The War Comes to Witham Street

2-4

“I suppose I’m lucky. I still have a man around the house. Not like most of the women around.”

“You can’t suppose you’re lucky. You either are or you’re not. There’s no ‘suppose’.”

“I suppose so.”

“There you go again. I guess you’re one of the few people whose life hasn’t changed that much. Say, I hope your husband doesn’t mind having a stranger hanging around. I guess I can’t expect him to be enthusiastic. Must be used to a quiet life. You neither. I don’t think I really wanted to be part of the scheme — I was convinced that the British are far too closed up to offer open house to a stranger.”

“Why? You’ve seen too many films. The type where they all have stiff upper lips, like Ronald Coleman or David Niven. Hollywood doesn’t really portray England as it is — or the English for that matter. Let alone a Scot like me. Anyway, we are both pleased to be able to help. It’s our way of sharing our good fortune with others. It’s our war effort. Besides, you’ll be at the base most of the time, won’t you?”

“Sure, I have to show up for duty. And I can even sleep there. I still have my bunk”

“What is the duty?”

“Not much at the moment. Lincolnshire air bases don’t seem to need that many extra instructors. So I guess they don’t quite know what to do with me.”

“What did they do with you before?”

“Flying. I was part of an air-crew,” Marty said over his shoulder as he went to fetch his kit bag.

“Lieutenant, I’m sure you’ll want to settle in before we have our meal. In fact, we still have time for tea. I’ll show you where your room is, where you can wash. And I’ll get you something to drink.” Valerie led the way to the landing above. She indicated the spare room.

“Wow. Gee, what a bed — and a real silk eiderdown,” said Marty slinging his kit bag onto the floor.

“It was my grandmother’s. It came down to me along with all the rest of her furniture.”

“This is luxury.” Marty lay on the covers. His toes reached over the end of the bed rail. He turned quickly on his side with his knees bent so that he appeared to fit in easily.

Valerie laughed. “Never thought about the bed being too short. I’ll wait for you downstairs in front of the fire with tea.”

She set out the dainty tea set with the care of a museum curator arranging fossil bones. “Perhaps you prefer coffee, although I don’t know what you’re used to. I’ve only got Camp liquid,” she called to Marty as he bounded over the last stair.

“Camp what?” he said.

“It’s coffee extract in a bottle.”

“I’m used to tea. We had it at home. I’m only one generation American. My mom and dad were born in Scotland.”

“So were mine,” Valerie said, spooning out two small spoons from the wooden tea caddy. “What part?”

“Aberdeen.”

“No! Mine, too.”

“I’d been promising myself a trip over for years, just to see where my roots are. They came to the States as kids but it was still real to them. When I said I was going to war, they kept telling me to go and look up their cousins. It was as if a posting overseas was a great chance to get to know the family. Didn’t work out like that. No time for visiting, so far. Still, who knows? I might make it one day.” Marty poured in milk from a small bone china jug, stirring his cup for more time than necessary. “You know, you just mustn’t treat me this well, Mrs Dowland. I just might start getting used to it. Can’t afford that. Sooner or later they’re going to ship me back to where I came from. Give me tea in a chipped enamel mug and ration me to one Marie biscuit a day.”

“The war can’t last for ever. It’s been going for so long. But there are signs of victory now, aren’t there?”

“There have been signs before. But the enemy musters more troops and makes comebacks. Wasn’t there a Hundred Years’ War once?”

“What an optimist.”

Marty laughed. A stray lock of hair fell on to his forehead. He brushed it back in an automatic gesture. “Yeah. They were scraping the barrel when they took me at thirty. If it goes on much longer they’ll be into the forty-year-olds and then, who knows? Mind you, I don’t suppose they would have bothered with me at all. Just that I had done some flying years before. In a sort of junior military camp. That meant I was down on their list for whenever they might need. Expect they reckoned I’d remember the skills.”

“Am I allowed to ask why you were chosen for our scheme?”

“I’d just come out of hospital. The American hospital at Nocton. The commanding officer thought it would be worth a try, to get me back into the swing.” Marty lifted his cup and saucer, reaching over for more tea. “I told you. I guess they just didn’t know what to do with me. Offering a rest cure in flat Lincolnshire would give me a break. Wouldn’t be too exciting. And I would get to hear the bombers taking off so I’d have no chance to forget that it was still wartime; that I’d not been let off the hook and sooner or later I’d have to get back in the thick of things.”

“Why Nocton? Were the injuries severe?” she said, adding, “You look well.”

He adjusted himself in the armchair, turning slightly so that his face was towards the fire.

“No,” he replied, “There were no injuries to my body at all.” He rose from the chair, placing his cup on the tray. “Well, just breathed in more smoke than was good for me. But no real injuries. Oh, thanks for the tea. Maybe I should go and freshen up or something. By the way, I managed to get some stuff for you. There’s some fruit. And I’m one of the few guys who doesn’t smoke, so I traded in my rations for chocolate and nuts and other odds and ends. One guy gave me the stockings he was saving for his girl. She jilted him. I guess it’s not the sort of present you bring a lady you don’t even know. Still, he chose the packet of Craven A, so here you are.”

She picked up the paper bag, pulling out one of the stockings slowly and stroking it to feel the texture, as if it were rabbit fur. “I’ll have to save them for best. They seem so fragile. My goodness, how fine the thread is. But thank you. You don’t know how pleased I am with them. My last pair has been darned so much that it resembles sacking: I look as if I have scars on my legs. With so many criss-cross threads you could even play noughts and crosses.”

Valerie poked the fire, turning the coals so that the bright red glow lit up their faces, and caused them to flush. “You must be cold. English houses are cold, aren’t they?” she said.

“This is the only English house I have ever stayed in. You can’t count the Officers’ Mess. And it wasn’t too warm there I can tell you. I expect even cold houses become a way of life, if you get to stay long enough that is.” His gaze was fixed on the embers. “I’d only been over here two months before the accident. That was a month ago. Three months in all. Three months to the day.”

He moved slightly, hitching his chair a little towards the fire and away from her. Valerie sat down again in the chintz armchair. She placed the tea set on the butler’s tray table, balancing the tray on the rickety legs with care. Then she poured into the teapot more hot water and arranged a crinoline lady tea cosy over the pot with the spout and handle sticking out from the slots in the skirt. “The tea has to ‘mash’ as they say down here,” she said.

Marty was engrossed in his thoughts, his gaze pouring over the tunnelling glow deep in the fire. She filled his cup with tea again and handed him a plate of biscuits.

“Do have one. We call them squashed-fly biscuits. Bit off-putting. They are really called ‘Garibaldi’. I brought half a pound back from the Co-op today.” She plucked several more biscuits from the paper bag. “I complained about them being broken, but they’d sold all the whole ones. Some women like broken pieces; they’re cheaper. Although you still have to use your coupons.”

“Look, I’ll help you wash up. I’m great at keeping house. Had to look after myself for years at college and when I first started out at law school.” He collected the crockery, placing it carefully on the tin tray. Before she could protest he had swept the tray from her hands, swinging it into the kitchen, running hot water into the sink, sprinkling a generous dose of Omo powder on top and frothing it with his hands.

“No, really, I ...” Valerie protested, catching hold of the sleeve of his jacket, laughing as she did so. Marty placed his hands, still holding the Omo packet, behind his back as Valerie made a grab.

“Look, we’re going to have to sort out who is boss,” Valerie said as her hand darted round his body.

“Well, who is boss?” the voice at the door asked. “And why not share the joke?” They both turned. George Dowland was standing in the doorway, briefcase clutched in one hand and Robert clinging to the other.