The Palace of Strange Girls (29 page)

“Evenin’, Jack.”

“What kept you?”

“Doug has bloody scored again. The door was locked when I got back to the hotel and there was no way he was going to let me
in. In the finish he opened the door a crack, gave me a fiver and told me to bugger off. Considering he’d got another lass
in bed, he didn’t look that suited. I’d be over the bloody moon if I got my end away half as often as he does. I’d be happy
if I managed it once. I haven’t been near a woman since his mother upped and left. Anyway, why are you down in the dumps?”

“I’m all right,” Jack says, peering into the bottom of his glass.

“Oh, it’s that bad, is it? I’d better get another round in.”

Dougie returns from the bar with two pints and a couple of whisky chasers. He puts the tray down on the table and gives Jack
a long look. “If there’s nowt wrong then why were you so keen to meet up tonight? What’s up? Have I to guess? It’s like that
program on the radio,
Twenty Questions
.”

“The whole bloody thing is unraveling.”

“What is?”

“Everything. It’s disaster everywhere I look. I’ve had enough, Dougie. For two pins I’d bugger off.”

“Give over! You wouldn’t leave Ruth and the girls.”

“I wouldn’t have to. They’d leave me if they knew.”

It’s nine in the evening and the men watch as the wind brawls along the prom, whipping up a rage of dust, chip papers and
orange peel. It’s fair blustery. You can hear the thwack of waves breaking over the prom across the road.

“Well, if you’re determined to get plastered at least slow down a bit and let me catch up.”

The two men sit in a companionable silence, sipping their beer and watching the waves break over the seawall.

“Come on, spit it out. What have you done that’s so bad?” Dougie asks.

“I’ve got mixed up with a waitress.”

Dougie slaps Jack on the back and cracks out laughing. “Is that all? For God’s sake, I thought it was summat important.”

“It is! She’s barely out of school. She’s… she’s not even…” The words peter out. Jack’s head sinks on to his chest. He can’t
bring himself to finish the sentence.

Dougie doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Jack, waiting for the rest of the story. But Jack is silent for so long that
Dougie is finally forced to ask, “OK, you’ve been having some fun with a waitress. It was a mistake, but it’s not the end
of the world. Is it?”

“She’s a friend of Helen’s.”

“Bloody hell. You’ve been playing a bit close to home, haven’t you? Is it likely to get out?”

“I don’t know. She’d fixed up for us to meet up tonight. But I didn’t go.”

Dougie starts to laugh again, “Well, you may be a fair few years older but you’ve obviously still got what it takes!”

Jack gives him the faintest of smiles.

“It’ll sort itself out. If Ruth cottons on then you’ll have to tell her that it wouldn’t have happened if she’d been a bit
more accommodating. Who can blame you if you have to go elsewhere for what, by rights, you should be getting at home? It doesn’t
mean anything. It’s just a bit of pleasure. God knows you could do with it. Life isn’t all hard graft and overtime, Jack.”

“I want to go back to Crete.”

Dougie is at a loss to understand. As far as he is concerned they were talking about Jack having a good time with a waitress.
Now the subject has changed. “What’s this about Crete?”

“I want to go back.”

“What? Am I hearing you right? Didn’t you see enough of it during the war? Have you gone daft? Have you forgotten what happened?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

It is early morning. Jack and Nibs have spent an uneasy night in near freezing temperatures. They wake to find muscles stiff
from a night without cover, flesh that is numb with the cold, feet and hands that ache with the smallest movement. There is
nothing to eat, no dry rations or even foraged berries. They pass a canteen of water between them, shudder at the shock of
cold water in their throats. Sitting on the rocks above the track, they watch as a ragged stream of retreating soldiers stumble
down into the gorge. This final leg of the journey should be relatively straightforward. It will be a long walk but the high
sides of the gorge will provide some protection, and beyond it lie the beach and the prospect of rescue.

They are following a goat track down a shallow gully when they hear the approach of enemy aircraft. The Allied antiaircraft
guns on the plateau above them kick in and the ground shudders with the firing. Jack watches as the bombs topple out of the
planes and waits for the sound of the impact. Having discharged its load, one of the Messerschmitts banks steeply to avoid
returning fire and begins to strafe the surrounding area. Seeing the approach of the Messerschmitts, Jack and Nibs dive for
cover. Seconds later Jack feels the heat of bullets passing his cheek and hears the branches above his head burst into splinters
of wood and torn leaves. Bullets ricochet wildly around the rocks. There’s a cry from over to his right and Nibs topples forward
to lie on the floor of the gully. A mixture of shock and blind terror stops Jack from moving immediately. A bullet has grazed
his cheek but he is otherwise unharmed. The sight of Nibs lying in a fast-spreading pool of blood jolts Jack into action.
When he reaches the injured man he discovers that Nibs has been hit twice in the leg. These look to be flesh wounds but when
Jack turns him over he sees that his friend has been hit in the shoulder as well. The wound is bursting blood across the pale
rocks that cover the gully floor. Nibs is still conscious and screaming with the pain. Without a first-aid pack or any way
to stanch the blood other than strips ripped from his shirt, Jack is reduced to patching up what he can, all the time assuring
Nibs that the wounds aren’t serious, that there’ll be another aid post further down the gorge, that they’ll reach Sfakion
in two shakes.

Supporting Nibs with his right arm, Jack starts the long descent. It is pitch black at the bottom of the gorge, the rock walls
rising 2,000 feet above their heads, and the floor of the gorge narrows, compressing the disparate groups of soldiers into
one long line of retreat. Jack’s ears are filled with the constant drone of bombers and the rock-strewn path at his feet switches
this way and that like a dog’s hind leg. They have not been going for twenty minutes when Nibs’s screams change to groans
and finally silence as he loses consciousness. Jack stops, panic-stricken. He lowers Nibs to the ground, checks his friend’s
neck and, feeling a pulse, is reassured. There is no alternative. Jack will have to carry him the rest of the way. He hefts
the limp body of Nibs on to his back. It is a crushing weight. Jack can feel his chest straining for breath as he starts forward
with the burden.

Halfway down the gorge and the effort of moving one foot in front of the other is overwhelming. Jack is empty of both thought
and feeling. He is only aware of the river of sweat that oozes down his back. He wants to stop and rest but the weight and
the fear are killing him. His legs, which should have given way long ago, continue to move without any conscious direction
from him. He can feel nothing now, not even hunger. Nibs has been quiet for a long time, and despite the troops in front and
behind him, Jack has the sensation of being totally alone. He is now barely aware of the weight he is carrying, or where he
is heading. He is driven by some automatic response beyond fear and despair. Even the blinding sunlight and the breadth of
the open sea that greet him when he reaches the end of the gorge fail to register. Jack is still struggling through the endless
darkness, the weight of Nibs across his shoulders, his blood-soaked shirt sticking to his back and chest as he grasps the
lifeless hand of his friend.

Jack is shaken back into the present by the sound of Dougie banging another couple of pints down on the table in front of
him. Dougie takes a gulp of his beer and says, “Look, Jack, lots of the lads were like this after the war. They came home
and discovered it wasn’t all that they’d hoped it would be. They’d not been back more than a couple of months when they were
looking for a way out. Is that it? Is that what’s bothering you? You’re a daft bugger. You’d be crazy to leave. Especially
when you’re about to start making a lot more money. There’s no reason to go back, is there?”

Jack pulls out the photograph of Eleni and the boy.

Dougie looks hard at the black-and-white picture for a few moments before saying, “It’s a picture of you and a girl. Taken
in Crete, was it? I’ve seen hundreds of photos like it from the war. I’ve even got a few myself. What’s so special?” Dougie
hands the photo back. “Short of wondering what you’re doing out of uniform, that is. Who’s the woman? She’s a stunner.”

“She’s called Eleni. The photo was taken last year.”

Doug needs a minute or two to take this in. At last he says, “Well, if it’s not you, who’s the lad standing next to her, then?”
Jack is silent. Dougie takes the photo a second time and peers at the figures, turning towards the light streaming out of
the Albion’s double doors in an attempt to see better.

“There’s no point,” snaps Jack, snatching back the photo. “He’s mine. He’s my son.”

Dougie recovers from the shock of this revelation surprisingly quickly. He takes another sip of his beer and gives Jack a
long, cool look. “What’s this Eleni asking for?”

“Nothing.”

Dougie shakes his head. “They’re the worst.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why send you the bloody thing if she doesn’t want anything? What’s the point?”

“She says they’d both like to see me.”

“I’d like to come up on the pools, but that’s not going to happen either.”

“It’s not that straightforward.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean I want to see Eleni, and the lad as well.”

“Give it time, Jack. You’ll get over it. If you’re determined to do something, send her a few quid and then forget about it.
She’s managed by herself since you left and she’ll manage again.”

“No. I can’t. I can’t carry on the way I’ve been doing. I’m half mad with thinking it over and over. I’ve got to see her.
A photo isn’t enough. I have to see her. I thought she was dead, killed when the village was bombed.”

“But what about Ruth? She’ll not stand you buggerin’ off to Crete.”

“I’d never have got mixed up with Ruth if I’d known that Eleni was still alive.”

“You’ve done a bit more than just get mixed up, Jack. You’ve been married seventeen years and had two daughters.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about Ruth.”

“Well, God knows, I can understand if you’re wanting to get shut.”

Jack stares into his pint while he struggles to make some sort of a reply. At last he says, “You’ve got to make allowances
for Ruth. She had a rough time when she was younger. She does her best. She’s a good mother to the girls and she’s a hard
worker.”

“Aye, but there has to be more than that. Why did you marry her in the first place?”

“I’ve told you, I thought Eleni was dead.”

“Aye, but you could have married anybody. Can’t you remember why you chose Ruth?”

Jack can remember. He can remember quite clearly. November 1941. He’d got a week’s leave and spent it at the Southgate Hotel
near Sidi Bishri beach. There’d been a mail drop, the first for a couple of months, just before he’d left. The Southgate was
run by an Englishwoman—a sort of home from home. He’d just slept for the first couple of days and so it was the third day
before he’d got round to opening his post. There were five letters from Ruth—she’d worked out he was on Crete but still hadn’t
heard whether he’d got off safely. From the dates on the letters it was apparent that she’d written every few days, hoping
for news. Instead of the usual tidbits of church news and local gossip, these letters were full of her concern for him, anxiety
for his welfare and hopes for his safe return. He supposed that the possibility that he was dead had made her more open about
her feelings. Either way, he was touched. He could hear her voice as he read the words. It meant a lot. And the more he studied
the letters in the quiet of the hotel the more he felt the strength of her devotion. By the end of the week he had decided.
He would buy a ring and marry her when he was next home on leave. The knowledge not only gave him immediate peace but also
a reason to carry on after the loss of Eleni.

Back in Blackpool, Jack leans forward and takes up his pint. Dougie is waiting for a reply. Why had he married Ruth? “She’s
a good woman,” Jack says. Dougie cracks out laughing when he hears this. “What’s tickling you?” Jack asks.

“I was just remembering, that’s all. Remembering meeting you on Oxford Road with a woman on each arm. What was it you used
to say? ‘God help me, I’m not ready for a good woman yet, Dougie.’”

“Well, by the time I married Ruth I was. I just wanted to settle down. I lost my appetite for playing the field in Crete.
When I lost Eleni I’d had enough. I just didn’t want to start again, looking for someone else. I was so tired after Crete.
I was never that tired in my life before, or since. I felt like I was hollow, eaten away with exhaustion. And lonely. I just
wanted to belong to someone. And Ruth was as good a bet as any. She may not have been as much fun as the girls I used to knock
around with, but there again after the war, excitement was the last thing I was after. And Ruth wasn’t going to get herself
killed like Eleni, or run off with someone else the minute my back was turned like Cora. I thought that Ruth was a safe bet.
And I was right. Marrying Ruth was the right thing to do at the time. It only turned sour in the last year since the little
girl got ill.”

“And is Beth the reason you don’t leave?”

“It’s not just that. I’ve a duty to both girls. Anyway, I’m no use to Beth. I can’t bear to see her so ill. When she got a
collapsed lung after the operation I caught myself thinking she’d be better off dead than crippled for life with a bad chest.”

“But you said that she’s getting better now. She’s right enough now, isn’t she?”