Always In My Heart

by Freda Lightfoot

  Giving a slight frown, Prue shook her head. ‘I can’t remember. We received very few letters from her, probably because of the German occupation. But then Melissa received a telegram from a hospital telling us of her death. It was so heartbreaking I had no wish to even read it. It was a difficult time for me. My husband had been killed too, at El Alamein,’ Prue told her, then pulled her face. ‘We married in something of a rush because of the war, and spent one week together before he was sent overseas. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful. I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Prue gave a little shrug. ‘I’m not sure marrying him was the right thing to do. We hardly knew each other. I just fancied him, I suppose. Or else, deep in some secret part of me, I felt the need to rebel against my father for constantly ordering me to marry someone rich. And you know how impulsive I can be. I’m sorry he died, poor man. But even the week we spent together wasn’t exactly a happy one. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would almost seem like the plot of a Victorian melodrama.’

  Brenda giggled. ‘Your family does seem to live in the past, and it must be quite lonely at times for you in this remote countryside.’

  Hugging her arm closer, Prue whispered in her ear, ‘Actually, I do have a new friend. Earlier this year a PoW was placed with us. He was so pleased to be allowed out to work on the land, being originally interned at the Palace camp in Douglas, among other places in the Isle of Man, simply for being Italian.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! I too was held in an internment camp, simply for being British,’ Brenda admitted.

  Prue stopped walking to stare at her friend in horror. ‘Was that part of the traumas you’ve had to face? Please tell me more. What kind of a life did you and Mama live in Paris, and how on earth did you cope when the Germans arrived? Oh, do tell me everything, I need to hear all your news.’

  Brenda brushed aside these questions with a sad little smile. ‘Maybe later. It’s a long story and not a pleasant one, thanks to the war. But Camille was very happy to be back in her home country. Sadly, in 1941 she had to leave her beloved apartment to live somewhere in the Loire Valley with her cousin, as I’ve explained to your brother. But I don’t know where.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘Because of the dangers involved in staying in Paris. It was a complete nightmare.’

  Prue’s eyes darkened as they met her friend’s gaze with deep sympathy. ‘This dratted war has ruined the lives of entire families.’

  ‘Indeed it has, including yours and mine.’ How could she be sure that her little Tommy was safe? The chill within Brenda worsened as images and memories she preferred to block out returned yet again to haunt her. ‘I like to think that all the traumas I’ve had to deal with have made me so much stronger. I’m sure the same is true of you too.’ Putting her arms about her friend, she gave her a warm hug. ‘So what is he called, this PoW?’

  ‘Dino, and we’re becoming quite close friends,’ Prue said, her cheeks turning slightly pink. ‘He’s a lovely man.’

  ‘Sounds as if it might grow into something more than friendship,’ Brenda commented with a smile.

  ‘It already has, not that I’ve revealed this fact to Melissa or Hugh. I know they would never approve. If they believed for one moment that I was falling for one of the enemy, I’m quite sure they’d send Dino straight back to the prison camp. And were it not for the fact that I’m their sister, they’d toss me out too, just as they did with you. So please don’t say a word to them on the subject, not till I’ve explained to Hugh how we feel about each other.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’ Brenda chuckled. ‘I firmly believe that we women should be free to make our own decisions in life, particularly when there’s a war on. So go for it, girl. Do what is right for you, as I did by marrying your lovely brother. At least we had some happy months together, if not the lifetime we’d hoped for. But the war will soon be over and we must then look to the future.’

  ‘We certainly will, and must help each other as much as we can. I can feel an anguish in you, sweetie, and I believe the only way to deal with such pain is for you to talk about it. I’m happy to listen.’

  Looking into her dear friend’s eyes, Brenda realised she might well be right. She’d struggled so many times to do that in the past, sadly with little success. It was hard to find the right words to express her emotions. Some elements of the various traumas she’d suffered were now lost to her, shut out forever, perhaps because the stress and strain of remembering was far too painful. She really had no wish to dig down too deep and open that locked box again. But perhaps she could tell a little, if only in the hope that it might help her to sleep better and bring her back into the real world.

  Sitting on a bench beneath an old oak tree, Brenda began to speak of what had happened to her following Jack’s death. But she resolutely made no mention of the birth of her son. There would come a time when she must reveal more facts, but not right now. She simply couldn’t cope with everything at once.

  Seven

  France, 1941

  Brenda kept her head down in the Paris apartment for a couple of weeks. By the end of that time she was beginning to feel quite claustrophobic and anxious to get back to her normal routine. Surely she’d be reasonably safe, or at no greater risk than anyone else? Resistance was increasing. They were bombing railway lines and derailing trains in order to block the lines and make things as difficult as possible for the occupiers of their land, just as Jack had insisted they should. But the Germans always retaliated brutally. As did the British. There were frequent air raids upon the city, and they lived in fear of the apartment being bombed.

  It was late one afternoon when she was coming home loaded with shopping, after venturing out to one of the many local markets in the city, that the bridge over the railway line she was about to cross suddenly exploded in front of her. Brenda found herself flung off her feet and knocked to the ground. One moment lights had flashed all around her, then darkness descended.

  She came round to find rubble, dust, stones and scraps of burning metal scattered all over her. Terror erupted within her, and gently moving her limbs, she felt deeply relieved to find they were still working, if rather cut, bruised and stinging from the burns. Brenda felt fortunate to still be alive. Had she arrived at the bridge a few moments earlier, it could have been an entirely different story. Staggering to her feet, she gathered up the remnants of her shopping and slowly made her way back to the apartment.

  Yet again Camille was shocked to the core at the sorry state of her when Brenda came limping into the drawing room. ‘Oh, my dear girl, what has happened this time? Not more trouble?’ she cried.

  ‘Don’t panic, I’ve no serious injuries. Just feel a bit shell-shocked,’ Brenda assured her, gathering her strength. Then quickly telling them about the bombed bridge, she glanced across at the baby fast asleep in his crib and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her precious child had not been with her. Keeping Tommy safe was becoming a serious concern.

  Adèle at once rushed to fetch hot water, bandages and iodine to tend to the injuries on Brenda’s arms and legs.

  In the days following, Brenda suffered yet more sleepless nights, nightmares and constant flashbacks, as if locked back in time and experiencing the incident over and over again in her head. At other times she felt entirely disconnected from the world, as if she’d dropped back into that black pit she’d fallen into following Jack’s death. She would feel entirely unable to concentrate or remember anything, riddled with an intense fear, a sense of helplessness and horror-sensations she valiantly fought to block out.

  Camille strived to help her deal with her distress by feeding and comforting her, as well as encouraging her to speak of how she felt, which Brenda found almost impossible to do.

  ‘You should return to England, dear girl,’ Camille suggested, as she had a dozen or more times. ‘You need to take Tommy home to the house and estate he will one day inherit, and where he will
be safe. That is what Jack wished, as it is where his son belongs.’

  Remembering the will Jack had written to protect their future family, Brenda fully intended to ensure his wishes were carried out. She looked forward to showing Tommy the farm and land that would one day be his; the great stone barns filled with the sweet scent of hay, the milking parlour and sheep-folds, the lush green intake land close to the house where the flock was wintered. There was so much she’d loved about living and working there. Yet when that could happen was beyond imagining.

  ‘Sorry, Camille, but is this the right moment? Trying to find a safe way out of France will present enormous difficulties.’

  Her mother-in-law let out a heavy sigh. ‘We could make a few enquiries, quietly among friends.’

  Later, sitting drinking a mug of hot chocolate, Brenda met the anxious expressions of these lovely ladies with a suggestion that had been gnawing at her for some time. ‘I wonder if we should all leave Paris and find somewhere safer to live outside of the city.’

  ‘Oh, that’s an excellent idea,’ Adèle said, clapping her hands. ‘I’ve said as much to Camille more than once. We could go and live in my house in the Loire Valley. We’d be much safer there, far away from any bombing, let alone the presence of those dreadful brothels.’

  ‘Why not?’ Camille said with a nod. ‘At least until we find a way to get Brenda and Tommy safely back to England.’

  And so it was agreed.

  Wasting no time, they were in the midst of packing clothes and other essentials the following morning when there came a loud hammering on the door. The next moment it was flung open and a bunch of German guards marched in. ‘We need to see your papers,’ they demanded.

  Fear invaded her heart once more as Brenda obediently handed over her passport, realising what was about to happen. She was at once ordered to pack a small bag, which she quickly did, helped by Camille, while Adèle carefully kept the baby safely out of sight. This was what Brenda had dreaded for so long. And what bad luck that it should happen now, just when she’d finally persuaded Camille to leave Paris. Then she remembered that rogue, Étienne Bresson, who’d lured her into his brothel. Had he taken revenge for her refusal to accept his offer by reporting her to the Gestapo?

  As Brenda bravely attempted to remain calm, she slipped off her wedding ring and secretly pushed it into Camille’s hand. She had no wish for these Nazis to steal this precious item from her. Receiving a little hand-squeeze by way of response, she interpreted this as a promise that her mother-in-law would take good care of it.

  Glancing back over her shoulder as she was marched out into the street, Brenda gave her a desperate pleading glance, silently begging her to take good care of her son too, who was far more important. With tears in her eyes and a hand clasped tightly over her trembling mouth, dear Camille gave a little nod by way of assurance.

  Tommy at least would remain safe with his grandmamma, Brenda thought with relief as she was hustled into a black police van and driven away into the unknown.

  *

  She was taken across Paris to the Gare de l’Est, together with dozens of other women: dancers from the Folies Bergére, governesses, nannies and even prostitutes, despite that rogue’s assurance that such a job would keep a woman safe. They were all bundled on to a train. More arrived in the hours following as they waited in the cold and the dark, with no light or heating on board. Like everyone else, Brenda was suffering badly from anxiety about where they would be taken. Germany, perhaps? The only comfort she could find to stem the flood of emotional trauma pulsating through her was that at least her child was safe. If she was to be interned in a prison camp, the last thing she would have wanted was for Tommy to suffer that too.

  ‘Why are they doing this to us?’ she couldn’t help but ask the woman sitting next to her, as anger ricocheted through her.

  ‘It’s in revenge for the British government interning supposed enemy aliens, including Germans and Italians.’

  ‘So we women are putty in their hands, despite being entirely innocent?’ Brenda snapped.

  ‘We are indeed, as are many of those interned in England.’ She was a most elegant lady clad in a fur coat with a small turban wrapped around her fair hair. ‘I’m Emma. Happy to make your acquaintance, particularly in these circumstances,’ she said, holding out a hand sparkling with rings. ‘We were here in France because my husband is involved in the silk industry. He’s also been arrested for having a British passport. I pray to God he will be safe.’

  ‘I’m Brenda.’ They shook hands and soon became good friends as they shared their agonies of war.

  The journey took days, the train constantly shunted into a siding where it would stand for hours on end. In a way they welcomed this, as with no toilets on board it allowed them to go outside and relieve themselves—if, sadly, in front of the guards. When there were no stops for hours on end the very young and old found it hard to hold on to their bladder, and the stink in the carriages was horrendous. Brenda would use a spare bag, then empty it out of the train window, curling her nose in disgust as she did so. Many women spent much of the journey weeping, children screaming, having tantrums or being sick.

  Sometimes they’d stop at a station to queue for food and water, as there was none of that on the train either. It would generally be soup, or bread and sausage provided by the Red Cross or German nurses.

  Eventually they arrived in Besançon, an internment camp that looked very like a fortress situated quite close to Switzerland in the foothills of the Jura Mountains.

  ‘At least we’ve not been sent to Germany,’ Brenda said on a sigh of relief.

  ‘Which would be far worse,’ Emma agreed. ‘And we can now finally leave this foul-smelling train.’

  The town appeared ancient but rather beautiful, encircled by a river with woods stretching for miles all around. ‘I’d love to explore it,’ Brenda said. ‘Although I doubt they’ll ever allow that to happen, as we are about to be interned.’ Camille and Adèle would presumably be on their way to the Loire Valley by now. How she envied them. It occurred to Brenda in that dreadful moment as they climbed out of the train on to a platform slippery with ice, that she had no idea of the address. Bugger! Why hadn’t she thought to ask? Sadly, there’d been no time to check such details, as she’d been hustled off under arrest in such a rush. She would simply have to be thankful that at least Tommy was safe.

  The women were met at the station by German soldiers barking orders furiously at them. Exhaustion and the freezing cold made her feel so numb, Brenda could barely take in a word they were saying. Not that she understood a word of German. Packed into lorries, the women were taken to the camp, then lined up in the courtyard while the luggage was brought from the train. The cast-iron gates were finally closed and locked behind them.

  So here they were, trapped in hell.

  Eight

  1944

  ‘By heck, you’re a good little baker, chuck,’ the housekeeper said, reaching for another slice of the blackberry shortbread Brenda had spent the afternoon making. ‘Where did tha learn this?’

  Brenda laughed. ‘As you know, the nuns taught us all how to cook, clean, wash and iron. They considered such skills necessary for every woman. And, of course, I learned a lot from you when I worked here, Mrs Harding. Then while in France with Camille, I was in charge of all the cooking.’

  ‘Well, tha’s improved a great deal, I’d say that for thee,’ Mrs Harding said as she happily chewed the biscuit. ‘The sweet taste of these blackberries makes up wonderfully for the lack of sugar, since rationing puts it in short supply. What are thee making now?’ she asked, seeing Brenda start to grate a Bramley apple.

  ‘Bread-and-apple pudding,’ Brenda told her. ‘Can’t use up too much of your flour, but we do at least have some butter from the farm cows, and there’s some bread in the bin that’s a bit past its best. I thought I’d add apple and a few currants, if we have any to spare.’

  ‘Eeh, I’m sure Master Hugh would love t
hat. I take it you’ll be joining the family for dinner tonight? I believe Miss Melissa is expected too, coming up by train today from London, where she now lives.’

  Brenda bit on her lower lip as she looked up at the housekeeper in dismay. ‘Hadn’t thought of that. Not sure they’d welcome me, particularly Miss Melissa.’

  Carter the butler gave her shoulder a gentle pat. ‘I’m sure they will. Miss Prudence certainly would. And you really shouldn’t be working in the kitchen with us. You’re no longer a servant, remember.’

  ‘Hugh might disagree with you on that.’

  Giving a little chuckle, he said, ‘I could ask if you will be expected to attend?’

  ‘Don’t bother, I’m really not eager to intrude.’ Then with a slight frown, she instantly changed her mind. ‘Although perhaps I should, as before I head off to Manchester tomorrow in search of a job I need to know the name and address of the family solicitor. That’s where Jack sent a copy of his will. I’ve no idea what’s in it but really should find out, as his mother instructed.’

  Carter gave a sad nod of his head, then quickly disappeared up the back stairs.

  Brenda pondered this decision as she returned to the kitchen table. A lawyer might also be able to help her find Tommy, for which she’d no doubt need a considerable sum of money to pay him. But she was willing to work her socks off to achieve that. Determined to keep her mind off her worries by remaining busy she thinly sliced the bread, added a drop of lemon juice, lined a basin, then sprinkled on raisins, grated apple and a touch of cinnamon. Topping the pudding off with a second layer of bread, she added a drop of milk to moisten it before putting it in the oven.

  Just as she started the washing up, Mrs Harding having nodded off in her chair, the butler returned. He wore a grim expression upon his usually cheerful face as he burst through the kitchen door, his round cheeks flushed scarlet, clearly as much from anger as the heat and steam from the baking.