She had always called him Harris because she refused to use his Christian name which was Neville. Enid was twenty-four and he was ten years older. They had been married for two years.
‘He only came to pick up his sea bag,’ she said. ‘He was so drunk last night he couldn’t carry it and he had to join his ship.’
They were facing each other across the kitchen table. The ashes of a small coal fire in the cooking range warmed the room. She poured him a cup of tea from the teapot his mother had won at Brighton before the war, then nodded to a clutch of empty bottles on the draining-board. ‘They all were.’
‘How many?’ he asked, relieved that she had not been alone with the sailor. It was some sort of excuse to himself because he did not want to lose her. This morning, in her creased nightclothes and with her stringy hair she was desirable to him and she knew it. Her eyes were grinning at him.
‘God knows,’ she answered. ‘People are always coming in and out. You know I can’t stand it on my own. I’m glad you’re here, Harris, darling. I miss you a terrible lot.’
They leaned across the wooden table, her brimming breasts resting on it, and kissed. Careful not to capsize his cup he got up and went round the table to her, his boots sounding on the linoleum, putting his arms about her from the rear. ‘You’ve been away a long time,’ she murmured.
‘Two weeks,’ he said, close against her hair. He eased Enid to her feet and turned her to him, sensing the glow of her body.
‘Uniforms always feel so scratchy,’ she said. ‘Even those three stripes dig into me. It’s not meant for lovers, is it?’ Her mouth went to his face. ‘It’s meant for fighting war. Get it off and let’s go to our bed.’
Now he did knock his teacup over. ‘Leave it, leave it,’ she said. ‘It won’t flood the place.’ The spilt tea ran across the table and was dripping thinly on the floor. ‘I was going to give it a mop sometime this week anyway.’
She led him like a new acquaintance up the council-house stairs. Harris followed dumbly. He would never know enough about her, how to keep her, how to leave her. They went into the bedroom where the bedclothes were spread like an avalanche on the floor. ‘I was thinking of staying in bed,’ she said by way of an excuse. ‘The last few nights have been a bit hairy.’
‘Where have they been hairy?’ he asked inadequately. They were standing a little apart, facing each other.
She shrugged. ‘Down at the pub, at Maggie Phillips’s house, and here. It’s the war’s to blame. It’s been a bit of a travelling party, believe me.’
‘I do believe you.’
She pouted, making the dark seams below her eyes contract. ‘Harris, you wouldn’t want me to stay at home knitting. I can’t knit anyway. I can’t do hardly anything. But you knew that when we got married. Your mother told you.’
He nodded. ‘I knew.’
Encouragingly she smiled, and with offhand titillation let her robe slip away. Her creamy breasts curved the straps of her nightdress, swelling and swelling more when she breathed deeply which she did now. He took a pace to her and eased away the silk straps; the nightdress dropped in slow motion, the left-hand strap hooking on her roused nipple. Laughing, she gave it a modest tug and stood with her upper body fine and naked, the nightdress held around her waist. ‘Don’t tread on my toes with those army boots,’ she said.
She pushed him backwards on to the bed and climbed on top of his rough uniform, propping herself on her forearms and rubbing herself into him. ‘Actually, in a way, it’s quite exciting this khaki stuff,’ she mumbled. ‘Rough as a pig’s bum.’
Harris encircled her and she wriggled and kissed him. ‘Better undress,’ she said, ‘or you’ll be untidy on parade.’
‘I might not have time to iron it,’ he said.
‘When is it?’ She eased herself up. ‘How long have you got?’
‘Twenty-four hours,’ he said.
‘Christ, is that all? Let’s get your togs off then.’
Eagerly she began to help him, undoing the buttons of his battledress. He had taken off his belt in the kitchen. ‘You unbutton the shirt,’ she said. ‘I’ll do your flies. I’m better at doing flies.’
‘Boots,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We’ll never get anything off with them still on my feet.’
‘It’s taking so long,’ she complained. ‘I want you, Harris.’
‘You really do?’ He peered down at her near his bootlaces.
‘I don’t do this for fun,’ she said.
He began to laugh, something he had not done for weeks. One boot hit the wood floor in the corner, followed by another. Earnestly she tugged at his socks. ‘These are thicker than the boots,’ she panted. ‘There. Now let’s see what present you’ve got for me.’ He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of her manoeuvring his trousers down his legs. She eased herself from the bed to complete the removal and flung them as though in disgust into a corner after the boots. She turned to inspect him. ‘Oh, God,’ she said in a sad way. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Combinations,’ he said solidly. ‘Army issue. You need them on Salisbury Plain.’
‘I suppose you do,’ Enid said. She undid the front buttons and inserted her fingers. ‘Come on out,’ she said. It did. ‘There,’ she said.
She leaned to put her lips to him, her hair falling across his groin. She eased herself away, still crouching at his hip level but looking up along his white-flannelled stomach and chest as if considering a new plan. She began to crawl inch over inch like a slow animal up his covered body. ‘Oh, Harris,’ she said dreamily. ‘I quite like these combination things. Keep them on.’
He did, and then turned her firmly on to her back and pulled up the rim of her nightdress. He stared at the pale cleft of her thighs. His hands parted them and with a deep sigh from wife and from husband he entered her. ‘It feels really different,’ she eventually whispered. ‘And not a bit itchy.’
‘Everything’s grey outside the window,’ she said. ‘All the world’s grey except in here with you.’
Harris, luxurious in the bed, said: ‘Get me a cup of tea, will you, love.’
‘Let’s have it once more,’ she said. ‘Just another one. Then I’ll get you tea. A whole pot if you like, although I think we’re a bit short on milk.’ She smirked. ‘Only condensed. Plenty of condensed.’
‘Tea, then after tea more of the same,’ he insisted. ‘It will give me strength.’
‘In that case, I will get it.’ She looked at the bedside clock. ‘It’s half eleven,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go somewhere this afternoon.’
Now naked, he sat up in the bed. ‘Where? Can’t you not go?’
She laughed at his dismay. ‘I won’t be gone long. It’s a little job I do.’ She pulled on her robe and went downstairs. Harris, mystified by her as ever, sat up in bed and said: ‘Christ.’
She brought him the tea in the pot and, like a mother, poured it for him at the side of the bed. ‘So this Greek sailor just left his kitbag here, did he?’ he asked.
‘He wasn’t Greek,’ she said, adept at diverting the question. ‘He was something else, somewhere near there, Greece.’ She laughed. ‘He couldn’t say a word of English and he got drunk double quick.’ Looking at Harris squarely over the top of his raised cup, she said: ‘But you don’t have to worry. I don’t care what the old chin-waggers around here say.’ She took the cup from him. ‘You can’t have a refill,’ she said. ‘I’m getting back in with you.’
She mounted him naked, pink with effort and enjoyment, her hair spreading wildly across her face and neck, her eyes glistening through it. As she was reaching her climax she threw her head one way and then the other, her hair like a mad brush, before giving a childlike cry and collapsing against his chest. ‘Now you’ve done it,’ he breathed, linking his arms across her back. ‘I’m knackered.’
‘You can sleep,’ she said. ‘All the afternoon. A lot of people would like to do that on a nasty day like this. After the war we’ll stay in bed all day.’
She slid off him and lay against his side, her hair still veiling her face. Carefully he touched it aside. ‘What’s this job?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s just a couple of hours every day,’ she said, her eyes closed. ‘It’s not hard and the money’s good, two quid for one afternoon. But it’s illegal.’
Harris groaned. ‘It sounds like you’re on the game?’
‘It’s a bit like that,’ she admitted, smiling close to his face. ‘I have to be on the streets and get about.’
‘All right. What is it?’
Enid giggled. ‘I’m a bookie’s runner.’
Harris snorted with disbelief. ‘You’re crazy. You could land in court.’
‘I have,’ she said, trying to shrug as she lay against him. ‘But they let me off.’
‘Bloody hell. I can’t believe this.’ Solemnly he studied her face. ‘But then there’s not a lot I can believe, one way and another.’
‘Harris,’ she admonished. ‘You must always believe me, believe me. Always. The job is dead easy. I go to a few pubs about one o’clock and pick up the bets, a shilling on this, two bob each way on that, sometimes more. Then I collect from some regulars, shopkeepers and so on. One’s the undertaker, Mr Thackeray, and sometimes he writes out his betting slips on people’s coffins. He’ll put a quid each way on something he fancies.’
‘And you get commission.’
‘Five per cent. I take the money and the slips back to Charlie Parks, the bookie in Swathling Street, and that’s all. He’s got some bloke who takes around the winnings. He thinks I might get knocked on the head.’ She sat up in the bed, smoothing her warm, bare breasts with her hands. ‘It’s sort of war work.’
‘How is it sort of war work?’
‘Entertainment,’ she said. ‘Giving people a bit of excitement, making them feel happy for a while. There’s not much makes anybody happy these days.’
She began surveying her own skin, her shoulders, her arms, her body. ‘When the war’s over I want to go somewhere hot, where there’s sun. I met this couple who went to Spain once and they said it was sunny and hot. I wouldn’t mind trying that.’
She slipped from the bed and padded towards the bathroom on the landing. Her legs were glistening. She saw him look and with a smile wiped her thighs with her hands. ‘You like the idea of Spain?’ she said.
‘Love it.’
She closed the bathroom door but after she had flushed the lavatory she opened it again and called: ‘That sailor chap came from Albania, I remember now. Are they on our side?’ There was no reply and when she looked around the door she saw he was deeply asleep. She went to the bed and quietly pulled the covers over him. ‘You poor bloke,’ she said.
Harris awoke when she came back into the house. He heard the front door open and she called: ‘I’m home. I got some cake.’
He sat up in the bed. It was five o’clock. He noticed that she had piled his army equipment, his pack and helmet and web belt, in the corner of the bedroom. He could hear her in the kitchen. Then she came up with the teapot once more and on the tray also a modest wedding cake.
‘Look at that,’ she said proudly. ‘Bailey’s the baker’s. He’s a regular and he had a long-odds win last week so he gave me it. Somebody’s wedding didn’t happen.’
‘Changed their minds?’
‘No choice. The bridegroom got shot down over Germany.’
‘That’s bad luck.’
‘Life’s full of it these days,’ she said. ‘That’s why you’ve got to make the most of it. When you go out of this house in the morning, Harris, it could be the last we see of each other. For ever.’
She offered him a slice of the cake and he bit into it. ‘Nice,’ he said.
‘It’s not real icing,’ she said. ‘Bloody shame. They’re hoping he might be a prisoner.’
‘I’ve thought about that myself,’ he said. ‘You know, not coming back.’
‘You’re the thoughtful type.’
‘I remember those boys who got bombed on Salisbury Plain three years ago. In front of my eyes. A lad goes off to the army, waves bye-bye to Mum and the next thing she knows is a telegram telling her he’s dead.’
Enid sniffed. ‘Don’t. You’ll make me cry, and I’m determined not to cry whatever happens. Jesus, there’s some women in this street who cry for anything, just reading the papers. They’d cry if the tea ration was cut.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ he said, laughing at her expression. ‘There’s enough tears. But one thing …’
‘What’s that, Harris?’ She was sitting beside him on the bed. They took another slice of cake each. He said: ‘When we go to France, whenever that is, we’ll probably march right down this street, Gosport Street, to the docks. We’ve done it three times already in rehearsals. I’ve looked up at the window but I’ve never seen you.’
‘Busy, I expect,’ she said throatily.
‘When we go for the real thing I’ll wave. Try and wave back.’
‘I will,’ she said, beginning to cry. ‘I’ll wave my hankie.’
Somehow wartime rain seemed thicker, more persistent and colder, than rain had been before.
Enid said: ‘I didn’t mind it pouring before they brought in this blackout, when you could see the street lights and the shop windows shining on the pavements. Coming out of the pictures and seeing it.’
They were walking, heads down against the dark drizzle, eating Spam fritters and chips out of newspaper. She wiped the vinegar from her chin. ‘Shame there was no fish,’ she said. ‘They do get some now and again.’
‘Fishing’s dangerous,’ said Harris. ‘And these fritters are all right.’
‘We had to have a war to discover Spam,’ she said.
They reached the Sailor’s Blessing and opened the door into a different world, confined and comforting. Enid said: ‘Sorry, Billy, I forgot my coal.’
The rotund barman eyed Harris and said: ‘Slipped your mind, I ’spect. Bring it in next time you come.’
A woman came in after them, pushing aside the blackout curtain; she took from her sackcloth shopping bag four lumps of coke, wrapped like presents in silver paper, and undoing each one carefully put them in a scuttle next to the smoky fire at the end of the bar. She folded the silver paper, putting it piece by piece back into her bag.
It was early but the public bar was already crowded. Enid pushed two elderly women along the window-seat and indicated to Harris to sit down. ‘It’s my husband,’ she said as though forestalling questions. He found himself sitting next to a man bent like a gargoyle, his head protruding from the collar of his greasy coat. ‘Been off fightin’ that bastard ’Itler, ’ave you?’ he said.
‘Haven’t got close to him yet,’ said Harris.
‘There’ll be time,’ said the man. ‘I hope it goes all right. That Channel can be cold.’
‘We’ll wait until it’s warmed up,’ said Harris.
Enid said: ‘His name’s Wordsworth. He more or less lives in here.’
‘A pint, thanks,’ said Wordsworth although no one had asked. ‘If you’re going in that direction.’
Harris got two pints of ale and a gin and orange for Enid. ‘There’s some rum on the way,’ said the barman. ‘Be here soon.’
‘Good job,’ said Wordsworth, peering at the liquid through the side of the glass. ‘This stuff is like horse’s –’
‘Rum?’ said Harris. ‘What’s he mean?’
‘It’ll come in the back way,’ said Enid. She raised her drink to her husband and said: ‘Darling.’
‘Just ’ark at her,’ grumbled one of the elderly women. ‘Darlin’.’ Her mouth worked round as if she were mixing something.
Wordsworth said: ‘It’s come from the docks, see. Over the wall when nobody’s lookin’. There’s a big American cargo boat, one of them Liberty ships, come in today. It’s got official cargo, if you get me, and unofficial cargo. The second comes off on the quiet and gets out over the dock wall. The gatekeepers turn a blind eye.’ He winked. ‘I was one myself once.’
‘What comes off?’ asked Harris.
‘Rum for a start,’ answered Enid. ‘This time. Might be something else next time.’
‘And Spam,’ said the old man. ‘Like you just came in eating them fritters. A few crates of Spam today. They reckon they nearly brained some poor bloke when they chucked it over the wall.’
‘Killed by Spam,’ muttered one of the old women.
‘It tasted all right,’ said Harris. ‘As good as ham.’
One of the crones said: ‘’Cos it’s Yankee.’
‘’Ardly saw ’am before the war,’ said her companion.
‘Not down ’ere. Sunday tea, now and again. Like a tin of salmon.’
‘And pineapple chunks,’ her friend reminded them.
‘Some people eat better now than pre-war,’ said Enid.
‘You ’ave to ’ave your rations,’ said the woman. ‘Even if you can’t afford them. People would talk behind your back.’
‘Bananas,’ said Enid. ‘That’s what the Yanks should bring in. For the kiddies. They’ve never seen a banana.’
‘If one solitary banana came over that wall,’ said Wordsworth profoundly, ‘there’d be a riot, ructions. Fights, civil disturbance. Police. And that would be the end of stuff findin’ its way from the docks.’
The unseen back door opened, the long curtain was ruffled, and the barman quickly went around and took a milk crate from someone still behind the curtain. ‘The milk’s come,’ he laughed as he emerged. He made for the bar. ‘Straight from Jamaica.’
The customers moved forward expectantly. ‘Half price, first drinks,’ announced the barman. ‘After that, double.’
They laughed, passed remarks and carried their tots away. Some had orange juice with the rum and some Tizer, and some tried it straight. Harris could not recall drinking rum before. ‘I always liked Tizer,’ said Wordsworth. ‘Used to bring it around the streets. Fizzy stuff. As kids we used to make out it was beer.’
To Harris’s surprise Enid had thrown her drink down in one movement and was now sitting with the empty glass in front of her like an open invitation. He picked it up and went to the bar. ‘Mine’s with Tizer,’ called Wordsworth. The two crones said nothing but stared challengingly. He bought rum for them all and Enid said loudly: ‘Somebody else’s round next.’
Harris remembered only a few of the continuing rounds. The thick, sickly smell of the rum filled the closed room. He sat like a lump, wondering vaguely how he was going to get out of the place. No one else seemed to be affected. A young man in a blue jersey came in and began to play a concertina. There was singing and Harris recalled attempting to join in. Then the young man’s tall, gaunt friend danced a tango with Enid, customers pushing back to make a space on the floor. Dimly Harris was aware of his wife swirling by to the sway of the music.
‘Jealousy,’ said Wordsworth wisely. ‘That’s what they’re dancing. The song’s called “Jealousy”.’ He glanced at Harris: ‘But you’re past that.’
The evening did not seem long to Harris, only confused. The concertina played and they all sang about hanging out the washing on the Siegfried Line and other inaccurate wartime songs. He was conscious of Enid being at the centre of a laughing group at the other side of the room while he closed his eyes, lying against one of the old ladies. She placed her arms protectively around him and said: ‘There, there.’
Then they were in the wet street, going home, not alone but in the jolly company of three young sailors, one the concertina player, who were French. Harris did not care any longer. Let her distribute herself, let her laugh, sing, do whatever she liked. He only wanted to sleep.
He crawled up the stairs and somehow set the alarm for six. She followed him, kissed him as if he were a small son and helped him into bed. The last thing he heard was them chorusing about Dover’s white cliffs accompanied wheezily by the concertina.
The alarm jerked him awake. He sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes and face, and became aware that Enid was out of bed also. He could hear her urinating. He turned on the light. She was squatting close to the floor.
‘Christ!’ he groaned. ‘Enid, you’re peeing into my steel helmet.’
‘Oh, Harris,’ she groaned back. ‘I’m so drunk. And it was just handy.’