PALOMA is a word that comes across the water from Spain. It means ‘dove’. It was a nickname. She had been christened Teresa; and the newcomer to the street who protested that the nickname seemed as demure – and therefore as inappropriate – as her baptismal name would be referred, in reply, not only to her dove-like sleekness and to the shape of the bosom which strained at her black dress, but to the throaty cooing with which she was in the habit of announcing her amorous triumphs.
Most of the housewives of the Via dei Martiri were sternly virtuous; at least, each strove to maintain in public the appearance of virtue; and Paloma’s exuberances were loudly condemned. However, she lived on excellent terms with her neighbours. She was a popular guest in every house. Her descriptions, minutely detailed, of her adventures were eagerly sought after, and if the other women often abused her to her face, she recognized the vein of good nature in their invective and accepted it with genial indifference. She knew that most of them envied her, not for her way of living but for her independence.
It was exactly a week since the soldiers had come to the street. It was just past midday and the billet was quiet; the soldiers, after their lunch, were resting in their rooms, sheltering from the sun’s white radiance. Craddock could hear the cackle of women from the street and, from the window, he saw Paloma standing outside her house, her back arched against the wall and her face turned blissfully up to the sun, while her neighbours clustered about her. Her eyes were half-closed, but she was evidently talking to them, for they screamed ribaldries and encouragement, and she would raise her voice from time to time to reply with vigour. Perhaps she was telling them about her latest lover; or perhaps – since she had already, with some justification, acquired reputation as an authority on the doings of the military – she was answering their questions on the past, present and future of the battalion and of the British Army in general.
Corporal Honeycombe, stooping in front of a fragment of mirror, finished brushing his smooth fair hair. ‘I’m going out,’ he announced, ‘I feel like a bit of hunting. That one down there,’ – he indicated Paloma – ‘looks a bit of all right.’
The sergeant grinned. The idea of anyone ‘hunting’ Paloma appealed to him, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Well!’ Honeycombe smote his hands together. ‘Just sit by the window and have a dekko, Joe, if you want to see how it’s done.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for a pension.’
Honeycombe went downstairs. He was a little taller than the sergeant, and more finely built. The sergeant followed him, and stopped in the shade of the porch to watch from a convenient distance.
Honeycombe walked across the street, with a slight roll to his gait. The women looked at him, appreciatively, and at Paloma, expectantly. Their conversation became subdued. He sauntered past them and stopped close to Paloma. ‘Buon giorno, girls.’
There was a chorus of buongiornos, a pause, and an explosive giggle from Nella.
‘Hot today, a’n’ it?’ He spoke in English. The initial greeting had exhausted his Italian, and besides, as he often pointed out in the billet, a bloke could get on with dames in any language.
There was an interrogative twitter from among the women.
He leaned against the wall with one hand, at arm’s length, and looked down at Paloma: the masterful pose. At length he said, ‘Hallo, ducks.’ A simple opening, but one which as a ladies’ man he could certify to be effective. It had worked on a hundred street corners in Blighty.
Paloma raised herself from the wall on one elbow and looked him up and down. She took her time. She said to the women, ‘What do you think of this one?’
The women clamoured advice like a farmyard let loose. ‘Va ben’,’ said Paloma, ‘we shall play.’
Honeycombe was not deterred. He knew all about the coy ones, who liked a tussle, and the sly ones, who made it a battle of wits. ‘What you doing this afternoon, honey?’ To underline his meaning, he gave a doggish twitch of his eyebrows towards the door of the house. She answered in a man’s strong voice – he could not understand what she was saying – and with a man’s hearty chuckle. He seemed to be making progress. He asked, ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in, sweetheart?’ The great thing was to get away from this crowd of sniggering, cackling women. Paloma’s only response was to feel his biceps and to prod experimentally about his body. Her lips were compressed and she was frowning studiously. She began to speak, over her shoulder, to the other women, in the tone of a pathologist reporting on a post-mortem. The women were clapping their hands, screaming with mirth, pushing each other ecstatically in the ribs and uttering shrill comments.
For once, Honeycombe began to feel uneasy in the presence of a woman. This was no giggling little imitation film star who would listen admiringly to his blandishments, hang confidingly on his arm and afterwards write him adoring letters. What was the use, when she could not understand him, of uttering those time-proven and magical incantations, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ or ‘I could go for you in a big way, kid,’ or ‘Don’t tell me, I bet your name’s Gloria’; or of those accustomed references to beautiful, big, brown eyes, and going places and doing things. This woman was looking him over and poking at him as if he were a good meal on a plate.
The grin on his face became frozen and ghastly. He sweated, and was dizzy in the sunlight. He would have sweated more if he had understood what was being said about him.
Craddock, coming closer, heard Paloma say, throatily, ‘Well armed, this soldier!’
There was more shrieking from the women, more spluttering laughter. Lucrezia Chiulemi wiped her streaming eyes and pointed at Honeycombe, who had backed up against the wall looking nonplussed and defensive. She howled, ‘How fierce he is! How bold! How ardent! How aggressive!’
‘A devil!’ gasped Nella, choking and thumping her chest.
‘An impetuous one!’ screeched Tina di Spirito.
Paloma clasped her hands to her bosom and muttered humbly, ‘And he loves me!’ She looked up at Honeycombe in a transport of ardour and humility. ‘Ah, my love, my pigeon, my dear one!’ She stroked his arm and caressed him; she pouted her rich lips at him; she overwhelmed him, amid shrieks of appreciative laughter, with such outrageous endearments that his nerve suddenly broke and he tried to sidle away, mumbling excuses in English and keeping his crimson face averted from Sergeant Craddock’s interested gaze.
But Paloma flung her arms about his neck, sank upon his breast and bore him back to the wall, moaning, ‘No, no, do not desert me, my darling, my hero!’ Her audience was growing. Windows and doorways were crowded all along the street. Soldiers were swarming out of the billet. Paloma released her victim for a moment and drew back, admiringly. ‘See!’ she cried. ‘See how impatient is my lover!’ – as he tried to bolt and she clasped him again.
She pushed her street door open with her right foot and, with a sudden violent thrust, sent Honeycombe reeling into the house. ‘I cannot keep him waiting,’ she explained, as she blocked the doorway with her strapping body just in time to prevent his escape. She held out her hands towards the women. ‘See,’ she said modestly. ‘See how I am trembling, like a bride!’
Honeycombe’s terrified face appeared behind her shoulder.
‘Don’t break the bed,’ shrieked Lucrezia Chillemi, who was doubled up with her hands clasped across her waist.
‘We shall tell the soldiers,’ called Fat Lina, ‘to wait here with a stretcher!’
Paloma favoured her audience with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Kurroo, kurroo!’ she cooed wickedly, and slammed the door in their faces.
§§§§
It was evening, and Nella was playing with her two boy friends, Ciccio, aged thirteen, and Tiger, aged nineteen. Craddock, watching them, felt that it had been a brilliant idea on his part to introduce the young soldier to the other two. Tiger, who had received his nickname because he was puny and pale, was one of a batch of young conscripts who had joined the battalion in the spring. When the time had come to embark, all those who were less than nineteen-and-a-half years old had been left behind; a few, including Tiger, who were a few weeks over the required age, had come abroad. Tiger was the only one of these who had survived, and the sergeant felt a special responsibility for him. Here, with Nella, he would be kept out of the way of bad women, while Nella would be safe in his company, for he had promised the sergeant – whom he worshipped – not to interfere with her.
When the three youngsters had first come together, yesterday, it had seemed as if the experiment might fail. They had looked at each other with reserve and suspicion. Soon they had lost their self-consciousness; the boy soldier had shed his assumed swagger, Ciccio his assumed cynicism, Nella her assumed solemnity, and they had played together like children, shouting, shrieking and wrestling, unaware of anything but their sport.
Their play, however, was always on a fine edge. Once, yesterday evening, Craddock had caught Nella squirming on top of Tiger on the pavement by the air-raid shelter. He pulled her away and said to Tiger, ‘Time you come up for air, son.’ Tiger, wiping his face, gasped, ‘Lucky I promised, sergeant.’ Now, in play, she had scratched Tiger’s face deeply. Tiger stood sullenly in front of the sergeant, dabbing at his face with his handkerchief. Nella was unabashed, and lurked behind him, squealing with wicked laughter. Ciccio had fled.
‘You go to the medical room and get that dressed,’ the sergeant said. In this climate, any break in the skin might turn to a purulent heat sore. Tiger obeyed. To calm Nella, who was still flushed and exultant, Craddock took an English newspaper from his pocket and showed her a picture of ATS girls on parade. She asked, ‘They are women of the army?’
‘Yes.’
‘They are for the soldiers?’
‘No.’
For the officers’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘They are soldiers, real soldiers, like the men.’
She paused, then clasped her hands. ‘Oh, beautiful, beautiful.’ She studied the picture. ‘How nice they look, in their uniforms. And those caps!’ She asked, ‘Is it true that women in England can work, like the men?’
‘Yes.’
‘They keep the money?’
‘Yes.’
‘They spend it as they wish?’
‘As they wish.’
‘They walk in the streets, alone, and go where they like?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even when they are married?’
‘Even dancing?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like to go to England. Can I go to England?’
Graziella said, roughly, ‘Take the baby inside, little fool, and put him to bed.’ Nella hoisted the child against her shoulder and took him into the house. She was a capable little housewife, who loved minding the baby and who scrubbed and ironed as if it were a game. When Nella was gone Graziella asked, ‘Was that the truth?’
‘What?’
‘Are women in England truly free, like men?’
‘Yes.’
She sighed. ‘Here it is different. It is very different.’ She sat and dreamed, far, far away from him.
Nella went home, and Craddock and Graziella were alone. Craddock brooded, empty of words. Graziella tapped at the pavement with her feet, looking down at her shoes. What pettinesses were there left to talk about? The prospect of more futile conversation awoke an anger in Craddock.
He leaned forward and rested his hand lightly on her arm. The legs of her chair scraped on the pavement as she squirmed quickly back out of reach and hissed, ‘No!’
He knew from the urgency of the movement and of her voice that she was near to breaking. The trust that she had placed in him stood between them. He rose to his feet, feeling cheated and infuriated. He said curtly, ‘Good night.’
He turned to leave, but she seized his wrist, and drew him into the house.