Avalanche of Daisies (6 page)

‘That's the army for you,' he said, enjoying her scorn. ‘Anyway it's over an' done with now. I shan't have to do it again.'

Although he was sorely tempted to run the risk – that night and every subsequent evening that they spent together. To be parted from her after such a short time in her company was agony. Waiting had taken on quite a different meaning for him now. He waited from one date to another, reliving the last and looking forward to the next, lost in a tumescent dream of the most exquisitely unresolved pleasure, the world and the war pushed into the shadows.

On Saturday he took her to the Corn Exchange and they spent the entire evening together and danced every dance except the tango, much to the interest of her friends and annoyance of Victor Castlemain, who danced every dance too, with somebody or other, and did his best to be good company and not to mention what was going on even though he was thinking very dark thoughts.

On Wednesday, when Vic was at the pictures with Tubby and Spikey, they returned to the Walks and spent the entire evening kissing under the trees.

‘This is probably a daft thing to say,' he confessed, ‘but I feel as if I've known you all my life.'

‘That ain't daft,' she said. ‘I feel the same. I tell you things I've never told to no one else in the world.'

‘Do you? Like what?'

‘Like wishin' I could ha' gone to grammar school. That was a secret till you come along.'

‘Secrets and dreams,' he said, remembering his own. ‘Do you dream?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘What about?'

‘All sorts uv things. Sailin' an' flyin' in aeroplanes. Bein' in the army sometimes.'

‘The army? What makes you think of that?'

‘I shall have to join the army, or somethin', won't I, if the war's still on when I'm eighteen an' I have to register.'

The news stuck pins in his heart. He didn't want her anywhere near this war and certainly not in the army. ‘When's your birthday?' he asked, hoping it wouldn't be too soon.

It wasn't. ‘January 6th,' she said. ‘When's yours?'

‘April 23rd. I'm nearly three years older than you.' Nearly twenty to her seventeen. It was perfect.

‘I wish we could stop the clock,' she sighed. ‘I'd like to stay here like this for ever an' ever.'

‘So would I,' he said devoutly. And kissed her to prove it.

But the clock moved on despite them. Spring and the invasion were coming and much, much too quickly. February lengthened its stride into March, March winds blew them all breathlessly into April, with days so warm and peaceful and bright with sunshine that it seemed incongruous for him to be in uniform and even more incongruous that they should be strolling arm in arm under a sky full of bombers heading out to northern France. Soon daffodils nodded in every flower bed and the gardens were yellow with forsythia. And then, two weeks into April, he arrived one Wednesday evening to tell her he was off on manoeuvres again and that they wouldn't see one another for ten days.

The thought of being parted tightened her chest and caught at her throat so that her expression changed and clouded, before she could prevent it. There was nothing to be done about it. They both knew that. If he'd had orders that's all there was to it. He would have to go – just as he'd have to go when the invasion started. And they would have to accept it and be sensible about it.

‘I'll write every day,' he promised, holding her face between his hands.

‘See you do,' she teased. ‘Or I shall have something to say when you get back.'

‘It's only a little while,' he said, comforting them both. ‘I mean what's ten days? It'll be over before we know where we are. Anyway, let's not think about it. What's on at the pictures?'

So, like everyone else in wartime, they didn't think about it. When they kissed goodbye on their last evening together, they were both deliberately bright and cheerful. But it was a bitter-sweet moment for all that.

Victor Castlemain had spent a miserable morning at the bank, totting up recalcitrant figures and trying to make sense of the situation he was in. Normally the sight of one of his nice accurate columns gave him a pleasant sense of achievement, especially when the manager came by and praised him for it – as he often did – but now it was just an irritation.

It had been six weeks since Barbara started going out with that soldier – damn nearly seven – and he couldn't be off knowing it, for there they were, night after night, strolling about the town with their arms round each other or lurking under the trees in the Walks, kissing and cuddling and being stupid. He felt sure people were beginning to talk about it, and the misery of being so publicly and obviously rejected was tying his innards into a perpetual knot of anguish and jealousy. It wasn't as if he could complain about it either, even to Spikey Spencer and Tubby, who were his best and oldest friends, because he'd look a fool if he did. He just had to get on with things and pretend it didn't matter. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to cope with.

Sighing, he dipped his pen in the ink and tried to settle to work. Another five minutes and he could cut off for dinner. Spikey and Tubby had invited him to join them at their works canteen and, although the food would be foul, he'd agreed for want of anything better to do. Food was foul everywhere these days, and at least old Spikey would make him laugh.

As it turned out old Spikey did a great deal better than that.

‘Got some news for you, Victor,' he said happily as
they clattered their trays onto the nearest table. ‘The Desert Rats are off on manoeuvres.'

It was like a great light being switched on. Heaven-sent. Couldn't be better. It cheered him up at once. ‘When?' he asked, setting his plate on the table. ‘How long for?'

Spikey pushed a chunk of wet white cabbage towards his forkful of Woolton pie and considered it before he lifted it into his mouth. ‘Went yesterday,' he said, chomping. ‘Whole kit and caboodle. For a fortnight.'

‘Smashing, eh?' Tubby beamed, trellissing his portion of the pie with ribbons of HP sauce. ‘Now we can have our gals back.' He spoke as if they'd been torn away from him in droves although, in fact, he'd never persuaded a single one to give him so much as a glance. ‘Be a different story this Sat'day night, bor.'

Vic could already see himself dancing with Barbara again. How quickly things change in wartime! With that lot out of the way, they could all get back to normal. The Woolton pie was almost palatable – if you swallowed it quickly. ‘Wizard!' he said. He'd get Ma to wash his white shirt – there wouldn't be time to send it to the laundry – and he'd wear his blue tie with the red and orange flowers, because she always teased him about that one. Have a haircut, maybe. Buy her some chocolate if he'd got enough coupons left. He'd been a bit heavy on the sweet ration this month, being in a low state, but Ma would help him out. Roll on Saturday. In the meantime – while the cat's away – he might just go and see old Ma Nelson. Drop her a few hints about what was going on. In case she didn't know. Be a kindness really. Public spirited. And it would do Barbara some good too in a roundabout sort of way. All gals needed warning about the way soldiers went on and she wouldn't listen to him. Glowing with righteous concern, he decided he'd call in at the yards on his way back to the bank.

Dodger's Yard was full of people that lunch hour, for
the fishing fleet had come in on the morning tide so the women were all out cleaning and untangling the nets, and just to complicate their lives, the kids were home from school. They sat placidly on the doorsteps eating hunks of bread and jam or prowled the yard in arguing gangs or played football as well as they could among the nets, dodging the dripping water, the seaweed and their mothers' irritation.

Maudie Nelson was hard at work in the middle of the mêlée, with a sacking apron over her skirt, a navy-blue gansey over her ample bosom and one of her husband's caps on her bush of greying hair, worn back to front to protect her neck from the drips. She looked up mildly at Vic as he picked his way towards her.

‘You come to give us 'and, bor?' she asked, pulling a lump of weed from the net.

He moved his legs deftly out of the way, struck, yet again, by how completely unlike her daughter she was; she so dumpy and slow moving, Barbara so skinny and quick; she all beige and navy blue except for her grey hair, Barbara all bright colours and bright eyes. ‘Not in my working clothes,' he said. ‘Good catch, was it?'

‘Middlin'. What d'we owe the honour then?'

‘I've got some news for you,' he said and told her about the manoeuvres.

She wasn't particularly interested. ‘Sort a' rehearsin', I s'pose,' she said mildly. ‘How's your mother goin' along? She still got the rheumaticals, hev she?'

Vic wasn't interested in his mother's ‘rheumaticals'.

‘Be glad to see the back of them,' he said.

‘You hain't got rheumaticals an' all, have you bor?'

‘No,' Victor said struggling to stay calm. ‘I was talking about the soldiers.'

‘Thass on account of gettin' wet all the time on those thing-a-mees.'

Victor stifled a groan. ‘What I
mean
', he said heavily, ‘is Barbara won't be seeing so much of them.'

‘Not if they hain't there, bor. Stands to reason.'

Was she deliberately misunderstanding him? Vic thought. Or can't she help it? He would have to spell it out to her. ‘Your Barbara's been going round with one of the soldiers.'

Maudie Nelson took the news with perfect aplomb and total disbelief. ‘Don't you worry about our Barbara,' she said easily. ‘Thass just the way gals go on. She'll marry you in the end, you see if she don't. She's a good gal.' And she shook out a swathe of net so suddenly that weed and water spun out all over his jacket before he could dodge it.

‘I'm off back to work', he said, making a joke of it, ‘before I get drowned.' And went at once, thinking what a waste of time it had been. Silly old mawther. She should've been glad I came to tell her. Not shook water all over me. Still, the great thing is
they
won't be at the dance. And
I
will.

He couldn't wait for Saturday night and grew short-tempered with impatience at its slow approach, arriving at the Corn Exchange before the doors were open, even though he was perfectly well aware that he would lose face among his friends if he appeared too eager. He'd managed to get the chocolate, he was wearing his clean shirt and his flash tie, he'd even polished his shoes. Come on! he urged, as he waited beside the band. Hurry up and get here! But the hall was full before she arrived.

She was wearing the same dress she'd worn the previous Saturday, when she'd danced with that damned soldier all the time, a sort of wine red which looked gorgeous on her. And she was the old bold Spitfire again, dancing with everybody, doing the jitterbug with one of the Yanks and the foxtrot with Spikey, wise-cracking and laughing all the time. That's more like it, he thought. I'll wait till the end of this one and then I'll stroll across and say hello.

But in fact he was misreading the signs. Barbara's gaiety was a shield, deliberately held up to her friends to protect feelings that were suddenly and achingly raw.

She was in the oddest mood, unaccountably listless one moment, irritably restless the next, as if there were a great weight pressing down on her shoulders that she couldn't shake off. If it hadn't been for the fact that a change of routine would have provoked questions, she would have stayed at home with Becky Bosworth that evening. She certainly had no appetite for the dance and no desire to go anywhere if she couldn't be with Steve.

The first three days without him had been unexpectedly difficult. True to his promise he'd sent her a letter every day, but she missed him all the time, dreaming of him most erotically by night and suddenly remembering his kisses as she stood behind the counter by day, so that it was a struggle to pay attention to her customers. On the second day, the sun had been obscured by cloud and a cold wind roistered through the town, hurling the blossom from the boughs and stripping the new spring flowers to tatters. It was the first time she'd ever felt disturbed by the destructive force of nature. Until then she'd simply accepted it. Now the sight of all those shattered flowers made her separation from Steve seem unnecessary and destructive too. Still, it wasn't in her nature to complain, nor to stay at home and mope. That Saturday night she brushed her hair, put on rather more lipstick than usual and went off to the Corn Exchange with her friends, horsing around and laughing so much that she felt sure that one of them would see how false she was being.

None did. They all said what fun she was. ‘Thass our Spitfire. She's a one.' And when Vic came strolling round the edge of the floor to say hello, they greeted him with the news that she was ‘on form tonight'.

‘I can see that,' he said. ‘'Lo Spitfire.'

‘'Lo Vic,' she said, smiling at him brightly. ‘When you gonna put that ol' tie out fer jumble?'

‘Like a dance?' he offered hopefully and was delighted when she said, ‘Why not?'

They danced energetically, he concentrating on the
perfection of his steps, she enjoying the beat and glad that there was no need to talk while they were bouncing about the floor. It was like old times for both of them. But when the music stopped, the lights dimmed for a waltz and she walked him off the floor before he could offer to dance
that
with her too.

‘Nice to see you two together again,' Tubby said, looming in upon them. ‘You soon forgot that ol' soldier then.'

She swung round to face him and even in the dim light he could see how bright her eyes were. ‘What?'