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

by Sarah Mitchell

  Martin stares at her. ‘Looks like you needed that. Another one?’

  Fran nods, although once Martin has fetched two more brandies she makes a point of drinking the tiniest drop and putting the glass straight down. When she lifts her head, she sees his attention has been caught by a painting. Dappled hounds are descending on a fox, surrounded by the blood red coats of the huntsmen and prancing horses with docked tails and manes.

  ‘Poor little blighter.’ His eyes are downcast.

  ‘Is there anything wrong, Martin?’

  He leans forwards. ‘I should be asking you that. Or at least how you’re feeling.’

  ‘I’m feeling much better. I think the brandy helped. And getting out of the cold.’

  ‘Good.’ He appears riveted by his glass, as if the drink itself is cause for sombre reflection. She notes the crisp profile of his chin and nose, the flop of hair over his forehead. He lifts his gaze, smiles. She sees the effort it takes, his instinct to be kind. ‘No need to worry about me. Bit of an odd day, that’s all.’

  ‘Something you want to talk about?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d know where to start.’ His gaze flicks briefly against her own.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Anyway’ – his tone is determinedly jovial – ‘I’m certain we can find a more interesting topic of conversation than me.’

  A vision of Thomas, the blaze of his face. She rams the thought aside.

  ‘Martin?’

  His focus sharpens.

  Fran takes a mouthful of brandy. ‘Before Christmas, when I came to visit at your house, you mentioned… you asked… whether… if I might like to go and see a film with you. Was it called Girl in a Million?’ She recalls the name perfectly well, but Martin has acquired such a fixed, deadpan expression she wonders whether she might have made a terrible misjudgement, if he has quite gone off the idea of stepping out with her. ‘Well’ – she resists the temptation to close her eyes – ‘I was wondering if you would still like to take me. That is, if you haven’t seen it already, or they haven’t stopped showing it, or—’

  ‘There’s nothing I would like more.’ He is beaming at her now, his whole face radiating incredulity. It’s as though the barman has just switched on the fringed lamp hanging above their table. ‘When would you like to go? Tomorrow? Or Monday? I’ll need to check where it’s on. What time would suit you best? If we see an evening show, we might possibly want to get a bite to eat first?’

  ‘Perhaps not Monday. I have to go to work the following day. Next weekend would be better, if you…’

  ‘Of course.’ Martin nods vigorously. ‘Of course. I’ll make enquiries about Friday. And if I might call you…?’

  She nods slowly. She feels like she has stepped on a slide.

  ‘Wonderful!’ His voice drops, suddenly serious. ‘You never know, do you? I mean, here I was, having had, well, not the easiest of days. To be honest, I was feeling a little low. And then I happened to run into you, and now the world seems an entirely different place.’

  Fran smiles. At first out of politeness, and then because she realises that she likes Martin. She likes him a great deal.

  A clock chimes from somewhere beyond the bar. Hastily, Fran lowers her glass. Her parents probably returned from the hospital ages ago and she has hardly spared them a moment’s thought. ‘I really must go home. My family will be wondering where on earth I am.’

  ‘You can’t possibly walk. It’s practically dark and far too cold. You must wait here, and I’ll fetch my car.’

  Before Fran can object, Martin is standing up. For a second he hesitates, his face folded inward with concentration. All at once he leans forwards and pecks her on the cheek before sweeping up his coat and hurrying away. Fran lifts her hand to the site of his kiss. Her skin feels very slightly chafed, as though she has just brushed away an insect, while her insides are churning with the brandy and a raft of emotions that she’s quite unable to name.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ Vivien says with a sigh, ‘I don’t remember how I came to be on the Sculthorpe bus. I must have taken the wrong one from Fakenham and been making my way back.’

  On the other end of the telephone, her mother seems unable to drop the subject.

  ‘Yes, I am a lot better now, but it doesn’t make any difference. The afternoon of the accident remains a complete blank. I can barely recall going out in the first place. I suppose I must have been doing some Christmas shopping…’ She leans back against the hall table. ‘Well, maybe I didn’t find anything to buy, or perhaps the bags were lost in the wreckage of the crash!’ Viv’s hand goes to the left side of her scalp and her fingers brush the soft stubble that is newly visible and itching in the place where the surgeon shaved her head. Although she examines the horrid bald patch every morning in the bathroom, it’s still too early to tell whether the hairs will retain their chocolate lustre or, as the doctor has warned, the trauma will turn them grey. ‘Alice is a little better… Yes, beginning to get over the shock… No, not this evening. It’s nearly nine o’clock and she’s fast asleep in bed. You can speak to her in a few days’ time. Anyway, I really must go and see what Toby is up to… Of course, that would be…’

  The front door opens.

  Viv’s voice suddenly hardens. ‘Actually, Mother, I have to hang up right now… No, there isn’t a problem exactly. Only that Toby needs help with something rather urgently.’

  The receiver clatters into the cradle.

  Viv gapes at her husband. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Framed by the lintel of the porch, he is standing with a rifle slung casually over his right shoulder.

  ‘We’ve got intruders. There’s somebody outside, I’m certain of it.’

  Reluctantly, Viv comes forwards and peers into the inky depths of the garden. For all she can see, she might as well have her eyes closed. ‘Did you actually spot anyone?’

  Toby shakes his head.

  She reaches behind him for the brass handle, waits for him to step into the hallway before shutting the door quickly. ‘Why would we have intruders? We’re almost in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure it was nothing.’

  ‘I heard noises. I think someone’s after us, coming for us tonight.’

  Viv swallows. The intensity of his gaze is disconcerting and, if she doesn’t concentrate, make an effort to stay sane, almost believable. She has to remind herself that her husband is plainly not himself these days and there is no conceivable reason why anyone should be prowling around the exterior of their house.

  ‘I expect you heard the neighbour’s dog. He probably got the scent of a rabbit or a fox and found a hole in the hedge. He’s not much older than a puppy and doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to stay in his own garden. It wouldn’t be the first time!’ She takes Toby’s elbow, ushers him a little way forwards. ‘Put the gun down. You don’t need that now.’

  As if in response to a hypnotist’s command, Toby eases the leather strap from his shoulder and lays the barrel across the mahogany mirror of the hall table. He looks at Viv for approval.

  ‘Why don’t you put it away in a cupboard?’

  He considers the rifle again and his mouth jerks, making his whole face twitch. ‘They might come back.’ His conviction, his anxiety, pulses like an electric current. Aware she is being ridiculous, Viv can feel herself tensing, straining into the silence for any sound from the winter’s night outside. She walks back to the front door and pulls across the heavy velvet drape, glad for the distraction of the snap of her heels and the grate of the iron curtain rings along the pole.

  ‘I think we should have an early night. It will do us both good. My head is beginning to ache again, and you, you seem…’ She doesn’t finish the sentence, unable either to articulate her fear for Toby or find a suitable form of words to disguise her disquiet. Instead she switches off the chandelier and begins to climb the stairs. After a moment, to her immense relief, she hears the treads behind her creak and Toby muttering somet
hing indecipherable under his breath.

  * * *

  Two hours later Viv is more awake than when she first lay down. Lately, every night has become an ocean, with morning, the shell-grey cracks of breaking light, the shore to which she has to navigate without even the guidance of a star or compass. Only the knowledge that she has managed to cross the deep before stops her from venturing downstairs in search of water, or a book – or the gin bottle.

  It’s more than two weeks since the accident, yet each time she closes her eyes, the possibility of sleep is hijacked by the piercing scream of brakes, the crunch of metal on metal. The very next instant the mattress begins to lurch and sway, and she has to grab the bedstead to stop herself from falling onto the floor with her pulse jumping nineteen to the dozen. It’s a lie, of course, that she can’t remember why she was taking a bus from Sculthorpe. All of that afternoon, from the awful American officer in the post room to the infinitely long seconds of the crash, is so garishly and dreadfully clear the scenes might be drawn in the same thick wax crayons Alice likes to use. Nobody, however, seems to suspect her secret. Except, Viv muses, possibly her mother, who at least has the good sense to keep her doubts to herself.

  And she has still heard nothing from Alex.

  Viv rolls onto her side, away from Toby, who is lying on his back and snoring slightly with his mouth open. A hard, white channel of moonshine spills between the curtains onto her pillow, revealing her rosebud housecoat discarded on the carpet, the mess of hairpins and make-up strewn across the dressing table, and the milky translucent skin of her own forearms.

  Alex must have heard about the accident.

  For several days afterwards the local papers talked of little else, the story even made a brief appearance on the national news. Assuming Alex received her letter, he must have wondered, must surely have worried, if Viv might have been on the fated bus. She has told herself he couldn’t have known which hospital she was in, didn’t dare make contact with her at home because of Toby. Yet in the spotlight of the unforgiving moon, a little voice reminds her there are only two local hospitals, that it isn’t difficult to call a switchboard, that a card – flowers even – could have been sent from a concerned anonymous friend.

  Viv swings her legs out of bed slowly, as if experimenting with the idea of standing up. For a second she waits stock-still, focused on Toby as his chest continues to rise and fall with peaceful oblivion under the covers. Then she threads her arms through the sleeves of the housecoat, tiptoes towards the dressing-table stool and lifts its pink padded lid. Inside the seat, a store of clean nightdresses is folded between perfumed sachets that smell of lavender and violets, of pristine laundry, home-making and domestic order.

  Viv delves deep beneath the cotton and pulls out a stack of envelopes secured with a rubber band. There must be a dozen of them at least. Letters from Alex during the first months of their affair, sent to the old house when Toby was fighting in France and there was no one but her to pluck them from the doormat as if they were nectar from the gods themselves. She raises the bundle to her face. The paper smells of Alex’s aftershave. Of musk and sandalwood. Of longing and anticipation. Of recklessness. Of guilt. Of sex. She imagines Alex spraying each sheet, fully intending the scent to transport her straight back to the helpless inevitability of their liaisons. And the contents of the writing too couldn’t have made the depth of his feelings plainer. You mean the whole damn world to me, Viv. Life without your beautiful face, your beautiful body, would be empty as hell, and one heck of a lot colder, if you know what I mean!

  She should read the letters again now. To quell the doubts and remind herself how very much he loves her while she waits for him to get in touch. He is probably worried sick but understands that Toby will have spent more time at home since she left the hospital. No doubt he doesn’t want to risk revealing their relationship until she is well enough to tell Toby herself their marriage is over.

  A creak of mattress springs makes her jump, then freeze. As she watches, Toby shifts and levers upwards onto both elbows. Sleep-drunk eyes stare unblinkingly at the bedroom door. Viv follows his gaze, pulse quickening. She’s starting to imagine she can see the handle turning, sense shadows lurking on the landing, when her husband carefully lowers himself down again and almost instantaneously the gentle snoring resumes. Viv exhales a steady breath. Hugging the envelopes close, she begins to slink from the room.

  A moment later she stops again. From outside the window creeps a muffled knocking, like the sound of branches rubbing rhythmically against a fence. Her heart leaps into her mouth again. Silently, she repeats her earlier rebuke to Toby: Why on earth would we have intruders here? The noise probably is the wind brushing the fir tree against the wooden fence at the end of the garden. Just as she convinces herself, the faintest, lightest tinkling of breaking glass floats through the window. Viv tweaks the curtains. A shiny shilling of a moon sprinkles the lawn in silver light, but she can see nothing untoward, certainly no black-figured intruders slinking about with swag bags, or new trails of footprints in the snow. Besides, why would any burglar loiter outside rather than trying to break into the house?

  The neighbours’ dog.

  She must have been right all along. The Labrador next door has escaped again and broken the cold frame beside the tool shed. Immediately, relief transitions to frustration. If the wretched dog has stepped on the glass, he is bound to have some nasty splinters lodged in his paws. Viv considers the bundle of letters. The prospect of curling up in an armchair and rereading them is infinitely more attractive than braving the frozen night to search for a limping, bleeding dog whose name she can’t now remember. Even climbing back into bed beside her husband is more appealing than that. She glances at the window. The coal-coloured, silk-purse feel of the Labrador’s coat, his panting exuberance, press into her thoughts and tug at her conscience. Besides, she’s already wide awake. With a sigh, Viv capitulates to the inescapable. Dropping the letters back inside the dressing-table stool, she adjusts the belt of her gown and slips quietly out of the bedroom.

  * * *

  The garden is like a foreign country or a scene from a fairy tale made wicked with cold. Familiar contours of lawn and shrubs have become ghostlike in the pearly wash of the winter moon, while the ice-stricken landscape feels tense with apprehension, as if Viv’s arrival is both unexpected and unwelcome. Although she has thrown Toby’s overcoat over her housecoat and pulled on a pair of fur-lined boots, the chilled density of the air is shocking. Her feet sink through the crusted snow with the creak of an unoiled door and somewhere overhead a tawny owl hoots, low and lingering. Shivering, Viv lifts up her torch towards the reach of the trees, but the glow diffuses to nothing in the strange grey light.

  As quickly as she can, she hurries towards the distant landmark of the tool shed. Behind the shed is the border of the neighbour’s fence, while the empty cold frame sits nearby. On her second sweep of the boundary the torch beam hooks upon a broken plank. Like the final moments of a baby tooth the wood is dangling at an angle, creating a gap from which a trail of paw prints makes neat, deep indents in the snow. With a sense of vindication, Viv straightens up and peers into the gauzy night. Something small and furry scuttles with sudden energy into the shelter of a bush, but there is no sign of the Labrador. From the fence she follows the line of prints to the shed and from there to the cold frame itself where the roof has collapsed leaving translucent chunks scattered on the grass.

  Crouching down, Viv picks up one of the shards. A bead of blood crawls across the surface. For some reason the dog must have bounded on top of the frame and has now limped further into the garden. She gazes into the darkness, trying and failing to remember the animal’s name, and when she attempts to whistle her lips are too numb to draw together. As she wonders what to do next, the shine of the torch seems all at once to bounce back at her and she sees the light has struck the blade of a spade propped against the far side of the shed. Raising the beam exposes other items too – a hoe
, a rake, a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow – as if the gardener has emptied the entirety of his work tools from the shed and forgotten to put them away. Viv blinks in confusion.

  And then she screams.

  A face, white and disembodied, is staring at her from the blackened shadows of wood and metal. Before she can move a muscle a man steps forwards, left arm raised to shoulder height.

  ‘It’s a’right. I’m not gonna hurt you.’ The words slur into each other as if colliding on a downward stair.

  Viv steps back and her foot twists sideways over something hard. The pain, sharp and unexpected, is like a switch that flicks her fear to anger. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing in our garden?’ The object that made her trip, she sees with added fury, is a beer bottle. She badly wants to rub her ankle yet dares not bend down and look away.

  ‘Nothing. I’m doing nothing.’

  Her focus flits rapidly between the face and the shed. ‘The tools! You’re taking our tools, aren’t you?’ She imagines him emptying the shed, cracking open a beer and waiting for the cover of the night or the help of a friend to carry the bounty home. Probably the Labrador was drawn to the noise, curious to investigate, before being shooed, or most likely booted, away and running straight into the cold frame. Her foot brushes against the bottle again and this time she kicks out hard, making the glass rattle across the frozen ground and smack into the fence.

  For a moment, the racket stuns them both into silence. Then the man says, ‘I was just borrowing them. For a job I need to do.’

  Viv stares at him hotly. ‘I don’t believe you! You were trying to steal them! I’m going to call the police.’ The moment the words leave her mouth she’s aware of her distance from the house, the long yards to the black telephone sitting on the table in the hallway. High above, the treetops rustle, as if the emptiness of her threat is palpable even to them. Suddenly Viv wishes that Toby was with her.