Women at War

by Jan Casey

  ‘Oh, Vi.’ Lillian put her arms around her friend and held her tight. ‘It will pass.’

  Viola wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the old, brown cardigan and said, ‘No, Lil, I don’t think it will.’

  Lillian held Viola at arm’s length and studied her. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ she said. ‘Of course it will. Tummy upsets aren’t fatal.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lil,’ Viola said as she rushed to hang her head over the basin again. And this is where my head will be forever more, she thought, hanging in shame.

  ‘Now then, Vi, don’t talk tosh.’ Lillian’s tone was firm. ‘I know you must be feeling very poorly because you’re not usually this dramatic. And I do understand this has come at an inopportune time what with the party this weekend, but…’

  The party. Viola moaned again when she remembered Robert’s birthday bash this Saturday that she was expected to attend, looking fresh and glamorous and ready to help her mother with hostess duties.

  ‘…You may well be completely better by then, some of these stomach bugs only last forty-eight hours or so. And if not, well, we will send a telegram to your parents and explain.’

  Viola nodded and shook her head at the same time, not able to comprehend Mum receiving a telegram informing her that her daughter was incapacitated with a violent stomach upset. She recalled Mum in the art gallery and her cool, worldly understanding of anatomy and knew she would not be as naïve as Lillian; she would jump to the correct conclusion without a moment’s hesitation.

  Putting the tea and toast on the coffee table in front of Viola, Lillian said she would come straight home after work, patted her friend’s shoulder and said goodbye. Viola lifted a hand and the corners of her mouth in reply.

  Much as she loved and appreciated Lillian, Viola felt relieved to be alone in the flat that was now still and quiet. Breathing deep into her lungs, she dared to lean her head back against the antimacassar for a moment but with another violent spasm, her stomach told her it was too soon to become complacent and she sat upright again. ‘Oh, Fred,’ she called out as her fiancé’s face passed in front of her again. ‘What am I going to do?’ But the warm, affectionate features she hoped to conjure up did not appear and they were, if anything, harsher this time. The image didn’t linger but drifted out of sight as if pleased to be shot of her.

  Then her mind switched to Robert and his party and she beat her fists on her knees. ‘Robert, Robert, Robert,’ she sobbed. She picked up her teacup and thought about dashing it to the floor, but couldn’t bear the thought of having to clear up the mess. Instead, she put her head in her hands and wept.

  Around noon, Viola found that she could nibble on the dry toast and managed a cup of tea. When she kept that down she felt as if she had a bit more energy. This was probably the way it would go every morning now; she shuddered at the thought. After she cleared the breakfast things she managed to wash, brush her teeth, change her clothes and tidy round.

  Then an icy fist twisted in her gut and she knew it was nothing to do with morning sickness. She’d been top of her class right the way through school, an assistant in the Languages Department at the University of Cambridge, a model daughter and sister, an excellent tennis player, a voracious reader, almost-fiancé to a wonderful man and now – an unwed mother.

  First her hands and then her legs started to shake and again she had to sit down before she fell. The thought that she had allowed this to happen was shameful. Yes, it happened to other young women – she knew it did. There were girls at work who were there one day and not the next and when they left, sniggers followed them and that included her own. Girls like that were considered to be loose or fallen or like hedonistic animals who put immediate pleasure above long-term consequences. Her hands trembled as she touched her face, neck, ears, pulled through her hair. She knew she was not the definition of any of those base, cheap descriptions but no one else would believe that; she would be labelled, maligned, dismissed and damned.

  What would Mum and Dad think? And Lillian? She sobbed aloud and covered her mouth when she pictured her brothers being told. And Fred. She grabbed her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth. Fred would never want her now and how could she blame him?

  The walls of the flat crowded in on her and she knew she must get away from them. Pulling on a jacket, she checked her pockets for a hanky, tied a scarf around her hair, grabbed her key and headed for Russell Square.

  The corner of Malet Street was cordoned off probably due to a burst pipe; the street itself was packed solid with beds, sideboards, lamps, books, pots, pans, shoes, bits of broken crockery, baby carriages and all manner of treasured belongings that made up everyday life. Viola stood and stared at the precious remnants thrown out on the narrow street in the hope that some of them could be salvaged. A little blue slipper caught her eye and she frantically searched the jumble for its partner, desperate to know that the child who wore them in what had been the safety of his own home, would know their softness and warmth again. But she couldn’t catch sight of it amongst the mess and appeased herself that the child had probably been evacuated at any rate and would have grown out of them by the time he returned. Carrying on towards the gardens, she reminded herself that if that were the case, there would be a mummy who had kept them as a reminder of her little boy – her most cherished possession. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought that one day very soon she might be in a similar situation. It hardly seemed feasible.

  Another cordon surrounded what was left of the gate at the Montague Place entrance, so Viola wandered around to Bedford Place and into the gardens from there. Russell Square, that beautiful sanctuary in the middle of London chaos, was not looking its best, but then again nor was she. Trees were down from two hits and had been dragged off the paths to allow pedestrians to pass. All the lovely lamps, devoid of their light bulbs, were blinking blindly. A bench was missing seat rungs, but a courting couple was making the most of the facility regardless to carry out an assignation. Viola hoped that the young woman, encased in the arms of her suitor, had put more thought into her actions than she had. Eventually, she found an empty seat under the watchful stone eye of the Duke of Bedford and sat with a long, drawn-out sigh.

  How she would have loved to sit and think about whatever it was she’d thought about before this had happened. Now there wouldn’t be room for much else in her life, or the lives of her parents, for years. Already it felt as if her world was becoming much narrower and more confined; she had to make a concerted effort to quell the panic that started in the depths of her stomach and attacked her lungs and limbs, making her whole body quake with fear for today, tomorrow, the months and years to come.

  The first hurdle she had to get through was the coming weekend. She could kick herself as she’d been looking forward to seeing Robert and David for the longest time. They had met up at home over the Christmas and Easter periods and from time to time during the long summer break but not as regularly as they had been able to when she worked in Cambridge. On two occasions, she’d made the trip to their school with Mum to take them out for tea, which was great fun, but was also a glaring reminder that they were both growing into young men at an alarming rate. Men with minds of their own. Dad had long harboured the ambition that they would go up to his old Oxford college but they both wanted to join up as soon as they were eighteen. By way of compromise, he told them they could choose any of the Oxbridge colleges but he was insisting, without debate, that they continue their studies.

  Mum told her in a letter that during the Easter break, Robert and Dad had argued almost non-stop about the subject. Apparently, Dad said he did not want the boys to miss out on their education because of the war and Robert had shot back with: ‘That’s all well and good, but I refuse to be thought of as a coward on the basis that I fulfil your aspirations.’ Mum said their bickering had been very unpleasant and Viola thought back to the altercation during Fred’s last day in England and how unhappy that had made everyone. This bloody war was the cause
of so much heartache in so many different spheres – from the minutiae of family life to the workings of Whitehall.

  Viola would take bets on Robert agreeing to a short degree course at Oxford or Cambridge in say, engineering or surveying, in order to appease their father, but then joining up the minute Dad left him in his college rooms. She wanted to talk to Robert about all of this, not to nag him but to try to get him to appreciate that his safety was paramount and at university he would not be called a coward because he would be surrounded by other young men who were exempt from the war on the basis that the country needed educated men and women to move everything forward. But last time she had seen him he was so different. All that tennis had paid off as he was wiry and athletic and held himself so well that anyone would think he was already an officer; his hair was thick and shiny, controlled with some sort of grooming aid and there were signs of a shave on his chin and upper lip. His voice had come from his chest rather than his throat.

  When they’d gone for a walk together, he’d offered her his arm in a gallant manner and she took it, his bicep as rock solid as a tennis ball. ‘It’s the RAF for me,’ he’d said.

  ‘Please think about it carefully before you decide,’ Viola had said.

  His reply had been as abrupt and sure-fired as a round of bullets. ‘I’ve had two and half years to think of nothing else,’ he’d said. And in an exact replication of Dad’s tone of voice when he demanded an end to the discussion he’d added, ‘I’ve made up my mind and that’s it.’

  But she wanted to give it one more try by appealing to his duty to his family as well as the Allies because she, Mum, Dad and David needed him, as the oldest boy, to be here with them.

  Now there probably wouldn’t be another opportunity and she was to blame. She pulled her jacket tightly around her stomach and chest as if trying to protect herself from the humiliation and fear that washed over her again. Heat coated her chest, face and scalp when she thought about how she’d made a mockery of all the months and years she’d fended off any man who flirted or made eyes at her. The self-righteousness she’d felt when turning down all the men who had asked to meet her for a drink or a date meant nothing now. The countless times she had explained to anyone who would listen that she was engaged, or almost-engaged, to the most wonderful man were nothing more than a pretence; she would be a laughing stock amongst her friends. And, with a lurch that set her nerves jangling, she realised that if she thought herself ostracised before this, then the visual effects of her betrayal would see her abandoned and isolated without an ally in sight.

  She had to think hard and make a decision about this weekend. If she cried off, Mum would suspect something and probably make her way to London after the party to assess the situation. If she tried to get to the Cotswolds, Mum, and perhaps Dad, might ferret the truth out of her and it was too early for that. Weighing up every side of the situation was exhausting and all it did was dig up further complications. She wondered if she could possibly make it home for the weekend and hide the situation from her parents. After all, the house was big enough to insulate the sounds of sickness from them and if her days followed the already established pattern, she would feel better by lunchtime. The more she thought it through, the more she warmed to the idea that she could manage it. And she could enlist Lillian’s help as she’d been invited to the celebrations, too. But that meant she would have to tell her friend about the baby. Could she do that and risk Lillian’s rejection? She would have to; there was no way around it. And Lillian was her dearest friend. Surely she would help? Yes, Viola decided she would confide in Lillian. If it was the other way around she would want to know and would do whatever she could, no matter the circumstances, to be Lillian’s mainstay.

  *

  Lillian breezed in looking young and fresh at about six-thirty, with June in tow. ‘Vi!’ She flung herself at Viola who was fussing with washing up in the kitchen. ‘Let me look at you.’ She scrutinised Viola up and down and pronounced that she was looking much better. Viola knew this to be stretching the truth as the mirror had told her that her skin was sallow, her eyes rheumy and her hair limp. Viola turned away and continued being busy.

  ‘Sorry to hear you’ve been poorly,’ June said, keeping her distance for fear of picking up something catching.

  ‘Thank you, June.’

  ‘Do you feel like a drink?’ Lillian said. ‘We’re heading to the Jack Horner if you’re well enough.’

  ‘I do feel better,’ Viola said. ‘But I think I’ll give it a miss. Look at the state of me.’

  ‘Makeup and a scarf,’ June said. ‘A girl’s best friends.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Viola hesitated. The thought of the long evening on her own was less than captivating. On the other hand, sitting in a sticky, smoky pub filled her with horror; suppose she started her heaving again. ‘I think I’ll rest tonight. You know, be on the safe side.’

  Lillian had discarded her coat for her old navy pullover and stood, hands hidden in the loose cuffs, studying Viola. ‘Shall we stay in with you?’ she asked, then answered before Viola could reply. ‘Yes, I think we must. Sorry, June, but I for one am going to forego tonight.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Viola said. ‘I insist that you don’t change your plans for me. In fact, I will be most upset if you do.’

  June turned an imploring look in Lillian’s direction and after a few more minutes of deliberation Lillian agreed to keep to her original arrangement. June, who Viola thought found her humdrum and mundane, visibly brightened. Whilst they readied themselves in Lillian’s bedroom, helping each other with hairdos, sharing lipsticks and advice on brooches, Viola took down her latest book from the shelf and opened it at a random page to give the appearance of being quite content. As soon as Lillian and June shut the door behind them, Viola tossed the book aside with a huff, then began to weep again.

  The next evening was the same, except the guest Lillian had with her was Harriet. The night after that, it was both June and Harriet. Every night Viola rolled around in tangled, clammy bedsheets exhausted by thoughts of the predicament she was in and the feelings of electrifying panic that went with them. Every morning she was decimated with heaving sickness and every morning Lillian brought her dry toast and tea. On the third morning, Viola grabbed Lillian’s hand and said, ‘Lil, I’m pregnant.’

  Lillian held her gaze, her soft grey eyes sad and concerned. ‘I know,’ she whispered, not so naïve after all.

  Lillian threw herself next to Viola on the sofa, but didn’t let go of her hand.

  ‘Does everyone know?’ Viola asked.

  ‘No, I promise,’ Lillian said. ‘All I’ve said at work is that you have a violent stomach upset.’

  ‘But what about June and Harriet?’

  ‘You know them.’ Lillian shrugged. ‘Much too involved with themselves to even notice.’

  Sitting up straight, her voice lower and more purposeful, Lillian said, ‘Vi, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, Lil.’ Viola raked her hands through her straggly hair. ‘I have no idea. I’ve been longing to talk to you about it, but I was frightened you’d turn your back on me.’

  Now it was Lillian’s turn to cry. ‘Don’t talk such tosh,’ she said. ‘As if that would ever happen. I’ll make sure I return tonight without any hangers-on so we can talk.’

  ‘Thank you, Lil,’ Viola said. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and sighed. ‘It’s such a relief to tell you.’

  Together, Viola and Lillian came up with a strategic plan for the weekend. They would travel to Viola’s family home for the party and hide Viola’s pregnancy to the best of their ability. If and when Viola couldn’t be present, Lillian would cover for her. They would both casually splice hints into the conversation about the various illnesses going about their crowded office, stomach upsets being one of the most virulent.

  But, Lillian wanted to know, what was Viola going to do in the long run?

  ‘No idea, Lil,’ Viola said. ‘I don’t eve
n know what I can do.’

  ‘Well, there are things I’ve heard about. My sister’s friend got herself into trouble and…’ Lillian scrunched her features together as if in pain. ‘What an awful saying. I’m so sorry, Vi.’

  Viola shook her head. ‘No need to be. That’s exactly what this is. Big trouble. What did this girl do?’

  Lillian lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder. ‘She had an abortion.’

  ‘But how?’ Viola asked. The thought made her feel a different kind of sick.

  ‘She did it herself. There are ways.’

  Viola knew her wide eyes and slack jaws reflected how appalled she felt. ‘I don’t think I could,’ she said. ‘It must be horrendous.’

  ‘But, Vi, it might be for the best.’

  Viola put her head on her friend’s shoulder and rested for a beat or two. ‘I do know that. You’re absolutely right. And if I decide on that course of action, Lil? Would you, you know. Help me?’

  Beneath the navy pullover, Viola felt Lillian’s heart quicken. And it seemed as if she was having difficulty swallowing through a dry throat. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you decide, I would try. Although I believe it’s the earlier the better, so bear that in mind. But there are other things you should think about, too.’

  Lillian listed her alternative suggestions. Viola could tell her parents, her mum at least, and then be guided by her advice after their initial fallout. Or she could tell her parents she had to go away for work and her work colleagues she had to go home for a family situation then turn up on the doorstep of a hostel. ‘You mean one of those dreadful, Draconian institutions like the Loreto?’ Viola choked on the word. ‘Or the Home for Deserted Mothers and their Infants? Mum and Dad would die of shame. And so would I.’