Motherland (3 page)

‘Yes, sir,’ says Kitty.

She drives the car round to the garage at the back, followed by Louisa in the Ford. They go together to hand in their work dockets at the Motor Transport Office.

‘Fancy a drink at the Lamb?’ says Louisa.

‘I’ll just give the car a wipe-down,’ says Kitty. ‘Meet you in the hall in half an hour.’

She takes a bucket and cloth and swabs the Humber’s flanks, patting the metalwork as she goes. Then she fills the petrol tank back up, and finally immobilises the car by removing its rotor arm, as required by regulations.

Her route through the big house takes her down the cloister, across the galleried hall, past the organ room to the nursery stairs. The room she shares with Louisa is on the second floor, under the eaves, in what was once the night nursery. As she goes she ponders the best strategy to deal with Stephen and Friday. She could say she’s run out of travel warrants, which she has, but she’s always hitch-hiked before. And anyway, she’d like to see him. They could go to the 400 Club and dance and forget the war for the night. Surely there’s no harm in that?

In the attic nursery Kitty sits on her bed and unrolls her regulation lisle stockings. She stretches out her bare legs, wiggling her toes, relishing the sensation of cool freedom. She possesses one pair of rayon stockings, but they won’t last for ever, and she has no intention of wasting them on the crowd in the Lamb. Friday, maybe, if she does decide to go up to town.

She sighs as she touches up her lipstick. It’s all very well having boys be sweet on you, but why must they all try to own you? Louisa says it’s because she smiles too much, but what can she do about that? You’re allowed to smile at someone without marrying them, aren’t you?

At No.2 Motor Transport Training Centre in North Wales there’d been a girl her age who said she’d done it with four different men. She said it was ten times better than dancing. She said the trick was to pretend to be tipsy, then afterwards you say you don’t remember a thing. She said if you were lucky and got a good one it was heaven, but you could never tell from the outside which ones would be good.

On the way back down the narrow carpetless stairs Kitty meets George himself, loitering on the first floor. Somehow since being billeted in Edenfield Place she has befriended its owner, rather in the way you take in a stray dog.

‘Oh, hullo,’ he says, blinking at her. He has poor eyesight, apparently. ‘Are they still keeping you hard at work?’

‘No, I’m off now,’ says Kitty. Then remembering the brigadier’s request, ‘I’m really sorry about the wine.’

‘Oh, the wine,’ he says. ‘All the ’38 Meursault is gone. I’m told they drank it laced with gin.’

‘That’s terrible!’ Kitty is more shocked by the gin than by the theft. ‘They should be shot.’

‘Well, not shot, perhaps. You know the Canadians are all volunteers? We should be grateful to them. And I am grateful.’

‘Oh, George. You’re allowed to be angry.’

‘Am I?’

His unfocused eyes gaze at her with silent longing.

‘I suppose they meant no real harm,’ says Kitty. ‘They’re like children who don’t know what damage they’re doing. But even so. You’ll get compensation, won’t you?’

‘I expect I’ll be paid something.’ Then with a sudden rush, ‘The thing is, Kitty, I was hoping we could find a moment to talk.’

‘Later, George,’ she says. ‘I’m late already.’

She touches his arm and gives him a smile to soften the implied rejection, and runs on down the main stairs. Louisa is waiting by the ornate fireplace in the great hall. She’s wearing her now-obsolete FANY uniform, made for her by her father’s tailor, with the lanyard on the left, yeomanry-style, in the FANY colours of pink and blue. Kitty raises her eyebrows.

‘To hell with them all,’ says Louisa cheerfully. ‘If I have to wear uniform when I’m out in the evenings, I’ll bloody well wear one that fits me.’

Kitty and Louisa both volunteered for the FANYs, so much more socially acceptable than the ATS, and met at the training camp in Strensall.

‘I don’t mind being bossed about by lesbians in trilbies,’ says Louisa, ‘so long as they’re my own class.’

Two years ago the proud FANYs were merged with the ATS, which is not at all Louisa’s class, and has the least fetching uniform of all the services.

Outside the rain has stopped at last. There’s a crowd of
Camerons by the pub, sprawled on the damp grass strip between the door and the road. From inside come cheers and waves of laughter.

‘You don’t want to go in there, darling,’ one soldier calls out to them.

‘I don’t see any drinks out here,’ responds Louisa.

They go into the saloon bar and find a mixed bunch of Camerons and Royals banging on the tables, roaring out encouragement. A trooper from the Fusiliers Mont-Royal is dancing on a table.

‘Frenchie! Frenchie! Frenchie!’ they chant. ‘Off! Off! Off!’

The trooper, a gangling French-Canadian with a craggy stubble-dark face, is performing a mime striptease. Without removing a single actual garment he is managing to create the illusion that he’s a sexy young woman peeling off layer after layer.

Kitty and Louisa watch, mesmerised.

‘Bravo, Marco!’ shout his comrades. ‘
Baisez-moi
, Marco! Allez Van Doo!’

The trooper writhes with seductive sinuousness, as little by little, with careful tugs, he eases invisible stockings down his legs. Now mock-naked but for brassiere and panties he plays at coyly covering his crotch with his hands, opening and closing his legs. Looking round the faces of the watching men, Kitty realises they’re genuinely aroused.

‘Show us what you’ve got, Frenchie!’ they call out. ‘Knickers down! Off, off, off!’

Teasing inch by teasing inch, down come the imaginary knickers, while the performer remains in full khaki battledress. Kitty catches Louisa’s eye and sees there the same surprise. It’s
only a joke; but the male sexual hunger on display is all too real.

Now the knickers are off. The legs are tightly crossed. The ugly soldier who is also a gorgeous naked woman holds his audience spellbound with anticipation. Now at last he throws up his hands, parts his legs, thrusts out his crotch, and a great sigh of satisfaction fills the smoky air.

The show over, the young men packing the bar become suddenly aware that there are two actual females in their midst. Laughing, jostling, they compete to get close.

‘Look who’s here! Let me buy you a drink, gorgeous! This one’s on me. Budge up, pal! Give a guy a chance.’

Kitty and Louisa find themselves pushed back and back until they’re pressed to the wall. The friendly attentions of the excited soldiers become uncomfortable.

‘Take it easy, boys,’ says Kitty, smiling even as she tries to fend off reaching hands.

‘Hey!’ cries Louisa. ‘Get off me! You’re squashing me!’

None of the soldiers means to push, but the ones behind are surging forward, and the ones in front find themselves thrust against the girls. Kitty starts to feel frightened.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please.’

A commanding voice rings out.

‘Move! Get back! Out of my way!’

A tall soldier is forcing himself through the crush, taking men by the arm, pulling them aside.

‘Idiots! Baboons! Get back!’

The crowding soldiers part before him, all at once sheepishly aware that things have got out of control. He reaches Kitty and Louisa and spreads his arms to create a clear space before them.

‘Sorry about that. No harm done, I hope?’

‘No,’ says Kitty.

The man before her wears battledress with no insignia of any kind. He’s young, not much older than Kitty herself, and strikingly handsome. His face is narrow, with a strong nose over a full sensitive mouth. His blue eyes, beneath arching brows, are fixed on her with a look she’s never encountered before. His look says, Yes, I can see you, but I have other more important concerns than you.

The soldiers he has displaced are now recovering their poise.

‘Who do you think you are, buddy?’

The young man turns his faraway gaze on his accuser, and sees him raise a threatening hand.

‘Touch me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll break your neck.’

There’s something about the way he says it that makes the soldier lower his hand. One of the others mutters, ‘Leave him alone, mate. He’s a fucking commando.’

After that the crowd disperses, leaving Kitty and Louisa with their rescuer.

‘Thanks,’ says Kitty. ‘I don’t think they meant any harm.’

‘No, of course not. Just horsing around.’

He guides them to the bar.

‘Got any brandy?’ he says to the barman. ‘These young ladies are suffering from shock.’

‘Oh, no, I’m fine,’ says Kitty.

‘Yes, please,’ says Louisa, treading on her foot.

The barman produces a bottle of cooking brandy from under the counter and furtively pours two small shots. The soldier hands them to Kitty and Louisa.

‘For medicinal purposes,’ he says.

Kitty takes her glass and sips at it. Louisa drinks more briskly.

‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘I’m Louisa, and this is Kitty.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘The big house.’ Louisa nods up the road.

‘Secretaries?’

‘Drivers.’

‘Take care at night,’ he says. ‘More killed on the roads in the blackout than by enemy action.’

Kitty drinks her brandy without being aware she’s doing so. She begins to feel swimmy.

‘So who are you?’ she says. ‘I mean, what are you?’

‘Special services,’ he says.

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. I don’t mean to sound mysterious. But that really is all I can say.’

‘Are you allowed to tell us your name?’

‘Avenell,’ he says, pushing back the sweep of dark hair that keeps falling into his eyes. ‘Ed Avenell.’

‘You’re a knight in shining armour,’ says Louisa. ‘You came to the rescue of damsels in distress.’

‘Damsels, are you?’ Not a flicker on his pale face. ‘If I’d known, I’m not sure I’d have bothered.’

‘Don’t you like damsels?’ says Kitty.

‘To tell you the truth,’ he says, ‘I’m not entirely clear what a damsel is. I think it may be a kind of fruit that bruises easily.’

‘That’s a damson,’ says Kitty. ‘Perhaps we’re damsons in distress.’

‘You can’t distress a damson,’ says Louisa.

‘I don’t know about that,’ says Ed. ‘It can’t be much fun being made into jam.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ says Louisa. ‘You get squeezed until you’re juicy, and then you get all licked up.’

‘Louisa!’ says Kitty.

‘Sorry,’ says Louisa. ‘It’s the brandy.’

‘She’s really very well brought up,’ Kitty says to Ed. ‘Her cousin is a duke.’

‘My second cousin is a tenth duke,’ says Louisa.

‘And you still a mere corporal,’ he says. ‘It just isn’t right.’

‘Lance-corporal,’ says Louisa, touching her single stripe.

The young man turns his steady gaze on Kitty.

‘And what about you?’

‘Oh, I’m not top-drawer at all,’ says Kitty. ‘We Teales are very middle-drawer. All vicars and doctors and that sort of thing.’

Suddenly she feels so wobbly she knows she must lie down. The brandy has come at the end of a long day.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘We were up at four for the exercise.’

She starts for the door. Apparently she staggers a little, because before she knows it he’s taking her arm.

‘I’ll walk you back,’ he says.

‘And me,’ says Louisa. ‘I was up at four too.’

So the gallant commando takes a lady on either arm, and they walk back up the road to the big house. The soldiers they pass on the way grin and say, ‘Good work, chum!’ and, ‘Give a shout if you need help.’

They part by the porch.

‘Corporal Kitty,’ he says, saluting. ‘Corporal Louisa.’

The girls return the salute.

‘But we don’t know your rank,’ says Kitty.

‘I think I’m a lieutenant or something,’ he says. ‘My firm isn’t very big on ranks.’

‘Can you really break people’s necks?’ says Louisa.

‘Just like that,’ he says, snapping his fingers.

Then he goes.

Kitty and Louisa enter the cloister and their eyes meet and they both burst out laughing.

‘My God!’ exclaims Louisa. ‘He’s a dream!’

‘Squeezed until you’re juicy? Honestly, Louisa!’

‘Well, why not? There’s a war on, isn’t there? He’s welcome to come round and lick me up any time he wants.’

‘Louisa!’

‘Don’t sound so shocked. I saw you simpering away at him.’

‘That’s just how I am. I can’t help myself.’

‘Want to come into the mess?’

‘No,’ says Kitty. ‘I really am bushed. I wasn’t making it up.’

Alone in the attic nursery Kitty undresses slowly, thinking about the young commando officer. His grave amused face is printed clearly on her memory. Most of all she recalls the gaze of those wide-set blue eyes, that seemed to see her and not see her at the same time. For all his staring, she never felt he wanted something from her. There was no pleading there. Instead there was something else, something vulnerable but all his own, a kind of sadness. Those eyes say that he doesn’t expect happiness to last. It’s this, more than his good looks, that causes her to keep him in her thoughts right up to the moment she finally surrenders to sleep.

The rear wheel of the motorbike slews on the chalk slime of the farm track, making the engine race. Its rider swerves to regain traction and slows and leans in to the turn, swinging round the barn end into the farmyard. Chickens scatter, squawking, only to return as soon as the engine cuts out. This is the time that kitchen scraps are thrown out. There are crows waiting in the birches.

The rider pushes his goggles up and rubs at his eyes. The roads have been slick and dangerous all day, and he’s thankful to be off his bike at last. Mary Funnell, the farmer’s wife, opens the farmhouse door, one hand holding her apron hem, and calls to him, ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

Larry Cornford pulls off his helmet to reveal a tumble of golden-brown curls. His broad friendly face looks round the yard, his eyes blinking. He sees an unfamiliar jeep.

‘Thanks, Mary.’

The farmer’s wife shakes out the contents of her apron and the chickens make a rush for the scraps. Larry pulls his satchel out of the motorbike’s pannier and strides into the farmhouse kitchen, wondering who his visitor might be.