That afternoon a dozen from signals stood in threes outside the admin office, being told by a sergeant (what they as wireless operators knew already since all information sent to the camp went through them) that they would be demobbed in three months. For some reason the short ratty sergeant gave a lecture on their lack of smartness, threatened them with guard duty, kit inspection, and morning parades, which they as wireless operators had so far avoided. Their great dread was that the air force bullshit machine would find its way even into this easygoing outpost of dialectical imperialism. “I like it the way it is,” Corporal Knotman said to Brian. “You don’t jump when I walk into the room, and I don’t jump when any other rattlebox shows his mug. They don’t realize that the war’s over, and times are no longer what they were.”
“And so”—the sergeant bawled from the veranda, a little man who knew how to have his own way because he in his time had been bullied blind — “I want to see signals’ types look smarter and be a bit more punctual. You were all late for this parade, every manjack of you, by four minutes. Four minutes is a long time in the air force and I want you to know that you must never be late again, NEVER! Understand? Not even for ten seconds. Now, another thing — no, I haven’t finished with you yet, not by a long way — I was walking through your billet this morning and it was untidy, scruffy in fact. WILL YOU STOP JUMPING AROUND LIKE A LOT OF BLOODY BALLET DANCERS AND HOLD STILL? That’s better. The beds weren’t made on time and I want you to see that they are.”
“Inferiority complex,” Baker grumbled, his lips hardly moving. “He’s like Hitler. A Nazi louse. I wonder where he’s left his swastika? ‘Lost, one swastika in Piccadilly Circus. Reward of half a crown.’ Blokes like him’ll be slammed in the gas-ovens next time.”
The sergeant went on to instruct them about going to England on the troop-ship: “You’ll wear full webbing equipment, with water-bottle and big pack, also carry a kitbag and rifle. All your surplus possessions can go into one deep-sea trunk.” He asked for questions. Brian could feel Baker seething nearby, like a dog-lover whose pet bonzo has just been trodden on in a crowd and is out to set on anybody with two legs. It’s understandable: it takes him a month to make such streamlined aeroplanes. Baker’s hand shot up: “What about our suitcases, sergeant?”
He let out a sneering roar: “Suitcases? Who’s got suitcases?” I wonder if he’s married, Brian thought, and treats his kids like this? Everyone put his hand up, and the majority vote rattled him. “Now listen to me, you can only take what’s on Standing Orders, that is, the equipment provided by the air force. All personal stuff has to go in a deep-sea trunk, crated and made to specifications by some wog chippy in the village. Any airman who wants these specifications can call at the orderly room after the parade, and I’ll be glad to see he gets them.”
This hit everyone, for all had suitcases to hold the growing volume of presents stored up since arrival. Brian had a dressing-gown for Pauline, things for the kid. Baker spoke up: “I’ll burn all my equipment. I’m not leaving presents behind.”
The sergeant seemed about to rush back to his office for the Riot Act. “Who said that?” He leapt from the veranda and came so fast into them that he burst against Baker and knocked him backwards. Baker recovered quickly, squinted down at him with insolent amazement. “You shouldn’t strike an airman, sergeant,” he said gently.
The holy rank awarded by the air force gave way. “Take him to the guard-room,” he bellowed, jabbing out with his fingers. “You, you, you as well.”
Baker was dragged off by his mates, Brian unable to decide whether he was acting or in earnest as he struggled violently and called out: “I’m innocent, I tell you. Innocent!”
CHAPTER 22
He remembered how on the long straight street of the housing estate Pauline ditched him one night: “I don’t want to go out with you any more. I’ve got a date with somebody else tomorrow.” Just like that; and even though they’d been getting on each other’s nerves, it was still as abrupt as if she’d prodded him with a hatpin or knitting needle.
“Go and get dive-bombed then,” he raged, and walked at a quick pace down the street to catch up Albert Lomax, who had just bid good night to his girl, Dorothy.
“That was quick,” Albert said. “Has she chucked you?”
“Don’t be bleddy funny,” Brian retorted. Then: “She has, if you want to know. Not that I’m bothered. We’ve been getting fed up with each other the last week or two.”
“You’ve been having too much of it, that’s what’s wrong,” Albert said soberly. “You’ve got to lay off now and again, not see owt of each other for a few weeks, then you wain’t get so bored.” Exactly what had been in Brian’s mind, but neither he nor Pauline were made for the mechanics of sensible separation. Too much passion was involved, and any letting-go would have to come out of hatred, not understanding.
Weekdays had been given to kissing by the back door, or sitting in with old Jack Mullinder over a lugubrious game of darts. Jack was off work now — for good, it looked like — because his foot had broken out again, was giving him jippo, he admitted whenever an evening passed with not much more than a snappy word from him now and again. To Brian it was a house of silence compared to what it had been, no fun with poor old Mullinder trying to nurse his pain without going off his head. He felt sorry for him, as if he were his second father dropped into a cleft of hell, and was moved to weeping one night on his long wind home through the black-out. Nothing could be done except take the foot off, the doctors thought, and that’s what it seemed like coming to. It was a miserable lookout when you dwelt on it, what with the war and everything.
On dry days of mid-week he walked with Pauline past the Broad Oak to Strelley fields and they lay on his topcoat behind isolated hedges, making love again and again into an intimate and speechless lassitude. They were blind in such darkness, unable to see except by the touch of hands against each other, which suited Brian down to the ground, though Pauline was sometimes irritated when his solicitude went on too long afterwards. “I can’t help it,” he laughed, “if my old man was a rabbit. John I was christened, not Brian — Jack Rabbit to my pals.”
“I don’t know about a rabbit,” she said, wiping herself, “but you must a bin born in a boat, if you ask me.”
“It’s so bleeding dark,” he said, “I can’t see a thing.”
“Stop swearing: wash your mouth out with soap, foulmouth.” The tone and volume of her voice were calmer than the content of her retort, the main fire staying in her eyes, which he could not see. Shocked nevertheless at her reaction to a plain truth, he stood up and took a few paces away as if to make the darkness thicker by being on his own. It certainly was more comfortable, and his rage at her temper went like the matter from a pimple back into his bloodstream and left him calm. But she hadn’t finished: “You’re allus swearing, and you never stop doing it for my sake. I suppose you think it meks you look big.”
The darkness was lit up, as if he had been smacked in the mouth — like his fight the time they first met. He wanted to walk off without turning towards her to do so — impossible because it was a lunar and dangerous landscape they were in, full of lime-kilns and abandoned pit shafts, wells and outcrop workings where one false step might cripple you for life. So it was better to stay and try argument: ‘“There’s nowt wrong wi’ swearing. It’s just words like any others.”