Crossing the River Page 12

  Friday 7th May Weighed at dawn with the land wind, steered downwards, anchored at 2 p.m. abreast of the trees in 15 fathoms. I think our Duke of York has found new heels. All night bad weather; filled 4 casks with rainwater. Passed us in the offing the Wanderer.

  Saturday 8th May Very unsettled weather with a great deal of rain; could not weigh all day, until 6 p.m. when backed in a hard squall to West. Took the advantage of it and weighed immediately. Turned the yawl off with 3 hands, she being very heavy to tow. We begin to be short of supplies . . .

  *

  Tuesday 11th May A continual thick fog. At 8 a.m. weighed, run into 11 fathoms which was as near as I dared venture, but could make nothing of the land, though we saw the breakers very high. By noon the wind faint and fog increased. Could not see the land, but by the noise of the surf determined it must be very close. Stood out to 12 fathoms and anchored, for it would not be safe to attempt to steer. Hoisted in the punt and coated her with pitch, tar and brimstone . . .

  *

  Thursday 13th May . . . We begin to be very short of firewood and water. At noon weighed with the land wind, the fog as thick as ever. Steered upwards by the lead in 13 fathoms. At 3 p.m. anchored, being afraid to keep under sail with us so near in. Propose to try with the boat tomorrow if it does not clear up. Steadfast in my belief that we are close by the factory.

  Friday 14th May . . . Mr Smith returned in the afternoon, informed me that we were but a league below the factory. He brought with him fresh water, and the information that they will happily let us purchase 3 tons of rice, of which I am in absolute necessity. Other articles are to be got here without much difficulty. Fired 5 guns while he was away.

  *

  Wednesday 19th May . . . This morning witnessed the final delivery of 3 canoes of firewood. Have little now to wait here for. Paid with the last of the cloth according to promise. Returned across the bar with the yawl, and prayed a while in the factory chapel. Stood beneath the white-washed walls of the factory, waiting for the yawl to return and carry me back over the bar. Approached by a quiet fellow. Bought 2 strong man-boys, and a proud girl. I believe my trade for this voyage has reached its conclusion.

  Thursday 20th May At 2 a.m. weighed with a light breeze at West. Made but little headway because of the great swell. Sounded several times. At dawn buried a man slave (No. 62) who had died of a pleurisy. At noon discovered myself indisposed of a small fever, and my eyes grown very weak. Mr Allen assures me that I am (by God’s blessing) sure to recover. The purchase of a relatively modest 210 slaves may yet ensure my continued mortality. In the evening, by the favour of Providence, discovered a conspiracy among the men slaves to rise upon us. Near 30 of them had broke their irons. Secured the men’s irons again and punished the ringleaders. Should they have made their attempts upon the coast, when we had a half-dozen out of the ship, I cannot imagine the consequences. They appeared gloomy and sullen, their heads full of mischief. Before midnight buried 3 more women slaves (Nos 71, 104, 109). Know not what they died of, for they have not been properly alive since they first came on board . . .

  Friday 21st May . . . During the night a hard wind came on so quick, with heavy rain. Occasioned a lofty sea, of which I was much afraid, for I do not remember ever meeting anything equal to it since using the sea. At dawn brought the ill-humoured slaves upon deck, but the air is so sharp they cannot endure, neither to wash nor to dance. They huddle together, and sing their melancholy lamentations. We have lost sight of Africa . . .

  IV

  SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND

  1

  JUNE 1942

  They arrived today. First I heard the distant rambling of their tracks, and then the roaring of engines as they laboured up the hill. I stepped out of the shop and stared. The trucks were lined up by the gate. A few had already squeezed through and chipped the gate-posts as they did so. Those that waited kept their engines running, wasting petrol. Then men began to tumble from the trucks. They stretched and looked around. Then, one by one, they began to saunter down the drive. They looked sad, like little lost boys. Some of the villagers couldn’t contain themselves. They began to whisper to each other, and they pointed. I suppose we were all shocked, for we had nothing to prepare us for this. Soon all the trucks were empty and the last of the men were vanishing down the drive, nervously smoking their cigarettes, holding them between finger and thumb. I wanted to warn them, but in no time at all they were gone. It was too late. We prepared to drift back to our daily occupations. Mid-afternoon. Summer. The weather was glorious, and everybody’s garden was a riot of bluebells and daisies. Once the men had vanished, eyes turned upon me. I was now the object of curiosity. The uninvited outsider. There was nobody with whom I might whisper. I stared back at their accusing eyes and then stepped back into the shop.

  JUNE 1939

  Every fortnight he came down to town to buy for his shop. I was the clerk in the warehouse office, charged with keeping the books right and putting a smile on my face when anyone came in. And then he came in, but this time with words that had hitherto been stuck at the back of his throat. He dealt them carefully. I’ve been coming in here for some time now. Yes, I know. You’re not wed are you? I shook my head. I was wondering if you’d care to come out for a drink with me? If I’d care to? He wasn’t much to look at. But he didn’t look like he would hurt. Me, at least. And so I said yes, and found myself in the snug of the Brown Fox with him and his words. Craftily dealt, asking me all about myself, interested only – at this stage – in steering me towards subjects which he no doubt imagined would make him appear to be a fascinating chap. It made him a listener and me a talker, but it did not make for fascination. At some point I told him. I live with my mother, I said. In 1926 she fled to the bosom of Christ. She’d lost her husband, then she lost her job in the General Strike. Luckily, God took her up. What I mean is, God took her up to do good works for Him. On this earth. She hasn’t done much since, except God’s work. He nodded and threw me a smile. This man who in all likelihood had seldom seen the inside of a church. Perhaps this was what I liked about him. The fact that I could see his ignorance. Read him like a book. Another drink? Why not? If he’s buying. I thought of my mother. She’ll be pretending she’s missing me now. I know her. She’ll be looking at the clock and shaking her head. Wanting to know what I think I’m playing at stopping out past eight o’clock. Mother, I’m twenty-one years old. She’d perfected a look of such contempt. I got it that night, and for weeks afterwards, whenever I came back from the pub. But she never asked any questions. It was as if she didn’t want to ask in case that meant that she cared. That much I understood about her. That she did care, but she didn’t want me to know this. She was angry with me. Always angry. He started coming down twice a week. One night, in the Brown Fox, I said yes. But I let him know that I’d rather do it in an office than in a church. I told him that I thought we were both wrong for a church. All that ceremony. What do you think? He agreed, and so I finished my half-pint and made ready to leave. I noticed that these days he didn’t spend much time asking me about myself. It was always him now. He told me there were not many lasses up in his village. And being thirty now he’d have to hurry up. He laughed too loudly. As he waited with me by the bus stop, we tried the first experiment of a kiss. I should have known then.

  AUGUST 1939

  When she realized that I was serious about getting wed to Len she stopped talking to me. I stood before her, but she wouldn’t look up. She toyed with her embroidery, passing the antimacassar between her clammy hands, pulling it first one way and then the next. I told her that she would stretch it out of shape, but she wasn’t listening to me. She sat impassively, and digested the information that I would soon be gone. She was trying to comprehend the fact that somebody actually wanted me. That in spite of my history I might actually be interesting, if not exactly exciting, to somebody. She’d told me many times that she didn’t trust men. They’ll just abandon you in the most callous fashion. And hadn’t she been right?
They’re here, and then they’re gone. Jesus. Now there was somebody you could trust. When the Lord said come unto me, He didn’t mean until the pubs were open, or until He found some other woman. The Lord accepted you with open arms and embraced you. She beckoned me to sit. This house, I thought. I wanted to scream. At least I can get out of this two-up, two-down dump. She put aside her embroidery. Are you sure about this man? Of course I wasn’t sure. I’d only known him seven weeks. She looked at me, as though trying to warn me about something. But then, having lost a husband in the Great War, she probably had the right to warn me. I assured her, if there’s a war, he’ll not be going away. He’s got a black lung from being down the pit. If there’s a war he’s going nowhere. She stared at me. I looked across at my father’s picture, which sat on top of the wooden mantelpiece. I had no memory of him, being just a baby when he died. She had never explained anything to me about this man in a silly felt hat, standing beneath a chestnut tree and staring directly into the lens of the camera. A confident, happy man. A man I feel sure would never have tolerated a woman such as my mother. But perhaps she was different then. Occasionally I’ve found my dad on a bronze plaque, near the Town Hall, but his name is scattered among the names of hundreds of others. This is merely a place to find him, but not to discover him. When she dies, I’ll take it. The photograph might help me to discover him. This is what I think. And then I hear her voice. If you must leave, then do so. I assume that this is her blessing. But she goes on. At least you’re not getting wed to a soldier. You should never do that. You’ll be left on your own. Then again she’s quiet. Just when I’m thinking, that wasn’t too bad, she nettles me. Men are at their best in pursuit. I thought I should tell you. But I expect you’ve found that out already.

  JUNE 1942

  Apparently we were unlucky to get them in our village. It’s all over the papers. We’re having an invasion all right, but it’s not Jerry. We’ve been invaded by bloody Yanks. Nobody wants them, but the Hall is large and has plenty of grounds for their tents and things. Everybody expects trouble. People keep talking about their Yank arrogance. Saying that they think that all they have to do is to blow their own trumpets and the walls of Germany will fall down. But our lot are quiet. They keep themselves to themselves, and when they meet us they seem polite. I see them going about their business. And a lot of them like to go to church. They dress so smartly it puts us to shame. The military police are easy to spot with their white helmets and gloves. The truth is, they don’t have to mix much with us for they have their own newspapers, films, radio, everything. To most folks’ relief, they appear willing to keep themselves to themselves. I met one of them this morning. He was whistling and chewing gum at the same time, which made him look like a fish. When he saw me he lowered his eyes. I could see he was slightly frightened. I said good morning as I passed by, but he shrank a little and pretended not to hear. And then, almost as an afterthought, I heard him whisper, morning ma’am.

  JULY 1942

  They stand in the shop and talk. Usually two of them. Sometimes there are three. There is no room for any more. They tear out their coupons and drop them on to the counter. I don’t care. I’ve got to ask for them. It’s the law. I’m not playing games. If I go too, who’ll look after the shop? They stand in the shop and talk about the Yanks. They’re still shocked. Upset, even. And then they realize that I’m present, and that I can hear what they’re saying. And so they leave. But not before they bestow their cigarette-tar smiles upon me. I heard one of them say, she’s missing Len, and I know that I was meant to hear it.

  AUGUST 1942

  I’m enjoying the long summer days. I like to watch the sunset through the pub window. I have my own corner. Well, it’s not my corner, it’s just a corner that nobody else seems to sit in. Maybe nobody else sits in it because they know that I sit in it. They probably think they might catch something off a commoner like me. They should be so lucky. Cheeky monkeys. I don’t trouble anybody. I just sit in my corner and drink my half of bitter and watch the sun set. I didn’t used to do this when he was around. The pub was his place. Mine was above the shop, waiting for him to come back. The braggart. I don’t think they ever expected to see me lower myself and come into the pub. I expect they think I’m lonely or something. Well, they can think what they like. I’m not looking for anybody. I’m just having a drink. His best mate is at the bar. He’s a crafty bugger. Always quick to come over, touch his cap, and ask me if I’m all right. Hardly gives me time to get the words out of my mouth (I’m all right, Stan, thanks) and he’s back at the bar, foot up, head occasionally swivelling around to look at me (smile, nod, wink) before he turns back around and starts talking about me with the rest. I could bloody crown him. The hypocrite. It’s Home Guard this evening. In their bloody silly uniforms. One gun between them. Whose turn is it tonight to carry the gun? God help us if this is the best they can muster up to defeat the Hun. A butcher, a baker, a bleeding candlestick-maker. Half a dozen farmers and labourers, a couple of toffs, and a bobby who thinks he’s better than the rest because he’s got a proper uniform. He calls the meeting to order. They look at me as though I’m in the way. I stare back at them. We’ve got to prevent anything from landing in the fields hereabouts. The same conversation as last week. Planes, gliders, airships, ‘owt. Airships? I said Airships, all right. Hazards. We’ve got to put hazards out. Timber, bedsteads, old cars, ranges, anything you can lay your hands on. But that doesn’t include the cricket pitch, does it? We don’t have to put ‘owt on the cricket pitch, do we? It includes the bloody cricket pitch an’ all. But that’s not right. Bugger what’s right, it’s what’s got to be done. I get up, walk to the bar, and order another glass of beer. Some of them stop listening to the bobby and watch me. The bobby pretends nothing is happening. He continues to talk. It doesn’t make any difference that we’ve got Yanks here now. We’ve still got our job of work to do, is that clear? They nod. Dogs. He pulls out a piece of paper from his breast pocket. Latest orders for this branch of the Local Defence Volunteers. A chorus of dissent. Home Guard. We’ve been Home Guard for two bloody years now. Tank traps. We’ve got to prepare barricades on all roads leading into the village. Broken-down carts, tyres, junk of all kind is to be stationed by the side of the road, ready to be shifted into place. We’ll have ditches to dig and we’re to stuff them with barbed wire. I’m to carry a gun in case of parachutists. Also, those of you who own motor vehicles, you’re to immobilize them when parked. Remove the rotor arm or pull out the ignition leads. There’s no chances to be taken, understand? He pauses for a moment, and then scratches his head as though puzzled. I hand the barman elevenpence. Doesn’t seem any point to me, says the bobby. Pleasure motoring’s forbidden anyhow. Nobody’s going anywhere. This is all stuff that they’ve been doing in the south and other parts for a while now. Seems like they forgot about us. He blinks, takes a swig of beer, and then continues in a more formal voice. But now we’ve been told, we’ll act upon it. Any questions? I laugh as I walk back to my seat, but I manage to get a hand to my mouth. I catch it. Any questions? Sensible questions from this bunch I couldn’t imagine. One by one they troop out of the pub. Defeated by their own lack of imagination. I watch the sun go down. And think about Len. Sitting all alone in his cell. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. Then I realize that I don’t really care. Soon there is only myself, the barman, and two of the men in the pub. I close my eyes. Later, I realize that I must have fallen asleep, but they’d chosen to ignore me. I hear one of them whisper, She can’t take her drink. If I had twenty-three shillings I’d buy a bottle of whisky. Just to show them. But I don’t have it. And then I hear their joke. About the new utility knickers. One Yank and they’re off. Their language goes right through me. I pull myself to my feet. Goodnight. Goodnight, I call back.

  SEPTEMBER 1939

  Our wedding day. Into the Registrar’s office. One of the war brides. Get married quickly for now nobody’s any idea what’s likely to happen. Nobody has. He’s got her up the ais
le. Nudge, nudge. On my side, my mother. That’s all. And on his side, Stan. A couple more mates from the village came down to the big town, but I was barely introduced and they didn’t stay. Pathetic, I thought. But then he’s got no parents so I shouldn’t be so snooty. They’d long since gone. He’s only got his mates. I should have been so lucky. I hadn’t even got mates. A wedding. My wedding. It was the only wedding I was likely to have, so I thought I’d better do it right. Len was surprised that I didn’t have anything in my bottom drawer. Not even a tin of pineapple chunks, or a jar of marmalade. I told him, you’re the shopkeeper. My mother, well, she found a way not to cry. Set her face like a mask and just stared straight ahead as if she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Maybe this reminded her of her day. Maybe she didn’t want me to see that she cared. Maybe. Earlier in the month, I’d been with her when the war started. Eleven a.m., Sunday morning. When the National Anthem came on the wireless she stood up. When it finished she sat down and was quiet for a few moments. Then she said that they’d already begun recruiting for Air Raid Wardens. She informed me that this was going to be a civvies’ war. I said nothing. She sighed, and then announced that she’d have to start stocking up. She calculated twenty fags at two shillings, tea at two and six, matches a penny ha’penny. She reckoned up how much she could afford to buy with her savings, and I listened. And then I told her that the date was set. A fortnight hence. I’d be wed. But she didn’t say anything. She just continued doing her sums in the margin of the previous day’s newspaper, using a little stump of pencil that was blunt at one end and chewed at the other.