Starshine (14 page)

‘Get going. Out as far as you can before the lights go up. Go on!’ And he gave him a push.

Bertie scrambled up the collapsed sandbags and rocks and squirmed under the wire. Slipping and sliding among the debris and bodies on the trench floor, Jim ran to the first buttress, where he lobbed a grenade over. Turning before it had exploded, he made his way to the other traverse, his revolver in hand. As the grenade exploded behind him, he was in time to see a bayonet-tipped rifle tentatively poked round the buttress. He dropped onto one knee and fired as the rifle’s owner came into sight. The man dropped immediately, his shoulder shattered. Hickman pulled out the pin on his last grenade and threw it over the top of the traverse. Only when it had exploded did he scramble back to the collapsed trench wall and haul himself up and under the wire. He had just plunged head first down into a shell crater, using his hands as a brake to prevent him sliding into the slime at the bottom, before a star shell broke above his head, a searchlight suddenly began probing no man’s land and a machine gun began stuttering and raking the top of the German trench.

‘Thank the blessed Mother that you made it,’ said Bertie, from the opposite lip of the crater.

‘Stupid bugger. You should have been halfway across no man’s land by now.’

‘I was just coming back to give you a hand up the wall when you started to blow everything up. In truth, Jimmy, all this killin’ is shakin’ me, so it is.’

‘Well let’s hope Fritz doesn’t send a party out to get us. But perhaps we haven’t been seen. There was so much going on that I think most of them would have had their heads down.’ He gave a sad grin. ‘That was the intention, anyway.’

‘Ah, Jim. You did well.’

‘Well let’s hope they believe they killed us all. They damned nearly did.’

They fell silent for a moment. Then Bertie said quietly, ‘They was a fine lot of men, that came out with us. Particularly the officer. A good feller.’

‘That’s true.’ They crouched in silence for a little longer. Then, ‘Bertie.’

‘Yes, Corporal, sir.’

‘Do you remember the code word for getting through our wire?’

‘Yes, course I do. It’s Aintree.’

‘Ah, thanks very much. Now I remember it. It’s Newmarket. Fine lot of help you are.’

‘Ah well, I’m the only Irishman in the whole of Birmingham who never went racing. And anyway, I can’t do everything.’

By dint of waiting until the firing had ceased and the searchlight had switched off its probing beam, they finally made their way back to the British lines. It took them some time, for dawn was beginning to send pink exploratory fingers out over the horizon to the east as they reached the wire. A sergeant major gave them both steaming cups of tea, which they held in trembling hands.

‘Did any of the others get back, sir?’ asked Jim.

The warrant officer shook his head and gnawed at his moustache. ‘Not on this bit of the line, son. I’m surprised anyone made it. You put up quite a show over there and those machine guns certainly haven’t fired since you called on ’em. It looked as if the whole of their line was aflame. Well done, my lad. You’d better go and make your report to the colonel. But finish your tea first.’

Minutes later they stood before the CO in his crowded dugout. He indicated a trestle bed and they both sat down as Hickman made his report.

‘You are the only survivors of the raiding party?’

‘Afraid so, sir. The captain and about half of our men got caught as we ran up to the guns. They couldn’t get the machine guns low enough to fire but they had rifles. Then the others caught it after they had bombed up the trench. They must have run out of grenades and the Jerries counter-attacked as they were trying to climb up the trench wall. They were all killed.’

The colonel ran his fingers across his eyes. ‘Good men, all good,’ he muttered, his head down.

The adjutant, his hair tousled by sleep, interjected, ‘Have you two had any tea or anything?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. When we got back to the line.’

The colonel lifted his head. ‘Do you think you put the guns out of action?’

‘Oh yes. We put two grenades through the slits and it was only a confined space. Everyone inside would have been killed and the guns would certainly have been destroyed. The sergeant major down the line confirmed that they hadn’t fired since and they won’t now. I can tell you that, sir.’

The CO stood up and held out his hand. ‘Well done, the pair of
you. Go and get some breakfast. You might have difficulty in getting sleep, I’m afraid, because there is bound to be a bit of retaliation from our neighbours, so it will be noisy. But congratulations. I’ll see you get sent down the line as soon as I can arrange it.’

Bertie summoned up his brightest beam. ‘Ah, that would be nice, Colonel, so it would. Thank you very much.’

The colonel was prophetic about the noise. A barrage was immediately summoned and it continued for most of the day. Shortly after dusk a night attack was tried by the Germans but the colonel had ensured that the battalion had stood to through the night and the attack was rebuffed with no casualties on the British line, although the shelling had killed six men during the daylight hours.

Bertie and Jim were summoned to see the colonel the next morning.

‘Normally,’ he said, ‘I would have recommended both of you for a decoration. Unfortunately,’ and he gave a wry smile, ‘army regulations in their stupidity tell me that I can only do so on the recommendation of an officer who witnessed the act of bravery. As you know, Captain Smith-Forbes perished, so I am afraid I cannot make the recommendation. The least I can do, however, is to promote you. You, Corporal, will be made up to sergeant with immediate effect and, similarly, you, Murphy, will become a lance corporal. It’s not sufficient, I fear, but it’s the best I can do. Congratulations again.’

They shook his hand again and wearily – for they had had no sleep for the second night in succession – they made their way back to their section in the line and sat exhausted on the firing step.

Bertie took off his steel helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘To tell you the truth, Jim lad,’ he said, ‘Stripe or no stripe, I am not sure that I can take much more of this.’

Jim looked at him sharply. ‘Now, come on, Bertie. It’s the same
for all of us. We didn’t start this bloody war but we’ve got to see it through. Jerry must be suffering just as much as we are.’

‘Yes, but I don’t see how the blessed Lord can allow all this misery to go on.’ The blue eyes were now beginning to fill with tears. ‘All this killin’ and stuff, yer know. I was always taught “thou shalt not kill”, and here I am killin’ all the bloody time. Now I’ve been made a lance corporal because I am getting good at it. It’s not as though it’s doing any good. We kill them but they still keep coming at us. It’s all so pathetic and so—’

He was interrupted by a mighty roar from a familiar voice. ‘And what do you two think you’re doing, lounging about as though you’re sittin’ out at the bloody ’unt ball, eh?’

‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Bertie. ‘Sergeant Flanagan!’

‘Oh no.’ He strode towards Bertie and held up his sleeve so that the badge on it brushed his nostrils. ‘Address me properly, you papist arsehole. “Sergeant Major” to you, sonny. Company sergeant major. I’ve been sent back to look after you – and by God I’m going to see to it, I can tell you. Get up on the fire step. You’re on lookout duty.’

Hickman took a step forward. ‘We’ve been out on patrol the night before last, Sergeant Major,’ he said, ‘and up standing to last night. We’re due some shut-eye. We’re dead beat.’

A look of exaggerated sympathy crossed the leathery features. ‘Ah, diddums. Did the nasty Germans keep you awake, then? Oh dear. Oh dear.’ Then the bellow: ‘Get up on that fire step and keep him company, Hickman.’ He put his moustache close to Jim’s ear and breathed into it. ‘I haven’t forgotten you, sunshine. I’m going to make your life hell. See if I don’t.’

Wagstaffe, his hair shining as brightly as his shoes, approached Polly as she reported for work. She was not feeling well and the last thing she wanted was to have to fend off the foreman’s advances that morning.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, attempting to put his arm about her.

‘Piss off.’ Polly did as good an impression of a flounce as she could muster that day and thrust him aside to put her card into the clocking machine.

‘Now, just you listen, Miss Polly Johnson.’ Wagstaffe looked around to ensure that no one was within hearing distance and dropped his voice slightly. ‘I’m not the sort of bloke you think I am, but I can make things very difficult for you if you continue to be rude to me, you know. I am your foreman, after all.’

Polly sighed. ‘Then just get on with your job and let me get on with mine. There’s a war on, you know.’

She attempted to push past him but he put his arm out and leant against the wall to deny her. ‘Oh come on, Polly.’ He smoothed his clipped black moustache. ‘I’m not so bad when you get to know me. Why don’t you and me have a little chat together over a gin and it tonight, eh? Just an hour and no monkey business. We all deserve a break in this bloomin’ war, I reckon. What do you say?’

‘I say, Mr Wagstaffe, that you’ve got a wife and two kids and I’ve got a boyfriend risking his life in mud in Flanders. So please stop bothering me or …’

Her voice tailed away and he sneered. ‘Or what, Miss Nose-in-the-Air? I’m highly thought of here and you can’t say anything that will threaten my job, I’ll tell you. But, I warn you, miss, that you are very expendable in your job, oh yes, very expendable.’

Tears suddenly came to Polly’s eyes. She thrust him aside roughly. ‘Oh, get out of my way.’

Climbing the ladder to her cabin she felt dizzy and had to stand still halfway up, clutching the handrail firmly until she regained her composure. She was still there thirty seconds later, waiting until her head cleared, when she heard a call from down below.

‘Pol, don’t move. I’m comin’ up after you. Stay still.’ A moment later she felt the firm hand of Connie Walters, her friend from the assembly line, pressing the middle of her back forward onto the ladder. ‘Wait a minute or two,’ said Connie. ‘Then come back down the ladder. I’m just underneath you and I’ll support you.’

‘No, Con, I’m all right, really I am. Just a bit dizzy.’

‘Do as you’re told. Breathe deeply and then, when you’re ready, follow me down slowly.’

She relented and began slowly to descend, feeling very self-conscious and aware that a hundred eyes were watching from down below – probably including those of Wagstaffe. On regaining the concrete
floor, she realised that perspiration was beginning to form on her forehead. ‘I think I need to have a pee, Con,’ she said.

‘Yes, luv. Come on. Lean on me.’

Together they made their way to the ladies’ toilets, a harsh environment, kept starkly functional to deter the factory girls from lingering to have a cigarette within its unpainted concrete walls. She sat on the lavatory seat and put her head in her hands and accepted the cup of water handed to her by Connie, a large woman in her late twenties, with the pallor and yellow teeth of the ‘canaries’.

Connie regarded her in silence for a few moments, then squatted down before her and asked gently, ‘’Ow long since you had your last period, love?’

Suddenly, Polly’s shoulders heaved and the tears ran down her cheeks. She grabbed a piece of toilet paper and tried to stem them but they continued. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

‘Think, dearie. You will know. Take your time.’

Polly blew her nose and thrust the hair away from her eyes. ‘Well, I am late, I know.’

‘Do you feel a bit sick?’

‘Yes. Last few mornings.’

‘Yes, then. There you are. You must be careful goin’ up an’ down that bloody ladder. You ’ad a bit of love, then, did yer?’

Mutely, Polly nodded.

‘An’ yer not married, are yer?’

‘No.’

‘Does ’e know about it?’

She shook her head, the tears still cascading down her cheeks.

‘Are you goin’ to tell ’im?’

‘Oh, I … I … don’t know.’

‘Yes, well, luv, you’d better ’ave a think about it. I think you should tell yer mother, though …’

‘Oh no!’

‘Well, Pol, you’re goin’ to need a bit of ’elp and yer mother’s the best person to give that. And you ought to make sure, with a doctor, although if you’re
sure certain,
then you don’t need to.’ Connie creaked upwards. ‘God, these knees of mine are givin’ me gyp. I think it’s the screws. Me mother ’ad them so I suppose it runs in the family.’ She ran a kindly hand through Polly’s hair and pulled it back from her forehead. ‘I shall ’ave to get back to the line or I’ll lose me money. Why don’t you go ’ome now, luv, and lie down for a bit and think it over? I’ll tell old Waggy that you’ve got a touch of the flu and if ’e argues I’ll twist ’is balls.’ She gave a lewd grin. ‘Mind you, ’e likes that.’

Polly summoned up a smile. ‘Thanks, Connie. No. I’ll be all right now, thanks ever so much. I’ll just clean up a bit and get up in my cabin. I know I’ll be all right now.’

‘As you wish.’ Connie turned at the door. ‘Will you keep it, d’yer think?’

‘Oh, I just … I don’t know.’

‘No. Silly of me to ask. Too early. Mind you …’

Her voice tailed away. Polly looked up quickly. ‘Yes?’

‘If yer do want to lose it, I know someone. ’Ad to use ’er meself seven years ago before I met Albert.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not nice but it works. And … no one needs to know. I’ll be around if you want me. Good luck, luv.’

Polly washed her face thoroughly, pushed up her hair and pulled her scarf tightly around it. Then she took a deep breath and walked across the floor to the ladder and mounted it quickly. Once in her familiar cabin, her glass fortress, she nodded down below to where
one of the men was waiting, pushed forward a lever to glide the crane along on its track and thrust all thought of a child out of her mind – for just three minutes.

Then, as she manipulated the crane and its long arm through the morning, she kept returning to Connie’s questions. It had pressed in on her yesterday that something was wrong. She was never late and her period arrived usually like some form of alarm clock. This was the second one she had missed. Now she knew. She was pregnant. There was no hiding it from herself now. She was certain and she didn’t need a physician to confirm it. She was carrying a child. She put a trembling hand to her mouth and bit her fingers. But who was the father?

She had given way to Bertie that night in London as she knew she would. It would have seemed grotesquely unfair not to have done so, given the deep warmth that she felt for him and the fact that she and Jim had made love a disgracefully short time before. Her eyes moistened again at the thought. They both so
deserved
to be given real, warm love, after what they had been through and what they were returning to. In a way, it was the least she could do. Bertie being Bertie, of course, had made no provision for contraception and she had allowed herself to be swept along with his passion, so very different from Jim’s shy diffidence. Oh, and of course, she had loved it! God, did this make her a whore? She shook her head firmly. No, of course not. She loved them both. In fact, the loss of her virginity had done nothing at all to solve her problem. Her two boys had made love in entirely different but equally satisfying ways and her love for them both
equally
had deepened. Was there anyone else in this blasted war, she wondered, who could possibly be in a situation so damnably intractable as this? Now predictably – as she had worried since Bertie’s departure – she was going to have a child. But whose?

One thing was certain, of course: it would mean marrying the father. Well, yes. That would make her decision for her. That would stop this shilly-shallying. Oh God! That would make up her mind all right. But who
was
the father? She frowned. Weren’t you always supposed to know anyway, instinctively? She touched her stomach. No. Nothing moved and the foetus failed to respond as she pictured first the brown eyes and broad shoulders of Jim Hickman, then thrust them aside and summoned up Bertie Murphy’s wicked smile and ridiculously blue eyes. Nothing. But then, most women didn’t go to bed with two different men within a month. Unless, that is, she was a whore …! Then the tears flew again and she had to stop the crane to blow her nose.

But did they have to know? Did
anyone
have to know? Connie had opened an escape hatch – one through which she had climbed herself seven years ago. The thought made it more acceptable. Abortion was dangerous, she knew that, but it would remove the devilish necessity of having to make up her mind between her two lovers. She could postpone that decision and let fate take its course.

The more she thought of it the more the prospect became attractive. With this war seeming to continue for ever, was it right anyway to bring a child into a world dominated by shellfire, gas and lengthening casualty lists? And what – God forbid – if anything should happen to both Jim and Bertie? She would be left in a world with the awful responsibility of bringing up a fatherless child. Then she felt ashamed of herself. How selfish! Is that all she could think about if her two dear boys were to die? She felt as if she was going mad. She must control herself. She swallowed and put the crane into gear once again. She would just let things take their course for a few days more. After all – perhaps she wasn’t pregnant? The world was full of false alarms. Her Auntie Edie had had so many longed
for and ultimately false pregnancies that when she finally produced a child her father had refused to believe it! She began to feel better.

As the next few days passed, it became increasingly clear that she was, in fact, carrying a child. There was hardly a bump at all at this stage – nothing to stir suspicion at home – but it was there, she knew. The morning sickness was more difficult to conceal. She found a formula that served well enough for the moment: eating very little breakfast to hold back the nausea, vomiting in the public lavatory at the bottom of Witton Road on the way to work and buying an apple at the grocers to eat later in her cabin. This was all very short-term, however, and she knew that she would have to make a decision.

She sought out Connie.

‘Is this woman still … er … practising, Con? It was a long time ago.’

‘Are you sure, luv, that you want to lose it? For all we both know, you may not be able to have another one when yer want it most.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. I’ve thought it through. I don’t want to have a baby at this stage in my life and I don’t want to tie the father down, either.’ She stifled a sob. ‘It seems wicked, I know, but it’s best all round to get rid of it. Does she still do it?’

‘Oh aye. She’s still at it. I don’t know what it costs these days but I can find out for you. She’s only just off Victoria Road. Shall I ask her?’

Polly took a deep breath. ‘Yes please.’ She looked at her shoes. ‘I’m afraid I’ve only got about two quid saved. Will it be more than that?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. P’raps thirty bob. I’ll see. Would you like me to come with you?’

Polly gripped her arm. ‘I appreciate the offer, Con, but no thanks. I’ll see this through on my own.’ She drew in her breath. ‘Does … does it knock you about much?’

‘A bit. But you get over it. She can do it at weekends or in the evening after work. That’s probably best, so that you can go home straight to bed. I’ll let you know.’

Six days later, Polly found herself knocking on the door of a terraced house in a street leading off Victoria Road. She felt alone, physically and metaphorically, and bit her lip at the sight of three five- or six-year-olds, two grubby boys and a little girl, playing tops on the pavement nearby. It could have been her with Bertie and Jim, not so very long ago.

The door was opened by a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wearing a clean apron.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘All alone?’

Polly nodded, unable to speak.

‘Ah well, better that way sometimes. Come on in and sit yourself down. You can call me Mrs Smith.’ The room opened directly off the door to the street and was simply furnished, although there was no hint of family about it; no toys, no books, no clothing hanging from the hooks on the door. ‘Slip off your coat and sit down for a minute. Have you brought the … you know … the doings?’

Polly handed over an envelope containing the one pound fifteen shillings that had denuded her savings and perched on the corner of a brocaded settee.

‘Shan’t be a minute, dear. Just make yourself at home.’

Mrs Smith bustled away, presumably to put away the money. For a brief moment, Polly experienced a flash of terror. People died at the hands of abortionists, she knew, and it would be terrible to die in this place, a stranger’s house. No one apart from Connie knew she was here and, given that this was Friday evening and her next shift started on Monday morning, her parents would soon be in a state if she did not appear this evening. They would not know where to look. It was
unfair to put them through this … Her mind flashed on. Unfair! What about the father, then? She would die and Jim – or Bertie – would be bereft, there was no doubt about that, and neither would know that his child had been … what? Murdered?

Her miserable reverie was halted by the entry of Mrs Smith, humming a happy tune from
The Maid of the Mountains
:

‘At seventeen, he falls in love quite madly,

With eyes of tender blue …’

Polly winced at the memory of Bertie, clutching her hand tightly and leaning his head on her shoulder as they sat in the stalls of Daly’s Theatre while he, embarrassingly, sang along, echoing the words in his reedy tenor.

‘Sorry to keep you, dear. Would you like to come through here to the back?’

The room was curtained tightly and a coal fire burned brightly although the day was not too cold. A single bed jutted out from the far wall with what looked like a rubber sheet covering it, tucked in at the sides under the thin mattress. The handles of a large tin bowl, or perhaps it was a footbath, protruded from underneath the bed. Apart from the rather smoky fire, the room smelt of something chemical, probably disinfectant. Polly felt her stomach contract.