The English Girl: A heartbreaking and beautiful World War 2 historical novel

by Sarah Mitchell

  The woman, for now he is close enough to tell she is a woman, flinches and swings around to look at him. Even in the sooty gloom he can see she is film-star beautiful. The rain has plastered long, dark hair to her face from which enormous eyes regard him with an unusual mixture of surprise and total disinterest.

  ‘I say, is everything all right?’ The woman’s cheeks are damp with raindrops or, possibly, tears. Martin tries not to examine her too intensely, to keep his voice light.

  The woman gets to her feet. ‘I’m afraid I came for a walk and got rather caught out. I don’t believe I could get any wetter!’ She gestures at her coat, which is now so sodden the colour is unidentifiable, as if compelled by habit or good manners to pretend her behaviour is entirely normal.

  Martin smiles politely. Yet, the notion she has been sitting alone in such a downpour is troubling, and it’s beginning to dawn on him that he knows who she is – or at least, who her husband is. He takes a small step towards her. ‘Will you come back to the village now? You would keep me company and it will soon be very dark.’ Extending his right arm, he makes a little play of crooking his elbow as though to escort her into a five-course dinner party with crystal glassware and candles rather than the rain-drenched dusk.

  The woman hesitates. Martin assumes she’s thinking how she might refuse his offer until he sees she’s actually fiddling with a sheet of paper, folding the page surreptitiously as though hoping he won’t notice. Once she’s slipped the envelope into her pocket, she threads her arm through his but only part-way, as if to demonstrate that she’s obliging him under sufferance.

  As they descend the hill, he concentrates on navigating the swollen puddles. However, before they have covered more than a hundred yards, the quiet is broken by a yelp and the woman pitches heavily against him. As she regains her balance, he sees her shoes were not chosen with walking in mind; high-heeled and red, they appear more suited to a different type of evening altogether. She’s shivering too, the vibrations from their interlocked arms scuttle through his torso. Slowing his pace, Martin wonders what on earth brought her to the heath on such a filthy night. He risks a sideways glance, but her focus on the road ahead makes asking such a question seem impossible.

  The village is emerging below when all at once noise like anti-aircraft fire rips into the silence and the sky breaks into a shower of gold. Streamers flare and melt into the inky velvet, followed by an explosion of burning red. Martin and his companion come to a halt at precisely the same moment, tipping back their heads to watch the sparks dissolve and whirling comet tails surge into their place.

  ‘The fifth of November,’ Martin says. ‘I’d quite forgotten. Had you?’ Turning his eyes from the lights plunges him into absolute blackness, he can’t even see the outline of the woman’s face, let alone her expression.

  ‘No,’ she says in a clear voice. ‘I remembered the date.’ Her arm slides out from his, as if newly conscious of their physical contact.

  ‘An event is happening on the green,’ Martin says. ‘I remember spotting the posters now. I believe there’s a bonfire too. Quite a crowd will have turned out, I imagine. It’s been a while since we’ve had a celebration like this.’ As he speaks, fountains of yellow stars burst above them, followed by a crescendo of high-pitched wails that culminate in a torrent of gunshots and three deafening bangs. A ripple of what might well be applause floats from below.

  ‘Oh!’ The woman claps a hand to her mouth. ‘My goodness, I have to go!’ Bending down, she fiddles with the strap of her broken shoe, making little gasps of impatience.

  Martin gazes at the top of her head. It’s hard to imagine why the existence of a firework display should upset her further. ‘Will you manage on your own?’ he says.

  ‘Of course.’ She doesn’t bother to lift her eyes.

  He hesitates, uncertain what to do. Perhaps he should insist on accompanying her home? From the village there is another burst of staccato. His attention flickers back to the sky, to the umbrella of scattered colour that is beginning to disappear even as it blooms. When he looks down again, the woman is hurrying away. ‘I say—’

  She glances over her shoulder. ‘Thank you! Thank you for your help.’

  ‘That’s quite all right.’ He is speaking to her back. Under the spotlight of a rocket he sees her pick up speed and begin to run.

  She has forgotten him already.

  * * *

  As soon as she’s out of sight, Viv takes off her shoes and jogs in her stockings. The stitching on the shoe leather must have ripped when she turned her ankle because one of the straps has almost sheared off. How stupid of her to wear heels in this weather! It’s hard now to remember what possessed her. Searching for an outfit that would make her irresistible seems like something she did last year, rather than this morning when a much younger version of herself was parading in front of the bedroom mirror.

  Although the road is ice cold, she’s far too preoccupied for the temperature of her feet to be anything but a mild distraction. Naturally she had been upset when Alex failed to show up. Within minutes, disbelief had curdled first to despair before igniting into a kind of helpless, angry panic. She was slumped against a tree, heart racing, struggling, it felt, even to breathe, when a boy of about ten appeared from nowhere and asked if she was supposed to be meeting an American soldier because, if so, he had been asked to give her a letter.

  Tearing into the envelope, even while the child was still standing there, she scanned the sentences through a veil of furious tears that made her, she now sees, read them in the worst possible way. The more she has stewed over the words, the more she has come to understand their proper meaning – even if Alex might have explained himself a little more clearly. He is not, as she first thought, abandoning her. Rather he is asking her to make a decision. After all, didn’t he make it plain from the very beginning that he wanted to take her back to America with him? Well, perhaps that time is coming. She has realised, sitting in the rain, that she will do anything to keep them together. What she can’t do – really can’t do – for very much longer is to stay here in Norfolk, living with Toby.

  Her husband has become a stranger. A silent stranger. Some days she hardly speaks to anyone apart from Alice. It’s like being less and less present in her own life, as if she’s been reduced to a chalk drawing on a blackboard to which someone has taken a duster, and finger by finger, toe by toe, is slowly obliterating. The sensation is not dissimilar to the peculiar way she felt after Alice was born, when a kind of blue fog seemed frequently to make her tearful for no reason at all. With Toby away and the world preoccupied with war, she simply waited, hoping the clouds would pass, but they didn’t, not completely, not for ages, not until Alex came along and blew clean away the last traces of that inexplicable sadness. And now, faced with the alternative of a lifetime of love or a life sentence of loneliness, who on earth – literally, who on earth – wouldn’t choose love?

  Viv touches the envelope in her pocket. Later this evening she will reread his letter and begin to craft her reply. Now she must focus on trying to get her daughter to the village green before the end of the firework display. Alice saw the poster a few days ago and pestered to be taken until Viv relented, telling herself she would be back from meeting Alex in time to keep her promise. Of course, as matters turned out, she could have been home early enough to claim a front-row place, had she not spent most of the afternoon distraught on the hillside. The display started at five thirty, she remembers, which means, incredibly, she must have been sitting on that bench for nearly two hours. Perhaps Alice has been able to watch the display from an upstairs window? It strikes her that missing the fireworks is nothing compared to the distress she might soon cause her daughter. Pushing the thought away, Viv quickens her pace.

  By the time she nears the house her chest is heaving. She drops to a walk, slaps the grit from her heels and refastens her shoes as best she can. She probably resembles a rat half-drowned in the river, but Alice won’t care, and Toby w
ouldn’t notice if she came in naked. Tentative, all at once, she opens the door slowly, but before she even has a chance to call out Alice’s name a golden-haired bundle flings herself at Viv.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Her daughter’s face is distorted from crying. The sight of Viv provokes more tears that run unchecked down cheeks made mottled and red before she buries her head into the top of her mother’s legs. Viv’s gut cramps with guilt. ‘Darling, I’m terribly sorry I’m so late. We’ll leave right now. Quick, get your coat!’

  Alice doesn’t reply.

  ‘Hurry up, darling! You still want to go out, don’t you?’

  Against her thighs, she feels Alice shake her head.

  ‘Come on.’ Viv crouches down. ‘Don’t be like that! We’ll still be in time for the bonfire and you can have a toffee apple while we watch the Guy.’

  Alice doesn’t move. Instead her gaze stays fixed on the black-and-white check of the hall tiles. Gently, Viv places a finger under Alice’s chin and lifts her face so that their eyes are level. Then she rocks back in surprise. Her daughter is not disappointed, she sees.

  She is afraid.

  ‘What is it, Alice? What’s the matter?’

  Alice opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled sob before she attempts to burrow into Viv again.

  A nub of dread swells inside Viv’s chest. Holding her daughter at arm’s length, she tries to keep calm. ‘Alice, you must tell me what’s happened. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.’

  She sees Alice struggling to speak, as if each word is a weight too heavy to lift. ‘It’s Daddy,’ Alice manages at last. ‘He won’t come out.’

  ‘What do you mean, he won’t come out? Where is he? What’s he doing?’

  There’s a fresh onslaught of tears.

  Viv gapes at her daughter with panic and frustration. Then she grasps Alice’s hand, ‘Show me.’

  Together they go to the back hall where a second staircase, narrower and more twisted than the grand one in the front hall, leads to the bedrooms on the upper floor. Wordlessly Alice points at the door to the cupboard tucked beneath the rising treads.

  ‘Is Daddy in there?’ Viv’s voice sounds as incredulous as she feels.

  Alice nods. She has stopped sobbing and is staring at Viv with enormous eyes in which a new chink of hope has lodged. ‘Daddy was crying too,’ she whispers.

  Viv takes hold of the door handle, before pausing and instead rapping softly on the wood. ‘Toby? What are you doing in there? Are you all right?’

  Silence.

  Viv waits. Knocks more loudly. ‘Toby?’

  Nothing.

  After a moment Viv opens the door a couple of inches and peers around the edge. To begin with all she can make out is the ironing board, a couple of buckets, and the ropey grey mop used for cleaning the kitchen floor. Then, deep at the back, where the height of the cupboard is shorter even than Alice, she spies her husband curled on his knees, the whites of his eyes sudden and startling in the gloom.

  ‘Toby?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  As Viv’s eyes adjust to the murkiness, she sees his hands are cupped to his ears and he is rocking back and forth.

  ‘Mummy?’ Alice’s voice floats from behind her. ‘What’s the matter with Daddy? Why is he in the cupboard?’

  Viv swallows, thankful she’s blocking her daughter’s view. ‘I think Daddy must have lost something and is busy trying to find it. Why don’t you’ – she casts about for inspiration – ‘go and fetch one of his jumpers. I think he might be feeling cold.’ In fact, it is she who is cold, frozen to the marrow, she realises, in her drenched coat and soaked feet, but the task might at least occupy Alice while she tries to coax Toby from his hiding place.

  ‘Toby…’ Viv kicks off her shoes for the second time and slides into the instant dusk of the interior. ‘It’s time to come out now.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Toby,’ she says more loudly, ‘I said it’s time—’

  ‘Get down!’ His eyes flash wide and terrified. ‘For God’s sake, get down! You’re an easy target standing there!’

  Viv hesitates before dropping to her knees. Manoeuvring past the ironing board, she crawls further into the cupboard until she’s close to her husband. He nods at her approvingly. ‘The explosions are coming from the West. It sounds like we’re outnumbered, but they haven’t yet broken over the top of the ridge. Keep your head low and movement to a minimum. It might be the only chance we’ve got. If they see us, we’re done for.’

  As he speaks, the crack and boom of a rocket penetrates the cupboard walls. Toby moans and presses his palms more tightly to his ears. Viv sees his lips moving, hears a low drone of words and realises with horror that she’s listening to her husband recite the Lord’s Prayer.

  She runs a tongue over dry lips. What she really wants, she thinks with sudden and overwhelming clarity, is a drink. To be sitting in a bar with Alex, preferably in London or possibly New York. Sipping Gin & It. Watching him watching her. Music playing, a pianist, probably. Shared laughter and the smoky haze of cigarettes. Her blood on fire with alcohol and the anticipation of the next few hours.

  Another bang provokes another whimper from Toby.

  Viv shifts sideways to avoid a tack or piece of grit that’s digging into her knee. She touches Toby’s shoulder. ‘The noise, those explosions, it’s only fireworks because of Bonfire Night.’

  He gapes at her.

  ‘Today is the fifth of November. Don’t you remember? They must have been talking about it at the camp.’ She pauses. She has the sense that she might as well be speaking in Russian.

  Outside the cupboard, footsteps. The door opens a tiny crack. ‘I’ve got one of Daddy’s jumpers. Do you want me to bring it to him?’

  ‘No!’ Then with forced gaiety, ‘Wait there, darling. We’ll both be out before you know it!’ Viv considers the unfocused black of Toby’s pupils, her own mind racing. Scooping her arm around Toby’s hunched back she lowers her mouth to his ear and says with as much authority as she can muster. ‘We have to get somewhere safe. There’s an abandoned farm on the far side of the valley. We can shelter there.’

  Toby shakes his head wildly. ‘That’s madness, we’ll get shot as soon as we move.’

  ‘No,’ Viv insists. ‘Listen, it’s quiet. The Germans are retreating. This is our opportunity. But we must go right now.’

  Hesitantly, holding her gaze, Toby lifts his hands from his ears.

  Viv daren’t breathe. Surely, she prays, the village display will have finished by now. All that can be left are the last few locals letting off their own supply. Crouching in the darkness, waiting for the next blast, the blow that will scupper her plan, her own ears are raw with trepidation. She makes herself count slowly to ten, heart thumping in time with the numbers. Then, ‘See, no guns.’

  His chin dips slightly. A nod of acquiescence.

  ‘Ready, then? Follow me.’ Squeezing past the ironing board, she’s relieved to hear Toby scrabbling in her wake, and as she stands up and pushes open the door, she’s able to reach behind and yank him into the hallway with her.

  ‘Daddy, are you cold? I’ve got your jumper!’ Alice thrusts the sweater at Toby before he has even straightened up.

  ‘Just give Daddy a moment…’ Viv plucks her daughter’s sleeve while she watches Toby gaze with disbelief at his surroundings. She wonders if he is seeing the slate floor, the wall lamp with the cracked glass shade and the heavy curtain that conceals the door to the cellar. Or some other scene entirely. A bomb-stricken bridge? Burned-out tanks? Or simply the stale emptiness of a deserted barn, perhaps, since she suggested that they were heading to one.

  ‘Toby?’

  He blinks and gives his head a little shake like a dog unclogging its ears of water. Three, four, five seconds pass, his expression clears, the wide dilation of his pupils shrinks, and his focus alights on Alice and the garment she’s brandishing. Leaning forwards, he tentatively pluck
s the jumper from her grasp.

  ‘Did you lose something, Daddy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the cupboard? Mummy said you lost something and that’s why you wouldn’t come out.’

  Toby looks at Viv, twisting the wool through his fingers, over and over, back and forth, as if the feel of the yarn is something miraculous. She searches his face for a nameable reaction, embarrassment perhaps, or even gratitude, but his expression is unreadable – not blank exactly, more overcrowded, as if his emotions are too numerous and complicated to identify.

  ‘Yes,’ Toby says finally. ‘That’s right. I lost something.’ For an instant he clenches shut his eyes, then without another word heads down the hallway. As he walks away from them his gait lurches as if he has drunk too much at an army dinner or is navigating the corridor of a moving train, while every few steps his hands grope towards the solidity of the rose-papered wall.

  Later, once Alice is in bed, Viv pulls off her ruined stockings and damp dress and climbs into a deep bath. The heat of the water is overwhelmingly blissful. One arm dangling over the rim, Viv tips back her head so that her neck and shoulders slip below the surface and the warmth begins to strip away the tension and the cold. Downstairs, Toby is sitting in an armchair, swilling whisky around his cut-glass tumbler in constant circulation. She knows this, because ten minutes earlier she was with him, clutching her own glass and waiting for the right moment to broach the subject of the cupboard. Once or twice she cleared her throat, but each time she did so Toby reached for the newspaper on his knee, only to let it drop again the second he sensed the moment of intervention had passed. She ought to have persisted, forced herself to ask him if he had truly believed he was under attack, how often reality slipped from his grasp, for how long his delusions – was there a kinder word? – lasted. But eventually, overcome with exhaustion, she announced she was going upstairs.

  Now she lifts her dry arm to eye level. Tucked in her palm is the letter from Alex. ‘My Darling Girl,’ Viv begins to read; then, realising the writing is superfluous, closes her eyes and mouths from memory: