Wartime Brides (10 page)

If he did take it that she had been referring to the difference in their colouring and their cultures, it was all to the good. How could she tell him she was imagining them married? And how could she tell him that she could imagine them in bed together, feel his bronze flesh hard and demanding against her own, his lips crushing hers.

Then it was he who shrugged, the shoulders of his uniform smartly falling back into place the moment his body did. ‘Makes no difference. All the same lying down.’

Polly stifled a giggle. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He hadn’t guessed at her plans. They hadn’t changed. Not really. But the picture of them in bed together stayed with her, him broad, brown, and stretching the full length of the bed from head to foot, and her, just filling in the gap between his shoulder and his ankles. Delicious! She shivered with excitement. ‘Short or tall, it doesn’t matter at all!’

They walked down through Old Market where a queue was forming outside the Kings’ Picture House.
Mrs Miniver
was showing – yet again. Inquisitive eyes followed their progress.

Polly pretended she did not see. Prejudice between fellow countrymen, albeit of different colours, was difficult to understand. Hadn’t they been fighting against that sort of thing?

Eyes straight ahead, they walked around what remained of the damage where the tramlines used to be. Buses had taken over once the twisted metal had been cut away and the bomb craters filled in. One chugged past now.

‘Whore!’

Polly jumped and looked quickly up. It was shouted from a top deck window. All she could see was a pair of arms, the glow of a lighted cigarette hanging from the narrow opening.

Anger quickly replaced shock.

‘You …!’

Aaron’s hold tightened on her arm. ‘Let it be.’

An indignant stiffness held her bolt upright. ‘Did you hear what he called me?’

He looked away from her when he nodded. He didn’t want her to see the look in his eyes and, in a way, she didn’t want to see.

‘Sticks and stones,’ he said in a level voice. ‘It’s nothing.’

Polly took a deep breath. Swallowing insults was not something she found easy. Taking another deep breath
because
she was shaking with anger, she stopped and Aaron stopped with her.

‘Got a fag?’

‘A cigarette? You?’

He was right to be surprised. He hadn’t seen her light up before. Smoking had been almost taboo since having Carol – and less money. She’d sworn to Meg that she’d ditch the habit. But hell, tonight she’d sworn
at
Meg.

‘I need one.’

He let her arm go and dipped into his pocket. ‘You OK?’ he asked as he flicked a chromium lighter.

‘I will be.’

‘This place something special?’ he added, looking about him as she cupped her hands around the flame, her hair falling forward around her face.

Blowing the smoke away like an exasperated sigh, Polly looked around her. They were in shadow, although a shaft of light shone from between ill-fitting curtains drawn across lop-sided windows.

‘The Pied Powder,’ she said. ‘It’s an old pub.’

‘That’s an odd name.’

‘I suppose it is. I think it’s foreign.’

She bent her head, glad he couldn’t read her expression. Like a cat fouling a flowerbed, the man calling her a whore had spoilt her thoughts. Just for the briefest of moments, it was easy to tell him she didn’t want to see him again.

It was as if he read her thoughts. ‘You don’t have to keep seeing me, baby, but hell, it would sure hurt if you didn’t.’

The feel of his hands on her shoulders made her straighten. Once she looked up into his face, the moment passed.

‘That man …’ she began.

‘Jealousy,’ he said.

‘Of me?’

‘Of me. I bet you had plenty of guys before the war. What were they like?’

His question surprised her and for a moment it seemed that her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. Pillars supported the gable of the fourteenth-century market inn above them. Looking out from there and over to the shops opposite for an answer proved fruitless. Did she really have to admit to going out with delivery boys, men from the brewery and some from the docks? And what about Snowshoe and all those other Canadians and Yanks that she’d known?

‘Just local boys – guys,’ she corrected herself.

‘So why me?’

She started to walk again. He offered his arm. She took it and all the affection and desire she’d felt before flooded back over her.

He kept his eyes facing forward. She sensed he was either playing with her or testing her – for whatever reason. But she hugged his arm that bit closer. He’d know then that she meant what she said.

‘You’re good looking.’

‘Because I wear a uniform?’

‘It’s a nice uniform.’

‘And what else?’

‘I like the way you speak.’

‘I suppose you mean my accent. Is it because I’m an American that you care for me so much?’

Polly bit her lip. Had he guessed that she wanted to be a GI bride like all those others and sail away across the ocean? ‘It’s not just how you speak, it’s what you say. And you can play the piano,’ she blurted.

‘Yes indeedy!’ he laughed, showing his teeth and waving his hands like wings at the sides of his face.

That Negro thing! He was doing it again! She grabbed hold of him, spun him round to face her. ‘Stop acting the fool!’

His laugh was loud, but she sensed it was self-mocking, even self-pitying. It stopped when he saw the look in her eyes. His smile softened as he looked down into her face. Polly caught her breath. Something special had passed between them. It couldn’t be put into words. It was more like a path had been opened and she couldn’t stop her feet from running along it.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, his skin velvet soft against her palms. She ran each thumb gently, so very gently, along his lashes, his brows and the line of his nose.

Night air turned her breath white. If it hadn’t she might almost have believed that she was not breathing at all. Her chest felt so tight. This was a precious moment, a unique moment. All those other times had been with Yanks. This time she was with Aaron. This time she felt a fluttering inside that she had never felt before.

Her eyes dropped to his lips. They were almost the colour of plums just before they turn properly ripe. Mouth slightly open, she lifted her chin and closed her eyes as his lips met hers.

The warmth in his body seemed to flow into her mouth, down her throat. Becoming part of him and his place, wherever that was, mattered more than anything else now. And him becoming part of her and what she was – that also was important. She wanted him to enter her world and she thought hard how best this could be achieved. Something ordinary, something so undemanding that he couldn’t possibly refuse.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’

He looked surprised. ‘Nothing special.’

‘Christmas dinner at my place then.’

‘Sure.’

So simple! So easy! She could hardly believe she had achieved so much in such a short time.

There was no need for him to pull her into the shadows. Their thoughts and their bodies acted in unison. Rushed breathing, rushed caresses, hasty fumbles born out of a passion that was not the result of the fear of dying, not like it had been during the war. This was a mutual passion born out of mutual desire. Neither resisted. Neither protested that it shouldn’t be.

As far as Polly was concerned there was no time to lose. Tonight she had been going to ask him to marry her. But the New Year would be soon enough. Having him to Christmas dinner would be adequate compensation.

Meg’s reaction was something she would think about in the morning. Considering what Aaron would say when he found out she had a daughter did weigh a little heavier. But tonight wasn’t the time to tell him.

Aaron caught the last bus that would take him from Bristol City Centre to the POW camp, which was nine miles distant and surrounded by ploughed fields and green pasture.

The bus crawled along at the same snail’s pace as in the blackout and the passengers rolled together like set jellies as one pothole followed another.

There was little to see out of the window except tired terraced houses and half-empty shops, some highlighted by street lamps, others dark and faceless.

Muffled against the chill of a dampening December, more and more people crowded on at each bus stop. Even those seated downstairs who didn’t have cigarette smoke to contend with coughed and sneezed.

From experience, Aaron sat on the side seat nearest the platform. At least there he could still breathe some fresh air and not the damp smell of woollen coats that had once upon a time been a blanket on a bed. Make do and mend they called it. He admired their resilience. No wonder the southern black boys had felt so at home here. They’d lived like it for most of their lives, not like himself, coming from Boston with a father in a good job and a mother who’d vowed that all her children would go to college. All the same, he hadn’t been entirely untouched by prejudice and, after coming to Europe and
seeing
what he had seen, he knew his life would never be the same again.

There was also Polly to think about. He had tried not to care about the women he had met over here. But Polly was different. At first he’d thought her flighty, perhaps even a little hard-bitten regardless of her pronouncement that she hated violence. But tonight that thing with the horses caused him to reconsider. She had guts. She had integrity and a lot of affection to give. He smiled at the memory of what they had done in the shadows. The feel and smell of her body would remain with him for a very long time. To his own surprise, he found himself almost wishing their relationship might have a future. Of course it couldn’t.

After only three stops the bus was crowded and it was standing room only out as far as the platform.

‘Church Road!’ shouted the clippie in the desperate hope that someone might get off and she’d have more room to squeeze between the tightly packed bodies.

Instead, three men attempted to get on, two in civvies and a US sergeant from the camp, a man that Aaron had as little to do with as possible. He bowed his head. Staring at his hands was preferable to being seen by that man.

‘Full up!’ shouted the clippie, her arm shooting out so fast that the flat of her hand nearly landed splat on the sergeant’s face.

The civilians groaned and stepped back. The sergeant grabbed the clippie’s arm. ‘Come on, honey. I’m a war weary soldier in need of his bed – any bed, come to that. How about it?’

She shook her arm free. ‘Don’t fink you can sweet talk me, you bloody Yank!’

His arm shot out. He grabbed her tie. ‘Now look here, sister …’

Aaron straightened. The sergeant’s name was Noble, though he rarely lived up to his name. He was a bigot, a liar, a moron. A pig of the first degree who could make life hell if anyone dared cross him. Self-preservation battled with Aaron’s chivalrous ideas. But if no one else stood up for the woman, he’d have to step forward.

He glanced out. Nothing was moving, including the bus.

‘Come on soldier, there’ll be another bus along in a minute.’ It was one of the two civilians who’d been denied a place on the platform. Both men got hold of Noble’s broad shoulders and pulled him backwards.

Relieved, Aaron sighed.

‘Damn the other bus!’

Civilians shrugged aside, Noble swung one leg onto the platform so that the clippie was pressed tight against the small window where Aaron rested his arm.

A babble of noise broke out further down the bus. Others near him grumbled about wanting to get home and eyed his uniform as if he were as awkward a customer as the bull-necked sergeant.

In war he had sensed when an attack was imminent and he had to face the enemy in unavoidable combat. That was how he felt now and, just like in battle, he knew he had to face it head-on.

Just a moment was all it took. At the same time as wishing he’d caught an earlier bus, he looked over the clippie’s shoulder. Sergeant Mickey Noble was looking right back at him, instant recognition and an equally instant resolution to get back to camp written all over his face. Aaron knew immediately what was coming.

Noble stabbed his finger at the glass that divided them. ‘There’s a black riding on a white man’s bus sitting in a white man’s seat! My seat!’

Aaron looked down at his hands. He couldn’t count the number of times this sort of thing had happened. If it wasn’t a bus it was a taxi or a train seat or the very fact of daring to be with a white girl in a country with no colour bar. It was an incongruous gesture mirroring a similar thought, but he couldn’t help shaking his head and grinning. It was fifty-fifty as to what would happen next.

The clippie pushed at his chest. ‘Get off of my bus!’

Although looking surprised at the outburst, Noble stood rigid, his brows a straight line above his beetle black eyes. ‘That nigger should be giving me his seat!’

Suddenly the clippie seemed to swell to twice her size.

‘Well, he bloody well ain’t, is he? This is my bus and we’ll ’ave none of that nonsense!’

The two civilians at the bus stop grabbed Noble from behind so he couldn’t help but topple backwards. A man got up from a seat and pushed through to form a barrier with another man out on the platform.

Noble was left struggling on the pavement, the two civilians, obviously veterans of boot camp themselves, holding onto him.

As the bus moved off, the clippie held onto the pole at the rear and leaned out at an angle. ‘And if I see you again, even if I ’aven’t got one bloody soul on this bus, I ain’t letting the likes of you on it!’

A cheer went up.

‘Bleeding ’ell, your mate’s enough to make anybody swear,’ she said to Aaron as she squeezed by.

Laughter rippled from one end of the bus to the other.

Aaron grabbed her arm. ‘He’s not my mate,’ he said quietly.

‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s a bastard!’

She left him open mouthed.

‘Any more fares please!’ she shouted, then, ‘Move yer ass. Let me get through.’

Aaron stared down at his hands again, wishing he was back home or at least with the same guys he’d been with when he’d first volunteered to fight for his country. As the bus rattled on he thought about when he’d had sergeant’s stripes. They’d lasted until he’d said outright what was in his mind, that the US High Command were a bunch of hypocrites. He had accused them of something they had no wish to face up to. Why was the US army a segregated army when it was fighting a war against a race that regarded itself as superior to all others? Could someone tell him what the difference was?