Tim Binding - Island Madness

Like everyone else he took little notice of the news, for that came firmly under the censor’s control: reports of Lord Haw-Haw’s latest broadcast, exaggerated claims about their military successes and feeble attempts at ingratiation. Instead he turned straight to the back page. At the top right-hand corner, Conversation Lesson No. 204. Tonight’s was typical. Was halten Sie von diesem Bild? What do you think of this picture? Ich bin kein Kunstkenner . I am no connoisseur. Sie sehen doch, was es darstellen soll . Yet you see what it is supposed to represent. Es stellt eine Dame dar, die Klavier spielt . It shows a lady playing the piano. Now, how do you like it? Nun also, wie gefellt es Ihnen? All very well and good, although Ned couldn’t see the point of the third remark. Either it showed a lady playing a piano or it didn’t. However that was nothing compared with the last phrase. Das kann ich nicht sagen: ich bin taub . I cannot tell: I am deaf. What should he make of that? What it a mistake. Did they mean to write ‘I cannot tell: I am blind’? Or was it a joke? He could imagine Sondefiihrer Bohde beside himself with merriment over that one. However, “What do you think of this…?” was useful. Was halten Sie von diesem…? He said it out loud and then looked down to the advertisements. The Trade Cards. The Island’s Market Place. The Entertainments. In far left-hand corner, he read the usual: Wanted. Blacksmiths, Bricklayers, Stone masons, fitters and quarry-men of all classes. Apply van Dielen. 30 Victoria Rd .

Opposite were tonight’s exchange offerings. Two Tennis racquets with pressesfor offer of tobacco. Write ‘Ping’. Dog soap and shampoo for best offer cigarettes, write ‘Bob Martin’. Gents shoes Sir Herben Parker make for sugar or useful commodities .

And in the centre another announcement: Chiropody. Miss Veronica Vaudin is pleased to announce an extension of her opening hours. Mornings 10-12.30: Afternoon 2.30-4.30. Monday—Friday. By appointment only .

Ned leant back in his chair. Veronica had worked hard for her qualification. His mother hadn’t approved of that either. “Feet!” he remembered her saying. “Fancy having a daughter-in-law in Feet!”

“Just the job if Ned joins the boys in blue,” his dad had retorted. “She can massage them of a night,” and he winked at him, man to man, as Mum had banged her temper round the kitchen.

There was nothing in the paper for him. A few bantams for sale, that was all. He placed the pan in the sink and stepped outside. Almost immediately he was aware of a stealthy rustling noise in the field at the back. At first he thought it might be a fox padding along the undergrowth, but despite its stealth it was too clumsy a sound to be made by made four legs. Two legs then, moving towards the back of next door’s garden, oblivious of Ned’s presence. A soldier with a loaf of bread in his hand? A foreign with one of next door’s chickens under his arm? He moved to the gate leading to the back field, ready to pounce, when he heard the sigh of a voice he recognized.

“V, is that you?” he called, moving quickly up to the gate.

A sniffling and then the voice whispered back. “Ned?”

She stepped into the moonlight, her arms holding her coat tightly round her body. Her hair looked almost silver.

“Got home safely, then?” he said.

She blew her nose and laughed. “In a manner of speaking. Sorry about the lift.”

“That’s all right. I fancied the walk. How’s your mum?”

“Not bad. Dad’s his usual handful, though. I needed to take a breath of air.”

He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, feeling the awkwardness between them. Once they had been so at ease with each other. They were standing in different territories now.

“I thought I heard something,” he said. “No one’s been trying to break in round you or anything?”

“No, don’t think so. What’s there to steal? Anyway, the night’s too bright.”

They both looked up. They were alone, under the stars again.

“We’d have gone canoeing,” Ned said, “on a night like this.”

“You would. I’d have stopped in. Too cold for swimming.” She shivered, as if the coat was giving her no protection at all. “I’d better get back in. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, I read your advert. You must be doing well.”

“Not that. I’ve got rehearsals all day. You coming to see us?”

“Perhaps. If I have the time.”

“You always used to.”

Ned turned and looked out over the grey field. He didn’t want to look at her any more. “There’s a different audience there now, V,” he told her.

“Only in one half. You don’t have to sit with them. They’re quite separate.”

“When they choose to be.”

“You can’t blame them for wanting company, Ned. We all want company.”

“So I saw.” He regretted saying it the moment it left his mouth.

“You been talking to my father?” Veronica’s whisper rose in intensity. “You crossed me off, remember.” She paused. “God, listen to the pair of us. To think we could have been married by now.”

“You’d have regretted it.”

“Possibly. Possibly not. You would, though. You had other ambitions. Well, they haven’t come to much, have they? You’re stuck here, Ned Luscombe, whether you like it or not. So make the best of it. Like we all have to.” She started to walk away.

“V, I didn’t mean…” But she had gone.

It was cold in his bedroom, cold and uncomfortable. Outside the wind was picking up again. Across the landing he could hear Mum snoring. At least she was safe in bed. She’d taken to sleepwalking in the last few months. Three to four in the morning was the chosen time. Usually he’d be alerted by the sound of her stumbling into a chair; once he’d woken to find the kettle singing its heart out on the stove with her gone and the back door swinging open. He’d thrown his coat over his pyjamas and followed the opened back gate and the silver trail of footsteps on the wet cobwebbed grass with his police torch. He’d found her half a mile away, walking along the hedgerows picking imaginary blackberries in her wicker basket, her nightdress bedraggled and torn, her arms all bloody from the tangle of thorns. Since that time usually he slept with his bedroom door open and the back-door key under his pillow. But not tonight. His quarrel with Veronica and the thought of Isobel had made him weary and forgetrul. Tomorrow he would see Isobel again. Must see you, she had written. Must see you . She would confide in him, ask his help, declare…declare her what? He waited for sleep behind a closed door trying to picture her and what she might say, but thinking too of Tommy and letters and most irritatingly of all, Veronica swimming in the sea.

The Major took a last look at the drawing room, with the half-empty bottles and stubbed-out cigarette ends littering the sideboard, the parquet floor strewn with the set of Christmas paper hats and streamers that Zep had found in a box in the cellar. In the far corner he could see a nurse’s skirt and jacket, her shoes laid carefully on top. Molly lay curled up on the sofa, nursing a brandy she didn’t want to drink. She was just trying to keep awake, to look alive for the Captain’s return. He took pity on her.

“You can come upstairs if you want.”

“What?” Molly looked up, both confased and surprised at such an unexpected proposition.

“No, no, I wasn’t suggesting—” He broke off. “I meant the Captain’s room. Under the circumstances I would have no objections.”

For a moment Molly looked disappointed, not because she desired him, but because he did not desire her. She ran her hand through her hair as if to remind herself of her irrepressible allure, then swung her legs out from under.