The Dressmaker - Beryl Bainbridge [20]
‘Jesus,’ he said with relief at standing on firm ground, and she stamped her foot at him.
‘There’s other words to use when you’re cross. You don’t have to say that.’
‘Aw, come on, Rita.’
But she was striding off resentfully down the lane towards the corner where a red barn half stood with its tin roof sliding into decay amidst a clump of elms. When he caught up with her, he put his arm about her shoulders, but without warmth, digging his fingers into her flesh, shaking her. She became very still, waiting.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I guess your Auntie Margo wouldn’t have no qualms about saying “Jesus”. You’re too sensitive getting all hotted up about a word.’
‘Leave off.’
She shook herself free, pained that he had practically praised her aunt in preference to her, hearing the sound of marching feet beyond the barn and voices singing. She pretended she was tying her shoelace, squatting down by the nettles and the ragged blackberry bushes, bowing her head. It was like being caught fraternising with the enemy, alone on a country road with an Ameri can. He lounged against the tangled hedge, sucking a blade of grass, watching the squad of soldiers stamping round the bend of the road, feet splayed out like Charlie Chaplin, stub-toed boots black as soot.
My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
I have not brought my specs with me …
And a wail, drawn out, sorrowful, as if they howled in protest at walking through the warm afternoon:
I have not brought
My specs with me.
Ira whistled shrilly as they strutted past him, but he was ignored.
‘Don’t,’ she hissed, crouching in the wet grass, fiddling with her shoe.
Eyes front, shoulders raised, they swung their arms and went mincing up the lane. The rooks left the elm trees and swooped down to the rusted roof of the empty barn.
‘Don’t,’ she cried again, jumping upright and dragging on his arm as he stood blowing between his fingers in the middle of the lane. She wrenched his hands from his mouth, her face flushed with anger. ‘Don’t make a show of yourself.’
‘What’s got into you?’ he wanted to know, digging his hands into his pockets and looking at her sullenly. Now that the soldiers had gone, she was sorry she had flared up at him.
‘It’s just that they don’t like you, do they?’
‘Who don’t like me?’ His eyes, grey not blue, reflecting the surface of the road, stared at her coldly.
‘Our Tommies. They don’t like the Yanks. It’s the money you get.’
‘We don’t have no trouble with Tommies. We’re allies.’
‘Well,’ she finished lamely, ‘they have fights in Liverpool, down by Exchange Station. Everybody knows.’
‘Is that so?’ he muttered, turning from her and kicking at the hedgerow.
She didn’t know how to remedy the situation. Rather like her Aunt Nellie who could never say she was sorry. She twisted her hands together and gazed helplessly at his hostile back.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.’
To her relief he stepped away from the hedge and shrugged his shoulders. But his face was hard. She looked at him furtively, trying to read his eyes, but they were guarded, revealing nothing.
‘I’m sorry, Ira.’
Tears came to her eyes. He gave her a small lenient smile, and she was instantly restored, untroubled. The road led them towards the coast. They went along a cinder path over the railway and across another field.
‘We could go home on the train,’ she said, ‘if we wanted.’
‘I’m hungry,’ he complained, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
The land was level, the sky heaped with white cloud. She raced ahead of him between hedges inclined inwards against the constant wind blowing from the sea. They came to the long waste of foreshore and the row of empty houses heaped about with sand. He looked curiously at the deserted road and the front gardens run wild.
‘Was this the blitz?’ he asked.
She didn’t know. ‘It’s near the docks and maybe people