Уильям Николсон - Motherland

The show over, the young men packing the bar become suddenly aware that there are two actual females in their midst. Laughing, jostling, they compete to get close.

‘Look who’s here! Let me buy you a drink, gorgeous! This one’s on me. Budge up, pal! Give a guy a chance.’

Kitty and Louisa find themselves pushed back and back until they’re pressed to the wall. The friendly attentions of the excited soldiers become uncomfortable.

‘Take it easy, boys,’ says Kitty, smiling even as she tries to fend off reaching hands.

‘Hey!’ cries Louisa. ‘Get off me! You’re squashing me!’

None of the soldiers means to push, but the ones behind are surging forward, and the ones in front find themselves thrust against the girls. Kitty starts to feel frightened.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please.’

A commanding voice rings out.

‘Move! Get back! Out of my way!’

A tall soldier is forcing himself through the crush, taking men by the arm, pulling them aside.

‘Idiots! Baboons! Get back!’

The crowding soldiers part before him, all at once sheepishly aware that things have got out of control. He reaches Kitty and Louisa and spreads his arms to create a clear space before them.

‘Sorry about that. No harm done, I hope?’

‘No,’ says Kitty.

The man before her wears battledress with no insignia of any kind. He’s young, not much older than Kitty herself, and strikingly handsome. His face is narrow, with a strong nose over a full sensitive mouth. His blue eyes, beneath arching brows, are fixed on her with a look she’s never encountered before. His look says, Yes, I can see you, but I have other more important concerns than you.

The soldiers he has displaced are now recovering their poise.

‘Who do you think you are, buddy?’

The young man turns his faraway gaze on his accuser, and sees him raise a threatening hand.

‘Touch me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll break your neck.’

There’s something about the way he says it that makes the soldier lower his hand. One of the others mutters, ‘Leave him alone, mate. He’s a fucking commando.’

After that the crowd disperses, leaving Kitty and Louisa with their rescuer.

‘Thanks,’ says Kitty. ‘I don’t think they meant any harm.’

‘No, of course not. Just horsing around.’

He guides them to the bar.

‘Got any brandy?’ he says to the barman. ‘These young ladies are suffering from shock.’

‘Oh, no, I’m fine,’ says Kitty.

‘Yes, please,’ says Louisa, treading on her foot.

The barman produces a bottle of cooking brandy from under the counter and furtively pours two small shots. The soldier hands them to Kitty and Louisa.

‘For medicinal purposes,’ he says.

Kitty takes her glass and sips at it. Louisa drinks more briskly.

‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘I’m Louisa, and this is Kitty.’

‘Where are you based?’

‘The big house.’ Louisa nods up the road.

‘Secretaries?’

‘Drivers.’

‘Take care at night,’ he says. ‘More killed on the roads in the blackout than by enemy action.’

Kitty drinks her brandy without being aware she’s doing so. She begins to feel swimmy.

‘So who are you?’ she says. ‘I mean, what are you?’

‘Special services,’ he says.

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. I don’t mean to sound mysterious. But that really is all I can say.’

‘Are you allowed to tell us your name?’

‘Avenell,’ he says, pushing back the sweep of dark hair that keeps falling into his eyes. ‘Ed Avenell.’

‘You’re a knight in shining armour,’ says Louisa. ‘You came to the rescue of damsels in distress.’

‘Damsels, are you?’ Not a flicker on his pale face. ‘If I’d known, I’m not sure I’d have bothered.’

‘Don’t you like damsels?’ says Kitty.

‘To tell you the truth,’ he says, ‘I’m not entirely clear what a damsel is. I think it may be a kind of fruit that bruises easily.’

‘That’s a damson,’ says Kitty. ‘Perhaps we’re damsons in distress.’

‘You can’t distress a damson,’ says Louisa.

‘I don’t know about that,’ says Ed. ‘It can’t be much fun being made into jam.’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ says Louisa. ‘You get squeezed until you’re juicy, and then you get all licked up.’

‘Louisa!’ says Kitty.

‘Sorry,’ says Louisa. ‘It’s the brandy.’

‘She’s really very well brought up,’ Kitty says to Ed. ‘Her cousin is a duke.’

‘My second cousin is a tenth duke,’ says Louisa.

‘And you still a mere corporal,’ he says. ‘It just isn’t right.’

‘Lance-corporal,’ says Louisa, touching her single stripe.

The young man turns his steady gaze on Kitty.

‘And what about you?’

‘Oh, I’m not top-drawer at all,’ says Kitty. ‘We Teales are very middle-drawer. All vicars and doctors and that sort of thing.’

Suddenly she feels so wobbly she knows she must lie down. The brandy has come at the end of a long day.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘We were up at four for the exercise.’

She starts for the door. Apparently she staggers a little, because before she knows it he’s taking her arm.

‘I’ll walk you back,’ he says.

‘And me,’ says Louisa. ‘I was up at four too.’

So the gallant commando takes a lady on either arm, and they walk back up the road to the big house. The soldiers they pass on the way grin and say, ‘Good work, chum!’ and, ‘Give a shout if you need help.’

They part by the porch.

‘Corporal Kitty,’ he says, saluting. ‘Corporal Louisa.’

The girls return the salute.

‘But we don’t know your rank,’ says Kitty.

‘I think I’m a lieutenant or something,’ he says. ‘My firm isn’t very big on ranks.’

‘Can you really break people’s necks?’ says Louisa.

‘Just like that,’ he says, snapping his fingers.

Then he goes.

Kitty and Louisa enter the cloister and their eyes meet and they both burst out laughing.

‘My God!’ exclaims Louisa. ‘He’s a dream!’

‘Squeezed until you’re juicy? Honestly, Louisa!’

‘Well, why not? There’s a war on, isn’t there? He’s welcome to come round and lick me up any time he wants.’

‘Louisa!’

‘Don’t sound so shocked. I saw you simpering away at him.’

‘That’s just how I am. I can’t help myself.’

‘Want to come into the mess?’

‘No,’ says Kitty. ‘I really am bushed. I wasn’t making it up.’

Alone in the attic nursery Kitty undresses slowly, thinking about the young commando officer. His grave amused face is printed clearly on her memory. Most of all she recalls the gaze of those wide-set blue eyes, that seemed to see her and not see her at the same time. For all his staring, she never felt he wanted something from her. There was no pleading there. Instead there was something else, something vulnerable but all his own, a kind of sadness. Those eyes say that he doesn’t expect happiness to last. It’s this, more than his good looks, that causes her to keep him in her thoughts right up to the moment she finally surrenders to sleep.

The rear wheel of the motorbike slews on the chalk slime of the farm track, making the engine race. Its rider swerves to regain traction and slows and leans in to the turn, swinging round the barn end into the farmyard. Chickens scatter, squawking, only to return as soon as the engine cuts out. This is the time that kitchen scraps are thrown out. There are crows waiting in the birches.

The rider pushes his goggles up and rubs at his eyes. The roads have been slick and dangerous all day, and he’s thankful to be off his bike at last. Mary Funnell, the farmer’s wife, opens the farmhouse door, one hand holding her apron hem, and calls to him, ‘You’ve got a visitor.’