Write Me a Love Story
CHAPTER 4+
By Janet Baldey
I stood, frozen with horror, a pile of
spilt grain at my feet. There were bodies everywhere. Pathetic clumps of sodden
feathers, they no longer looked like chickens.
And it was my fault. I’d noticed the gale had loosened some fence posts
and had meant to do something about it but had been so tired. Now it was too
late. A hungry fox had seized his chance and was now probably holed up
somewhere nearby, peacefully digesting his meal.
I squeezed my eyes shut and stood
quivering. It wasn’t just the loss of the eggs.
I’d grown fond of my birds. It brightened my morning to see them run
towards me, lurching from side to side on their trousered legs, looking for all
the world like wind-up toys. Very early on I’d realised each had its own
personality and I’d named them all. I ground my teeth.
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid. Whatever
made me think I could manage on my own?’
The cockerel was hiding inside the
coop. Somehow, he’d managed to flap out of reach and had escaped the carnage.
Charlie clung to his perch and stared down at me from out of dull eyes. He’d
lost his tail feathers and was no longer his strutting self. I looked at the
pathetic creature drooping in front of me. Beaten and dejected, he looked as I
felt.
As I stuffed the carcasses into a
sack, I thought of the telephone number Frank had scrawled on a piece of paper.
It was still where he’d left it, tucked behind the clock. I’d phone the camp
from the village.
* * *
All the way down the hill I rehearsed what to
say. Frank had said he’d fixed it but,
because of the delay, they might have forgotten and as I lifted the receiver,
my stomach was churning. A voice answered and I pressed Button A, hearing the
hollow sound of coins dropping into the box.
‘Hello.’
The voice was faint but, in the event, things
went smoother than I’d imagined.
‘Just hold on a bit missus. What did you say your
name was again?’
There was
a dull clunk as the phone was put down and in the background, I heard the muted
rumble of voices, like the faint herald of a summer storm. Minutes dragged by as I wilted in that stuffy
box the sun was rapidly turning into a
hothouse, sweat dripping down my arm as I held the receiver clamped to my ear.
At last, the cheery voice was back on the other end of the line.
‘That’s
all right then luv. Now, ‘ow many do you want?’
For a mad
moment I thought I’d got the wrong number. It was like ordering up bales of
hay. Then I almost slammed down the phone as a nightmare vision of a group of
cold-eyed men standing in my yard flashed before my eyes. I gripped the black
Bakelite tighter.
‘Just one.’
.
‘Righto.
Might be a few days, mind’. If the man on the other end of the line had
noticed the tremor in my voice, he made no comment.
I left the telephone box and walked over to where
I’d left Barley. My legs were shaking and at that moment I would have sold my
soul to see Frank’s familiar figure striding towards me.
* * *
Wasn’t it
just typical? Life never missed an
opportunity to catch you out.
Exasperated, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, realising, too
late, that it was filthy. Now I probably had black streaks across my face as
well as straw in my hair.
All week I’d been on tenterhooks, alert for the
slightest sound of an army truck; every morning waking up with the thought that
this could be the day. Except, of course, for this morning, when I’d felt so
miserable that everything else was wiped from my mind. I had a pounding
headache and when I swallowed fire shot down my throat. The harsh morning light had increased the
thumping in my head and wincing, I’d screwed my eyes shut again. Every fibre of
my being yearned to slip back under the covers and sleep for at least the next
eight hours, but from somewhere I found the will to force myself out of bed.
Full of self-pity, I stumbled downstairs thinking that no doubt the Spanish
Inquisition had its tricky moments but it couldn’t have been much worse than a
dose of summer ‘flu.
Sniffing miserably, I went about my usual morning
chores. Luckily, by now they were second nature and I trudged around like a
robot, doing what I had to do, my arms and legs working with mechanical
efficiency.
When I returned from the milk run, I looked at
the long-suffering pig wallowing in his sty. I’d recently evolved a new system.
To avoid overlooking any job, I’d made a tick list, tacking it up on the
kitchen door so I’d be sure to see it whenever I went out. Today, it was the
pig’s turn to be mucked out.
So, with the porker grunting and snuffling around
me, I was standing ankle-deep in manure, forking soiled hay out of the sty
when, to my horror, I heard the clash of gears as a heavy vehicle laboured up
the hill.
Before I had a chance to move, an olive green truck
swung through the gateposts, its heavy tyres skidding over the muddy yard as it
slid to a stop. A moment later, a squat plug of a man dressed in a hairy khaki
uniform jumped down from the cab and stood looking around, his head snapping
backwards and forwards. A silent group of men seated in the back watched impassively.
Seconds passed in slow motion then, without
taking my eyes off the scene, I took an uncertain step forwards and almost
tripped over a metal bucket lying in wait.
At the sudden clang, heads whipped around and I sensed, rather than saw,
a dozen pair of eyes settle on me. My face flooded with heat as I remembered
the smudge on my nose and my wild hair. My hands trembled as I let myself out
of the sty.
As soon as he saw me, the sergeant’s face cleared
and he did a quick right turn trotting towards me at the double, a clipboard
tucked under his arm.
‘Ma’am’!
He braked and came to a halt; his spine erect and
his chin tucked in. As his bulky figure stood bristling in front of me, I
noticed that what filled out his uniform was not fat but muscle; there was not
a spare ounce of flesh on his body. Somehow that made me feel worse and I stood
drooping in front of him feeling like a rag doll, my headache intensifying as
the bark of his parade-ground voice vied with the gong being beaten inside my
skull.
‘Arrive at
seven…..leave at seven. Monday to
Saturday……’ His words burst around me like machine gunfire. They were clear
enough but I didn’t understand them. Their sense was muffled by the layers of
cotton wool inside my skull. Wearily I closed my eyes and as I did the ground
beneath my feet started to ripple. Slowly I began swaying to compensate.
‘Sign here Ma’am. Ma’am?’
A hand grasped my arm.
‘Are you all right? You don’t look quite the
ticket.’ Mercifully, he’d stopped
shouting and his voice, although roughened by years of roaring at squaddies,
was softer.
I shook my head and the sudden movement sent
nausea coursing through me. I retched
helplessly.
I saw the sergeant’s head whip-round and he
bellowed over his shoulder.
‘Fritz!’
I felt the
pitchfork being taken out of my hand.
‘Just lean on me.’
With unexpected gentleness, I was guided across
the yard and into the kitchen where I collapsed into a chair. Leaning back into
the soft cushions, I tried to ignore the room circling around me. Slowly, I
closed my eyes, dimly aware that somebody was taking off my shoes and lifting
my feet onto a stool.
When I opened my eyes, everything was hazy. I
blinked and dim images swam into focus; I recognised the clock, my wood burning
stove and the high stone sink. As if a tap had been turned, everything came
flooding back. I remembered the lorry, the sergeant and someone called Fritz. I
sat up with a jerk almost knocking over a cup of tea that had been placed close
by. A wrinkled skin covered its surface and it was quite cold. Startled, I looked at the clock. I had been
asleep for over three hours. A pulse
began to beat rapidly in my neck. Where was everyone and what had been going on
while I slept?
I jumped to my feet and immediately clutched the
back of the seat as my legs buckled. I stood hunched over for a few seconds
then lurched to the door and flung it open. Sunlight flooded in and, narrowing
my eyes against the glare, I squinted around the farmyard. Nothing seemed out
of place. The usual farm buildings slumbered in the sunshine that was rapidly
drying the mud in the yard to a brown crust. I could see the dark shape of
Barley’s dun-coloured head poking out of the stable door. Her jaws were moving
rhythmically and strands of hay spooled from her mouth. Someone had fed her.
That had been the next job on my list, after the…. I suddenly remembered the pig and my head
jerked towards his sty. Grunting gently, he was rooting about in a fresh pile
of golden straw. Round and pink and clean, he looked contented.
The beating of my heart steadied and my grip on
the door relaxed. There was a sharp sound of stone against metal and I craned
my neck to listen. It was coming from around the back of the house and I
started to step outside before remembering I’d no shoes on. Retreating into the
shadowy coolness of my hall, I found my shoes, slipped them on and walked
through the house towards the back door.
As I passed the kitchen window I stopped dead.
The cockerel had been corralled inside its little
wooden house and the old posts had been uprooted and lay neatly stacked on the
ground. A man was digging a deep trench around the hencoop. He seemed very
young, hardly more than a boy. Pausing
for breath, he wiped an arm across his brow and took off his shirt. His bare
torso was so white, it looked luminous and I could count his ribs, his stomach
was concave and his trousers were held up by jutting hipbones. I felt a flash
of irritation: he looked weedy. They might as well have sent a girl. Then, he
started to dig. His movements were sure and unhurried and with fluid grace he
bent and lifted the shovel with rhythmic ease, piling the excess soil in a
neat line at the side of the trench as he worked.
I watched him for a few minutes, perhaps I should
make him a cup of tea. Or should it be coffee?
I wasn’t sure what Germans drank. The French liked coffee, I knew that.
Frank and I had rarely touched the stuff but sometimes in the evenings, we had
a cup of Camp, made with boiled milk heavily laced with sugar. I opened a cupboard
but the bottle was empty apart from a sticky brown residue coating the
bottom.
The man looked up as I approached and at first, I
thought the colour of his eyes was a reflection from the sky. Later, I realised
they were always that shade. As I drew nearer I realised he was older than I’d
first thought, maybe twenty-five instead of sixteen. Straightening, he put down
the spade.
‘Ach. You are looking so much better now’
He saw the cup, smiled and stretched out his
hand.
‘Danke.’
The sweetness of his smile took me completely by
surprise. I’d prepared myself for surliness, arrogance or a cringing slyness
but not that.
‘My pleasure.’
I handed him the tea, regretting my curt reply. I
forced myself to continue, aware I was sounding more and more like a vicar’s
wife.
‘Thank you for all you’ve done Fritz. You’ve
obviously worked very hard.’
‘Please.’ He held up a hand. It was a very slim hand with long fingers, it
could have belonged to a concert pianist. I noticed that ugly red welts were
already beginning to blister his skin.
‘Please’, he continued. ‘Not Fritz. My name is
Georg.’ Suddenly he put the cup down and straightened. Snapping his heels
together, he saluted.
‘Georg Reiner Weindhoven.’
He dropped his arm, relaxed and laughed out loud.
‘The sergeant calls us all Fritz. Every one of
us. It’s his little joke. I think it saves him from remembering all our nasty
foreign names.’ His eyes twinkled into mine.
I drew back and there was a long silence. He
hadn’t taken long to show his true colours. How dare he mock the sergeant; that
was pure arrogance, typical of his race. He blinked uncertainly and his smile
faded. Suddenly, he looked sixteen again.
‘I’m sorry. I haf offended you?’
‘Drink your tea, before it gets cold. Do you have
anything to eat?’
Even to my ears, my voice sounded as if it could
stiffen sheets.
Turning to where his jacket was draped over a
post, he rummaged in a pocket and drew out a brown paper package that crackled
as he unwrapped it.
‘Bread and…’ he peered inside the sandwich…’ marge,
I think you call it.’
‘Is that all?’
He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not staying at
the Ritz.’
Despite myself, I was shocked. He was the enemy
but he wasn’t a slave.
‘I hope you like eggs’.
As I poached the eggs and buttered the toast, I
wondered about him. He didn’t look as if he was used to manual work but when
he’d finished mucking out the sty, he’d fed Betsy and had obviously realised
the chicken coop needed mending. Most men in the same situation would have
lazed around smoking, waiting to be given orders.
But as I carried out the loaded tray he was,
indeed, sprawled on the ground, his thin fingers busy with a roll-up.
***
That night I couldn’t sleep and lay staring into
the dark sure I’d made a terrible mistake. The more I thought about it, the
more certain I became. Of my own free will and driven by panic, I’d invited an
enemy alien into my home. Goodness knows what would happen now. Mentally
cursing my stupidity, my hands gripped the sheets, their nails almost ripping
holes through the worn cotton.
Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, I drifted into a thin
doze only to be awakened almost immediately by the first shrill chirp of a
single bird that swiftly multiplied as others joined the chorus. I crawled out
of bed, feeling half-dead, and laboured through the day. Whatever I did,
wherever I went, a dark cloud hovered over me and the same thought circled
inside my brain like a record with a stuck needle. I’d made a dangerous error.
To Be Continued/…
Copyright Jan Baldey
