presumably to his lodging for the night, she went into the Seven Piglets again. It was far less crowded now and immediately she saw Wil sitting next to the new driver, both of them with glasses in their hands.
She hesitated, not knowing whether to interrupt them or not. Then Wil looked up and saw her. His face lit with pleasure and he waved enthusiastically. The driver turned to see who had drawn his attention.
Judith walked over.
“Of course she’ll help you,” Wil said encouragingly. “Judith, this is Corporal Stallabrass. He’s an excellent driver. He knows everything there is to know about engines, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about Flanders, at least not so far. Sit down.” He pulled a chair out for her.
“I really don’t expect . . .” Stallabrass began.
“We all help each other out here, Corporal,” Judith told him, seeing from the corner of her eye, out of Stallabrass’s sight, that Wil was topping up his glass with Pernod and very little water. It was lethal stuff. She had no idea what Wil was leading to, but she did her best to follow. “Share and share alike,” she added.
“I could tell you stories. . . .” Wil embarked on a long and rambling account of a journey to Armentieres. It was entirely fictitious, and incorporated just about everything that could go wrong with a vehicle, and several that couldn’t.
“But . . .” Stallabrass started to argue several times, trying to assert his deeply studied knowledge. His face was earnest, and it apparently did not occur to him that Wil was deliberately embroidering the tale.
Judith got up quietly and went to the bar counter. She bought the rest of the bottle of Pernod and, with a jug of water, went back to the table. She would make her own mostly water, and surreptitiously refill Stallabrass’s glass every time he was not looking.
Wil’s account was growing wilder, and funnier every moment, and they were joined by a couple of other soldiers who were definitely a trifle happy for having imbibed generously most of the evening.
“I don’t believe that!” Stallabrass said haltingly when Wil finished a particularly lurid tale of greasing an ambulance hubcap with ripe Brie cheese and ending up stuck in a field surrounded by a herd of cows.
One of the other soldiers, named Dick, tried to keep a straight face, but the tears were running down his cheeks.
“I like cows,” his friend said sentimentally. “Beautiful eyes, cows have. Don’t you think so, Corporal Stallabrass? Ever noticed the eyelashes they ’ave?”
But Stallabrass was staring into the distance, his mind locked in some dream of his own. “Beautiful,” he repeated.
Wil glanced at Judith, then back at Stallabrass. “Is she?” he said with interest.
“Not everybody sees it,” Stallabrass shook his head very slowly, as if he were nervous it might wobble and slide off. “They only see her as an ordinary woman, stamps and letters and money, and things.” He sniffed and gave a genteel hiccup.
“Stamps and letters,” Wil said, obviously no idea what he was talking about. “But she’s not?”
“No,” Stallabrass said with deep emotion. “She has ideas, dreams . . . she has passion!” He sighed. “She has the most beautiful . . .” He stopped, his hands clasping his Pernod glass, expression wistful.
Everyone waited with breath held for what he was going to say.
Judith was faintly embarrassed, in case it turned out to be too intimate.
Wil grinned. “Eyes?” he suggested to Stallabrass. “What about the letters? Does she write to you often?”
Stallabrass looked startled. “Oh no! Letters are part of her profession!”
“What?” Wil was totally lost.
“Letters,” Stallabrass said patiently. “Stamps. She’s the postmistress. That’s what she does. It’s very important. Where would we be without the Royal Mail? It holds the world together. King’s head on every stamp. Do you know how serious it is to steal or damage the Royal Mail?”
“Oh yes,” Wil agreed hastily. “Very important job for a young woman. She must be very special. What’s her name?”
“Jeanette. She’s forty-one. . . .”
Wil gulped and started to cough. The other soldier, partly to hide his own expression, patted him vigorously on the back.
“But she’s beautiful?” Dick prompted gravely.
“Gorgeous.” Stallabrass nodded, taking Dick’s Pernod absently and drinking it. “Gilbert Darrow thinks he’s going to marry her, just because he’s got a uniform and he’s in the navy. Well, I’ve got a uniform, too!” He tried to square his shoulders, then changed his mind. “And I’m out here in France!”
“Flanders, actually,” Wil corrected him. “But what’s the difference, eh?”
“I’m here!” Stallabrass said carefully. “I shall see action! Front line—with the general. I shall win medals, and then we’ll see what Gilbert”—he hiccupped—“Darrow has to show for himself.” He blinked. “Say for himself,” he corrected. “Nothing, that’s what!”
“You’re right!” Dick agreed with a broad smile. “You win a chestful of medals and go home and win Jeanette’s hand. Sweep her off her feet! Or try anyway. Is she a big lady, with beautiful . . . eyes?”
“Yes, I’ll do that!” Stallabrass said with another loud sniff. “I’ll show them. I’ll show them all!”
“To love!” Dick held up his glass.
Wil refilled Stallabrass’s glass again and topped it up with a few drops of water. “To true love!” he said, lifting his own to his lips. “Always win in the end. Drink up, ol’ boy!”
“To . . . true love!” Stallabrass emptied his glass all the way to the bottom, and slid off his chair onto the floor.
“Yeah, maybe,” Dick agreed. “But not tonight, I reckon. Yer want a hand to get ’im up to ’is bed?”
“Thank you,” Wil accepted, climbing slowly to his feet. “We’d better put him away nicely.”
“Can’t leave ’im ’ere, like nobody’s child,” Dick agreed, bending down to pick up Stallabrass in a fireman’s lift. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said to Judith. “But I think you’d better leave this to us. ’E’s totally rat-arsed. Welcome to the army, Corporal!”
Judith stepped back. There was nothing more for her to do. It was three in the morning, and she had nowhere to sleep except in the ambulance. It would be chilly, but at least it would be dry, and she could lie down.
She woke in the morning to Wil shaking her urgently. She sat up, trying to remember where she was.
“You’d better get straightened up,” he said in a hoarse whisper, as if they could be overheard, although actually there was no one else within fifty yards. The ambulance was parked in a side alley and it was not long after dawn. The cobbles still glistened with dew and the light had the hard, pale clarity of early morning.
She rubbed her hands over her face and pushed her hair back. Her head pounded and there was a vile taste in her mouth. Then she remembered the estaminet, Corporal Stallabrass, and the Pernod! No wonder she felt awful. She had not drank so much, but he had, and she was filled with guilt. How must he feel?
“Get yourself up, sugar!” Wil said firmly. “I don’t think Corporal Stallabrass is going to win any medals today. In fact he just might not be safe to drive at all, and we wouldn’t want the general to end up in the ditch, would we?”
She blushed and cleared her vision with an effort. She must find enough water to wash her face, a comb for her hair, and straighten her uniform so it wasn’t so obvious she had slept in it. Then a hot cup of tea would help her to feel considerably more human. Actually, anything except Pernod would do.
Half an hour later she was standing in the square when General Cullingford came across the cobbles toward his car, beside which stood a bedraggled and deeply unhappy Corporal Stallabrass. He was only too obviously the worse for wear. His uniform looked as if he had put it on in his sleep, which he may well have done, and misjudged most of the buttons.
He attempted to salute, and looked as if he were a drowning man waving for help.
Cullingford stopped, a flicker of disgust crossed his face, then anger. Apparently the smell of alcohol was inescapable.
“Corporal, go and sleep it off,” he said stiffly. “Then when you are sober, report to the duty sergeant for an assignment—not with me!” He turned away and saw Wil about twenty yards across the square, walking toward him with a fresh pastry in his hand.
