by Maureen Lee
You wouldn’t think after that it could get worse, but it did. We’d been in France eight months, but it was only during the last eight days that I saw sights I never want to see again if I live to be a hundred.
I won’t go into it too much, Mam, except to say, let’s hope Hitler never get’s as far as this countrey. I think that’s what kept us going, imaginning our own people sufferring in the same way as the French and the Belgiums, and doing our level best to stop it.
You know you always said not to bottle things up, that if a thing’s upsetting, it’s best to tell someone. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ is how you put it. Well, something happened on the road back to Dunkirk, which I’ve GOT to get off my chest, because I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t even bring myself to tell our Joe, and usually I can tell him anything. You’re the only person in the world I can share this with, Mam, and I hope it doesn’t make you too upset, like, reading it.
The Jerries had been shelling the refugees, and as we made our way down this little countrey lane, it seemed peculiar to see the hedges full of lovely pink blossom and wild flowers on the grass verge and crops growing in the fields, yet the ditches each side were litered with dead bodies. I said to the mate who was with me, (I’d lost our Joe by then), if it weren’t for the bodies, how normal it all seemed. He said it wasn’t normal at all, because there were no birds singing. I know it sounds awful, but we’d got used to bodies by then, though dead babies and little kids could still make you want to cry or puke, depending on how you felt at the time. Sometimes, the refugees were alive and badly injured and there was nothing you could do except give them water. We assumed the Red Cross took care of them. That’s what we told ourselves, because it made us feel better about leaving them behind.
Anyroad, we passed this old woman who’d had her whole side blown off and she made a funny groaning noise, as if she was calling to us. She must have had what you call an ‘iron constitution’ to still be alive with only half a body. Me and me mate went over. She couldn’t speak, yet both of us knew what she wanted. She wanted us to kill her! I’d already killed my share of Jerries by then, so I’d been ‘blooded’, as Sarge would have put it. But this was an old woman, and me mate and me just looked at each other and he said, ‘Could you do it, Terry, because I don’t think I can?’
So, Mam, I did no more than shoot the old woman through the head, and I thought to myself, war’s not a game. War’s deadly serious and don’t let anybody tell you any different.
When we reached Dunkirk, it was bedlam on the shore. Remember you took us to New Brighton once when we were little and the shore was crammed with people? It was like that, except ten times as crowded and no-one was having a good time. It was a strange thing, but it was then I noticed the Royal Daffodil which had come all the way from Liverpool and had taken us across the Mersey that day.
I found our Joe and we spent three days in Dunkirk waiting to be rescued and it’s three days I’d never want to live through again. Every now and then, some of the men would go wild and fight to get on the next boat, but most stayed calm.
Well, I’ll finish now. I’m afraid there’s a bit of bad news I’ve left to the end and that’s the fact that Charlie Gregson’s had it. He was standing right next to me when he got a piece of shrappnel in the back. The awful thing is, I felt glad it was him and not me, but that’s the way you feel after a while. I leave it to you to tell Rosie, or wait till she get’s an official letter.
Tara, your loving son,
Terry.
‘Have you finished your letter?’
When the young woman, Sarah, the daughter of the house, went into the sun-drenched lounge, where the net curtains billowed gently in the soft breeze coming through the open window, and the scent of roses was heavy in the air from the bushes directly outside, she found one of the soldiers her father had rescued from the beach at Dunkirk sobbing uncontrollably.
‘You poor thing!’ she cried, and felt so affected by his distress that she impulsively reached out and cradled his head against her breast. He was only young, nineteen or twenty. She wondered what he’d think about the carnival atmosphere in Dover, where the bunting was out, flags were being waved and the band was playing There’ll Always be an England, when she’d gone that morning.
‘You’re spoiling your letter,’ she whispered, as she pushed the pad away. She noticed he’d written reams and reams in tight, crabbed script. The final page was splashed with tears and the ink had run.
‘I can’t send it,’ he wept. ‘I can’t tell me mam those terrible things. I’ll tear it up and start again.’ His hands shook as he reached for the pad.
‘Would you like me to write it for you? I’ll just say you didn’t have the time, you had to go right back to barracks or something, so she won’t be worried.’
He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Would you mind? Just say me and our Joe are safe and sound. And, oh, you’d better tell her about Charlie.’
‘She looked at him questioningly. ‘About Charlie?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘I’ll do it straight away,’ she said, wanting to weep. ‘I’ve brought a stamp. If it catches the afternoon post, she’ll get it in the morning.’
‘Ta.’
‘What’s your surname?’ She sat beside him at the table.
‘Poulson.’
‘Dear Mrs Poulson,’ she said aloud as she wrote the words in her neat, rather childish handwriting. When the short letter was finished, she folded it into an envelope. ‘Address?’
‘Twenty-eight Pearl Street, Bootle, Liverpool Twenty.’
‘Pearl Street! That sounds pretty. Is it?’
‘Not exactly, but I’d sooner be there right now than anywhere in the world.’
‘I bet you would!’ To her relief, he was beginning to look a bit more cheerful. ‘The local pub has sent a message. It’s drinks on the house till closing time for you and your friends. If you like, I’ll go with you and we can post the letter on the way.’
‘I suppose I’d better find somewhere to report in, but I wouldn’t say no to a pint of bitter first.’
‘Neither would I.’
‘You drink beer?’ She looked too ladylike for beer, thought Terry.
‘I’m training to be a nurse in London and we’re often short of money. When we go for a drink, beer is all we can afford.’
Terry had forgotten for the moment that he’d thought her quite pretty when he first arrived. She had short straight brown hair pushed behind a red velvet band, and dark brown eyes. He could imagine she’d look good in a nurse’s uniform.
‘Shall we go then?’ He stood up. The shoes her father had provided him with felt stiff and uncomfortable and his blisters throbbed. He’d be glad to return to a pair of Army boots.
‘What about your letter, the first one?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He picked up the pad. He hadn’t realised he’d written so many pages. He tore them out and hesitated before ripping them in two. He’d opened his heart to his mam and felt better for it.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sarah asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered puzzled. There was a strange reluctance to get rid of the letter without at least one other person reading it.
Sarah seemed to sense what he was feeling. ‘Would you like me to read it?’ she asked softly. ‘Not now, some time later. Tonight, when you’ve gone.’
‘I think I would. But promise to tear it up afterwards or burn it.’
‘I promise, on my heart. I’ll read it in bed.’
He handed her the letter, little caring that he would have shown his soul to a girl he would never meet again.
Chapter 14
There were no flags up in Pearl Street, no ‘Welcome Home’ banner for Annie’s lads when they returned from Dunkirk, because how could you celebrate a homecoming when one young lad would never come home again?
Joe and Terry Poulson came home quietly and without a fuss. Their train arrived late o
ne night, so it was dark when they slipped into their mam’s house. Next day, the neighbours began to call in ones and twos, not wanting to overwhelm the young soldiers who’d gone away as boys and come back as men, and to bestow a tearful kiss or a hug, a warm handshake or slap on the shoulder.
‘It’s good to see you back, lads. You done us proud over there.’
Rosie Gregson flatly refused to believe her Charlie was dead, even when the official letter arrived confirming the news Annie had already gently broken to her. ‘He’s just missing,’ she declared stubbornly. ‘Or he’s been taken prisoner. He’ll come back, like Cal did, you’ll see.’
‘But Mam,’ Terry Poulson said to Annie. ‘He was standing right next to me when he got it. I saw him fall with me own eyes.’ Not that he’d told Rosie that.
‘I know, luv,’ Annie said consolingly. ‘Rosie just doesn’t want to believe it, that’s all. It’ll sink in, eventually, poor lamb.’
Annie still couldn’t get used to the expression in the eyes of both her sons. A look of horror, as if they were still seeing the terrible things they’d been witness to over the last few weeks.
‘Come on, now, have another piece of bunloaf,’ she urged.
It was all she could do, feed them and love them, until their leave was up and they were sent to fight somewhere else.
As two of Pearl Street’s own returned from war, albeit temporarily, another was about to depart.
Eileen Costello had a visitor; a strange woman in ATS uniform, discreetly made up, with short crisp curls spurting out from under her khaki cap.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ the woman said.
Eileen stared at her until recognition dawned. ‘Miss Brazier!’ she cried. ‘Come in a minute.’
‘I didn’t want to just disappear,’ Miss Brazier said when she was sitting down inside, ‘and leave people wondering where I’d got to. Anyroad, I’d like you to keep an eye on the house for me, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve paid the rent in advance, like, else I wouldn’t have a home to come back to when it’s all over.’
‘Of course I will,’ Eileen promised. ‘What made you join the ATS?’ she asked, intrigued.
Miss Brazier took a packet of cigarettes out of her shoulder bag and offered them to Eileen.
‘Not just now, ta. I’m trying to cut down.’ Eileen watched the woman, impressed by the way she expertly lit the ciggie with a black enamelled lighter.
‘Well, to put it bluntly,’ she said with a girlish laugh, ‘It was a case of getting wed or joining up. I’ve been going out with the manager of the Co-op, Bill Castleton, since Easter. A couple of weeks ago, he did no more than pop the question!’ She fluttered her lightly mascara-ed lashes, ‘Is there an ashtray, luv?’
Eileen quickly passed the visitor an ashtray, anxious for her to continue with her interesting tale.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ Miss Brazier went on thoughtfully, ‘I’d always wanted to be married. I suppose, if there hadn’t been a war on, I would have jumped at the chance. Instead, I found meself telling Bill I’d think about it. I expect you think that was silly?’ She looked at Eileen intently, as if genuinely interested in what the reply would be.
‘Of course I don’t!’ Eileen shook her head vehemently. ‘You can’t be in love, else you would have snapped him up. There’s more to life than getting married.’ She thought about the WRENs she’d seen in London. ‘Nowadays, there’s all sorts of things women can do on their own.’
Miss Brazier nodded her head vigorously. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘Anyroad, to cut a long story short, on half day closing, Bill took me into town to look at engagement rings. I reckon he thought a ring might tip the balance and I’d say yes, but the minute I saw the Recruiting Office in Renshaw Street, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I promptly went in and joined up. Bill bought me a ring all the same, so I suppose I’m engaged in a sort of way.’ She extended her hand. A diamond solitaire twinkled on the third finger. ‘See!’
‘It’s very nice,’ Eileen said admiringly.
‘It’s a bit small.’ Miss Brazier regarded the ring disparagingly.
‘Well, I suppose it’s the thought that counts. I hope he wasn’t too upset about you joining up.’
‘He was a bit, but that can’t be helped, can it?’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ agreed Eileen. She couldn’t wait to tell all this to Annie. It was like one of those romances out of the Red Star or The Miracle which the girls at work were forever reading. ‘Anyroad, congratulations on both counts. You look dead smart in your uniform.’
‘Why, thank you!’ Miss Brazier said modestly. She looked down and brushed an imaginary spot off the jacket which strained slightly over her buxom, shapely breasts. ‘I thought I’d have me hair cut at the same time. What do you think? she asked, removing her cap to reveal a Shirley Temple mop of curls.
‘It takes years off,’ Eileen said. ‘You look like a young girl.’
‘I feel like one. Well, I’d better be going.’ Miss Brazier jumped to her feet. ‘I’m off to Scotland in the morning, so there’s a bit of packing to do.’
‘Good luck!’ Eileen said. ‘Send us a card from time to time. I’d love to know how you’re getting on.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Miss Brazier promised. She paused at the door. ‘You’ve been a good neighbour, Mrs Costello,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I wish I hadn’t always been so stuck up.’ For a moment, there was a glimpse of the old withdrawn Miss Brazier.
‘You weren’t stuck up, luv, just shy.’ Eileen hesitated, then kissed the woman warmly on the cheek. ‘Have a nice time in Scotland.’
The old Miss Brazier vanished and the new one cried, ‘Oh, I will, don’t worry. There’s nearly a hundred men and only five women, so I think I’ll enjoy meself.’
Eileen blinked as she closed the door. She had the strangest feeling Miss Brazier would enjoy herself very much.
She told Paddy O’Hara about her visitor when he came round later with Rover, watching his face closely for a reaction. There was none. Paddy felt only relief that Helen had gone, apparently forever. He still expected a knock on the wall, even now, after he’d thankfully been ditched months ago in favour of the manager of the Co-op.
‘What’s she like? I mean to look at?’ he asked Eileen. He’d often wondered.
‘Very attractive. She looked smart in her uniform.’
‘I’ve had nowt much to do with her,’ Paddy explained innocently, ‘even though she lived next door.’
The subject of Miss Brazier was dropped as Eileen bent to stroke Rover’s soft neck. ‘He’s a fine dog, Paddy. Going to be a big ’un, too. I can tell by his paws.’
Rover was a mixture of several breeds, with a fluffy golden body, long pointed nose and a tail like a flag. He wagged the tail in a frenzy as his neck was scratched.
‘He’ll never replace Spot,’ Paddy said, ‘but he’s a good friend, all the same.’ He asked casually, ‘How’s Francis?’
He was aware of a long pause before Eileen answered. A rumour had spread around the street that Eileen Costello was having an affair. He found this difficult to believe, but there was no hiding the fact that she was a much happier woman nowadays. Paddy was unable to work out whether this was due, somewhat inexplicably, to the fact Francis had left, or to the suspected affair.
‘I haven’t heard from Francis in a while,’ Eileen said eventually. ‘I expect the post’s not what it should be, having to come all that way.’
Paddy knew quite a few men from the Royal Tank Regiment who were in Egypt and whose families heard from them regularly. Maybe the rumour had been passed on to Francis, which would explain why he hadn’t written.
In fact, Eileen Costello was waiting anxiously to hear from Francis. It was several weeks since her dad had written the promised letter and sent it to the PO Box to re-direct to Alexandria where the Royal Tank Regiment was stationed. So far, neither he or Eileen had received a reply. After months of inactivity, it was only now, since the Italians had e
ntered the war on the side of Germany, that an offensive had begun in North Africa. Not that Francis, office-bound and ensconced behind his typewriter, would be involved, but it might account for the delay. She tried to push the matter to the back of her mind. In view of the tragedy enveloping Europe, it would be sheer self-indulgence to do anything else.
17 June was referred to as ‘Black Monday’. It was the day Marshall Petain petitioned for an amnesty, the day France fell.
The news was announced by Frank Phillips on the one o’clock bulletin from the BBC. By then, Eileen Costello had already left for work. When the crowded bus arrived at Dunnings, the laughing girls were silenced by the subdued expressions on the faces of those waiting to go home.
At first, the women thought there’d been an accident and someone had been hurt. ‘What’s happened?’ Pauline asked.
‘France has fallen,’ someone shouted. ‘That means we’ve had it! There’s nowt between Britain and Hitler except a little strip of water. We’ll be next, you’ll see!’
Eileen felt an icy ball in her stomach. Suddenly, Annie grabbed her arm. ‘Isn’t it terrible, girl!’ she cried. ‘There’s only us left to fight the battle from now on.’
‘Jaysus!’ Eileen whispered. ‘Only us?’
Not even Gladys could raise a joke that afternoon, though later on she began to sing We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, and everyone thankfully joined in. It was a way of releasing the unbearable tension. A cartoon was pinned to the noticeboard showing a British soldier confronting a stormy sea and hordes of invading Germans, and saying, ‘Very well, alone!’
Next day, Winston Churchill broadcast to the people. ‘… if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour”.’