Уильям Николсон - Motherland

The officers in the back are talking about the coming big show.

‘All I pray is the flyers do their job,’ says the brigadier. ‘I want those beaches bombed to buggery.’

‘Do we have a forecast?’ says Captain Parrish. ‘This is no good to anyone.’

He indicates the rain blurring the car windows.

‘Supposed to clear by tomorrow,’ says the brigadier. ‘Then we have to wait for the moon. We’ve got a few days. Not that anyone ever tells me anything. Bloody liaison officer knows more than I do.’

The Humber turns off the road up the long drive to Edenfield Place, where the battalion is based. The great Victorian Gothic mansion looms out of the drizzle. Kitty pulls the car to a gentle stop before the ornate porch, and the officers clamber out. Behind her, Louisa brings the Ford to a noisier halt on the gravel.

‘Thank you, Corporal,’ says the brigadier to Kitty. ‘That’s all for today.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

He signs her work docket.

‘If you have a moment, be nice to our friend George. The boys have made a bit of a mess of his wine cellar and he’s rather cut up.’

The rightful owner of Edenfield Place, George Holland, second Lord Edenfield, has opted to go on living in the house through this period of wartime requisition. In the sacrificial spirit of the times he has retained for himself a modest suite of three rooms that were formerly occupied by his father’s butler. George is barely thirty years old; soft-spoken, shy, in poor health.

‘Yes, sir,’ says Kitty.

She drives the car round to the garage at the back, followed by Louisa in the Ford. They go together to hand in their work dockets at the Motor Transport Office.

‘Fancy a drink at the Lamb?’ says Louisa.

‘I’ll just give the car a wipe-down,’ says Kitty. ‘Meet you in the hall in half an hour.’

She takes a bucket and cloth and swabs the Humber’s flanks, patting the metalwork as she goes. Then she fills the petrol tank back up, and finally immobilises the car by removing its rotor arm, as required by regulations.

Her route through the big house takes her down the cloister, across the galleried hall, past the organ room to the nursery stairs. The room she shares with Louisa is on the second floor, under the eaves, in what was once the night nursery. As she goes she ponders the best strategy to deal with Stephen and Friday. She could say she’s run out of travel warrants, which she has, but she’s always hitch-hiked before. And anyway, she’d like to see him. They could go to the 400 Club and dance and forget the war for the night. Surely there’s no harm in that?

In the attic nursery Kitty sits on her bed and unrolls her regulation lisle stockings. She stretches out her bare legs, wiggling her toes, relishing the sensation of cool freedom. She possesses one pair of rayon stockings, but they won’t last for ever, and she has no intention of wasting them on the crowd in the Lamb. Friday, maybe, if she does decide to go up to town.

She sighs as she touches up her lipstick. It’s all very well having boys be sweet on you, but why must they all try to own you? Louisa says it’s because she smiles too much, but what can she do about that? You’re allowed to smile at someone without marrying them, aren’t you?

At No.2 Motor Transport Training Centre in North Wales there’d been a girl her age who said she’d done it with four different men. She said it was ten times better than dancing. She said the trick was to pretend to be tipsy, then afterwards you say you don’t remember a thing. She said if you were lucky and got a good one it was heaven, but you could never tell from the outside which ones would be good.

On the way back down the narrow carpetless stairs Kitty meets George himself, loitering on the first floor. Somehow since being billeted in Edenfield Place she has befriended its owner, rather in the way you take in a stray dog.

‘Oh, hullo,’ he says, blinking at her. He has poor eyesight, apparently. ‘Are they still keeping you hard at work?’

‘No, I’m off now,’ says Kitty. Then remembering the brigadier’s request, ‘I’m really sorry about the wine.’

‘Oh, the wine,’ he says. ‘All the ’38 Meursault is gone. I’m told they drank it laced with gin.’

‘That’s terrible!’ Kitty is more shocked by the gin than by the theft. ‘They should be shot.’

‘Well, not shot, perhaps. You know the Canadians are all volunteers? We should be grateful to them. And I am grateful.’

‘Oh, George. You’re allowed to be angry.’

‘Am I?’

His unfocused eyes gaze at her with silent longing.

‘I suppose they meant no real harm,’ says Kitty. ‘They’re like children who don’t know what damage they’re doing. But even so. You’ll get compensation, won’t you?’

‘I expect I’ll be paid something.’ Then with a sudden rush, ‘The thing is, Kitty, I was hoping we could find a moment to talk.’

‘Later, George,’ she says. ‘I’m late already.’

She touches his arm and gives him a smile to soften the implied rejection, and runs on down the main stairs. Louisa is waiting by the ornate fireplace in the great hall. She’s wearing her now-obsolete FANY uniform, made for her by her father’s tailor, with the lanyard on the left, yeomanry-style, in the FANY colours of pink and blue. Kitty raises her eyebrows.

‘To hell with them all,’ says Louisa cheerfully. ‘If I have to wear uniform when I’m out in the evenings, I’ll bloody well wear one that fits me.’

Kitty and Louisa both volunteered for the FANYs, so much more socially acceptable than the ATS, and met at the training camp in Strensall.

‘I don’t mind being bossed about by lesbians in trilbies,’ says Louisa, ‘so long as they’re my own class.’

Two years ago the proud FANYs were merged with the ATS, which is not at all Louisa’s class, and has the least fetching uniform of all the services.

Outside the rain has stopped at last. There’s a crowd of Camerons by the pub, sprawled on the damp grass strip between the door and the road. From inside come cheers and waves of laughter.

‘You don’t want to go in there, darling,’ one soldier calls out to them.

‘I don’t see any drinks out here,’ responds Louisa.

They go into the saloon bar and find a mixed bunch of Camerons and Royals banging on the tables, roaring out encouragement. A trooper from the Fusiliers Mont-Royal is dancing on a table.

‘Frenchie! Frenchie! Frenchie!’ they chant. ‘Off! Off! Off!’

The trooper, a gangling French-Canadian with a craggy stubble-dark face, is performing a mime striptease. Without removing a single actual garment he is managing to create the illusion that he’s a sexy young woman peeling off layer after layer.

Kitty and Louisa watch, mesmerised.

‘Bravo, Marco!’ shout his comrades. ‘ Baisez-moi , Marco! Allez Van Doo!’

The trooper writhes with seductive sinuousness, as little by little, with careful tugs, he eases invisible stockings down his legs. Now mock-naked but for brassiere and panties he plays at coyly covering his crotch with his hands, opening and closing his legs. Looking round the faces of the watching men, Kitty realises they’re genuinely aroused.

‘Show us what you’ve got, Frenchie!’ they call out. ‘Knickers down! Off, off, off!’

Teasing inch by teasing inch, down come the imaginary knickers, while the performer remains in full khaki battledress. Kitty catches Louisa’s eye and sees there the same surprise. It’s only a joke; but the male sexual hunger on display is all too real.

Now the knickers are off. The legs are tightly crossed. The ugly soldier who is also a gorgeous naked woman holds his audience spellbound with anticipation. Now at last he throws up his hands, parts his legs, thrusts out his crotch, and a great sigh of satisfaction fills the smoky air.