Miss Carter's War (18 page)

Finding their bombing targets was a chancy business. Especially at night. Frequently they got completely lost, sometimes even finding themselves in the wrong country. Trying to recognise a river or town from the map in the flares left by the pathfinders, was not easy. Thus, it was the rule not to release the bombs unless the targets were found; Jimmy more than most obeyed and returned to base with his bombs still on board. After several ops like this, and flying back with a damaged wing, he decided to lighten the plane for landing by letting go of the bombs harmlessly in the English Channel. After they landed, Jimmy went to take off the layers of clothing necessary in the freezing plane. He was down to his latest girlfriend’s silk stockings, which he wore under his two pairs of trousers and flying boots for extra warmth, when Stan came in long-faced.

‘You’re for it now.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The bombs hit some of our bloody fishing boats.’

When Jimmy walked into the debriefing room, there was silence and glum faces all round. The squadron leader challenged him, ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Richardson?’

‘I didn’t want to risk killing civilians, sir.’

‘Well, you may have saved a few jerry, but you’ve managed to wipe out some of ours instead.’

Stan and Jimmy were now roaring with laughter at this, though Marguerite was not.

‘Don’t worry. It was a jape. They were all in on it. Set up by this bastard. Gave me a fright, I can tell you.’

‘It’s not that—’ Marguerite broke off.

‘What?’

‘How callous war makes us. It’s all right to kill some people but not others. And we can laugh about it.’

Jimmy nodded.

‘True. It’s how you get through it. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not just you.’

The Milice burst into the barn as Marguerite and the men sleep. ‘Traitres’, shouts Jacob. They herd them to one end of the barn with two Milice on guard, talking and laughing about the meal they will be having that night and the women they will be seeing. Four at a time they push the men outside with their rifles, where a machine-gun burst is heard. Another Milice beckons through the door for the next batch to be dispatched.

As young Antoine, who is seventeen, is taken through, he says to his captor, ‘Hello, Marc.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Antoine. We went to school together.’

The man pushes him through the door, hitting him on the head with his rifle butt.

‘Well, now we’re grown-up.’

‘Anyway you’re here. On the march. We’re going to stop all that.’

‘Yes.’ He smiled at Marguerite, his charming wonky smile.

Stan stood up.

‘I’m going for a slash. Pardon my French, Miss Marguerite.’

Jimmy took a swig from the whisky bottle.

‘I’m not as callous as you think, old girl. All that stuff about coming for the totty wasn’t altogether true. Fact is, I don’t want any other poor bastard to do what I did. I used to go to the pub and get shot to ribbons. That’s how I coped. Blot it out. My mucker, rear gunner, his flesh melted as I tried to smother the flames. It was carnage all round. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. I want it to stop. Oh Jesus. I’ve had too much to drink. I’m sorry. I’m a bit blotto.’

Marguerite took him in her arms. He looked surprised, and then clung to her for a while before kissing her on the mouth, long and hard. And she responded. Enjoying the sense of yielding to his strength. Or was it his need? Or hers? Whatever it was, it felt good. He ran a finger down her face.

‘I suppose you know how beautiful you are? Lots of men must have told you. I just thought I’d mention it though. This time I’m not shooting a line. I mean it.’

Stan came back and tactfully picked up his sleeping bag and was about to leave the tent.

Jimmy stopped him.

‘No, Stan. As you were. You are guarding this lovely lady from my lustful ways.’ Then more quietly he said, ‘This is different, Stan. Not my usual love ‘em and leave ’em stuff.’

‘I can see that, chief.’

As both men could hardly stand now, it was difficult to take this show of chivalry very seriously. Marguerite had drunk far less than them, so it fell to her to help them get out of their outer clothing, and into their sleeping bags. She got into hers, between the two cocooned men, who were instantly fast asleep, and lay for some time wondering at the novelty of her situation. From years of chastity to sleeping with not one, but two heterosexual men, both of whom were oblivious of her presence. Tony would have something to say about that. If she told him. For some reason that didn’t seem a good idea. How would she describe Jimmy? Or what she had felt when they kissed? Lust? Desire? Alive? Whatever it was, she hadn’t felt it for a long time. And she’d missed it.

The next day, Easter Monday, was supposed to be the triumphant culmination of their pilgrimage. Her two new friends were blindingly hungover and she had slept very little. The sun was attempting to shine, and as they made their way to Falcon Field for a final rally, they saw hundreds of new supporters had joined the demonstration. They drowned out the objectors, still bellowing through loudspeakers about Russian influence, with their cheers for a succession of rather dull speeches. Jimmy and Stan persuaded her into the Falcon Inn for ‘the hair of the dog’, and they were much more cheerful afterwards, but on the whole the event was an anti-climax.

On the coach back to London they said little. Marguerite was disturbed by the previous night’s events. She felt achy and exhausted and desperate for a bath. They alighted from the coach at Trafalgar Square and the two men walked her to Charing Cross Station. They had a cup of tea in the snack bar, making awkward small talk as they waited for her train. Stan said he was going to wash his face in the Gents and when he had gone Jimmy handed her a piece of paper.

‘It’s my telephone number. I won’t ask for yours because I don’t want to be a pest. I don’t suppose you’ll want to contact an oik like me, but if you should, well, I would like that very much.’

She put it in her purse.

‘Thanks, Jimmy. That’s very kind. I have a pretty busy life but—’

‘Yes, yes. I quite understand. Say no more. I’m an idiot. Why would you, for heaven’s sake? But it’s been a wizard jape. Thank you.’

Marguerite could think of nothing to say. She had thought of the events of the last few days as something peculiar that had happened in a heightened atmosphere, fuelled by alcohol, after which everyone would go their own way. And on the whole that seemed the sensible course.

‘I think I’ll go and wash some of the mud off my face and hands before I get on the train.’

Splashing her face and brushing her hair in the ornate Victorian washroom, only slightly spoilt by the warning notices about venereal disease, she steadied herself. As she came out, Stan was waiting.

‘Miss – Marguerite, forgive me if this is rude. He doesn’t usually talk like he did last night. Life’s a bit tricky at the moment for him. The war, and all that. He took it all to heart too much. Now it’s over, he’s a bit at sea.’

Marguerite was embarrassed.

‘I’m sure.’

He had tears in his eyes.

‘Please don’t hurt him.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

‘I’ll get off now. Leave you two alone.’

Marguerite was alarmed at the responsibility that appeared to be landing on her shoulders. When she got back to the cafe, Jimmy had gone.

Chapter 17

It was good to see Tony when she returned. With him she felt on firmer ground. He came to her flat and made some chicken soup.

‘Good mangarie for chills – you poor little drowned rat. Tell all, did you get off with any bearded gentlemen? I hear there was folk dancing and Peter Seeger songs. You must help me to bear missing that.’

‘Stop, Tony. It was very serious.’

‘Bit middle class for me, by the sound of things.’

‘It wasn’t, there were all sorts of people. One at least was working class. He called me miss.’

‘Not madam? I hope you put him in his place, you French intellectual aristocracy and all.’

‘The French have no class structures, I’ll have you know. We are a republic.’

‘But when you’re English you love a bit of curtsying and crowns, don’t you, sweetie?’

‘What have you been up to without me? No good, I’ll be bound.’

‘Well, yes, a bit of no good in Portsmouth, but I missed you. And worried about you.’

She opted not to tell him about Jimmy, lest he took it more seriously than it warranted.

‘I was fine. It all feels a bit flat now though. What are we going to do with the rest of the holidays? Let’s have some fun.’

‘We could go somewhere on the bike.’

Marguerite decided this was the moment to broach a subject she had been mulling over for some time. With increases in both their salaries, plus Marguerite taking on private pupils for tutoring for the eleven-plus, and Tony teaching swimming at the local lido, they actually had a bit of spare cash.

Marguerite ventured, ‘Tony, I’m over thirty, and a respected teacher at a grammar school. I think it may be a bit undignified to be still riding pillion on a motorbike.’

Tony looked shocked.

‘You’re not becoming
staid
, are you?’

He said the word as though it was a capital crime.

‘Maybe, but’ – and it came out in a rush – ‘how about buying a car?’

He gulped.

‘Well, you can’t drive, for a start.’

‘I can. I’ve been taking lessons and I passed my test.’

‘Well, I’m blowed – not as often as I would like, mind you. You secretive little hussy.’

She described her examiner, who had been a wizened middle-aged man with the unfortunate name of Mr Worms. At the end of her test he put his hand on her knee and said, ‘I am delighted to tell you you have passed, Miss Carter. How about a little drive to Brighton to practise?’

Tony gasped in mock horror.

‘Well, that’s shocking. You probably can’t drive at all. You just seduced the examiner, whereas I—’

‘What?’

‘Well, actually, so did I. He was a big butch marine, who taught me to drive trucks. Irresistible.’

So it was that Gladys came into their lives. She was chubby and pea green. Marguerite had already seen her in the local garage. She was a convertible Morris 1000 and she was beautiful. They christened her Gladys to stop her getting above herself.

Marguerite had looked up the few cars in production, becoming quite expert on motor engineering in the process. In the showroom, she asked the slick young salesman, ‘What is the petrol consumption?’

Looking at Tony, the salesman replied, ‘About 36 miles per gallon, sir.’

She tried again.

‘And the top speed?’

‘It can do a staggering 65 miles per hour, sir.’

‘What about the 60 seconds’ acceleration?’

‘Oh, an amazing 52 seconds, sir.’

Marguerite let rip.

‘It may have escaped your notice, but I am wearing a skirt. And my anatomy differs from yours in the chest area. I am not a sir – I am a madam.’

The man was genuinely taken aback, fearful of losing a sale.

‘I am so sorry. . . . The seats are very comfy, miss.’

Marguerite was now in schoolmistress mode.

‘No, not miss – madam, to you, if you don’t mind. Call me madam.’

Tony started humming ‘You’re Just In Love.’ To which she snapped, ‘And you can shut up too, you – you – man.’

Now feeling fairly stupid, Marguerite could not be bothered to quibble over the fact that the hire purchase agreement had to be in the man’s name, even though the car would be jointly owned. But she gave Tony no choice as to who drove the car out of the garage. She took the exit through the narrow doorway like a demented kangaroo.

‘Watch it – madam,’ gulped Tony.

‘Shut up, I’ve passed my test.’

‘Yes, but only by using female wiles – madam.’

She cycles unsteadily, balancing the basket of washing on her handlebars. The Haricots Verts whistle and laugh as she approaches the checkpoint. She slides her skirt up her thighs. They signal that they want to search her, assuming she doesn’t understand German. She leaps off the bike, bends down exhibiting her cleavage as she places the basket on the ground, and raises her arms, presenting her body for examination. The soldier lasciviously feels her all over, commenting lewdly to his colleague. When he has finished, she winks at him and puts the basket back on the bike, cycling away as fast as she can, lest he remember to look inside it. Back in the village she strips off and pours a bucket of cold water from the well over herself, before taking the radio out from the linen, and arranging for a parachute drop of weapons the next day.

The car made life much easier for Marguerite. On their
Good Food
jaunts, long journeys on a motorbike, especially in bad weather, could be miserable. Marguerite could hardly stand when they arrived at their destinations, and it was difficult to appear respectable at dinner in the more elegant dining rooms after her hair had been blown around and often rained on, and any frock crushed into the saddle bag had come out not looking its best.