Too Many Heroes Page 9

  The last person in line is Charlie Metcalfe. ‘I reckon that ruddy lot over there are cheating.’ The old man jerks his thumb towards the cribbage players in the corner. ‘Another half in there, if you’d be so kind. I must say it’s a poor job when a man can’t trust his own friends.’

  He carries on squinting at Frank through his glasses. ‘Remind me again – were you in the army durin’ the war?’

  ‘Me? No, I did my bit in the Home Guard; I couldn’t leave the family farm.’

  ‘But you have now?’

  ‘When my old man died, we lost the tenancy.’

  ‘Unlucky that,’ Charlie says. He moves aside to prop up the bar at the end.

  Though he carries on serving, Frank’s aware of being under his scrutiny.

  Bert comes up for another half. ‘Will you look at old eagle-eyes over there.’ He nods in Charlie’s direction and receives a scowl for his trouble. ‘Never known such a sore loser. The man can’t shut his flamin’ gob for more than two bloody seconds at a time. Keeps bendin’ our ears about how he used to be a Clerk of Works before he retired. Must be why he can’t stop pokin’ his ruddy nose in where it’s not wanted. Sulkin’ now. Look at him.’ He glares at Charlie again: ‘The rest of us are bloody delighted to be shot of the old fool.’ He heads back to his game.

  Things settle down for a bit and Frank takes a breather. During the hiatus, Charlie beckons him over. ‘A word in your shell-like, son.’ The old man looks around to check no one’s eavesdropping. ‘I can’t help but notice how well in you are with our friend Dennis over there.’ Before he can say anything, the man raises his hand. ‘Now hear me out. Thing is, I just thought I ought to warn you to be careful.’ He taps his nose with a tobacco-stained finger. ‘Things may not be all they seem in that direction; if you get my drift?’

  Frank frowns. ‘I can’t say that I’m following you, Charlie. Dennis has always been straightforward enough with me. Though he can be a bit forgetful, he always pays me what I’m owed in the end. I’d call him a fair and reasonable man.’

  Charlie’s eyes dart across to check Dennis is still caught up in conversation in the saloon. ‘I’m just saying that a fine-looking young man like yourself would do well to watch his back.’ The old man’s voice is now so quiet Frank’s forced to lean in close. ‘Before he married, rumour had it, Dennis Stevenson was a little light on his feet, if you get my meaning? There was even talk he’d been caught red-handed – in the act, as it were. And you know what the law has to say about that.’ Frank feels the man’s breath on his neck. ‘In the end nothing came of it. Everyone round here reckoned he’d somehow gone and bought his way out of trouble.’

  Fighting to suppress another cough, Charlie says, ‘Not long after that he went and married young Grace, his barmaid. Even that didn’t entirely put paid to all the talk.’ He shrugs. ‘None of my business either way – live and let live’s my motto. Just thought you ought to be appraised of the lie of the land.’ Nodding over towards Dennis, he says, ‘I’m afraid that man’s card has been well and truly marked.’

  Frank’s taken aback, not sure whether to believe what the old man is driving at. With his attention now secured, Charlie takes out his pipe and begins to light it. ‘Course, like I said, I couldn’t vouch for the veracity of these stories.’ He prods Frank’s sleeve with the wet end of his pipe. ‘It may only amount to a lot of tittle-tattle.’

  After a bit more sucking, his tobacco crackles into life. He draws hard on his pipe and with a knowing wink blows a stream of smoke through the side of his mouth. ‘In my experience there’s no smoke without there’s a blaze going on somewhere close by.’

  People are coming in thick and fast and Frank’s too busy to stand chatting. Dennis hasn’t moved from the saloon bar counter and is getting stuck into the whisky with those three men, topping them all up from one of the bottles he keeps under the counter in there. He doesn’t appear to be taking money for any of it. From the distinctive shape of the bottle, Frank can see it’s one of the malts.

  It’s gone nine before Dennis finally comes over to give him a hand. A half hour later, he’s back at the saloon counter with his pals and starting on yet another bottle. By ten o’clock, the man’s too pie-eyed to be of any use. It’s a bloody relief when he staggers off to his bed.

  On his walk home, Frank thinks back over his conversation with Charlie Metcalfe. He’s reminded of an evening back in the spring of ’41. With passes until 22:00 hours, they’d ended up going to a sad excuse for a dance at the local village hall. Under the resentful scrutiny of a handful of village men, a couple of the lads went off to chat up the local girls with varying degrees of success.

  Frank got stuck into the cider with the others. Only thruppence a pint, it was a greenish gold with a sourness that caught in your throat and had them literally holding their noses as they gulped it down.

  That stuff was way stronger than expected. On the way back to the base, they all tried to sober up a bit. The night was as black as ink. With only one blackout torch between them, they kept blundering into the hedges and startling the cows grazing on the other side. Poor old Ferguson threw up most of the way back. Turned out the lucky bugger missed his uniform each time.

  Frank ended up walking arm over arm with The Doc – not that he’d have called any officer by his nickname – not to his face. They were a similar age and build but from very different backgrounds.

  After one particular stumble, he felt the pilot’s wet lips on the side of his face but assumed it was an accident. There couldn’t have been anything accidental when a few yards on Doc’s free hand rubbed at Frank’s thigh and then his crotch. Not wanting to confront him, Frank pretended to stagger and shook himself clear of the pilot’s grasp.

  Afterwards, he tried to put it down to the drink. He’d been shocked, for sure, but no harm had been done. Frank didn’t say anything to anyone about it, least of all to the man himself. You heard plenty of talk about how such and such was thought to be a queer or a Nancy-boy, but, to his relief, he heard nothing but admiration for Flying Officer Julian Scott-Foster.

  With them all being so close together physically, after that, Frank began to notice things about the pilot he missed before – an almost indefinable something in the way he held himself and the manner of the gestures he made. None of it much out of the ordinary, and yet so obvious now he knew the man’s secret.

  Had he noticed anything about Dennis that might lead him to the same conclusion? In all honesty, he can’t say he has. That didn’t make it untrue.

  It’s late and he wishes he hadn’t been reminded of The Doc. Unconcerned by his personal inclinations, he’d continued to admire the man. The pilot had been renowned for his good humour and meticulous preparation. Of course, none of that attention to detail could have prevented what was to come – the string of events that would end with the poor bloke burning to death just a week after they’d all celebrated his twenty-third birthday.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday 22nd June

  At precisely seven o’clock Frank opens up and a dozen or so regulars troop inside. He’s found that Sunday evenings are generally a lot quieter – if the punters aren’t already spent out, they’re mindful of the need to be up early the next morning.

  When the conversation in the bar stops abruptly, he looks up to see the two youngest Dawson brothers have strolled in off the street. Looking pleased by the general reaction, they tip their hats as they make their way up to the counter.

  The ugly one they call Dicer takes off his hat – a fancy homburg – and places it on the counter. A section of his otherwise greased-back hair is sticking up at the back, putting Frank in mind of a displaying bird. ‘Give us two double whiskies,’ he demands.

  ‘Would that be Bell’s? Teacher’s? Haig?’

  His younger brother, Rinty, leans across the counter, eyes narrowing. ‘What, that bloody hooch of Dennis’s – you’ve got to be kidding, mate.’ His high laugh is anything but funny. ‘We’ll have the proper
stuff – the sort our Dennis keeps for his special customers.’

  ‘Then I assume it’s the malt you’re after. Just give me a minute, gents.’

  Frank’s relieved to find most of a bottle under the counter in the saloon bar.

  Like they’re in a ruddy western, both men knock their drinks back as soon as he’s poured them. ‘Not bad at all,’ Dicer licks his lips. ‘Think we’ll have the same again, mate.’

  Glasses refilled, the brothers slap their money on the counter and then retreat to the back of the room. They keep looking at the door, as if they’re expecting company. Frank hopes it’s not the other three brothers.

  A few minutes later, a smartly dressed young chap comes up to be served. Frank can smell his aftershave from a yard away. ‘Pint of bitter and half a shandy for the young lady.’ The lad nods towards a pretty young woman standing just inside the door. Even from this distance Frank can see the poor girl’s looking self-conscious. Something that’s not helped by all the male attention she’s getting.

  ‘We’re off to the pictures shortly.’ The lad gives him a crisp ten-bob note. ‘Just thought a drink might take the edge off things a bit – if you know what I mean?’

  Just as Frank is handing him his change, someone at the back of the room starts to sing. ‘Hey, hey there darling, hey now sweet miss.’

  Another voice pitches in with: ‘Would you like to dance with me? How about a quick kiss?’

  Squinting through the smoke, Frank can see it’s the Dawson brothers serenading her. He nods the lad’s attention towards the back. ‘I think you’d best go and rescue that girl of yours before she bolts.’

  Beer slopping everywhere, the young man pushes his way to the back of the room. Frank hesitates before opening the hatch and grabbing the neck of the whisky bottle. He’s careful to seem casual as he makes his way over to position himself between the Dawson boys and the young couple.

  Facing the brothers, he joins in with the next part of the chorus. Frank shows them the bottle. ‘Thought you gents might be in need of a top up. On the house, this time.’

  Once the brothers are holding out their glasses, he turns to the couple as casually as he can. ‘Shouldn’t you two get going? I’m sure you don’t want to miss the main feature.’

  The lad has the sense to put down the drinks he’s holding. ‘You’re right. ’Fraid there’s no time to sup up, Joanie – we need to go, or we’ll be late.’ Grabbing her hand, he leads her out through the door.

  ‘Are you goin’ to start pourin’ that or what?’ Dicer asks.

  Rinty scowls at him. ‘I don’t think I caught your name the last time we was in here. Remind me again.’

  ‘It’s Frank,’ he tells them, pouring just less than a double measure into each of their glasses.

  ‘Down the hatch.’ Dicer knocks back the malt and then smacks his lips. He looks down at his watch and nudges his brother’s attention to it.

  Rinty swallows his drink in one gulp. This time, Frank detects a slight watering in his eyes. He covers it by smacking his lips exactly as his brother had and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘When you see Dennis, be sure to tell him the Dawsons say ta for his generous hospitality.’

  ‘Right.’ Dicer slams his empty glass down on the table. ‘Let’s fuck off outta here.’ He picks up his hat, takes a moment to adjust the crown before putting it on.

  Both brothers stroll towards the open door. Pausing at the threshold, Dicer tips his hat. ‘Be seeing you again, Frankie.’

  Once the Dawsons have left, the atmosphere lightens although Frank can sense a lingering unease about the place.

  It’s a much shorter shift – they close an hour earlier on Sunday evenings. Even so, the time seems to drag on. He’s kept busy serving a steady stream of customers in the public, though few are feeling flushed enough to buy a round. The saloon bar is pretty much deserted all evening and there’s only the occasional rap on the hatch of the jug and bottle from men wanting packs of fags or baccy or an empty bottle filled up.

  During last orders, the few remaining customers come up for their final halves or bottles to take home. The place has already emptied out by the time he locks up.

  Frank’s managed the whole shift easy enough by himself. He bolts the last of the outside doors. All things considered, he wonders if it might be for the best this way. As long as they get young Jack in for the busiest hours on a Friday or Saturday, he’d have no objection if both of the Stevensons want to leave him to his own devices in future.

  ‘’Spect it was a lot quieter tonight.’ Grace is standing in the shadows of the saloon bar. He didn’t see her walk through.

  ‘You’re right – the usual Sunday evening – always the day after the night before. Lots of people regretting things they might have done in haste when they think back on it, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He gives her a long look.

  Grace steps forward into the light with her arms full. ‘Here, these are yours.’ She hands him back his clothes, folded and ironed and smelling a good deal fresher than for some time.

  He’s touched by the effort she’s made. It’s a long while since anyone’s laundered his clothes for him. ‘There was no need for you to go to such trouble.’

  ‘It was no bother.’ Her skirt is swaying with her hips in that way she has. ‘Besides, we couldn’t have had our barman standin’ there lookin’ half drowned in front of the customers now, could we?’

  He notices her use of “we” – the solidarity it suggests between the two of them – man and wife, after all.

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you; very much appreciated,’ he says. Whatever their domestic arrangements, he has no business even thinking of coming between them. ‘I’ll give Dennis back his clothes once I’ve had time to wash them.’

  Grace seems amused by this. ‘There’s no rush – he can’t get into ’em no more so I’m sure he won’t be fussed either way. He barely made it into his bed tonight. I’ve left him dead to the world up there.’

  She puts down the bundle of clothes before advancing a step towards him. ‘The amount he’s drunk this evening, a bomb could drop in the next street and it wouldn’t rouse him.’

  Noticing his changed expression, she says: ‘Don’t look so concerned, there really is nothin’ that’s goin’ to disturb us tonight.’

  She leans in closer and he inhales her perfume; notices how the light is falling to one side of her face, leaving the softest of shadows beneath her lips. There’s no denying the woman’s beauty. The vivid red of her lips seems to make her mouth float away from her face.

  ‘I like you better without the beard,’ she says, her words sounding a false note, like she’s playing a part. Now her fingers are straying across his face, tracing a line down his cheek and then slowly and with increased pressure along his chin. ‘Mmmm, so smooth.’

  Despite himself, he becomes aroused when her finger continues its way along his lips. There’s an increase in pressure as she dips the tip inside his mouth like she wants him to suck at it. ‘So now we’re alone, Frank Danby, aren’t you going to kiss me?’

  Frank’s resolve is quick to crumble. He reaches out to stroke her hair and, seeing the movement, she closes her eyes and tilts her face up towards his just like before.

  Dammit, he can’t stop now. With a force he hadn’t intended, he kisses her. His tongue begins to explore her mouth. She tastes sweet and minty. His hand soon strays down to the softness of her breast though it’s difficult to feel much through the thick material of brassiere.

  But then, for some reason he can’t fathom, she begins to pull away. ‘Stop! Frank – stop! Please.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He pulls her close again, kissing the side of her face; his nose nuzzling against her ear, his hand running down to explore the silkiness of her stockinged thigh.

  She pushes on his chest with some force. ‘No, Frank – not so fast. You need to slow down. I’m not ready to – well, you know.’

  He doesn’t know; can’t fathom out what
the hell it is she wants if it’s not this. Recovering, he steps back to look at her. He sees how her lipstick has spread so that her mouth had lost it hard edges. There’s an expression in her eyes he hadn’t expected – like she’s wary of him. He’s reminded of the way that young girl looked when the Dawson’s were advancing towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells her. ‘I don’t know what it is you want from me.’

  ‘No,’ she says, her voice cracking, ‘I don’t expect you do.’ She turns away but not before he sees a tear slide down her cheek.

  Frank’s dumfounded. Neither of them speaks. Her distress moves him more than he can say. His jacket is hanging nearby. He delves in a pocket and hands her his handkerchief. ‘It’s a clean one, I promise.’

  He waits until she’s dabbed at her eyes before he rubs her shoulders. When she doesn’t resist his touch, he pulls her into his chest. ‘I’m sorry if it’s me that’s upset you, Grace,’ he says kissing the top of her head.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frank’s quite the gentleman again; shaking his hanky out like a white flag before he hands it over to her. She dabs under her eyes, hoping her mascara’s not in streaks down her face. It’s too dark to see if she’s left black marks on his hanky. Her nose is running with tears, so she wipes it, decides not to actually blow or she’ll sound a comical note. In the state she’s in, she couldn’t bear it if he was to laugh at her.

  He hugs her to his chest and it’s like a wall pressed against the side of her face, so utterly different from the soft fat on every part of Dennis. Despite serving in the pub all night, there’s none of that fags-and-whisky stench about him. She breathes in his smell – that faint tang of fresh sweat.

  His arms encircle her. He kisses the top of her hair and she relaxes into him. Her head seems to fit right into the hollow below his chin. Close up, she can see the contours of those muscles running under the sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘Do you ever wish, sometimes, that you could go back to when you were young and start all over again?’