Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

Today he came into the shop. I couldn’t help myself, I let out a little scream of delight. He didn’t want to buy anything. He just wanted to talk. He told me how embarrassed he’d been in the back of the jeep. I said that he had no reason to be embarrassed. After all, I was the one who should be embarrassed. I was the one who’d got us into the mess to start with. I said, If I’d been keeping a check on the time then it would never have happened in the first place. We fought over this and then fell silent when an old woman came in for her fags. She looked in the direction of my friend, but said nothing beyond ‘ta’ as she left. For a while the noise of the doorbell echoed in the silence. It registered a change of tone for the whole conversation. My friend lowered his voice and said how grateful he was that I had taken the trouble to come and help him out. I decided to close up the shop. Well, it was almost time anyway. I turned the sign around and drew the latch. Once I’d done this he relaxed. He told me that the military police hadn’t taken him back to the camp. After they dropped me off, they’d driven him down the road to a clearing and told him to get out of the jeep. And then they beat him with their sticks. He said they beat him so hard that he thought his kidneys were going to burst. I closed my mouth, which I now realized had been hanging open. When they took him back to the camp, they’d made a report that said that he’d been drunk and difficult. As a result, the commanding officer had decided that he was to be confined to the camp until further notice. I was horrified when he told me this, but he seemed to take it as a matter of course. He told me that the army only liked to use them for cleaning and the like. I asked him if he’d like to come to the pub with me for a drink. I wanted him to continue talking to me. I wanted him to try to understand that I needed to know more about him, otherwise I would keep getting upset and just make more mistakes. I was bound to if I didn’t get any help. He asked me if I thought it was proper that he should go into the pub with me. I looked at him and told him that there was nothing wrong with his going into the pub with me. Why should there be? Fine, then we’ll go to the pub, he said. I locked the door behind us. I noticed that there was nobody on the streets. I expected everybody was having their tea. It was that time of the day. And in the pub, there was just the odd old boy. Nobody, really. He ordered a pint and a half of bitter. The landlord liked them. The Americans. I think he had a soft spot for them, wanted them to feel at home. And once they realized that the beer was always going to taste flat and warm, and that sometimes you would have to drink out of a jar if he ran out of glasses, then they were all right about everything. He even laughed when one of them handed him back a pint and told him to pour it back into the horse that it came from. And I liked the landlord. I’d noticed that after he’d been in the cellar to tap a new cask, he had a habit of taking a quiet smoke in the back parlour, as opposed to the public bar. It was as though he needed time to himself to collect his thoughts. I liked that about him. And then he’d come through into the public and knock out his empty pipe. Travis brought the pint and a half over to the seat in the corner. I told him that from here we’d soon be able to watch the sun go down.

Once back at the shop, he sat with me upstairs. And I offered him tea. Hot tea, as he insisted on calling it. And he said very little. It had already been said. I asked him if he was hungry, but he just shook his head. I’m not much of a cook, so that solved that. I realized that he probably didn’t want to listen to the wireless, and I couldn’t blame him. So we were happy with the silence, and the occasional comment. It wasn’t too difficult or too awkward. If we had something to say, it was said. And that was the end of it. It grew dark outside. There was no noise, as ever. Across the room I saw the framed photograph of Len and me on our wedding day. Turned down. Its face buried in a thin layer of dust on top of the chest of drawers. And then Travis got to his feet. I have to go now. I have to get back. I’m sorry if I’ve taken up too much of your time. I just wanted to say thank you. Did I ever — he changes tack now — did I ever show you pictures of my home town? Or pictures of my folks? He must know that he never did. It’s not the type of thing that a man would do for a virtual stranger and then forget about. And certainly not this man. I was already sure of that. No, I said. But I would love to see them. Okay, he said. I’ll bring them along. Next time. He saluted. I laughed. And then he reached out his hand for me to shake. I’ll walk back with you, I said. He gave a little laugh, as though nervous. Now don’t you worry, he said. Little danger of my getting lost. Although, never know who you’re gonna run into on the roads. Military Police. Anyone. His hand was beginning to look foolish, so I took it and held it between both of mine. And I surprised myself, for I squeezed it. Gently. Then he leaned forward and kissed my hand. Thank you, I said. Thank you, he said. The lights were out. I could see his eyes gleaming. He wrestled his hand out from between mine. I wanted to catch it like a slippery fish, but he was too nimble for me. I have to go now, he said. I’ll be fine by myself. I’m sorry. I smiled. I knew he meant it. I knew he did. He was sorry that he had to go. After I closed the door behind him, I went back upstairs. I picked up the cup and saucer that he had been drinking out of, and I ran my finger around the rim of the cup. A little tea stain. And then I saw the mark in the settee where he’d been sitting. The room smelt of him. A good smell. I could smell him on me. I wasn’t going to be alone again. As long as I didn’t open any windows or doors. As long as I didn’t wash anything. Then I could make the smell last a little longer.

Yesterday they arrested Mussolini. The BBC announcer said that Hitler’s ‘utensil’ had fallen off the Axis shelf. I was sitting in the pub by myself when the news came through. The landlord got out the monthly ration of whisky to celebrate what he said looked like the end. He offered me some, but I said no. Then he said that the Yanks would probably have to go over to Italy to clean up. He said he’d miss them. I felt a door closing inside of me. I looked up at him. He asked me again if I wanted a whisky. I nodded. He knew what he’d said. At least I have to give him that. It was still bright out, so I walked home the long way round to give myself some time to think. As I passed the church hall it occurred to me just how difficult it is to come by cosmetics, nail files, hair grips and the like. I’d never had much reason to fret over them before. Such things had never mattered. But now I found myself thinking that I could kill for a bar of scented soap.

There are some girls from the town who seem to have no shame. Some factory girls, some plain common tarts, mainly bottle-blondes, all of them with legs like Grecian columns. They’ve started to frequent the camp. Apparently, some of them even spend the night there, and they go far beyond furtive clutching. He told me that nylons, nail varnish, perfume and the like, all these things that they can get from the PX, this stuff is known to them as ‘shack-up’ material. He said this is why he’d never offered me any, but clearly his mates weren’t so fussy. It appears that some girls will do anything for goods or provisions. Since soap and sweets went on coupons, things must have got worse. I heard a woman in the shop today saying that there are some of them up there at the camp who’ll let loose for a fresh orange. She went on. After all, you can only eat so much Spam. She said, These days sex is about the only thing that isn’t rationed. She reckoned that this went some way towards accounting for the diseases that they say are going around.