Читать книгу The Sixth of June - Lionel Shapiro - Страница 7

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THE PERCUSSIVE rattle beyond its threshold scarcely unsettled the Victorian stolidity of The Stag at Bay. Its great oak beams encased in Northumbrian rock denied entrance to the noises of war, especially into the musty saloon bar which was to the rear and since the bombing started had come to be called “Gladstone’s shelter” in recognition of the Prime Minister in whose time and stout tradition the establishment had been founded.

Occasionally a thud like a bass drum being thumped in a far part of the village penetrated the room and caused the ornamental pewter mugs hanging from the low ceiling to shiver on their hooks. Neither this nor the chatty voice of Mr. Pepper, the publican, who was bemoaning to three dour clients how Home Guard shenanigans on the common were ruining the finest cricket pitch in the Midlands, was capable of impinging on the remaining minutes John had salvaged for his farewell drink with Valerie.

He had less than ten minutes if he was to keep to his schedule. Mr. Pepper, sensing a special occasion, had surreptitiously produced two pink gins, but a penalty was attached to this rare privilege. They had to listen to a pronouncement on the scarcity of pink gin and the reasons therefor. This consumed a full two minutes of John’s diminishing time.

He had so much to say and wanted so much merely to look at her. Being incapable of doing both at the same time, he studied the grain of the heavy oak table at which they sat. Even denying himself the sight of her, he couldn’t seem to find the words or the proper approach.

She watched him over the rim of her glass and slid a reassuring hand across the table. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

“It’s—rather complicated.”

“Why not say it flat out?”

There was a pause. “You see, Val, I do care for you tremendously.”

“Don’t think I’m dreadful, but I’d feel hurt if you didn’t—after two years.”

He said, “That makes it easier,” and once more took to groping for words. “Now—at the moment it isn’t important if you care for me——”

“But I do, John, and why isn’t it important?”

“It is important, naturally. What I mean is—it isn’t pertinent at the moment. You see, Val, it’s unfair of me to bring anything up at all because I’m leaving for a sticky show and we’re all inclined to be a bit emotional and to feel sorry for ourselves and for others. You know what I mean.”

“I know.”

“Besides, you’ve had a devilish time of it staying at home with the brigadier.”

She said, “That’s quite another matter.”

“No, Val. It’s all to do with the same thing. Do you intend to keep on staying here?”

“Now that you ask—no. Father is getting well enough so Mala can take care of him. I’d intended to go down to London in a week or two. Lady Gantling at the War Office asked me to see her whenever I felt I could come back to the forces.”

He said, “I hope she finds you a posting that’s a bit gay.”

“I hope so too. I’ve hardly been a mile beyond the common for two years. Like a yearling rather grown up and still tethered.”

“That’s just the point. I know how difficult the brigadier can be; I had a year of him. You deserve a bit more out of the war than that. I hope you get a posting in London. You’d be amazed how gay it is. Oh, the Jerries send over odds and sods, just enough to keep the place on its toes. I honestly think London is better now than ever before and—you see, Val”—his eyes were avidly scanning the table—“I wouldn’t want anything I said or even thought to give you the feeling of being tethered.”

She wondered why he always made her feel years older.

“Come, John, what are you trying to say?”

“I told you it was rather complicated. In the first place God knows what will happen in the desert, rather silly to think of anything beyond the fighting. Besides, I’m a younger son. You know what that means. Derek will inherit Smallhill one day—I am looking forward to seeing him in the desert; wonderful chap, I wish you could know him—and there’ll be precious little left for Bertie and me. With taxes and all, Derek will be lucky if he can keep Smallhill in one piece. I could stay in the army if they’ll have me, but I imagine I’d go back to Threadneedle Street and begin learning all over again about gilt-edged and Kaffirs and that sort of nonsense. The point is though, I’m really not up to much. Afraid I never was.”

She tugged at his hand.

“You sly old thing! Now don’t try to crawl out of it. This sounds terribly serious.”

His eyes came up, earnest and mournful.

“It isn’t, Val—honestly. I do adore you but I wouldn’t dare——”

The pewter mugs on the ceiling began to shiver as if they’d suddenly come alive, and a thud somewhat heavier than the others pushed through the dimly lit room. A worried little man at the bar said, “That one was close.”

“That one,” Mr. Pepper announced, “was just about over at Ernie Ballantyne’s place. Ernie’s cabbages’ll go cheap tomorrow, that’s if you don’t mind a bit o’ shrapnel in your stew.”

John got up. “I’d better bring Bailey inside. I won’t be a minute.”

She knew the primary attributes of a good officer. John was a good officer, brave and above all thoughtful of his men. Watching him stride to the door, his slight body erect but rather lost in battle dress, she found herself fighting back tears. Junior officers of John’s character had a combat life that was measured in minutes. Not even hours, she thought bitterly. She was not in love with him; this she knew with the certainty of one who has dreamed on love and has prepared a place for it in the unfolding pattern of her life. Yet she wondered if in the end he mightn’t turn out to be the man. He had drawn himself closer to her, gradually, shyly uncovering new and gentle facets of his character. One day all the facets might suddenly merge into a single dazzling portraiture and she would be in love with him. But there hadn’t been time for the miracle to occur in her laggard heart and she wished only that they could have more hours together. She knew a desperate urge to give herself completely to this man who, going into battle, asked so little. It was no more sinful, she thought, than the bleak, rigid orders of commanders like her father that sent men advancing to their deaths with the blessings of their country and under the signs of God. It was less sinful, much, much less sinful.

She heard him say, “I shouldn’t have bothered. Bailey’s in the public bar on his second mild and bitter,” and he was facing her once more, the shy, adoring look unchanged and unchangeable.

“It’s getting quieter,” he said. “Just the light ack rattling away.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve only a minute or two and I haven’t begun to tell you what I’d hoped.”

“I wish you could stay a little longer.”

“I wish I could.”

“Take another minute—please, John. And tell me quickly.”

“It’s just this, Val. You see, when I went off to France in ’39 it wasn’t anything like going away now. It was a lark then. Some of the lads I’d gone to school with were along and every now and again in that winter we used to tear around Lille on a bender. We didn’t feel sorry for ourselves. No worries, everything found, and lots of Saturday-night spirits. Then when the party really began we had our hands full and there wasn’t much time for thinking, especially at St. Omer, and——” He paused. His mouth had begun to twitch slightly.

“And then at Dunkerque, standing out in the water and waiting—it was about forty-eight hours before we were taken off—I did begin to think. It may have been the shock, I don’t know, but for a bit there didn’t seem much point in coming home. It sounds silly now but I remember quite distinctly thinking something dreadful’s happened, we’re beaten, and England won’t be the same. And it wasn’t, Val, it really wasn’t. Father seemed to have got suddenly terribly old worrying about Derek—Derek’s always been his favorite—and Bertie was down at Malta with the RAF and there seemed nothing much to come home to. I think that’s why I transferred to the Commandos and more or less attached myself to you, Val. Unlucky you! I know I’m talking an awful lot of tripe but you did ask for it.”

She said, “Go on. Please please go on.”

“Now I’m pushing off again and—in an odd way I need you. I’m sorry about it but I do. You know, grousing is the most wonderful pastime in the army. You grouse, grouse, grouse about everything. It’s good for the nerves, lets off steam, but you can’t grouse about the army when there’s nothing but the army in your life. That’s what I mean by needing you. I’d like to be able to think about you, and to write to you and”—he pursed his lips and his fingers played restlessly on the oak table—“that sort of thing. I’ve made an awful hash of it.”

She was glad he wasn’t looking at her. Her mouth quivered and she wasn’t sure she was able to speak.

He said, “Does it make any sense at all?”

Suddenly her voice came flooding out. “Don’t you understand, John? I need someone overseas just as badly as you need someone at home. The war is empty and ridiculous without someone to be proud of and frightened for. There’s nothing I’d like better than to have you think of me and to read your letters as often as you can send them, and of course I’ll write you, and whatever happens I’ll be at the dockside waving madly when you come sailing home.”

He got up nodding as if a most unpleasant task had been at long last accomplished and went to the bar and settled his bill with Mr. Pepper.

It was quiet outside. The searchlights had been snuffed out. The rain falling on the village made a velvet sound in the blackness.

The 1500-weight was parked close in to the curb a few yards beyond the red glow of the pub’s light.

“Bailey?”

“Ready, sir.”

“Be right with you.”

John held tightly to Valerie’s hand and they walked into the roadway to the right side of the vehicle.

“I’ll run you home, Val.”

“Please not. I’d rather walk.”

“Sure?”

“Quite.”

He took her other hand. “Then this is it. Good-by, Val.”

She felt the warm pressure of his hands. In the darkness she could barely see his face and the sensitive line of his mouth.

He said, “I’d like to kiss you, Val. May I?”

“Please do.”

His kiss was light and tender as if her full, un-English mouth had not been made to be violated. She disengaged her hands and drew his head down. She parted her lips and kissed him long and shamelessly. Tears welled up from the corners of her eyes.

At length she found his hands once more. She whispered, “God bless.”

“God bless——” he echoed.

She didn’t know whether he intended to say more. The “all-clear” suddenly shrilled over the village. He looked chagrined for a moment, then pressed his lips against her cheek and left her quickly.

She stood in the roadway and watched the rear light of the vehicle move off into darkness. The siren was still sounding clear and triumphant as she buttoned her mackintosh and turned reluctantly toward the common.

She was grateful for the rain that refreshed her face. Her cheeks were burning and the noise pierced and paralyzed her brain. After a time the siren petered out with a low grumble, and she was able to think clearly in relation to the violence that was coursing through her.

Walking over the cobblestones she wondered on the strange affliction that comes upon women in war, at least in England in this war, and, she imagined, in every country in every war. She felt indescribably lost as if the darkness about her were endless. The bitter, dried-up man sitting in his study at the cottage would be of no help to her. She reflected on how much easier it would be if she had a mother to give her direction and example, but she had long since become accustomed to the void. Even in her childhood in the garrisons of India she had learned to accept the circumstance that she was unlike other officers’ children. They all had mothers as well as Indian nannies; she had only Mala.

It was when she was nine, the year they left India for England, that her father mentioned the matter for the first time. He had called her into his study and had said stiffly that it was his duty to tell her that her mother was dead. She remembered asking him with a child’s appetite for exhibitionism if Mala would buy her a black dress, and he had shaken his head and said her mother had been dead a long time.

She had learned the full truth of the tragedy later on. In 1919 young Lieutenant Russell, fresh from the war, had been transferred to the Army Staff College in India and had married Lauriel Beech, the daughter of a wealthy British jute merchant of Calcutta. Less than two years after Valerie’s birth, a scandal shook British garrisons from Rangoon to the northwest frontier. Russell’s beautiful wife had decamped with a brother officer, a Major Keeling. There had never been a divorce, for Hassard Russell had determined if the fugitives must live together it would be in sin. Seven years later, Lauriel and her lover, driving from Nice to Monte Carlo, had lost control of their car and plunged over an embankment into the sea near the town of Beaulieu.

Hassard Russell had never mentioned the name of Lauriel Beech to his daughter until she was fifteen. He had arrived one day at her boarding school in Bath to inform her that her grandfather Beech had died in Calcutta and had left her a trust of a thousand sterling a year. It was the first time that Valerie had heard emotion break through her father’s enigmatic voice. The telling of this episode had hurt him deeply, and she concluded at once, being at that ignorant, noble, and wonderfully honest age when all of life turns on true love, that her father must be spared further pain. She rejected the legacy out of hand. He had kissed her (it was the first time he had done so except on arrivals and departures and birthdays) and had suggested that he would instruct the solicitors in Calcutta to hold the legacy in abeyance until she grew old enough to weigh these considerations for herself.

Here the matter had rested all these years, except that the semi-annual letter from Tamarga and Boland, barristers and solicitors, inviting her to make a final disposition of the legacy, served as a constant reminder of a dreaded incursion of wild blood that must lay far buried beneath the maturity and balance of her emotions.

The rain came down harder now. It soaked the kerchief she wore over her hair and she could feel the cool wet seeping through, but she did not quicken her pace. All the way across the dark common she wondered on the mother she had never known and on herself—and on John.

A dim light came weaving toward her through the gloom and she heard a dog barking in a crisp, well-behaved way. She knew Mr. Sargenter was doing his round of the village, a duty he performed after every air raid in fulfillment of his position as Burlingham’s honorary air-raid warden. He was the perfect choice, a portly, white-haired widower whose huge jowls moved like pontoons along the sides of his neck and gave him an air of authority in such matters as a crack of light showing through a blackout curtain.

His fox terrier reached Valerie first and nuzzled happily around her shoes. Mr. Sargenter braked his bicycle at the curb and beamed his light along the walk until it had located both her and the dog.

“It’s Sargenter here,” he said apologetically and turned the light on himself. “I hope I haven’t frightened you, Miss Valerie.”

He wore a rain cape and a steel helmet. The chin strap cut into his jowls, causing them to burgeon, and gave him the appearance of a fat comic in a Christmas panto.

She said, “Not at all, Mr. Sargenter,” and ruffled the terrier’s dripping ears.

“Devilish night but somebody simply had to see where that hundred-pounder dropped. A report has to be made, you know.”

“You’re much too conscientious, Mr. Sargenter. Wouldn’t tomorrow have done?”

“I volunteered for this job and—well, there you are.”

She allowed him a moment to enjoy his spinsterish air of sacrifice. “Did the bomb hit anything?”

“Not much really. It took the door off Mr. Ballantyne’s tool shed and flattened a few of his gladioli.”

“No damage at Belnorton?”

“I asked the lads at ack four. They said the Jerry didn’t come within a mile of the runway.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Slippery chap though. He got away. Still”—he added pensively—“I can’t say I’m unhappy about it. Brave lad, hedgehopping through the sort of barrage we threw up at him. I say, you are wet. Been visiting?”

She said, “Madly drinking. Over at Mr. Pepper’s.”

The raid warden balanced his great bulk astride his bicycle and tossed his head to shake the water from his helmet.

“Ah yes, dear Pepper. Doesn’t know what he’s in for. Have you heard, Miss Valerie?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“Mind, it’s not official. Most certainly not. But the wingco over at Belnorton was telling me yesterday there’s a chance they may be pulling out. Bomber Command fancies turning over the station to the Americans. Now then!” He shook his head and repeated darkly, “The Americans, Miss Valerie.”

She said, “I should think Mr. Pepper will be very happy to have them. All he needs is a frig. I hear they like everything cold.”

“It’s very disturbing.”

“Come now, Mr. Sargenter!”

“Mixed races the Americans, very mixed races,” he said ominously. “I don’t know, I really don’t know. Ah well——” He swung his bicycle pedal to a starting position. “My compliments to the brigadier and a very good night to you, Miss Valerie. Come along, Trixie, that’s a grand girl. Come along!”