La's Orchestra Saves the World

  La laughed. “Or Jamaican coffee?”

  “We’re all right for that. Fuel is the big thing. I live in fear of what might happen if they really get going on dispatching our tankers to the bottom of the ocean with their U-boats. What then? You can’t fight a battle for control of the skies if your planes can’t take off.”

  They talked about what La was doing. She told him about the chickens, and her battle against the fox.

  “Gerry’s a fox,” said Tim. “Trying to get in under the chicken wire. And Goering’s the biggest fox of all.”

  Her own war, as she looked upon it, was so small by comparison with his: a few eggs added to the national supply, that was all. She told him about Henry Madder and of his determination to continue farming, in spite of his arthritis.

  “They’ve been promising him somebody,” she said. “But he must be at the bottom of the list. A smallish farm, tucked away out of sight. The bigger places will be getting whoever becomes available.”

  Tim frowned. “I know how he must feel. I have to ask for aircraft. I have to ask for all sorts of things and often they just ignore your requests. They tell you that you’ll get things shortly, but it’s never like that.” He paused. “He’d be paid?”

  “I assume so,” said La. “I’m not, but I said that I didn’t need it. Henry paid the boy who helped him. And he’s got a cottage on the farm that’s empty. The boy stayed there.”

  Tim looked up at the ceiling. “I might know somebody.”

  “To work?”

  He nodded. “Yes. We’ve got a Polish chap. Feliks Dabrowski. We call him Dab for short. Like most of those people he’s had a pretty frustrating war. He got out to Romania and then to France. They set up something called the Groupe de Chasse Polonaise there and gave them worse than useless planes. The Gerries shot them out of the sky. Dab was badly hurt—lost the use of an eye, in fact, although it looks almost normal to me. But he’s blind as a bat on that side.”

  La sighed. “Poor man. Mind you, he’s alive. Which is something these days.”

  “Indeed it is. You know how many we’ve lost in just one of our squadrons …” He stopped himself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It’s hard …”

  She was not sure what to say. “Yes. Your men are so brave.”

  Tim shook his head. “No, they aren’t. Well, maybe some are, but most of us are just very ordinary, and scared stiff half the time. When I was on active flying duty, before I had trouble with my back, I remember shaking when I got out of the cockpit at the end of a sortie. I knew that my number was up—that I had defied the odds and that they would catch up with me sooner or later. I knew that. And I was not at all brave about it. Nightmares. Sweating. Stomach turning to water. I had all of that.”

  He reached for his coffee cup and drained it. “But this chap, Dab, I was talking about. He pitched up when the Poles started to get out of France. One of our medical officers looked after him—tried to do something about his eye, but couldn’t. So there was no chance of any more flying for him. And he had nowhere to go, so we kept him on the base, gave him maintenance duties and so on. But you can’t let a chap with one eye tinker with the planes—he might get it wrong. Too risky. So we need to find something for him.”

  La listened. She had heard the stories of other displaced persons; there were so many of them. “You think that he might work for Henry Madder?”

  “Well, it would suit both of them, don’t you think? Dab hasn’t got a bean and he would get a bit of money, and presumably his rations. And a roof over his head.”

  La shrugged. “I could ask Henry.”

  Tim stood up and reached for his cap. “Let me do that,” he said. “Tell me how to get there and I’ll go and have a word with him.”

  He started to leave, but stopped when he saw La’s flute on the kitchen dresser. “You play?”

  “A bit. I played in a quartet when I was in Cambridge. And you?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Tim. “I was a very indifferent trumpet player in my day.”

  La smiled. “We could hardly play together. The flute, I’m afraid, is a rather quiet instrument.”

  “We have chaps at the base who would love to play in a band,” said Tim. “One of them came to see me the other day and asked whether I could get hold of instruments. I ask you! I’ve got my hands full enough as it is getting spares and tyres and what not. And they asked me for a couple of clarinets.”

  La said nothing. It had occurred to her that she might be able to do something. The idea came suddenly, as perfectly formed ideas sometimes do. She would start an orchestra. She would get instruments for the men at the base who wanted them. She would find people in Bury who would join in. People needed something to keep their spirits up.

  “What if I got hold of some instruments?” she asked Tim. “Would your men be able to come and play music with some locals? People from Bury, people from round here—if I found any who could play.”

  Tim hesitated. “It would depend. Most of them can’t get away very much. And transport is always a problem.”

  “Once every few weeks,” said La. “Or even once a month.”

  “Once a month would be more likely.”

  “So you don’t object?”

  Tim scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll ask the C.O.”

  “Call it morale boosting,” said La. “That works, doesn’t it?”

  Again he hesitated before replying. “Yes. It does. And this seems like a good idea. La’s Orchestra. How about that?”

  “And you’ll be in the trumpet section?” asked La.

  “I thought you were never going to ask,” Tim said. “Yes. You can sign me up.”

  Thirteen

  IT WAS RAINING when La cycled over to the farm the next morning. She had not expected the rain and was unprepared for it; by the time she cycled into the farmyard, she was soaked, her hair across her forehead in thin, wet ropes, her blouse clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

  Henry Madder, standing in the yard in his heavy green waterproof jacket, seemed amused. “You look a sight. Like a mouse washed down the drainpipe.”

  La leaned her bicycle against the side of the house. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to start the day with a compliment.”

  “No compliments on a farm.”

  “Yes. So I’m discovering.”

  He smiled. “Come inside and dry off. I’ll get you a towel, and you can have a hot bath if you like. I’ll stoke up the fire.”

  She went with him into the kitchen. A kettle stood on the range, steam emerging from the spout in wisps. While he fetched her a towel, La warmed her hands against the cooking range; the rain had been warm, and there had been no wind with it; so she did not feel too cold. It was the wind that could chill one to the bone; the east wind that seemed effortlessly to find its way past such saliences as the landscape threw up. “Don’t bother,” she shouted after Henry. “I’m sure I’ll dry off quickly enough.”

  But he was back in the kitchen bearing a voluminous white towel. He handed it to her. “I had a visitor yesterday,” he said. “Your friend, Squadron-Leader Honey.”

  “I only met him yesterday,” said La. “So I can hardly call him a friend just yet.”

  “He said he knew your cousin,” Henry went on. “Not that it matters. The point is: he’s got somebody to help us. He’s coming tomorrow.”

  La smiled. “The man they call Dab?”

  “Feliks something or other,” said Henry. “Dab comes into it. A Polish airman. He told me that these Poles are real characters. Our boys are always a bit afraid that they’ll do something silly.”

  “I’m sure that he’ll do nothing silly on the farm,” said La. “Tractors and Spitfires are rather different, don’t you think?”

  Henry Madder sat down at the other side of the table. He watched La drying herself on the towel; hair first, forearms, then her face. She was conscious of his gaze and felt slightl
y uncomfortable under it; but there was nothing sexual in his watching her, she thought. She could not conceive of Henry in that light, but he must have had a love life, once, before he was abandoned.

  “Will you be going?” Henry suddenly asked.

  La did not understand. “Going where?”

  “Leaving the farm? Stopping work.”

  La laid aside the towel. “Why would I want to stop work? Because of this Pole?”

  “Yes. If he’s here, then he can do the chickens.”

  La shook her head. “I want to carry on with that. If it’s all right with you. It’s my war work, you see …”

  It was clear that Henry was relieved. “Yes. Yes. There are plenty of other things for him to do,” he said. “And the hens are used to you, aren’t they?”

  La greeted this with laughter. “Can they tell us one from another, do you think?”

  “Hens know,” said Henry. “Hens feel more comfortable with a woman. They were upset when Helen …” He broke off. La looked up, and saw him turn his face away. It was the first time that she had heard him mention his wife.

  “When she left you?”

  “Yes. When she left, the hens were unsettled. I think they went off their lay. They missed her.”

  La reached for the towel again. A trickle of moisture ran down the back of her neck.

  She spoke quietly. “You mustn’t blame yourself, you know. Accidents happen, and then people look around for somebody to blame. It’s human nature, I suppose, but it’s not very helpful.”

  He was watching her intently, as if she had in her possession information of great importance—the key to some conundrum that had been bothering him. “Do you think so?”

  “Of course I do. You shouldn’t let yourself be tormented by something like that.”

  He thought about this for a moment. She saw that he was rubbing at the edge of his jacket with his misshapen hand, kneading the waxed material.

  “You can’t undo what’s done,” he said after a while. “Nobody can.”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “I still feel bad. How could I not feel bad?”

  “By understanding that it was not your fault.”

  He turned away again. “She didn’t think that. She thought it was my fault.”

  “Perhaps she felt guilty herself. And if she did, then one of the ways in which she might deal with that would be to blame you. If we blame other people, it makes our own guilt much easier to live with.”

  He stood up from the table. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. But I have to go out and look at a fence. And the hens will be waiting for you.”

  La followed his example and rose from the table. “You will think about what I’ve just said? You will think about it?”

  “Maybe. Not now. Maybe later.”

  She decided to change the subject. “Will he live in the cottage?”

  “Yes. I’m getting it ready today.”

  La could not imagine Henry doing housework. Surely it would be difficult for him to hold a broom, in those hands of his; it would certainly be painful.

  “I’ll do that,” she offered. “After I’ve done the chickens.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. But we want our Polish airman to be comfortable, don’t we?”

  HE GAVE HER THE KEY to the cottage. The guttering had leaked immediately above the front door, with the result that the wood was stained and swollen. The key turned easily enough in the lock, but then La was obliged to push at the door with all her strength before it opened.

  It was dark inside. The curtains in the living room—the room one entered directly from the front door—had been drawn closed and there was no light from any source other than the door. She moved across the room and drew the curtains back. A musty odour rose from the cloth, and there was also a smell emanating from the back of the house, from the kitchen.

  The cottage was very small: a sitting room, furnished with two easy chairs over which stained, threadbare rugs had been thrown; the kitchen, where there was a small dining table; and a tiny single bedroom. There was no bath, just a tin tub that had been stacked against the wall of the bedroom. A large china ewer, chipped around the rim, stood beside the tub.

  She looked about her for a switch to turn on a light; even after she had tugged at the curtains, there was little natural sunlight in any of the rooms. But there were no switches anywhere, and then she noticed the oil-lamp on the kitchen table, and the saucer in which a half-used candle still stood, a pool of hardened melted wax at its base.

  For the rest of that morning she swept, scrubbed and polished. She cleaned out the tub, which had rings of recalcitrant scum about its sides; she swept the ashes out of the fireplace in the sitting room and removed the black lumps which had dislodged from the chimney and fallen onto the lino; she washed from the floor the black stains the soot had created. She lifted the coir mattress in the bedroom and shook it vigorously; fine dust flew up in small clouds, making her cough; cobwebs, dislodged from exposed beams, fell across her shoulders like delicate lace mantles.

  Henry had followed her in with sheets and blankets, which she now put on the bed. A patchwork counterpane, which had been draped over a chair, fitted the bed exactly. With that in place, and with the floor swept, the bedroom looked inhabitable, and, from there, slowly the rest of the cottage was transformed.

  Henry returned later, bringing La a mug of tea. He had not made tea for her before and he had not asked her whether she took sugar or not—she did not. The tea he presented her with was sweet and sickly, but La was thankful for it. She had run out of tea that week, and she was happy to drink what Henry provided.

  “You’ve made it very nice for him, La,” said Henry, gazing about him.

  “He’s far from home,” said La. “And he’ll be fed up with living in the barracks and places like that. We need to make it look homely.”

  Henry was silent. “It could happen to us, I suppose. We could be uprooted. Chucked out of our homes—if they invade.”

  “Yes,” said La.

  “I wish I could get out there and take a pot shot at them,” said Henry. “I feel useless.”

  “You couldn’t,” said La. “You know that. And you’re doing more than enough, as it is. Our boys have to eat.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Henry. “But it’s not the same.”

  La put down her duster. “What do you think he’ll be like, this Pole?”

  “Oh, he’ll be all right,” said Henry. “They’re nice people. So folks say.”

  “I’ll cook something for him tomorrow. I’ll bring it over. He’ll get used to looking after himself, no doubt, but for the first day …”

  “You’ll spoil him.”

  “Maybe,” said La. “But don’t you think that he’ll deserve it?”

  SHE DID NOT SLEEP WELL that night. Somewhere in the small hours she was woken by the sound of aircraft overhead. She lay in bed listening as the engine noise slowly became louder, thinking: this is what people hear when bombers come. And it could be that this plane was a German plane, laden with bombs that it could drop at any moment; bomber crews did that—if they could not find their target, they would drop the bombs anywhere, in the hope of hitting something—a house, a factory, a woman lying alone in her bed looking up into the night. But the engine drone began to fade as the plane headed off.

  She imagined the men in the plane, sitting there in their darkened cabins, going about their business of death and destruction. They would have no qualms, of course, because they would know the justice of their cause—whichever side they were on. She tried to picture German flyers, but the image eluded her. What sort of faces would they have? The same as ours, of course. And their feelings? Fear, perhaps, of exactly the same sort as our men experienced.

  But of course they were not like us. These men were ruthless; they were the men who flew the wailing Stukas that strafed the columns of refugees—they were not men like Tim Honey; not at all. She had read an account of
a British airman who witnessed German pilots shooting men who were floating down by parachute: they shot them in cold blood, riddling their bodies with the very ammunition they used to down aircraft; nobody could stand a chance against that. They shot prisoners, too, and civilians in reprisal for attacks on occupying forces. No, she could bring herself to hate them, these strutting scions of the Master Race; she could so easily bring herself to hate them. Hate was easy because it was simply so human.

  She lay in bed thinking of this—of what the war was doing to people. By six o’clock, she realised that she had not slept since half past two, and now it would be too late. If she went back to sleep now—and she was feeling drowsy enough for that—then she might sleep in late, and she could not keep the chickens waiting. Anyway, this was the day on which the Pole arrived.

  She felt strangely responsible for him. Surely she should feel indifferent towards him—there were so many displaced persons, people washed up by the war, people from somewhere else—and yet already she felt that looking after him was something that she had to do. But why? Because he was in need and he was about to cross her path. That, perhaps, was the basis of our responsibility to one another; the simple fact that we collided with one another. She would be kind to him; even in normal times it was hard enough trying to make a go of living in England when one did not belong; how much more difficult must it be in times of fear and suspicion, in times of shortage. Poles were Catholic, of course, and there was a Catholic priest in Bury, a shy Irishman who blushed when you talked to him, something of a figure of fun in the town, or so she had heard. She had bumped into him in the bookshop there once, and he had sufficiently overcome his shyness to converse for half an hour or so about a book that La had taken from the shelves. She would speak to the priest and ask him to take him under his wing.