Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

Apparently we were unlucky to get them in our village. It’s all over the papers. We’re having an invasion all right, but it’s not Jerry. We’ve been invaded by bloody Yanks. Nobody wants them, but the Hall is large and has plenty of grounds for their tents and things. Everybody expects trouble. People keep talking about their Yank arrogance. Saying that they think that all they have to do is to blow their own trumpets and the walls of Germany will fall down. But our lot are quiet. They keep themselves to themselves, and when they meet us they seem polite. I see them going about their business. And a lot of them like to go to church. They dress so smartly it puts us to shame. The military police are easy to spot with their white helmets and gloves. The truth is, they don’t have to mix much with us for they have their own newspapers, films, radio, everything. To most folks’ relief, they appear willing to keep themselves to themselves. I met one of them this morning. He was whistling and chewing gum at the same time, which made him look like a fish. When he saw me he lowered his eyes. I could see he was slightly frightened. I said good morning as I passed by, but he shrank a little and pretended not to hear. And then, almost as an afterthought, I heard him whisper, morning ma’am.

They stand in the shop and talk. Usually two of them. Sometimes there are three. There is no room for any more. They tear out their coupons and drop them on to the counter. I don’t care. I’ve got to ask for them. It’s the law. I’m not playing games. If I go too, who’ll look after the shop? They stand in the shop and talk about the Yanks. They’re still shocked. Upset, even. And then they realize that I’m present, and that I can hear what they’re saying. And so they leave. But not before they bestow their cigarette-tar smiles upon me. I heard one of them say, she’s missing Len, and I know that I was meant to hear it.

I’m enjoying the long summer days. I like to watch the sunset through the pub window. I have my own corner. Well, it’s not my corner, it’s just a corner that nobody else seems to sit in. Maybe nobody else sits in it because they know that I sit in it. They probably think they might catch something off a commoner like me. They should be so lucky. Cheeky monkeys. I don’t trouble anybody. I just sit in my corner and drink my half of bitter and watch the sun set. I didn’t used to do this when he was around. The pub was his place. Mine was above the shop, waiting for him to come back. The braggart. I don’t think they ever expected to see me lower myself and come into the pub. I expect they think I’m lonely or something. Well, they can think what they like. I’m not looking for anybody. I’m just having a drink. His best mate is at the bar. He’s a crafty bugger. Always quick to come over, touch his cap, and ask me if I’m all right. Hardly gives me time to get the words out of my mouth (I’m all right, Stan, thanks) and he’s back at the bar, foot up, head occasionally swivelling around to look at me (smile, nod, wink) before he turns back around and starts talking about me with the rest. I could bloody crown him. The hypocrite. It’s Home Guard this evening. In their bloody silly uniforms. One gun between them. Whose turn is it tonight to carry the gun? God help us if this is the best they can muster up to defeat the Hun. A butcher, a baker, a bleeding candlestick-maker. Half a dozen farmers and labourers, a couple of toffs, and a bobby who thinks he’s better than the rest because he’s got a proper uniform. He calls the meeting to order. They look at me as though I’m in the way. I stare back at them. We’ve got to prevent anything from landing in the fields hereabouts. The same conversation as last week. Planes, gliders, airships, ‘owt. Airships? I said Airships, all right. Hazards. We’ve got to put hazards out. Timber, bedsteads, old cars, ranges, anything you can lay your hands on. But that doesn’t include the cricket pitch, does it? We don’t have to put ‘owt on the cricket pitch, do we? It includes the bloody cricket pitch an’ all. But that’s not right. Bugger what’s right, it’s what’s got to be done. I get up, walk to the bar, and order another glass of beer. Some of them stop listening to the bobby and watch me. The bobby pretends nothing is happening. He continues to talk. It doesn’t make any difference that we’ve got Yanks here now. We’ve still got our job of work to do, is that clear? They nod. Dogs. He pulls out a piece of paper from his breast pocket. Latest orders for this branch of the Local Defence Volunteers. A chorus of dissent. Home Guard. We’ve been Home Guard for two bloody years now. Tank traps. We’ve got to prepare barricades on all roads leading into the village. Broken-down carts, tyres, junk of all kind is to be stationed by the side of the road, ready to be shifted into place. We’ll have ditches to dig and we’re to stuff them with barbed wire. I’m to carry a gun in case of parachutists. Also, those of you who own motor vehicles, you’re to immobilize them when parked. Remove the rotor arm or pull out the ignition leads. There’s no chances to be taken, understand? He pauses for a moment, and then scratches his head as though puzzled. I hand the barman elevenpence. Doesn’t seem any point to me, says the bobby. Pleasure motoring’s forbidden anyhow. Nobody’s going anywhere. This is all stuff that they’ve been doing in the south and other parts for a while now. Seems like they forgot about us. He blinks, takes a swig of beer, and then continues in a more formal voice. But now we’ve been told, we’ll act upon it. Any questions? I laugh as I walk back to my seat, but I manage to get a hand to my mouth. I catch it. Any questions? Sensible questions from this bunch I couldn’t imagine. One by one they troop out of the pub. Defeated by their own lack of imagination. I watch the sun go down. And think about Len. Sitting all alone in his cell. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. Then I realize that I don’t really care. Soon there is only myself, the barman, and two of the men in the pub. I close my eyes. Later, I realize that I must have fallen asleep, but they’d chosen to ignore me. I hear one of them whisper, She can’t take her drink. If I had twenty-three shillings I’d buy a bottle of whisky. Just to show them. But I don’t have it. And then I hear their joke. About the new utility knickers. One Yank and they’re off. Their language goes right through me. I pull myself to my feet. Goodnight. Goodnight, I call back.

Our wedding day. Into the Registrar’s office. One of the war brides. Get married quickly for now nobody’s any idea what’s likely to happen. Nobody has. He’s got her up the aisle. Nudge, nudge. On my side, my mother. That’s all. And on his side, Stan. A couple more mates from the village came down to the big town, but I was barely introduced and they didn’t stay. Pathetic, I thought. But then he’s got no parents so I shouldn’t be so snooty. They’d long since gone. He’s only got his mates. I should have been so lucky. I hadn’t even got mates. A wedding. My wedding. It was the only wedding I was likely to have, so I thought I’d better do it right. Len was surprised that I didn’t have anything in my bottom drawer. Not even a tin of pineapple chunks, or a jar of marmalade. I told him, you’re the shopkeeper. My mother, well, she found a way not to cry. Set her face like a mask and just stared straight ahead as if she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Maybe this reminded her of her day. Maybe she didn’t want me to see that she cared. Maybe. Earlier in the month, I’d been with her when the war started. Eleven a.m., Sunday morning. When the National Anthem came on the wireless she stood up. When it finished she sat down and was quiet for a few moments. Then she said that they’d already begun recruiting for Air Raid Wardens. She informed me that this was going to be a civvies’ war. I said nothing. She sighed, and then announced that she’d have to start stocking up. She calculated twenty fags at two shillings, tea at two and six, matches a penny ha’penny. She reckoned up how much she could afford to buy with her savings, and I listened. And then I told her that the date was set. A fortnight hence. I’d be wed. But she didn’t say anything. She just continued doing her sums in the margin of the previous day’s newspaper, using a little stump of pencil that was blunt at one end and chewed at the other.