Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘Bloody mess as usual,’ says the brigadier.

‘Better than last time,’ says Parrish. ‘At least they found the beach.’

Seven assault landing craft are rolling in the grey water of the bay, as men of the Canadian Eighth Infantry Brigade flounder ashore. Each man wears an inflated Mae West and carries a rifle and a full battle pack. They move slowly through the water, blurred by rain, like dreamers who stride ever onward but never advance.

The watchers on the clifftop command a view that is almost parodic in its Englishness: a river winds through green meadows to a shingle beach, framed by a line of receding hump-backed white cliffs. They are known as the Seven Sisters. Today barely two of the Seven Sisters are visible. The beach is defended by concrete anti-tank blocks, scaffolding tubes and long rolls of barbed wire. Small thunderflashes explode among the pebbles at random, and to no obvious purpose. The popping sounds rise up to the officers with the binoculars.

One of the landing craft has cut its engine out in deep water. The tiny figures of the men on board can be seen jumping one by one from the ramp. Parrish reads the craft’s identifying number through his binoculars.

‘ALC85. Why’s it stopped?’

‘It’s sunk,’ says Colonel Jevons, who devised the exercise. ‘Further out than I intended. Still, they should all float.’

‘A couple of six-inch howitzers up here,’ says the brigadier, ‘and not a man would make it ashore alive.’

‘Ah, but the advance raiding party has cut your throats,’ says Jevons.

‘Let’s hope,’ says the brigadier.

Behind the staff officers the two ATS drivers are seeking shelter at the back of the Signals truck. The Signals sergeant, Bill Carrier, finds himself in the unfamiliar situation of being outnumbered by women. If a few other lads from his unit were with him he’d know how to banter with these English girls, but on his own like this, unsure of his ground, he’s feeling shy.

‘Look at it,’ says the pretty one. ‘June! You’ve got to admit it’s a joke.’

She laughs and wriggles her whole body, as if the absurdity of the world has taken possession of her. She has curly brown hair, almost touching her collar, and brown eyes with strong eyebrows, and a wide smiling mouth.

‘Don’t mind Kitty,’ says the other one, who is blonde and what is called handsome, meaning her features are a little too prominent, her frame a little too large. She speaks through barely parted lips, in the amused tones of the upper classes. ‘Kitty’s perfectly mad.’

‘Mad as a currant bun,’ says Kitty.

The rain intensifies. The two drivers in their brown uniforms huddle under the shelter of the truck’s raised back.

‘Christ, I could murder a cup of tea,’ says the blonde one. ‘How much longer, O Lord?’

‘Louisa was going to be a nun,’ says Kitty. ‘She’s tremendously holy.’

‘Like hell,’ says Louisa.

‘Sorry,’ says the sergeant. ‘We’re still on action stations.’

‘Only an exercise,’ says Kitty.

‘My whole life is only an exercise,’ says Louisa. ‘When do we get to the real thing?’

‘I’m with you there,’ says the sergeant. ‘Me and the lads are going nuts.’

He answers Louisa but his eyes are on Kitty.

‘All you Canucks want to do is fight,’ says Kitty, smiling for him.

‘That’s what we come over for,’ says the sergeant. ‘Two bloody years ago now.’

‘Ah, but you see,’ says Kitty, pretending seriousness, trying not to laugh, ‘that’s not what Louisa’s talking about at all. She’s talking about getting married.’

‘Kitty!’ Louisa pummels her friend, making her crouch over, laughing. ‘You are such a tell-tale.’

‘Nothing wrong with wanting to get married,’ says the sergeant. ‘I want to get married myself.’

‘There!’ says Kitty to Louisa. ‘You can marry the sergeant and go and live in Canada and have strings of healthy bouncing Canadian babies.’

‘I’ve got a girl in Winnipeg,’ says the sergeant. He thinks how he’d ditch her in a flash for Kitty, but not for Louisa.

‘Anyway,’ says Kitty, ‘Louisa’s tremendously posh and only allowed to marry people who went to Eton and have grouse moors. Did you go to Eton, Sergeant?’

‘No,’ says the sergeant.

‘Do you have a grouse moor?’

‘No.’

‘Then your girl in Winnipeg is safe.’

‘You really are quite mad,’ says Louisa. ‘Don’t believe a single word she says, Sergeant. I’d be proud and honoured to marry a Canadian. I expect you have moose moors.’

‘Sure,’ says Bill Carrier, tolerantly playing along. ‘We hunt moose all the time.’

‘Isn’t it meese?’ says Kitty.

‘They’re not fussy what you call them,’ says the sergeant.

‘How sweet of them,’ says Kitty. ‘Dear meese.’

She gives the sergeant such an adorable smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners, that he wants to take her in his arms there and then.

‘Stop it,’ says Louisa, smacking Kitty on the arm. ‘Put him down.’

A ship’s horn sounds from the bay, a long mournful blare. This is the signal to the men on the beach to re-embark.

‘There she blows,’ says the sergeant.

The two ATS girls get up. The officers on the clifftop are on the move, talking as they go, huddled together in the rain.

‘So what’s your names anyway?’ the sergeant says.

‘I’m Lance-Corporal Teale,’ says Kitty. ‘And she’s Lance-Corporal Cavendish.’

‘I’m Bill,’ says the sergeant. ‘See you again, maybe.’

They part to their various vehicles. Kitty stands to attention by the passenger door of the brigadier’s staff car.

‘Ride with me, Johnny,’ the brigadier says to Captain Parrish.

The officers get in. Kitty takes her place behind the wheel.

‘Back to HQ,’ says the brigadier.

Kitty Teale loves driving. Secretly she regards the big khaki Humber Super Snipe as her own property. She has learned how to nurse its grumbly engine to a smooth throb on cold early mornings, and takes pleasure in slipping into just the right gear for each section of road, so that the vehicle never has to strain. She carries out the simpler operations of car maintenance herself, watching over oil levels and tyre pressures with an almost maternal care. She also cleans the car, in the long hours waiting at HQ for the next duty call.

Today, driving home through the little towns of Seaford and Newhaven, she resents the drizzle because she knows it will leave a film of grime over every surface. At least she’s not in convoy behind an army lorry, enduring the spatter of mud from high back wheels. Louisa, who is following behind her in the Ford, will be getting some of the spray from her wheels. But Louisa has no sense of loyalty to the car she drives. ‘It’s not a pet,’ she says to Kitty. ‘It’s got no feelings.’

To Kitty, everything has feelings. People and animals, of course. But also machines, and even furniture. She’s grateful to the chair on which she sits for bearing her weight, and to the knife in her hand for cutting her bread. It seems to her that they’ve done her a kindness out of a desire to make her happy. Her gratitude is the tribute she pays, as a pretty child grown accustomed to the kindness of strangers, afraid that she does too little to deserve it. She’s been brought up to believe it’s wrong to think herself attractive, and so is caught in a spiral of charm, in which those who seek to please her must be pleased by her in return. This gives rise to frequent misunderstandings. Unable to offend, she is forever encouraging false hopes. There’s a young man in the navy who supposes her to be his girlfriend, after two meetings and a dance. It’s true they kissed, but she’s kissed other boys. Now he’s written her a passionate letter asking her to meet him in London this Friday, when he has twenty-four hours’ leave.