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

by Sarah Mitchell

  Much like her marriage, in fact. The day before Christmas Eve, she notes drily, will be their seventh anniversary. The wedding had been a hasty affair, timed to coincide with the small amount of leave Toby had been given over the festive period. Alice was on the way already, and dancing after the celebration breakfast, a little giddy from champagne, Viv remembers feeling she had everything she could possibly want.

  She pokes the toe of her shoe into the dusty ground. This year they are hardly likely to celebrate anything other than Christmas. She has tried to talk to Toby about the episode in the cupboard on several occasions, once broaching the subject when he was driving so that he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes while he tried to explain what had happened. Instead of replying, however, he had pulled much too abruptly onto the verge, exited the car and smoked a cigarette while he leant against the bonnet. Afterwards he seemed to avoid her more completely than ever, as if angry she had dared even to bring up the subject. Then that dreadful explosion happened. Nobody had died – thankfully – but the incident had provoked an outraged letter to The Times, a visit from the War Office, and Toby had taken to starting on the whisky the moment he got through the door.

  In many ways, his behaviour has made her actions easier.

  Viv clasps her handbag to her chest as if hugging a baby. The stiff white envelope inside, addressed to Captain A. Henderson, contains a good deal more than a Christmas card with festive wishes. It conveys a decision she has been agonising over ever since the shock of Bonfire Night.

  I want to leave Toby, she has written.

  More than anything on this earth I want to leave Toby and go with you to America, just like you said we would do as soon as the war was over. I cannot bear to be married to a stranger for one moment longer. I feel as if I have loved you, and only you, for ever. The Toby I once knew never came home and I cannot even remember how it felt to love him. You are all I ever think about, my darling Alex, day and night, night and day, and once we are together you will never have to share me with anyone else ever again. Tell me when to come to you, and I shall be there!

  Toby is so remote, so untouchable, it’s quite possible, Viv thinks, that once his pride has recovered from the blow of losing her to an American, he might actually be relieved to have her gone. She’s horribly aware, however, that what she has written about Toby is much less troubling than what – or whom – she has failed to mention at all.

  The card contains no reference to Alice.

  While the prospect of leaving Toby, leaving England, feels like letting go of a trapeze – a moment of terrifying flight before she’s caught in the loving grip of another – she cannot possibly abandon her daughter. Alice must come too. Surely Alex will understand, will assume this much, without Viv needing to spell it out? She could hardly put, Of course I shall bring Alice with me, as if her daughter were a pet dog or cumbersome travelling companion. More than that, as soon as she mentions Alice, sees the reality before her eyes in black and white, Viv knows she will also have to confront another matter. How Alice will react to being uprooted from her home and from her country. And from her father.

  Shivering in the bitterly cold barn, Viv repeats what she has already told herself countless times, that until recently Toby has barely been present in the child’s life. Merely for periods of leave, odd snapshots of time when Alice had to be reintroduced to him and often while she was squirming on one leg, seeking refuge behind Viv’s skirt. Viv tries not to dwell on the photograph taken late in the summer of 1940, when Alice was only eight weeks old. Wrapped in a knitted blanket, she is lying in her mother’s arms. Viv’s hair makes a long, dark curtain as she stares at the precious bundle, while Toby gazes at them both, his young face etched with pride and adoration.

  Viv shakes her head to jolt the image from her mind. Today is the last day before the Christmas holidays and she has arranged for Daisy to collect Alice from school. It’s conceivable, perhaps even probable, that by the time term restarts she and Alice will be starting their new life in America. Surely, once Alex knows she’s ending her marriage, he will understand they cannot possibly stay in Norfolk a second longer than necessary?

  First, however, she has to find a way to deliver the card.

  Viv consults her wristwatch. An hour has passed since her altercation with the soldier on the gate, but two more of them stretch ahead until the next bus. Perhaps there is another entrance to the camp, one with a less intransigent guard dog. Standing up, she brushes straw from her coat with renewed determination.

  Outside, the temperature has dropped still further, solidifying all the moisture in the air and earth. When Viv inhales, it feels as though the oxygen is being carried to her lungs in sharp-edged chunks. She struggles back along the road and stops about fifty yards from the gate. The guard is no longer alone. Two tails of smoke are curling into the ether, two glints of orange burning through the gloom. As she watches, the intractable soldier takes the cigarette from his mouth and grinds the stub underfoot before striding away to leave his replacement in post. Viv can hardly believe her luck. She waits one more minute before approaching the new guard.

  He looks at Viv appraisingly. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

  She explains her errand while his gaze slides the length of her legs.

  ‘I’m not supposed to let anyone in without a pass.’

  Viv pushes a lock of hair from her forehead and takes out the card to prove the purpose of her visit. ‘Oh please. I’ve had a terrible journey, and in such dreadful weather. I’ll only be a minute. Less than a minute – you can even count the seconds out loud, if you like!’ She blinks slowly. ‘You can’t honestly believe that I’m a security risk!’

  He grins. ‘If you’re very quick, I suppose there can’t be any harm.’ The sentry steps aside, making space for her to squeeze between the barrier and the hedge. He points across a large expanse of field towards a row of wooden huts. ‘The office is the first on the right, that’s where the mail is delivered. And, ma’am…’

  ‘Yes?’ She is already inside, close enough to see the flurry of pimples on his cheek, the attentiveness in his eyes.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am’ – he gestures at the card – ‘he’s a very lucky man.’

  Viv drops her gaze, pauses long enough to acknowledge the compliment, before hastening away. Once free of the gate, she slows her pace. Since this is where Alex lives, it’s possible they could run into each other at any moment. She casts around for any glimpse of him, heart racing at the possibility she might spy in the distance his tell-tale swagger, his resolute stride, before he veers towards her, arms widening, smile broadening.

  ‘Viv, honey, what a sight for sore eyes! What a wonderful surprise!’

  Yet the camp appears deserted.

  Nobody is hurrying between the buildings, no conversation drifts across the snow-covered turf, no engine revs from trucks or lorries rupture the silence. Instead the grey of the December afternoon creates the impression of a ghost town. She taps on the door to the mailroom, half-expecting that hut to be abandoned too, but after a moment an invitation to enter is issued in a jaded-sounding drawl.

  A counter at chest-height runs across the room and on the far side a soldier with hair as thick as shaving cream is sorting stacks of paper in a leisurely fashion. Before he can say anything, Viv thrusts the card over the counter. ‘This is for Captain Alex Henderson. Please will you make sure he gets it by tomorrow?’

  Heavy white brows plunge to a frown. The card is ignored. ‘Now how the hell did you get in here, honey?’

  ‘I was given permission at the gate’ – Viv prays she isn’t incriminating the pimpled soldier – ‘to give this letter to Captain Henderson. It’s really rather urgent.’ Even as she waggles her hand, waving the clean, white envelope to emphasise the importance of her mission, she can sense her assertiveness nose-diving.

  The mailroom manager removes a pair of wire-framed spectacles. His pupils impale Viv on two sharp spikes. ‘Captain Henderson
sure seems to get a lot of mail.’

  Viv blinks. ‘Does he?’ When Alex moved to Norfolk, she sent him several letters – five, he had reminded her, which was possibly a little excessive in retrospect – but since his rather pointed comment, the only correspondence between them has come from him. Until now. She manages to smile. ‘Like this, do you mean, by hand?’

  ‘No honey, from overseas.’

  ‘Well, he is American. I mean, you’re all American. I imagine his family must write to him a lot…’ She’s stumbling.

  The white-haired soldier regards her steadily. ‘Well somebody does, honey. That’s for sure.’

  Something in his tone bites her, a scorn and condescension that makes her simultaneously understand the insinuation and want to slap his face. You think you know about me, she longs to snarl, but you have no idea. No idea at all. Alex loves me. He really does.

  Carefully, she places the card on the counter, draws herself to her full height. ‘Well, would you add this card to Captain Henderson’s pile of fan mail? As I said, it’s urgent and I’d like him to receive it as soon as possible.’ Then – pointlessly – since she’s already turning to leave, ‘And please stop calling me honey.’

  * * *

  The bus arrives late before nearly bowling straight past the stop. When Viv realises the driver isn’t slowing down, she steps into the road, gesturing wildly with both arms so that he careers to a halt thirty yards beyond where she is standing, back wheels skidding as he slams the brakes. Viv clambers aboard, too relieved to be angry, and before she has even taken her seat the bus leaps forwards again.

  From the window the midwinter countryside looks bleak, the last of the light is draining from the sky, leaving the landscape drab and indistinct. It’s easy to see why the driver failed to spot her, and now he seems anxious to make up for lost time – taking corners faster than is comfortable and pressing the engine to greater speeds as soon as the road straightens. Before they have travelled far, the tail of the bus swings suddenly sideways. Viv grabs the back of the seat in front to prevent herself from being thrown into the aisle. There’s an audible gasp from her fellow passengers before the wheels find their grip and the chassis rights itself. Remembering the patches of ice on the road between the camp and the barn, a sliver of unease keeps her hand clutching her metal handle. She will be glad to get home. To light the fire and sit with Alice beside the dance of the flames. Perhaps she should tell Alice about Alex, that the three of them will be moving to America? Yet she mustn’t risk speaking to Alice before she tells Toby. After she has done that, they will talk to Alice together and convince her this is the best course of action for everyone.

  Viv closes her eyes.

  She is being absurd.

  Even if Toby recognises their marriage is over, there is no earthly chance of him allowing his daughter to move to another country. And what did that hateful old soldier mean about the letters? Does Alex have a sweetheart in America? Well, he has only had one lover since he came to England, and she’s quite certain he has never looked at any American girl with the same infatuation, touched them with the same urgency, or made them the same smitten promises as he has done with her. The American woman, whoever she is, will simply have to step aside.

  She’s still lost in thought when the accident happens.

  The bus shoots across the road as if shoved off course by a giant hand. There’s a sickening crash, a tearing and crumpling of metal before the chassis begins to rotate. Viv is flung towards the gangway. Her grip on the seat frame loosens. She manages to stop herself from falling before abruptly she’s hurled the other way. Her face smacks against the glass. She has a fleeting vision of trees crushing the window, their arm-like boughs stretching towards her until they whirl out of sight an instant later.

  Everyone is screaming.

  The bus spins faster and faster.

  A child cries, ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  ‘I’m here,’ Viv thinks vaguely. ‘I’m right here.’

  The world disintegrates like a house of cards.

  Now another lurch.

  Now back towards the aisle.

  Now her fingers are wrenched from the metal frame.

  She has a sudden, startling vision of the bus floor, three cigarette butts, a small round tortoiseshell button, the pink studded cellophane wrapper of a packet of Parma Violets – Alice’s favourite, she has time to register – before something seems to pick her up and throw her hard against the window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The scrape of wood on concrete makes Fran lift her head. Daisy has pushed back her chair and is buttoning a second cardigan, one of the many extra layers they all wear these days to counter the arctic weather. ‘I have to go and fetch Alice from school. Special request from Mrs Markham.’ She pulls a face.

  Fran glances at the clock. ‘It’s not yet three o’clock.’

  ‘Last day of term, so no lessons this afternoon, just a Christmas party in the village hall.’

  ‘Why can’t Mrs Markham pick her up?’

  Daisy shrugs, then sighs as she considers a small stack of letters on the side of her desk. ‘I was supposed to deal with these today, but I’ve run out of time. Now tomorrow I’ll have to explain to Major Markham that I left the office early. I’m awfully tired of being the Markhams’ unofficial nanny, I’ve more important things to do and the extra hours put me behind with my proper job.’

  ‘At least you’re collecting Major Markham’s daughter. He can’t make a fuss about that!’

  ‘Not if he knows what I’m doing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ Daisy’s lowers her voice, her fingers hovering over the last button. ‘I’m quite certain Mrs Markham doesn’t tell Major Markham when she asks me to help with Alice. She seems anxious for me to leave the house before he gets home and makes sure to pay me from her own purse.’

  ‘That’s odd!’ Fran pulls a face. ‘I wonder where she goes and what she does?’ She recalls Vivien Markham’s dreamy looks. Every time she pictures the major’s wife, she sees fur wraps and cocktail bars, city lights and packed theatres, and there was none of that sort of thing around the village or anything remotely similar. ‘They haven’t been living here very long, so I don’t suppose she has many friends.’

  Daisy shrugs again, this time with one shoulder while directing a sly look over the top of the desk. ‘Come on, Fran, that’s not difficult to work out. The, what she’s doing bit anyway!

  ‘Heavens!’ Fran feels her cheeks bloom. ‘Is that honestly what you think?’

  ‘Of course.’ Daisy walks towards a hat stand engulfed under a weight of winter coats and scarves. ‘What else do you expect when someone who could double for Vivien Leigh discovers she’s married to a barmy old soldier like Toby Markham!’

  ‘Shush, Daisy!’ Fran shoots a glance towards the hallway. ‘For goodness’ sake, remember where we are!’

  ‘He’s not here.’ She shrugs herself into a navy overcoat. ‘Haven’t you noticed? Since that business with the mine, he comes in less than ever. Half the time when he claims to have an appointment outside the camp, I suspect he simply drives his car somewhere quiet and has forty winks. Not a bad life, if you ask me. He’s got Captain Holmes running the place for him and us doing all the clerical work.’

  ‘Daisy!’ Then amused and exasperated, ‘What was the other job you were meant to do today anyway?’

  Daisy points at her papers. ‘Remember the churches’ appeal to forgive and forget? Those letters are each from a different family offering to have a prisoner from the camp spend Christmas Day with them. There’s about ten altogether and I’m to select which lucky Germans get to go and match them with the invites.’

  Daisy has slipped off her court shoes and is already pulling on lace-up boots, before Fran manages to speak. ‘What are the criteria?’ Fran says at last. ‘I mean, for choosing the prisoners.’ She’s amazed how steady her voice sounds.

  ‘Oh, well, let’s see if I remember…�
� Daisy ties her left lace into a quick, efficient bow before sitting back and counting on her finger. ‘No black armbands and no suspected Nazi sympathisers. No medical worries – obviously we can’t have prisoners spreading nasty germs amongst the squeaky-clean locals – and the younger ones are to get priority, since they’re more likely to be in a worse state, homesickness-wise. From that cohort, Major Markham wants me go through their papers and look for those who’ve made some kind of positive contribution to the camp.’

  ‘What does positive contribution mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Major Markham gave me the files of the possible prisoners this morning, but I haven’t begun to read them yet. I’ll tell you tomorrow when I make a start. Now I really must go, or Alice will be standing abandoned outside the village hall. Or worse, beside a grumpy teacher who will give me horrible looks even though I’m not the child’s mother and shouldn’t need to be there at all!’

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her hand is closing on the door handle.

  ‘I don’t mind doing it for you. The allocation of prisoners, I mean. I would be happy to go through the files. I can always stay late to get it finished, and that way you won’t have to mention anything to Major Markham about collecting Alice today.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  Fran nods.

  Daisy says slowly, ‘I suppose if it’s really no trouble…’

  ‘None at all.’

  A quick glance from the doorway.

  Fran clamps her lower lip. ‘I know you’d do the same to help me out.’

  ‘I imagine it’s Vivien Markham whom you’re really doing a favour, helping to guard her little secrets… But why not? Thank you. It’s one less job on my list for tomorrow.’ For an instant Daisy’s eyes harden, as if Fran is a piece of too-small print that she’s trying to read. Then her shoulders drop. She smiles. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  The moment Fran is alone she scurries around to Daisy’s side of the desk where a heap of prisoners’ records is propped against a chair leg. Anxiously she begins to leaf through the pages. The seventeenth file is that of Thomas Meyer, aged twenty-four, who comes from Eisenach. The twenty-ninth is that of Thomas Fuchs, aged twenty-two from Berlin. Both have been assessed as having low Nazi sympathies. And in the fifty or so files that have not made the initial cut Fran estimates there must be at least three other prisoners named Thomas. She bites the top of her thumbnail, shearing a sliver of milky-white keratin.