In a Dry Season (30 page)

“She had a bit of a fling with a Yank from Rowan Woods called Billy Joe something or other. I never did like him. Wouldn't trust him and those bedroom eyes of his as far as I could throw him. She got a bit of a reputation for hanging around with American airmen, disappearing into
the woods late at night, that sort of thing.” Alice winked. “Not that she was the only one.”

“Do you think there was anything in it?”

“I'd be surprised if there wasn't. I think she was lonely.

And she was also lovely. We met a lot of them, Betty, Cynthia, Gloria, Gwen and me. We'd go to dances, mostly at the base or in Harkside. There were a few in Hobb's End, at the church, but they were rather tame affairs. Betty Goodall tended to take charge, and I'm sure you can imagine there wasn't much fun to be had. Betty was a keen dancer—oh, did she love to dance—but it was all waltzes and foxtrots, old-fashioned stuff. No jitterbugging. She was good, though. Her and Billy went in for ballroom dancing in a serious way after the war. Won trophies and all. Where was I?”

“Dances. Americans.”

“Oh, yes. Well, let's face it, most of the local lads were at war, except those unfit for service or in reserved occupations. And
they
just hung out in the Shoulder of Mutton and complained all the time. The Americans were different. They talked differently, spoke about places we'd only dreamed of or seen at the pictures. They were exotic. Exciting. They also had all sorts of things we hadn't been able to get because of rationing. You know, nylons, cigarettes and that stuff. We were friendly with
PX
, which was the nickname of the chap who ran their stores, sort of quartermaster, I suppose, and he used to get us all sorts of stuff. Gloria in particular. She was definitely his favourite. But she was everyone's favourite. Gloria was like a beautiful, exotic butterfly; she attracted every man who met her. There was something special about her. She sparkled and glowed. She radiated
it
.”

“This
PX
, what was his real name?”

“Sorry, love, I can't remember. Come to think of it, I don't know if I ever knew. We always just called him
PX
.”

“Was there anyone else in particular?”

“After Billy Joe, she developed a real soft spot for Brad, but after what happened to Matthew, she didn't want anything serious.”

“What about this Brad? What did he want?”

“He was a nice lad. No doubt about it, he was head over heels.”

“Do you remember his second name?”

“Sorry, love.”

“That's all right,” said Annie. “How long did they go out together?”

“There you've got me. The best part of
1944
, I think. At least they were still seeing each other when I left at Christmas.”

“Christmas
1944
?”

“Yes.” She beamed. “Best Christmas of my life. My Eric got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, silly bugger. Nothing serious, but it got him an early discharge and he was home for Christmas. The doctor recommended a bit of sea air, so we came here, fell in love with the place and ended up staying. We left Hobb's End on Boxing Day
1944
.”

“Where's Eric now?”

“Oh, he's out and about. Likes to go for his constitutional along the prom every morning, then he stops by the pub and plays dominoes with his mates.”

“Did Gloria ever mention anything about having a baby?”

Alice looked puzzled. “No, not to me. And I never saw
any evidence of children. I'm not even sure she liked them. Wait a minute, though . . . ”

“What?”

“It was something I noticed when I was crossing the fairy bridge once. Something odd. A bloke turned up—a bloke in a soldier's uniform—with a little lad in tow, couldn't have been more than about six or seven, holding his hand. I'd never seen them before. They went in to see Gloria, talked for a while, then they left. I heard voices raised.”

“When was this?”

“Sorry, love, I can't remember. It was after Matthew had gone, though. I do know that.”

“And that's all that happened?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear what was said?”

“No.”

“Who was he, do you know?”

“Sorry, dearie, I've no idea.”

“Did you ever ask Gloria about him?”

“Yes. She went all quiet on me. She did that sometimes.

All she would say was that it was relations from down south. I thought maybe it was her brother and nephew or something. You don't think . . . ?”

“I don't know,” said Annie. “Did they ever come back, the man and the child?”

“Not that I ever heard of.”

“And what happened to Gwen and Gloria after you'd left?”

“I don't know. I sent Gloria a postcard, must have been March or April of
1945
, telling her that Eric was better now and we were going to stay in Scarborough, and that she should come and visit us.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. She never replied.”

“Didn't you think that odd?”

“Yes, I did, but there wasn't much I could do about it. Life goes on. I wrote again a few months later and still got no reply. After that, I gave up. You lose touch with a lot of people over the course of your life, I've found. It was the same with Gwen. I wouldn't say we were really
close
—she was a bit too quiet and bookish for that—but we did have some good times together. After we moved here, though, I never saw or heard of her again.”

“Did you ever go back to Hobb's End?”

“No reason to. After the war, it was like a new life— except for the same old rationing. You just got on with it and tried not to dwell on the past. I'm sorry I never saw Gloria again—she was a breath of fresh air—but, as I said, when you get to my age you realize people lose touch all the time.”

Annie had found that true enough, even in her own short life. Schoolfriends, university colleagues, lovers, work partners, there were so many people she had completely lost touch with. They could be dead for all she knew. Like Rob.

She let the silence stretch for a few moments, then shifted in her armchair. “Well, Alice,” she said, “I think that's all for now. I'll make sure I get the photograph back to you within a couple of days. If I think of anything else, I'll get in touch with you.” She managed to get herself out of the deep, comfortable chair by pushing her hands down hard on the arms.

“Please do.” Alice got to her feet. “It's been a great pleasure to me, though I can't see as it's done you much
good, me rabbiting on like this about the past.”

“You've been very helpful.”

“Well, it's nice of you to say so, dearie. I must admit, I've enjoyed having a good chin-wag. It's been years since I thought about all that stuff. Hobb's End. Gloria. Gwen. Matthew. The war. I hope you find out who did this to her. Even if he's dead, I'd like to know he died as slow and painful a death as he deserved.”

We left the café saddened and dazed, with hours to kill before our train home. To tell the truth, I don't think either of us at that time had much hope that Matthew was still alive. I asked Gloria if she would take me to where she used to live, but she refused. That would have been simply too much for her to bear, she said, and I felt cruel for asking.

It stopped raining and the sun was trying to pierce its way through the ragged clouds. We walked through St James's Park, past the barrageballoon station and the anti-aircraft guns, towards Oxford Street. Though our hearts weren't in it, we did some shopping. At least it took our minds off Matthew for a short while. On Charing Cross Road, I bought Graham Greene's new “entertainment,”
The Ministry of Fear
, as well as the last two issues of
Penguin New Writing
, the latest
Horizon
and some second-hand World's Classics copies of Trollope and Dickens for the lending library.

Gloria bought a black-red-and-white-checked Dorville dress at John Lewis. It cost her three pounds fifteen shillings and eleven coupons. She persuaded me to buy a Utility design by Norman Hartnell in a shop nearby for only three pounds and nine coupons.

After fish and chips at a British Restaurant, we went to the Carlton on Haymarket to see Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman in
For Whom the Bell Tolls
. It was one of the first films I ever saw in Technicolor, colour films not having made a real impact in Harkside by then. I hadn't read the Hemingway novel so I couldn't judge how faithful the film version was.

It was getting dark when we walked out onto Haymarket, and Gloria suggested we catch the underground back to King's Cross.

It is hard to describe the London blackout, especially on a broad, busy street like Haymarket. As it is never fully silent anywhere, so it is never fully dark, either. You can see the sharp edges and cornices of the buildings etched against the night sky in varying shades of darkness. If the half-moon slips out from behind the clouds, everything shimmers in its pale light for a few moments and then disappears again.

What I noticed most of all was the noise, the way blind people develop a more acute sense of hearing. Distant shouts and whistles, engines, laughter and singing from a public house, perhaps a dog howling in the distance or a cat meowing down a ginnel— all these sounds seem to carry farther and echo longer in the darkness of the blackout. They all sound more sinister, too.

Unnatural is the word that comes to mind. But what could be more natural than darkness? Perhaps it is a matter of context. In the city, especially such a sprawling, busy city as London, darkness is unnatural.

In Piccadilly Circus, I could just make out the statue of Eros buttressed by sandbags. There was music coming from somewhere, too, a tune I later learned was Glenn Miller's “Take the A Train.” There were soldiers all over the place, many of them drunk, and on more than one occasion, men approached us and grabbed us or offered us money for sexual favours.

At one point, I heard some sounds down an alley and could just make out the silhouettes of a man grunting as he thrust himself towards a woman, her back against a wall. It made me think of that icy Christmas of 1941, when I had seen Gloria and the Canadian airman, Mark, in exactly the same position.

The underground platforms, where people came to shelter during the air raids, were crowded, and I fancied I could smell sweat, unwashed clothes and urine mixed in with the sooty smell the trains made. Everything was grimy and run-down. The train soon came and we had to stand all the way. No one stood up to offer us seats.

I was glad our train for home left on time, and though I knew I would dream about the trip for weeks to come, I can't say I was sorry when, after a boring and uneventful journey of some seven hours, we caught the morning train from Leeds to Harrogate, thence to hook up with our little branch line back to Hobb's End.

It was after seven o'clock by the time Banks and Annie met up that evening. On his way back from Edinburgh, Banks got stuck in the mid-afternoon traffic around Newcastle, then he had to call in at the station to see if there had been any developments during his absence.

He had found about twenty telephone messages waiting for him in response to Monday evening's television news appearance. He spent an hour or so returning calls, but all he found out was that someone thought the Shackletons had moved to Leeds after
VE
day, and someone else remembered drinking with Matthew Shackleton in Hobb's End near the end of the war. Most people, though, simply wanted to relive wartime memories and had no useful information whatsoever.

There was also a message from John Webb, who said he had cleaned up the button Adam Kelly had taken from the skeleton. It was made of brass, probably, about half an inch in diameter, and had a raised pattern on the front, possibly reminiscent of wings. The expert who had examined it suggested it might be some sort of bird. Clearly, he added, given the time period under consideration, the armed forces came to mind, perhaps the
RAF
.