5
RUBY
‘Gosh, you look all in,’ Vera said as she came into the office, making me lift my head up off my desk with a guilty start. ‘Did you hear about the plane crash last night up at the school?’
‘Yes, I was there,’ I said.
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
As briefly as I could, I told her what had happened, and about the two American soldiers helping me get everyone to safety moments before the plane’s bombs had detonated.
‘Bloody hell.’ She lit a cigarette, took a little paper packet of Benzedrine tablets from her handbag and offered me one. I shook my head. Last time I’d tried that stuff, after a night of heavy air raids, it had woken me up but made me feel horribly nervy, too, as if I was teetering on the brink of some shadowy, looming disaster.
‘What you need is some fresh air and a cup of coffee at the WVS canteen if they have any,’ Vera said, pushing back her chair and standing up. ‘I’ve got to go out and about this morning interviewing people about the crash. Why don’t you join me? You can tell me all the gruesome details.’
I looked up at her. ‘Won’t Howler mind?’
Vera shrugged. ‘Probably.’
‘And what about my adverts?’ Listlessly, I indicated the pile of envelopes next to my typewriter, the remains of yesterday’s work I hadn’t quite managed to finish.
‘They’ll still be there after lunch, won’t they?’
‘Oh, all right, then.’ I fetched my handbag and my coat.
‘I’m off – taking Ruby with me!’ Vera called to no one in particular as we made for the stairs. I doubt anyone even heard her. From behind Mrs Dobbs’ door came the steady rat-a-tat-a-tat of her typewriter (‘Seventy-six words a minute, Miss Mottram!’ she’d told me proudly when I first started working here). Howler was, as usual, ensconced in his office upstairs.
Once we were outside, I began to feel better. A fresh breeze whipped against my face, and I could see patches of blue sky starting to show over the sea. Vera tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow. ‘Let’s go down to the High Street. I expect they’ll have plenty to say there.’
Before long Vera had enough notes for her story ten times over; the crash was all people wanted to talk about. ‘En’t it turrible?’ Mr Short, the fishmonger – who was over six feet tall and thin as a racing greyhound – exclaimed as he wrapped a piece of haddock up for Mrs Clayton. ‘Blame Jerry, missus, not me,’ he added when she grumbled about the price. ‘And just be thankful it ’ent rationed like everythin’ else.’ He turned back to us. ‘Coulda flattened the school and the houses all around it if it had landed a few seconds sooner, they say. And just think how much worse it would’a bin if it’ud been daytime and the kiddies there.’
Mrs Clayton left, still grumbling about the cost of the fish. We followed.
‘Watch out!’ Vera said as we started to cross the road. She grabbed my arm, pulling me back as a vehicle roared around the corner.
It was an American jeep, dark olive green with a white star in a circle painted on the bonnet. Three GIs hung out of it, laughing. ‘Sorry, doll!’ the driver called to Vera as the jeep tore past in a rush of air and fumes, and Vera clamped her hat onto her head to keep it from blowing away. I caught sight of a handsome, tanned face with a wide grin, and dark curls under a cap balanced at a rakish angle.
‘Well I never,’ Mrs Clayton, who was standing beside us, said in shocked tones. ‘Those Americans – you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve heard about them!’
Vera, taking her notebook from her pocket, tried to steer her onto the subject of the plane crash, but Mrs Clayton was like a dog with a bone and it was almost ten minutes before she’d finished telling us all the stories she’d heard about the Americans – stories that would have had Father nodding along in grim, worried agreement: how they ate strange food, listened to dreadful (‘some might say wicked!’) music, and, of course, when they came into town, they were only after one thing, and didn’t all the local girls know it…
You wouldn’t be saying any of this if you’d seen them last night!I wanted to cry. Those two soldiers saved people’s lives!
‘Silly old gossip,’ Vera muttered once we’d got rid of her, and were out of earshot. I rolled my eyes in agreement.
We went up to the crash site so Vera could snap a few photographs. It looked even worse in daylight: the hole in the field, with the charred, twisted skeleton of the aeroplane still sticking out of it, was enormous. I didn’t go too close to the edge of the crater; I was scared the remains of whoever had been inside might still be there.
At lunchtime, we dropped into the Red Cross canteen for a potted meat sandwich and a cup of ersatz coffee. ‘What I wouldn’t give for some proper coffee instead of this old muck!’ Vera sighed quietly as we dutifully swallowed it down. After that we returned to the office, where I spent the rest of the day trying not to fall asleep at my desk as I typed up Positions Vacant and Positions Wanted, the events of last night still running through my head on a loop. After work I cycled wearily back to Barton Hall. ‘Ruby!’ I heard a voice call as I pedalled up the lane, and saw Mrs Baxter waving at me from her doorstep. I hadn’t seen her for over a week; she’d been visiting her sister near Bournemouth.
‘Did you have a nice holiday?’ I asked her as Toffee pushed through her legs to greet me.
‘Yes thank you,’ she said. ‘Although this weather didn’t do my rheumatism any good – it’s terribly cold for September, isn’t it?’ Although she was smiling her face was pinched with pain; I could tell that even standing was an effort for her today.
Toffee gave an impatient little yap as if to say, What about me? ‘Would you like me to take him for a walk?’ I asked. My tiredness had morphed into a doomy restlessness, as if I’d taken one of Vera’s Benzedrine after all, and the thought of sitting in our stuffy little cottage, waiting for Father to come home with the smell of the hospital clinging to his clothes – a pungent mix of Jeyes Fluid and the patients’ meals – felt unbearable all of a sudden.
Mrs Baxter’s face brightened. ‘Oh, would you? I hate to ask…’
‘I don’t mind at all. Let me take my bike home and I’ll be right back.’
‘You can leave it here if you like,’ she said, so I wheeled it up the side passage while she fetched Toffee’s lead. ‘He needs a new one, really,’ she said as I took it from her and clipped it to the dog’s collar. ‘It’s getting terribly frayed! But we have to make do, don’t we?’
I frowned at it. It was getting rather tatty, and Toffee did pull so. I wondered if I should tie a knot in it.
Keeping an ear out for jeeps, I walked back down the lane to the dunes, a slow amble with Toffee stopping to sniff each lamppost we passed. Every step felt like an effort. When we reached the top of the dunes, Toffee gave an excited little yap.
‘I’m sorry, boy, we can’t go down there,’ I told him. ‘The beach is still out of bounds, remember?’
Although the dunes obscured my view of the beach, there was a cloud of oily black smoke rolling into the air, a dark stain against the sky, and I could hear yelling and engines revving. What were the Americans doing down there?
There was a sudden dull boom. I jumped and gave a little scream, and a startled seagull that had been hidden in the dunes nearby flapped into the air, squawking indignantly. Toffee barked and lunged after it, giving a hard yank on the lead, which snapped in two. As he rocketed away through the dunes like a ginger-coloured torpedo, I stared stupidly at the frayed piece of rope still hanging from my fingers. It took my weary brain a moment or two to catch up.
Oh no.
‘Toffee! Toffee!’ I ran after him, reaching the other side of the dunes just in time to see him racing towards a group of soldiers marching along the water’s edge. The seagull – which was long gone – had been completely forgotten; Toffee’s tail windmilled as he made a beeline for the sergeant bellowing orders at the line of men hurrying along the wet sand. They were laden with guns and heavy-looking packs.
Toffee, overjoyed at what he must have thought was a tremendous game, made a leap for the sergeant. Even though he was only a small dog, he caught the man by surprise, knocking him off balance. Arms flailing, the sergeant staggered and fell just as a particularly large wave came crashing into shore. It drenched him from head to toe.
‘Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry!’ I gasped as I ran to the men and tried to grab Toffee, who danced just out of my reach, barking, thinking I was playing too. The sergeant was still on the sand, flailing and spluttering as another wave broke over him. The rest of the soldiers were trying to hide their laughter, but they weren’t making a very good job of it. My cheeks burned.
‘Hey, Rover!’ One of the soldiers dropped to his knees and made a soft, kissing sound. Toffee ran to him, tail going faster than ever. As soon as he was close enough the soldier grabbed him.
‘I think he’s gonna need a new leash,’ he said, carrying Toffee over to me as the dog wriggled and twisted in his arms, trying to lick his face. Then he said, ‘Oh. Hello again.’
With a jolt, I realised he was one of the young soldiers from last night, his mop of sandy hair peeking out from underneath his cap. In the daylight I could see he had grey eyes and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. I noticed his accent, too; it had a distinctly British twang to it, which hadn’t registered last night. As he handed Toffee to me our gazes met and this time, the heat in my face was nothing to do with my embarrassment.
‘Um, th – thank you,’ I stammered. Toffee struggled, desperate to give the boy’s face one last good wash – for he really was no more than a boy. As I attempted to tie the broken ends of the lead together with one hand there was another one of those explosions. I jumped, dropping the lead again. For the first time, I realised just how busy the beach was: there were soldiers everywhere, marching, scrambling under lines of barbed wire stretched across the sand, and packed into jeeps and armoured vehicles racing along the waterline. Shouts echoed from all sides as orders were given and obeyed and, a little further down the beach, something was burning fiercely behind a low concrete wall – the source of the oily smoke and, I assumed, the bangs. A group of soldiers crawled towards it on their stomachs, guns cocked. I stared at them, amazed at the transformation of sleepy little Bartonford Bay.
‘Here, let me help you,’ the boy said, bringing me back to reality. While I hung on to Toffee, he knotted the lead back together. ‘That should hold him.’
He smiled at me and I felt something inside me burst into life, like a flame being touched to a lantern wick.
Just as I was about to smile back, the sergeant, dripping and purple-faced, thrust himself between us. ‘Get that goddamn dog off this goddamn beach!’ he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. ‘This is a military training ground – civilians ain’t supposed to be down here! And you, English, get back in goddamned line!’ he roared at the boy. I suppose he called him that because of his accent. The boy made a face at me when the sergeant wasn’t watching – a conspiratorial sort of look, his eyes widening slightly and another smile playing at the corners of his mouth – and stepped back to join the other soldiers.
I swallowed, hard. ‘Y – yes, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘What’s your damn name?’ the sergeant bawled.
‘R – Ruby Mottram, sir.’
‘And what goddamn school do you go to?’
‘I – I don’t go to school, sir. I work at the B – Bartonford Herald.’
‘Then I’ll make sure whoever’s in charge there hears all about this! Now – scram!’
With Toffee still jammed under my arm, I fled. The sergeant’s yells followed me all the way back up into the dunes: ‘Suppose you bunch of pansies thought that was funny… I want a hundred press-ups from all of you, NOW…’
I didn’t stop running until I was halfway back to Barton Hall, and too out of breath to carry on.