Date: Fri, 4 Mar 2011 17:12:19 +0000
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War Part 6

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 6

Saturday May 24th 1941 (morning)
There were various things that niggled away in the back of William's
mind.
Peter was coming to tea that afternoon.
He had a practical welding examination on Monday.
The disposition of mines in the North Atlantic.
He didn't want to think about the last. Since he had read that piece
of paper in Peter's house just over a week ago, the message had
worried him. Everywhere people seemed to have been talking about the
sinking of convoys by Admiral Doenitz's U-Boat Wolf Packs in the North
Atlantic. A new poster had appeared in the High Street, put up by the
Ministry of Information. It showed the despairing arm and clutching
hand of a drowning sailor emerging from the grey North Atlantic waters
with the ominous legend, 'Someone Talked!'.
William refused to believe the awful thought that Peter - his Peter -
was in some way connected with the German U-Boats, that he could be
passing on information about mines to the enemy - and yet, and yet,
the doubt remained. And the unanswerable question, 'What would Dutch
resistance workers want to know about where the Allied mines were in
the Atlantic'.
Now the German Navy would surely be interested in the disposition of
British minefields, if only to tell their U-Boats where NOT to go.
The simple thing of course would have been to ask Peter face to face
but William hadn't seen him since that last time and had only
telephoned him, on the insistence of his mother, to ask him round for
family tea. The Salters had no telephone but he had Peter's number,
tuppence and there was a call box at the end of the street outside the
Post Office.
Peter had sounded surprised when he asked him, especially after
William's reaction when he had suggested it originally.
"Are you sure you want me to come round?" he asked, "to meet your
mother."
"Oh mum will be all right. It's Adele and Jean from next door. They're
making such a big thing about it. You know sandwiches and cake and
things."
"I can always say I'm too busy."
"I haven't seen you for such a long time," said William and heard the
whining sound in his voice.
"Well I have been very busy," said Peter, "and that's the truth."
Busy doing what, thought William. Passing messages to God knows whom.
"Mum asked if Saturday 24th would be convenient," he said. "About 4
o'clock."
"I'll be there."
"Don't expect too much," said William suddenly aware of how drab and
worn the house was, how there were cracks in the plaster and how the
wall where number 16 had been was only held up by supporting prop-
timbers.
"It will be fun, Wim," said Peter.
"I hope so."
"And perhaps you will come back with me afterwards, or we can go out
somewhere."
Now it was Saturday morning and he had revised nothing for the
examination for Monday. Peter was coming for tea and he didn't know
how he'd go down with the family.
And there were the mines in the North Atlantic.
There was a rattle from the front door and a ratatat on the knocker.
Postman calling. William went and picked up the letters. There was one
for Mum and one for Adele, both, he noticed, forces mail and both
addressed in his father's handwriting. He wondered why Dad hadn't
written to him. Adele would be disappointed that there was nothing
from Chalky. She was asleep now having worked nights last week.
He took the letters into the kitchen. Mum turned from the sink, dried
her hands on her apron and opened her letter. William was surprised to
see a boiled egg in his place at the table, and toast and marmalade
and a cup of tea that looked as if it had seen more than a single tea
leaf in its passage from kettle to cup. Rations seemed to have been
increased over the past couple of weeks. Ever since Mum had started
her job on the buses - though that surely was a coincidence.
He carefully sliced off the top of his egg and caught the yolk before
it ran down the side.
"Oh God!," said his mother.
William looked up, startled. "Is Dad all right?" he asked.
"It isn't your Dad," said Theresa. "It's Chalky. He's been killed."
She put her hand to her mouth. "Poor Adele."
So many people being killed, thought William. Jean's husband, Sam, the
Fosters, Chalky. Who was next? "Are you going up to tell her?" he asked.
"I'll let her sleep out. Then take the letter up. What a day."
"Do you want me to put Peter off?" asked William.
Theresa shook her head. "We've got to carry on," she said. "Take these
out to the rabbits when you've finished your breakfast, will you, dear."
'These' were some outside leaves of cabbages, bits of carrot and
potato peelings. William liked feeding the rabbits. There was the old
doe, Daisy, who had one blue eye and one brown and a bad temper so
that you had to watch your hands from her nip even when you were
putting in some food for her. She was a good mother though. Then there
was the buck who was soft and tender and loved being picked up and
stroked while the end of his nose wiffled. And now there were seven
small ones, the latest litter who would soon be ready for the pot.
William didn't like cleaning out the hutches and so far hadn't managed
to kill a rabbit, that special twist of the neck which did for them
quickly with scarcely a twitch of their hind legs. Mum was good at it
though.
Afterwards he walked up the passage that ran alongside the house and
into the street. The sun was up and Granby Street, gap-toothed though
she might be from the bombing, looked calm and sun-washed. The red
brick houses had a rosy glow. William suddenly had a feeling of
affection for the old street. Bruised and battered, she had stood up
to the Blitz and wore her scars with dignity. A car came up the road.
Petrol being practically non-existent for private use, it had been
converted for gas consumption and the grey gas bag on top rolled and
lurched almost as if it was alive.
I'd like a car, thought William. Well it would have to wait until
after he'd got his articles. He was reminded of the exam on Monday and
the fact that old Mr. Pemberton from Head Office, wobbling jowls and
sharp eyes behind pebble glasses, would be asking the questions,
checking on the work he did. He must look at his books, he thought,
but Peter's coming to tea - and the unspoken problem of the mines -
seemed to do adverse things to his concentration.
Mum came out of the house. She was wearing her hat.
"I'm just off to the shops," she said resolutely as if she was gearing
herself up to a desperate act. "I've put the letter away. I don't want
Adele to see it until I've had a word with her first."
It wasn't likely that Adele would be awake before well into the
afternoon. She'd worked all night and had only just collapsed into
bed, red-eyed and exhausted. No gallivanting round to the Palais this
week, thought William. I must look at my books.
He went back indoors.

Saturday May 24th 1941 (afternoon)
Adele woke.
She had been dreaming, a dream where she had been dancing with a man -
she thought it was Chalky but wasn't sure. They were waltzing round
and round in some huge ballroom, both as light as air, feet barely
touching the ground. She could feel his hand in hers, his arm in the
small of her back, his body against hers. She closed her eyes and
surrendered to the dance. There was warm breath on her cheeks. He was
going to kiss her, she knew. She opened her eyes and saw Charlie's
yellow-gold cats eyes. Chalky/Charlie. It didn't seem to matter. The
lips found hers and she could feel their softness.
That was when she woke.
She stretched luxuriously. Perhaps if she went to sleep again, the
dream would continue and who knows what would happen. But she was
awake. She could see the sunlight coming through a crack in the
curtains - not the blackout ones but the less effective blue cotton
ones which she drew during the day.
She sighed and looked at the alarm clock on the table beside the bed.
It was ticking away importantly. Five to three. Oh well, it was nearly
time to get up anyway. As always, when she worked nights, in five
minutes Mum would come upstairs with a cup of tea. She would get up,
wash, dress, make up her face and come down for a meal. Then she'd get
ready to go off to work and the endless line of percussion caps.
Work wasn't too bad. There was Charlie. He'd recognised her of course
immediately he'd seen her the Monday after the Palais dance. She'd
felt embarrassed but he hadn't seemed to. "So this is why I thought I
knew you, Adele," he said - remembering her name. "We must go to the
Palais again - if you'd like to."
And she knew there was something going on between the two of them.
Although he hadn't said anything more, she could feel his eyes upon
her as he went up and down the line. Sometimes she caught his gaze
and, embarrassed, dropped her look. Quick-eyed Mavis had of course
also noticed.
"Old Charlie's looking at you," she would say. "I think he really
fancies you. You're all right there, girl. Dance your way into his
heart."
But this week she was on nights so she wouldn't be able to go to the
Palais. She wondered if he would go without her. How did she feel
about him? She knew she mustn't build things up. Did she really like
him? It was too early to tell... And then there was Chalky. He hadn't
written even though he'd said he would.
She heard Mum's footsteps on the stairs, a little knock on the door
before it opened. She held a cup and saucer in one hand and a letter
in the other. Adele sat up, yawning. Theresa put the cup on the
bedside table then went over to the window, still holding the letter.
She drew back the curtains letting the sunshine in. She turned.
"There's bad news, Adele," she said.
"Dad?"
"No. It's a letter from Dad. It's Chalky. He's been killed." She held
out the envelope. "He sent me a letter too. "I'm so sorry."
For a moment Adele couldn't take it in. Dad was all right. That was
good news. Chalky? Chalky with the golden hair and white teeth. The
ready smile, the strong limbs that held her fiercely when he made
love. Dead? It made no sense. How could all that strength and vitality
and youth be gone?
"Where?" she managed. It was the wrong question; she really had meant,
when.
"Dad couldn't say. It was in a battle somewhere. A mortar shell landed
on his unit. Three soldiers and the corporal killed. It'll all be in
the letter." She handed it to Adele. "I'm so sorry," she said again,
as if it was her fault.
Adele looked at her, the letter unopened in her hand. "Oh, mum..." she
said. Theresa put her arms around her while Adele sobbed.
"Why, mum, why?" It was an unanswerable question.
Theresa held her and gently stroked her back with her open palm.
"It's war, dear."
Eventually the tears ceased.
"Will you be all right?"
Adele nodded.
"William's friend's coming to tea. I thought we should try to carry on
as normal, but you don't have to come down. I could ring up the
factory and explain. Surely they wouldn't mind if you didn't go in
tonight."
"I'll come down," said Adele. "And I'll go to work. But I'd like a
little time alone to read the letter."
Theresa kissed her and went downstairs.
It was a strange letter. It was scarcely about the death at all. Oh
yes, it mentioned the facts, the advance up a mountain, the mortar
shell, the body. But mainly it was about what Chalky had meant to Dad.
What a good mate he'd been. How he felt so close to him, in the long
boring, waiting periods. How they'd sailed together on the long trip
from Britain. How seasick Chalky had been. How they'd had good times
together in Durban and marched across sandy deserts - well that told
her something about where he was - it had obviously escaped the
censor. Almost it seemed as if Chalky had meant as much to Dad as he
had to Adele. Perhaps more, for she had met him so few times while
they had lived together, experienced joy, hardship, and now death. He
told her how he still found himself turning to talk to Chalky over a
fag and cup of char and the emptiness when he wasn't there.
So that was what losing someone you loved was like.
Adele cried again for a little while, then she got out of bed, drank
the lukewarm tea and went to the bathroom to wash her face. She spent
extra time over getting dressed and made up. It seemed the right thing
to do - and it was nearly four o'clock before she was ready to go
downstairs wearing her best green frock.


Saturday May 24th 1941 (teatime)
"Your sister's being very brave," said Theresa.
William sat at the table in the living room, some books spread open in
front of him. He had tried to study, to revise for the examination but
the words danced in front of his eyes. There was no getting away from
it, he was nervous. He wished this afternoon was over, prayed that it
would go well, hoped that Peter wouldn't say anything that would give
the relationship away. And somehow he must find the opportunity to ask
Peter about the mines.
"Did you hear what I said?" asked Theresa, from the kitchen next door.
William dragged his mind back from confusion. "Adele is being very
brave," he said.
"And we must be very kind to her."
It was a new concept, being kind to his sister - but he'd give it a
chance. As long as she behaved herself this afternoon.
"Will you clear up those books and lay the table?"
He might just as well; they were doing him no good at all.
"What are we having to eat?" he asked.
"Ham salad. Fruit and cream."
William's mouth opened in a gasp. How on earth had Mum managed to get
food like that? It was better even than the meal she had prepared for
his birthday, the day in fact when he had first met Peter. But all the
same, however she'd done it, she was making too much of this visit.
"He's only . . . " he said and stopped. He's only what? My lover.
Someone I have sex with, sleep with in his bed. He would never be able
to say those things, to anyone.
"What did you say?" His mother's voice came from the kitchen.
"Nothing," he said.
Adele came downstairs, her high heels clicking on the linoleum.
William looked at her. She was dressed to kill. So this was 'being
brave'. Well if it was for Peter's benefit she'd be unsuccessful. At
least he hoped so. A twinge of doubt went through his mind. People
said that the two of them looked alike. Supposing Peter noticed the
resemblance and ended up fancying her. He dismissed the thought; there
were too many other worrying things to think about.
"You're looking very dressed up," he said.
"For little brother's best friend," she said. She paused and looked at
him thoughtfully. "He's much older than you, isn't he?"
"Nine years. We're interested in the same things," he said weakly.
"Welding?" Her tone was saccharine.
He was about to snap back at her when he remembered his mother's
warning. He was saved from having to think up something 'kind' by the
arrival of a taxi. The black vehicle stopped outside the house and
William could imagine the net curtains twitching all down the street
as the neighbours strained to see who was arriving in such style.
Adele went to the window and peered out.
"Is that him?" she asked. "He seems to have brought you some flowers."
William joined her. Peter was paying the driver. As he turned, he must
have caught sight of the two of them staring out. He smiled and waved,
the gap in his teeth showing clearly. In his arms he carried a large
bunch of roses.
"Oh Christ," muttered William. He raced to the front door.
"Is that your friend?" called Theresa. "Take him to the living room.
I'll be there in a minute."
William wrenched open the door. "What have you brought those for?" he
gasped before Peter had a chance to say anything.
"Hello, Wim," said Peter. "What sort of a greeting is that? I bring
flowers for your mother. Is it not an English custom, to bring a small
gift for the hostess?"
William was again saved the trouble of replying as Theresa and Adele
appeared behind him in the hallway.
"Don't leave your friend outside on the doorstep," said Theresa.
So here he was, thought William, in the house, surrounded by Mum and
Adele, with a bunch of roses in his hand which he was presenting to
Mum. And they were all over him. An instant success, it seemed. Peter,
laughing, smiling, being gallant - and now Jean from next door
arrived, alerted by the taxi, and joined the admiring crowd. William
felt almost left out until he caught Peter's eye and recognised the
amused, mock-despair in his glance.
Pride of place for the visitor at the table, where Dad usually sat,
and ham and salad on the plate in front of him.
"I've seen you before," said Adele, looking at Peter closely. "I can't
remember where though."
"What do you do for a living, Mr Kees?" asked Jean. It sounded a
simple enough question but implicit in it was the unspoken one, why
aren't you in the forces.
There was a silence. Everyone seemed to be waiting for his answer. For
a moment William and Peter's eyes met. William sensed a feeling of
pleading in those eyes. All of a sudden the ham - a rare treat -
tasted of wood shavings.
"I work for the Government," said Peter. "A little, how do you call it
- 'hush-hush'. It is not something I am allowed to talk about."
"Which Government?" asked Adele. "You're Dutch aren't you?"
It was starting to turn into an interrogation.
"I am Dutch," said Peter. "But I work for the British Government."
"Let the poor man alone," said Theresa. "Would you like some more
salad, Mr Kees?"
"Careless talk costs lives," said William.
"I'd like to know what you see in our William," said Adele. "What do
you do together?"
The subject had at least changed from Peter's job but wasn't it now on
even more perilous ground?
"We like doing the same things," said Peter, a little smile on his
face. William couldn't catch his eye. He felt himself freeze inside
but Peter seemed firmly in control. "We've been to the Promenade
Concerts at the Queen's Hall."
"That's Classical music, isn't it?" asked Adele, turning to William.
"I didn't know you liked Classical."
"Oh yes," said Peter.
"What do you like particularly?" asked Jean.
William's mind had gone blank. The whole meal was turning into a
nightmare.
"Johann Strauss waltzes," said Peter. "He loves those."
"And Elgar," said William, his mind suddenly functioning again. "Pomp
and Circumstance. I like things with a tune."
"And we go to the Theatre," said Peter. "We saw Noel Coward's 'Blithe
Spirit'."
"I'd love to see that," said Theresa. "Are you sure you won't have any
more ham or salad, Mr Kees."
Peter shook his head. "Thank you, no. It was delicious. But I have had
enough. And please call me Peter."
Theresa looked a little unsure. This younger generation - so quick to
want to get on first name terms. She suddenly felt old.
"Come on, mum," said Adele. "Let's have the afters. I've got to get
off to work in a while."
William heaved a sigh of relief as the group around the table broke
up, plates were cleared and taken to the kitchen and Theresa brought
in the fruit, tinned peaches and pears, and the cream - well,
evaporated milk, but just as good as real cream in William's opinion.
When they settled down again the conversation turned to the the more
customary topic - the war.
"Doesn't look too good, does it," said Jean. "They say Jerry's
building up an invasion force in France."
"Hitler may be over-extending himself," said Peter. "I'm sure he
doesn't trust the Russians so he's got an Eastern Army. There's the
one in France of course.  He can't rely on the Italians in Africa
either."
"That General Rommel and his Afrika Korps ain't going to be as easy as
the Eyeties were," said William, who had been listening to the news.
Theresa flashed him a warning look.
Adele blew her nose on her handkerchief. "I've gotta get going," she
said. "It's nice to have met you," she said to Peter.
"Are you sure you want to go to work tonight?" asked Theresa. "It's a
bit early isn't it?"
  Adele patted her arm as she went by, and went upstairs.
"She just heard today that someone she knew was killed in North
Africa," Theresa said to Peter.
"This is a terrible war," he said. "It's such a shock when you hear."
"I felt like that when my Sam was killed," said Jean. "I didn't know
what to do. Couldn't think, couldn't look to the future - but I got
over it eventually. Now I just feel alone."
Theresa took hold of her hand and squeezed it. "I think we'd better
have a cup of tea," she said. "I'll put the kettle on." She went into
the kitchen.
There was a slight embarrassing pause until Jean sniffed and looked
up. "So what are you two doing this evening?" she asked. It was almost
as if they were a couple, thought William.
"They're showing 'the Maltese Falcon' at the Warner Brothers' cinema
in Leicester Square," said Peter.
"Oh I'd love to see that. I adore Humphrey Bogart," said Jean
wistfully. "I don't like going to the pictures on my own though."
Peter looked at William, the inference was obvious. I want you on my
own, thought William. I don't want to sit through the film with Jean
probably sitting between us. I won't be able to hold your hand. I
won't feel your leg pressed against mine in the darkness. I won't be
able to ask you about the mines.
"Why don't you come with us, Auntie Jean, and Mum too?" said William.
End of Part 6