Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel) (33 page)

Big Charlie had never been able to totally accept her commitment to him because he never understood it. She was a thing of beauty that had come into his life but he had always believed that the day would come when she would be snatched away again. He was in awe of her and fearful of doing something that might hasten her departure. His physical contact with her was hesitant and guarded, dominated by his constant worry that his size and clumsiness might in some way harm her.

But he did know that Dorothy accepted him for what he was and she took care of him with a good humoured tenderness. He, on the other hand, responded to her sudden bouts of shrieking fury with silent resignation. Now, as he sat glowing uncomfortably under the mocking stare of the French girl’s big dark eyes, he felt the familiar sense of panic and the rushing blur of words and thoughts in his head.

‘What’s she on about the Mayor for?’ he eventually asked Edward and Liam. His two companions, who clearly didn’t share his aversion to the obvious charms of the young waitress, dragged their attentions away for a moment to address this difficult problem.

‘You’re not in trouble about something, are you Charlie?’ asked Edward.

‘You haven’t been daubing slogans on the wall of the Town Hall, have you?’ Liam pursued. ‘Or perhaps Farmer Pierre has complained about you nicking his cow.’

‘I didn’t nick his cow,’ protested Big Charlie.

‘No. But he could see you was weighing up how many steak pies you could get out of it,’ retorted Liam.

‘Just ask her,’ suggested Edward. ‘She might understand a bit of English.’

‘I’ll ask,’ Liam said. He cleared his throat and said loudly and precisely, in the way that the English believe somehow converts the words to the recipient’s language, ‘What… you… say… about… Mayor.’

‘Non, non, c’etait le meilleur,’ she affirmed patiently.

‘Hope that you don’t mind me interrupting, mate.’ The voice came from an adjoining table in the bar. It was a teacher from Bolton who had just been assigned to their regiment. He had gone through the Officer Training Corps before coming to France where he had been for the last two years. ‘I think that she is asking you if you want the best.’

‘The best what?’ queried Edward.

‘I would think that she means the wine. They usually have some decent quality stuff in the cellar that they keep for their favoured customers.’

‘Well, this stuff isn’t too bad,’ reflected Liam, taking another mouthful and letting it roll gently down his throat.

‘I suppose that we could always try some of the good stuff for a change,’ Edward  said encouragingly.

‘Good idea,’ Liam said. ‘We’ll order some. It’s about time we spoiled ourselves a bit. Tell her we’ll give it a try,’ he instructed Big Charlie.

A look of alarm started to spread across the already flustered face of the Salford soldier and he started to splutter. He fingered his collar and glanced briefly at the lovely face. ‘Aye. Right,’ he said, nodding.

‘Bien. Venez,’ she said, beckoning Big Charlie with an elegant finger.

Accompanied by much barracking from around the bar, Big Charlie rose uncertainly to his feet and followed as if mesmerised by the gently swaying hips of the waitress. The neat black skirt was his preferred option for somewhere to rest his gaze rather than meet the eyes of his fellow soldiers who were offering their own helpful observations on the nature of his mission. Heat raged up through his body, his tight collar constricted his breathing and sweat dripped into his unseeing eyes. Chairs, and sometimes their occupants, fell as he followed the French woman clumsily towards the door marked ’Privee.’

Liam poured some more wine from the carafe and fished in his pocket for the few francs that he needed as his contribution. ‘We might as well finish this so that we can compare it with good stuff.’

There was a hushed moment in the bar as all its occupants watched the graceful hips in the long black skirt, surmounted by the elegantly curved white blouse, go through to the back of the bar. This was a confused silence of envy and incomprehension. It was not within the scope of the average Tommy’s thinking to believe that this beautiful lady might be available, and to see her disappearing through this door, beckoning the reluctant Salford lad, was a mental challenge with which they could not cope. They listened in total silence to the heavy tread of Big Charlie’s boots ascending the stairs accompanied by the constant prompting of the French woman.

Edward and Liam clinked their glasses together. ‘Here’s to a good show – when it arrives,’ they wished, alluding to the rumours that were rife that the Germans might be planning something big. There had been reports that they had been moving divisions in from the Eastern Front to support their French operation.

‘Let’s hope that it’s a short one and that the whole thing’s over with soon.’

Whilst the occupants of the bar remained staring in open mouthed amazement at the door into the back there was a thunderous thudding noise on the stairs, the door burst open and Big Charlie came crashing through. He was muttering something about ‘getting in bed with a scabby old tart’ as he dashed past them and out through the front door.

Moments later, le patron’s daughter appeared, bending forward and holding her stomach as she struggled to suppress the violent laughter that was, in that peculiarly feminine way, applying pressure to her bladder. She struggled over to the corner of the bar where the locals were gathered and in seconds they were shrieking. The French woman gesticulated dramatically as a substitute for the words that she couldn’t get out and the old men spluttered through their cigarettes. One held his hand to his chest as his excitement mounted and another failed to hold his buttocks tightly enough to restrain the gases that his uncontrollable laughter had promoted. Hands were slapped on the bar and large, and sometimes dubious, handkerchiefs were wiped over their eyes as the waitress’s recounting of her story was accompanied by gales of laughter from the locals. The British soldiers stared at them, totally bemused.

The Bolton teacher had moved closer to the bar and was listening attentively to the discussion. Presently, he came over to Edward and Liam and explained that, apparently, the best wine had been hidden under the Grandma’s bed since the German army had arrived. Le patron’s daughter had needed assistance to lift her invalid Grandma from her bed so, in the absence of le patron, she had selected Big Charlie because of his obvious power. Unfortunately, the obliging Salford man had misunderstood the nature of his assignment when the French woman had pulled the sheets back and pointed first at Big Charlie and then at the bed. The situation had not been clarified when the occupant had given him a toothless smile and held her arms up in a welcoming gesture. He had taken one look at the wrinkled old crone smiling invitingly up at him and fled.

They had a brief discussion and concluded that Big Charlie might prefer to have a little time to recover before the situation was explained. There was the carafe of wine to finish anyway and it was improving as the evening progressed. They took their wine and joined a group from their platoon on the adjoining table. They discussed the football match planned for the next day and the shooting competition that was due to be held later in the week.

In the training sessions, heavy emphasis was now being placed on the platoon as a unit and much of the sporting activity was organized as inter-platoon competitions. After more than three years of fighting, many painful and expensive lessons had been learnt by both sides and the training was now focused on responsibility being taken at a more local, and even personal, level. The rigid patterns of battalion warfare were giving way to a more flexible approach at platoon level and the army was encouraging them in the recognition of the significance of this by arranging these inter-platoon activities.

The soldiers enjoyed the rivalry that was engendered and they thrived in the team environment. They became more mutually supportive of other members of the platoon and developed a greater recognition of the strengths and weaknesses of their colleagues. They would often send non-players out to watch other matches to assess their better performers and their tactics, and many off-duty hours would be enjoyably passed discussing forthcoming fixtures.

When the light faded outside small guttering candles were placed on the tables and the debates continued. More wine was ordered and games were analysed, tactics were discussed and le patron’s daughter was admired.

Eventually, they decided to make their way back to their billets and they fished under their seats for their boots. It had been made clear to them, when they had first started using the bar, that their studded boots were not welcome on the tiled floor so they politely removed them whilst standing on a small square of carpet near the door.

Liam had carried his boots over to the door, and was bending carefully to replace them, when that strange sensation that occurs as an intoxicated head becomes enshrouded by the night’s cold fresh air, began to overtake him. He put out a steadying hand on to the bench at the side of him and was surprised to feel the warm comfort of a female breast. Two large hands came up and clamped his wrist, pressing his hand firmly into position on the recumbent woman. Liam looked down to find that he was attached like a limpet to the ample breast of Camille. His heart sank. Deep despair quickly engulfed him. The British soldiers didn’t know Camille’s real name but they called her that because she reminded them, with her rolling gait, her bad breath and her unsociable habits, of the beasts that they had become so familiar with in Egypt.

She lived on a farm out in the country and came into the village once a week on market day. She was large and powerful, with a pronounced moustache and an abundance of warts, and she was frighteningly predatory. She had been known to clear the bar of British soldiers in less than two minutes when she began hunting. She had been drinking all afternoon and now Liam had clearly become integrated into her lascivious dreams.

His head was clearing rapidly as the gravity of his situation settled over him like a cold shroud. He tried carefully to withdraw his hand but Camille’s hands clasped more firmly round his throbbing wrist. Her prey was trapped and now she was going to devour it slowly and with relish. There was not even the tiniest corner of Liam’s mind that could contemplate a sexual contact with this snoring woman and panic started to overwhelm him like a creeping paralysis. He tried again to free his hand but the grip tightened. A cold, clammy sweat settled over his body. He could feel the muscles in his stomach twisting into tight knots and his bowels erupted into gaseous action. He wanted to shout Edward, who had gone outside and was threatening to walk off, but all that came out was a strangulated squeaking sound.

He contemplated lashing out at the recumbent Camille but the consequences of doing so were almost as frightening as the prospects of the encounter that she seemed to be currently dreaming about. He waved his free hand and emitted more formless squeaks but he failed to attract the attention of his friend. Desperate now for a solution before the control of his groin muscles let him down totally, he played his do-or-die card and flung his boot through the door where it rattled and bounced down the pavement. The noise attracted the attention of the parting soldiers and the group turned back.

Liam’s frantic yelping reached fever pitch as he tried to communicate with his puzzled friend. Edward stared, bewildered, into the half light of the bar. He could see Liam’s frightened eyes pleading for help but the nature of his discomfort eluded him. A few paces more, however, revealed the depth of Liam’s plight and Edward searched round for a solution. Liam’s hand was now being moved in a rotating motion around the breast of Camille, who was smiling blissfully. He was arching his fingers backwards in an effort to minimize contact with the coarse, woollen jumper, as if he was trying to avoid touching a hot metal surface.

A rapid solution was required but it had to be discreet; anything else could produce a response of cataclysmic proportions from the fearsome Camille. Finally his eyes settled on le patron’s cat that was curled up and sleeping peacefully on a chair near the door. Bending down, he carefully picked up the cat and placed it gently across the repulsive face. Within seconds she was struggling for breath through the seemingly contented animal. She instinctively opened her mouth to take in air but filled it instead with fur. Her hands reached up to remove the offending animal and Liam was free. He grabbed his other boot and rushed out hauling Edward behind him.

‘Let’s scarper quick, before she sees me,’ Liam gasped. ‘If she sets eyes on me I won’t dare come in here again.’

When they got back to their billets they decided that, at least, they would avoid going in on market days. Big Charlie asked for a return of his contribution towards the wine and told them that the Germans had opened up a massive artillery bombardment over a 50 mile front to the south and they were moving out during the next few days.

***

Their bodies ached with tiredness and their minds were numbed by the deafening thunder of the high explosive shells. They stumbled around in the trench, gas masks fixed to their faces and inhibiting their vision, and they struggled to free the bodies of their comrades from the cloying mud. They slithered on the blood laced slime as they heaved on the inert bodies and tried to sort out those with any flickering evidence of life from the obvious corpses. The hopefuls were carried over to the first aid posts. There the medical teams fought the overwhelming urge to sleep in order to render whatever assistance they could give that might help the injured survive until more comprehensive treatment could be administered. The corpses were moved to a processing area where their details could be recorded and their burials arranged.

The artillery bombardment by the Germans had been intense since it had opened at 5.00am. Gas had been used freely and veiled the British trenches in Bucquoy. It was now 5 April 1918 and two companies of the 1/8 Lancashire Fusiliers had been almost wiped out on the left flank that morning. Edward’s group had moved down to sort through the casualties. The incessant rain over the last few days had turned the bottom of the trench into a quagmire and the bodies of the injured lay amongst the blasted corpses and disembodied limbs of the dead. Edward had again inhaled some gas that morning before he had fixed his mask into place and now, as he coughed, the glass steamed up and blurred his vision. He tried to adjust the mask to make the seal more effective but suspected that it was designed for a less noble nose than his.