The Way Ahead (33 page)

Aye, I will one day, but not yet, thought Fergus. London is where it’s happening, the pulse of the war, and a battalion of the Highland laddies is here down South, I know that from a letter sent by Ian McGregor a few weeks ago. Something big is in the wind, I feel it and so does this bloody shrapnel. Further, I’ve got customers I like, and then there’s that Adams lassie.

The other letter had been from her. It was very polite, but it simmered between the lines, and she turned down his invitation.

Well, he’d thought she would. She was living in a small corner of the world all on her own, with only English Literature to keep her company. English Literature had a lot to answer for.

Did the lassie need saving from herself?

Sunday morning

Susie, in her Sunday best, was ready to take Paula and Phoebe to church, and to make sure Sammy went with them.

‘Paula, where’s Daddy?’ she asked.

‘Hiding, I expect,’ said Paula.

‘He’s in the garden, Mummy,’ said Phoebe, both girls delectable in their frocks and round hats. Church Sundays were always hat Sundays, even for little girls. ‘Well, I fink he is. I’ll get him.’

‘We’d both better go,’ said Paula, wiser in the ways of her dad than Phoebe.

‘Tell him I’ll give him just two minutes,’ said Susie.

Out into the garden went the girls. Sammy wasn’t
hiding
, however, he was standing in the middle of the lawn, looking up at the sky, where clouds were racing.

‘Daddy, you’ve got to come to church,’ called Phoebe.

‘You’ve got just two minutes before Mummy comes after you herself,’ said Paula.

‘I’m ready,’ said Sammy, turning. ‘See that sky, me pets? It’s our sky, looked after by the lads in RAF blue, and I daresay if they could keep the rain off, Queen Liz might be having some friends to tea in her garden this afternoon.’

‘Yes, Daddy, but you’ve still got to come to church,’ said Paula.

‘I know, I’ve had notice of that,’ said Sammy, and joined the girls. ‘Would you two like to have tea with Queenie?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ said Phoebe, ‘but I like it best with you and Mummy.’ Sammy took her hand. Her fingers curled around his. He took Paula’s hand. She clung too.

‘Daddy, you look ever so respectable,’ she said. Sammy was in a well-cut grey suit with a dark grey tie.

‘Well, I promised the vicar,’ he said. He looked down at his young daughters, pictures of innocence, and thought about the sky, full of clouds but clear of the enemy, an enemy who’d had a last-gasp go the other night, but was now reduced by Bolshevik Joe to hanging on to his shirt buttons. I’m betting that the young and the very young are safe now. The old country had taken a hell of a bashing, but Paula, Phoebe, Daniel and all the
other
grandchildren of Chinese Lady, and the grandchildren of grannies everywhere in the land, could surely from here on look forward to no more bombs and to eventual peace.

‘Come on, Daddy,’ urged Phoebe, looking up at him. Sammy smiled down at her.

‘Lead on, Phoebe,’ he said, ‘lead on, Paula.’ That’s it, he thought, in twenty years’ time when I’m looking at bathchairs, it’ll be Phoebe, Paula and his other kids who’ll be running the business and shaping the country.

They joined Susie in the hall.

‘Oh, you’re conscious, Sammy?’ said Susie.

‘Alive and kicking,’ said Sammy, and thought so is Boots, I hope, and Tim, Bobby and Nick.

‘Daniel!’ called Susie.

Daniel responded from upstairs.

‘I’m following with Grandma and Grandpa, Mum.’

‘Hooray, Daniel’s alive and kicking too,’ said Susie.

‘Mummy, you are funny,’ said Paula.

‘Something I caught from your dad and Uncle Boots,’ said Susie. ‘I was normal once.’

It was a moving service that morning, the church full. Patsy was there too, by arrangement, sitting next to Daniel, and Vi and Tommy were close by, with Alice. The hymns were sung full-throatedly, the responses to prayers fervent with ‘Amens’, and the vicar in his sermon dealt with the sacrifices that had been made and were still to be made in the elimination of the unhappy anti-Christ of Berlin. It was a regrettable sign of the times that this Christian
nation
needed to subdue the godless by force of arms.

He concluded with a compassionate reference to the enemy and the availability of forgiveness.

‘Let us not forget the unhappy German people themselves on whom our bombs are falling. Let us remember to pray for them in their forgetfulness of God and their misguided worship of a man born of Satan himself and sadly in need of forgiveness.’

‘There,’ whispered Chinese Lady to Mr Finch, ‘haven’t I always said likewise more than once?’

‘Indeed you have, Maisie,’ murmured Mr Finch.

‘Those who have lived by the sword must and will perish by its bright steel,’ intoned the vicar, ‘but with the knowledge that in the moment when life is ebbing and death is waiting, God is forgiving of all.’

‘He’s goin’ to forgive Hitler? Well, I dunno about that,’ whispered an old bloke to his old Dutch.

‘God’s forgiveness encompasses all transgressors,’ smiled the vicar, attuned to catching asides. He welcomed asides. They were a tribute to the pungent points of his sermons. ‘Providing that at the last there is repentance.’

‘I’d like to listen to Hitler repenting,’ whispered Daniel to Patsy.

‘Shush,’ whispered Patsy.

‘All things are possible when we stand before the gates of God’s heaven,’ said the vicar.

‘Ruddy hell,’ muttered the old bloke, ‘if Hitler gets through them gates, I ain’t sure I want to follow.’

‘Percy,’ breathed his old Dutch, ‘you just wait till I get you home. We’re in church.’

‘Better off down the pub, Gertie.’

‘I’m willing to allow intercessions,’ smiled the vicar.

‘Oh, we didn’t bring nothing like them with us, Your Reverence,’ said the flustered old Dutch.

‘I’m not believing this,’ whispered Patsy.

‘All of you are welcome, though you might come unclothed and empty-handed,’ said the vicar benignly.

‘That’s the cue for the last hymn and the collection,’ said Tommy to Vi.

‘What’s he mean, unclothed, Edwin?’ whispered a slightly shocked Chinese Lady.

‘Without worldly goods,’ murmured Mr Finch, and the vicar bestowed his blessing and announced the last hymn,
Onward Christian Soldiers
.

The congregation liked that. It was very topical, and they sang it lustily, as if it meant one in the eye for Hitler. After all, they could leave it to God to forgive him. They didn’t have to themselves, and were all for Eisenhower or Montgomery beating his brains out.

The service over, the congregation filed out, the vicar at the door shaking hands with all.

‘Oh, I did enjoy your sermon, vicar,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘except I wouldn’t ever come unclothed to church.’

‘Dear Mrs Finch,’ smiled the vicar, ‘that merely referred to the unfortunate poor.’

‘Yes, my husband explained,’ said Chinese Lady, ‘but even if I had nothing else, I’d always bring me handbag with me.’

‘I’ve been unfortunately poor in me earlier days,
vicar
,’ said Sammy, ‘but always managed to find a penny for the collection.’

‘Yes, out of our mum’s purse,’ said Tommy.

‘Tommy, not here,’ said Vi.

‘Come again,’ smiled the vicar. ‘Come again, come again,’ he said to Alice, Daniel, Patsy and others.

‘Are your church services always like that?’ asked Patsy of Daniel when they were on the forecourt.

‘Yes, always,’ said Daniel, ‘hymns, prayers, amens, reverence and a collection.’

‘Reverence?’ Patsy, in dress, light coat and cute hat, giggled. ‘You could have fooled me. All the same—’ She paused.

‘All the same what?’ asked Daniel.

‘I liked it,’ said Patsy, ‘and I like your family.’

‘Well, they all like you,’ said Daniel, ‘and so do I.’

‘Daniel, we could have a really special friendship, couldn’t we?’

‘I thought we’d already got there,’ said Daniel. ‘Well, I have.’

Patsy smiled. Happily.

Tommy and Vi stood around talking to their relatives. Alice said she’d go on home.

‘Yes, all right, love,’ said Vi, and Alice left. A young man, emerging from a group of people, crossed her path.

‘Hello, and a guid morning to you, Miss Adams,’ said Fergus MacAllister. ‘Was the sermon to your liking?’

‘Pardon?’ Alice quivered, the Scot as much of a blackhaired pirate in a suit of charcoal grey as in her dream. ‘The sermon?’

‘I’m fond of the brimstone-and-treacle kind mysel’,’ said Fergus. ‘May they be cast into the black pit, darkness descend on their eyes and worms devour their bodies. That kind of stuff, y’ken. I’m no’ believing it, of course, but it stirs the blood and keeps a man awake.’

‘But it’s very much Old Testament brimstone,’ said Alice, ‘and I prefer the generally more compassionate aspect of the New Testament.’

‘I canna say I’m a great authority on the Bible,’ said Fergus, ‘and doubt if I’ll ever read it from cover to cover. Rabbie Burns now, and Robert Louis Stevenson, aye, and Walter Scott, I’ve read my share of them.’

‘Oh, have you read
Ivanhoe
?’ asked Alice.

‘At school,’ said Fergus, ‘and again when things were at a bit of a standstill.’

‘Such detailed descriptions, such period authenticity, don’t you think so?’ said Alice.

‘I didna think of it like that,’ said Fergus, ‘only that I enjoyed it, even if I found it long in the wind at times. By the way, thanks for your letter, Miss Adams. All understood, y’ken.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Alice. ‘I—’

‘Fergus? Fergie?’

A full-bodied woman in her thirties was calling to him from the open gate of the forecourt.

‘That’s my bonny landlady,’ said Fergus. ‘I promised to walk her hame in case the Huns dropped on her by parachute. Guid morning to you, Miss Adams, and fine luck to your English Literature whatever.’

‘Oh, goodbye, Mr MacAllister,’ said Alice.

It was a relief in a way to see him go, a young man who at his age ought not to look like – like who?

Long John Silver from
Treasure Island
? Or Blackbeard the demon pirate?

Alice shook herself and went on the short walk home.

What had he meant about reading
Ivanhoe
again when things were at a bit of a standstill?

Fergus had meant when the Chamberlain Government and the French Government had been in charge of the ‘phony war’, and the BEF had dug the kind of trenches familiar to the troops in the 1914–18 conflict. There had been no attempt whatever to cross swords with the German Army, when the bulk of their Panzers had been engaged in scorching Poland.

Sunday evening

Pa Kirk arrived from town to spend an hour or two with Patsy before returning to transmissions.

‘Patsy, we may be shaking the dust,’ he said.

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Patsy, making coffee and peanut butter sandwiches. All kinds of goodies were brought to the apartment by her Pa. Americans had unlimited sources of fodder available for representatives of their Press and radio.

‘I’ve been offered an assignment in Rome,’ smiled Pa Kirk. ‘It looks like we’ll be upping sticks next Thursday.’

‘Rome?’ said Patsy.

‘Recently liberated by our boys,’ said Pa Kirk. ‘I’ve been invited to cover the continuing war in
Italy
, since so many American divisions are there.’

‘You go, Pa, I’ll stay here,’ said Patsy.

‘Hold your horses, honey,’ said Pa Kirk. ‘I go, you go, we both go.’

‘Pa, no.’

‘Have you got a good argument?’ asked Pa Kirk.

‘Yes.’

‘Spill it, Patsy.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘That’s an argument?’

‘Pa, I’m not going.’

‘Well, I guess I’ve got a problem,’ said Pa Kirk.

‘Pa, we’re settled here, we’ve got friends, and anyway, it’s not what we ought to do, fly off to the fleshpots of Rome and Italian ice cream.’

‘It’s an assignment I don’t want to turn down, honey.’

‘But if you accept, it’ll – it’ll be like an act of desertion,’ said Patsy, patently upset.

‘Desertion?’

‘Yes, and I couldn’t do it, Pa. I’ll go on strike, I’ll burn all my clothes, everything, and go to bed unclothed and empty-handed, and stay there.’

‘You’ll do what?’ said Pa Kirk.

‘All that, and I will too,’ said Patsy.

‘Unclothed and empty-handed?’

‘Sure.’

‘Patsy, where’d you get that from?’

‘The preacher at this morning’s service,’ said Patsy. ‘“Oh, my good people,” he said, “come unto me thus—”’

‘Thus?’

‘Yes, without any belongings. “Come unto me
thus
,” he said “and you shall be welcome.” That’s what Jesus said to the multitude. “Come unto me all ye who are heavy-laden and I will give ye comfort.” Heavy-laden meant laden with dire poverty, and not even a spare pair of pants. Pa, if you try to make me go to Rome, I’ll ask the preacher for sanctuary.’

‘You’ll run to his church unclothed and empty-handed?’ said Pa Kirk.

‘In a flour sack,’ said Patsy.

‘Well, Patsy,’ said Pa Kirk, ‘we’ve both got problems. You sleep on yours and I’ll sleep on mine, and we’ll hit the high road of compromise or agreement over breakfast.’

‘I’m sorry, Pa, but there’s not going to be any breakfast.’

‘That’s a fact, Patsy?’

‘I’m going on strike at midnight pronto,’ said Patsy.

‘Well, before that happens, Patsy, is there any chance of a coffee now?’

‘Yes, you can have that, Pa. It’s ready. But don’t think I’m weakening. Pa, have you got a cold?’

‘No, Patsy, I’m just coughing fit to bust.’

THE INVASION ARMADA
was on the waters. The first landing-craft, laden with British and American troops, had been launched late on the night of the fifth of June to reach the beaches next morning.

Prior to that, bridges over the Seine and the Loir had been bombed and destroyed by thunderous waves of Allied planes. Attacks on railway bridges, lines and roads had been effected to cripple the movements of any German units intent on reinforcing the defence forces in the Normandy landing area.