A TIME OF WAR Page 3

  There was a band of high cloud to the west which she identified as cirrostratus. There was no sign of Dincote Hill, which meant that visibility was less than eight miles; she wished there was a nearer landmark. She read the wind and came slowly down the ladder, too preoccupied with the problem of visibility to worry about the deficiencies of her skirt. The Wren who had been calling Purple Leader was saying something incomprehensible that sounded like `Your furniture is hanging down’. Kerren went back to the met. office and entered her observations in the log book. Adam had finished his forecast; he put it on the table and said:

  `Give that to the messenger when he comes. You can manage until Egan comes back, can’t you? F has gone to Dorchester, so nothing disastrous should happen.’

  Almost as soon as he had gone Robin telephoned to say that she had to go to sick bay `in case P.O.’s lumps are diphtheria and not mumps’. She expected that they would jab her and then she would return to duty.

  Kerren studied the teleprinter which was making little noises to itself without producing anything. She was terrified that at any moment it would disgorge another chart; she could not remember how many were sent out each day, and she did not know which ones were plotted here. While she was watching, it suddenly came to life and triumphantly delivered itself of the 1100 Irish. She unpinned the 1100 chart and began to fill in the Irish stations for practice. As she was doing Nutts Corner the door opened. She turned eagerly, expecting Adam, and saw instead a man in flying jacket and heavy boots. He did not turn his face towards her, but flicked her a sidelong glance and then lounged across to the 1300 chart which he studied as though he did not believe any of it. He had light brown hair which she could see because he wore it long, curling beneath the bottom of his cap; he had an affectation of a sideburn on the one cheek visible to her. She disliked him at once. Her temper was sparked off by the sideburn. She plotted Bloody Foreland, humming a little beneath her breath; it was raining there, a pity Adam had not seen that before he did his forecast. After a time a drawling voice informed her:

  `I want a route forecast to Machrihanish – when you can spare the time.’

  He held out a sheet of paper. At the top of it she saw the name, Lieut. P. Shaw, R.N. – disappointing that this should be her first encounter with a real naval officer. He still turned his head away from her, watching slantwise from beneath drooping eyelids; the whole effect was unpleasantly arrogant, she wondered whether he practised it in the mirror. She took the sheet of paper and said to him:

  `I’m new here. I don’t know your route.’

  `You know the geography of the British Isles, don’t you?’

  `I do not; I come from Ireland and it’s not a thing we worry ourselves about over there.’

  He turned his head slightly and gave her a look that was almost direct. Then he turned away again and stared out of the window, reciting between closed teeth: `Zeals, Ross, Speke, Preston, Ronaldsway . . .’

  She wrote down the names and searched for the latest weather reports.

  `Been here long?’ he asked.

  `I’ve just arrived.’

  He snapped his fingers. `Are you the little gremlin I nearly pranged into just now? What the hell were you doing crossing the duty runway?’

  `I was out on a runway,’ she acknowledged coolly. `And I believe a . . . an aeroplane . . . did pass over me.’

  The arrogant mouth relaxed in a reluctant grin. `Am I going to have nice weather in my aeroplane on my flight north?’ he inquired.

  `Foul.’ Kerren did not forgive easily. `You’ll be lucky if you get there at all.’

  She went across to look at one of the charts on the wall on the far side of him. To her annoyance he did not move out of the way; his eyes hooded again and he looked more boorish than ever.

  `I’d like to look at that chart, if it’s not troubling you too much,’ she said.

  He stood back. For the first time she saw the other side of his face, the flesh clawed into an ugly seam that twisted from temple to jaw bone. She stared, while something fluttered like a moth trapped beneath the tight-drawn skin around his jaw. Their eyes met; panic, hatred, despair flickered between them. She wanted to run away, but she could not take her eyes from him. Adam came back at that moment and saw them standing rigid in front of the chart. He paused, letting the door swing to behind him, before he said:

  `Can’t you keep on the ground for five minutes, Peter?’

  He took the sheet of paper from Kerren and studied it briefly before handing it to the pilot.

  `That all you want?’

  `It’s more than enough. I gather I’ll be lucky if I don’t go into the side of a hill.’

  Lieutenant Shaw went out and slammed the door behind him. Kerren bent scowling over the 1100 Irish.

  `Do you read tea-cups as well?’ Adam inquired.

  `I do more than that; I cast spells. I come from a long line of witches.’

  Adam looked at her. He said in a voice that had a hint of sadness in it:

  `Let’s hope your spells are strong.’

  Chapter Three

  A little snow fell during the week, but did not settle. The fields remained covered with frost like a fine crumble of pastry and the trees were faintly blurred, their stark outlines clotted by frost. In the daytime the sky was cloudless, at night it had a faint reddish tinge. It was very pretty, like an old-fashioned Christmas card. Only the water in the millpond, mirroring the trees with razor-sharp precision, seemed to admit the reality of winter.

  Towards the end of the week, on an evening when the sun went down smoking dark crimson, Hazel held her twenty-first birthday party in the sick bay at B camp. It was a long time since anyone had had a party on the camp and preparations began in the cabins as soon as the girls came off duty.

  Beatie wandered around Cabin 8 dressed in a suspender belt. Her breasts were soft and rounded and Jessie, whose breasts were heavy and pendulous, watched her enviously. Jessie lay on her bunk and wished that she could talk to Beatie about sex; her inability to find her way into the magic circle of experience tormented Jessie. She looked at Beatie, standing by the stove which was very hot tonight because one of the air mechanics had smuggled petrol back from the flight. How wonderful to be Beatie, to be free and unafraid and supremely sure of oneself! Beatie yawned and stretched and the long line of her body from outstretched finger tips down to the small, narrow feet quivered and sent an answering quiver through Jessie. Jessie said:

  `If my mum could see you now she would think you were a shameless baggage.’

  `Your mum’s a wise old woman.’

  `She’d like you, just the same.’

  Beatie wasn’t a snob, like Robin. Jessie turned her head to watch Robin who was standing at a near by chest of drawers, peering into a mirror balanced against a book. Robin had a row of make-up jars strung out in front of the photograph of an army officer – `Claude’, Jessie called him, because he looked so stiff and silly with his smug little moustache and the pose that showed the crown on his shoulder. Robin’s face was masklike as she creamed her cheeks and neck. A clean shirt was draped over a chair behind her, white and ironed without a crease. Robin was always immaculate; Beatie said that she had been immaculately conceived, too – whatever that meant.

  `Aren’t you coming to the ball, Jessie?’ Beatie asked.

  `Hazel said she was only asking Wrens from the control tower and the flights. She said she thought I’d be out of it, just being a messenger. What she really meant was that I wouldn’t know how to behave with so much gold braid about.’

  Beatie took a sheer silk stocking and rolled it slowly up her leg.

  `Hazel’s a silly cat. Don’t let her upset you, Jessie.’

  Robin opened one eye wide as she applied mascara, and said, `Did you see the picture her twin brother sent her? Rather pathetic, I thought, after the build-up she’s given him. No face to speak of, just a paratrooper’s beret at a rakish angle and very anxious eyes.’

  `Will he be coming to the party?�
� Jessie asked.

  `He has much more important things to do,’ Robin mimicked Hazel.

  `Who will be coming to the party?’ Jessie persisted.

  `Daphne Palmer – she’d have to invite her since it’s the nurses’ sitting room she’s using; and Dixie and . .’

  `The men, I mean.’

  `Oh, all those brand new subbies from the latest course. The flying control bods and the C.F.C.O. – he could hardly refuse as Hazel’s his writer. Anyone from the squadron she could wheedle into coming.’

  Jessie closed her eyes.

  `They’re some fellows, aren’t they? Those pilots from the squadron.’

  `Wild, wild men!’ Robin murmured, and Beatie laughed her soft, throbbing laugh that set Jessie’s blood tingling. A tear trickled down Jessie’s cheek and she turned her face to the window; she was crying a lot lately, it must be the cold. The black-out was up, so there wasn’t much of interest to see, but she stared fixedly at the hardboard surface until the tears dried.

  Beatie was saying:

  `I expect he’ll come – provided Hazel’s promised him that there’ll be plenty of liquor.’

  `It’s you he’ll come for,’ Robin said.

  Beatie smoothed the shining surface of her thigh, thinking about Peter Shaw. `I don’t know about that. I really don’t know.’

  `How do you do it, Beatie?’ Jessie whispered. `I can never seem to get started.’

  `Oh, for pity’s sake!’ Robin exclaimed. `Not another True Confession!’

  Jessie retired into the shadows again. Robin picked up her shirt and put it on, her mouth a thin, tight line. Beatie gave her a little sidelong glance and smiled to herself. After a time, Robin went down to the ablution block and Beatie said to Jessie:

  `You shouldn’t worry. It’ll come when you’re ready for it.’

  `But I’m nearly nineteen,’ Jessie protested.

  `I’ve got an aunt who’s over thirty . . .’

  Before Beatie could say what had happened, or not happened, to her aunt, the door crashed back against the wall with a painful splintering of wood. Beatie, who was brushing her hair, said without turning to look at the newcomer:

  `Kerren dear! Didn’t you ever open a door naturally like other people?’

  Kerren threw her greatcoat across Jessie.

  `Now don’t be yammering at me, just help me get meself beautiful.’

  `You’re going to the party, then?’ Jessie asked. Kerren nodded. Beatie had wandered away to the far end of the cabin, still brushing her hair. Jessie leant down and whispered to Kerren: `Will you tell me all about it when you get back?’

  `Why me? It’s my first party. I shan’t know anyone.’

  `But you’ll make it seem as though I’ve been there, too; the way you made it real when you told me how you plotted your first chart for Lieutenant Commander Hunter.’

  Kerren laughed. `Poor man! He was as exhausted as an expectant father after a difficult birth!’

  She glanced at the confusion of make-up jars that Robin had left on the chest of drawers.

  `Bejabers and begorrah and goodness gracious me! I’ll feel naked going with you girls and me with no war paint.’

  `Never mind,’ Beatie said. `You’ve got your Oirish accent.’

  `Aren’t you going to wear any make-up, Kerren?’ Jessie asked. `You can borrow mine if you want.’

  `I’ll have some of your lipstick.’

  She painted a wide orange gash and stood back to admire the effect. Beatie watched her. Jessie said:

  `Powder it down, Kerren. Else it’ll come off over everything.’

  Kerren took some of Robin’s cotton wool and wiped the lipstick off. In the end she went to the party without make-up, her pale face dappled with freckles, rags of dark hair falling across her cheeks and in her eyes. The others looked at her doubtfully, not at all sure whether her kind of oddness was really acceptable.

  Sick bay was deep in the wood; although a concrete path led to it, it seemed more remote than any other place on the camp. Kerren frisked in and out between the trees, the brittle twigs snapping beneath her feet. A wayward wind flicked icy gusts up between her legs so that she began to shiver and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. To the east, far away on the airfield, a yellow light glowed; the beacon was alight because this was one of the airfields that received bombers which could not get back to base. Perhaps they would hear a plane throbbing overhead as the party grew wilder and wilder, twisting and turning low over the trees like a great wounded bird.

  The path widened out and there was sick bay; a long, low hut solidly constructed, with a formidable array of dustbins ranged outside. As they came towards it they saw a few bicycles and a motor-bike propped against the wall. There was the sound of music, low and discreet. No voices: the party was cold still.

  Robin moved away from the others as they entered the nurses’ sitting-room. Robin’s motto on social occasions was `myself alone’; she was a true buccaneer, cold, calculating and ruthless. This was something one must accept if friendship was to survive: Kerren left Robin alone. Beatie took her across to a table where the Surgeon Lieutenant was dispensing drinks. She asked for a gin and lime and put the glass in Kerren’s hand; she did this rather in the manner of a hunter who will not leave a comrade without a weapon in the jungle. Then she, too, went away.

  The room was chilly although the stove glowed hopefully. Everything was clean and smelt of polish and disinfectant; the Captain had done his rounds only that morning and the room had not yet shaken off his presence. People stood around in groups, talking quietly. The nurse, Daphne Palmer, was holding court in one corner surrounded by young men with neatly groomed hair and very bright gold braid on their sleeves. Daphne was dark haired and she had a creamy skin lightly dusted with red on the cheekbones; she was bland and beautiful as a Dresden shepherdess and Kerren thought she was the most romantic person she had ever seen. The young men hovered around her, bewildered, probing to find what lay beneath the impassive surface.

  The whole party was rather like a treasure hunt, Kerren decided. The young men went from one girl to another, searching. Robin had taken up a position in the centre of the room, a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other; witty and sharply provocative, she was as glittering as the frost on the window-panes. Beatie stood aloof, gazing demurely into her glass: she was not long neglected. When men came to her she smiled and let them talk. Occasionally her eyes met theirs. The eyes told them that while the other girls worked hard to arouse interest, it was she who really had the treasure: the eyes promised that she would reveal it – later, and in another place.

  The young men from the course played the game with tremendous earnestness. The men from the squadron played it with careless ease, as though it did not really matter to them; they had their own secret, a dark secret which possessed them utterly. The ground-staff officers oscillated uneasily between the two groups, civilians who had not been truly integrated into the close community of war.

  The squadron went for Beatie to a man. The subbies fluttered hopefully between Daphne Palmer and Dixie, an ash blonde with a bored manner and a long, graceful body. Hazel received her dues as the excuse for the party, and the ground-staff gravitated to Robin. The other girls were left on the fringe, catching a man for a few moments as and when they could. Kerren, having no experience of this kind of game and no natural talent for it, found herself always on the outside. She thought of Adam, who already seemed to be a friend, and wished that he would come to rescue her. But the game was long-finished for Adam: he would not come. She wanted to wail and weep, to shout and scream, to claw the close wall of shoulders apart and rend her way to the centre of things. If only they would understand and open up for her; if only . . . the thoughts rambled on while something quite irrelevant was happening to her. And now they were looking at her. Men glanced over their shoulders; eyes casually circling the room stopped when they came to her, there was surprise and a lift of the eyebrows. The girls stared, too – all except Beatie
who seemed not to have noticed. And yet Kerren had done nothing; she was simply holding a glass of whisky in her hand and she was saying to Lieutenant Peter Shaw who had fetched it for her:

  `We make it ourselves at home; in a still at the bottom of the garden.’