Staring at the Sun

  “Anyway. Imagine you’re up there, really high. When you get over twenty-five thousand it’s like a different world. Very cold for a start; and the aeroplane handles differently. It climbs slower and it skids around the sky because the air’s so thin and the props don’t have enough to bite on, and everything slips a bit as you try to control it. Then your Perspex starts misting over and you can’t see too well.

  “You haven’t been on many ops and you’ve had a bit of a scare and you’re climbing. You’re climbing straight into the sun because you think that’s safe. It’s all much brighter than usual up there. You hold your hand up in front of your face and you open your fingers very slightly and squint through them. You carry on climbing. You stare through your fingers at the sun, and you notice that the nearer you get to it, the colder you feel. You ought to worry about this but you don’t. You don’t because you’re happy.

  “The reason you’re happy is you’ve got a small oxygen leak. You don’t suspect anything’s wrong; your reactions are slower, but you think they’re normal. Then you get a bit feebler; you don’t move your head around as much as you should. You aren’t in pain—you don’t even feel the cold now. You don’t want to kill anyone anymore—all that feeling has been leaking away with the oxygen. You feel happy.

  “And then one of two things happens. Either a 109 drops on you with a quick burst and a whouf of flame and then it’s all over, nice and clean. Or else, nothing at all happens, and you carry on climbing through the thin blue air, staring at the sun through your fingers, frost on your Perspex but all warm inside, all happy and not a thought in your head, until your hand drops in front of you, and then your head drops and you don’t even notice it’s curtains …”

  What possible answer could you make to that, Jean thought. You couldn’t shout “Don’t do it!” as if Prosser were a suicide on a parapet. You couldn’t very well say it all sounded brave and beautiful to you, even if that was exactly what it did sound like. You just had to wait for him to say the next thing.

  “Sometimes I think they oughtn’t to let me back to flying. I can see myself doing that one day. When I’ve had enough. Have to do it over the sea, of course, otherwise you might land in someone’s allotment. Might stop them Digging for Victory.”

  “That wouldn’t do.”

  “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  “And … and you haven’t had enough.” Jean intended this as a gentle question, but she seemed to panic halfway through and it came out bossy and certain. Prosser’s tone hardened in reply.

  “Well, you’re a good listener, little missie, aren’t you, but you don’t know the first thing. You don’t know the first thing.”

  “At least I know that I don’t,” Jean said, rather to her surprise; and to his, for the sting went out of his tone at once. He carried on, in a sort of reverie.

  “It really is quite different up there, you see. I mean, when you’ve flown as much as I have, you find you can suddenly get completely browned off, just in a minute or so. Something to do with nerves, I suppose—you’ve been tense for so long, and then if you relax a bit, it feels like forever. You should talk to some of those flying-boat chappies if you want to hear funny stories.”

  Did she want to hear funny stories? Not if they were about sweet jars and dandelion clocks; but Prosser didn’t give her the chance to say no.

  “Chum of mine, he was on Catalinas. They can be on duty twenty, twenty-two hours at a stretch. Up at midnight, breakfast, take off two in the morning, not back till eight or nine at night. Flying over the same bit of sea for hours on end: that’s what it feels like. Not even steering—they’ve handed over to George most of the time. Just staring at the sea, looking for subs and waiting for the next brew-up. That’s when your eyes start playing tricks. This chum of mine said he was once out in the Atlantic, nothing much happening, when suddenly he pulled the stick right back. Thought there was a mountain ahead.”

  “Perhaps it was one of those clouds that looks like a mountain.”

  “No. After he’d flattened out and they’d all effed him for spilling their brew-up, he had a good look round. Nothing, not a cloud in the sky, absolutely clear … And then another bloke I talked to, he had it even odder. Guess what? He was four hundred and fifty miles off the west coast of Ireland, tooling along, he looks down, and what does he see? He sees a fellow on a motorbike, riding along like it was Sunday afternoon.”

  “In the air?”

  “Course not. Don’t be daft. You can’t ride along in the air. No, he was obeying the traffic regulations and going along in a straight line on the top of the waves. Goggles, leather gauntlets, exhaust smoke coming out the back. Looking as happy as Larry.”

  Jean giggled. “Riding on the water. Like Jesus.”

  “None of that, if you please,” said Prosser disapprovingly. “I’m not that way inclined, but don’t blaspheme in front of those who are going to get it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Granted.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a policeman.”

  “Are you really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really really? You don’t look like a policeman.”

  “We have to be masters of disguise, miss.”

  “But if you disguise yourself too well no one will know that you’re a policeman.”

  “You can always tell.”

  “How?”

  “Come a bit closer and I’ll show you.”

  He was standing by the creosoted front gate with the sunrise motif cut into its top half; she was in the middle of the concrete path, on her way to feel the washing. He was a tall man, with a fleshy head and a schoolboy’s neck; he stood awkwardly, his brown herringbone overcoat reaching almost to his ankles.

  “The feet,” he said, pointing downwards. She looked. No, they weren’t enormous great flat feet; they were quite small, actually. But there was something a bit funny about them … Were they the wrong way round? Yes, that was it—both his feet were pointing outwards.

  “Did you put your shoes on the wrong way round?” she asked, a bit obviously.

  “Certainly not, miss. That’s the way every policeman’s feet are. It’s in the regulations.” She still almost believed him. “Some of the recruits,” he added, in a voice that spoke of wet dungeons, “have to have operations.” Now she didn’t believe him. She laughed, and then again as he stagily uncrossed his legs beneath the engulfing overcoat and set them down the right way round.

  “Have you come to arrest me?”

  “I’ve come about the blackout.”

  Looking back, she thought it was an odd way to meet a husband. But no odder than some, she supposed. And compared to others, almost quite promising.

  He called again about the blackout. The third time he just happened to be passing.

  “Would you like to come to the pub a hop the tea shop out for a walk out for a drive out to meet my parents?”

  She laughed. “I expect one of them will be all right with Mother.”

  One of them was, and they took to meeting. She found that his eyes were dark brown, that he was tall and a bit unpredictable; but mostly tall. He found her tentative, trusting and guileless to the point of rebuke.

  “Can’t you put sugar in it?” she asked after tasting her first half of mild and bitter.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I completely forgot. I’ll get you something else instead.” The next time, he ordered her another half of mild and bitter, then passed her a screw of paper. She tipped the sugar in and screamed as the beer fizzed out of the glass; it poured towards her, making her jump off her stool.

  “Never fails to amuse, does it, sir?” said the publican as he swabbed down the bar. Michael laughed. Jean felt embarrassed. He thought she was stupid, didn’t he? The man who ran the pub certainly thought she was stupid.

  “Do you know how many sandwiches Lindbergh took with him when he crossed the Atlantic?”

  Michael was taken aback, as much by th
e sudden tone of authority as by the question. Perhaps it was a riddle. That must be it; so he dutifully replied, “I don’t know. How many sandwiches did Lindbergh take with him when he flew the Atlantic?”

  “Five,” she said emphatically, “but he only ate one and a half.”

  “Oh,” was all he could think of saying.

  “Why do you think he only ate one and a half?” she asked.

  Maybe it was a riddle after all. “I don’t know. Why did he only eat one and a half?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought you might know,” she said disappointedly.

  “Perhaps he only ate one and a half because they came from the ABC and were stale.” They both laughed, mainly out of gratitude that the conversation hadn’t entirely gurgled away.

  Very quickly Jean supposed that she loved him. She must, mustn’t she? She thought about him all the time; she lay awake and dreamed all kinds of fancies; she liked to look at his face, which struck her as full and interesting and wise, not at all fleshy as she’d first imagined, and those patches of red that flared in his cheeks showed character; she was slightly afraid of displeasing him; and she judged him to be the sort of man who would look after her. If that wasn’t love, what was?

  One evening he walked her home under a high, calm sky, a sky empty of clouds and aeroplanes. He sang softly, as if to himself, in the placeless American accent of an international crooner:

  Heads we marry, honey,

  Tails we take a cruise;

  Heads it is so tell your people the news …

  Then he just hummed the tune, and she imagined the words repeated. That was all, until they got back to the creosoted gate with the cutout sunrise, where Jean pressed herself hard into the lapel of his jacket before breaking away and running inside. Maybe it was some awful tease, she thought, like one of Uncle Leslie’s pranks. She hummed the tune to herself as if to find out, but it was no real help; it was just a wonderful tune.

  The next evening, when they reached the same point in the lane and the sky proved just as tender, she found herself almost panting. Without breaking his stride, Michael resumed the story:

  Heads we have six children,

  Tails we keep a cat;

  Heads it is so whaddya know about that …

  She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t think straight at all.

  “Michael, I’ve something to ask.”

  “Yes?” They both stopped.

  “When you first came along that day … There wasn’t anything wrong with our blackout, was there?”

  “No.”

  “I thought there wasn’t. And then you told me those fibs about policemen’s feet.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “And you didn’t tell me you don’t put sugar in beer.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “So why should I marry someone like that?”

  She stopped. He put his arm through hers while thinking of an answer. “Well, if I’d called at your house and said, I’d just like to tell you your blackout curtains fit perfectly and by the way my feet are the right way round if you’d care to inspect them, you wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”

  “I might not have.” He put his arms round her. “And I’ve something else to ask while we’re sorting things out.” He moved forward slightly as if preparing to kiss her, but she persevered. It was only one of childhood’s questions, but she distantly felt that they ought all to be settled before her adult life began. “Why is the mink tenacious of life?”

  “Is that another riddle?”

  “No. I just want to know.”

  “Why is the mink tenacious of life? What a funny question.” They walked on; he assumed that she didn’t want to be kissed yet. “They’re nasty, vicious little things, minks,” he announced, not entirely happy with this answer.

  “Is that why they’re tenacious of life?”

  “Probably. Nasty, vicious little things usually do fight for their lives more than big soft things.”

  “Hmm.” It wasn’t quite the answer she’d been hoping for. She’d expected something more specific. But that would do for the moment. They walked on. Glancing at the sky, which was high and serene, with just a scatter of light, loose evening clouds, she said, “Well, when are we getting married, then?”

  He smiled, nodded, and quietly hummed his tune.

  It must be right to love Michael. Or, if it wasn’t right, she must love him. Or, even if she didn’t love him, she must marry him. No, no, of course she loved him, and of course it was right. Michael was the answer, whatever might have been the question.

  She hadn’t had many suitors, but didn’t mind. Suitor was such a silly word that the men who were suitors must be silly too. “He pressed his suit.” She had heard that phrase somewhere, or read it, and it always struck her that this was what was wrong with suitors. Were they called suitors because they were always pressing their suits? She liked men smart, but she didn’t like them spivvy.

  In her head she lined up for comparison the men she knew. Perhaps men could be divided into suitors and husbands. Leslie and Tommy Prosser were probably good at being suitors, but it might be a mistake to marry them. They were a bit raffish, and their explanations of the world might not be reliable. Whereas Father and Michael were probably good at being husbands; they didn’t look spivvy and kept their feet on the ground. Yes, that was another way of looking at it: men either had their feet on the ground or their heads in the air. Michael, the first time she had met him, had drawn attention to his feet; they were pointing the wrong way, but they were firmly on the ground.

  Judged by this new criterion, the four men she knew still divided up in the same way. Suddenly, she pictured herself kissing Tommy Prosser, and the thought of his moustache made her shudder: she had practised once on a toothbrush, and it had confirmed her vividest fears. Michael was taller than any of them and had Prospects of Promotion, a phrase to which her mother always awarded capital letters. He was, Jean admitted, a little shabby beneath his engulfing overcoat, but after the war she could smarten him up. That was what women did in marriage, wasn’t it? They rescued men from their failings and vices. Yes, she thought, smiling: I shall press his suit.

  And that seemed to be it. If this wasn’t love, what was? And did he love her? Of course. He said so every time they kissed good night. Father said you can always trust a policeman.

  There was one subject on which Michael got ratty: that of Tommy Prosser. Perhaps it was her fault. She did rather go on about Tommy, but that was natural, wasn’t it? She was at home all day; Tommy was around some of the time; and when Michael came to collect her and asked what she’d been doing, well, it wasn’t very interesting to go on about blacking the grate and hanging out the washing, was it? So Jean would tell him what Tommy Prosser had said. Once she asked him if he knew what an All Clear sandwich was.

  “You’re always asking me about sandwiches,” said Michael. “Sandwiches.”

  “It’s got dandelions in it.”

  “Sounds utterly disgusting.”

  “It wasn’t very nice.”

  “He’s shifty, that’s what I don’t like about him. Doesn’t look you in the eye. Always turning his head away. I like a man who looks you in the eye.”

  “He’s not as tall as you.”

  “What’s that got to do with it, stupid?”

  “Well, maybe that’s why he doesn’t look you in the eye.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  Oh well. Probably it was a good idea not to tell Michael that Prosser was grounded, even though you shouldn’t have any secrets from your husband. She didn’t say that he was called Sun-Up either.

  Prosser didn’t get ratty when she talked about Michael, though he didn’t always join in her enthusiasm.

  “He’ll do all right,” was his standard reply.

  “You do think it’s a good idea, don’t you, Tommy?”

  “Good enough, lass. I’ll te
ll you this, he’s got a good bargain.”

  “But you’re married? And you’re happy?”

  “Haven’t been home enough to notice.”

  “No, I suppose not. But you do like Michael?”

  “He’ll do all right. It’s not me that’s marrying him.”

  “Isn’t he tall?”

  “He’s tall enough.”

  “But you do think he’ll make a wonderful husband?”

  “You’ve got to get burnt once. Just try not to get burnt twice.” She didn’t really understand this remark, but she was rather cross with Tommy Prosser about it anyway.

  Mrs. Barrett, one of the brisker, more modern wives of the village, called on Jean when everyone was out of the house and gave her a small parcel. “I don’t need it any longer, my dear,” was all she said. Later, in bed, Jean unwrapped a maroon cloth-bound book of advice designed for young couples. At the front was a list of the author’s previous works. She had written The Cretaceous Flora (in two parts), Ancient Plants, The Study of Plant Life, A Journal from Japan, a three-act play called Our Ostriches and a dozen books under the heading Sexology. One of these was called The First Five Thousand. The first five thousand what?

  Jean wasn’t sure how to read the book, or whether she should be doing so anyway. Wasn’t it better to learn such things from Michael? He was bound to know most of this, wasn’t he? Or was he? It wasn’t an area they had discussed. Men were supposed to know, and women were supposed not to mind how they had found out. Jean didn’t mind: it was silly to worry about Michael’s life before she met him. It seemed so distant anyway—it was all before the war. The word prostitute sidled into her mind like a vamp through a door. Men went to prostitutes to rid themselves of their animal desires, then later they married wives—that was what happened, wasn’t it? Did you have to go up to London for prostitutes? She supposed so. Most of the unpleasant things to do with sex took place, she imagined, in London.