In Hastings George was woken by the sound of the guns. It was like thunder coming from the north, from far inland.
But the first thought in his head was that they were out of bread. He checked his alarm clock by the light of a pen torch. Not yet six thirty. Early, but he knew the baker's ought to be open at this hour. With any luck he could beat the queues. He turned on his bedside light; the power was down again, but there was enough light to see by. He slid out of bed. He'd got used to doing this without waking Julia. He pulled on his shirt and trousers.
She turned over, away from him, grumbling a little in her sleep. In the soft yellow light the skin of her long back was smooth, unblemished, the sheets draped over her like the posing of an artist's model. She really was quite beautiful, when she slept.
He slipped out of the room, went downstairs, used the bathroom, and pushed his bare feet into his shoes. He paused in the hall and glanced in a mirror, scratching at the grey stubble on his jowls. Then he turned the latch key, opened the front door, and stepped out, testing the morning.
He was in the shadows of the narrow, steep street, but the sky above was a deep blue, crusted with bits of cloud. The sound of the guns was louder out here, the noise echoing from the blank walls of the boarded-up houses. It was chill, dewy, but he'd survive outdoors for a few minutes without a coat. He pulled the door closed.
He walked down the road, breathing deep of the fresh air. Grass was pushing through the paving stones; clearing it was the sort of chore nobody tended to these days. The street was quiet, though he could hear a rumble of traffic off in the distance: heavy stuff, a throaty roar, military vehicles probably.
A door opened as he passed, and a woman emerged – Mrs Thompson, a Great War widow, fiftyish, he knew her slightly. She was clumsily pushing a baby's pram, piled up with goods and covered by a blanket. She locked her door and set off up the road, away from the coast, muttering to herself. For days the occupation authorities had been moaning about refugees getting in the way of military vehicles on the routes out of town in every direction. But the Germans in these latter days seemed to have no will to do anything about it, and George certainly wasn't going to try to resist the tide with his few officers. He worried a bit for Mrs Thompson, though. It would have been better for her if she'd stayed put in her home until it was all over, following the British coppers' quiet instructions.
At the baker's an SS officer came striding out clutching a loaf. The baker himself chased after him. He was a small man of sixty, bald, with the sagging face of one who had once been overweight. 'Here!' he called at the German, indignant. 'You ain't paid for that!'
The SS man shrugged. 'By tomorrow Tommy will be here. He will pay.' And he strolled off, not looking back.
'Blithering cheek,' the baker said to George. 'The usual, is it, Sergeant?'
'If you can manage it, Albert.'
As the baker went back into his shop a squad of soldiers marched through the crossroads up ahead – at least they looked like soldiers, fellows in ill-fitting Wehrmacht uniforms led by an SS officer. But they were short, skinny, their helmets too big on their heads. They were Hitler Jugend, young English boys seduced from scouting into training to serve the Reich. The ultimate expression of Nazi madness, George thought, kids going to war. He paid for his National Loaf.
When he got home Julia was making coffee in the kitchen, with her SS ration. Her hair was still down, she wore her uniform blouse, and as he came into the kitchen he could see the soft curve of her buttocks above her slim legs, her bare feet on the flags of his kitchen floor. He got a knife from the cutlery drawer and began to cut into the loaf.
There was a particularly loud explosion that made them both flinch.
'A storm is coming,' Julia said, not looking round.
'Sounds like it to me. I'll be glad to get it bloody over.' He spread a scraping of marge onto a bread slice, and opened a little pot of jam made by a neighbour from the year's early strawberries. 'Calm is what I like. I don't much care if it's calm under the Jerries or calm under the Yanks.'
'What a tidy sort of chap you are. Well, I too will be glad when the balloon goes up. I'm rather tired of shepherding cowardly members of Hoare's government down to the port and packing them off to France.'
'Ah. That's why you're here.' She didn't always tell him what brought her to Hastings, and he didn't generally want to know.
'The sooner I can get back to Richborough the better. Is there any of that jam left?' She pinched the bit of bread from his hand and licked the surface, digging her tongue into the jam.
He could smell her, unwashed, the scent of bed still on her. Even the way she ate jam and bread was quite unreasonably erotic. 'If the Americans are coming, that's it for us, I suppose.'
'I suppose it is. Been a funny sort of business, hasn't it, Sergeant George? Us. And yet it's lasted three years.'
'I don't understand it,' he said stiffly. 'Don't suppose I ever will.'
She kissed him now, lightly. Her tongue flickered into his mouth, and he could taste the strawberries. Her tongue withdrew and his followed, and she bit down on its tip, quite hard, and he flinched back. She laughed at him. 'You despise me,' she said. 'You must do. I'm a traitor, by your lights. But to me you're the traitor, you see. You and the rest of the complicit, complacent English, for allowing our destiny to slip away through sentimentality and false loyalties. You should be joining Germany in the great war on Bolshevism!'
'I think you're a bloody nutter. And I think I am too.'
'A paradox, isn't it?'
They stood there, their mouths close, their breaths mingling. There was another crash, powerful enough to make the crockery on George's dresser rattle.
'Fuck,' he said.
'That one came from the south.' She went to the window. 'They're bombing the harbour.' She brushed her hair back from her face and peered up at the sky. 'There are planes up there, bombers. This is what we expected the Allies would do. Smash the harbours to bottle us up, while striking overland from the north.'
'Julia. Look – don't go back to Richborough. Stay here.'
'With you?' She sounded quite incredulous, as if the idea was absurd.
'Give yourself up. You must see the war is lost.'
'I don't see any such thing.' She looked him up and down. 'You know, suddenly I feel I'm waking from a nightmare. Why have I been wasting my time on a fat old fool like you? Oh, the war's not lost yet. And once I get back to Richborough I'll win it for sure. Mind if I use the bathroom first?' She hurried out. The steam from her half- drunk coffee curled up into the air.
There was another explosion, another shuddering shock, and George clamped his hands to his ears.
IX
The retreating Germans were leaving a mess behind them. Bridges were routinely blown, the roads churned up, the villages torched.
Gary's troop marched past a burned-out truck. The driver still sat behind his wheel, on the left hand side of this German vehicle. He had been reduced to a stick figure by the flames, just a blackened husk. His teeth gleamed white behind peeled-back lips, and his hands still clasped a melted steering wheel.
'Look at that.' Willis used his rifle to point at the driver's wrist, where there was a white band, a bit of flesh. 'How about that, Dougie? Some bugger's nicked this poor bastard's watch. How's that for heartlessness?'
'Shift your arses, ladies,' said Danny Adams.
The troop had to get off the road to let a column of tanks go by. The tanks were Shermans. They had bedsprings and other bits of iron strapped around their bodies with bits of rope. The junk was there because it caused premature explosions of the panzerfausts, rocket-propelled grenades. The troopers predictably mocked the tank crews as the vehicles rolled past.
Gary was glad of a chance to sit for a bit on the soft ground and have a smoke, although Dougie Skelland had a ciggie in his mouth most of the time anyhow. Their blackened faces were streaked with sweat.
