Miss Carter's War (17 page)

When, the following Easter, a march of protest was organised from Trafalgar Square to Aldermaston, where nuclear warheads were being manufactured, Tony declined to accompany her, but the day before she left, he put a note in her letterbox.

Dear Maggie Pankhurst,

This is what good old Eddie Burke actually said. ‘When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.’ Not sure what it means, or who are the goodies and who the baddies, but take care of your pretty feet in ‘this contemptible struggle’.

I love you.

Standing in Trafalgar Square with Pauline and Hazel and about two thousand other enthusiastic supporters, Marguerite missed Tony. It was the first time she had been at such an event without him by her side. Representatives of the new Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, a pipe-smoking J.B. Priestley, a befrocked Canon Collins, a dishevelled Michael Foot, and a cerebral Bertrand Russell, made rousing speeches under an indifferent Nelson, and she would like to have heard Tony’s wry take on the proceedings. When the march took off, through the deserted streets of London on this Good Friday morning, she needed his quick wit to respond to the occasional shouts of abuse.

‘Go back to Moscow.’

‘There’s snow on your boots.’

She knew he would have enjoyed it when a car passed them in Knightsbridge with honking horn, and a woman in a fur coat leaned out, and with a cut-glass accent shouted from the window, ‘Ostriches, ostriches.’

The whole thing was pretty haphazard. The ardent young organisers were running up and down the slowly moving line, issuing orders with loudhailers, handing out limp daffodils to wear, and home-made banners to carry. There was a lorry for rucksacks and tents, as it was not clear if there would be indoor accommodation for everyone before they reached Aldermaston on Easter Monday. As they passed through London the mood was very good-natured. At the Albert Memorial they stopped for a picnic, and someone played a guitar for a sing-song and dancing, until the police politely intervened. As they proceeded the only bone of contention was between some youngsters, who wanted to hear the accompanying bands, and the organisers, who insisted on silence, in respect for the religious sensitivities of participants observing the solemnity of Good Friday.

By the time they got to Hammersmith, the weather had changed for the worse. It was cold and it began to rain. Marguerite was glad that she had worn slacks and had her galoshes in her knapsack. Many of the great and the good had returned to their cosy beds, and only about two hundred stalwarts remained.

One bedraggled marcher came up to her.

‘Excuse me, I’ve got blisters on my hands and feet, I am wet through, and suddenly I don’t give a monkey’s if the whole world goes up in smoke. Here, have this?’ She thrust a banner with a strange emblem on it into Marguerite’s arms.

‘What does it mean?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ replied the young girl.

A male voice intervened.

‘I think I can help you pretty ladies there.’

Marguerite turned. A thatch of neatly cut, naturally curly, light brown hair, piercing blue eyes, square jaw, tall, sheepskin-lined ex-RAF flying jacket and polo neck, with Paisley scarf nonchalantly draped. An archetypal dish. His mouth was set in a lopsided smile, while his eyes appraised her face and body, then looked deep into hers.

Marguerite stared him out, and his eyes faltered, darting momentarily to size up the alternative of the pretty erstwhile banner carrier, who hovered, simpering flirtily, then swivelled back to the challenge of Marguerite. The ex-banner bearer left in a disconsolate huff.

The Dish continued, ‘Forgive me. I and my friend here’ – he indicated a tall buck-toothed man, also in flying jacket – ‘have been following behind you, and what a pleasure that has been, with you in those fetching slacks.’ His friend snorted. ‘And I couldn’t help overhearing your question.’

‘And?’ said Marguerite.

‘It is the semaphore for the letter N and D put together, standing for “Nuclear Disarmament”. Show her, Stan,’ he ordered.

His gangly friend suddenly stood to attention and made the two signs with his arms.

‘Clever, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ replied Marguerite.

‘And rather lovely – like you, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Marguerite looked hard at the banner. ‘It could also be someone standing with his arms spread low in despair. Possibly at man’s inhumanity to man.’

The Dish hesitated. ‘Er – I hadn’t thought of that.’

His debonair veneer faded momentarily, and he said, ‘God knows it would be fitting.’

‘Yes.’ Marguerite fixed him with a steady gaze.

He reverted to his charm offensive.

‘Has anyone told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh really? You mean your boyfriend? Lucky bloke. Or husband perhaps?’

‘Neither.’

‘Who then?’

‘You. Just now.’

‘And your hair is the colour of—’

Marguerite interrupted, ‘Oh please stop this nonsense. I feel like a drowned rat standing here, and we are dropping behind.’

The man dropped his jaunty façade.

‘OK. I know when I’m beaten. Here, give us that. We’ll carry it.’

And he and his friend hoisted the banner aloft and set off with Marguerite between them.

‘Oh, by the way, I am Jimmy and he’s Stan. Ex-RAF, now in Civvy Street, with nothing better to do than go for a freezing-cold walk to the country, carrying a banner that no one understands. You?’

‘I’m – Marguerite.’

‘Is that all?’

‘A teacher. That’s all.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Because two of my ex-pupils asked me to come. And I want to rid the world of this evil thing. You?’

‘Oh, we thought there might be a few laughs and some totty. It’s proved to be a bit short of both.’

Stan chimed in, ‘Up till now, Jim.’

‘Shut up, you erk.’ Boxing him round the ears Jimmy said, ‘This is not totty, Stan.’

‘But back there you said—’

The Dish interrupted, ‘This is class, you useless animal. Forgive my friend. He’s a bit short on the old social graces.’

Marguerite asked, ‘Where did you serve?’

Jimmy looked into the distance.

‘I think we’re stopping. Where are we?’

Marguerite looked at a sign.

‘It’s called Turnham Green. Chiswick, I think.’

It was now pelting down with rain, and everyone stood around in depressed damp groups on a small area of sodden grass. Jimmy produced a military rain cape and draped it solicitously over Marguerite. Hazel came running up to tell them that there was shelter in a school round the corner; it turned out to be a primary school, so the tiny toilets and washbasins were not ideal. Eventually Hazel used the loudhailer to explain that men would sleep in the hall, and women and children in the classrooms round it. There were some mattresses and sleeping bags provided.

Stan climbed up on a table and turned a picture of the Queen round to face the wall.

‘I can’t take my trousers off in front of Her Majesty,’ he announced.

Then Jimmy started to vamp pretty badly on an out-of-tune piano, and everyone sang. ‘If I Had A Hammer’, ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’ and of course ‘Jerusalem’. Marguerite was relieved that Tony was not there to give his rendering of ‘How Much Is That Doggie In The Window’. In fact, truth be told, she was just relieved that he was not there, with his ambivalent attitude to the cause.

When the party had broken up and she was preparing for sleep, she looked through the window of the classroom and saw Jimmy looking back at her. He blew her a kiss, and she curled up on the hard floor, chuckling to herself. It was a novel experience to be ‘totty’ – classy or otherwise. And she quite liked it.

Chapter 16

The next day it snowed. It was declared the coldest Easter in forty years. Chiswick sold out of Wellingtons. The local Quakers did a wonderful job rounding up boots and umbrellas for the remaining little band of valiant marchers. The rude comments from passers-by grew less dismissive as the marchers’ dedication became evident. The worst they encountered was shaking heads, one sad-faced old man in a wheelchair, who could have been a veteran of both wars, holding up a scribbled notice saying, ‘You march in vain.’ Some of the children from the school brought them a colourful new placard reading, ‘The human race, we could lose it.’ And another was given to them by the local church reading, ‘Love your enemies.’ Uplifted by these kindnesses and fired by their absolute belief in the rightness of their cause, the walkers trudged on through the sleet. Jimmy and Stan acquired some beer, which lightened the mood no end. They were entertained by a jazz band and some skiffle groups, so the whole thing, despite the appalling weather and the blisters, became more fun.

At the next stop Jimmy, Stan and Marguerite were at the end of the column as Jimmy had insisted on their stopping off at a country pub for a drink or two, so there was no indoor accommodation left. The Co-op van that was travelling with them issued some heavy-duty tents, which a farmer allowed them to pitch in his field.

Jimmy was concerned for Marguerite.

‘Will you be all right? It’s going to be bloody cold. I suggest we throw propriety to the wind, and all share and snuggle up together. I’ll protect you from Stan.’

‘That’s very gallant.’

‘I don’t like a lady having to sleep rough like this, but I’ll take care of you.’

‘Don’t worry I’ve done it before.’

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘
They won’t find us here
.’

The borie is in the corner of a field halfway up the Grand Luberon. The night is turned to daylight as the lightning flashes, thunder cracks and the rain thrashes the fields. He lies down on the earth floor inside the egg-shaped drystone shelter and enfolds her in his arms. The dank earth, the heat of his body protecting, exciting her. If they come and kill her in the morning she will have had this perfect night
.

Jimmy was as good as his word. He had Stan gathering what little dry wood he could find and, the snow having at last stopped, they cleared a patch of sheltered ground, and with some difficulty got a blazing fire going. Marguerite enjoyed playing the wilting maiden while they inexpertly raised the tent, Stan doing most of the hammering in of pegs, and pulling of ropes, whilst Jimmy sat on a log and smoked a fag, issuing orders.

‘I always do his dirty work,’ moaned Stan.

‘You’re doing very well, Sergeant. Give that man a medal.’

‘I’ll have yours then.’

Marguerite interrupted, ‘What medal?’

‘The DFC, miss. He got the bloody DFC.’

Jimmy stood up and said firmly, ‘Shut up, Stan. I’m going to that pub we saw, to get some of the hard stuff. Cook some of the sausages. And shut up,’ he repeated firmly.

In the absence of any cooking utensils Marguerite demonstrated with Stan’s penknife how to sharpen and shave sticks to pierce the sausages to grill over the fire.

‘Where did you learn that?’ Stan said.

‘Girl Guides.’

As they sat, wrapped together in a rug that had been issued, and holding the sticks, Marguerite asked, ‘So what about this medal?’

‘I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me.’

Such was the man’s pride in his friend, it took little persuasion to get the story out of him.

‘We were coming back from an op and got hit by flack. We had to ditch into the North Sea. Which he did, although the plane was on fire – he’s a wonderful pilot. Me and two of the others got out, the rest didn’t make it. I can’t swim but I clung on to a bit of debris. He stayed in the burning plane to get the dinghy. He had a broken leg, fractured skull and burns – he’s still got the scars – but he managed to throw it out, inflate it and get us into it. By the time he struggled in himself he was spent. He was gurgling in the water at the bottom of the dinghy, too weak to lift his head, and I managed to get my foot under his chin, which was all I had the strength to do. We had no oars, but thank God we drifted away from the burning plane. Then, would you believe it, miss, he made us bloody well sing “Roll Out The Barrel” and tell jokes, all the sodding night, sprawled like dead fish, till a destroyer picked us up the next day. But he kept us alive. And there were other times . . . Shush, here he comes. Not a word, miss, please.’

‘Stan, you don’t have to call me miss.’

‘But you’re a lady, miss.’

‘It’s true I’m a woman, Stan, and privileged to be your friend. It’s Marguerite.’

Jimmy was weaving between the tents, with his arms full of bottles of beer and whisky.

‘This should set us up nicely. Bought some crisps to go with the sausages. A positive feast.’

Despite downing a large quantity of beer and whisky chasers, the men became talkative, in turns cheerful and maudlin, rather than roaring drunk. The anecdotes flowed from them, and it was obvious that Stan’s fierce guardianship of Jimmy landed him in awkward situations. Marguerite learnt that, having been a budding welterweight boxer before the war, Stan was, on several occasions, forced to use his skills to protect his friend. Jimmy, devastatingly handsome in his uniform, was prone to make eyes at attractive women in the pubs they visited, using the technique that had singularly failed with Marguerite. Should the bewitched female respond with a quick snog in the corridor – or more – Stan was frequently left to deal with violently angry local men, after Jimmy had disappeared with or without the errant lass. Stan described how, on one occasion, he got his own back on Jimmy.