Patricia and Malise (3 page)

Christmas drew near. Alyson answered the telephone as the four of them lunched in the kitchen. The others heard her say ‘No sign of it here. Well. You may be right. Better safe than sorry but Malise will be disappointed.'

The second ‘hop' had been cancelled owing to the threat of a snow storm. Nothing had been forecast on the wireless. Malise was perplexed, as were they all.

Alyson tried to comfort him. ‘They say it might be here in time for Christmas. I daresay they didn't want to risk it.'

He decided to call on Dawn. He had looked up her address on an ordnance survey map – translating it from the poorly written scrap she had popped into his sporran.

Wearing boots but with shoes strung around his neck, he set forth. He pulled on his only overcoat – dark brown and with a belt across the back of it. Might Dawn come to life again as she had on the dance floor? Having walked for two miles he arrived at the front door of a farm house – a large one – not unlike the one he proposed to own. Perhaps the farms matched? He rang the bell. Dawn's father came to the door and instantly recognised Malise. He had been the parent to fetch his daughter from the Ruggles's ‘hop' and realised that there stood the young man to have so disturbed Dawn that fatal evening. She had not been the same since. Her simpering, pert prettiness had faded into a grumpy, pasty one and she seldom spoke.

‘Hello there,' he said.

Malise, thrown by the look he was given, cleared his throat and asked if he might be granted a moment with the daughter of the house.

Dawn's father made as if to shut the door on him but Malise hadn't finished.

‘Might you know if your daughter is to attend the party tomorrow? People called Haslip?'

Door still open by a crack, he answered ‘yes, as far as I know. Is that all?'

It wasn't snowing and it didn't look as if it was going to.

He trudged, deflated almost for the first time in his life, across the fields.

As he swung himself over a style he heard Dawn panting up behind him and squeaking slightly. She caught up and, after they had both crossed the style, he hooked her arm in his – as curious to see her in woolly clothing as she was to see him without his kilt. It neared the shortest day of the year.

His home barn was as likely to be as safe as anywhere unless, by unlucky chance, Christian lurked around there.

Malise tried a joke. ‘What about a bit of a barn dance?'

Dawn needed no joke to encourage her.

The inside of the barn was cold, dark and uncomfortable. A scary bull looked in from the paddock but there was no sign of Christian lurking.

Malise left his shoes there for later collection. No point in carrying them to and fro. He walked Dawn home, or nearly. Not near enough to be spotted by her father. He promised to write to her but never did so.

‘Malise. We were looking for you dear.' Alyson was agitated. ‘It's after six and dark.'

The cancellation of the second ‘hop' remained a puzzle at the farmhouse and it was not until many months later that she discovered it to have taken place. By that time it was too late to make attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Nothing startling happened to either boy during the following two terms or holidays. Malise was a trifle nervous of being tracked down by Dawn when he was at home. He hankered after her body but dreaded her company. He was safe, however, for she had been placed under strict curfew by her parents when it was known that the young ‘neighbours' were around.

Malise was grateful to Dawn for proving to him that he would, at a later stage, be able to interact with girls and imagined himself cutting a dash at debutante parties when the moment came in the not too distant future. With his looks and lineage he was sure to get many invitations.

But, by the summer of 1937, there were threats of war. A terrible war seemed likely.

To Mr Scarlatti's sorrow, Malise had not done well in his studies. Besides the motorbike, he had developed an almost obsessive interest in atheism combined with science. His examination results were poor. That, however, made little difference to the lottery of his future for, before the end of his school-leaving year, he had been called up and sent to a military training camp where he clean forgot to ponder on the views and fate of Bertrand Russell.

Malise was interviewed for a rifle regiment and started, democratically, at a barracks near Lewes in Sussex. Until that time he had never felt affection for anyone. His family were passable and Mr Scarlatti had been useful but not one amongst them had ever excited his sympathy.

He appeared haughty. At his first inspection the Sergeant Major asked ‘has a camel been shitting on your boots?'

Malise was taken aback by that. His boots were perfectly clean and he imagined the man to be joking so, clearing his throat as was his wont, he decided to reply in the same vein.

‘Yes Sergeant. I bumped into one outside the latrine.' That went down badly. The Sergeant Major sneered at him and told him not to be facetious. Malise almost accepted, then, that he was no good at jokes.

His emotions had been underfed and stunted by his bible-bashing mother, his silent and withdrawn father, his heavily built step-mother and his slow, simple doting brother. Not that Christian was exactly stupid. He had begun to show signs of ability to learn in some areas and occasional flickers of sly cunning shone in his dull eyes.

Later at a training Battalion in the North, Malise found himself swallowed up in mechanical tasks that interested him and in daily contact with boys from a very different background to the one he had known.

It was uncomfortable and there were many rough cadets – but he got on well enough with them. He began to be accepted although his looks and demeanour were intimidating. One night a boy urinated all over his face whilst the others gathered round the hard bed and asked, ‘What do you think of us lot?'

Malise, not knowing where he had picked up such language, answered ‘I think you are all bloody, fucking idiots,' whereupon they all clapped and said ‘He's one of us after all.' That was the nearest moment that Malise had ever come to happiness.

Then came the war. He was called up.

He lived through horrible things. Death, wounds, guns, tanks, pain and despair. For much of that time he was in Italy as retreating Germans fought back. His kilt and Dawn were almost forgotten but not the memory of experiences on the dance floor or in his father's barn. He often pined for a woman's body and, by chance, occasionally found one on farms in Italy. He took a great fancy to Italy and to the courage and virtues of its inhabitants – although he deplored the fact that so many cigarettes were smoked by the denizens of that, otherwise, magical country.

He returned, a young and handsome man, as a Captain and with the brotherhood of war swiftly forgotten.

Back at the farm it was clear that he was expected to sleep in his old, shared bedroom.

Christian, although he had worked sturdily and single-handedly on the farm, had become stout. His eyes were not strong and he had been excused from the army – sleeping alone in his double bedroom but for the Bible and the Teddy bear. He had though, when summoned, done his bit for the Home Guard and a letter of thanks from a local authority, framed by himself, was propped up on the table between the beds.

It read ‘Dear Mr Mc Hip, Now that hostilities are over we want to send you a little token present in gratitude and pride for all you have been doing in these long years of war and we ask you to accept the enclosed postal order for thirty shillings with our best wishes for a time of prosperity and peace.'

Malise sneered and asked, ‘what did you do when I was fighting? Cleaned out the odd ditch and walked the dog, I suppose.'

‘Walked the dog? I wondered when you were going to notice that Digger is no more.'

‘Apologies. What became of him?'

‘Choked on a bit of cheese we think. Alyson let a chunk drop and Digger wolfed it down. Nothing we could do to save him. Poor old hound. Alyson was cut up but wouldn't hear of getting another one.'

Malise sympathized with Alyson when next they met.

‘Commiserations on the loss of Digger. ‘I'd be happy, ahem, to acquire a replacement.'

‘Thank you dear – but no thank you. Not at our age. Not fair on an animal they say.'

Christian's slight artfulness, as first displayed some years after becoming a school boarder, had grown stronger – had almost developed into cunning. This was accompanied by lack of fear for his brother. He left the trophy exactly where it had been placed and offered no reply to Malise's taunt.

Alyson had a stiff hip, (it comforted her a little to remember that, by marriage, she was a Mc Hip) and her husband was more bowed and withdrawn than before.

The house had become dusty and rank during years of war shortages. A cupboard under the stairs was stuffed with dark, floppy gas masks. Around the place were odd, spiky lumps of shrapnel (called ‘shwapnel' by Christian who had picked them up in the farm yard). Although the farm was rural, it was not far from London and doodlebugs had flown overhead. Fields nearby were topsy turvy with bomb crates and many of the windows showed traces of brownish, sticky paper – plastered over panes to prevent glass from shattering. Ills of war showed all around.

Alyson got Christian to open a bottle of wine to celebrate Malise's return.

‘To the gallant Captain', she said ‘We are proud of you and, they say, it's brave lads like you who have fought to free us all.'

It was summer and the garden had been neglected. Not that Christian hadn't struggled with the vegetable plot. The old gardener had died and the place was unkempt.

Malise had no plan. He did not want to stay at home, sharing a room with his less than besotted brother. He formed the idea of going to London when things were settled. An income had filtered through to him from a family trust. It would provide enough, if frugal (which he certainly was) for him to manage without earning.

Many of his leisure hours were spent in writing to old school contemporaries; some from the army too. He wrote neatly in italics and hoped to hook up in a shared flat somewhere central if possible.

There was enough money for him to buy good shoes, a dinner jacket, a smart suit and a second hand car.

As the family gloated over his safe return, he planned his escape.

One morning Alyson said ‘I'm going to drive along to Samstead. There's a bit of petrol in the Harvest Gold. It will be lovely to see a wedding. None of us have been asked which is disappointing as it's local. Too many relatives, I expect. They say that everyone has chipped in with clothing coupons to help with the bride's frock.'

‘Whose wedding is it?' Malise asked. Normally he took no interest in Alyson's words.

‘The Willis girl. Dawn, I believe her name is. Marrying a lad from Essex. Not far off.'

‘I'll drive you' he said. Alyson was amazed. Amazed and thrilled. Perhaps he viewed her as a second mother after all. Perhaps the war had softened him towards her.

They drove slowly and not at all far. Church bells rang and the sun brightened as Dawn and her father stepped from the bridal car to walk the path towards an old flint church. Malise, alongside Alyson, watched from the lane – Malise suffocating an inner wince at the memory of his last and only encounter with the, now top-hatted Mr Willis. They did not see much of the bride as she was surrounded by bridesmaids and fussing females.

‘Shall we go home dear? The service is sure to last an hour at least.'

Malise, who wore a bright blue open shirt, chosen to match his eyes, wanted to stay and see the group leave the church after the ceremony. He wished to witness Dawn's triumphant exit as a married woman – groom at her side. He might just catch her eye. Disturb her in some small way before she set off on her honeymoon.

He suggested taking a walk. It was a fine day and, although Alyson had trouble with her hip and needed the support of a stick, she was pleased that the handsome Captain wished to spend an hour walking with her – so she put up no argument.

They walked, extremely slowly, through the village, past thatched cottages, their gardens alive with honeysuckle and roses.

They were once again outside the church where a sprinkling of people gathered to rejoice with the happy couple. Bells rang again. Pauses for photographs. Clusters of bridesmaids in the porch.

Down the path came Dawn in bridal white on the arm of her husband. Malise stepped near to the spot that they planned to pass. He drew his handsome head high out of and above the blue shirt and stared her in both eyes. He noticed her startle as she smiled to the waiting watchers. He turned to Alyson, much pleased with Dawn's unprepared look. Keep the bridegroom on his toes.

‘Pretty bride' he said.

‘Yes. They say she was a little on the fast side. I daresay her people are pleased she has found a nice young man.'

Life was dingy at home. Malise became increasingly irritated by the way the farmhouse was run. Packets of pills stood unashamedly propped by the clock on the mantel piece. Nescafé, newly popular, alongside crumpled brown paper bags, lay on the chest in the hall. Little method. Skimpily sliced ham, tinned spam and, most often, a baked potato with a dab of margarine topping it, for lunch. Toasted cheese (Alyson called it Welsh Rarebit) for supper. Seldom wine. Sometimes cider. Food was rationed and bought at the Co-operative Store.

Malise, with occasional trips to London on bleak trains to Liverpool Street Station, did as little as possible to help but advised on detail as Christian worked, a little half-heartedly, on the farm and in the garden.

The loss of Christian's admiration and praise puzzled and disturbed Malise. The younger man had taken to answering back. Not only answering back but to asking peculiar questions.

‘So Malise. Do you see yourself taking a wife?'

‘A wife. Whose?' Malise still enjoyed a stately joke.

‘Your own I mean. After all. You are the wight age. I need to know because, if you never have childwen, I daresay the farm will go to me. That's if you die first of course.'

Malise was dumbfounded by Christian's attitude and began to wonder whether to look for a suitable bride in London. All the same, whatever Christian's new views, the idea of sharing his life was unimaginable.

Advice had been given on clothes by a distant cousin to whom Malise had written and who worked at the House of Lords. In reply to his letter the cousin had suggested Lobb's in St James's Street for shoes. That or Ticker in Jermyn Street. He had also recommended a tailor called Lesley & Roberts in Savile Row.

On day trips to London Malise visited the shoemaker and had a ‘last' made of his feet – a sort of model in wood. He was pleased by the skill that went into it but appalled by the expense. Nonetheless he ordered two pairs of shoes – one black and one brown. Suits (one dark, one tweed) were fitted. Also a dinner jacket. He was jubilant.

Most of the letters had remained unanswered but one showed promise. It came from a man who had been a year or two younger than Malise at school and who he remembered as being one of the many who had hero-worshipped him. He was called Alex James and now had a job in the city and rented a flat in Pimlico. At the moment he shared with another school friend and they were looking for a third.