How I came to be in England - Part 30

I finished my drink in a few large gulps and asked the Englishman to get me another. We were leaning against the low balcony wall at the Dolphin mess. Music was flowing in from the rooms beyond, and people were moving in and out of the long, wide outdoor space overlooking the harbour mouth. Lights from Old Portsmouth opposite flickered against the dark water. Men were handsome in their pressed uniforms and polished boots, women glamorous in their long ball gowns.

‘Alright darling, what would you like?’ the Englishman asked with a puzzled look on his face. Ladies weren’t supposed to ask for a drink, they were supposed to wait to be asked, I thought. But I didn’t care. I saw the large beer glass in his hand and nodded towards it.

‘A pint? Are you sure?’

I said nothing, just looked at the Englishman.

‘I’ll get these, it’s my round,’ one of the other guys the Englishman had been talking to said and walked inside the noisy mess. He too was on the OPS course and the Englishman had also been to Dartmouth Naval College with him. ‘He’s really, really rich,’ the Englishman now whispered into my ear.

I should have been impressed, but all I could think about was what the old guy had said to me.

‘Who was that man I was talking to before,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Or as if I was just making conversation.

‘Oh, he’s Commander SM. He sort of runs this place. Why, what did he say?’

But the Englishman didn’t really want to know. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was surveying the crowd. He waved his hand to some-one. The buzzing sound returned to my ears. A pretty girl wearing a salmon-coloured silk satin gown, clinched around her tiny waist with a huge bow at the back, was walking towards us. She was flanked by three men in uniform.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she said to the Englishman and kissed him on the cheek.

The Englishman introduced her. ‘This is the lovely Tash. The girl we were all in love with at Dartmouth.’

I managed a smile, although my ears were buzzing ever louder and my face seemed to have frozen into an unmoveable stare.

‘Nonsense,’ Tash said. She dipped her chin and looked up from under her thin eyebrows at the Englishman, feigning shyness.

The drinks arrived. As I was handed the pint, there was a silence. All eyes seemed to follow the glass of beer as it travelled from the tray to my hand.

‘Well, cheers,’ the Englishman said.

‘Cheers!’ all said in unison.

‘You know, I once knew an Australian girl who drank pints.’ One of Tash’s entourage said, nodding kindly to me.

‘Yes, and I’ve heard all the girls down under do!’ said the other.

‘I bet in Norway girls drink pints too?’ asked the Englishman’s friend who’d brought me the drink.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘I’m from Finland.’

Another silence.

The Englishman took hold of my waist and said, ‘She can drink any of you under the table, though she hasn’t grown a beard yet.’

Laughter.

As usual, I thought, I’m the butt of a joke. I drank my beer quickly and when asked if I wanted another, I nodded.

By the time we sat down to our meal I was drunk, but all I wanted was to drink more. Occasionally the Englishman took my hand under the table, and asked if I was alright, but for the most part he laughed and talked loudly with the other people at our table. One of whom was the infamously lovely Tash, or Natasha, as the Englishman told me she was really called. ‘But everyone calls her Tash,’ he’d added.

She was sitting at the other side of the round table, attended to by a handsome naval officer either side of her. I felt sorry for a dark-haired girl who sat next to one of Tash’s adoring fans. Her purple dress had a deep cleavage, showing off her plump breasts. Occasionally I’d catch a guy around the table staring at her assets, but for the most part she was ignored, leaning across her partner to catch what Tash was saying.

As soon as the Englishman left my side, or I went to find the ladies’, other uniformed men approached me as if I was fair game. I thought somehow they’d guessed I was foreign. And that I was inferior, even desperate. Just like nurses. The Englishman had said there was a joke amongst young naval officers: ‘There are only two certainties in life: death and nurses.’

We weren’t home in the little house in Southsea until gone two o’clock. I was sick in the bathroom all night. Even after I’d brought up everything I’d eaten and drunk that night, I couldn’t sleep and sat at the edge of the bed. I felt like crying. The alarm clock on the side table said 5.30. Sleepily the Englishman put his head on my lap and said, ‘You got room spin?’

I looked at his dark eyes. ‘No.’

The Englishman closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow, ‘Come to bed then.’

I knew I should have done as the Englishman said. I should have lain beside him and slept. I should have waited until the morning to talk. It was a Saturday and we’d have the whole day together. Our last whole day before I was going back home to Helsinki. But, still drunk, I couldn’t help myself.

‘You’re never going to marry me, are you?’

There was no response. I turned around to see if he had gone back to sleep. If he’d dared…Anger surged inside me.

But the Englishman was lying on his back, eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling. I turned away from him again. I felt such rage at the Englishman for putting me through the night. He must have known what the people would be like, looking down their noses at me, a foreign girl daring to dream that an Englishman, a British Naval Officer, would ever marry her. Introducing me to a girl like Natasha, who I’d learned later in the evening was the daughter of an Admiral. Who’d be the perfect wife for my Englishman. She’d know how to behave at cocktail parties and naval dances. She’d not wear a dress that was obviously cheap and too revealing, or drink pints.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Come here.’

Oh, how I wanted to go and lie next to the Englishman. To feel his strong arms around me, to put my head against his warm chest, to cry about everything in his embrace. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be charmed by his empty words, by his warm kisses, or by sex. I had to be strong, and not be seduced. I had to know if we had a future.

‘No.’

I heard the Englishman sit up. He yawned loudly. I waited, with my back to him. I heard him breathe heavily, deliberately, in and out. ‘You know how much I love you.’

I turned around, ‘You don’t even mean that any more!’

‘But I do, darling, please, I’m so tired…you’ve been sick all night and…’

‘Oh yeah, it’s because I’m so uncivilised, foreign girls do that you know. Especially we Finns, we’re barely human, so we can’t really be trusted to attend fancy balls like tonight. Unladylike freaks, we drink pints of beer, not tiny glasses of wine like your lovely Tashes of this world.’

The Englishman got up. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He looked angry, standing there in his boxers, his arms by his side, his fists tightly bunched.

Tears started to run down my face. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, swallowed hard and said, ‘That man, the Commander, he told me you knew you’d never be able to marry me.’

Silence.

The Englishman sat at the edge of the bed next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders, but I shook it off. I didn’t want his pity. I was shivering, thinking he’d soon tell me it wasn’t true. That he loved me and would marry me as soon as I wanted, that he’d never been in love with that pretty Tash, that he would die rather than lose me forever.

‘Look, I wasn’t going to tell you…’

‘Tell me what?’

The Englishman was looking down at his hands. I couldn’t see his face when he spoke. ‘I wrote to my Appointer and asked him if there was a problem with marrying some-one from a near-Communist country.’

I could hardly breathe. I stood up and shouted, ‘Finland is not a Communist country!’

‘I know that, but as far as the Navy is concerned…’

I was speechless.

The Englishman came up to me and took me into his arms. I was stiff in his embrace while he spoke.

‘I was told by some-one that marrying a girl….from…you know.’ The Englishman took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got to admit Finland is a bit different, so close to Soviet Union…anyway they told me my career in the Navy might be affected.’

I wriggled out of the Englishman’s grip, but he took hold of my arm and held onto it. ‘So I thought I’d ask directly, you know from the one person, my Appointer, who makes the decisions on my career.’

He stopped there.

I looked at his face. ‘So what did he tell you?’

‘I’m still waiting for his reply.’

Talking of obsessions....

I was reading a post by the incredibly talented Thatgirl39 (talented because she wrote a post when feeling under the weather which inspired me to write this one, some people...) which mentioned obsessions, clothing ones in particular.

In the face of the impending move from our house in the sticks, where we've been for the past thirteen years, I decided to sort out my clothes and recycle as much as I could bear. Before the Big Move we're going to have builders in, and need to relocate to a temporary home in the sauna cottage. All furniture, clothes, bedding etc, etc. is going to be moved out so that the upstairs can be rearranged and decorated. To say I'm not looking forward to the upheaval is an understatement. But I digress.

My first aim with the clothes reorganisation was just to put away the remains of the summer wardrobe, paying particular attention to items that were never worn this past season. This has been my motto for some years now. If it goes unworn for 12 months, it's out. That's the theory, the reality is rather different. Particularly as this summer was such a poor one in the UK (again) and we didn't have our usual break abroad in the sun, due to the Daughter's operation. So even a halter neck sun dress which I bought for a special occasion didn't get a wear this year.

While I went through my clothes rail and drawers with the critical eye of Gok, he the God of all wardrobes, I tried, as well as to decide what to keep and what to throw away, also to colour co-ordinate and place items in piles of similar pieces of clothing. (Can you tell I was supposed to be actually writing an actual manuscript today?)

And what did I find?

Fifteen - yes 1 5 - pairs of jeans.

This did not include cut-offs for gardening, jeans skirts, jeans jackets, or jeans shorts. Five pairs were by my favourite make, 7 For All Mankind, three of which looked more of less identical. Feeling brave (and shocked), I threw away five of the 15, not, however, being able to give up any of the 7's.

I always knew I had a black dress problem. I didn't even bother to count how many of those I have. But jeans? I had no idea I was this obsessed with them too. When I found this out, I became so deranged that I told husband not to let me buy any blue jeans or black dresses ever again.

Now I'm really regretting that remark. He has the memory of an elephant when it comes to my clothes shopping. What if, which is highly likely, I find a beautiful pair of 7's in - say - the January sales? At 30, 40 or even 50% off? They do, as I have found, last for a long time, fit my bum like a glove (not an easy task I can tell you) and remain forever in fashion (I hope!).

Or, even more likely, I find a perfect black number for the Christmas party season?

Help!

Feeling somewhat jaded, I turned to my shoe cupboard. Now here, I cannot use the same 12 month principle. It just isn't possible. I love shoes. Even more than I love jeans. I'm aware that I have a fondness for one particular style and colour (I bet you can guess), but I can live with this. Did I mention I love shoes? Just because I never wear most of the them does not, I repeat DOES NOT, mean that any should be thrown out. OK, I did manage to give up a pair of Dune sling backs and Scholl canary yellow clogs that I haven't worn for three years. As for the rest, they're coming with me, however small the clothing arrangements in the cottage. If necessary, I'll sleep next to them. And place my jeans carefully under the mattress....

How I came to be in England - Part 29

I arrived at Helsinki airport only twenty minutes before the flight to London was due to leave. I’d missed the bus from Espoo, where it stopped outside my Father’s house, by a whisker. The nasty old bus driver had, I was sure, seen me running towards it dragging my heavy suitcase, but nonetheless had driven off, leaving me breathlessly cursing the bloody man. He had something against me, even though I’d barely exchanged one word with him during the two years I’d been living with my Father. Then I’d just missed a tram and had to wait for twenty minutes for a Finnair bus at the terminal in Töölö.

‘The flight is full,’ the heavily tanned, red-haired woman at the check-in said. Her bright pink lipstick clashed with her colouring, and with the sky blue Finnair uniform.

‘Oh,’ I said, not really comprehending how I could be booked onto a flight and not have a seat reserved for me. An awful sensation came into my stomach: did this mean I’d miss the flight?

The woman revealed a set of white teeth, ‘You’ve been upgraded to Business Class.’

I looked at her. I was still feeling dizzy.

‘Have a good flight, Miss.’ She handed me the boarding pass, and nodded politely, as if I’d suddenly become a more important person.

I was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt under a pale blue jumper. Everyone else in business class wore a suit, and I was the only woman in the whole compartment. Apart from the air hostesses of course, who I felt sure knew I didn’t belong there.

The plane was absolutely full. I had a window seat next to an older Finnish man, who started talking to me as soon as we took off. ‘Going to London for work?’

‘No, I’m a student, going to see a friend.’

‘Do you study at Helsinki University?’ The man smiled to me in a kindly way, like a father to a daughter. I guessed his children were my age.

‘No, at Hanken, The Swedish School of Economics.’

This really seemed to impress the man, ‘Oh!’ he said.

I turned towards the window. We were hovering above white clouds. The air hostess brought us a meal and I asked for orange juice. I looked at my watch: only 2 hours fifteen minutes until we’d land at Heathrow and see my Englishman.

‘You must be excited about the elections then?’ the man said. He was chewing a piece of chicken and I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

‘The elections?’

‘Yes, Margaret Thatcher! You must like her radical views on the Economy?’

I looked at the man. His thin hair was going grey at the temples. I had no idea of the politics of the newly re-elected British Prime Minister, only that she was right-wing. I agreed with everything the man said, trying to avoid further questions. Eventually he gave up when I dug the latest Graham Greene novel I’d borrowed from the British Council out of my handbag.

The Englishman was waiting for me with a dark red rose in his hand. He kissed me for a long, long time. I’d forgotten how he smelled of cigarettes and aftershave. His mouth tasted minty. I felt breathless, my heart beat so hard I felt sure everyone around us must have heard it.

The new car was on the second level of a concrete parking lot. It was a grey and black Ford Fiesta and looked dull compared to his old yellow Spitfire, but the Englishman told me the sports car was always breaking down. We headed down to Portsmouth and I was struck by the bright colour of the fields we passed. It was a hot June day. Some farmers were already cutting their crops of hay. In Finland we didn’t start doing that until at least a month later. Summer was so much further ahead here, I thought, and wished I could stay in England forever.

‘You didn’t forget your dress, did you?’ The Englishman said.

‘Sorry?’

‘For the Dolphin Summer Ball?’

‘Yes, I remembered.’

‘Great. It’ll be good fun!’

The Englishman had told me about the ball which was held each summer at the submarine base in Portsmouth. I was nervous about meeting a new set of friends. I’d brought the same dress, (the only ball gown I owned) that I’d worn to the University Ball in Helsinki year and a half ago. I was afraid it’d be far too ordinary-looking. I was sure the other girls would be wearing designer gowns, not one that was made by a friend from cheap material.

We were the only ones out of the old group of navy friends who that summer stayed in the terraced house in Southsea. It belonged to the Englishman’s best mate who was in Northern Ireland. Another friend, who’d lived there two years ago when I’d been to stay for the first time, was working for NATO in Brussels and another was in Faslane, where my Englishman had just ‘escaped’ from.

Each morning after the Englishman left for work, looking handsome in his uniform, I walked down to the shops at the end of our street. I cooked Finnish dishes, searching for the right ingredients at the small butchers and greengrocers.

I made Karelian stew out of diced beef, pork and lamb’s kidneys, pea soup from a hock of ham and dried peas, fish chowder from cod and new potatoes. I struggled to work the gas oven and hob in the little kitchen at the back of the house, often burning my fingers with matches. It seemed so old-fashioned and dangerous to cook with gas, but the Englishman told me it was much better and cheaper than electric.

The Summer Ball was two days before I was due to return to Helsinki. I’d been dreading it, trying not to think about it. The Englishman wore his summer dress jacket, white with the gold lapels. When he was ready and I was still getting dressed, he kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘No rush, darling. I’ll go and fix us G & T’s’

I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to wear too much make-up but I looked so pale, I added more blush to my cheeks. It was another hot summer’s evening. It had only rained once during the whole two weeks I’d spent in the house in Southsea. But tonight I felt cold. I couldn’t understand why I was so nervous about this evening. Was it the fear of perhaps seeing the girl, the Englishman’s ‘accident’? We hadn’t discussed the past, or the future. But still, she had to be somewhere. She had to be someone. The two weeks had gone by in blissful haze of domesticity. It was only now, when I knew we had to go out together, it occurred to me that I still didn’t know if we really were a proper couple. I’d again not been brave enough to talk about anything important with the Englishman and I certainly couldn’t do it now.

The Englishman drove us to the jetty in HMS Vernon, where we boarded a pass-boat over to Gosport on the other side of the harbour. The Englishman went in first, then gave me his hand to guide me onto the small vessel. I felt as if I’d entered the last century when we sat down next two other couples. The ladies in their evening gowns, made out of luxurious velvet and silk, wearing long satin gloves, smiled. The men took of their caps and nodded to me.

‘Good evening,’ one said.

‘Good evening,’ I replied. It was still warm, but I was shivering.

The Englishman sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘You OK?’

‘Are Lucinda and Richard going to be there?’

The Englishman laughed. ‘No, I don’t think you’ll know anyone, but don’t worry I’ll look after you,’ he whispered into my ear as the loud engine of the boat started and we headed towards the other shore.

The Dolphin submarine school knew how to organise a party. There were different areas for food, dancing or just socialising. There was a disco, a Caribbean steel band, and a live group called ‘The Smugglers’, who played old-fashioned music from the Seventies.

The Englishman led me to a vast balcony overlooking Old Portsmouth and Southsea. He handed me a drink and introduced me to a string of his friends and their wives or girlfriends. As soon as they told me their names, I forgot them. I couldn’t follow the conversation over the music which flowed from the different rooms inside. Everyone was happy, the men were making jokes and the women laughed out loud. I smiled too, trying to pretend I’d understood the punch lines.

‘You stay here, I’m going to check where we’re sitting for supper,’ The Englishman said and left.

A slightly older man, who seemed to be on his own, came to stand next to me. He had watery eyes and thinning pale hair. His jacket had several gold rings on it so I guessed he must be more senior than the Englishman.

‘He’s not given you a set of Dolphins yet then?’ he said, bending down to look at the top of my dress.

I placed a hand over the low-cut cleavage. I felt very exposed, and cursed my decision not to buy a proper ball gown after all. Mine was made of very thin fabric. It had narrow straps, making it impossible to wear a bra. I’d told the Englishman I thought it too revealing but he’d just laughed and said I looked very good in it.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand?’ I said. The man pointed at a small brooch-like pin on his uniform jacket.

‘Oh. No, he hasn’t.’

The Englishman had told me about the Dolphins, the emblem of the submarine service. Once you passed your exams and had done the sea time in a boat, you had to earn your Dolphins by catching the pin between your teeth from a glass of rum. I remembered how proud he’d sounded when he told me about the ceremony. But I didn’t realise the ladies could have them too.

The man laughed at my confusion and said, ‘I don’t suppose he’s told you he can’t marry you either?’

I looked at the man’s red, flushed face.

Just then the Englishman reappeared by my side. ‘C’mon darling, there’s some-one I want you to meet.’

I was still staring at the man.

‘Excuse us, Sir,’ the Englishman said to him and led me away.

My ears were ringing. The Englishman took me to the end of the long balcony. I saw how the lights from the other side of the harbour reflected against the dark water. The floor beneath me felt uneven, as if I was still on the boat. Or floating in the water. Noises around me seemed muffled. Had I gone deaf? The Englishman rested one hand on my waist, drinking a pint of beer with the other. He was half-leaning over the low balcony wall, talking to three other officers, who’d appeared from no-where. I wondered if I’d met them before. Their laughter seemed to come from somewhere far, far away.

I shook my head and slowly regained my hearing.