Page 84 of Last Letter Home
‘Was there any post?’ Paul asked hopefully of the driver of one of the lorries, a burly Cockney corporal, as he finished unloading goods into one of the storage barns.
‘Post? What’s that, gov, when it’s at home?’ With a grin that split his chubby face, he went round to the driver’s door, reached behind his seat and brought out a grubby, bulging pouch. Paul seized it, eyes gleaming, carried it along to the Town Hall and tipped the contents out onto a desk. Soldiers crowded round to help sort the parcels and letters, cheered by the sight of these links with home. Paul’s heart leaped as he picked out an envelope addressed to himself in a certain familiar handwriting and slipped it into his breast pocket. Harry, he saw, did the same with another, then they stuffed a dozen more letters and packages for the men at the villa back into the bag to take with them.
Outside, they waited as five handcuffed German prisoners were led out of the tiny jail and loaded into one of the lorries. Then the air filled with shouts of farewell as the convoy of vehicles moved on its way back to Naples. Paul gave a coin and a wink to Antonio, then he and Harry climbed back into their own truck.
All the way up the winding lane to the villa, Paul thought of the letter in his pocket, wondering what Sarah would have to say. It was two months since the last one had got through and he hoped that she’d had his reply. Beside him he was aware of Harry taking his own letter out, reading it quietly, then folding it and replacing it again, an uncertain expression on his face.
‘Who’s it from?’ he asked.
‘Jennifer,’ came the reply, but when Paul asked if there was any news, Harry ignored him, instead shouting out a warning of a particularly large hole in the road.
When they arrived back at the villa, Paul left the Stooges to unpack the truck and, whistling to himself, strolled round to the back garden, where he sat on an old tree trunk, tucked a lighted cigarette between his lips and slit open the letter.
He’d read it through quickly and was thinking about its contents when he heard someone emerge from a door behind. It was Ivor. Paul rose to his feet at once, wary, but the captain had not come to give him an order.
‘News from home? Who’s that from then?’ There had been nothing in the post for Ivor, not even from his mother. Paul almost felt sorry for him.
He folded the letter and said uncertainly, ‘It’s from Sarah. She’s the only one who writes to me.’ That wasn’t quite true. Very occasionally a postcard from Horst, his chum from Pioneer days, arrived, but he hadn’t heard from Horst for several months now and didn’t like to think about why.
‘I suppose that must be the case, yes,’ Ivor said, frowning. Paul did not like the frown, nor the expression of dislike in the other man’s eyes. ‘She writes to me sometimes, of course. What does she have to say? No, don’t worry if it’s private.’
It was private, of course, but maybe it was simply news from home that Ivor craved, and it was unkind to deny him that. ‘Sarah is well, that is the best thing,’ he said, tucking the envelope into his pocket. He would carry it with him for a while, then wrap it up in oilcloth with the others in his kit, a precious packet he’d managed so far to keep dry. ‘She is a little worried about her sister, who has not been so good.’ Sarah had not mentioned the nature of the illness, merely that Diane had been low in spirits, but becoming a little brighter. That was good. Perhaps she’d recovered from that terrible business with the baby, which Sarah had confided in him about. He sensed from the letter, though, that they were all more cheerful at home now that the war had turned in the Allies’ favour.
‘A funny sort of girl, Diane.’ Ivor leaned against a eucalyptus, filling his pipe. ‘Damned pretty, mind you, but deep. Yes, deep.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Paul wasn’t going to discuss Diane with Ivor of all people, but it was safe enough to agree with him on that point. Even Sarah couldn’t get the measure of her sister. Paul secretly wondered whether Diane was a shallow person rather than a deep one, but she was certainly enigmatic and he sensed her disapproval of him.
Ivor lit the pipe and puffed at it. ‘You know . . .’ he started to say and Paul waited in trepidation. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ A cloud of smoke filled the air. ‘What was it like in town today, Hartmann? Any trouble to knock on the head?’
‘Not really, sir.’ Paul emphasized the sir. ‘We locked up some of the dry goods as usual. The women find this difficult. They seem to think we’re keeping it for ourselves.’
‘Ridiculous. I hope you didn’t take any nonsense.’
‘No, sir, of course not. The mayor’s young grandson, Antonio, was there. We asked him to explain to them about rationing it. That we don’t know when the next convoy will get through.’
‘And the prisoners?’
‘Like lambs, sir.’
Paul didn’t like the lingering look of dislike. ‘I expect you feel sorry for those Jerries, eh, Hartmann?’
‘Not particularly, sir. Except that a civilized man should feel pity for any prisoner.’
‘What do you talk to them about, eh? Not ways to escape, I hope.’ He gave a dry laugh.
Paul paused a moment before he replied. ‘Of course not. You know what I do. Deal with any complaints or reasonable requests. Reassure those that are sick.’
‘Of course you do, of course you do. I’m watching you though.’
Paul felt rage course through him. He guessed that Ivor didn’t seriously believe that he would assist German prisoners to escape, but that he enjoyed tormenting him. He also enjoyed running down the enemy in his presence, calling them pigs and bastards. Paul tried very hard not to take the bait, but every now and then his anger bubbled up. Harry had found him outside the other night, where he had come to let off steam.
They’d stood together under the dark trees, smoking to keep the midges away. Harry had not been able to say much, merely expressing sympathy, but Paul appreciated the fact that he’d tried. Harry being here helped ground him. They could share memories of Westbury, though they’d hardly known one another there. To Harry, Paul had merely been one of the gardeners at the Hall, but now they’d become close friends. Harry’s kindness was one of the good things about this war, though he sensed that Ivor despised this virtue in Harry as he despised Harry’s malaria and his shellshock as weakness.
‘Richards wasn’t a bully at school, you know, rather the reverse. He has a sensitive side and the big louts spotted it, went straight for it. Now he’s getting his own back on the world, I reckon. You mustn’t let him see he’s got to you or he’ll have won.’
This was sensible advice, but what Paul would never let on to Harry was how much the image of Sarah, conjured in the air between them, fed Ivor’s bitter dislike. Harry was too happy-go-lucky, too much the optimist to think badly of anyone much, which was why everyone liked him, but these were also qualities that undermined his authority in the field. Harry was no leader of men and preferred it that way.
That night they’d ended up being joined by the Stooges, chatting and laughing as they stood together in a clearing gazing up at the icy stars, trying to identify the constellations that pierced this foreign sky.
