Waiting For the Day Read online

  The door opened and there were voices. ‘It’s an American,’ whispered Emma Paget. ‘A Yank. How exciting.’

  The man who came politely into the room could almost have been Martin’s older brother. He wore a smooth, olive uniform. He looked around smiling a little, and said: ‘Just like home.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear your name,’ said Geoffrey Paget, following him in.

  ‘Miller,’ said the man. ‘Harry.’ Then: ‘Lieutenant.’

  ‘You must have a drink,’ said Geoffrey as they shook hands. ‘We have sherry or whisky or a glass of wine. Red, white, but not all that good.’

  ‘I’ll take the sherry. It’s not a drink I’m familiar with.’

  ‘An amontillado. We’ve still got some. We’re hoping it will last out the war.’

  He went to the cupboard in the next room. ‘Please sit down,’ said Emma Paget to the American soldier. ‘I’m sorry our weather is so lousy.’

  Her son laughed and Miller accepted a chair and grinned. ‘Lousy, Mother?’ said Martin. ‘Wherever did you get that?’

  ‘Doesn’t it sound right?’ asked Emma. Carefully she repeated: ‘Lousy.’

  ‘Not coming from you.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Well, I thought I’d make the attempt. I saw a picture, a film in Bridgwater. I went with Mrs Timms. It had a gangster chap … Edward Gee …’

  ‘Robinson,’ filled in Miller. ‘Edward G. Robinson. He says “lousy” a lot in his movies.’

  Geoffrey appeared with four neat glasses on an engraved silver tray that they only used at special times. His wife eyed it, glad that she had polished it that week. Miller sat with them in front of the burning logs. They raised their sherry glasses and toasted: ‘Happy Christmas.’

  The American said: ‘I only got here six days ago. This is wonderful.’

  Geoffrey Paget peered into his glass. ‘Thank God we had some left. There’s a British sherry but it’s appalling.’

  The American shook his head: ‘This is fine. But I was meaning this house, the fire …’

  ‘Was there someone with you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I thought there might be somebody in the jeep.’

  Miller said: ‘Oh, sure … It’s the driver. We have some other calls to make …’

  Emma Paget rose. ‘We can’t leave him out there.’

  Her husband stood. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’ll call him,’ said Miller.

  He went towards the door. Martin followed him and opened it, waiting in the hall listening to the voices, until the American returned with a tall black soldier whose eyes showed brightly in the outside dark. He let them in, closed the door and turned in time to see his mother’s astonished expression.

  ‘This is Harcourt,’ introduced Miller. ‘Private Benjamin Harcourt.’

  ‘Junior, sir,’ added the black man and the officer said: ‘Oh, sure, Junior.’

  Geoffrey pulled a chair out from below the table and the young man sat, lofty and awkward, holding his army cap on his knees. ‘I’m sure you’d like a drink,’ said Emma eagerly. ‘A sherry?’

  ‘No, ma’am, thank you, ma’am.’ He glanced at the glasses. ‘I’ve never tried alcohol.’ He smiled honestly. ‘My ma wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Then some coffee. You must have some coffee.’

  The driver glanced briefly at his officer before accepting. Emma went into the kitchen. ‘Where are you from, lieutenant?’ asked Martin.

  ‘I hail from Bismarck,’ said Miller. ‘North Dakota.’

  Martin knew his father would say it: ‘Bismarck? It sounds German.’

  ‘It is. The folks who settled that region, a lot came from Germany. My grandfather and grandmother were German. They changed their name from Müller.’

  ‘And you’re American,’ said Geoffrey, as if to be sure.

  ‘I’m American, sir. That’s why I’m in this army.’

  Geoffrey turned in his chair. ‘And you, young man?’ he asked Harcourt.

  ‘Charleston, South Carolina, sir.’ He grinned expansively. ‘And my folks came from Africa.’

  They joined his laugh uncertainly. Emma brought a cup of coffee from the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid it’s not exactly like American coffee,’ she apologised.

  ‘Wartime coffee, made from burnt acorns,’ said Geoffrey.

  Harcourt believed him. He took a sip and closed his eyes briefly. They waited. ‘Pretty good,’ he lied. ‘Pretty, pretty good for acorn coffee.’ He sipped his way painfully down the cup.

  Miller said: ‘We’ll need to be going. We came to ask if you would care to visit with us at the big house, the Grange, where we are billeted. It’s tomorrow night. None of our men have had a bundle of laughs this Christmas. We’re an advance party. We have to establish a headquarters. There’ll be a lot more personnel arriving soon. Most of us have only just got here from the States.’

  ‘Poor fellows,’ said Emma sincerely. ‘We should have entertained you. We should have enquired but we don’t like to ask in case it’s all secret.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ decided her husband. ‘Boxing Day. In America do you celebrate Boxing Day?’

  Miller grinned. ‘We will tomorrow. We’ll send transportation, about six. I’m trying to visit as many people as I can.’

  Bravely, Harcourt drained his cup. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, examining the bottom of it. ‘I’ll always remember that.’

  They went out into the dark. The Pagets heard Harcourt say as they reached their jeep: ‘Sure was unusual coffee, sir. Acorns.’

  Before Martin closed the door the black soldier hurriedly returned down the short path carrying a container. ‘Ice-cream,’ he said. ‘Does anybody here like ice-cream?’

  Geoffrey’s hands went out swiftly. They tried not to make their thanks too profuse but the moment the jeep had driven away they bore the canister into the house as eagerly as a prize.

  ‘My God, ice-cream,’ muttered Geoffrey. ‘It’s been bloody years.’

  He levered open the top of the container and they all stared at the thick, beautiful, yellow contents.

  ‘Nineteen-forty,’ said Emma, making for the kitchen. ‘August.’

  ‘And this is American,’ said Martin. He had eaten ice-cream in a café in Paris only a month before, a special brand from Holland reserved for German officers.

  His mother returned, hurrying, with three dishes and spoons rattling as if in anticipation. Eagerly, like children, they sat around the table while she served it. The remembered creamy smell rose to their noses. They dug in their spoons and hummed and rolled their eyes at the first rich taste. Then they delved avidly, eventually looking up shamefaced and laughing. Geoffrey had a vanilla layer across his moustache.

  ‘Second helpings?’ asked Emma unnecessarily. ‘It won’t keep long even in the cold pantry. They ate again, eventually sitting back and smiling. ‘Glorious,’ said Geoffrey, wiping his upper lip. ‘God bless the Yanks.’

  Thoughtfully his wife picked up the empty bowls. ‘I’ve never spoken to a black person before,’ she said.

  Chapter Three

  Since the early nineteenth century the Crockbourne Hunt had met in the stable yard of the Red Rover at noon on Boxing Day. Country people came from miles to see it: the steaming horses, the jostling hounds, the huntsmen with their pink coats and faces. The coats were fading now – the master had one elbow patched – the horses had been labouring on the farms, and the pack was diminished. ‘Not killed a fox since afore the war,’ said one of the village men.

  ‘’Bout the time of Munich,’ agreed another. ‘When Chamberlain met old ’Itler, for all the good that did.’

  ‘Give us time, di’n’t it, time to get a bit ready.’

  Spectators came in carts and traps and on quivering bicycles to stand in their thick, shabby coats and their winding scarves and winter hats, their breath clouding the air. It was a day of heavy hoar-frost, hanging pink from trees glowing in the low, muffled sun. No hunting horn was sounded because, like the ringing of church bells, the
blowing of trumpets had been prohibited under the Defence of the Realm regulations and, even though the law had now been altered, the horn itself had since been lost.

  ‘I wonder if we’d be doing this if the Germans had come,’ said Margaret. Her small sons were with other children giggling at the horses discharging their cloudy droppings. A bent man appeared and with difficulty scraped the rounded pieces with a coal shovel into a bucket. ‘For my rhubarb,’ he told the children, displaying the steaming contents. ‘We ’ave custard on ours,’ said a village man. It was a familiar joke but the people laughed, even some of the children.

  Familiarly Margaret’s hands went out to Martin and his to her. ‘I think the Germans would rather shoot things than hunt,’ he said.

  ‘Jews,’ she replied. She looked guilty and said: ‘I didn’t mean it to sound so glib.’ She added quickly: ‘Are you going up to the Americans’ party at the Grange tonight?’

  ‘We certainly are,’ said Martin. ‘It’ll be a change from pontoon.’

  ‘We play whist,’ she sighed. ‘Every Boxing Day since I was five.’

  He said: ‘Where is your husband?’

  ‘In Italy, with the Eighth Army.’ She halted. ‘That’s what I tell people, anyway. But I’m lying. He’s a conscientious objector. He doesn’t approve of fighting.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘But you’re prepared to fight. Not him. Anyway, he’s in a reserved occupation, he’s a schoolteacher.’

  ‘There have to be schoolteachers,’ he said. ‘Nine out of ten people in this country are civilians.’

  ‘Counting the women and children,’ she said. ‘Clifford is quite open. He could say he’s in a reserved occupation, but he owns up to being a conscientious objector.’

  ‘It takes a sort of courage to do that,’ he said.

  Her eyelids lowered. ‘Men go to prison for it,’ she said. ‘He was quite prepared for that. The tribunal asked him ridiculous questions like: “If a Hun were about to bayonet your sister, would you stop him?” But he said he didn’t have a sister. They asked him about his religious convictions and he said he didn’t have any of those either, he was simply against war and killing. In the end they gave up on him. As he was in a reserved occupation anyway they probably thought that was a good way out.’

  The hunt began to stir; the master raised his hand, gave a call and they trotted out of the yard in a lazy cloud of steam. ‘Don’t look as if they could even frighten a fox, do they?’ said Martin.

  ‘Worn out, weary,’ she nodded. ‘Like the rest of us, the whole country.’

  ‘It’s been long enough,’ he said. ‘Four years and the rest.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to tonight. It’s ages since I’ve been to a party. I may get horribly drunk. I may go off with a Yank.’

  ‘So where is your husband now?’

  ‘He’s got elderly parents. He’s with them. It’s better that way for both of us. My father, with his stories of the First World War, can’t stand Clifford anyway. He’d prefer me married to a gallant guards officer.’ She smiled wearily. ‘He believes the only good German is a dead one.’

  ‘A lot of people do – especially fathers,’ he said.

  At a quarter to six they were ready, sitting by the low fire with their coats on their laps. Martin had changed into uniform. His mother had washed and ironed his air force shirt. Geoffrey Paget leaned across and fingered the edge of the greatcoat. ‘They do give you a good coat these days,’ he said. ‘And shoes.’

  The knock on the door came briskly. A round-faced American soldier with a pinkish complexion stood beneath the porch. ‘You folks all ready for the party?’ He saw they were. ‘That’s fine. We’ll all have such a good time. Forget the war.’

  They followed him into the darkness. ‘Good heavens,’ Emma said mildly. ‘They’ve sent a whole lorry.’

  There was a semblance of a moon over the truck’s tarpaulin. ‘Sorry, people,’ said the GI. ‘It’s all we could use. Unless maybe a Sherman tank.’

  There was a short ladder and they climbed, the older pair with difficulty, into the dark back of the vehicle. There were laughing shadows along benches and as they felt for seats there were greetings and jokes. A torch shone around. Humphrey Timms, the chairman of the parish council, was wearing evening dress with a stiff wing collar. The doctor, Ralph Macaulay, wore his kilt. Emma, as she climbed in, had put her hand on his naked knee. ‘Oh, so sorry, doctor,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a fine knee,’ he laughed.

  The American soldier came to the rear. ‘Everybody aboard okay?’

  He startled them with a springing leap like an acrobat from the ground and over the metal tailboard. He tumbled inside and sat on the floor in the dark. ‘Berlin, here I come,’ he said.

  They joined in the joke and, encouraged, he produced a torch and shone it on his own face, round and young, surmounted by a cropped fringe of ginger hair. ‘I’m Wal,’ he said. ‘Private First Class Walter Barrows, US Army. Pleased to meet y’all.’

  Hands reached out and shook his. His torch caught the starched shirt front of Humphrey Timms and after a surprised jolt moved on to the thin, defiant knees beneath the tartan of Dr Macaulay.

  The American breathed audibly. ‘That’s cute,’ he said. ‘That’s real cute.’

  Betty Forsyth, who had lived in the village for eighty years, began to ask him something and he shone his torch towards her. She covered her eyes and he took the beam hurriedly away. ‘Were you able to see the meet of our hunt today?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Wal. ‘We hunt where I come from, ma’am. Georgia. We go coon hunting. With dogs.’

  There was an uncertain silence. Then Betty asked carefully: ‘What exactly does coon hunting entail?’

  Wal said: ‘It’s not easy. That racoon is a mean critter.’

  Everyone laughed.

  Standing half a mile from the village in its two hundred acres, Crockbourne Grange was one of the stately houses requisitioned by the British government on the first working morning of the war. On that Monday, 4 September 1939, as soon as the civil servants, with their uniform bowler hats and umbrellas, had marched with new resolve into their Whitehall offices, orders, plans and contingencies which had been in readiness for months, even years, were energetically, and without a second thought, put into operation. Mansions with expansive grounds, schools, hotels, sports clubs and some golf courses were appropriated under the emergency regulations, many standing empty for months before a use was found for them, if it ever was. Seaside hotels were evacuated of their guests, some elderly and with no other home.

  ‘When they came back, just for a day, and when her saw the state of the place,’ Wilks the taxi-driver related, ‘Lady Marion were lost for words. And she weren’t often that, sir.’

  Lieutenant Miller listened to him in the high-ceilinged hall. A piled wood fire was crackling in the marble fireplace. Those villagers who lived close enough to come on foot were just beginning to arrive. The American peered up into the recesses and shadows. ‘Must have been some place to live.’

  ‘Got very dusty,’ said Mrs Wilks. Her husband added: ‘Four ’undred years the family been ’ere.’

  ‘By the end of next year maybe they’ll be able to come back,’ said Miller.

  Wilks was tight in his best pre-war suit. ‘Never come back now, sir,’ he said. ‘Sir George died in Plymouth in the raids. Bomb dropped while they were at their tea, and he choked on a sausage. They got ’im to ’ospital but there was a lot of casualties from the bombing and by the time they could deal with him he was a goner. All bread these wartime sausages.’

  ‘And ’im a peer of the realm,’ said Mrs Wilks sadly.

  ‘His family can come back here, can’t they?’ said Miller. ‘The place will be put right.’

  ‘Flats,’ sniffed Wilks. ‘Turned into flats this will be. You just see.’ He looked a touch discomfited. ‘Well, you won’t see, will you, sir, because you’ll be back ’ome in your own country. But that’s what wil
l ’appen. Flats. The eldest boy Rupert, he died in France, beginning of ’ostilities, and there’s a girl, Rosemary, I ’member her when she went to school. I used to pick ’er up from the station when she came back for ’olidays. She’s far away, safe in New Zealand, nice and quiet. Whether she’ll ever come back, I doubt. This country won’t be the same again. Never.’

  The walls of the hallway were stark; the paintings had been removed, the big chandelier was gone. The Americans had lit a Christmas tree with a few lights in a corner. Three young soldiers began to assemble a drum-kit. From outside came the sound of heavy wheels on gravel.

  ‘The trucks,’ said Miller, making to go out. He shook hands with Wilks and his wife. ‘Thanks for the history.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of that,’ said the taxi-driver. ‘’Istory.’ He frowned at the bare walls. ‘But we may ’ave come to the end of it.’

  Four US Army trucks were on the weedy gravel of the drive. Some pre-war peacocks in the park still remained, and they began wailing.

  Martin helped his mother from the steps set against the tailboard of the lorry. His father descended and stood on the grave, trying to survey the front of the house. There were splits and slits in the blackout blinds. ‘Jerry would see this easy from twenty thousand feet,’ said fat Bertie Cook.

  ‘You tell ’em, Bert,’ said Mrs Cook. ‘You’re an air-raid warden.’

  ‘Rescue Section,’ he said, as if she did not know. ‘The Yanks don’t know about war, nothing, not yet.’

  ‘If they don’t know, ’ow do they reckon to win it?’

  ‘Cos there’s more of ’em,’ he said.

  The villagers, in their ancient coats and heavy hats, entered the Grange with anticipation. After Dunkirk, when the Germans were expected to land next morning, it had been a hurried assembly base for the shreds of the British Army escaped from France. Their tents had filled the grounds that summer. It had been hot and the Germans never came. As the weeks went on towards a bronze autumn, the sunburnt soldiers helped with the harvest, played football and cricket, and swam in the river like scouts or schoolboys in camp. Later, part of a fresh division, new from Canada and eager to fight, had been quartered there; they had played baseball and had filled the Red Rover pub and the church. Many had left their bodies on the French shore after the blundering amphibious raid on Dieppe in 1942. The Crockbourne people never knew who had died or who had lived but they remembered them.