Ruby's War (23 page)

‘You'll have to show Ruby,' Lou said, refilling their glasses. ‘Come on, Con, don't be shy. She's such a nice girl,' she said, smiling at Con, who was steadying her hand, as she poured more of the dark liquid into Sadie's glass.

‘Tell you what. I've got an idea,' Sadie said, attempting to stand up. ‘Ruby, put the radio on.'

‘No. Jenny said I—'

‘Oh, come on,' Sadie said, falling back on to the couch. ‘We could have a dance.'

‘Ruby, you,' Lou said, in a fit of giggles, ‘should have more fun. Shouldn't she, Con? You'll have to learn to dance. If you learn, you could come out with us.'

‘Lou, I don't think you should have any more,' Con said. ‘You've got to go to work. She's on the late shift,' he said grinning at Ruby. ‘I think you'd better make her something to eat.'

‘I'm making potato pie and I got some bacon from the butcher's. There'll be enough for everybody.'

‘See what I mean?' Lou said, trying to focus her eyes on Ruby. ‘She's such a nice girl, but she should have more fun.'

‘If we can't dance,' Sadie giggled, ‘we'll just have to keep on trying that American custom young Con's been teaching us.'

‘That injection the doctor gave her … I think it's reacted with the drink,' Con said. ‘I think they'll both need to eat something.'

‘Ooh, yes,' Lou said, joining in the giggling again. ‘Now that's something else Ruby needs to be shown how to do. Tell her what you do at Christmas with the cinnamon sticks, Con. Tell her about what you do in America.'

‘It's just that some of us, the youngsters …'

‘No. Tell her properly.'

‘It's when … Well, sometimes when we make biscuits with cinnamon – cinnamon biscuits for Christmas – well, sometimes we put the spice on our lips … and kiss each other. It's just a game.'

‘It's lovely. You'll like it,' Lou said. ‘Go on, Con, put some on.'

Ruby watched Con put the cinnamon on his lips and took a deep breath. He stood close. She could feel his warmth and smell the spice. She squeezed her hands tightly and hoped he couldn't hear her heart banging.

‘Go on, Ruby, look up,' Lou ordered.

When she did, she saw that he was smiling. And although she'd seen it done lots of times at the pictures, she couldn't remember if she should shut her eyes. He took her shoulders and bent down. When she lifted her face closer toward his, she was glad that she'd kept them open, because as his face came nearer, she could see his long, graceful lashes leisurely sweeping down over his eyes. Then she closed her eyes and felt his lips, soft, steady, pressing. He touched her mouth with his tongue. Ruby held her breath and tried not to move. She didn't want it to stop, ever. It felt holy. The smell of the spice filled her nose, and a taste – his taste – cold and sweet, filled her mouth.

The city was fastened up, walled inside its own bitter fog. On the quayside, as he followed the line of trucks swinging in through the dock gates, Con inhaled the sour city-taste fused with the damp sea mist. The cranes on the dockside were still, but out on the river, the ships left blind and stranded by the fog had set up a lament. He climbed down from the cab, pulled up his collar and joined the huddles of men leaning against their cooling truck engines. At least he would get to stay outside the camp: late passes – five to midnight – were scarce. Lately, the only way to escape was to volunteer for duties at a village Christmas party or to sing for some church. And the joke was – according to Sarge Mayfield – it was the churches, some of them at least, that wanted to stop the black soldiers mixing with the locals. The other reason for rationing the passes was that, although the black and white GIs drank in different towns, the colonel was afraid
of what could happen if they came across each other. And it was true that, in some of the villages they'd thought too small to be designated black or white, fights had been arranged.

He nodded to Wes and some of the other guys that he recognised.

‘Word is we'll be here until morning,' Wes said, flicking his cigarette stub into a puddle on the cobbled quayside. ‘They'll not risk bringing the ships in.'

‘Guess not,' Con said, squatting down on his haunches and offering Wes another cigarette.

Even if the fog meant they stayed on the docks until morning, Con didn't really mind: now the ban on black newspapers had been tightened, meeting guys in other trucks was one of the only ways left of getting news from home.

‘See that guy over there. The fat guy? He's from Paradise Valley. Name's Walter. He's only been over here a couple of weeks.'

Con followed Wes over to the circle of men standing around an overweight GI.

‘Got worse since August,' the fat man said. ‘It's starting to hurt war production. If you ask me, they'd rather fight each other than Hitler. Labour relations are poor, and in a lot of the plants, it spills over into fighting between blacks and whites. Then it carries over on to the streets, particularly around the parks at weekend. It's not safe for families to go out there, even on Sundays. Aircraft plant at Willow Run's producing parts for … I know I shouldn't say … But, hell, we're all black folks here.' Walter looked around the group of men. ‘There isn't no Nazis here. The
plants are producing parts for B-24 Liberator bombers. They keep upping the production. Wanting more and more folk to work there, and folk from the South is coming in. Can't get that sort of pay down there. All the houses and apartments are full with workers, even an hour's car drive away. Little Washtenaw County's full. Trailer camps all over the place. Them places have no schools, policing or sanitation. The white folk ain't happy 'cos of all the blacks coming in.'

Although he wouldn't admit it, Con could understand why folks – black and white – should resent the increase of new workers coming in. The only people that would benefit were the shopkeepers. And the new black workers from the South would take lower pay. That didn't help the Detroit blacks none. The people who went to his father's church worked hard and didn't want trouble with their white neighbours.

‘We got our own Nazis now,' Walter said. ‘The Silver Shirts they call themselves. A lot of them is Poles. Detroit Poles. The Clan's mixed up with it – National Workers' League. Papers say it's a front for the Nazis. German Americans and these Silver Shirts. They say this war's not worth the life of one American boy, and they talk against the Jews and the black man. They reckon Jews hire black folks, so they can give 'em low wages.'

Con shifted uncomfortably and nudged Wes. ‘You coming up town?' he asked. ‘I went in this place with Holt last time. The food was good, and I think I can find it, even in the fog.'

‘I was hoping Holt and Bo might show up. Do you know what they were sent on this morning?'

‘No. They could do, I suppose, but there's no point in waiting, and I'm pretty hungry.'

They walked along a street leading away from the docks. On the clear blue day Con had visited the street-corner pub with Holt, as they'd crossed over one of the terraced streets, he'd caught sight of a ship sailing across the other end, so close that he'd felt as though he could have reached out and touched it. The pub was a tiny place with a bar in the main corridor and a series of small crowded rooms, each with a fire, a leather seat running along the walls and a push bell to call for service. Despite the choking fog, the pub was crowded. Most of the drinkers lived in the streets nearby, but because it was a port, the locals came from all over the world. Most of them were sailors or worked on the docks or in one of the warehouses along the quay. Con liked the place: it felt easier than the pubs around the camp that were all white. They ordered food, bought pints of beer and found two seats next to the fire, alongside a group of Irishmen.

‘You want a little drop to warm you, boys?' a small toothless man asked, handing them two small glasses of pale golden liquid from a tray on his table.

‘That's very kind of you, sir,' Wes said. ‘You must let me pay …'

‘No, no. If you'll drink my health. I'm ninety today and my son has arrived to help me to celebrate. It is the first time I have seen him for many a day,' the little man said, nodding towards a man who looked almost as old as he did. ‘My son Eoin has brought me a couple of bottles of a very singular drink.' The old man's son told them that he
knew America well and had been to Detroit several times, and they chatted happily about the places he remembered until their food arrived.

‘That was a mighty nice drink,' Con said, tucking into his meat pie. ‘I think I can feel my feet again.'

‘Would it be better than Buckie?' Wes asked innocently.

‘Buckie?' Con repeated, his fork frozen in mid-air. ‘How do you …?'

Wes grinned. ‘Henry said that, when he came home …'

‘Henry?'

When – under Lou's orders – Con was kissing Ruby, they'd heard the front gate open. Lou had grabbed bottle and glasses and dashed into the kitchen to hide them, but there'd been no hiding the fact that both she and Sadie were drunk, and that Ruby, although she hadn't drunk any of the Buckie, looked equally guilty. Luckily, when Henry and Sadie's mother walked into the cottage, all they'd been concerned about was Sadie's arm, and her worries about losing wages just before Christmas. Even when he discovered that the Buckie was all gone Henry hadn't complained, although his chest was very bad. This patient acceptance, in addition to the guilt he'd felt for his part in the drinking, meant that Con had been willing to pay almost twice as much to find Henry a replacement bottle.

‘I got the Buckie for him because I felt sorry for the old guy. He said it was the only thing that helped when he was gassed, and he thought it might help him again. His chest is awful bad.'

‘Does Henry know what was goin' on in his house – and what about Bo?'

‘What?'

‘Do they know about that story you told the girls? The one about the cinnamon sticks?'

‘It ain't no story. Just because you didn't do it. We did in my neighbourhood. Does Bo know about Sadie and …?'

‘No.'

‘Then how do you?'

‘Lou told me you said it was a custom. An American custom, you told her …'

‘It was her and Sadie. They got drunk. I got the Buckie for Henry and went along to drop it off and …'

‘You took advantage. That's what I heard. Now you're not going to tell me you protested. And you made out with little Ruby. Now you're not telling me that she—'

‘That was Lou's idea. We didn't make out. I just … She's only fifteen. Too young for me.'

‘She's awful pretty.'

‘I know, but she's just a kid. It wasn't my idea. Lou and Sadie just kept on, and by then … Well, we'd all had some of the stuff. It's real powerful. Does Bo … If she's told you, then Sadie might have …'

‘You'd best hope not,' Wes grinned. ‘I bet Sadie don't remember enough to tell him. Lou said you were all real gone.'

‘Lou should learn to behave. She's a married woman. Anyway, I got him another bottle.'

‘That was your guilty conscience. Here, get me another drink and I'll think about keeping my mouth shut. You'd best hope the girls and old Henry do the same.'

When Con came back with their drinks, one of the Irishmen had begun to sing and gradually the little bar
filled with people listening to his rich baritone. One of them was a black guy wearing an RAF uniform. He smiled and nodded at the two GIs, and when the singing stopped, he came over to their table.

‘Have you just arrived?' he asked.

‘No. We're here collecting parts.'

‘You been in Northern Ireland?' he asked, nodding at the Irishman singing.

‘No. We came over from the States. Pardon me asking, but where …'

‘I'm from Jamaica,' the man said with a smile. ‘I came over to offer my services to the RAF. The uniform fools an awful lot of people. The name's George, George McDonald. Would you like another drink?'

George settled down with them to chat and listen to the music. Con, whose own attempts to grow a moustache had resulted in little more than a vague shadow on his upper lip, gazed in admiration at George's neatly groomed moustache and short, slicked-down hair.

When the Irish baritone finished his song, he was replaced by a burly Irishwoman called Bernadette, who sang ‘Hills of Connemara' in a sweet, girlish voice that didn't match her age or size. Now his stomach was full, Con felt mellow and comfortable in the crowded room. He stretched out his long legs, his eyes began to feel heavy and he tried to forget the uncomfortable night ahead in the back of a cold truck. At the end of the song, the old Irishman's son, Eoin, began topping up their glasses from a large brown bottle.

‘Come along,' he said, handing a glass to George, ‘we'll drink a toast to my father.'

As they waited, he moved around refilling glasses and offering drinks to the newcomers.

‘Good evening. Will you two gentlemen have a drink? It's my father's birthday,' he called to someone towards the back of the crowded room.

Con turned, and saw that he was speaking to two white GIs; one was small and wiry, the other taller and flabby with greasy hair flopping in his eyes. Both men were swaying.

‘It's lovely. It will warm you on a cold night,' the large lady singer called.

As the big floppy-haired guy reached out his hand, trying to focus on the tray of free drinks, Con saw Bo and Holt standing in the doorway holding pints of beer. At first, the smaller GI sniggered at his friend's drunken attempts to reach the tray, but then his eyes locked on Con's.

‘Naw thank you, ma'am,' he said, grabbing at the back of his friend's tunic. ‘We don't drink with blacks where I come from.'

His words made the fat GI's concentration slip and he fell forward almost upsetting the drinks. Bo, who had been standing behind the two GIs, reached over and steadied the tray.

‘Then maybe you should find yourself another place to drink,' he said, taking one of the glasses for himself.

The drinkers fell silent, and the packed room filled with the moan of the foghorns out on the river. Con felt his heart start to pound. He saw Wes tense, as though ready to spring out of his seat, and George, who had slipped his tobacco pouch back into his pocket, narrowed
his eyes. Bo ignored the two white GIs, and lifting his glass to the Irish woman, he took a sip. Con could see that his face and tunic were damp from the foggy night, and that behind him, Holt was wiping his face with his cap.

‘Steady now, lads,' the Irishman said, moving the tray as far away from the threatened danger as possible, ‘we don't want no trouble in here.'

‘There'll be none, sir,' Bo said. ‘These gentlemen are leaving.'

Alerted by the sudden silence, the landlord peered round the door. ‘All right, lads. What's goin' on?' he asked. ‘Is that poteen I can see, Michael Clancy?'

‘I was just offering my friends a small taste of Ireland. It is a drink brewed only on my family's land and has the most delicate of flavours. Won't you take a glass?' the old man asked.

‘I'll ask you to put it away, if you please. I've my licence to think of – and you gents,' he said looking at the two GIs, ‘there's room in the other parlour. You'll be comfortable in there.'

‘I'll not drink out of a glass used by no black,' slurred the larger man.

The landlord's pink shiny face clouded. ‘Your friend's had enough by the look of him, mate,' he said to the smaller GI. ‘It might be best if you take him home.'

When the smaller soldier began to protest, two large barrel-chested men in the mufflers and caps Con had seen worn by dockers grabbed his friend by the arm.

‘Off you go now, lads,' the landlord said, as the two GIs tottered obediently into the night.

When Bo and Holt had been introduced to George and the small glasses of spirit drunk, George took out his pipe and pouch again. ‘You guys often get that sort of trouble?' he asked. ‘I must say, I've had one or two problems with your chaps myself. Couldn't make them understand that I wasn't an American. I pointed out RAF on my uniform, but it didn't do any good, I'm afraid.'

‘What about the RAF guys?' Bo asked.

‘Oh well, you know. It's not official here. No colour bar, but most of them are surprised at first and a bit nervous to fly with me, until they get to know me. Here in the port is okay. More cosmopolitan, you see. Not like the rest of England. Your guys, well that's different.'