Wednesday 26 April – Dorset
Saul had his good clothes on, and Polly hers. They travelled by train and bus, heading for Waterloo, and he thought his heart would wear itself out with all its beating, cos there were so many people, cars and buses going this way and that. So, too, there was the hooting of horns when there were no bridges to check – so why the hooting?
Sweat ran down his back as they walked between the traffic to get to the other side of the road and then onto the next bus, with a tired old conductor who put Saul in mind of Granfer, and who took the money and gave them a ticket and a tip of his cap to them. This holiday thing weren’t to his liking, but Polly’s dark eyes were shining like the sun and her whole body seemed to jig with excitement. She knew how to get to places too, because here they were, getting off the bus and into a great hall, which was Waterloo Station, full of people scurrying like the rabbits in Mr Elias’s fields. They bought tickets that would bring them back, too. Would she know by then? When would he tell her?
‘Come on, Saul, if we run we’ll make it.’ Well, if there was one thing he could do, it was run, so side by side they wove in and out of people, as a tannoy like the one in the depot yard called out trains and times, and the people moved like the boats at Tyseley Wharf, jostling to get in, or out.
They showed their tickets to the bloke in the box at the rear of the platform. ‘Get a move on,’ he said. ‘Guard’s got his flag out.’
They ran onto a long lay-by with a train moored alongside, and smoke or steam gushing from its chimney. They tore past the guard, who was bringing up his green flag. ‘Get yourselves in, for Pete’s sake. There’ll be more ’n enough stopping and starting on the line – so many troop transports it’ll be bloody bedlam, so who knows what time you’ll reach wherever you’re going.’
Polly pulled at Saul’s sleeve, pointing to some seats in a carriage. But a soldier was leaning out of the window of the door, holding hands with his missus, who was crying.
‘Next one then,’ Polly yelled and ran on.
They stopped at the next door. Saul twisted the handle. Steam and smoke were everywhere, smuts too, and the whistle was blowing. He opened the door and Polly flew into the corridor, dragging her grip. He followed and slammed the door shut just as, with a screech and a grind, the train jerked, juddered, then drew away.
Polly laughed into his face. ‘We caught it. Oh, Saul, two whole days together before we have to come home.’ She hugged him.
Along the corridor the soldier who’d been leaning out looked at Saul and shook his head in disgust. Sailors and soldiers lined the corridor. One jerked his head into a compartment. ‘Seats in there for shirkers and women.’
Polly spun on her heel. ‘He’s got a damaged leg and is carrying canal cargo to keep you lot in guns, so you can just be quiet. It’s a Reserved Occupation and he can’t leave, so there.’
The soldier shrugged, and braced himself as the train jerked again. Another soldier said, ‘Lucky bugger – good work, if yer can get it.’
Polly wrenched open the compartment door, but Saul shook his head. ‘You sit, Polly. I’ll stand, cos I keep tellin’ yer, my leg is better. We’ll be stopping, and others will need to be sittin’.’
Polly shrugged, the sunshine gone from her eyes, and the holiday excitement with it. Would it come back? He hoped so, but for himself he didn’t know what it was about a holiday that caused all the fuss. It was just a mess: rush, noise, strangeness. They both stood, for the three hours it took to reach Dorchester, which is where the train finished, for some reason.
Out they all got, and Saul felt that eyes were boring holes in his back, though the soldiers had talked over shared cigarettes about the cut’s cargoes, the life and their families, as though nothing had been said. But it had, and it was still there, and perhaps it would make Polly realise that he had a right to take up arms, now that his leg wasn’t that bad any more. Yes, that was it; it was his right.
They now headed for the bus to take them to Burton Bradstock, a village near Bridport that Tom had said was pretty and within walking distance of the sea, and where they had rooms.
They arrived by the evening, and a coastal breeze was blowing. They had to walk up Shipton Lane to a house on the top of the hill, pressing themselves against the side of the hedgerows and banks as military jeeps, lorries and motorbikes roared past. The house was owned by someone Tom knew from his time as chauffeur to Lady Clement, and he had got a message to her. It was a Mrs Lamb and she had promised that they could have the two rooms that her young children used, saying that this once the kiddies could bunk on the cot beds in her bedroom.
They handed Mrs Lamb their ration cards, and were shown into two small rooms at the very top of the house. ‘You’re lucky,’ the plump landlady in her well-washed apron said. ‘There’s troops everywhere, but these rooms are still empty, although for ’ow long, who knows. We got commandos and GIs, and Lord knows what cluttering up the place and doing exercises.’
The rooms were in the roof and were tiny, no bigger than the Seagull’s cabin; and in Saul’s there was an oil lamp too, and for the first time that day he felt calm and unthreatened as he sat on the narrow bed. It was quiet, it was small; it was what he knew. He clenched his hands around his knees. ‘Get used to the world, Saul ’Opkins,’ he whispered to himself. ‘You’ll be out in stranger places soon enough.’ He swallowed, glad that he had brought Polly away; and glad for himself as well, because he wouldn’t feel so peculiar when he finally left.
There was a knock on his door and it was her voice, his beautiful Polly’s voice. ‘Have you seen the sea? Can I come in?’
‘Yes, o’ course yer can.’
She opened the door and peered round. Some strands of her brown hair were wet where she had washed her face; the sunshine was back in her eyes, and the excitement. She gestured him over to the window, which sloped in line with the roof.
‘Look,’ she breathed, clutching his hand and kissing it. ‘Look at the sea.’
In the distance was the sky and, beneath it, grey water, the colour of the clouds; and beneath that, and larger, were bloody big slopes down to the village, and smoke that rose from the chimneys of the cottages of Burton Bradstock. He stared over the straw-type roofs to the sea. He’d never seen so much water, and how odd it was that the far edge, where it met the sky, was curved. He said, ‘It bends, look.’
‘That’s the horizon, and it shows us that the world is round.’
He stared. Yes, he could see that, and he realised how little he really knew, or had seen, and was scared for a moment of the people he’d meet, and the places he’d go to when …
Polly said, ‘Let’s nip downstairs. I don’t know if Mrs Lamb will feed us, but if not, perhaps the pub will.’
Mrs Lamb only did breakfast, so they walked down the hill, laughing together because they knew they’d have to walk back up. ‘So best not to drink too much,’ Polly said. She had brought her torch for later and Saul shook his head at her in wonder. ‘Yer think of everything.’
‘Only because I’m more used to it, but you know much more than me about the cut.’
He walked, holding her hand. Owls hooted as dusk fell, and the stars were as bright as they were on the cut, cos of course it was the same sky. He felt better with that thought in his mind. The breeze had fallen. There was a stillness. Yes, she was more used to it, and he would have to become so, too. They reached the bottom of the hill and walked through the village, which was full of strolling troops; some were larking about, while others were smoking in small groups.
They took the narrow lane by the church, heading south, following the noise. Troops spilled out onto the lane and stood around outside the pub. Saul braced himself as they threaded through the men to the bar. ‘Two pints o’ mild, if yer would be so kind,’ he said.
The girl replied, ‘Cider tonight, all right?’
Saul turned to Polly. She murmured, ‘Made out of apples, and strong.’
He nodded. ‘If yer would, please, and d’yer have food? We’re on ’oliday.’
‘Not leave, then?’ she muttered. He shook his head, wanting to say: not yet. Instead he asked for the only thing on the menu that she pointed to, saying to Saul, ‘Sausage and mash, but mostly mash.’
He nodded and paid. They pushed through to a table at the back of the bar and sat, waiting. Polly squeezed his hand. He heard strange accents around him. It was hot with the press of bodies. ‘So much is different on an holiday that it fair makes yer tired.’
The girl brought the food. The noise bellowed. Some men played dominoes next to them, while others were playing darts, and someone was pounding out music on the piano. Some soldiers started to sing.
They ate and talked, and sipped their cider, and even that taste was strange. Polly rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you. And the soldiers wouldn’t have all their supplies without the boaters, and there aren’t enough of us women to carry it all, so you are doing a necessary job.’
Ah, so she had noticed the looks coming their way in here, too. Saul’s stomach had felt coiled since they entered, and his head was pounding. He wanted to return to his tiny room. He could tell her ’is plans now, cos she had talked of his job. He turned, but Polly said as the clock chimed ten o’clock, ‘Can we go back now? I’m so tired. We can try and get closer to the sea tomorrow.’
They walked up the hill and still the motors passed them, their slit headlights keeping their speed down. The owls were in full voice. A fox screeched – had it grabbed a chook? That was better, the noises of nature. Yes, that was better. Saul walked with his arm around his Polly, trying to notice every moment, every movement, every breath she drew, because after this holiday he didn’t know when, or if, he’d see her again.
The next day they walked down the hill and then up again, to the high cliffs overlooking the sea, but there was barbed wire and more troops, and overlooking Hive Beach was a gun emplacement. So they stepped back from the wire and looked across the sea, hearing the rattle and surge of the waves on the shingle, and the gulls, calling so loud. They walked along the roads, along the edge of fields with green shoots of wheat showing, and larks calling. They sat on a fallen oak and just held one another. Saul breathed in Polly’s lingering scent of the cut and watched the birds, the clouds scudding, and knew at last what a holiday was, and it began to make sense to him. But how did you bring in words that would burst it all apart?
They ate at the pub in the evening and it was sausage and mash – mostly mash – again, and they laughed together. Saul itched to set his traps and bring the pub rabbit or pheasant, but this was a holiday and it was not his business.
The next day ran the same; and as the day drew towards night, their last night, he began at last to feel secure on the firm ground of the land, and at home in his tiny room in the roof. As midnight came and went, he leaned his head on the glass of the window, which was laced with anti-blast tape. He still hadn’t told Polly, but tomorrow he must, before they went home. Home to the cut. Home. He should have told her by now, maybe, but good memories were important.
He stared up at the stars, wiping the glass, which was clouded from his breath. The stars seemed so close, now he was high up. Not a light showed, but of course not; it didn’t even in London except for the searchlights. There were searchlights over Weymouth, dancing like the butterflies in the reeds of the cut. He ached to return. He missed the pat-patter, Granfer, Joe. Ah, Joe, he must see him, too. No, he’d telephone him. Saul felt fraught to his very marrow with it all. Yes, he’d telephone Joe and promise he’d be back, cos he couldn’t say goodbye to his face.
He wiped the glass clear again. Tomorrow, on the train, he’d tell her, his Polly, and she must forgive him; she must.
They caught the bus, then the train the next day, and arrived in the shifting tides of London as wave upon wave of people crashed like the surf on the shingle and made his head dizzy. They caught the train and the bus and as they walked from the station, through Southall to the depot, Saul thought he could smell the cut. Yes, smell it. He almost ran. It should give him the courage to tell Polly, for he had found none yet, and the old shame was on him, cos he had failed her, and himself.
They entered the depot yard, waved to the guard and wove again, as they seemed to have done so often over these last days, though this time it was through the workers in their overalls. And still Saul couldn’t find the words. They were at the frontage, and there it was: the cut, his cut, their cut. Steerer Ambrose pat-pattered past with his pair. ‘’Ow do,’ he called from the motor counter. Saul’s soul ached.
Polly almost sang, ‘How do, Steerer Ambrose, we’ve had a lovely, lovely holiday.’
‘Whatever pleases yer,’ he called as the butty came along now, with Mrs Ambrose knitting, the red, white and blue tiller under her elbow, her long skirt moving in the wind.
Was the breeze still blowing at the beach and in the valley? Were the men still exercising? Well, he’d be one of them soon. Saul’s soul ached further.
He turned to tell Polly, at last, but she had dropped her grip and was running along the lay-by, holding the clinking hessian bag they’d lugged back, calling over her shoulder, ‘I want to see if the girls are back, and give Granfer his present, though you said I shouldn’t buy one for him. I hope he likes cider.’ She stopped, turned and walked back. ‘Oh, Saul, I’ve had such a lovely time, and I love you so much, and I don’t care who hears me.’ She faced forward and ran again.
‘Wait, Polly, I must tell yer—’
She was moving too fast to listen.