Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

And then the wedding was over, and we were off to Wales for a week in a small hotel on Anglesey that seemed populated with rich ladies who were already hiding from the war. They always dressed properly, with earrings and lined skirts. They even dressed for breakfast. Then came their morning walk, then lunch, gin and tonic, and an afternoon nap. Then cards. Dinner. Sherry. Bridge. They always stood for the National Anthem on the wireless come evening. I’m sure they all harboured a secret desire to salute. The anchor of their lives had prematurely dropped. I watched them watching me and Len. All right, so he might not be up to much in your eyes, but he’s decent and honest. Or so I thought. They didn’t talk to me. Sometimes they forgot themselves and nodded as they spread some jam on their crustless toast. I looked closely. The backs of their hands were mottled with purple veins. I think they knew that I was jealous of them. How could they not know? Why shouldn’t I be jealous of them? They had money. They’d found a way to hide from the world. They had each other. And there I was. I had Len. I had to train him not to sleep with his socks on. To undo his shoelaces before he took off his shoes. To do up his cuffs instead of just rolling them back. He was thirty going on seven. I liked it when they forgot themselves and sometimes nodded. But when they saw Len I noticed that they simply turned away. I wondered what they knew that they weren’t telling me. But I couldn’t ask. Len and I were supposed to be together. A team against the rest of the world. Man and wife. Him and me. I couldn’t side with them.

We got lost on the way back up. Len had borrowed a motor car from one of his farmer friends, — but there was only enough petrol to drive us there and back. Petrol had already gone on coupons. We couldn’t even go for a spin around Anglesey. So we parked the car up by the hotel and left it. Until we were ready to come back, that is. It was like dusting off an old friend and readying yourself to make an escape. We left early in the afternoon. It’s not enough time, Len. Shouldn’t we have left earlier? He looked at me. That ‘woman, you’re talking daft’ look of his. Very endearing, I must say. Enough to make you feel like you’d no right to be on this earth. Two hours later, he got lost. Just like I knew he would. It had been a bit touch and go getting down to Wales, but somehow we’d got lucky and made it. Len had pointed out (in his defence) that all the street and road signs had been taken down. In case of invasion. It’ll help the Hun. But coming back up our luck ran out. I thought you said you knew the way. I do know the way, I’ve just got a little mixed up, that’s all. A little mixed up seemed to me to be putting it mildly. But there was no point in arguing. No point whatsoever. As the day set around us, we had no idea of where we were. There were slogans in all the papers about saving petrol. They read: Is your journey really necessary? I’d begun to wonder this myself, honeymoon or no honeymoon. Next village, I’ll stop and ask somebody, he said. And then I noticed a light on in a small cottage, and Len pulled over. He got out and left me in the car. I saw a woman open the door. They spoke, Len pointed, she looked, I smiled politely. I hated him for doing this to me. Making me feel helpless and at somebody’s mercy. Me, I didn’t want to be anybody’s charity case. Especially not when I was supposed to be with my husband. The man who said that he would protect and honour me. Some joke. Well, Len came back and said we weren’t far wrong but we couldn’t go anywhere because of the blackout. I said nothing. I just looked at him. I let him know what I thought. And I reckon he understood all right. But he didn’t say anything except, come on, let’s get our stuff. She’s got a spare room and she says that we can have it for the night. Len laughed. Then he went on. I think she’s relieved I wasn’t the warden. I looked at Len but still said nothing. Reduced to being a bloody beggar. Her husband was already away. Left her and a three-year-old daughter behind. The girl’s in bed, she said as she buttered us some bread and asked us if we wanted our eggs turned over. No, mine’s fine as it is, said Len, his feet under the table. It’s easy to get lost, she assured me. Don’t bother, I thought. I already know he’s a bloody fool. And then Len did it. He fished into his inside pocket like some bloody spiv. Here, he said. I’d like you to have these. No, we’d like you to have these, he said. We appreciate what you’ve done for us. And he gave her some coupons like she was a common tart. The look on the woman’s face. Well, I nearly died of embarrassment, but I was learning. This was Len. His way of dealing with people. That night I couldn’t so much look at him, let alone let him touch me. No, Len. What’s the matter? Nothing. Is it because we’re in a strange house? Goodnight, Len. I hope this isn’t going to become regular. Goodnight, Len. Goodnight, but I’m not right pleased. Goodnight, Len.

When we got back the evacuees had arrived. A dozen boys and girls of a sensible age standing in the church hall. Gas masks in a cardboard box, an identification tag around their necks, and carrying a bundle of personal belongings. They huddled together, their feet swimming in big shoes that were clearly badly scuffed hand-me-downs. Some of them looked as if they had never had a decent meal in their lives. Most of them had already wolfed their emergency rations. A block of chocolate, a tin of corned beef, and a tin of condensed milk. Amongst the grown-ups, confusion and resentment reigned in equal proportion. Why us? None of the other villages had been designated as reception areas. Before us stood a dozen frightened children, the farmers eyeing the husky lads, the girls and scrawny boys close to tears. And then a decision was reached that while it was still light we should send them back. Somebody whispered that all these children wet the bed. That half the mattresses in England were awash, and that at eight and six per child it wasn’t really worth it. I looked across at Len, who firmly shook his head. Not even one of them, he said. They can bloody well go back to where they come from. We’re not in the charity business. At four o’clock I noticed that the church bells didn’t ring. It was a decree. No more church bells because of the war. The children stood in silence.

Today an officer came into the shop wearing dark glasses. He seemed a bit surprised that a bell rang when he opened the door. Excuse me, ma’am. He took his hat off. He should have taken his glasses off as well. I wanted to say to him, it’s not sunny out, you know. So you can take them off, you know. Unless you’ve got something to hide, that is. I’ve come to talk to you a little about the service men we’ve got stationed in your village. Oh yes, I thought. It took you nearly three months to get here, did it? Well get on with it then. I’m all ears. A lot of these boys are not used to us treating them as equals, so don’t be alarmed by their response. What are they going to do, I thought, throw themselves on the floor before us if we smile? ‘They’re not very educated boys and they’ll need some time to adjust to your customs and your ways, so I’m just here to request your patience. I see. He relaxes now. Would you like a smoke? No, I don’t. Mind if I do? No, go ahead. So he does. Husband out? Yes, he’s out, I say. What business is it of yours? I think. Smug bugger. That’s what I think of him, standing there in his uniform, telling tales on his fellow soldiers behind their backs. Behind his glasses. Why did you send them to us then? I ask. Why not to some other place? No, no, he says. There’s no problem. We’re not sending you a problem or anything. It’s just that they’re different. We want you to know that you’ll have to be a little patient, that’s all. I smile at him and he smiles back. His white teeth, his confident pose, pulling at his cigarette, lazily blowing out smoke. He really thinks he’s something.