nineteen

During the next week I saw Johnny several times. Sometimes in the distance. Several times close by. Each of us waiting for the other to make the first move. I yearned for him to say something, to reach out, touch me. Longed for courage to take the initiative. Neither of us acknowledged the other.

‘You sent him packing. It was up to you to do something,’ Katy said when I related what was happening. ‘Write a note—he’ll come flying.’

But anger, pride or fear that he might not come flying stopped me. I consoled myself that there was plenty of time. That eventually I’d get round to writing. But plenty of time there wasn’t. At short notice I had to attend a games course in Aldershot. And when I came back after two weeks away Johnny had left camp. Gone on embarkation leave.

He would be at home for ten days and after that in the depot at Woolwich. Where he would join a batch of artillery men due to travel to Egypt in April.

All this he wrote in a letter awaiting me. Reading the date on which it was written I saw that he would already be at the Regimental Depot. Also in his letter he wrote that he loved me. Repeating what he had told me many times. How he loved me and always would. That once he was settled in his new posting he would write and tell what it was he feared.

‘While I was with you I couldn’t pluck up courage, afraid you might throw me over. You did anyway. You’ll never know how that shocked me. Not at first because I thought it was just a tiff that would blow over in no time. But after you ignored me in the lorry I knew it was serious. Like a fool I then went out of my way to avoid you. So a letter is now the only way left. You’ll then have time to think about the problem. Talk it over with your mother, friends, your padre, and make up your mind. Maybe since we split you have finally decided that Steve is the one you want to marry. I hope not but I’ll understand and won’t love you any the less. Always remember that. And the good times we had.

Loving you forever,

Johnny.

He enclosed in his letter the British Forces overseas address and photograph of himself. His wonderful eyes looked at me. With pleading in them I imagined. I kissed the picture, stroked his olive-coloured skin while tears streamed down my face.

I had to do something positive, I realized. Find out if he was married. That was easy. Katy looked up his records. He was single, British and Church of England. One by one my worries fell away. If he was English he couldn’t be coloured. Religion wasn’t a problem. My grandfather was a Protestant. I wasn’t religious. Nowadays I often missed Mass, seldom went to confession. And my mother, not that I’d let her stand in my way, wouldn’t object. Not if we married in England. The neighbours wouldn’t know it was a mixed marriage. But after a few more tears and a few more cigarettes I came down to earth. Asking myself if all the things I had found out were OK then what was it he was afraid of. My fertile imagination ran riot. Perhaps he had murdered someone. Perhaps he’d done time in prison. Would that be on his army documents? And the thought which made me cry again, that he had some dreadful disease. One the army hadn’t discovered. One that ran in his family. That wouldn’t show itself for years.

‘My poor, poor love,’ I said to his picture. ‘Did you think that I’d mind that. I’d nurse you. Look after you for the rest of your life. Why didn’t you trust me? We could have been married by now.’

I was going to see him. Going to Woolwich. See him before he sailed. Maybe we could get a special license. I’d apply for a forty-eight hour pass. Woolwich wasn’t far away. Convince him that whatever he feared I didn’t. I would give Steve up. We’d get married before he sailed.

I wouldn’t tell Katy or Breda my plans. Breda’d be genuinely upset at the idea of me marrying an unbeliever, someone who’d never get to heaven. Katy’d tell me that I was mad. That I didn’t love him. Didn’t trust him. That if I went ahead and married him he’d still be sent to Egypt. He wouldn’t get a married quarter in a hurry. Wasn’t senior enough, married long enough, or in the army long enough to have many points. By the time we moved up the list he’d be back in England where I’d spent two lonely years. Lonely or flirting about from one bloke to another. And having lost any excuse for prizing my virginity. I’d already lost it. Once gone it was gone forever. You knew what it was all about. If you’d enjoyed the experience you’d want a repeat performance.

There I knew she was wrong. I’d be a faithful wife. Never look at another man. After all, I was a Catholic and adultery was a mortal sin.

Sylvia would be more understanding and would lend me money for the trip. Then, remembering that I wasn’t confiding in Katy and Breda and that Sylvia wasn’t the best at keeping secrets, decided to go and see Betty instead. She’d lend the money. Sean was there, having finished work early. I was invited to stay for tea. Pilchards in tomato sauce. A meal I hated. But with rationing still in force you ate what you got. I loved them for their warmth, generosity, and humour. Only recently had I realized that it wasn’t for these qualities and his extraordinary good looks that I felt about Sean as I did. He was the same age as my father would have been had he lived. He was my father figure. And often acted as one. Concerned about my future. Reminding me how important it was for a girl to get a good job. I would laugh at him when he suggested that it should carry a pension. And he’d respond, ‘You may well laugh, but I’m serious. Who’s to say, you may choose not to marry.’

He was a Kerryman where there’s a long tradition of matchmaking. He thought there was much to be said for it, though admitting his match to Betty had been the result of him picking her up in a truck as she waited for a but.

After tea I told them the purpose of my visit.

‘If course I’ll let you have the money,’ said Betty, ‘but I’m not sure going to Woolwich is a good idea, are you Sean?’

‘Let me tell you about Woolwich. There are hundreds of men there. Waiting to go overseas, waiting for demob. They parade in the morning and book in at night. In the meantime, they disperse all over the city. Most doing part-time work. Lyons Corner Houses are great favourites. Dishwashing. Then the pubs, the back to barracks. No one knows who is who. Unless you write to him before going up, it’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘I was planning on going tomorrow.’

‘Take my advice and don’t.’

I had brought the photograph of Johnny with me and showed it to them. Though they had met him on numerous occasions Sean now looked intently at the picture. Then handing it back, said, ‘What Johnny’s afraid to telly you is that he’s coloured.’

‘But he’s not. You’ve seen him. We’ve baby-sat for you dozens of times. He’s not a black man.’

‘How many coloured people have you seen?’

‘A few. Students from Trinity on my last leave. They were jet black. Like the ones in American pictures. How can you be so sure about Johnny?’

‘I was in South Africa for years. I always knew Johnny was coloured. It didn’t seem important. He was just one of your here today gone tomorrow boyfriends. He’s a nice bloke. But not for you to marry.’

‘But I want to marry him.’

‘You’ll live to regret it. Both of you.’

‘Why would you regret it if we love each other?’

‘It’s always better to marry your own kind. Marriage isn’t just about love. God knows there’s little enough tolerance of different religions and nationalities, but less when colour is involved. If you marry him you’re in for a hard time. You won’t, once he’s out of the army, find it easy getting a place to live. Work won’t be easy to come by. And think about the children you may have.’

I knew he meant well. I didn’t resent his advice but had no intention of taking it. But because I was so fond of him and Betty decided to pretend I would.

‘I expect you’re right and going to Woolwich probably isn’t such a good idea. So thanks all the same, Betty, I won’t need the money now,’ I lied. I’d borrow from Sylvia and risk her telling Katy and Breda.

‘That’s sensible. Write to Johnny, no harm in that. He’ll be gone for two years. Let time take care of things. And after all you may come back from Crewe flashing your diamonds,’ Betty said, smiling tolerantly. And Sean added, ‘I know the very man for you. Posted in yesterday. Tall, good looking, a Catholic and a sergeant who’ll go far. You’ll see him around. But in any case, I’ll invite you to the mess next Saturday and introduce you.’

They smiled at me affectionately and Betty promised to do my hair before we went to the mess.

* * *

Sylvia lent me the money and promised not to tell Katy and Breda. ‘But they’ll wonder where you’ve gone,’ she warned.

I told her I’d think of something before putting in for my pass.

As it turned out I never got to Woolwich. I woke the next morning with an itch. Looked at my hands, in between my fingers, and knew what ailed me. Scabies. I’d had them during the war when they were endemic in Dublin. In the bathroom I examined myself and in my groin and armpits were the minute red spots where the scabie mites were burrowing under my skin and laying their eggs. I knew the cure. Scalding baths in which rock sulphur had been dissolved. But where in the village would I get rock sulphur? And if I could its rotten egg smell would cause a riot. I’d have to report sick. Untreated scabies caused constant itching, constant scratching and became infected. It was several years since I’d had them. There was probably a more up-to-date treatment.

There was. It involved hospital isolation. By lunchtime I was on the train to the skin hospital in Hindhead. Soon after arrival I stood naked in a cubicle where an older pretty woman orderly sympathized with my condition. And then with a shaving brush lathered me with a thick white substance from neck to feet front and back. Long lingering brush strokes. Particularly long and lingering in the belly and breast area. And all the while complimenting me on my figure. I felt ill at ease without knowing why. While I was dressing she called through the cubicle curtains, ‘Bath in the morning then report here at ten o’clock.’

‘How long does the treatment last?’ I called back.

‘Three to five days, three usually.’

Mine took five. After two days of more lavishing strokes and compliments the orderly changed her manner to one of briskness. Only years later did it occur to me that she may have been making a pass at me.

I enjoyed the five days of leisure. After morning inspection, when patients stood by their beds while the senior medical officer, matron and nurses did the ward round, I was free to do what I wished. I read and wrote letters. To Johnny at his home address, Woolwich and the British Forces overseas.

Letters full of love and longing. Letters saying how eagerly I was waiting to hear from him and discover what it was he had feared telling me. How there was nothing in the world so terrible that could alter my love for him. I told him that the nearer my meeting with Steve came the more convinced I was that it would be the end of our affair. I might not go to Crewe. Since I was certain that I no longer loved him it seemed pointless. But on the other hand he deserved to be told by me rather than by letter. That was the coward’s way out.

In case I did stop off at Crewe I wrote reminding my mother I’d be delayed in coming home. I was going to see a girl I’d been in basic training with. And I wrote to Steve telling more lies. though at the time I didn’t consider what I wrote as lies. Or not serious ones anyway. I wanted my bird in the hand and the one in the bush.

One day, while walking through the hospital grounds, I saw a bed of lupins not yet in flower and thought about Deirdre. I wondered if she had ever tracked down her lost husband. When I went back to the ward I wrote her a letter in which I told her I had written to her several times with the information I’d got from the post corporal. But just in case the letters hadn’t reached her I was writing again. And in the belief that if you used the person’s army number the letter would eventually reach them I posted it. As with the previous letters I got no reply.

I came back to camp hoping for letters from Johnny. There weren’t any. Nor did any come during the following weeks. But I was confident they would arrive. Maybe not before he sailed. But surely they would come.

* * *

Spring had arrived. The place of trees was a bouquet of forty shades of green new leaves. PT lessons were in full swing. I had two sessions in the morning and organized netball matches with other units in the vicinity. In between lessons, I went to the telephone exchange and the café. there one day I saw the sergeant Sean had described and promised to introduce me to. He was tall, handsome and arrogant-looking. Full of himself as they’d say in Dublin. I found him attractive. And knew that before long I’d be dating him.

I felt happier than I had since Dora died. Even though everything was changing. So many of the handsome heroes were gone. Civilians now. National Service men, boyish looking, replaced them. And the rumour was gathering that the unit would be disbanded before the year was out.

Breda and Katy had their demobilization dates. Breda in the beginning of May, and Katy early in June. I pushed to the back of my mind how I’d exist without them. Pushed to the back of my mind when and where I’d be posted. Hoping for letters arriving from Johnny. Trying to decide about Crewe and captivating the new sergeant.

* * *

One day in my storeroom where I hadn’t checked the equipment since the cold weather, I noticed that fourteen pairs of socks were missing. Maybe I’d put them on another shelf. I looked but they weren’t there. I searched all the shelves. No sign of them. I was the only one with the key. Then I remembered Jock, a cheeky-faced girl from Glasgow. Urchin-like, good at PT and games. Once I suggested she’d be suitable for a course. She refused. ‘I’d love doing it Corp, but wouldna be any good out there in front.’

She had borrowed the key when we were snowed in. She wanted a skipping rope. ‘But you can’t skip in the snow,’ I’d said.

‘In the ablutions, not the snow,’ she’d replied, looking at me as if I were daft. ‘Concrete floors, bags of room between the lavs and sinks. I feel like an auld woman with getting no exercise,’ she said with her head cocked to one side, reminding me of one of the Bisto Kids. I let her have the key. She returned it.

I thought no more about it until I missed the socks. Had she taken or misplaced them? They were knee length, pure wool. They’d cost a lot to replace. But why would she want fourteen pairs of socks? I’d give her the benefit of the doubt for a while.

In the meantime I racked my brains trying to recall when they’d last been used. A hockey fixture before Christmas. After a game I’d wash and hang them to dry in the laundry room. I checked. No sign of them. I asked around. Had anyone seen them? Taken them by mistake. Bundled them in with their washing. Katy laughed at this question. ‘Not notice twenty-eight hairy socks amongst your knickers? Jock nicked them, stands to reason.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Because she’s a thief. Been nicking since she could walk, crawl or reach out her hand.’

‘But what would she do with them?’

‘Flog them.’

‘Who’d want to buy long green and white hockey socks?’

‘If the price is right you can flog anything. You’ll have to charge her.’

‘Oh God,’ I exclaimed. It was the dread and fear of my life having the charge anyone. The only thing I disliked about having a rank. ‘I don’t think I could.’

‘So how are you going to explain the next bare-legged hockey team? If you don’t put Jock on a fizzer you’ll be charged for the loss of WD property.’

‘What if she denies taking them?’

‘She probably will. Tell her I saw her with them. I’ll be a witness.’

Breda was horrified at Katy’s suggestion and delivered a lecture of false witness. Katy told her to belt up.

‘I wasn’t serious about giving evidence. but I am about letting Jock think I saw her with the socks. She’s not as tough as she looks. In a gang on her home ground she might be. But not face to face with you. Talk to her. Make her feel sorry for you. She might still have them. Give them back to you.’

‘And if she doesn’t or has already got rid of them, what then?’

‘Charge her. See Miss Long. She’ll arrange the hanging.’

* * *

Jock, d’ye remember the day you wanted to skip and I lent you the key for the store room?’

‘Aye,’ she said, not meeting my eyes.

‘Well, the thing is there were hockey socks in the stores and now I can’t find them.’

Still not looking directly at me she asked, ‘Got a fag.’ I gave her one and a light.

‘I was wondering if you moved them?’

Then for the first time looking me in the eye she swore she’d never seen them.

‘I know someone who saw you with them. I’ll have to charge you and she’ll be a witness.’

‘Your mate from Edinburgh?’ she said derisively.

I ignored the remark and waited.

‘OK,’ then, ‘Give us another fag.’

I did and she grinned.

‘I never thought to nick nothing when I went in. Then I saw the socks. I was broke. I knew blokes who’d buy them.’

‘So you sold them?’

‘Yeah, I flogged them—two bob a pair. Money for jam.’

‘And thought you’d get away with it?’

‘I never thought about it.’

Going against all I’d been taught about army discipline I apologized.

‘I’m sorry about having to charge you. If there was another way I wouldn’t.’

‘I don’t care about charges. Been on dozens. Nothing to them. Silly lotta sods.’

She laughed. I tried not to but couldn’t help smiling at her cheek. I gave her a few more fags then went to see Miss Long. Told her of the theft and Jock’s admission and looked suitably abashed as she admonished me for my carelessness in lending the key.

‘You’ll be notified of the date and time of the charge,’ she said when the lecture was finished. Jock serve my meals as friendly and cocky as ever. Came to her PT lessons and cadged fags as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

* * *

On the following Monday at 8.45a.m. I reported to the sergeant-major’s office. I’d pressed my uniform the night before, polished my buttons and shoes to a high shine and wore my cap at the regulation army angle. Jock and another corporal were already in Miss Long’s office. The corporal standing at ease, Jock to attention. I could see her uniform hadn’t had a bang of an iron for many a day and her cap perched so far to the side of her head it was in danger of falling off. Miss Long and the corporal with Jock between them and me behind marched out of the office. Miss Long gave the commands. Halting us outside the COs door where Jock’s cap was removed and put on a chair. After knocking on the commander’s door and bidden to enter we marched in and halted before the desk. Miss Long read out the charge. Jock kept nudging me, trying to make me laugh. I gave my evidence. Then the CO questioned Jock. She answered in a broad Glaswegian dialect. One I’d never heard her use before. Deliberately. Forcing the CO to halt the procedure and ask her to speak more clearly. Jock admitted the theft. ‘But why?’ asked the commanding officer. ‘Didn’t you realize it was stealing.’

‘Didn’t think, ma’am.’

Sentence was passed. ‘Seven days confined to barracks. The cost of the socks deducted from your pay in weekly instalments.

The trial was over. Miss Long about turned us and marched us out. Where Jock retrieved her cap and put it on. On the way back to the billet I asked her why the cap had been removed.

‘In case I threw it at the CO.’

‘You wouldn’t have?’

‘Course I wouldn’t. Blokes used to. Fix razor blades in them so they’d slash the face.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Straight up. Specially blokes from the Gorbals.’ She lit a fag. ‘Seven days CB—that’s nothing. Sometimes I don’t leave the camp for fourteen.’

‘But you’ll miss the money.’

‘Not too much. The army’s fair. Only deduct small amounts.’

On another two occasions I was involved in charges when I was the prisoner in the dock. I committed the first offence on a damp misty morning walking back from a PT lesson at another camp. My hair was long overdue for a trim and straggled on my collar. I heard the sound of a car behind me and moved onto the grass verge to let it pass. Instead it slowed and stopped beside me. It was an army Staff car which, driven by Forces personnel, ferried senior ranks, male and female, to their destinations. My first thought was that the passenger in the back seat had taken pity on me as it had now started to rain and was about to offer me a lift. That idea fled the minute I saw the cross, creased, ancient face glaring at me above the lowered window. A woman of senior rank who reminded me of a vulture.

‘Corporal,’ she said in a voice used to being obeyed. ‘Come here.’

I went close to the window, guessing I was in trouble.

‘Your hair is a disgrace. Straggling down the back of your neck. What is the regulation length?’

‘Two inches above the collar, ma’am.’ Not a single hair showed beneath her cap. Baldy, I thought, as I stood to attention at an awkward angle on the grass verge. And gave at her demand my name, number, rank and unit. She ordered her driver to carry on. Looking after the car I remembered Steve’s contempt for the army’s pettiness.

I was charged in due course and received an admonition, army parlance for a telling off. The other charge could have had serious consequences. But by the time it came about I was an old soldier and not above lying my way out of trouble.

I had applied for and been granted a seventy-two hour pass, travel warrant and three days’ ration money. I planned to go to London on Friday morning, meet a relation, have lunch and in the evening see a show.

I did all of these things. Walked down the Strand, thrilled at being in London. Feeling very sophisticated. The songs from the musical playing in my mind. Reflecting on the generosity of my cousin who had treated me to lunch, the theatre and supper. Thinking about the Viennese Steak I’d eaten. A flattened fried mince patty. But nevertheless, quite tasty. And congratulating myself on how well the scam was working. In less than two hours I’d be back in camp. No problems getting in unnoticed. By the time I arrived the duty corporal would have done her rounds. My empty bed accounted for as according to her list I was in London. Saturdays and Sundays few checks were made. I’d sleep late. Breakfast in the café on my ill-gotten gains. Go for a walk. Back to the café for coffee. Maybe see the sergeant Sean had said he’d introduce me to. We’d clicked without Sean’s help. Had a loose arrangement to have lunch in Woking one day. Saturday might be the day. And on Sundays I had a standing invitation to Betty’s.

I began to cross Waterloo Bridge, stopped to look at the river and thought about Vivian Leigh and Robert Taylor. Only one thing marred my pleasure. I was wearing the horrible uniform. Forced to because my lovely tweed coat hadn’t been cleaned since I joined up.

It smelled of me and all the girls who’d borrowed it. The cleaners in Camberley had promised it for Thursday—it wasn’t ready. After gazing at the river for a while I walked on to the station. Crowds milled around, mostly army personnel. I was no sooner in the doors when to military policewomen pounced—the enemies of all other ranks, both they and their male counterparts. Always on the lookout for the trivialist breaches of army regulations. They had spotted my fully fashioned non-issue stockings. Another admonition, ‘ca ne faite rien’, I thought, a French phrase very popular with the troops, the equivalent, so I believed, of ‘I couldn’t care less’.

The MPs didn’t mention stockings, but asked what I was doing in London. God directed me as my mother would have said and I replied, ‘I’m here for the weekend. Meeting someone here later o n in the station.’

They asked to see my pass. I showed it. ‘And your AB64 Part Two.’ Which should have been in my left breast pocket but wasn’t. In my mind’s eye I saw it on my bed where I’d left it while I had pressed my tunic. I was in serious trouble. No proof of identity. I could be a deserter. There were thousands of deserters in the country. The pass could have been stolen or found.

Passing soldiers slagged the two Red Caps. Women who towered over me. Tall as American basket-ball players.

‘Pick on someone your own size Lofty.’

‘I could fancy you on a dark night.’

‘A pitch dark night.’

These were the gist of remarks as between the giants I was marched to the Railway Transport Officers’ room. From where my unit was telephoned and confirmation given that I was who I said I was. Not a deserter and in London on a seventy-two hour pass. Panic assailed me. I’d be let go. But unless it was soon I’d miss the last train back to camp. Forced to comply with the conditions of my pass. Find a lodging. There was the waiting room. I could doss there. But didn’t fancy the idea. The RTO chivvied the MPs. The office was crowded. Military personnel wanting train times to the north, south, east and west.

‘Better get a move on, her train goes in five minutes.’

‘But I’m not catching a train. I’m on a weekend pass.’

‘Not anymore you’re not. You’ve been ordered back to your unit.’

The one who spoke had a smug expression in her eyes. ‘We’ve put paid to that,’ it conveyed. Her colleague reminded me of the heinous crime I’d committed. Out without my identity book. While I inwardly sighed with relief. I was going back to camp which had been my intention all along.

They marched me to the waiting train. Running the gauntlet of sneering, jeering soldiers, mocking their lack of femininity. Though careful not to overstep the mark. Women in the military police were empowered to arrest men.

They stood guard each side of the carriage door. I lolled back in my seat preening my feathers. Knowing that compared to my warders I was a raving beauty.

* * *

The following Monday I was charged.

The CO, a pleasant middle-aged woman, lectured me on the gravity of leaving camp without any proof of identity. ‘I have always judged you as a responsible person. One who could go far in the army.’

I looked suitably abashed.

‘You do realize that for such an offence you could be reduced to the ranks.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Oh God I’d lose my stripes. Revert to being a part-time instructor. My pay reduced. The allowance to my mother back to half a crown a week. That would make for happy homecomings. Through my mind went these thoughts while the CO deliberated what my sentence should be.

She spoke. ‘However, as your weekend in London was ruined I’ve decided to be lenient. I think you’ve had sufficient punishment. Learned a lesson and will never again leave camp without proof of your identity.’

‘No ma’am.’ My relief was overwhelming. The tears I’d held back fell. I wanted to thank her profusely. Apologise. Make promises. Not allowed.

‘Charge dismissed.’ I could have gone round the desk and kissed her. Not allowed. Might be construed by the sergeant-major and an attempted assault. Certainly as lack of conduct befitting an NCO.

She deserved a salute but without my cap, that wasn’t possible. So I settled for, ‘Thank you ma’am.