Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

Their faces were drawn and defeated. They looked like they’d seen hell. I couldn’t believe that these were our boys, in shirtsleeves and with no uniforms. Boys is right. That’s what they looked like perched up there on their jeeps and in the back of the trucks. They were starving. Len and I offered some of them tea, but they waved their hands and politely refused. I thought to myself, well, Hitler might as well just come marching through now. We better start learning German. Most of them were too ashamed to even look you in the eye. Our heroes returning from Dunkirk. And yet, all over the papers, they’re still trying to tell us that one Englishman is worth two Germans, four French, twenty Arabs, forty Italians, and any number of Indians. I thought, that fat bastard Churchill will no doubt turn it into some kind of victory. He’ll be on the wireless again tonight, huffing and puffing, and Len will be lapping it all up like a — bloody silly little spaniel. If Churchill tells me one more time that this war is being fought for freedom and true principles of democracy I’ll scream. But, as I looked on at them, I thought to myself that this war can’t go on for much longer if this is the state we’re in. That much was clear for anybody to see. It might as well be the white flag now. We’re going to lose England. We’ve legally placed ourselves, our property and our services at the disposal of His Majesty, and I for one don’t expect to get anything back. And sure enough this evening he was on the wireless, the stuck-up pig. I wanted to turn it off, but Len likes to listen. So I went out for a walk. One of the LDVs flashed a torch in my face and asked me who goes there. I wanted to say to the stupid sod, it’s me, Hitler. I was hoping you wouldn’t catch me because I was planning on invading tonight, starting right here in this village. But now you’ve buggered up my plans, you crafty devil. Oh, it’s just you, Mrs Kitson. I wandered back and sat with Len, who told me that we always start badly. That we English lose every battle but the last. He’d believed the official story behind the looks on those lads’ faces. I was getting good at learning the difference between the official stories and the evidence before my eyes. And even when there was no evidence, I was learning what to disbelieve. And so I sat with Len and began to swear out loud. What’s the matter with you? Nothing, Len. Nothing. I’m just fine.

I’ve been wondering about him ever since the dance. I didn’t think he was letting me down by not showing up at the shop. I’m not that presumptuous. After all, we only danced a few times and then I was passed around. It was only fair. There wasn’t enough of us so we had to be shared. It turned into a ‘Ladies, excuse me’ dance, which meant anyone could cut in. At the end of the dance we all left together, so there was no question of anyone walking out with anyone. They brought us our coats, and gave us presents. An orange, a pack of cigarettes, and some candy, as they call it. Chocolate is what we call it, and for most of us it was like being given lumps of gold. The Yanks really have no idea of what it means. I think we were maybe a bit rude, like kids, for once they’d given us the chocolate we all muttered a hasty goodnight. Everyone just wanted to escape with the chocolate in case the Yanks changed their minds. The next morning I woke up and thought about him. I wondered if they’d be having another dance for us, or if they’d decided that one was enough. I decided that all dances should start that way, with me and him gliding across the floor and breaking the atmosphere. That was three weeks ago. I have a feeling that they thought me a bit above myself. But still, I have nice, if awkward, memories. But today everything is fine again, for he came into the shop with a big smile upon his face and a bunch of daffodils. He told me that he didn’t know what we called these things. He’d never seen them before, for they didn’t have them where he came from. But he thought he’d like me to have them. He dresses so smartly, and he doesn’t chew gum when he talks. Not like the officers and the others. I don’t know why they think it’s so clever to do this. It’s vulgar. Anybody could tell them that. His hair is well combed, with a sort of razor parting on the left. It’s short, like thin black wool, but he puts some oil or something on it because it shines in the light. Quite bright, actually. Here, take them. He handed the flowers to me and I thanked him. I looked for a jam jar to put them into and he lit a cigarette. Excuse me, do you mind? he asked. Of course I don’t mind. I don’t say this, but I hope he understands. I just shook my head a few times. I’ll be back in a sec, I said. You don’t mind watching the shop, do you? I went out the back and found ajar. I wondered if I should ask him. I didn’t know why I was even going through this for it seemed obvious to me that if I didn’t ask him then nothing was going to happen. I took a peek back through into the shop and saw him just standing there like a spare part, not knowing what to do. And then I came back in with the daffodils standing proudly in a jar. I just asked him outright. Would you like to go for a walk? He looked confused. As though I was trying to trick him into something. A walk? Or perhaps you’re not allowed to do this. To go off limits, or whatever you call it. Is that it? If so, I’m sorry for asking, but it’s just that I thought a walk would be nice. Still, it doesn’t matter if you’re not able to do it. No, he says. But maybe Sunday. I don’t think we get any recreation again until Sunday. Would that be all right? We get most of the day. I looked at him and realized that Sunday it would have to be. We sometimes go to your pub. It seems a nice place. Most of the guys like the English pub, although your beer still tastes a little strange to us. But you do like it? I asked quickly. Yeah sure, we like it. We drink it. There’s nothing else to drink. He laughed as he said this. I don’t mean to be rude, he assured me. Look. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got duties to take care of. Sunday, I said. Sunday, he said. And that was him gone, leaving me with the daffodils.

I can’t figure out if Len is trying to impress me by joining the Local Defence Volunteers (or Look, Duck, Vanish, as people call them — they even call themselves this). Or maybe Dunkirk has secretly shaken him up. An army instructor came to one of their meetings in the pub. Taught them the German for ‘Hands up!’ Showed them how to spot different types of aircraft, how to handle a rifle and bayonet. Last Sunday, he took them out into the woods and they used grass sods as grenades. They’re planning campaigns. Making decisions. Do we march east to protect Sam Smith’s brewery, or north to guard Joshua Tetley’s brewery? But Len is getting bored. He’s younger than most of them. I think it’s making him feel guilty. Reminding him that he should be in the real army. He’ll soon stop going. LDV service is compulsory, but nobody really bothers that much by us. There isn’t really anyone to check up. We’re off the beaten track. They’re more bothered by those dodging proper military service. Len’s black lung is an embarrassment, to him, but it’s a genuine handicap. He’s better than some of his mates, who are skiving off with all kinds of made-up illnesses and ailments. Now they’ve got something to be embarrassed about, not Len.

I was serving two Land Army girls. We all heard the shot. I ran straight from the shop up the street, hair flying this way, legs that. I knew she wouldn’t tell him. Straight into the house and there she was, lying on the floor, blood spreading. And Tommy screaming. And that bullying bastard sitting there as bold as brass with the rifle in his hands and tears running down his cheeks. He kept repeating himself. Get the police, I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. Sandra had her eyes open and was staring into mid-air as if nothing was the matter. I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. As if she couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. The thing I noticed about him, though, was his uniform. It seemed odd that he should be sitting there in his uniform. Back from the war to kill. His wife. I told her to write the bloody letter, but she would have to do it her way, wouldn’t she. And look where it landed her. Somebody must have already called for the coppers, because it didn’t take them long to arrive. When they did, he just got up and went with them. One of the coppers put a blanket over Sandra, like she was asleep. Then he told me that there was no point in my sticking around. I might as well get along, hadn’t I. He offered to escort me (his words) out of the house. Somebody had already taken Tommy.