Dunkirk Spirit Part 66

The Padre retrieved the flask and unfastened the top. He lent forward and gently lifted the young lieutenant's head.

'No, you first, Padre.'

'Umm, it's not really my cup of tea. It gives me a headache. Oh my, this is a beautiful flask!'

'It belonged to my friend Peter. Lovely chap; he got the DSO in the last war. Just have the one sip. Come on, Padre. You've earned it.'

The Reverend Thomas Charlesworth had few moral objections to alcohol; he simply did not enjoy the taste. He sniffed the top.

'Bottoms up!' he declared, upending the flask. He stopped and jerked back suddenly, his eyes wide open. He let his tongue travel across his lips. 'I say! What is this?'

'Knowing Peter, it's the finest cognac.'

'It's lovely!' The Padre raised the flask again. 'May I?'

'Of course. But don't get a taste for it. Not now.'

13:40 Monday 3 June 1940.

Snowdown Station, Southern Railways, Kent 'What, that chap there? The one done up like an Egyptian mummy? What makes you think he's French? He's got British Army boots on and gaiters.'

'Because he has a handful of snails.'

'Snails?'

'And they don't look at all appetising.' Margaret screwed up her face.

'Is he eating them raw?' asked Major Featherstonehaugh. 'Surely not?' He wore a snappy three-piece tweed suit, every inch the squire. His military bearing, tanned face and solid frame had not been lost on the other women of the WVS who manned the platform. At a trim fourteen-and-a-half stone, the Major cut an impressive figure.

'No,' said Margaret. 'He doesn't want anything. And he won't speak a word.'

The Major let out a deep sigh. There was no point speaking French to the fellow. 'He's obviously one of ours and very likely a little doolally t'boot. Why don't you just shunt him off on the next train?'

'Because he looks so sad,' explained Margaret. 'He's a good-looking boy or he would be after a hot bath and a shave. I bet there's a mother somewhere frantic with worry.'

'D'you collect waifs and strays?' asked the Major, chuckling.

'Only the handsome ones.' Margaret felt her face flush instantly. She chuckled, too. 'Rose!' she turned to the trestle table. 'Two cups of tea please.'

'There, there,' whispered Margaret. 'Put your head on my shoulder.'

The young soldier did as he was told.

'It's all right to cry, you know,' Margaret told him. 'Really. There's no shame in it. Get the emotions out. You will feel better, I promise.'

Archie Marley sniffed at first. Margaret felt the sobs start deep within his chest. He gasped for air and then burst into tears, an uncontrollable flood that left a lengthy watermark across her breast. She ached deep inside and felt a lump grow in her throat. 'Your poor mother,' she thought. 'And you poor, poor boy. What have you been through?'

Archie took a deep breath. He kept his cheek pressed to Margaret's bosom. He would never move again. He would stay here, held tight to a warm, soft breast, his hair gently stroked. And then he cried again; this time without sound, just a series of wracking convulsions.

'You poor darling,' Margaret told him. 'If I had a son he would be just your age now. And if I were your mother I would be so happy to know that you were back safe and sound.' Margaret had to blink quickly to halt the tears that were in danger of br.i.m.m.i.n.g. She breathed deeply, lifting Archie's head several inches higher. He knew he could not stay like this for ever. He pulled himself upright.

'Oh, dear,' said Margaret. She dived into her sleeve for a hanky and quickly pressed it into Archie's hand.

'That sounds like a trumpet!' Margaret told him, laughing.

Archie made the sound again. He wiped the sodden handkerchief across his nose and rubbed quickly at his red eyes. He looked at Margaret and laughed for the first time in a week.

'I'm sorry about that,' he said. 'I must look like a right 'un!'

'Like a hero,' smiled Margaret, her eyes glinting. She shook her head. 'Like a hero back from the war and you have been in the wars, haven't you?' She sat upright and held Archie's shoulders. 'What will your poor mother say?'

Archie huffed. 'She won't say a thing. I probably won't even bother to go round and see her.'

'Pardon? Oh, you must. She will be worried sick.'

'No she won't.' Archie sneered. 'I've only got one real family and it's not even mine anymore. I can't go back there.'

'Why on Earth not? What do you mean?'

'It's a long story,' Archie told her.

'Sip your tea,' Margaret told him. She stretched out for the mug and pressed it into his hands. 'And tell me all about it.'

'No, I absolutely forbid it!' said Margaret, clearly agitated. 'You only have one life and I will not see you throw it away. One gets so few opportunities in life for real love.' She shook him by the shoulders and then wished she hadn't, seeing the obvious pain in his eyes.

'Life is too short and who can say what tomorrow will bring? My husband and I loved each other so deeply that I often felt it as a physical pain. Every morning and every night we said I love you.'

She was shaking her head. Margaret's eyes were closed. She held Archie Marley's hand in her own and was squeezing a little too tight. 'You mustn't stop fighting now,' she told him. 'You go back to Grace. You knock on that door. Tell them about Bill. Tell them straight away. But don't think they could ever reject you. And tell that girl you love her. Grasp the nettle! And tell her every morning and every night, because you may not have a tomorrow.'

14:35 Monday 3 June 1940.

Dunkirk, France Commander Babbington smelt the horses a long time before he saw them. They lay where he had left them, attracting flies in a tangled heap down a narrow cul-de-sac. At least two of the horses had been hastily butchered, their b.u.t.tocks hacked off, and the flesh now purple and dry.

Broken gla.s.s crunched underfoot. The smell of bonfires filled the air. He sidestepped the telegraph wires and masonry until he stood facing the barber's shop. Instinctively, his hand was drawn to his chin. He rasped the stubble and examined his reflection. And then he froze. He stepped closer to the gla.s.s and peered inside.

The barber, who had been flicking through his stack of tired magazines, instantly pulled himself to his feet and beckoned the Commander. He moved quickly to open the door and stood aside. 'Bonjour monsieur. Veuillez entrer.' He smiled broadly. 'Entrez. Entrez!'

'Ah, thank you,' smiled back Binky. He allowed the man to take his helmet, webbing, and mackintosh, which he hung on a rack before motioning for the Commander to take his seat. It was then that he noticed little Sago. The dog, equally baffled as Binky, hesitated in the doorway.

'A little dog!' exclaimed the barber. 'Is he with you, monsieur?'

'Yes,' declared Binky. He studied his own reflection in the mirror: a week's worth of stubble and grime, bloodshot eyes sunk deep into his skull, and the spa.r.s.e grey hair flattened to his head.

The barber affixed a sheet of soft white linen around Binky's neck and studied the Commander. 'I suggest a shave, a shampoo and rinse, and then a trim.'

'Perfect!'

'A complete wash and brush up, monsieur.'

'For me or the dog?' asked Binky.

'For both, if you wish, monsieur.'

'Then make it so,' smiled Binky. 'Nice and short at the sides, but leave as much as you can on top. And a thorough shampoo for my little friend.'

'Monsieur, water is the problem, of course. I have a little water but I do not have hot water. Is that acceptable?'

Binky laughed. 'I don't even have an appointment! I'm not going to complain.'

'An appointment is not necessary. Today is a slow day.'

'So I imagine.'

'It will, of course, get more busy later.'

'Are you expecting customers?'

The barber who had a curiously large lump on his head, an obvious tumour, spoke with a painful wheeze. 'Of course! Of course! The Germans will arrive soon. One cannot always choose one's customers, but their hair grows just as fast as everyone else's. They will need haircuts, too. Excuse me.' He left the room to fill a jug.

'Aren't you worried?' called Binky over his shoulder.

'No,' called the man. He walked back into the room and began to pour water into the sink. 'We barbers, we are neutral. We are like the bakers. Everybody needs bread and everybody needs to have his hair cut. Even in a world on fire, these things are necessities. Please.'

He held the back of Binky's neck and drew him closer to the sink. 'It is cold, I must warn you.'

Binky luxuriated in the sensation. The barber applied a little liquid soap and began a vigorous ma.s.sage. A rush of endorphins flowed through the Commander's heart. After the second rinse and back upright in the chair, he asked, 'Where did you learn English?'

'On the White Star Line, monsieur.' He rubbed the towel briskly with firm fingers.

'A good life?' asked Binky.

'If you cut ladies' hair, it is a very good life.' They both chuckled.

The barber turned to whip up some lather, allowing Binky to study the giant tumour. Fine wispy hairs struggled to cover the flaking pink lump.

'And the Germans?' asked Binky, again. 'What about your family? You must be scared.'

'About what?' He lathered the Commander's face. 'That they will destroy the town? I do not think so. It is destroyed enough already.'

Binky watched the man test the cutthroat razor with his thumb. Satisfied, he lent forward and stretched the skin tight around Binky's hairline. Sc.r.a.pe, sc.r.a.pe went the blade. 'What more can they do? And, besides, they will want to live here now. Things will improve.'

'You think so?'

'I know so. I was born near Epinal. During the last war it was under the Germans. Things were not so bad. All right, they were bad for everyone. That is war. But I think they were no more bad than they were here.' He examined Binky's head from several directions.

'And what about the British?' asked Binky. 'How do you feel about us leaving?'

'You abandon us, monsieur. You abandon France to her fate and you save your own necks. Hold still, please.'

The blade took delicate strokes around the Commander's p.r.o.nounced Adam's apple. 'Oh, really?' asked Binky when he had finished. The barber wiped away the excess foam from his ears, nodding satisfaction. 'But Britain, with just one small army here, you could never expect us to save France.'

The barber shrugged. 'And soon it will be your turn.' He selected a pair of scissors and a comb. 'The Germans are far-sighted.' He dragged the comb through Binky's hair, scratching the scalp. 'They want one big united Europe with Berlin as its heart, as the Romans had Rome. We will have some upset at first but it will soon settle down. People will have to accept the facts. That is human nature.'

The barber kept up a steady wheezing. He snipped gently. 'Of course we hate the b.l.o.o.d.y Bosche. But then we hate lots of things. I hate the old men who made such a mess of the last war. I hate the fact that they are now in charge again. It is life. What can you do?'

'Not a lot,' agreed Binky. 'A little more off the sides, please.'

'And what of you, monsieur? You wear no uniform, but you have a gun and a metal hat.'

'And a dog.'

'Yes, and a dog. You English are eccentrics. What is he, a souvenir of France?'

'Of sorts.' The barber was beginning to raise Binky's hackles. He cleared his throat and caught the man's eye in the mirror. 'Do not make the mistake of dismissing us just yet. We will be back, mark my words.'

'Oh, yes?' The barber gave a mighty wheeze and looked briefly as if he might not recover. 'How will you be back?' he asked finally. 'With this army I see here?'

Binky watched him shake his head. 'You, too, will accept the Germans.' He laughed. 'After all, your entire Royal Family, they are Germans and you love them! Pah! And what about this Battenberg fellow? Now he is Mountbatten but he is still German. You will find it even easier than us French to adapt. You and the Germans, you are like cousins.'

'One big happy family, eh?'

'Whatever happy means! Look at it this way, monsieur, for hundreds upon hundreds of years, we French and you English we were like cat and dog. We fought all the time. And then you were friends with the Germans. Today, or perhaps it was yesterday, you were friends with France. Tomorrow with the Germans again. Who knows?'

He brushed behind Binky's ears and around the collar. 'Voila, monsieur!'

Binky stood up and allowed the wheezing barber to whip away the linen bib. He examined himself in the mirror.

'You are like a new man, monsieur. All spick and span! And ready to meet your family!'

15:10 Monday 3 June 1940.

HM Dockyard, Dover, Kent 'This blasted tie!' Commander Edward Bishop was on the verge of spitting blood. 'Frank!'

Francisco slid back the door and poked his head inside the tiny cabin. 'Yes, sir?'

'Give us a hand with this blasted tie, will you?'

'Turn and face the mirror please, sir.' Francisco gently clasped the Skipper's shoulders and pointed him in the right direction. Francisco was on the short side and Commander Bishop was tall. He stretched up on tiptoes and grasped both ends of the bow tie. 'You are going to look very smart, sir. This is my favourite uniform, the dress uniform. But why do they call them monkey suits, sir?'

'Monkey suits?' The Skipper considered. 'You must have them in Gib, Frank. Organ grinders with a little monkey all dressed up to the nines. You must have seen them.'

'Yes, I think I know what you mean, sir. Very smart.' Francisco tugged on the knot, moving it up and down like a steering wheel. 'There you go, sir.'

'How is everything going up there?' asked the Skipper, turning back round.

'Uh, fine, sir.'

'Bunting? Is that up yet?'