Beneath Us the Stars (11 page)

Riley slid his hand into a pocket and produced a message sheet.

‘Just got this.’ He unfolded it, cleared his throat and read:

Riley looked up, smiled and finished: ‘Signed,
personally
, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander SHAEF.’

Bill let out one terrific yell, grabbed Riley and danced around shouting: ‘Riley, you old bastard, you’re the
greatest
lawyer on earth. Come to the club – drinks on me.’

When the initial euphoria was past and he let go of Riley, the latter said: ‘You may not be popular with the CO of your squadron.’

Bill grinned. ‘He’ll be fine. If we get a forty-eight I’ll be married before he even knows it – and with this …’ he took the message from Riley’s fingers … ‘he can hardly complain.’

His face suddenly clouded. ‘Say – can we marry in a civil office –
quickly
?’

Riley shrugged. ‘If that’s what your lady wants, I’m sure I can fix it.’

Bill held his arms wide. ‘Riley, is there no end to your talents?’

Neither of them could know that forty years later Riley would be a Supreme Court judge.

Mary was on High Table, dining with the Master and Fellows when the door at the far end burst open. At the clamour, everybody stopped eating, looked around, down the two long candlelit rows of tables to the entrance where Bill, with the porter hanging on to his arm, stood shouting:

‘Mary, Mary … Marry me. Ike himself has given us permission.’

Startled she dropped her spoon, said to the Master: ‘I’m sorry … I must….’

The goatee-bearded patrician, the foremost authority on ancient Persia in the land, laid a hand on her arm.

‘My dear, his name?’

Mary gulped. ‘Bill Anderson, Master, he is a lieutenant in the American Air Force.’

The Master waved. ‘Lieutenant Anderson – please come and join us.’

There was a ripple of surprise. College servants
scrambled
to set another place as one of the Fellows moved to let Bill sit beside her.

Bill strode up the hall, stepped up on to the platform on which was the High Table.

The Master rose to meet him and took his hand, smiling and introducing Mary.

‘I think you already know Doctor Rice?’

Bill looked into her eyes.

‘I do, sir. And I await her reply. Will you marry me – on this leave – right away?’

One could almost hear a pin drop in the centuries-old hall.

Unintentionally she kept him waiting several seconds until she could trust her voice.

‘I will.’

Cheering, the students threw all their napkins in the air as the Master warmly clasped them both on their
shoulders
.

Later, when they were walking on their own, with her arm through his, they talked and talked like the excited
youngsters they were.

Suddenly serious, Mary said: ‘Bill, can we get to see my parents – I really want you to meet them?’

‘Sure, honey – tomorrow – OK? Is it far?’

She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you, darling. No, we can do it in a day. But I’m feeling guilty about your mum and dad.’

Wistfully Bill shook his head.

‘I daren’t cable them – they would get such a fright, thinking it was from the War Department. Anyway, there is no rush. I can tell them more about you in a letter – enclose a photo.’

Mary winced. ‘Do you think they’ll be upset? I mean, they don’t know anything about me – probably think I’m a little English gold-digger or something.’

Bill gave a snort.

‘No way. They trust me. I’m a big boy now.’

She stopped dead.

‘How old are you, Bill?’

‘Twenty-one last March – and you?’

She looked sheepish. ‘You sure you want to marry an older woman?’

He pulled a face. ‘Hell, that
bad
?’

She nodded. ‘Afraid so, I’m twenty-two.’

He slapped his forehead.

‘I knew it. You’ll be old and I’ll still be young and
handsome
.’

She gave him a punch.

They resumed their walk in the snow.

‘We’ll need to catch an early train, and change at
Bedford. My parents live in St Albans.’

‘Right.’

It meant nothing to him.

When they reached her digs he started to chuckle.

‘What’s funny?’

He gestured at the terraced house. ‘You’re there – me in my place. Where are we going to meet –
tonight
?’

Mary rolled her eyes. ‘My God, what am I letting myself in for?’

Bill winked suggestively.

At Bedford they waited on the platform of the red-brick Victorian station that served the main line to London. It was packed with GIs and RAF types, and some giggling girls. Dust blew up into their eyes from the unswept,
stone-slabbed
platform that elevated them above the greasy, litter-strewn track.

They made their way to the refreshment room, queued for two thick, cracked cups of stewed tea, and two
rock-cakes
from a woman who drew boiling water into a large kettle from a chromium-plated urn.

She proceeded to fill more rows of cups with a
continuous
stream of the thick dark fluid as they moved on to a woman at the till, whose wobbling cigarette was stuck to her lower lip. She checked their tray, then said: ‘Eightpence, luv,’ and pressed the keys of the till.

The charge came up, printed on cards inside the glass window of the machine. Bill proffered half a crown and waited for his change as Mary went to look for seats. They were all taken, so they faced each other, using the
window-ledge
to park their cups.

Mary tried to break off a piece of cake, found it hard going. She pulled a face, and pushed the plate away. ‘Bill, I’d better warn you – my father isn’t easy these days. He’s always in a lot of pain. He was blown up at Dunkirk – lost a leg.’

Bill winced. ‘Hell, I’m sorry – I had no idea. I thought you said he was a printer.’

She nodded. ‘He was, before the war. He was in the BEF. It’s just that he’ll have a go at you – but honestly he’s really very nice, when you get to know him properly.’

He smiled. ‘He’s your father – that’s enough for me.’

She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘I love you.’

A great clatter of boots on the stone outside took their attention. Khaki uniforms were everywhere, together with steel helmets, gas-masks, kit-bags and rifles. Mary noticed the faces of the soldiers, young and soft with the contours of boyhood; the sergeants were older, their skin leathery and creased.

Bill said: ‘Looks like a unit on the move. This train is going to be very crowded.’

They couldn’t see the black, dirty engine when it drew in, only the hissing steam as it rumbled past, shaking the ground. In a scream of tortured metal on metal it ground to a halt at the end of the platform. Doors opened, the crowds on the platform pushing forward even before it stopped.

Shaking his head, Bill said: ‘We’ll never get on that.’

Mary’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, yes we will.’

They downed the remainder of their teas, left the
rock-cakes

and rushed out on to the steam-filled platform.

Mary led the way, found a door at the end of a corridor coach. People were standing in the entrance, apparently unable to go any further.

She got up on to the step and began pushing her way in. Embarrassed, Bill apologized as he followed her into the gloomy corridor, then continued on down its length, all the while shouldering past people and climbing over cases. Half-way along there was a little more space. She leant against the window rail, with Bill hard up against her. He smiled and mimed a kiss. Mary giggled. ‘You can try but somehow I don’t think it’s going to work.’

The carriage smelt of a mixture of engine smoke,
cigarette
smoke and the dampness of thick serge, and was obviously rarely cleaned.

They remained stationary, packed like cattle in trucks, watching as more troops arrived and went into the station buffet. Feet scuffed on the carriage floor, voices rose in volume, and coughing and roars of laughter came from somewhere.

The train’s eventual departure was presaged by several shrill blasts of the guard’s whistle, the slamming of more doors, and a sudden jerk that would have sent everybody sprawling, if they had not all been jammed so tightly together. Brown suitcases and kit-bags rained down on the people in the compartments.

To begin with they hardly went more than a
walking-pace
, lurching over points, trundling slowly over a steel bridge. Bill looked up the length of the River Ouse at the town of Bedford nestling on its banks as it had since early
Danish settlements. He knew that John Bunyan had written his
Pilgrim’s Progress
from a cell in the town jail.

The train, almost imperceptibly gathered momentum, the engine labouring with poor coal and the grossly
overloaded
carriages.

Eventually they cleared Bedford, headed south towards London across the flat brickfields with the groups of tall chimneys dominating the skyline.

They plunged into a tunnel. Mary felt his mouth on her nose, tilted her face so that their lips met.

Smoke and steam swirled in through an open window. With a shout somebody grabbed the hanging leather strap and hauled it shut.

When they lunged out into the daylight again Bill
chuckled
. A dark spot had drifted on to the tip of her nose. With difficulty he got to his handkerchief and rubbed it away.

She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir, but you need it too.’

She took the handkerchief and did the same to his
forehead
and cheek.

The journey was tedious, with many stops and always with the same agonizingly slow resumption from each station. Mary began to feel very tired.

At last they steamed into St Albans. Not many got out. The packed train was still standing at the platform long after they had left the station, crossed over a road bridge, and hand in hand walked out of sight of the railway.

She glanced up at him as they turned into her road. ‘You’re still sure about this Bill? Don’t take any offence at anything Dad says will you? He doesn’t mean it really.’

‘I won’t. Hell, he can’t be that bad.’

But he was wrong.

The home was an Edwardian red-brick semi, the dwarf wall that had separated it from the road was now without its iron railing, only the stumps remaining after it had been taken for the war effort.

They stood in the porch, its floor tiled in red and blue, the blue-painted door divided by two panels of coloured glass.

He nervously fingered his tie as the sound of footsteps came on the wooden floor on the other side of the door.

It was opened, and a petite woman stood there, dressed in a blue cardigan and jumper, with a single string of pearls and a tartan skirt.

To Bill, her resemblance to Mary was startling.

Her eyes fell on her daughter, and in a second they were hugging each other, the woman saying: ‘Oh darling, it’s wonderful to see you.’

Mary replied: ‘And you too, Mummy.’

It was only after they had hugged again that Mrs Rice said worriedly: ‘You’re looking tired, are you overdoing it?’

Mary shook her head. ‘No more than anybody else these days. At least I’m not in a factory, thank God.’

It was only then that her mother turned to Bill, who had stood patiently to one side, enjoying the warmth between them.

Mary introduced him.‘This is Bill, Mum.’

Mrs Rice held out her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you. Mary has told us all about you.’

Bill took her hand, found it freezing cold as he shot a glance at Mary. ‘I hope it wasn’t all bad?’

Mary moved to her mother’s side, put an arm around her shoulder.

‘Never you mind. What goes on between a daughter and her mother is sacrosanct. Isn’t that so, Mum?’

Mrs Rice patted Mary’s hand. ‘It was all good, Bill, I promise, and we think what you are doing is very brave.’

Bill winced, and shook his head.

‘If you could see me sometimes….’

When her mother had said ‘we’, Mary had released her hand, her face clouding as she asked: ‘How’s Dad?’

Mrs Rice tried to smile, but it didn’t really succeed.

‘Oh, much the same. The doctor has given him some different tablets for the pain. They seem to be working better. Come on in, he’s in the garden – always did like snow, like a little boy.’

Bill followed the women into the hall from which stairs led straight up, the red carpet held by brass rods at the start of each riser. There was an oak hall table and hat rack, on which he hung his cap.

They walked down the passageway beside the stairs, passing a door that led into a room with a comfortable but threadbare sofa and two chairs grouped around a tiled
fireplace
. A bookcase and a standard lamp of turned mahogany completed the furnishings.

They passed another door on the same side, revealing a room with a wooden dining-table and four chairs, and a matching sideboard with photographs.

‘Mind the step.’

He ducked his head as they entered a narrow kitchen with a gas-cooker and a shallow white sink with a
water-heater
above it. From there they passed into a small
washroom
, similar to that at the cottage, which Mary referred to as the scullery. It contained a mangle with its smooth wooden rollers, one on top of the other, and a long geared handle to turn them with, and a round, gas-fired
clothes-boiler
. A washboard stood in the corner. A smell of dampness pervaded the room.

Then they finally stepped out into a long, thin strip of a garden with a concrete path running its length.

There was a figure of a man in a wheelchair, his back to them, wearing a coat and with a rug over his knees.

They approached, Mrs Rice leading the way. She stood in front of the chair.

‘Dear – Mary’s here, and she’s got Bill with her.’