Edna Baillie?’

A flicker of doubt hovered in Neil’s mind, ‘Don’t tell me you know her?’

‘Who doesn’t? And I mean that in the true biblical sense. Every squaddie for miles has laid her at some time. I’d have told you, if you’d said that’s where you were
bound for.’

His euphoric love evaporating in disgust, Neil exclaimed, ‘Bugger! I should have known it was too good to be true.’

‘Did Mother Baillie go off to the Institute?’

‘Is that what she usually does? What a bloody sucker I’ve been, falling head first into it.’

Alf let one eyelid drop, ‘But you enjoyed it?’

Neil laughed raucously, ‘Yes, by God, I did!’

Neil wrote now about the dances and concerts he went to with his friend, which satisfied Gracie that he was happy where he was. ‘Alf sounds a decent laddie,’ she
remarked to Joe. ‘He’ll keep Neil out of trouble. I was a bit worried in case some girl led him on and he got her in trouble, but I heard somebody saying the army provides against that,
something in their food to dull their appetites for . . . sex. It’s a really good idea, with the boys so far away from their mothers.’

As usual, when she voiced any fears, Joe just laughed. ‘If what I’ve heard’s true, the army’s not bothered about them having sex, it’s pregnancies the army provides
against.’

‘Oh, well,’ Gracie muttered, ‘it comes to the same thing.’

His eyes twinkling, Joe said, ‘It’s not the same. It means the laddies can have their fun without worrying.’