‘We need to get out of here,’ Emma would mutter, particularly when someone had died of hypothermia, dysentery or some other dreadful disease. ‘Perhaps we can persuade the guards to let us take a walk outside on occasion, in order to keep fit. If they did, we could then do a runner.’
Brenda gave a wry laugh. ‘They’d never allow that. Women internees are viewed as enemies. Besides, I doubt I’d have the courage or energy to try. We have no choice but to endure whatever starvation and misery is thrown at us, although I agree they’ve no right to treat us like this. We aren’t criminals, nor were we involved in fighting the war. This is all about bloody revenge.’
‘I know, honey, but it would be far too dangerous to complain to the Kommandant. We might find ourselves transported to a harsher prison and subjected to torture, or even executed,’ Emma admitted, scratching one of the itchy bites on her arm. ‘Though I’m sorely tempted to tell him exactly what I think of their treatment of us.’
Brenda shivered, from fear as much as the cold. ‘Don’t take the risk. Far too terrifying a prospect.’
Visiting the lavatories in the snow-covered courtyard was always a problem and deeply embarrassing, as they were little more than open trenches with no doors, in full view of the guards. Going at night was not recommended as rats would be rabid in the stinking sewers. As dusk fell, the women would queue and take their turn before retiring to bed.
One evening in autumn 1942, Brenda was last in line, as she’d found herself vomiting in the bucket. Whether that was caused by the flu or the dreadful fish stew they’d been given for dinner, she had no idea. Fearing she might be sick again, she waited her turn with some impatience. Fortunately, by the time she was able to relieve herself, her stomach seemed to be settling. Thankfully she was not developing diarrhoea, which was another worry.
It was as she emerged from the lavatory area to step around the puddles filling the courtyard as a result of the pouring rain, that a dark figure suddenly appeared before her. ‘Hello, my beauty.’ The voice was flat and gravelled, sounding very German despite speaking in French.
Making no comment, Brenda took a quick jump to one side to avoid him.
‘Don’t attempt to run away, girl,’ he growled, grasping her arm. ‘If you don’t comply with what I want, I shall tell the Kommandant that you attempted to escape and I managed to stop you. He would then move you to a far more secure prison, and you know what could happen to you there.’
‘Please don’t do that,’ she begged, but he simply laughed.
‘Then let me have you,’ he said, pushing her back against the wall.
With no one around to save her, Brenda made a valiant attempt to escape by giving him a shove. Laughing out loud, he grabbed her by the shoulders and knocked her flat. Smirking with pleasure, he pinned her down on the wet earth, holding her firmly with one arm across her neck. The pressure nearly choked her, cancelling out her small whimpers of protest. Unable to move or escape, Brenda gritted her teeth, making not a sound as he yanked up her skirt and thrust himself into her, pounding so hard the pain was horrendous. Somewhere in the courtyard behind him she could hear snorts of laughter from his colleagues as they watched. The moment he grunted and released her, terrified his comrades might decide to join in the game and do the same to her, Brenda leaped up and flew up the stairs as if the devil was yet again on her tail. Only this time he’d won.
Falling into bed, she sank her face into the straw palliasse in a valiant attempt to smother the sound of her weeping. This was not uncommon in a room packed with distressed women and children. As if she hadn’t suffered enough trauma during this blasted war, now she’d been forced to endure something even worse.
Brenda scrubbed every part of herself, inside and out, but was still suffering from chronic pain and felt as if she’d fallen back into that dark pit. Would she ever be free to live a normal, happy life? If so, Brenda surmised she’d never want a man to touch her ever again. Just the memory of the stink of that brute, let alone his violation of her, had left her traumatised.
She felt the need to constantly assure herself that she’d done nothing wrong, just visited the lavatory alone because of the sickness she’d been suffering from. But that cruel bastard had assaulted her out of pure hatred and a desire to prove his power over her. How many other women had he attacked? She could well understand how such incidents were rarely spoken of. Just getting through the routine of a normal day at this camp was stressful enough when a part of you felt locked and caged in a disturbing world.
Eleven
1944
A day or two later Hugh was taking a brisk walk to give himself the opportunity to clear his head with some fresh air and hopefully calm himself down. Perhaps then he could approach the problems he was facing with more ease. He could remember how, before the war, he would walk for miles every weekend over the hills, following trails that were part of the Pennine Way that ran from Derbyshire to the Scottish Borders, along the beautiful backbone of England. Not that he’d ever walked that far, but would love to one day. He enjoyed exploring these moors, as well as walking alongside local streams, rivers, and the Huddersfield canal. Now all the fun seemed to have gone out of his life.
As the sun lit the sky with a pink haze of dawn, he gazed out upon the crisp shards of bracken covering the hillside, as silent as ever save for the carolling of a lone blackbird. But beyond this wonderful world lay another one entirely fraught with difficulties, not least because of this dreadful war.
He was feeling even more highly irritated and impatient than usual. If he could think of a way to improve the situation the company was in he would do so, but a part of him really didn’t care. He’d never been kept properly informed about the state of the business, which was in a far worse situation than he’d realised. As a consequence, Hugh had completely lost interest in the estate and the business.
But then he’d grown up with a father who strongly disapproved of his children expressing their feelings or opinions. They were expected to do as they were told, never permitted to take responsibility for anything in their lives. Any display of emotion or an opinion of their own would be ignored and dismissed. It rarely paid to disagree with Sir Randolph. His reaction could be devastating, as Jack had sadly discovered. But then they’d never received the love they deserved from him, or developed any respect for their father as a result.
Hugh had hated the way his father had treated his lovely wife too. Mama had been absolutely adorable, a wonderful mother. No wonder she’d finally left her husband. Too many people had resented or even been afraid of Sir Randolph; few showing any liking for him, despite his title. Being this arrogant man’s son, that could well be the reason the workers were so against him. Yet Hugh really had no wish to replicate his father’s attitude, so he should try to calm himself.
The solution to his problems did not lie in bullying or harassing others. He’d ranted on about the war and the effect it was having upon business at some length to union members, pointing out they should feel relieved that their factory had not been bombed, as so many had. But it had done no good at all. They hadn’t even properly listened. Shortages might present difficulties but at least rationing prevented the greedy rich from buying all the best food. The union did eventually acknowledge that fact, but after hours of dispute Hugh accepted defeat and resolved the strike by promising to look again at wages and the daily work routine.
Hugh told himself he needed to treat people with more respect in order to build better relationships, achieve new goals, and lead a fuller, more satisfying life. Learning to control his anger caused by all the traumas he was facing was not, however, proving to be easy. He could barely sleep or eat, suffered badly from insomnia and spent much of each night pacing the floor in despair. Was this a form of depression?
Yet people would be more inclined to listen to him and accommodate his needs if he behaved in a more respectful manner towards them. He had no control over the horrors war created, nor could he easily resolve the diff
iculties the business was in, but surely he could control how he reacted to these problems. He made a private vow to attempt to improve his patience and mask the sense of insecurity, hurt and vulnerability created in him by the war and his over-powering father.
Turning back down the track to the farm, he waved at old Joe as he appeared leading the horse and cart out into the farmyard. Dressed in a suit, collar and tie, his gaiters polished to perfection, he looked remarkably smart, as he always did when doing the morning milk round. Hugh went over to help him lift the cans into the back of the cart.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning, Joe. How are you?’
‘Fair to middling.’
Hugh smiled, knowing this was his usual response. The old man had worked on this land for the last fifty years or more, and never complained of the long hours he spent labouring over seven days a week. And finding people to help was not easy. Trowbridge Hall farm was a long walk from Uppermill, Mossley, Greenfield and other local villages, although a few youngsters would gladly cycle over from Trowbridge itself, in order to earn a bit of money at harvest time. Wages for farm hands too had gone up. The Land Girls had made a very valuable contribution, despite it being the first experience of agricultural work for many of them. But now they’d moved on elsewhere and the farm had been left with just one PoW. Yet farmers were being asked to produce more and more food with fewer workers, and food for pigs, cows and poultry was increasingly scarce.
Sadly, Hugh had little time to help on the farm these days, largely finding himself confined to the office worrying over how to bring the business back into profit. He missed working on the land, but what was it he wanted out of life? If only he could decide. Everything was becoming irritatingly difficult.
Old Joe cleared his throat. ‘We’ve been using the Bamford mowing machine ever since we bought it back in the early thirties, but in view of all the extra sections of land we’ve had to turn over to food production and now have to plough, we should really buy a tractor.’
‘I believe you’ve mentioned this before, Joe.’
‘Aye, I have. Hiring a tractor isn’t always easy, and using our Dobbin here to pull the Bamford mower does work, but it’s slow.’
Hugh sighed at yet another demand upon him, but could see no way to refuse this request, bearing in mind farmers were forced to comply with an endlessly growing list of regulations. The government had taken complete control of the economy and massive debts had accrued as a result. How they would ever recover from this war didn’t bear thinking about. The plough was now something of a decrepit mess. Old Joe frequently attempted to borrow a tractor from neighbouring farmers, but wasn’t always able to do so when they needed it themselves. And this was a request Hugh had ignored for far too long.
‘Very well, Joe, I’ll look into it.’
‘Thank you, sir. Every scrap of wasteland and even flower gardens might well have been turned into vegetable plots. I know backyards are alive with chickens, rabbits and the odd pig, largely fed on scraps. Tomatoes are grown in window boxes and even childer at school are Digging for Victory. But we still provide the lamb, milk, cheese and best food available. That’s our duty.’
Hugh supposed he should consider himself fortunate to have this man working for him, as well as access to such good food. ‘It is indeed, Joe. Have a good day.’
‘And you too, sir,’ he said, tipping his cap with respect.
Hugh watched him climb up on to the cart and flick the horse into action, feeling a warmth inside himself at last. Things might gradually improve.
But how to handle the squabbles within the family would not be easy either. Prue seemed to resent every aspect of life at the Hall, insisting on working like a slave and living in a humble cottage. As for Melissa, she was a most difficult woman, her head filled with her own self-importance. It was all very well to make these promises to remain calm and supportive towards everyone, but carrying that out effectively with his sisters was another matter entirely.
*
Melissa wasted no time in calling at the solicitor’s office, driving to Manchester in her smart grey Humber car. ‘Ah, Miss Dobson, I’m hoping you may be able to help me,’ she said, as she was shown into the secretary’s office.
The young woman instantly leapt to her feet to draw up a chair for her high-class visitor. ‘What is it you require, milady?’
Melissa smiled. How she loved to be spoken to with such respect, although strictly speaking she was not entitled to be so addressed not being the daughter of an earl or a duke. Her father had been granted a knighthood simply for his success as a businessman and farmer. ‘I believe you have been visited by a girl claiming to be my sister-in-law. I’m sure she made her case sound most convincing, but you need to be aware that neither my brother nor I believe a word she says. She is making this claim out of greed, which will rob my children of their inheritance.’
Mary Dobson’s cheeks flushed crimson. ‘Oh dear, but I’ve already written to the church where she says they were married, and to the mayor of Paris, hoping for help to find your Mama’s cousin, whom she claims to be in charge of her son.’
‘Have you indeed? Well, that is another issue. This child may be her son, but there is no proof he is my brother’s, as Jack died some time before he was born.’
‘Oh dear! How long, exactly?’
‘Long enough to prove this chit of a girl to be a liar and a fraud,’ Melissa snapped. ‘Please ensure that any response you receive is transmitted directly to me, and not to that little madam. Do I make myself clear?’
The young secretary was briskly nodding, clearly fearful of causing offence to one of their most valued clients. ‘I had no idea there was such a problem,’ she said. ‘But I most certainly will keep you fully informed, milady.’
Melissa rose to her feet. ‘Excellent. I look forward to hearing from you. Good day.’ Having made her point, she elegantly strolled away, returned to her car and drove to the Midlands Hotel for lunch. She felt really pleased with herself, determined to do everything necessary to prevent that scraggy little whore from taking a penny of their money, let alone probing into family matters over which she had no rights.
*
‘I have to say that the way you treated Jack’s widow was quite appalling.’ Prue confronted her stern-faced brother with defiance strong in her heart. Despite their frequent disputes of late she’d always been fond of him, as at heart he was a kind and caring man, if not as broad minded or patient as Jack had been. When she was a young girl he’d walk her to school, taught her how to ride a pony, and even helped with her homework, as he was much better at arithmetic than she ever was. But his behaviour recently had considerably deteriorated. The sight of him so pale-faced and with bags under his eyes filled her with concern.
Tossing aside his pen, Hugh heaved a sigh. ‘Let us not go into that issue all over again. It is perfectly reasonable to demand that she provide the necessary proof before she gets a penny off us, or has any say over the business.’
‘Ah, so that’s your major concern, is it? Has Jack left her some shares?’
‘Not that I am aware of, why would he? Yet she may consider she deserves that too, since she’s a madam of the first quarter.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Brenda is a lovely young woman with a kind heart. Stop being such an arrogant bully. What has happened to you, Hugh?’
‘Life!’ he growled.
Wrapping her arms about him, Prue gave him a hug. ‘I know, but Brenda too has suffered from this war and a difficult childhood. She needs our help. Please do find it in your heart to be a little more tolerant and forgiving.’
For a moment his face softened as he looked up at her. ‘I was coming round to that conclusion until Melissa related what Mama had said about the girl working in a brothel.’
‘You’ve no proof of that either,’ Prue calmly pointed out.
‘The subject is closed,’ he coldly informed her. ‘Now, unless you have some other reason to be here, I hav
e work to do. As, no doubt, have you, picking rhubarb or whatever.’
Taking a breath, Prue pulled up a chair to sit beside him. ‘There is actually something I need to tell you. I thought you should know that Dino has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.’
‘What! Who is this Dino? Not that bloody PoW?’
‘He won’t always be a PoW, and it wasn’t Dino’s fault that he was arrested just for being Italian.’
‘You’ve already made one mistake with a hasty marriage in this blasted war. Why on earth would you risk doing it again?’
‘Because I love him.’
‘That’s what you said the last time, but it wasn’t strictly true, was it? You were merely being impulsive and rebellious.’
‘I admit, I did make a mistake. But this is different. We truly love each other, and that’s all that matters. We’ve felt this way ever since the moment we first met and his nationality is not an issue between us. Once the war is over and Dino is released, we will acquire a special licence and get married.’
‘You have no right to do such a thing without my permission,’ he growled.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The furious way he was regarding her as he sat at her father’s desk made Prue feel almost as if she were a young girl facing yet another stormy lecture. ‘Why would I have to ask your permission? How many times must I remind you that I’m a widow and over twenty-one, a grown woman?’
‘I’m the one who provides you with a home and income,’ he reminded her, stabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. ‘You never think things through properly, too easily moved by a few soft words or someone’s needs. Would this fellow manage to get a job, as well as somewhere for you to live? Can he look after you properly? And why should I not damn well object when he’s an enemy alien? You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Always In My Heart Page 8