Honey and Silk

Honey and Silk

  “Run!”
  “Run Bill!”
  William Lipton threw down the bat and ran. The gritty earth crunched beneath his feet as his long, lean legs bounded towards the first base. The sun had begun to die down in the sky; it now cast a golden shadow over everything and bathed the makeshift pitch in a fiery hue.
To be standing there, on that day, with the sun on one’s face, and the birds in one’s ears, it would be impossible to believe that other parts of the world were being torn apart by the cry of machinegun fire, the devastation of bombs. Bill had seen harrowing examples of it back at home in the States. He had visited the disaster stricken Pearl Harbour, and witnessed the trauma of its survivors. His own, heroic little brother had died there, aged eighteen.
The loss was what drove Bill to join the army; he would be fighting for the loss he had suffered, for every woman who would never see her man again, and for all of the little children that would never see their fathers again.
He had struggled through eight weeks of intensive training, survived the two-week voyage across the Atlantic on a crowded troop ship, and now he was here in England, in some overlooked little town in the backend of nowhere. It was a welcome break before he would become part of the greatest Allied invasion ever. Those up high were calling it, ‘D-day’, possible ‘death-day’, Bill thought wryly.
  “Run; Man!” his friends encouraged – pulling him out of his reverie – some were American, soldiers like himself, from the warm United States. They found what was comically called  “an English summer” rather like their own winters.
  “We’ll be getting snow next,” one of his comrades had said that morning. To make matters worse, the English population of sportsmen, mainly the civilians from the village, were stripped down to their vests or even less, their naked chests tanning golden and brown in the afternoon sun.
         Bill ran, the adrenaline taking hold. He did not like losing. He reached the first stump… the second… the third…
  “Home run!” A cheer rose up from the batting team. Bill was beginning to enjoy this English game, “cricket” it was called. Very much like the baseball he was used to. He slowed down and pushed back his mop of black hair. It was due another cut, after which he would once again sport the clean, tidy crop that was customary of his Division.
  “Well done old Chap,” said Ned, one of Bill’s newfound English friends. Ned was different, to say the very least, from anyone Bill had ever met. He completely disagreed with the war, and he vowed that he would never fire a weapon, even when his friends were volunteering by the day.
They were also dieing by the day. He would appear to untrained eyes as a well brought up toff. That did not explain why he had been affectionately nicknamed “Ned” by his friends instead of “Ed” or “Eddie”. He was tall, but gangly, his arms long and floppy, and he walked haltingly as if he couldn’t control his bendy limbs beneath him. His sandy hair flopped limply into his pale green eyes and he was forever flipping it back, making him look awkward and flustered.
His whole appearance was rather comical, but as soon as Ned opened his mouth one would act with caution. His accent and use of language always gave away his roots, having been sent to boarding school at a young age, being brought up among parties and grand balls had done nothing to cure his rough cockney accent. His words came out in a drawl, and he had often complained to Bill about the teachers and their methods of improving his speech. On the other hand, he often surprised Bill with his intelligence, his clever mind and his logic. He had a mind like a hawk, which could never be outwitted, sharpened by years of watching his back and standing up for himself.
He had never fitted in at private school, although his father’s chequebook was always a good card to play, his temper and his manners were not. Ned was one who had been restrained all the way through childhood. When he should have been running about outside he was confined to a classroom, learning his times tables. Apparently he could have gone to Oxford, or Cambridge, if he had applied himself properly, but the war had gotten in the way of all that, and Ned didn’t resent it one bit.
He had often stressed to Bill just how much he enjoyed living in the country, with his appointed family. They were, as Ned had said, ‘A far cry from the stuffy civility of London’s ‘igh society. I would give up being a middle class gentleman, with money and a nice car, tomorrow for all this.’ And he would spread his arms wide to embrace the rolling hills and meadows.
The countryside was indeed, very beautiful. It was not mountainous, but lush and rolling, stretching out like a green carpet as far as the eye could see. The sky, on the das when it was not heavy with a thick grey cloud cover, came right down to meet it at the horizon. Everything about the place screamed peace and quiet. Even the little roads could very seldom be called busy.
  “Thanks Buddy,” Bill smiled up at the young man who stood a head above him.
They had become adjusted to the chasm between them caused by their difference of accent. Bill was learning to translate Ned’s strong cockney accent. Having been evacuated from war-torn London, Ned had not yet picked up the local twang, which, to Bill was a whole other language. He had been told that Dorset had its own, defined talk, which was easily recognisable.
On his journey, they had travelled through England for a long time before reaching their destination. He had heard many different forms of English, and occasionally Scottish, which when spoken fast and broad, was almost impossible to decipher. Ned was beginning to pick up on the “buddies” the “dudes” and all other forms of American slang brought across the Atlantic that had initially rendered him the butt of many jokes and misinterpretation.
It had been very amusing to hear an American and an Englishman trying to converse over something as simple as the weather.  And of course, each state sounded different. There were boys in the division from Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, Louisiana, Florida, Pennsylvania, New York; their roots stretched the length and breadth of America. The locals had to become accustomed to the laid back, movie star accent of the north, and then the slow, guttural drawl of the south.   
Bill clapped Ned’s back half-heartedly, before stopping in his tracks.
  “Who’s that?” he breathed, pointing at a young woman who had appeared on the village green where they were playing. The green was dead in the centre of the little village and surrounded by little shops, bakeries, cafes, and pubs. Trees shaded one end, where there was a playing park for children and a cluster of picnic benches, occupied by mothers bringing their children to play. Behind the small bank of trees was a wooded area that led out into the North field. Ned looked round.
  “Oh, her? It’s me sister, Helen.” He smiled and waved his hand. “Helen!” he called out. “Over here.”
  The young woman heard her name and waved when she caught sight of her brother.
  “Neddy!” she cried, her voice low and filled with subtle hints of song. She wandered over.
           Bill could not take his eyes off her solid frame, her legs moved powerfully with a sensuous sway of her hips. Her eyes were bright and green, like great jewels in her pale skin. Her face was cream, and the blush that crowned each defined cheek was strawberry. A mane of golden, honey coloured waves tumbled down over her shoulders in a silky waterfall. It fluttered on the light breeze and floated like fire. She looked every bit a well to do lady. Bill’s heart sank; she would never look twice at him, coming from a farming family of ten children. Theirs had been a bringing up that was always only just accomplished comfortably. They had never had the money for fancy cars or clothes, but there was always food on the table, and a good education on offer. 
Helen would be the kind of girl who liked pretty dresses, and new hats. She wore no hat today, but her dress was well cut and stylish. It fluttered around her knees; the expensive ruby coloured material must have been acquired secretly, because as far as Bill could tell material and all such luxuries had been heavily rationed in England.
  “Helen. Hey.” Ned greeted his sister with a kiss on the cheek. They formed an odd pair. It would not have been obvious that they were siblings had Ned not already made the connection. He was tall and wiry. She was small and soft. 
  “Hello.” Helen caught sight of a pair of raven dark eyes, they gazed into hers, deep and penetrating, and Helen felt naked under his scrutiny, as if her soul was bared for him to see. Quickly she broke the gaze, as if scorched by its intensity; it burned straight into her core.
  “Helen, this is Bill, he’s in the fourth infantry division.” Ned introduced them formally, as if proud to know someone in the Army, despite his aversion to any kind of combat. “And Bill, this is my sister Helen.”
  Bill swallowed. He nodded politely at Helen.
  “How do you do?” he held out his hand, his voice sounded strange.
  “Fine, thank you.” Helen smiled; she placed her hand in his, cool and delicate against Bill’s masculine grip. “Where are you from?” Helen asked conversationally. Her accent did not contain any of the cockney that so often spouted from her brother’s mouth.
  “Tennessee, but I was born in Philly, Pennsylvania,” Bill explained.
  Helen’s eyes rested upon his tentatively as she listened.
  “I’m from London myself,” she said looking around, “I was evacuated when they started bombing. I’ve only been back once. The streets are not the same now, I barely even recognised my road because only three of the twelve houses are still standing.”
  Her eyes were sad, filled with regret and resentment. Bill opened his mouth to offer words of comfort. He had seen London, if not before, certainly after the town had been mainly reduced to rubble. He was, however, cut off before any words reached his tongue.
  “Bill!” shouted one of the guys. “You coming?” Bill turned round and saw that it was his turn again.
  “Yeah, ‘am comin’.” Bill grinned at Helen and ran off to the game, Ned followed.
         Helen watched the game for a while. She enjoyed this new sport, ‘baseball’; the Americans had brought with them. It was very like cricket. She remembered learning to play it at the finishing school she had been to. Sport was one of the few luxuries she received. Of course, it had been a most badly enjoyed experience, but long days sitting in classrooms learning English, Maths, and a list of varied subjects had left Helena wanting for the refreshment and exhilaration brought on from any kind of physical exercise.
She remembered long evenings in the common room, talking about men, and all the current fashions. That was how they passed the time. She twisted a silky lock of hair round her finger, winding it tight before letting it spring back into formation among the rest of her tresses.
Over the past two years since she had graduated Helen had received a steady flow of invitations as one by one her friends had been married to lawyers, doctors, Military officers, she was happy that they had all done well for themselves but she longed for more.
A monotonous life of getting up in the morning, seeing her husband off to work, taking the children to school, and then spending the day in the country club gossiping with her girlfriends while the maids tended to the housework and the cooking was not the kind of life Helen looked forward to.
         As a child her mind had always been changing. Her mother had despaired over her youngest daughter. When Helen was five she decided she was going to become a nun and join a convent. Then she discovered that after following that path she would never marry, so she changed her mind and decided she was going to be an explorer, and travel all over the world in eighty days like Phileas Fogg. By the time she was ten years old her life was perfectly mapped out. She would travel around the world, then marry an American Indian and live in a tepee.
After that she was going to become a movie star like Ginger Rogers and Judy Garland. Once she had achieved fame she was going to have nine children and name them after famous people, Judy, Ginger, Bette, Fred, Charlie, Shirley, Greta, Myrna and Mae. Once they were all gown up and off discovering great things she was going to immigrate to Africa and spend the rest of her years breeding elephants and giraffes.
Helen laughed at herself now. She shook her head at the thought of that child, so carefree and unrestricted by sensibility, there was sadness there in her light hearted memories. She was twenty-one now, and knew that half of the things she had hoped to achieve were not likely to happen, but at ten they had all seemed so possible, she was facing a life full of opportunities and ambitions. And she had wasted her teenage years cooped up in a Ladies’ College of Excellence. She was too busy arguing with herself to notice the game had come to a stop. 
  “We need one more player,” someone shouted. “Dave’s gone back to barracks.”
  “Helen’ll play,” Ned suggested. He laughed at the incredulous looks he received. 
  Helen looked up, and then, disgusted at the men’s attitude kicked off her sandals and slung her shawl over the fence.
  “What?” Bill muttered, shocked. This girl was too delicate for such a game.
  “Don’t worry, Frank,” Ned called teasingly to one of the other men, “she’s only a girl,” he winked at Helen, who accepted the challenge. She strode forward and snatched the bat from Bill. Her eyes gleamed mischievously.
  Bill raised his eyebrows.
  She pulled her flaxen hair over her shoulders. Helen thought that she was beginning to like this Yank. He was no Indian but he was an American, and he had no delicate upbringing, being whisked in and out of parties. She could tell from his scruffy, unkempt, but devilishly handsome appearance. He was not quite as tall as Ned, but then, nobody wanted to have to look up to that giant all day. His body was fluid and rippling with muscles, his stance was square, and firm.
He would seem to be a wrestler, or a boxer. Helen supposed he had worked hard during his lifetime. His hair was shaggy, longer than the rest of his division by a few inches. He did not sport the customary crop, but a set of thick, ebony curls that flopped down over his eyes. She suspected with an inward giggle he might like looking after giraffes and elephants. On that thought she stepped up to the base.
  “Watch and learn ‘buddy’. You think a first class girl can’t play?” she threw confidently over her shoulder. She readied herself, and awaited the throw of the ball. The first perfect bowl she missed deliberately. “Oops,” she said dumbly. A moan of protest rose from the players, all of whom were male. “Come on, boys,” she defended herself, “What more can you expect from a girl?” she threw a seductive glance over her shoulder at Bill.
The bowler prepared to throw once more, his expression bored. He wound up, and let the ball go. It flew through the air like a missile. Helen felt wood come into contact with rubber with great force; she felt the ball rebound and go flying back through the air; and it kept going. Helen dropped the bat. Time was moving slowly. She could see them watching in amazement, too dumfounded to run for the ball, their eyes followed its progress, their feet rooted. This might only have taken a second, for soon they were all running.
Helen too broke into a run too, glad of her decision to wear a short dress that morning. The light material swirled around her tanned legs as she ran, not restricting; it slithered in and out around her knees easily and billowed behind her in the warm air. Her feet were bare, and the sandy grass tickled her toes as she landed lightly on each foot and took off again on another step. Her golden rippling hair fluttered and bounced off her shoulders like a hundred butterflies. The satin tendrils flowed like trickling water, dancing in and out of the breeze.
         The fielders ran towards the woods at the opposite end of the green behind the play park, where the ball had undoubtedly landed, due to its speed and direction. They would delve in the undergrowth and trip over soft mossy roots, stumbling and tripping, before they saw the dark red-brown coloured ball. It would not stand out against the rusty coloured earth.
She had plenty time to get back. She ran and ran, once, twice round. She kept running until finally one of the boys emerged from the woods and threw the ball back. A cheer rose up from her team, as they were now decisively in the lead. She slowed down and grinned triumphantly at Bill and Ned. Ned winked, and Bill nodded, impressed, the appraisal was clear in his eyes.
Bill watched as Helena wandered off slowly, she threw him another look over her shoulder, filled with satisfaction as she smiled. She had won her prize, and he as watched her, without his command, his legs began to move towards her, one step, then another. His eyes were fixed on the golden, caramel coloured waterfall, and all was honey and silk.