Read Avalanche of Daisies Online
Authors: Beryl Kingston
Avalanche of Daisies
Beryl Kingston
When George Bernard Shaw got married, reporters asked him his opinion of married life. He replied that he and his wife, being middle-aged and childless couldn't possibly know anything about it.
âReal married life,' he said, âis the life of the boy and girl who pluck a daisy and bring down an avalanche on their shoulders.'
I dedicate this book to the young couples who married in the late thirties and early forties as a tribute to their courage and endurance, for the avalanche that fell on their shoulders was the Second World War.
Chapter One
We were waiting. All of us. All over the country. All across Europe and the United States. Soldiers, sailors, airmen â and civilians too because we were all involved in this war â from the arsenals of California to the battlefields of Kiev and Leningrad, from the bomb-sites of London to the terrible, secret torture-chambers of Belsen and Buchenwald. There had never been such a wait. It was almost as if our lives had been temporarily suspended. We were hanging on, that's how it was, from one month to the next, our minds focused towards one, long-desired, meticulously planned, all-important, much-dreaded event â the Allied invasion of Europe that we called the Second Front.
The war had been dragging on for more than four years and we all knew it wouldn't stop until the Germans had been driven out of occupied Europe. We knew what it would cost too, that thousands of young men would be killed in the fighting before it was over. But now it was the beginning of 1944, the plans were complete and the invasion was coming no matter what our feelings about it might be. The signs were all there. There were US bases all over south-east England; military convoys roared along the main roads everywhere you looked; equipment and supplies arrived by the day to stand in the fields in long, reassuring rows; and, to cap it all, the famous Desert Rats had been brought back from Italy and were billeted in Norfolk waiting to lead the invasion and strike terror into their old enemies.
The Desert Rats! What extraordinary men they were! It lifted our morale just to see them, with their tough
brown faces and their foreign slang and the Africa Star brave on their battledress, victors of Tobruk and El Alamein, the men who'd defeated the invincible Rommel and seen off the dreaded Afrika Korps, heroes to a man. They had a wonderful disregard for petty rules and seemed to be able to wear whatever they fancied, silk scarves, gaudy pullovers, corduroy trousers, even suede shoes, which they claimed were âscuffed by the sands of the desert'. And why not? Knowing what lay ahead of them. Within days of their return they came swaggering into the local towns and took possession, laying claim to all the pubs, cinemas, dancehalls and women that were most desirable.
The nineteen-year-olds, like Steve Wilkins and his oppo Dusty Miller, who'd been sent to replace the men who'd been killed in the Italian campaign, were mere boys compared to them â and they knew it and looked it. They had a rough time in such company, for although they would soon be facing the same dangers as the rest of the army, for the moment they were scorned for their youth and inexperience, mocked for their pale faces and white knees and advised to âget some in' whenever they made mistakes. Most of them kept their heads down and accepted being ribbed as the price they had to pay for being part of such a famous army. For as Steve said, âIf I've got to fight, I'd rather fight in their army than anyone else's. They know what they're doing.' Only a few, like Dusty, who was small and quick-tempered, took their teasing personally. As he did that Saturday night.
âBloody sergeant!' he growled, kicking into the Nissan hut in his army boots and trousers. It was mid February and very cold, so his dash across the compound from Ablutions had brought him out in goose-pimples. He had a towel draped round his neck but that was more for decoration than warmth and his chest was blotched pink from the combination of night air and quick scrub. He shivered into his vest and shirt,
frotting the khaki cloth against his arms to warm them. âI can't help havin' a white skin! To hear him goin' on all the time, you'd think I done it on purpose.'
âBut you're lovely with it!' Steve said. âI mean to say, look at you. Clark Gable in khaki! You've got the same ears. You going dancing in your boots?' Unlike the old hands, he had the knack of teasing to soothe.
âDon't you start!' Dusty grinned. âI got enough with Shit-Features. It's all very well for you, lying there. I suppose you're gonna say you're ready.'
The hut was a swarm of preening activity and clouded with cigarette smoke as the other twenty-two men who lived there prepared for their night on the town, struggling into shirts and tunics, polishing shoes, anointing hair with brilliantine, squeezing spots, fighting to admire themselves in their one small pockmarked mirror. But Private Steve Wilkins wasn't part of it. He lay sprawled on his bed, peacefully reading, with the book balanced on his tunic.
âI don't take all night tarting myself up,' he said amiably.
Although he'd only been with the 7th Armoured for a few weeks, his calm was already legendary. His appearance could easily have singled him out for special teasing â for he was a very noticeable young man, over six foot, slim and long-legged with auburn hair, large brown eyes and a very handsome face â but it didn't. Composure is invaluable in wartime, as soldiers are quick to discover, and a man whose self-control actually increases under stress is a rare breed. His mates were already calling him âold Steve' and passing on tales of his dependability. And that, combined with a touching innocence, an occasional other-worldliness and a complete lack of vanity, was enough to shield him from the taunts of the old hands and to make him something of a thing apart among the newcomers. The way he prepared for a night out was typical of him â wash, dress, run a quick comb through his hair, and he was ready.
Dusty snorted in mock disapproval. âYou won't get yerself a bint if you don't make an effort. I'll tell you that for nothing.'
Steve shrugged and grinned. âI'm easy,' he said. He didn't particularly want to â
get himself a bint
'. The very word put him off. It sounded coarse and cheap, like â
a bit on the side
' or â
a bit of skirt
,' the sort of girl you picked up, went as far as you could with and then dumped. If a bint was all they were after, good luck to them. Privately, he knew he wanted a great deal more than that. But he had to accept that he was too shy for all the chatting-up you had to do to get any girl interested in you in the first place. Too shy and too ignorant. He hadn't learnt how to flirt, that was part of it, and flattery had always seemed dishonest and rather despicable.
He turned a page, deciding, yet again, that he would wait until the right girl came along. He'd find her somehow. He had no idea how or where but two things were certain â it wouldn't be until the war was over, because it wouldn't be fair to get involved and then shoot off and leave her; and it wouldn't be in a dancehall. The one they were going to that night was no better or worse than the others. It would be entertaining there. It would pass the time. But it was just a dancehall. Not worth getting into a lather about.
In fact the Saturday hop at King's Lynn was held in the Corn Exchange, which was a prestigious place had anyone stopped to consider it. But nobody did. The locals were too used to it, the soldiers were too busy looking for talent, and it was always much too crowded. It had been crowded even before the Desert Rats moved into the area and now there were suddenly three times the number of men about and most of them were soldiers. The local girls were thrilled by their sudden popularity but the local lads were put out in every sense of the word. Unless they were already comfortably attached to the girl of their choice, they mooched in and
out of the hall in disgruntled gangs trying to appear nonchalant and scowling at their adversaries. There were three of them glowering at the entrance when Steve and his mates strolled in.
âPunch-up?' Dusty said hopefully. He was still angry from his brush with the sergeant and a scrap was just what he needed.
Steve glanced round the hall. Hordes of girls might make him feel ill at ease but he enjoyed a brawl. As a schoolboy he'd been in enough street fights to know what to expect. It gave him a chance to use his height and strength and he liked the sense of being part of this invincible army. But there was no likelihood of any trouble that night. There were Desert Rats everywhere he looked and three locals were hardly likely to provoke trouble with that sort of opposition about. âNo,' he said. âDon't think so.'
âPity,' Dusty grimaced. âI could've taken them on, no trouble.' He pulled a cigarette from Steve's proffered packet, lit it and began to size up the talent. âBoy, oh boy. Get an eyeful a' that!'
That was a dark-haired girl in a red sweater and navy-blue trousers who was doing an energetic jitterbug with a languid GI. To Steve's eyes, she wasn't a particularly pretty girl but she was certainly vivacious. Her hair swirled as she danced, her feet leapt, her breasts bounced. Now they
were
pretty. Soft and full and tiptilted and â¦
âBoy, oh boy!' Dusty groaned. âWill you look at that redhead!'
âThere's fickle you are!' Taffy Jones yelled at him above the noise of the band. âI thought you was after the sweater gel.'
âYou know me,' Dusty shouted back. âPlay the field, me.' He went on enjoying the sights on offer, smoking happily. By the time the jitterbug crashed to an end, he'd decided on four possibilities. He said, âTally ho!' to Steve, stubbed out his cigarette and plunged into the
hunt. The next dance was a waltz so the lights were turned down as he moved and the silver mirror ball set spinning above his head. Soon he was lost in the swirl.
This was the moment in any dance that Steve enjoyed the most, when he could stand with his back against the wall, have a quiet smoke, dream vague dreams and watch without having to be involved. The waltz was soothing. It reminded him of the wireless back home, Dad mending shoes by the fireside, nails between his lips, Mum darning, her work-basket open beside her, the smell of home-cooking ⦠What wouldn't he give for a plate of her bacon and eggs! Or bacon and tomatoes. Or just fried bread.
Soft light and drifting music gentled the hall. The dancing couples gyrated dreamily beneath the long beams spinning from the mirror ball. Discs of white light dappled their shadowy faces. The obscenity of bombs and bullets was a long way away.
One day, Steve promised himself, with a bit of luck, when I know a bit more, when this war's over, if I'm still in one piece, I shall have a girl and we'll dance like that, cheek to cheek. The words of the song filled his mind with hope. â
I'll be loving you. Always. With a love that's true. Always. When the things you've planned need a helping hand
â¦'
