Island Madness (7 page)

“I would probably get expelled,” she said.

“In that case I shall have to kidnap you,” he said, determined to offer his charm for capture. “It would be a good to be court-martialled for such a crime.”

She began to blush, the glow stealing over her as soft a pink as the setting sun sweeping across the distant mountain.

“Perhaps we might meet on the slopes tomorrow?” he offered. “I promise only to fall in your arms,” but again she denied him, saying that this night was their last. For a brief instant, as she lowered her eyes on those words, he had hopes, but then he heard her companions giggle and, with the older woman sitting in the corner, he knew that it would not happen, and that perhaps he did not wish it either.

“I am sorry,” he said, “to meet you at the end of your holiday,” and she, safe in the knowledge that she was immune to his advances but quite prepared to flirt, replied, “I am not on holiday. I am at school.”

He took the bait readily enough.

“I thought all schoolgirls wore uniforms,” he mocked in a deliberate tone of seduction.

“Uniforms are for children and grown men playing silly games. Not grown women. We have better things to do.”

“In our country,” he said, “women have only three things.
Kinder, Kirche und Küche
. Children, Church and kitchen.”

She gave a little shudder.

“I don’t think I would like to be a German woman,” she said, “if that’s all they do. Must be terrible for them, poor things.”

He shook his head.

“It is a good time for us now. There was too much bad things in the world. Too much…” he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, “greed from the bosses, too little work for the ordinary man. Too much uncertainty. Capitalism. Communism. That is all finished now. We work as one. The women too.”

She glanced back at the chaperone. “You sound like our Miss Gatting. She’s taking us there next term.”

“To Germany?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask where?”

“Munich.”

“Munich! It is where I atn stationed.”

He had given her his address, but by the time he returned to his barracks he had forgotten all about her. And here she was again, swinging across the stage in black stockings and bells, with a purple cap upon her head.

“You met Isobel?” Mrs Hallivand sounded slightly put out.

“I know. It is so strange. I am sure it is her. Perhaps you could invite her to one of our lunches.”

Mrs Hallivand looked doubtful. “Her father is very protective. Before the war I would have said too protective. But now?”

Lentsch waved away her objection. “No, no. I would like to meet her. Introduce me after the performance.” His voice was drowned out by another burst of applause. Another pirate had been eaten. He lifted his programme in the air. “And Mrs Hallivand.”

“Yes?”

“After today no more riding boots on the pirates. No more arms in the air as they go under.”

But that night, behind the stage, Peter Pan had led him to Neverland too, and like the lost boys whose hands he shook so solemnly at the curtain’s call, he never wanted it to change. Standing at the foot of the garden, looking down on the wheel of gulls calling over the swollen sea, at times he could feel himself wishing that the war might never end. Yes, he missed his homeland and the beat of his birthright, yet every journey he took home was made in fear, not simply because of the danger, or the irrevocable signs of destruction taking hold in Germany’s soul, but fear for what might happen here in his absence. For unhappily Guernsey was not isolated from the world’s misfortune. It lay upon this turbulent sea, soaking up the waters of war as quickly as a sponge. Three weeks he had been away. Three weeks. A lot could happen in Neverland over three weeks. Parties, chance meetings, a croco-dile’s jaw quickly snapping.

He shook Veronica’s hand. The bangles on her arm clanked discordantly.

“I am delighted to meet you,” he told her. She dropped her eyes and gave a little curtsy, which embarrassed him. Her embonpoint was certainly getting a good airing tonight. Zep, unable to ignore his natural inclination, clicked his heels and bowed low in order to take a closer look. Lentsch could see his nostrils flare as they approached the landing zone. Molly stared ahead, furious. Poor Molly, for all her sculptured poise nothing could disguise the fact that she was helplessly in love. When her guard was up, the hard quality of her character surfaced and split her haughty composure like fissures on a rock. Lentsch had told Isobel to warn her that Zep was here to have a good time and didn’t give a jot for the lot of them, but if she had said anything Molly hadn’t taken any notice, or couldn’t help herself. And why not? Zep would be kind and genereus for as long as it suited him. As Molly had once said, when they had been arguing over the dangers of fraternization: “Well, what else are we supposed to do? Stay in purdah until it’s all over? What’s the point of that? All the good ones will have been snapped up by then.”

“Yes, Molly, but what if we lose?” he had asked.

She looked at him as if he had blasphemed.

“Then I’d have to pack my bags and skedaddle,” she said. “But you’re not going to. Not if you play your cards right.”

“Not if He plays our cards right,” Lentsch had corrected.

Molly stood on her heels and kissed him a little too near his mouth. At that moment the huge boom of a gun sounded, very near, momentarily silencing the crowd. Someone drew back the curtains. Another made a nervous joke. Molly had clutched at Lentsch’s arm.

“What in Heaven’s name was that?” she said, staying close. She wasn’t frightened but she made use of it.

“Battery practice,” Lentsch told her. “Miles away.” Molly made no attempt to move away.

“I thought Isobel might be with you,” Lentsch said, unlocking himself from her grasp. Molly took the hint and backed off.

“You’ll have to wait, Gerhard,” she warned, tapping him on the lips. “Trouble at home.”

Molly grabbed hold of Veronica’s hand and pulled her across the room. Dr Mueller arrived, armed with a fresh batch of nurses from Bremen, their noses red with cold. Their first time abroad and loving every minute.

“I hope you have brought your pyjamas,” Zepernick told them as he handed out the steaming glass cups. “Otherwise no admittance to the party later on.”

Mueller ushered his flock over to where a group of officers sat. The English girls watched with guarded interest. While they regarded German men as their equals and allies, they looked upon the women as the enemy, inferior, untrustworthy and a threat, though usually there was little cause for alarm. There was a definite pecking order here, based on rank and class, that applied to both sexes and both nationalities. As a rule the German officers preferred English girls. German women, here as nurses, translators and administrators, were strictly temporary; ‘cannon fodder’, the soldiers called them. It was not unusual for a man with strong appetites to use a whore for immediate gratification, a
madchen
for weekends in France or an evening at the Regal watching a German film and a long-standing Guernsey girl who could give him hope and stability and a sense that somehow the war had already achieved a purpose.

Bohde stood up and shook hands with each of the nurses in turn. Lentsch couldn’t hear what was being said, but Bohde appeared to be explaining something, quickly and earnestly. Some expressed surprise, others giggled; one simply walked away. Most of the them turned to Mueller for confirmation. Bohde starled writing their names down in a little notebook he produced from his pocket.

“What the heli’s he up to?” Lentsch said. “He’s surely not asking them all out.”

“Typical,” Zep mocked. “I must try it out myself. Seduction by name, rank and number.”

The evening was starting. The room was filling up. A voice called out for the glass boot. Lentsch looked over. A young captain from artillery wanting to show off to his new chums. No chance. Someone started playing an accordion. Another started to sing. Lentsch turned to Zep and shouting above the noise, told him the dread news.

“Ernst wants to get his hands on the place.”

Zep looked amused. “What’s wrong? Worried he’ll catch a dose in one of his own brothels?”

Lentsch shook his head. “Not here. The Villa. I came over with him on his plane.”

Zep nodded. Lentsch wasn’t surprised. Zep knew most things. Underneath his bonhomie lay a still and watchful mind, poised to strike without a moment’s warning, though what aroused Zep to this action Lentsch found hard to determine: duty, irritation, bore-dom? Or was it simply the need to devour—like a man’s need for regular sex? Certainly Zep’s appearance after dispatching one of his victims was almost post-coital; happier, fresher, more relaxed. If anyone could deny Ernst his goal it would be him.

“He made a point of telling me,” Lentsch went on. “If we don’t find room for him, he’ll try and get rid of us. And if that doesn’t work he’ll concrete the place over. Just to ruin it.”

Zep seemed unconcerned.

“Well, why don’t we accommodate him?” he suggested. “We could always get rid of Bohde. Ernst can’t be any worse than him.”

Lentsch disagreed.

“I’m not so sure,” he argued. “Bohde maybe a bore, but he’s quiet enough.”

Zep snorted in derision, but Lentsch was not to be put off. “We don’t know what Ernst might get up to,” he insisted. “Isn’t there any dirt on him you could dredge up? Stop him in his tracks.”

Zep ignored him and looked around the room. Molly was introducing Veronica to the artillery officer, holding his arm while she accepted a light for her cigarette. Zep’s face hardened for an instant, and then he asked the first thing that came into his head, simply to regain the momentum of conversation.

“Good flight?”

Lentsch shrugged his shoulders, but, remembering the landing, said, “Teil me. Are you aware that civilians are trying to undermine the safety of the airport?”

Zep grinned. “You mean the runway?”

Lentsch nodded. “Ernst muttered some nonsense about grass growing overnight.”

Zep nodded. “The groundsmen have been cutting the grass extra close so the wheels find it hard to grip. So we’ve had…” He banged his hands together.

Lentsch was worried.

“Shouldn’t something be done about it? That’s exactly the sort of thing Ernst would report back like a shot.”

Zep shook his hand.

“I let them cut it like that when nothing important is coming in. We have lengthened the runway anyway. That way they think they are doing something for their country. They keep their self-respect and in all other matters regarding the airport do as they’re told. That way everyone is happy.”

Lentsch was unconvinced. “But surely it might encourage them to do something worse.”

Zep disagreed. “Never. They know what would happen if they did.” He sliced his throat. “The lot of them.” He banged his glass down. “Come on, Gerhard. Tomorrow we think of how to put a spoke in Ernst’s wheel and other matters. Tonight we drink and make love.”

They had finally got back to the Villa at eleven o’clock. Albert was in the drawing room standing guard over the food—two rhubarb pies, a plate of corned beef sandwiches, three cold chickens and a bowl of baked potatoes with a jar of gooseberry jam by their side. Before the girls trooped off to the billiard room to change, they had all crowded round stuffing themselves as fast as they could. Lentsch went up to his room to fetch his round of cheese. As he came down the stairs he saw Veronica slip one of the potatoes into her handbag. Encouraged by her success she leant in and grabbed a chicken leg. Stepping back she raised the meat to her mouth before letting it fall. As her hand moved to close the clasp, she turned suddenly to where Lentsch stood, watching.

“Whoops,” she said. “Greasy fingers.” She picked it out. “You want?”

Lentsch put his cheese down on a small table and took it from her without a word. Perfume rose off her like tar in a heat haze. He held the leg out to her half-open mouth. Leaning forward, she bit and wrenched and chewed as he held it firm, and then, defiantly, bit again. Her lips were wet and fat and without guile.

“Here,” he said, handing her the cheese. “Before the others get to it,” and he turned, so that he would not know, one way or the other, what she might do with it.

Out in the hall again he picked up the phone and gave the operator Isobel’s number. He let it ring for a minute or more. There was still no reply. Bohde came down the stairs smelling of hair oil.

“Girlfriend flown the coop?” Bohde asked in malicious innocence.

Lentsch changed the subject.

“What was all that about, back at the Casino,” he asked, “with all those nurses Mueller brought?”

“Ah.” Bohde gathered himself up. “It’s to do with my research.”

“Research?”

“I am making a study of the German breast. In art and life. I have asked them if I may not take certain measurements. They are not only nurses, you know. They were all in the League of Girls.”

“And they’ve agreed?”

Bohde nodded.

“As young Germans with a healthy outdoor look on life, they understand the purpose behind my project. It is nothing to do”—he raised his eyebrows as if he had found some pornographic postcards hidden under Lentsch’s bed—“with smut. It will all be carried out under proper conditions. I have promised them that when applying the tape measure I will wear gloves. Warmed beforehand, of course.”

“Of course.” Lentsch couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

Bohde retreated a step to gain height.

“I knew you would poke fan, Gerhard,” he shrilled. “Which is why my findings will not be carried out here. Major Ernst has very kindly lent me the use of his garden. It is very private there. He is lending me some of his foreigns for comparison, too.”

Lentsch felt a sudden chili in the air.

“Ernst? What’s Ernst got to do with it?”

Bohde’s smile was the epitome of complacency. “He is as committed to the protection of the German form as I am. He was one of the key speakers in the Naked and Education Congress of ‘38. Together we hope…” He faltered.

“Yes?”

“To further the cause of Naturism. This…” he swung his arms out, “could be its home.”