Crossing the River (20 page)

APRIL 1943

Last night I dreamed about the matinée we saw last Sunday afternoon. Not the actual film, because I hardly watched that. But a different film. In fact, it was like a different day altogether. The film was about a soldier on leave who meets a squire’s daughter. Her toffee-nosed father is a veteran of the 1914–18 war. He’s not sure about this young whipper-snapper walking out with his daughter, but slowly he comes to realize that he’s not a bad lad. And the young soldier is won over when he realizes that the old boy goes firewatching with the local yokels. In other words, he does his bit. I hated the film because it didn’t tell the truth, but my friend quite liked it. He told me that this was his first English film. Afterwards, I took him for fish and chips, then we got the bus home. When I woke up, I thought I was going to cry.

MAY 1943

I hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks now, so I decided that the next time one of the soldiers came into the shop, I’d gather up my courage and ask him about my friend. And then this morning the officer with the dark glasses, Mr Hello, Duchess, he popped in to ask the way to some place or other. After I’d told him what he wanted to know, I asked him if my friend was being punished. At first he looked surprised, then he just said, yes. I told him that this was unfair, and that what had happened was no fault of my friend’s. But the officer pretended that he didn’t hear me. He smiled, saluted, and then turned on his heels and left. I closed the shop early and began the short walk down to the camp. I went up to the soldiers on the gate. They asked me what I wanted, but I just told them that I wanted to see the man in charge and they did nothing after that. They just stood to one side and I walked right through. I went up to the main office and was shown into a room where a man was sitting behind a desk. Yes, he snapped. Then, after he looked up and saw who it was standing in front of him, he stood up and extended a hand. I’m sorry. Please take a seat. I looked at him but continued to stand. He sat down. My friend, I said. He’s being punished for something that’s not his fault. He furrowed his brow as if he didn’t quite know whom it was I was referring to. Your friend? I wasn’t about to play this game. I stared right back at him. He knew who my friend was. I went on and explained how it was my fault that we missed the bus. How I was the one, if anybody, who should be blamed. He then started to tell me about discipline. And how important it was in the army that orders were obeyed. And that if you made an exception for one, you soon found that you had to make an exception for everybody. I listened. And then I explained again that it was my fault that we missed the bus. He looked at me. What would you like me to do about it? Believe me, I said. The bloody little squirt looked back down at his desk. I’ll see what I can do, he said. Which really meant nothing, for we both knew he could do whatever he wanted to do. I turned and started to leave. But it’s not that we don’t want our men to mix with you village girls, it’s not that at all. It’s just that we don’t want any incidents. It hasn’t been easy for any of us. I turned and walked out of the door. Walking back across the camp, I had the feeling that everybody knew who I was, and that they knew why I’d been to see the commanding officer. I wandered back up towards the shop. Some villagers stopped and stared at me. They pointed by simply nodding their heads in my direction. Both inside the camp, and outside, I was attracting attention. But for the wrong reasons.

JUNE 1943

Today he came into the shop. I couldn’t help myself, I let out a little scream of delight. He didn’t want to buy anything. He just wanted to talk. He told me how embarrassed he’d been in the back of the jeep. I said that he had no reason to be embarrassed. After all, I was the one who should be embarrassed. I was the one who’d got us into the mess to start with. I said, If I’d been keeping a check on the time then it would never have happened in the first place. We fought over this and then fell silent when an old woman came in for her fags. She looked in the direction of my friend, but said nothing beyond ‘ta’ as she left. For a while the noise of the doorbell echoed in the silence. It registered a change of tone for the whole conversation. My friend lowered his voice and said how grateful he was that I had taken the trouble to come and help him out. I decided to close up the shop. Well, it was almost time anyway. I turned the sign around and drew the latch. Once I’d done this he relaxed. He told me that the military police hadn’t taken him back to the camp. After they dropped me off, they’d driven him down the road to a clearing and told him to get out of the jeep. And then they beat him with their sticks. He said they beat him so hard that he thought his kidneys were going to burst. I closed my mouth, which I now realized had been hanging open. When they took him back to the camp, they’d made a report that said that he’d been drunk and difficult. As a result, the commanding officer had decided that he was to be confined to the camp until further notice. I was horrified when he told me this, but he seemed to take it as a matter of course. He told me that the army only liked to use them for cleaning and the like. I asked him if he’d like to come to the pub with me for a drink. I wanted him to continue talking to me. I wanted him to try to understand that I needed to know more about him, otherwise I would keep getting upset and just make more mistakes. I was bound to if I didn’t get any help. He asked me if I thought it was proper that he should go into the pub with me. I looked at him and told him that there was nothing wrong with his going into the pub with me. Why should there be? Fine, then we’ll go to the pub, he said. I locked the door behind us. I noticed that there was nobody on the streets. I expected everybody was having their tea. It was that time of the day. And in the pub, there was just the odd old boy. Nobody, really. He ordered a pint and a half of bitter. The landlord liked them. The Americans. I think he had a soft spot for them, wanted them to feel at home. And once they realized that the beer was always going to taste flat and warm, and that sometimes you would have to drink out of a jar if he ran out of glasses, then they were all right about everything. He even laughed when one of them handed him back a pint and told him to pour it back into the horse that it came from. And I liked the landlord. I’d noticed that after he’d been in the cellar to tap a new cask, he had a habit of taking a quiet smoke in the back parlour, as opposed to the public bar. It was as though he needed time to himself to collect his thoughts. I liked that about him. And then he’d come through into the public and knock out his empty pipe. Travis brought the pint and a half over to the seat in the corner. I told him that from here we’d soon be able to watch the sun go down.

JUNE 1943

Once back at the shop, he sat with me upstairs. And I offered him tea. Hot tea, as he insisted on calling it. And he said very little. It had already been said. I asked him if he was hungry, but he just shook his head. I’m not much of a cook, so that solved that. I realized that he probably didn’t want to listen to the wireless, and I couldn’t blame him. So we were happy with the silence, and the occasional comment. It wasn’t too difficult or too awkward. If we had something to say, it was said. And that was the end of it. It grew dark outside. There was no noise, as ever. Across the room I saw the framed photograph of Len and me on our wedding day. Turned down. Its face buried in a thin layer of dust on top of the chest of drawers. And then Travis got to his feet. I have to go now. I have to get back. I’m sorry if I’ve taken up too much of your time. I just wanted to say thank you. Did I ever – he changes tack now – did I ever show you pictures of my home town? Or pictures of my folks? He must know that he never did. It’s not the type of thing that a man would do for a virtual stranger and then forget about. And certainly not this man. I was already sure of that. No, I said. But I would love to see them. Okay, he said. I’ll bring them along. Next time. He saluted. I laughed. And then he reached out his hand for me to shake. I’ll walk back with you, I said. He gave a little laugh, as though nervous. Now don’t you worry, he said. Little danger of my getting lost. Although, never know who you’re gonna run into on the roads. Military Police. Anyone. His hand was beginning to look foolish, so I took it and held it between both of mine. And I surprised myself, for I squeezed it. Gently. Then he leaned forward and kissed my hand. Thank you, I said. Thank you, he said. The lights were out. I could see his eyes gleaming. He wrestled his hand out from between mine. I wanted to catch it like a slippery fish, but he was too nimble for me. I have to go now, he said. I’ll be fine by myself. I’m sorry. I smiled. I knew he meant it. I knew he did. He was sorry that he had to go. After I closed the door behind him, I went back upstairs. I picked up the cup and saucer that he had been drinking out of, and I ran my finger around the rim of the cup. A little tea stain. And then I saw the mark in the settee where he’d been sitting. The room smelt of him. A good smell. I could smell him on me. I wasn’t going to be alone again. As long as I didn’t open any windows or doors. As long as I didn’t wash anything. Then I could make the smell last a little longer.

JULY 1943

Yesterday they arrested Mussolini. The BBC announcer said that Hitler’s ‘utensil’ had fallen off the Axis shelf. I was sitting in the pub by myself when the news came through. The landlord got out the monthly ration of whisky to celebrate what he said looked like the end. He offered me some, but I said no. Then he said that the Yanks would probably have to go over to Italy to clean up. He said he’d miss them. I felt a door closing inside of me. I looked up at him. He asked me again if I wanted a whisky. I nodded. He knew what he’d said. At least I have to give him that. It was still bright out, so I walked home the long way round to give myself some time to think. As I passed the church hall it occurred to me just how difficult it is to come by cosmetics, nail files, hair grips and the like. I’d never had much reason to fret over them before. Such things had never mattered. But now I found myself thinking that I could kill for a bar of scented soap.

JULY 1943

There are some girls from the town who seem to have no shame. Some factory girls, some plain common tarts, mainly bottle-blondes, all of them with legs like Grecian columns. They’ve started to frequent the camp. Apparently, some of them even spend the night there, and they go far beyond furtive clutching. He told me that nylons, nail varnish, perfume and the like, all these things that they can get from the PX, this stuff is known to them as ‘shack-up’ material. He said this is why he’d never offered me any, but clearly his mates weren’t so fussy. It appears that some girls will do anything for goods or provisions. Since soap and sweets went on coupons, things must have got worse. I heard a woman in the shop today saying that there are some of them up there at the camp who’ll let loose for a fresh orange. She went on. After all, you can only eat so much Spam. She said, These days sex is about the only thing that isn’t rationed. She reckoned that this went some way towards accounting for the diseases that they say are going around.

DECEMBER 1943

Len came back today. He told me that he still loves me. He’d had time to think things over. I might not realize it yet, but the truth was that in spite of everything, he couldn’t help himself, he loved me. I liked that. In spite of everything. Bloody charming. That made me feel really wanted. But I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him standing in front of me, looking around his kingdom. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he felt about me being in his place. But I wasn’t going anywhere. He could look all he wanted to, but this was also my place now. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it. But he said nothing. So I spoke. Len, I said. I don’t want to live with you as man and wife. What do you mean? His look said that. Nothing else. Just, what do you mean? I mean, one of us will be sleeping on the settee in future. I don’t really mind who. I don’t care. Len sat down. In fact, he half sat, half collapsed. Then he began. I hear there’s talk about you and an American. I knew there would be talk. In fact – I shouldn’t say this – I had been hoping that Len might find out. I knew it was cruel. But what could I do? It’s how I felt. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to find some awkward way of telling him. Yes, I’ve got a friend, I said. Now it was my turn to sit. I faced him, and passed him the torch of conversation. He could say whatever he wanted to say. And so he did. I don’t think you should have friends like that. It makes a bloody fool out of me. I laughed. And getting put inside. Getting yourself carted off to jail doesn’t make me look like a bloody fool, is that it? Len stood up. He pushed his finger into my face. He jabbed at me to punctuate his sentences. You won’t see him, or any of ‘em. You won’t go to town, to the pub, have them in here, talk to them, nothing, as long as I’m here. I’d never have married you, or taken you out of that bloody slum, if I’d known you were going to behave like a slut. Now am I making myself clear? Yes, Len, I say. You’re making yourself perfectly clear. But I won’t have any of it. It’s not for me to say what you do, any more than it is for you to talk to me in this way. His poor jaw dropped. I’m your bloody husband. Yes, I said. You’re my bloody husband. In name only. His fist caught me across the left side of my face. I could feel the swelling right away. As though somebody was puffing up my face like a balloon. And then he kicked me in the stomach and I doubled up. I’m your bloody husband whether you like it or not. Not in name, you slut. In fact. In law and in fact. Now, like I told you. We’re leaving. I’ve got work north of here. We’re selling the shop. It’s half mine, I gasped. And we’re not selling. I didn’t see why I should have to bother with this conversation. So I said nothing further. We’re leaving, said Len. I remained silent. Do you hear? A piece of coal fell, and for a few seconds the fire blazed as the unburned coal caught. It made a crackling, definite noise. We both stared at the fire. For a moment we were caught by its performance. Then we looked at each other. I knew he wouldn’t touch me again. He’d made his point. And then there was the shame. I suspect there’s always a certain amount of shame involved for all men. After they’ve thrown the punch. They look and see you cowering. And the thought crosses their mind that perhaps they ought not to have done this. That perhaps this is not a proper way to hold a conversation. They’re sorry. It’s pitiful. I looked at him and dared him to continue to talk to me. I dared him to hit me again. But he wouldn’t. I knew this, but I taunted him with my silence until he left for the pub.