by Hazel Prior
23 April
Dunwick Hall
Sunlight streams in through the diamond-paned windows, and our school expeditions into the countryside have started again. We fill our baskets with primroses. Later we sit and line boxes with moss and pack them with flowers to be sent to the hospitals for the war-wounded.
I spend lots of time at Eastcott these days. I’m getting to know Janet’s brother, Harry. You couldn’t really call Harry good-looking, but he has his own sort of rustic charm. He’s big and strong and can be quite funny. He shot a rabbit on Saturday, and I didn’t like that, but later Mrs. Dramwell served it up as a rabbit pie, and I have to admit I ate some. One can’t be too fussy about food these days.
On reflection, I’ve decided I do like Harry. The future may be worthwhile, after all.
22 June
Eastcott Farm
I’m fifteen now, but I feel so much older. When I look in the mirror I think I look a lot older, too. Older than Janet and Norah, anyway.
It wasn’t Harry who came to collect us from the Dunwick gates yesterday, but a tall, dark man in a brown uniform with flashes of yellow.
“Hi, Giovanni,” said Janet. “These are my friends: Norah and Veronica.”
“H-hello, Janet. H-hello, Norah. H-hello, Veronica,” he answered with a wide smile and exaggerated H. He pronounced my name syllable by syllable. “Verr-on-ee-cah.”
Janet explained as we climbed up into the cart. “Giovanni is our new prisoner of war. The old one was rubbish, so we asked for another. You’re from Italy, aren’t you, Giovanni?”
He nodded gleefully.
Behind Janet’s gossip and the trotting horse hooves, I could hear him saying, “Verr-on-ee-cah. Verr-on-ee-cah,” over and over to himself throughout the journey. When we arrived at the farm, he took a handful of fresh grass from the verge and offered it to the horse, speaking to it gently in his own language, stroking its nose. I like Giovanni.
When we arrived, Mrs. Dramwell said we could have a treat, what with my birthday and to say thank you for all our help with the cows and everything. A picnic for us girls. Harry came with us, and we cycled to a viewpoint at the edge of Eastcott Farm. You can see the crags of the Peak District from there. The air was balmy, and loads of flowers were out: pink campions and foaming white cow parsley all along the edges of the track.
We had our picnic in the shade of an ancient oak. There was a freshly baked loaf, homemade potato pies, pickled onions, apples and ginger cake. Harry lounged at my feet and passed me everything, even though I was quite capable of reaching it for myself.
I caught Norah swiveling her eyes toward me whenever Harry spoke, to see my reaction. She knows Harry admires me.
It’s nice to be admired, I must say. Might I be capable of falling in love? That might be rather agreeable.
To be honest, I think I’m due a bit of agreeableness.
I do need something right now to keep me going. There’s a gaping hole in my life, and I feel as if my soul will be sucked down it unless I can plug it with something.
12 July
Eastcott Farm
At last it’s happening. I’m all flurried and flushed. The plan is for us to cycle to the station and then take the train into town together. Just Harry and me. The picture house is then only a short walk away. Harry assures me it is an extremely naughty thing to do, so I’m game.
“It’ll be easy to keep it a secret from my mum,” he said. “I’ll tell her I’m off to meet my pals, and she’ll assume you’re upstairs with Jan and Nor.”
Janet thinks the whole thing is hilarious. Norah isn’t so taken with the idea. (I wonder why!) They’ve arranged my hair in big curls fastened with thousands of pins. I am wearing my poppy red cotton dress, and I’ve borrowed Janet’s best beige jacket to go over it. We don’t have stockings, but Janet has drawn a line down the back of my legs in brown ink so it looks as though I’m wearing them.
I’m just writing to fill in the last ten minutes before I go. It’s rather exciting. Mrs. Dramwell is sewing downstairs. I shall slip out of the back door any minute now. I’m ready.
Monday, 14 July
Dunwick Hall
I don’t know who to talk to. There’s nobody. Only you, as ever, my dear diary. Only you will listen to my woes and absorb them into your sad white pages.
This is what happened on Saturday night.
I met Harry as arranged outside the back door at Eastcott. He’d made an effort to slick down his hair, but it unfortunately made his ears seem to stick out even more. He’d brought only one bicycle with him. The other one was broken, he said.
“But you can squeeze behind me while I pedal. You’re not frightened, are you?”
Of course I wasn’t. I climbed up behind him on the seat, and we were off, gathering speed fast. My poppy-colored skirts flew in the breeze. I clung onto him and felt his muscles rippling through his shirt. And felt his pleasure at my body pressing into his back.
“My Aunt Margaret would have a fit if she knew!” I cried.
On the train, people eyed us disapprovingly, trying to work out our ages, but nobody addressed us. I regaled Harry with stories about Aunt M’s stinginess.
“I thought you was a snob when I first met you, Veronica,” he told me, “but you’re not. You’re a good sport.”
The film was an adventure starring Jimmy Cagney. Harry didn’t seem to want to watch at all, though. His arm kept stealing round my shoulders. I quite liked it at first. I even leaned in to him a little. My heart was pounding out new rhythms. I could feel the locket hanging against it, making me more and more desperate for love. Harry nuzzled closer and closer.
But then he put his face up to mine and started to kiss my lips. I recoiled. His breath was pungent, like boiled onions. I couldn’t bear how his skin was so pimpled and coarse.
“Don’t!” I hissed. “I want to watch the film.”
On the way out he made a lunge for me again. His hands pawed at my body. I sprang away.
“No, Harry. I don’t like it. Get off me!”
“What? You hot me up then suddenly turn frosty? That’s not very nice.”
On the train back we were silent as stones. I was dreading the cycle ride. I kept racking my brain for another way I could get back to the farm or the school . . . and there wasn’t one.
18 July
Dunwick Hall
“Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew . . .”
Hamlet completely expresses it all.
It’s horrible. Janet won’t speak to me. She won’t even look at me. She turns away pointedly whenever I sit next to her. Instead of sharing corned beef sandwiches like we used to, she stuffs them into her own face. Norah gives me the cold shoulder, too, of course.
Harry must have told them I seduced him or something, because the school is rippling with ugly rumors. My schoolfellows now delight in labeling me a whore. There’s no way I’m going to condescend to tell my side of the story if the people I thought were my friends won’t even listen.
I’m all churned up inside and don’t know what to do. I hate Harry’s guts. How could he do this to me? I think up all sorts of imaginary conversations and ways of getting my own back, but I can never put my plans into operation because I never see him. There are no more invitations to Eastcott Farm.
Sometimes I think the injustice is driving me insane. Nobody in this world will stand up for me. I wish, wish, wish I still had Dad and Mum. At night I bite hard into my pillow. It is the only way to avoid howling my heart out.
Saturday, 19 July
Aunt M’s house
This morning I stood outside the school gates, waiting for the milk float, apart from the cluster of other girls. Janet and Norah were waiting, too, ignoring me.
When the Eastcott cart clatt
ered round the corner, I couldn’t help looking up at the driver. But it wasn’t Harry. It was the Italian prisoner of war, Giovanni. “Verr-on-ee-cah!” he cried. I traded a brief smile with him. It was sweet how he remembered my name. Then I noticed that Harry was there, too, in the cart. He helped his sister and Norah up with exaggerated gentlemanliness. All the while he studiously avoided turning his head toward me. I stuck my nose in the air.
I caught the tail end of a phrase from Janet: “. . . no right to act so high and mighty, the dirty slut . . .”
I bristled. As Giovanni drove the cart off down the road I saw Harry pointedly place himself next to Norah, put his arm around her and give her a long, lingering kiss on the lips. Both of them looked back at me to see my reaction. I stood there alone, quivering with rage.
Sunday, 20 July
Aggleworth
When I set off to my dance class yesterday, I was exhausted from the pounding emotions of this last week. The warm sun on my face felt brutal, reminding me there’s no warmth to be had from my fellow humans anymore. Thank heaven there’s still dancing.
I was striding fast to get to the hall when I saw two figures walking ahead. One was pushing a wheelbarrow full of vegetables along the road. He was wearing a brown uniform with yellow flashes. As if he sensed my gaze, he turned and looked round. It was Giovanni.
He recognized me immediately and bowed so low that his mop of hair flopped over his eyes.
“Hello,” I answered, imitating his style with a mock curtsy.
“Bella!” he cried. His companion urged him onward, but he stopped for a further moment to pick a flower and lay it on the road before continuing.
The two men had turned a corner and disappeared by the time I reached the flower. I picked it up. It was just a dandelion, but oh, how I loved that dandelion! It was brilliantly yellow and vibrant, defying anyone to dampen its ardor. I stroked its petals and then placed it carefully behind my ear.
The dance lesson dragged much more than usual. Afterward, instead of heading straight back to Aunt M’s, I wandered in the direction of the open-air market. I meandered among the stalls until I saw him behind a mountain of vegetables.
His face lit up. It wasn’t at all the face of a desperate and downtrodden prisoner. He looked cheerful and lively. Suddenly, I realized he was the most handsome man I’ve ever met.
Giovanni’s eyes are deep brown and vivacious and fiery. His nose is noble. His hair is unkempt and there’s stubble on his chin, but it’s nice stubble that suits him. He is well-built; tall, fibrous and strong. Whichever angle you view him from, he is utterly enthralling.
“So they let you out on your own, do they?” I asked him, fascinated.
“Oh yes, now they do. The people in these stalls next to mine make sure I do not run off with the money.” He addresses the oldish man in the striped apron selling meat cuts next to him. “I do not run off with the money, do I, Mr. Howard?”
“No, you don’t,” replied Mr. Howard with a grin. “I hoard all the money for your vegetables, that’s why. And return your takings to Mrs. Dramwell when I see her at Eastcott on Monday.”
It is amazing that a POW is granted such freedom. Mr. Howard and Giovanni seem to be on very good terms.
“Do you want to buy any vegetable?” asked Giovanni. “See here I have the lovely potatoes. And the very fine beetroot. And the tomatoes most splendid. I am thinking you must like a very splendid tomato?”
“I certainly would like a very splendid tomato!”
I tipped the coins into his hands, and he immediately passed them to Mr. Howard.
I wondered whether to bite into the tomato right there but decided against it. A spray of red juice and seeds over my face would hardly look attractive.
“Also I would like . . .” I pondered, viewing the produce, “something for my Aunt Margaret. What would you recommend, Giovanni?”
“What sort of a thing does she like?” he asked, looking at me and the vegetables in turn.
“I don’t know what she’d like. But I know what I’d like to get her. Something very, very old and very, very un-delicious,” I answered. “What is your oldest and most un-delicious vegetable?”
His laugh was open and joyful—yet intimate, as if we were partners in crime together.
“How about this old, wrinkled turnip?” he suggested.
I smiled. “Absolutely perfect.”
Sunday, 27 July
Aggleworth
I’ve started to crave Saturday afternoons so much! Not for the dance lessons but for the trips to the market afterward. Giovanni must know I come especially to meet him. He picked flowers again yesterday; meadowsweet, wild roses and lots and lots of dandelions. He presented the bunch to me across his vegetable stand with a flourish. Mr. Howard busied himself and pretended not to see.
I decided to bestow on Giovanni the greatest honor. “Giovanni. I know my name is difficult for you. In the future will you please call me Very?”
“Very? Why, yes. I will! Very lovely, Very beautiful, Very darling you!”
I purred. Very darling me! If only we could find some time alone together.
Sunday, 3 August
There is much to tell.
Firstly, I am in love. How could it be possible not to love Giovanni, the finest and best-looking man in the world? And no, I don’t give a fig that he classifies as the enemy. This war is so, so absurdly pointless anyway.
Yesterday, I didn’t even go to my lesson; I just went straight to the market to find him.
“You do realize I’m missing my dancing to be with you,” I told him.
“Ah, that’s a shame. I do not want to stop any girl from her dancing. Especially you, Very. To see you dance—now that would be truly glorious.”
I gave a little twirl in the street. He clapped enthusiastically.
“Perhaps we dance together?”
He stepped forward and took me in a dance hold. It was beyond wonderful. I started to melt into his arms right there, but then Mr. Howard intervened, tapping him briskly on the back. “No, you’d better stop there, Giovanni. There are limits, young lad.”
Giovanni let go of me.
He whispered in my ear, “I heard there’s a dance in the hall tonight.”
“Could we do it?” I whispered back, thrilled at the prospect.
“It’s not easy. I will not be allowed in because I am the prisoner. But if I sneak away from the farm it’s possible . . . We two can maybe meet behind the hall? We might hear the music. We might dance together then?”
I loved the fact that it was so difficult but he was willing to try anyway.
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
In the evening I told Aunt M I was going to bed early with a headache. It was easy to tiptoe out without being heard. The air was warm and heady with the drifting scents of roses and wild honeysuckle. I ran all the way.
He was there. The moment he stepped out of the shadows, I swooped across and flung my arms around him. I couldn’t help myself. Shocked, delighted, he covered me with rapturous kisses. It was paradise.
A swell of music rose from the hall. Giovanni and I danced together in the dirt and dusk behind the back wall, where nobody could see us. It felt so close, so passionate, so gloriously reckless.
“Very!” he whispered. “My Very. You make me so alive!”
“Me, too!” I breathed him in, the earthy, manly scent of him. Every cell in my body rejoiced in the intimacy of the moment.
He looked even more handsome in the silver wash of moonlight that encircled us.
“They can black out every lamp on the earth, but they can’t black out the moon and stars!” I whispered.
“No, they can’t, Very,” he said, “and they can’t black out the light I hold in my heart for you.”
But a
ll at once the band started playing a different tune. I stopped dead.
“What is it?” Giovanni asked. “What’s wrong, Very? This tune, it is good. Is happy. But you . . . you are not happy.”
A sigh came pouring out from my depths. I leaned heavily against the gate. It was “The Lambeth Walk.”
Giovanni enclosed me in his arms again. “You are yet more beautiful when you are sad,” he told me.
He held me for a long time, kissing my eyes, my nose, my hair, my mouth. I felt rigid, holding my feelings in, tightly, oh so tightly.
Then I told him. I told him about Mum and Dad. How Mum used to plait my hair and tell me stories, and how Dad used to put the hearthrug over himself and growl and pretend to be a bear and we laughed together until the tears rolled down our cheeks. About how we imagined my future together: Mum said I was going to be a writer, but Dad said I was going to be a famous explorer. About how we huddled under the stairs when the air-raid siren started, and how they were never afraid of anything. How Mum always went out to drive ambulances and help injured people even when it was dangerous. How Dad had been so sad at the prospect of another war when he’d only narrowly survived the first one. How they both treasured me above everything. How nobody, nobody treasured me now.
Finally, I told Giovanni how they’d both been crushed to death as our home tumbled in pieces on top of them.
Giovanni listened; stunned, silent.
When I’d finished, he stroked my hair back. I didn’t want him to look at me. My face felt ugly and contorted.
“And yet you do not cry,” he said.
“If I start I shall never stop.”
He planted his mouth onto mine. It was an urgent connection as if he was trying to siphon away all my pain.
I extricated myself. I stared straight into his eyes.
His eyes; dark, full of understanding.
“Giovanni, I want you.”
“I want you, too.” It was almost a whisper, almost a whimper, as if he was trying to resist it.