Echoes of Yesterday Page 7

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ said Tommy, ‘you don’t mean you’re down to yer knickers, do yer, Em’ly?’

  Emily uttered a yell of outrage.

  ‘You Tommy, don’t you ’ave no respect when I’m close on eighteen? Oh, me gawd, Lizzy, don’t move, he’ll lose ’is eyesight.’

  ‘What happened exactly?’ asked Mr Finch, regarding the shadowy figures. The zeppelin was far away now, searchlights still conducting an ineffectual chase, and as far as these young ladies were concerned, the only damage was what the German airship had done to Emily’s modesty.

  ‘What happened?’ said Lizzy, still shaken by the incident. ‘You might well ask, Mr Finch.’ She explained. She and Emily hadn’t been able to catch a tram, or any omnibus, so they began walking. They’d heard the maroons going off, and seen the searchlights, and then they’d heard what they were sure was the sound of a bomb a long way off. They hurried, and just as they reached the corner of Albany Road, they thought they actually heard the noise of the zeppelin itself, a sort of low engine drone high up in the sky. They thought about finding shelter somewhere as they crossed the entrance to Albany Road. Lizzy ran. A bomb dropped way down Albany Road just as she reached the safety of the corner building. Emily, a little way behind her, was a second too late to get the building between her and the rushing wind of the blast. It didn’t hurt her, but it blew her hat clean off and ripped away the skirt of her frock and her Sunday petticoat. They just disappeared, just like that.

  ‘I felt like I was in a sort of hot stormy wind just for a split second,’ said Emily, keeping herself behind Lizzy. ‘It was a wonder it didn’t knock me over, but it was more as if it blew me forward, because next thing I was beside Lizzy, and she was pullin’ me into this doorway. Oh, I nearly passed out when I found what it ’ad done to me clothes.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Mr Finch gently, ‘we’ll get you home, Emily.’

  ‘And it could’ve been worse,’ said Tommy consolingly, ‘it could’ve blown yer summer vest and whatsits off as well, Em.’

  There was another little yell from Emily.

  ‘Mr Finch, hit ’im,’ she begged.

  ‘Spare her blushes, Tommy,’ said Mr Finch.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ home like this,’ said Emily.

  ‘Take my jacket and wrap it round your waist,’ said Mr Finch, ‘and then I’ll carry you home. I think it’ll be too awkward for you to walk.’ He took his jacket off and handed it to Lizzy, who passed it to Emily behind her. Emily wrapped it around her middle and legs. Lizzy stepped aside, Mr Finch stepped in and lifted Emily up into his arms.

  ‘Oh, bless yer, Mr Finch, you’re such a kind gent,’ said Emily.

  ‘Jacket’s comin’ off, Em,’ said Tommy, and Emily shrieked. But it was a false alarm, and Lizzy gave her grinning brother a piece of her mind. Then she made him carry her shopping bag, and she also made him walk ahead with her, Mr Finch following, Emily in his arms, hands clutching the jacket as if it were a lifebelt. Mr Finch knew there was nothing they could do about the bomb that had dropped in Albany Road that the police, the fire service and the neighbours couldn’t do better.

  Chinese Lady, extremely relieved when they all showed up, said it was thanks to the Lord that Emily and Lizzy had been spared, and that although it had been a discomfortable time for Emily, she could probably write to someone in the government about her ruined clothes, and perhaps the Prime Minister would send her a government postal order. Emily, hiding herself in the scullery for the moment, said it was the German government that ought to pay, really. Chinese Lady said no-one was on speaking terms with the Germans while the war was on. Emily said she was sure of one thing, that she’d never forgive that German zeppelin. Tommy nearly copped for having his ears boxed by Chinese Lady then, for he said it was the first time he’d seen Emily in her Sunday knickers.

  Lizzy did the necessary for Emily by finding her a skirt she could wear before going home to her mother, and Sammy more or less closed the proceedings by informing everyone he could now go happily to bed with his savings.

  Mr Finch, calm and reassuring throughout, laughed and said goodnight.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Find Sergeant Adams,’ said Major Harris to his runner on Monday morning. ‘Tell him to come and see me immediately.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Away the runner went. He found Sergeant Adams in his shirt and trousers, braces dangling, giving himself a leisurely shave in the open air.

  ‘Ruddy fanackapans, Sarge, ain’t you up yet? You better be, the Major wants you immejiate.’

  ‘I’m up, I’ve had breakfast, and now I’m shaving,’ said Boots.

  ‘Well, would yer mind gettin’ yer French skates on, so’s you can report double-quick to the officers’ quarters? Better do yer braces up.’

  ‘Enjoying the war, are you, Private Potter?’ said Boots, dipping his hands into a bucket of water and washing a residue of lather from his face.

  ‘Bleedin’ hell, love it, don’t I? Hope it keeps goin’, don’t I? Can’t wait to jump the barbed wire, can I? Hope I get me perishin’ legs shot off, don’t I?’

  ‘Best of luck,’ said Boots.

  ‘Bleedin’ comic, you are, Sarge. You’ll get medals for it one day. The Major’s waitin’, by the way, and he’s got his tick-tock out. Hope you’re hearin’ me.’

  ‘I’m hearing you,’ said Boots, and was on his way five minutes later. The large cottage made over to A Company’s officers had been spruced up by general duties men, and a room on the ground floor provided Major Harris with an office. In the hall, Boots came up against Company Sergeant-Major Rowlands.

  ‘Morning, Sergeant Adams, you’re after what?’

  ‘Seeing Major Harris.’

  ‘Got a request to put to him about someone’s sick mother?’

  ‘Not today, Sergeant-Major, just an order to present myself.’

  ‘Ever thought where general army orders come from?’ asked the Sergeant-Major, who had seen the Boer War and a lot more besides.

  ‘Yes, from under cavalry moustaches in the War Office,’ said Boots.

  ‘Right first time, Sergeant Adams. Make a regular of you yet. Carry on.’

  Boots knocked on the Major’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Boots went in. Major Harris was sitting at his desk, cap off. He took a look at the pocket watch on his desk, and glanced up at Boots, his bleak eyes expressionless.

  ‘Had a struggle to get here, did you, Sergeant Adams?’

  ‘Can’t say I did, no, sir.’

  ‘I’ll pass on what kept you, then. Today’s orders. Take eight men to the farm. I’ve had a request for labour. Get them to take their dinner rations with them. Shirt-sleeve order is permitted. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Do I leave them there?’

  ‘No, you’ll stay. The request included a Sergeant Adams. That’s you. How’d the farmer get your name?’

  ‘From his daughter, I’d say.’

  ‘I see.’ Major Harris studied his youngest sergeant. Youngest he might be, but never the simplest. ‘Farmer’s daughter. Did you take her into town last night?’

  ‘No, sir. Accidentally ran into her yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Accidentally sounds like a put-up job to me, as it did when you managed in 1914 to accidentally run into my own daughter.’ The bleak eyes were caustic. ‘Let’s see, what came of that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Yes, you escaped in time, you fortunate sod. Well, that’s all. Get your eight volunteers organized.’

  Boots, a smile lurking, returned to the barn. It was full of lounging soldiers.

  ‘On your feet, C Platoon,’ he said.

  ‘Give it a rest, Sarge.’

  ‘On your feet. Orders from the Major. Eight volunteers required for work on the farm.’

  ‘Now you’re talkin’. Chicken farm, Sarge?’

  ‘You won’t like their chickens, there’s a shot-gun and a pitch-fork in charge of them. Let’s have you. You, Greenwood, and you,
Williams. You, Plummer.’ Boots put names to eight volunteers, and was accordingly advised by an old sweat, in so many words, that his family credentials were suspect. ‘Don’t get my goat,’ said Boots, ‘I’m giving you five minutes before I march you up to the farm.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, what a case,’ said Private Plummer to Private Williams, ‘I bet his Ma found him on her doorstep, marked unwanted.’

  Young Madame Cecile Lacoste emerged from the farm dairy clad in a remarkably attractive white smock and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Boots in English.

  ‘Ah, you ’ave come with your men. Good. Jules!’ she called, and an elderly farm labourer appeared from behind the dairy, a large collection of hoes resting on his shoulder. She instructed him to take the Tommies to the fields and show them how to use the hoes.

  ‘Come,’ said Jules, and the team of West Kents, muttering all kinds of asides, followed him as he led the way. Boots ambled along behind them.

  ‘No, no, not you, Sergeant Adams,’ called the young madame.

  ‘Right, I’m leaving you in charge, Private Jones,’ said Boots to the senior man.

  ‘All right for some,’ growled Jones. ‘You get the French hen, we get bleedin’ French sunstroke.’

  ‘Do you good,’ said Boots. He stopped and watched his men filing along in the wake of the labourer. They began to whistle ‘Men of Harlech’ in derisory fashion. Boots smiled. He knew they were glad to be out of the line. It was a filthy existence on top of everything else.

  ‘Sergeant Adams!’ The young madame was peremptory. Boots turned, walked to the dairy and presented himself to her. He touched his cap. She eyed him suspiciously. ‘I do not trust you,’ she said in English.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Ow do I know? Perhaps it’s the way you look at me. Perhaps you say to yourself, “Ah, ’ere is a poor ’elpless widow.”’

  Boots laughed.

  ‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘Well, you have the labour you asked for. I can go now?’

  ‘No.’ She spoke in French. ‘You are to help in the dairy. I have permission from your officer. The churn is full and needs turning. Come.’ She led the way into the cool, stone-flagged dairy, where a large wooden churn, brass-bound, awaited his muscle power. ‘There it is. You may talk while you work. But in English. I wish to speak it better. You will help me, then perhaps I won’t have to shout at you. Commence.’

  Boots began to turn the churn by its handle. Full of curdled milk, it began to revolve. It was heavy, but rotated smoothly. He whistled softly. The young madame uttered an imprecation.

  ‘You’re not happy?’ he said.

  ‘I said to talk as well as work, I did not say to whistle. And I said to talk in English. You may call me Cecile. That’s my name, Cecile Lacoste.’

  ‘I’ve never met a Cecile,’ said Boots. ‘How’d’ you do, Madame Cecile.’

  ‘No, no, not madame.’ Cecile was watching him. He was in his shirt, trousers and cap, his sleeves rolled up, his arms sinewy.

  Boots, turning the churn with passable rhythm, said, ‘Will this do?’

  ‘No, I will show you,’ she said.

  Boots stood aside, she took hold of the handle and turned the churn strongly and quickly.

  ‘I’m a stranger in a dairy,’ said Boots.

  ‘Pooh, that is no excuse. Do it again, more stronger.’

  Boots had another go, and the churn revolved faster.

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, better,’ said Cecile. ‘You ’ave a family in your English ’ome?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve a family,’ said Boots.

  ‘A wife?’

  ‘No, a mother, a sister and two brothers.’

  ‘You are not married, Sergeant Adams?’

  ‘Fortunately, no,’ said Boots, keeping the churn revolving strongly.

  ‘Fortunately?’

  ‘Very,’ said Boots, ‘under the circumstances.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cecile regarded him understandingly. ‘Yes, it’s a terrible war. Terrible for everyone. Please to keep working, I ’ave other things to see to.’ She disappeared, and Boots kept turning. Well, it was something to do, something a lot better than having trench rats running over his feet. He had letters to write, but they would have to wait. Major Harris had given the young French widow permission to make use of him, and, however he had put it, Boots would bet he’d done so without hardly moving his lips.

  He opened up the churn after half an hour. What was in there looked like thick congealing cream. He supposed he was winning. He resumed turning, and let his mind encompass thoughts of home and family. Those kind of thoughts helped to push suspicions of a coming offensive into the background.

  Sammy was a bit late getting home for his midday meal. Chinese Lady asked him where he’d been.

  ‘In the market, Mum, as usual,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll turn into a market cabbage one day,’ said Lizzy, who’d been writing to Boots. She was fond of all her brothers, but was closest to Boots and was praying he wouldn’t be another war casualty. ‘Mind, you won’t be as green as most cabbages.’

  ‘Kind of yer to say so, Lizzy,’ said Sammy, sitting down to a light wartime meal of fried potatoes and brawn, the brawn made of meat from ox-feet and pigs’ heads, cut up, boiled and pickled. It was very cheap and off ration. ‘But what kept me, Mum, was tryin’ to get some cracked eggs for Lizzy. Well, seein’ she ’ad a bit of a shock last night, I thought I’d better do what I could. I remember Em’ly’s mum saying once that eggs can be good for an expectant woman that’s ’ad a shock. Lizzy, you all right today?’

  ‘Yes, course I am, Sammy love,’ said Lizzy, ‘I don’t panic easy.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘You Sammy, boys with big ears shouldn’t listen to talk about women that’s expectant. It’s not proper. And what d’you mean, you tried to get some cracked eggs? You can’t get eggs, whole or cracked, except when our grocer rations some out.’

  ‘Well, some people can’t get more than a few a month from their grocers, Mum,’ said Sammy, tucking in, ‘but informed people can get some from elsewhere.’

  ‘Informed people?’ said Lizzy. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘Well, I’ve always been admirin’ of Boots and ’is educated talk,’ said Sammy, ‘and it don’t ’urt a bloke to copy some of it, specially a bloke that wants to go into business later on. Anyway, bein’ informed ’elped me get the eggs.’

  ‘Bless you, then, Sammy,’ said Lizzy. ‘Mum, who’s the clever boy in this fam’ly?’

  ‘Me,’ said Sammy, who had an instinctive feeling that a bloke couldn’t earn his fortune by being modest. ‘Well, I ’eard from a market mate of mine that old Joe Slash—’

  ‘Joe who?’ asked Chinese Lady.

  ‘Well, that’s what they mostly call Joe Slattery,’ said Sammy. ‘He’s got weaknesses, yer know, and ’as to make a quick run to the public convenience ev’ry—’

  ‘We don’t want any common talk, if you don’t mind,’ said Chinese Lady.

  ‘No, Mum, of course not,’ said Sammy, ‘but it’s why they call ’im old Joe Slash, yer see. Anyway, I ’eard he’d be at ’is stall midday with a crate of cracked eggs, which he ’ad to sell quick in case the market bobby wanted to know where ’e got ’em from. So bein’ informed about it, I joined the queue as soon as I could and managed to get six for Lizzy and ’er shock. It took a bit of time, which was why I’ve only just got ’ome. Lizzy, they’re in that shoe box, and I ’ope they do yer good. One or two’s leakin’ a bit, but not much.’

  ‘Sammy, you love,’ said Lizzy, ‘that’s really nice of you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, sis,’ said Sammy, ‘I’m only askin’ yer the same as I paid old Joe. Mind, ’e charged tuppence each on account of eggs bein’ scarce, which makes a bob. Course, if yer want to add on tuppence for me trouble, I suppose that ’ud be fair.’

  ‘Sammy, you crafty ’a’porth,’ said Lizzy, but she lau
ghed.

  ‘That boy and his graspin’ ways’ll disgrace us all one day,’ said Chinese Lady. ‘Still, I suppose he showed a bit of Christian goodness in thinkin’ of you, Lizzy.’

  ‘And only chargin’ tuppence for his trouble and a bob for the eggs,’ said Lizzy.

  ‘It’s me kind ’eart,’ said Sammy.

  Boots was sitting on an old bench outside the dairy. So was Cecile. On the bench between them was a plateful of French bread and cheese, together with a bottle of wine. They were dining on the simple but satisfying repast, which Boots thought was equivalent to manna from heaven compared to trench cuisine.

  ‘You are not very good at dairy work,’ she said, ‘but also not too bad.’

  ‘I’d say not bad at all, I churned out a whole barrel of butter,’ said Boots.

  ‘That is a lie, you do not get a full barrel, or even ’alf,’ said Cecile, ‘and all morning to do it. You must improve.’

  ‘Improve?’ said Boots.

  ‘But of course. I ’ave permission from your officer for every day.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Boots, ‘I’m to report to you every day?’

  ‘Yes, every morning,’ said Cecile, brim of her straw hat shading her eyes.

  ‘Look,’ said Boots, ‘I could probably find you a bloke—’

  ‘A bloke? What is a bloke?’

  ‘I’m a bloke,’ said Boots.

  ‘A sergeant is a bloke?’

  ‘We’re all blokes. Anyway, I can probably find you one who knows a lot more about farms and dairies than I do. He’d be far more useful than I am.’

  ‘I do not wish some other bloke,’ said Cecile haughtily, ‘I ’ave permission from your officer for you.’

  ‘I could get you permission to use someone more suitable,’ said Boots.

  ‘Ah, you do not like coming ’ere?’ Cecile waved her hands about, and a piece of bread flew. Chickens pounced on it. ‘Why not? What is wrong with ’ealthy work?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Boots, ‘have I said I don’t like coming here, even if you did try to poke me full of holes yesterday?’

  ‘But ’ow was I to know you were not a thief?’ said Cecile. ‘You looked like one.’