She's Leaving Home (35 page)

‘Pity this base’s such a dump. It’s seen plenty of action in the past but now it’s not much more than a glorified storehouse.’ Michael had walked around to select sights to show Helen. His spirits had fallen at the seedy emptiness.

‘Its great days were in the Berlin airlift, I was told,’ said Andy. ‘It had the longest runway in the UK and could overhaul nine Skymaster aircraft in every twenty-four-hour turnaround. That’s some record. But the whole lot could close next year.’

‘Really?’ Michael was not entirely surprised. The air of redundancy, less apparent in the busier sections such as the canteen, was pervasive the further he had trudged from the centre.

‘Stands to reason, once our key squadron moved to Alconbury and others to Mildenhall in Suffolk. Look, it used to be perfect to land men and
materiel
from the States in Liverpool, but now we can fly the lot in big transports straight to their destinations. Time’s moved on.’ Andy Newman took a long swallow of his beer. He enjoyed playing the expert with more recently arrived men. ‘And far less gets lost in transit, or disappears at the docks. The number of times you hear about things falling off the back of a lorry! It’s a national joke. Not that anybody could say so in public, of course.’

‘It’s not a bad spot, though. I like the locals.’

‘Oh, sure.’ Andy chuckled. Michael’s disappearances into Liverpool and the tiny photo of a pretty dark-haired girl pinned up in his locker were already common knowledge, and hardly unusual. ‘Always made us welcome. In the fifties, legend has it, one in every three unaccompanied US airmen here married a girl from Warrington or nearby. And plenty left behind unwanted baggage when they went home – illegitimate children. But that happens near every army base, I guess.’

‘What’ll happen to it, d’you reckon?’

‘I’d say it’d be handed over to the RAF. And we’d be sent forward – Wiesbaden, probably. Or, if the Indo-China theatre doesn’t calm down, Saigon, Lord help us. Unless the French government get tricky and carry out their threat to withdraw from NATO. If General de Gaulle serves notice on Uncle Sam, we’d have to clear off our bases on French territory. Then maybe Burtonwood’d be useful.’

They had been joined by ‘CC’ Cohen who brought over a plate of bread and cheese.

‘I bet in the old days they had kosher food,’ CC grumbled as he nibbled the cheese.

‘I bet they didn’t – on active duty who has time for such niceties?’ Newman teased. ‘Anyway, aren’t you allowed to break any dietary law in order to save life?’

‘It’d save my life if I had a nice bit of my uncle Babar’s
wursbt
right now,’ CC answered cheerfully. ‘I wrote my mother that I was dying for it and she put one in a parcel with books and soap and such for me. But it stank so much by the time it got to the dockside that the Customs threw it out. They didn’t realise it’s supposed to be a bit strong – garlic and that.’

The two others held their noses in mock horror, then Andy tentatively raised the issue both had in mind. ‘How’s this date of yours, Mike? You still planning to show her off to us?’

Levison nodded. ‘Sunday. But the idea is to show us off to her. Any suggestions? I thought the control tower – you can see for miles – and the workshops and hangars are impressive.’

CC put his head shrewdly on one side. He wondered how devoted Michael, whom he liked, was about the young lady from Harold House. Her family was respectable – that much had been obvious from the glimpse at the Rembrandt. The fact that she had introduced himself but not Michael had told him much. It grieved CC that a girl of his own faith was to be courted by a Christian; he felt some obligation to keep a watching brief.

‘You could try serenading her. D’you know the song the Yanks here used to sing in the forties? Listen to this –’ And CC broke out in a yodel to a tune derived from
No one can love like an Irishman:

He waved his arms and conducted the chorus:

As his companions urged him on, CC paused for breath and explained, ‘There are dozens of 
verses, much in the same vein – they get worse…

‘More, more!’ came from Newman. Michael was laughing and keeping time with his palm on the table.

CC obliged: ‘It finishes:

The ETO was the European Theater of Operations. The three linked arms and warbled the last lines barber-shop style:

‘Oh God, I can’t start crooning crap like that to her,’ gasped Michael as he wiped his eyes. ‘She’ll think we’re nuts. And idle loafers with one sole thing on our minds.’

‘And haven’t you?’ Newman was inquisitive. ‘She’s quite a looker. Kinda cute – no, demure. But no English rose with those wicked black eyes. Wassername – Helen?’ He gave Michael a dig with his elbow. ‘Anyhow, what else is there – wedding bells?’

‘No, of course not. She’s much too young.’

‘So – how young? Eighteen? Nineteen?’

‘Seventeen. Nearly. She hasn’t graduated from high school yet.’

‘Baby-snatcher,’ Newman began to tease, but was warned off by a shake of Michael’s head. He might chuckle about the ditty but would brook no remarks about Helen.

‘Girls marry at seventeen in the Chassidic community,’ said CC plaintively. ‘My sister was furious. She wanted to go to college but our grandfather the rebbe said education was wasted on a girl. She should focus on bringing up a family.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She gave in, naturally. Got three infants under three now. My nephew and nieces! I’m a very proud uncle. You wanna see some pictures?’

Michael cleared his tray and left the two men together. He did not want to risk further joshing from them about Helen. Partly because he had scarcely dared to sort out in his own mind how he felt about her; but mainly because he feared his image of her might be sullied by the casually lewd comments that would invariably follow. He strolled out into the late sunshine, found a quiet corner and sat down, with his back to the warm corrugated-iron of the shed.

When he thought about her, which was often, it was with a surge of affection of a kind normally reserved for his parents and brother or for a special buddy. Most girls were in a different class and at times operated like a separate species: you wouldn’t reveal to them any deep emotions.
With them, an extra layer of skin intervened to prevent vulnerability. You didn’t get close. You didn’t want to. You didn’t need to.

But Helen was not like that. She didn’t go about with a band of twittery girls. She had an air of solitary composure which he found fresh and intriguing. He was fairly sure she did not share views about him with her friends or anyone else, and that she maintained a cool silence if asked. It wasn’t merely that her co-religionists would strongly disapprove, which he knew about though found hard to grasp: that imposed secrecy. It was also a natural reserve, as if Helen would automatically keep things hidden. Perhaps she preferred it that way. For all her youth she came over as a private person, a quality that made her appear more mature, more intensely interesting. Yet she was not limp:
strong-willed
, definitely, or he wouldn’t have been in the least attracted. He longed to get to the heart of her, to find what made her pulses race, what inspired her. Such was her intelligence and thoughtfulness that he was certain that in her company would come revelations, simply expressed maybe but none the less significant, which might serve him well in life too. She had something to teach him. How very strange.

His deliberations made him frown in surprise. Normally when he pictured a girl the first element that sprang to mind was physical – her appearance, the sensation of her body, how she moved, how she smelled. How she scored in the sack, if truth were told. Like many boys of his generation (particularly American) he’d never bothered much with a girl’s personality unless it got in the way, and seldom considered her brains – though anyone totally moronic would be ruled out. Yet with Helen he was drawn by something magic about her, not physical. Almost spiritual. It made him wonder what he was getting into.

He felt a burden of responsibility, of that he was sure, which he had not experienced with any other female. To her substantially, and to himself. It was easily justified by her age. More than that: from remarks she had made he was fairly certain he was her first real beau, whereas he for sure was no beginner.

It would have been hard to attend a typical American high school in the late fifties and emerge a virgin, he reflected with a grin. At least, for a full-blooded male. Certain girls were known to be extra friendly. Co-operative. Competent, even with the fumbles of virgins like himself.

He had been fourteen and already nearly six feet tall. The guys on the junior football team had decided it was time he became a man. They were sick of telling jokes whose nuances their gangly quarterback didn’t grasp, an ignorance evident when he snickered in the wrong places. At the memory Michael smiled. So the captain had made a deal with Kiki, already a major, who was known to boast how many times a night she could do it. How many of the team could she cope with? If she made it to fifteen there’d be a cash bonus and her reputation would soar.

It was arranged that he would go in at number three. Another rookie would go after him. More like baseball than football, he’d kidded at the time, but his knees had been weak from mingled excitement and terror.

So Kiki, blonde hair piled on the top of her head, gingham skirt a-flounce, had met them in the clubhouse two hours after practice ended. Her heady perfume mingled confusingly with the prevailing stink of wintergreen, but her smile was wide and genuine. She wiggled tantalisingly into the treatment room carrying several towels and a jar of Vaseline. After a moment came the call: ‘Let’s get cracking, one at a time. Biggest first!’

When Michael’s turn came, he could hardly walk, so tumescent was his erection. Kiki had been on the bed, long tanned legs crossed at the ankles, skirt demurely to her knees, a cigarette in one hand, her panties in the other. She had waved at him.

‘Hi! What’s your name?’

And she had lifted her skirt and patted her moist pussy. So it had been damned easy: she’d gone so far as to help his trembling fingers with the unfamiliar rubber. The fact that it came so quick
was not a disappointment but more like respect for her. When he had shuddered and was done Kiki had caressed the top of his head, drawn on her cigarette and wiped herself delicately as he shambled back into his trousers. She made him pirouette to ensure everything was tucked away, then blew him a kiss. ‘You were a darlin’. Send the next one in.’

He had stumbled out and felt, God forgive him, deliriously happy. A complete man, a finished-off human being. The initiation had been stupid but had not disgusted him; she had been a volunteer. Indeed by dawn she had succoured all fifteen with a half-hour rest and shower after the tenth, or claimed to have done so. Since every boy had entered the room, none (and especially not the tailenders) would have dreamed of admitting a lack of capability.

His recall of the event had always been pleasurable: in fact he had told the tale in a
self-deprecatory
fashion whenever the question, ‘How did you lose yours?’ was broached. He’d been a kid, totally wet behind the ears and desperate to learn. He would not do anything like that now. Yet to his own discomfort and shock he felt newly ashamed of the entire episode.

Should Helen inquire he would imply that he had been Kiki’s sole suitor, that night at any rate. Then it hit him: for Helen, if she could be persuaded, the situation would be reversed. Not only her first real love, but her first time. It was up to him to ensure that it’d be memorable, and precious, so that never in future should she have reason to feel queasy as he now did.

Dammit. Surely she guessed what she was taking on – an adult US airman? Wasn’t his greater age and experience exactly what attracted
her
? If she felt safer with a pimply boy she had her pick at Harold House. That she had preferred him, a masculine man some years older who had made no bones of his sexual desire for her, was consent in itself. Wasn’t it?

She was a virgin. Michael began to feel helpless and unsure. He had never made out with a virgin before. Willing or otherwise. Not that he’d force her. He doubted he could force anyone – but how to arrange that she desired it too, as much as he did himself, and right the way through to the end? Would she need to be coaxed? Would she have the faintest idea what to do? When he needed her to touch him, would she shrink away and start to cry?

In which case he would lift his hands from her and roll away. That much was decided. Never mind Kiki’s reputation: it was his that mattered, not as a stud, but as a gentle and loving person. Not only in Helen’s eyes, but in his own.

Michael rose; his back ached and he flexed his shoulders to restore circulation. So much introspection was unaccustomed, especially about sex. Correction: especially about one particular girl, whom in truth he barely knew, from a country he regarded as outlandish and a religious background which would reject him bitterly. And to whom nevertheless he was driven so strongly, like a bee to the sweetest honey, or a white dove to its lofty home, as if it were his soul which he could not deny.