In A Dry Season

“Do you think there was anything in it?”

“I’d be surprised if there wasn’t. I think she was lonely. And she was also lovely. We met a lot of them, Betty, Cynthia, Gloria, Gwen and me. We’d go to dances, mostly at the base or in Harkside. There were a few in Hobb’s End, at the church, but they were rather tame affairs. Betty Goodall tended to take charge, and I’m sure you can imagine there wasn’t much fun to be had. Betty was a keen dancer – oh, did she love to dance! – but it was all waltzes and fox-trots, old-fashioned stuff. No jitterbugging. She was good, though. Her and Billy went in for ballroom dancing in a serious way after the war. Won trophies and all. Where was I?”

“Dances. Americans.”

“Oh, yes. Well, let’s face it, most of the local lads were at war, except those unfit for service or in reserved occupations. And they just hung out in the Shoulder of Mutton and complained all the time. The Americans were different. They talked differently, spoke about places we’d only dreamed of or seen at the pictures. They were exotic. Exciting. They also had all sorts of things we hadn’t been able to get because of rationing. You know – nylons, cigarettes and that stuff. We were friendly with PX, which was the nickname of the chap who ran their stores, sort of quartermaster, I suppose, and he used to get us all sorts of stuff. Gloria in particular. She was definitely his favorite. But she was everyone’s favorite. Gloria was like a beautiful, exotic butterfly; she attracted every man who met her. There was something special about her. She sparkled and glowed. She radiated it.”

“This PX, what was his real name?”

“Sorry, love, I can’t remember. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever knew. We always just called him PX.”

“Was there anyone else in particular?”

“After Billy Joe, she developed a real soft spot for Brad, but after what happened to Matthew, she didn’t want anything serious.”

“What about this Brad? What did he want?”

“He was a nice lad. No doubt about it, he was head over heels.”

“Do you remember his second name?”

“Sorry, love.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie. “How long did they go out together?”

“There you’ve got me. The best part of 1944, I think. At least they were still seeing each other when I left at Christmas.”

“Christmas 1944?”

“Yes.” She beamed. “Best Christmas of my life. My Eric got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, silly bugger. Nothing serious, but it got him an early discharge and he was home for Christmas. The doctor recommended a bit of sea air, so we came here, fell in love with the place and ended up staying. We left Hobb’s End on Boxing Day 1944.”

“Where’s Eric now?”

“Oh, he’s out and about. Likes to go for his constitutional along the prom every morning, then he stops by the pub and plays dominoes with his mates.”

“Did Gloria ever mention anything about having a baby?”

Alice looked puzzled. “No, not to me. And I never saw any evidence of children. I’m not even sure she liked them. Wait a minute, though…”

“What?”

“It was something I noticed when I was crossing the fairy bridge once. Something odd. A bloke turned up – a bloke in a soldier’s uniform – with a little lad in tow, couldn’t have been more than about six or seven, holding his hand. I’d never seen them before. They went in to see Gloria, talked for a while, then they left. I heard voices raised.”

“When was this?”

“Sorry, love, I can’t remember. It was after Matthew had gone, though. I do know that.”

“And that’s all that happened?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear what was said?”

“No.”

“Who was he, do you know?”

“Sorry, dearie, I’ve no idea.”

“Did you ever ask Gloria about him?”

“Yes. She went all quiet on me. She did that sometimes. All she would say was that it was relations from down south. I thought maybe it was her brother and nephew or something. You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Did they ever come back, the man and the child?”

“Not that I ever heard of.”

“And what happened to Gwen and Gloria after you’d left?”

“I don’t know. I sent Gloria a postcard, must have been March or April of 1945, telling her that Eric was better now and we were going to stay in Scarborough, and that she should come and visit us.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. She never replied.”

“Didn’t you think that odd?”

“Yes, I did, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Life goes on. I wrote again a few months later and still got no reply. After that, I gave up. You lose touch with a lot of people over the course of your life, I’ve found. It was the same with Gwen. I wouldn’t say we were really close – she was a bit too quiet and bookish for that – but we did have some good times together. After we moved here, though, I never saw or heard of her again.”

“Did you ever go back to Hobb’s End?”

“No reason to. After the war, it was like a new life – except for the same old rationing. You just got on with it and tried not to dwell on the past. I’m sorry I never saw Gloria again – she was a breath of fresh air – but, as I said, when you get to my age you realize people lose touch all the time.”

Annie had found that true enough, even in her own short life. Schoolfriends, university colleagues, lovers, work partners, there were so many people she had completely lost touch with. They could be dead for all she knew. Like Rob.

She let the silence stretch for a few moments, then shifted in her armchair. “Well, Alice,” she said, “I think that’s all for now. I’ll make sure I get the photograph back to you within a couple of days. If I think of anything else, I’ll get in touch with you.” She managed to get herself out of the deep, comfortable chair by pushing her hands down hard on the arms.

“Please do.” Alice got to her feet. “It’s been a great pleasure to me, though I can’t see as it’s done you much good, me rabbiting on like this about the past.”

“You’ve been very helpful.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to say so, dearie. I must admit, I’ve enjoyed having a good chin-wag. It’s been years since I thought about all that stuff. Hobb’s End. Gloria. Gwen. Matthew. The war. I hope you find out who did this to her. Even if he’s dead, I’d like to know he died as slow and painful a death as he deserved.”

We left the cafe saddened and dazed, with hours to kill before our train home. To tell the truth, I don’t think either of us at that time had much hope that Matthew was still alive. I asked Gloria if she would take me to where she used to live, but she refused. That would have been simply too much for her to bear, she said, and I felt cruel for asking.

It stopped raining and the sun was trying to pierce its way through the ragged clouds. We walked through St. James’s Park, past the barrage-balloon station and the antiaircraft guns, toward Oxford Street. Though our hearts weren’t in it, we did some shopping. At least it took our minds off Matthew for a short while. On Charing Cross Road, I bought Graham Greene’s new “entertainment,” The Ministry of Fear, as well as the last two issues of Penguin New Writing, the latest Horizon and some secondhand World’s Classics copies of Trollope and Dickens for the lending library.

Gloria bought a black-red-and-white-checked Dorville dress at John Lewis’s. It cost her three pounds fifteen