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

by Sarah Mitchell

  Now she blows hard on her hands before grasping the tree trunk that is jammed halfway through the open door of the kitchen.

  ‘Push!’

  ‘I am pushing. Pull harder!’

  Fran yanks and heaves and finally the branches bend enough to allow the bushy bulk to slither through the gap. One final tug and she is able to rest the fir upright against the table. June comes in, thumps shut the back door and brushes a shower of snow from the shoulders of her coat. For a moment they gaze at the tree in silence. Fran is well aware of the thoughts crowding her sister’s head, because she is thinking them too.

  ‘Ready?’ she says instead. ‘Last part.’

  Together they haul the fir into the sitting room and manoeuvre the trunk into the stand. By the time they are finished, pine needles and twigs gild June’s hair while her blouse has pulled out of her waistband. Fran imagines her own appearance must be similarly dishevelled. This is their third Christmas without Robbie. The first December, they didn’t bother with a tree at all, letting the solstice suck the light from the house without attempting to mitigate the gloom with baubles and coloured paper. For the second, Fran enlisted the assistance of a neighbour to place a small tree in the kitchen. Now the two of them have managed a much larger specimen on their own, although, she could, she is very well aware, have enlisted Martin’s support.

  A few days earlier, Daisy suggested they both join Martin for his evening walk. The night was unusually beautiful and still, with a low, fattish moon hanging silver over the frozen countryside. Immediately, Daisy looped her hand through Martin’s right arm, so that when he also crooked his left elbow it seemed the only polite thing for Fran to do was slip her own arm through his. Although initially awkward, the brush of Martin’s jacket, the proximity of his voice, soon took on a companionable warmth, as if the three of them were linked together like a trio of siblings or cousins. Like this, they climbed the hill and gazed across the snow-cloaked town. On one occasion, Martin twisted around and looked at Fran, opening his mouth as if to speak, but something in her face must have silenced him because he pressed his lips together again and fixed his eyes upon the view. Fran was certain, however, that if she were to ask for assistance with a Christmas tree he would agree to help before she had even finished posing the question.

  ‘Well, look what my clever girls have done!’

  Fran and June wheel around to see their father standing in the doorway, leaning heavily upon their mother.

  ‘I’m quite all right.’ He raises a flattened palm to stop his daughters darting forwards. ‘Now…’ Fran sees him nod at their mother before she helps him shuffle across the floor, and he sinks into an armchair. The effort leaves him gasping; the familiar, ominous rattle of his chest audible on every breath.

  ‘He wanted to come downstairs to see the tree. The bedroom has become so boring.’ If their mother sounds apologetic, it’s because she’s aware – as they all are – of the effort it will take to get him back up the stairs.

  Fran fetches a blanket. Daisy more cushions. They wrap the blanket over their father’s legs, position the cushions behind his back. As Fran tucks tartan wool under his knees, he catches her hand and squeezes her fingers. A gesture in place of the words for which he doesn’t have the oxygen. Before the gassing that destroyed his lungs, her father used to have the same bronze hair as her own, the same hazel eyes sharp with energy and laughter – Fran has seen the photographs, faded and rucked yet still alive with the eagerness of youth. These days most people would mistake him for her grandfather. Hoping that sea air might be beneficial, they moved to the coast they loved shortly before Robbie joined up, and for a while the difficulty of taking on a new home in the middle of a war seemed to have paid off. Yet recently her father’s chest problems have worsened again. When he inhales, the air sounds as heavy as water and on the exhale rough as sandpaper. She can hear the pain it inflicts to pump the breath through his body, the wretched graunch his lungs make, like an engine about to fall apart.

  June places a whisky by his elbow. No doubt the alcohol will make him cough all night, but for now he is pleased to have it. He raises the glass towards the tree.

  ‘Let’s see’ – a wheeze, a pause – ‘the decorations then.’

  After Fran and June have strewn tinsel, hung baubles and fixed the ancient fairy doll to the highest branch, their mother brings in dinner to balance on their laps. ‘We’ll eat in here and enjoy the tree,’ she says, although they all know the real reason for avoiding another journey to the kitchen. As soon as she has finished, she puts her plate down on the carpet. Her own breathing suddenly sounds a little shallow. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  Fran stops eating. The ‘you’ she sees is herself and June. Not their father, who is continuing to chew and swallow tiny mouthfuls of corned beef fritters.

  ‘I expect you remember what the vicar said, about inviting a German prisoner for Christmas Day?’ Her pause leaves insufficient time for a reply. ‘Well, your father and I have been giving it a lot of thought and we’ve started to come around to the idea.’

  ‘Started to come around to the idea. What in heaven’s name does that mean?’ June’s hand flies to the collar of her blouse.

  Her mother looks down, then up again. ‘I mean, we think it’s a good idea.’

  Fran’s eyes dart to June and back to her mother.

  ‘We have to remember these German boys probably have families just like us at home. Most of them didn’t want to fight a war any more than Robbie did. And the best chance of there never being another war is if people, ordinary people like us, can bring ourselves to treat them the way we would want the German people to treat our boys, our sons, our brothers’ – this last is directed at June – ‘if they were the captured ones over there.’

  ‘But the Germans started the war, Mother!’ June has got to her feet and is pacing short, furious strides. ‘They’re beasts, animals. Worse than animals! Look what they did to the Jews! To British prisoners of war! Thousands of people either gassed to death or starved. How can you say the German prisoners of war are like our own soldiers? We fought the war to put a stop to their evil. And Robbie died, Mother. He died. Blown to pieces on a French beach to free a country that Germany had taken by force. How can you want to invite one of them to spend Christmas with us when Robbie will never, ever have another Christmas here or with anyone else.’ She stops. Her face is wet and crimson.

  ‘I know Robbie died, June. There’s not a single minute, a second, goes by that I—’

  ‘Then don’t invite the people that killed him into our home! It’s bad enough that she’ – her gaze swings to Fran – ‘works in that camp!’

  ‘The boys in the camp, they didn’t kill Robbie, June. They were probably made to fight by the Nazis.’

  ‘How do you know? You don’t know! You can’t know! And if they didn’t kill Robbie, they killed other people, whether they were made to fight or not. Other people’s sons and brothers.’

  There’s a throbbing silence.

  Fran can’t speak. Her tongue is dry as grit. The argument is dragging her own dilemmas into the open and laying them bare as bone. Dare she allow herself to believe that Thomas was caught up in a war he wanted no part of simply because of where he was born?

  ‘I killed Germans.’ Their father’s voice is barely audible.

  He breathes in.

  Pauses.

  Breathes out.

  ‘In 1916. I had no choice.’ Another gap. Another jagged wave of air. ‘War makes animals of us all.’

  Another silence.

  June stops pacing.

  Fran gazes at her father, at his damaged body sunken in the armchair. She sees sadness in his eyes and deep, persistent grief, but, remarkably, no bitterness. An ache like hot ash stings in her throat. Eventually she says to her mother, ‘Have you made up your mind?’

  The seconds stretch until the answer is obvious.

  June storms from the room, slamming the door behind her.


  Neither her mother or father move a muscle, and all at once Fran understands they both anticipated, even expected, this reaction. That they have talked about the decision upstairs, quietly between themselves, and it is somehow strange to glimpse the workings of their relationship, to realise how much must pass between them of which she and June are utterly unaware.

  ‘What do you think, Fran? Could you bear to have a German prisoner in our house at Christmas?’ Her mother’s voice is steady.

  Fran imagines being with Thomas in their sitting room. Hours of delight. More than that – days of pleasure – given the weeks of anticipation beforehand and the memory to relish afterwards. But the question is a serious one and not to be confused with her feelings for Thomas. Could she welcome not Thomas but rather an unknown German, any prisoner of war, into their home?

  The seconds tick.

  Then, ‘As long as he doesn’t have a black armband.’

  An armband would indicate a Nazi sympathiser. Although Fran has spied only one or two prisoners wearing them at the camp, the sight caused her such overwhelming revulsion that momentarily she even considered whether June might be right and she ought to resign her job. The other prisoners, though, she had told herself, were different. A German soldier was not, necessarily, a Nazi.

  Her mother’s mouth twists. ‘I can’t imagine anyone would welcome Nazi supporters. I don’t suppose they would even be allowed out of the camp. I’ll write to Major Markham telling him we would like to invite one German prisoner who has shown no sympathy whatsoever to the Hitler regime. You can take the letter with you in the morning. Perhaps a few other families will do the same, once they know what we’ve done. I can’t stand’ – all at once her voice frays high and brittle – ‘I can’t stand this suffering any longer. War after war! All these lives lost and ruined. And the politicians seem to make it worse. The only way to stop it is by people learning how to get along with each other. To understand that all these boys, German, English, French, are somebody’s sons.’

  Fran nods, but her thoughts are racing ahead. Should she suggest her mother make the invite specific, give her Thomas’s name? But how to do so without arousing suspicion. Good heavens, how do you know him, Frances? How much time have you spent together? Do you like him a lot? Possible ways of broaching the matter are on the tip of her tongue when the sitting-room door reopens. June hovers in the entrance, gripping the handle as if the door were trying to fly away from her. ‘So, it’s decided then?’

  Three pairs of eyes turn in her direction.

  ‘l was listening outside. You all sound ridiculous! Believing you can tell the difference between a good German soldier and a bad German soldier merely by an armband! Do you honestly believe it’s that simple? That people are that simple? You could say the ones wearing the armbands have at least stuck to their guns, while the others have just decided on the best way to play the system! What you should be asking yourself is how many of these prisoners would be loyal Nazis if Germany had won the war? The answer is probably all of them, including whoever takes Robbie’s place at our Christmas table!’ She pivots on her heel. A moment later they hear footsteps on the staircase, the slam of her bedroom door.

  Fran’s mother looks at Fran’s father then gets to her feet. ‘I think I’d better write that invitation now. Before I change my mind.’

  Fran opens her mouth, and finds she has no words. Later, in the kitchen, she is handed an unsealed envelope.

  ‘You can read it if you like.’

  Fran extracts the sheet. Pale blue Basildon Bond. Her mother’s best.

  Dear Major Markham,

  * * *

  After the church service the Sunday before last, it was suggested that local families might be willing to invite a prisoner from a local camp to spend Christmas Day with them. Although I confess to having been initially surprised at such an idea, my husband and I have come to the conviction our greatest hope of future peace lies in reconciling with those German men and women who, like my own family, were forced into war by the evil ambitions of an evil man. We would therefore like to offer the hand of friendship and an invitation to our modest Christmas celebrations to any young German prisoner from your camp whom you are confident is without any Nazi sympathies.

  * * *

  Yours faithfully,

  * * *

  Miriam Taylor

  Any young German prisoner. What are the chances that prisoner will be Thomas? One in twenty? One in fifty? Fran turns the page over, even though she knows nothing is written on the back. She should have spoken up more quickly, while she had the chance.

  ‘Is it all right, do you think? Perhaps I shouldn’t have said quite so much and kept to the essentials?’ Her mother’s brow creases, as if the phrasing is the thing that matters the most.

  ‘It’s perfect.’ Fran says. ‘And the vicar would be delighted to know his sermon has had such an effect.’ Folding the paper, she slots the note back inside the delicately lined envelope. ‘I’ll keep hold of the letter, shall I? To make certain I don’t forget to take it with me in the morning.’

  As she is heading out of the kitchen, her mother’s voice snags her from behind. ‘I wonder who we’ll get?’

  Fran stops.

  ‘Which prisoner, I mean. I wonder what he’ll be like. Whether we’ll take a shine to him or not?’

  Fran doesn’t turn around.

  Her pulse jumps to her throat.

  ‘I hope so.’

  Once in her bedroom she extracts the invitation. On a separate sheet of paper, she experiments with replicating her mother’s handwriting, copying the steady, round cursive, the small flourish on the tails of the fs and the gs, the slightly wayward dotting of the is. Her idea is to insert a sentence at the end of the paragraph, I have heard a prisoner by the name of Thomas might be suitable. Or my daughter, Frances, has suggested a prisoner named Thomas. It is intolerable there should be an opportunity for Thomas to visit at Christmas that she cannot make happen. Yet as soon as her pen hovers above the page the flaws in the plan are evident. Although the forgery itself is not difficult, there is insufficient space to add a line before her mother’s closing signature and her ink is darker in hue. More problematic still, she does not know Thomas’s surname. There could well be several prisoners called Thomas living in the camp. How would Major Markham know which Thomas the writer had in mind, and what on earth would happen if he were to ask her mother?

  For a moment she gazes at the letter before folding the paper away. Outside, night has fallen, but when she turns off the lamp beside the bed, the solid black beyond the window lifts to a softer mauve. The moon is visible, a silver bow tucked between the white-tipped roofs of the nearby cottages. She remembers the photograph of the little girl with silver hair. Thomas’s reaction. His embarrassment. Why should she worry if he comes for Christmas or not? Any sort of future for the two of them is plainly impossible. She can’t even be certain he has feelings for her. And yet some part of her is certain. Entirely certain. Somewhere deep and instinctive, she seems to know a good deal more than she can bring herself to properly contemplate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  18 December 1946

  ‘Please, I only want to deliver a Christmas card.’

  ‘And I’ve told you already, ma’am, access is forbidden to anyone without a security pass.’

  Viv smiles her most dazzling smile. The one normally able to unlock doors and find favours – a slice of bacon added to her meat ration, a corner table in a jam-packed restaurant, a train held an extra minute so she can scramble aboard.

  Hitching his gun holster a little higher, the American guard looks into the middle distance, the gesture emphasising the futility of her charms.

  She’s determined to have the final word, nonetheless. ‘Do you really have to be quite so unhelpful? The war is over, you know.’ Before he can reply, she walks quickly away. She has no plan of where she might go. The next bus to Fakenham will not arrive for several hours and of course she still has the
card. Somehow, she must deliver the Christmas card to Alex. There can be no doubt about him having received it; he has to know as soon as possible that she has finally made up her mind.

  She’s heading, she realises, towards the barn to which he took her on the last occasion she was here. The road is longer than she remembers – and considerably more treacherous. Yesterday for the first time in weeks the temperature rose high enough to melt the top layers of snow, only for the surface to freeze again overnight. Picking her way across slush and panes of ice, she keeps her balance by grabbing at the overhanging bushes, some of which are holly and scattered with berries. The more berries, she recalls, the longer and harder the winter is supposed to be. And these holly trees are bright and heavy with blood-red fruit.

  The gate into the field is jammed against frozen ruts but there is just enough room for Viv to wriggle through the gap and when she enters the barn the memory of being there with Alex is, for an instant, so intense she almost expects to see him waiting in the shadows. Instead there is a frantic burst of flapping as the wings of a pigeon beat bleakly into the rafters.

  And then there is silence.

  Perching on a straw bale, Viv’s gaze sweeps over the machinery now rusting and dusty from lack of use. Not much farm work happens in December, she supposes, and there are few men to do it in any case. The last time she was here the air hummed with hay and cow manure, and while it was hardly the place for a romantic tryst, the barn at least seemed functional and alive. Now the freezing weather has petrified the smell and the space feels simply desolate and sterile.