Winter of the World (103 page)

‘I read in the papers that you bought another racehorse,’ she said, making small talk.

‘Lucky Laddie,’ he said. ‘Cost me eight thousand guineas – a record price.’

‘I hope he’s worth it.’ She loved horses, and she had thought they would buy and train racehorses together, but he had not wanted to share that enthusiasm with his wife. It had
been one of the frustrations of her marriage.

He read her mind. ‘I disappointed you, didn’t I?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘And you disappointed me.’

That was a new thought to her. After a minute’s reflection she said: ‘By not turning a blind eye to your infidelities?’

‘Exactly.’ He was drunk enough to be honest.

She saw her opportunity. ‘How long do you think we should punish one another?’

‘Punish?’ he said. ‘Who’s punishing anyone?’

‘We’re punishing each other by staying married. We should get divorced, as sensible people do.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘But this time on a Saturday night is not the best moment to discuss it.’

Her hopes rose. ‘Why don’t I come and see you?’ she said. ‘When we’re both fresh – and sober.’

He hesitated. ‘All right.’

She pressed her advantage eagerly. ‘How about tomorrow morning?’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll see you after church. Say twelve noon?’

‘All right,’ said Boy.

(iv)

As Woody was walking Bella home through Hyde Park, to a friend’s flat in South Kensington, she kissed him.

He had not done this since Joanne died. At first he froze. He liked Bella a lot: she was the smartest girl he had met since Joanne. And the way she had clung to him while they were slow-dancing
had let him know he could kiss her if he wanted to. All the same he had been holding back. He kept thinking about Joanne.

Then Bella took the initiative.

She opened her mouth and he tasted her tongue, but that only made him think of Joanne kissing him that way. It was only two and a half years since she had died.

His brain was forming words of polite rejection when his body took over. He was suddenly consumed with desire. He began to kiss her back hungrily.

She responded eagerly to his excess of passion. She took both his hands and put them on her breasts, which were large and soft. He groaned helplessly.

It was dark and he could hardly see but he realized, by the half-smothered sounds coming from the surrounding vegetation, that there were numerous couples doing similar things nearby.

She pressed her body against his, and he knew she could feel his erection. He was so excited he felt he would ejaculate any second. She seemed as madly aroused as he was. He felt her unbuttoning
his pants with frantic fingers. Her hands were cool on his hot penis. She eased it out of his clothing, then, to his surprise and delight, she knelt down. As soon as her lips closed over the head,
he spurted uncontrollably into her mouth. She sucked and licked feverishly as he did so.

When the climax was over she continued to kiss it until it softened. Then she gently put it away and stood up.

‘That was exciting,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

He had been about to thank her. Instead, he put his arms around her and pulled her close. He felt so grateful to her that he could have wept. He had not realized how badly he needed a
woman’s affection tonight. Some kind of shadow had been lifted from him. ‘I can’t tell you . . .’ he began, but he could not find words to explain how much it meant to
him.

‘Then don’t,’ she said. ‘I know, anyway. I could feel it.’ They walked to her building. At the door he said: ‘Can we—’ She put a finger on his
lips to silence him. ‘Go and win the war,’ she said.

Then she went inside.

(v)

When Daisy went to a Sunday service, which was not often, she now avoided the elite churches of the West End, whose congregations had snubbed her, and instead caught the
Tube to Aldgate and attended the Calvary Gospel Hall. The doctrinal differences were wide, but they did not matter to her. The singing was better in the East End.

She and Lloyd arrived separately. People in Aldgate knew who she was, and they liked having a rogue aristocrat sitting on one of their cheap seats; but it would have been pushing their tolerance
too far for a married-and-separated woman to walk in on the arm of her paramour. Ethel’s brother Billy had said: ‘Jesus did not condemn the adulteress, but he did tell her to sin no
more.’

During the service she thought about Boy. Had he really meant last night’s conciliatory words, or were they just the softness of the drunken moment? Boy had even shaken hands with Lloyd as
he left. Surely that meant forgiveness? But she told herself not to let her hopes rise. Boy was the most completely self-absorbed person she had ever known, worse than his father or her brother
Greg.

After church Daisy often went to Eth Leckwith’s house for Sunday dinner, but today she left Lloyd to his family and hurried away.

She returned to the West End and knocked on the door of her husband’s house in Mayfair. The butler showed her into the morning room.

Boy came in shouting. ‘What the hell is this?’ he roared, and he threw a newspaper at her.

She had seen him in this mood plenty of times, and she was not afraid of him. Only once had he raised a hand to strike her. She had seized a heavy candlestick and threatened to bop him.’
It had not happened again.

Though not scared, she was disappointed. He had been in such a good mood last night. But perhaps he might still listen to reason.

‘What has happened to displease you?’ she said calmly.

‘Look at that bloody paper.’

She bent and picked it up. It was today’s edition of the
Sunday Mirror
, a popular left-wing tabloid. On the front page was a photograph of Boy’s new horse, Lucky Laddie, and
the headline:

The story of Boy’s record-breaking purchase had appeared in yesterday’s press, but today the
Mirror
had an outraged opinion piece, pointing out that the price of the horse,
£8,400, was exactly twenty-eight times the £300 standard compensation paid to the widow of a miner who died in a pit accident.

And the Fitzherbert family wealth came from coal mines.

Boy said: ‘My father is furious. He was hoping to be Foreign Secretary in the postwar government. This has probably ruined his chances.’

Daisy said in exasperation: ‘Boy, kindly explain why this is my fault?’

‘Look who wrote the damned thing!’

Daisy looked.

Boy said: ‘Your boyfriend’s uncle!’

‘Do you imagine he consults me before writing his articles?’

He wagged a finger. ‘For some reason, that family hates us!’

‘They think it’s unfair that you should make so much money from coal, when the miners themselves get such a raw deal. There is a war on, you know.’

‘You live on inherited money,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t see much sign of wartime austerity at your Piccadilly apartment last night.’

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But I gave a party for the troops. You spent a fortune on a horse.’

‘It’s my money!’

‘But you got it from coal.’

‘You’ve spent so much time in bed with that Williams bastard that you’ve become a bloody Bolshevik.’

‘And that’s one more thing that’s driving us apart. Boy, do you really want to stay married to me? You could find someone who suits you. Half the girls in London would love to
be Viscountess Aberowen.’

‘I won’t do anything for that damned Williams family. Anyway, I heard last night that your boyfriend wants to be a Member of Parliament.’

‘He’ll make a great one.’

‘Not with you in tow. He won’t even get elected. He’s a bloody socialist. You’re an ex-Fascist.’

‘I’ve thought about this. I know it’s a bit of a problem—’

‘Problem? It’s an insuperable barrier. Wait till the papers get that story! You’ll be crucified the way I’ve been today.’

‘I suppose you’ll give the story to the
Daily Mail
.’

‘I won’t need to – his opponents will do that. You mark my words. With you by his side, Lloyd Williams doesn’t stand a bloody chance.’

(vi)

For the first five days of June, Lieutenant Woody Dewar and his platoon of paratroopers, plus a thousand or so others, were isolated at an airfield somewhere north-west of
London. An aircraft hangar had been converted into a giant dormitory with hundreds of cots in long rows. There were movies and jazz records to entertain them while they waited.

Their objective was Normandy. By means of elaborate deception plans, the Allies had tried to convince the German High Command that the target would be two hundred miles north-east at Calais. If
the Germans had been fooled, the invasion force would meet relatively light resistance, at least for the first few hours.

The paratroopers were to be the first wave, in the middle of the night. The second wave would be the main force of 130,000 men, aboard a fleet of five thousand vessels, landing on the beaches of
Normandy at dawn. By then, the paratroopers should have already destroyed inland strongpoints and taken control of key transport links.

Woody’s platoon had to capture a bridge across a river in a small town called Eglise-des-Soeurs, ten miles inland. When they had done so, they had to keep control of the bridge, blocking
any German units that might be sent to reinforce the beach, until the main invasion force caught up with them. At all costs they must prevent the Germans from blowing up the bridge.

While they waited for the green light, Ace Webber ran a marathon poker game, winning a thousand dollars and losing it again. Lefty Cameron obsessively cleaned and oiled his lightweight M1
semiautomatic carbine, the paratrooper model with a folding stock. Lonnie Callaghan and Tony Bonanio, who did not like one another, went to mass together every day. Sneaky Pete Schneider sharpened
the commando knife he had bought in London until he could have shaved with it. Patrick Timothy, who looked like Clark Gable and had a similar moustache, played a ukulele, the same tune over and
over again, driving everybody crazy. Sergeant Defoe wrote long letters to his wife, then tore them up and started again. Mack Trulove and Smoking Joe Morgan cropped and shaved each other’s
hair, believing that would make it easier for the medics to deal with head injuries.

Most of them had nicknames. Woody had discovered that his own was Scotch.

D-Day was set for Sunday 4 June, then postponed because of bad weather.

On Monday 5 June, in the evening, the colonel made a speech. ‘Men!’ he shouted. ‘Tonight is the night we invade France!’

They roared their approval. Woody thought it was ironic. They were safe and warm here, but they could hardly wait to get over there, jump out of airplanes, and land in the arms of enemy troops
who wanted to kill them.

They were given a special meal, all they could eat, steak, pork, chicken, fries, ice cream. Woody did not want any. He had more idea than the men of what was ahead of him, and he did not want to
do it on a full stomach. He got coffee and a donut. The coffee was American, fragrant and delicious, unlike the frightful brew served up by the British, when they had any coffee at all.

He took off his boots and lay down on his cot. He thought about Bella Hernandez, her lopsided smile and her soft breasts.

Next thing he knew, a hooter was sounding.

For a moment, Woody thought he was waking from a bad dream in which he was going into battle to kill people. Then he realized it was true.

They all put on their jump suits and assembled their equipment. They had too much. Some of it was essential: a carbine with 150 rounds of .30 ammunition; anti-tank grenades; a small bomb known
as a Gammon grenade; K-rations; water purifying tablets; a first-aid kit with morphine. Other things they might have done without: an entrenching tool, shaving kit, a French phrase book. They were
so overloaded that the smaller men struggled to walk to the planes lined up on the runway in the dark.

Their transport aircraft were C-47 Skytrains. To Woody’s surprise, he saw by the dim lights that they had all been painted with distinctive black and white stripes. The pilot of his
aircraft, a bad-tempered Midwesterner called Captain Bonner, said: ‘That’s to prevent us being shot down by our own goddamn side.’

Before boarding, the men were weighed. Donegan and Bonanio both had disassembled bazookas packed in bags that dangled from their legs, adding eighty pounds to their weight. As the total mounted,
Captain Bonner became angry. ‘You’re overloading me!’ he snarled at Woody. ‘I won’t get this motherfucker off the ground!’

‘Not my decision, Captain,’ Woody said. ‘Talk to the colonel.’

Sergeant Defoe boarded first and went to the front of the plane, taking a seat beside the open arch leading to the flight deck. He would be the last to jump. Any man who developed a last-minute
reluctance to leap into the night would be helped along with a good shove from Defoe.

Donegan and Bonanio, carrying the leg bags holding their bazookas as well as everything else, had to be helped up the steps. Woody as platoon commander boarded last. He would be first out, and
first on the ground.

The interior was a tube with a row of simple metal seats on either side. The men had trouble fastening seat belts around their equipment, and some did not bother. The door closed and the engines
roared into life.

Woody felt excited as well as scared. Against all reason, he felt eager for the battle to come. To his surprise he found himself impatient to get down on the ground, meet the enemy, and fire his
weapons. He wanted the waiting to be over.

He wondered if he would ever see Bella Hernandez again.

He thought he could feel the plane straining as it lumbered down the runway. Painfully, it picked up speed. It seemed to rumble along on the ground for ever. Woody found himself wondering how
long the damn runway was anyhow. Then at last it lifted. There was little sensation of flying, and he thought the plane must be remaining just a few feet above the ground. Then he looked out. He
was sitting by the rearmost of the seven windows, next to the door, and he could see the shrouded lights of the base dropping away. They were airborne.