The FitzOsbornes at War

by Michelle Cooper

  ‘Why England Slept,’ said Veronica, reading the title of the book Jack had sent. ‘Oh, it’s his thesis! He did mention his father was arranging for it to be published.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Appeasement,’ she said, flicking through the book. ‘Why England was so unprepared for this war. How the pacifists and trade unions prevented effective rearmament in Britain. How feeble democracies are, compared to totalitarian states. You know, the usual Kennedy . . . Oh! I wonder where he got those figures.’

  And she sank onto the bed, her nose buried in the book. I thought this might be a good time to test out something I’d been wondering about for a while.

  ‘Daniel telephoned twice, while you were away,’ I said casually.

  ‘Hmm?’ said Veronica.

  ‘To see whether you were back.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Did you know that in March, Germany was producing forty-three per cent more planes than Britain each month? But three months later, after Lord Beaverbrook took over, aircraft production here had increased to such an extent that it almost matched Germany’s.’

  ‘Anyway, Daniel said he’s being transferred somewhere else by the War Office.’

  ‘What?’ she said, glancing up. ‘Where?’

  Finally! A reaction.

  ‘He didn’t say. He thought he might have already moved before you got back, but he said he’d write as soon as he was settled, and meanwhile, you could get in contact via his parents.’

  ‘Oh. All right then.’ She turned a page. This was not the behaviour of someone who was head over heels in love, I thought, but I made one last effort.

  ‘Do you have his parents’ address?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been there for luncheon.’

  ‘What?’ I goggled at her. ‘You didn’t tell me this! When?’

  ‘Um . . . a couple of weeks ago? Just before I went to Spain.’

  I reached over and tugged the book away from her. ‘And?’

  ‘And we had some sort of chicken stew with dumplings, I think. Then apple strudel.’

  ‘What’s his family like?’

  ‘Oh. Well, his mother looks like him, only short and round instead of tall and thin. Plays the violin, speaks four languages, very charming and voluble. His father hardly said a word, just sat there glowering at his plate, but I think he was worried about some problem at the factory. What else? Oh, Daniel’s eldest sister is religious and has about half a dozen children, and his other sister is a doctor.’

  ‘A doctor!’

  ‘I know, it’s impressive, isn’t it? She did some of her training in Vienna. I didn’t actually meet either of his sisters, though. There was a big family portrait hanging in the drawing room, and his mother explained who everyone was.’

  ‘And she invited you to luncheon?’

  ‘No, I just turned up and demanded she feed me.’

  I hit her with the book. ‘Veronica! Honestly, you never tell me anything! For all I know, it could have been a party to celebrate your engagement!’

  She started laughing. ‘Heaven forbid! No, they were just curious to meet me, after hearing Daniel mention my name.’

  ‘Mention your name about a hundred times a day! His parents wanted to see if you’d make a suitable wife for him.’

  ‘You think so? Surely they wouldn’t have to meet me to realise how very unsuitable I’d be.’ She grabbed the book back, and added it to the teetering pile beside her bed. ‘But I would have told you about that luncheon, Sophie,’ she added, more seriously. ‘It’s just that it happened the day before I went to Spain, when everything turned so hectic.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, only partly mollified. ‘But is Daniel your boyfriend?’

  ‘Well, we certainly aren’t engaged. We haven’t even talked about that. But then, neither one of us really approves of the institution of marriage –’

  ‘Veronica,’ I interrupted, before she could launch into some Marxist-feminist critique of matrimony, ‘do you love him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said without any hesitation. Then she sighed. ‘But the trouble with that word is that it has such a vast range of meanings. I may love him, but whatever I feel hasn’t much to do with . . . with romance.’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t want him to bring me flowers or write me sentimental poems. I haven’t any intention of changing my appearance to please him, not that he really cares about my hairstyle or whether I’m wearing lipstick. I don’t need to spend every moment of every day with him. I did miss him while I was away – but then, I missed you, too.’

  She subsided into pensive silence. I was recalling her parents’ short, disastrous marriage and thinking that that was bound to have shaped her views, when she said, ‘I do feel a connection with Daniel. But I doubt it’s the same as what he feels for me, even if we both call it love. Men and women are so different.’

  ‘You mean . . . he wants to go to bed with you?’ I ventured, when she didn’t say anything else.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘but it isn’t as though he’s insisting upon it.’

  ‘I should hope not!’ I said, a little shocked, even though I was the one who’d brought up the subject. ‘You haven’t . . .’

  ‘No, I’m not curious enough yet. And even then, I’d have to be certain I wouldn’t get pregnant.’ She frowned. ‘Oh, everything was so much easier when we were simply friends! Especially now you’ve informed me that even his parents have an opinion on our future.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your fault. But now it feels as though we’ve been shoved down a slippery slope that has to end in either marriage or estrangement, regardless of what we want.’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be the melodramatic one,’ I said, making her laugh, as I’d intended.

  ‘Oh, I’m just tired,’ she said, shaking her head, but she insisted on doing most of her laundry, while I cleaned out the kitchen cupboard, which, in my absence, had been assailed by mice. Meanwhile, I was wondering whether it was in fact worse to have parents as happily in love as mine had been. Perhaps it set up unrealistic expectations. And then, of course, my parents had died before they could pass on their secrets for wedded bliss to me. I tried to imagine what advice my sensible mother might have for me, or for Veronica, but it didn’t really work. It did, however, distract me from my invasion fears for a few hours, so that was something.

  15th August, 1940

  Dear Soph and Veronica,

  Don’t worry, it wasn’t our aerodrome that got bombed to bits. Not that the Germans haven’t had a bloody good go at us, as well as practically every other airfield along the coast, but we’re holding up all right. Sorry not to have written earlier, but it’s been pretty busy. Three, even four, sorties each day, and then they make us write reports. Well, they try to, but mostly I can’t be bothered. I’m always getting into trouble for that.

  Hard to believe we’ve only been at this for a few weeks. That first real battle seems years ago. I remember jabbing my thumb on the firing button and the whole plane shuddering, then sheer, overwhelming astonishment as I realised I’d hit something – that an actual Luftwaffe fighter was breaking up before my eyes, flipping over, hurtling towards the ground. I just stared at it, for whole seconds, watching the smoke spiral down, holding my breath, waiting for the crash. Then I happened to notice a line of little sparks winking their way towards me and thought, ‘Oh, right, there’s still another dozen Messerschmitts up here, and those pilots are probably a bit annoyed at me now.’ So I flung myself out of the way of that lot, dodged a few more, wheeled about, fired off a couple of rounds, dived through a bank of clouds – and suddenly there was no one there. Just endless sky. So unexpectedly peaceful, so strange, as though I were the last man left in the world. But I was out of ammunition, and nearly out of fuel, so I turned round and limped back home (those little sparks turned out to be bullets and tore a hole in my wing, but missed the engine, so no real harm done).

  Since then, our squadron’s shot down
nine fighters and two bombers, or that’s what we claim. Hard to tell for sure, when it’s such a blur up there most of the time. One thing, though – and don’t tell him this – I am so glad Simon’s out of it. He thinks too much, and this sort of thing relies on sharp reflexes and pure instinct. He’s better off where he is, at HQ, trying to get us all organised. Mind you, if he gets promoted above me, we’ll never hear the end of it. I might have to pull rank and start making him call me ‘Your Majesty’.

  Sorry, I’m falling asleep. Will try to enclose a note for Henry before I send this off. Please pass on a bowdlerised version of this to Aunt C, as I haven’t had a chance to write to her, and please do keep writing to me, even if I’m the world’s worst correspondent! Don’t know when I’ll get any leave, not sure when I’ll see you next.

  All my love,

  Toby

  31st August, 1940

  THE AIR RAID SIRENS HAVE gone off, again, and we’re down in the cellar, and I’m crouched on the end of our bunk, writing this by the swaying light of the single electric bulb. I already had a stabbing headache, and the dank, stale air down here is only making it worse. It’s been an absolutely awful day, and all the signs are that it will be an awful night, too.

  I suppose it’s just that we’re so exhausted. They’ve only dropped a few bombs on London so far, and none close to us. But each night, there’s the interrupted sleep; the effort of dragging our bedding down two flights of stairs in the blackout every time the siren goes off; the uneasy feeling that this really isn’t anything much to complain about, that it’s all going to get much, much worse. Veronica and I debate each night whether we should just stay upstairs in our flat, but we did promise the ARP warden – and Aunt Charlotte.

  She and Henry went back to Milford this afternoon, after our disastrous family luncheon at Claridge’s. I’d been so looking forward to it – Toby had twenty-four hours’ leave, and Simon managed to swap duties with someone else, so that, for once, he could come into town on a Saturday. But Aunt Charlotte had spent the whole morning, and most of the previous day, dragging Henry round the shops to buy school supplies, so was in a foul mood. And then Toby was nearly an hour late, providing her with ample time to harangue each of us in turn. Why did my hat look as though someone had sat upon it? Where were my gloves, and why didn’t I have my hair pinned up neatly, instead of letting it sprout all over the place? Surely a girl who sneaked off to stay with Julia Whittingham ought to have developed a better idea of how to dress, for wasn’t that the one thing Julia was good at? Then Aunt Charlotte turned upon Veronica, who’d been seen brazenly holding hands with a known Bolshevik in the middle of Kensington Gardens.

  ‘Spotted by Lady Bosworth, I presume,’ said Veronica. ‘Perhaps she could use her extraordinary surveillance skills for something helpful, like tracking German planes.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure this is all very amusing for you now, Veronica, but wait a few years, until you’re on the verge of turning into an old maid and are desperate to find a husband! Then you’ll wish you’d taken more care of your reputation!’ Aunt Charlotte was getting crosser by the second. ‘And as for that job of yours! Jaunting about the Continent, when there are so many worthwhile tasks you could be doing at Milford!’

  ‘What, like bullying old ladies into handing over their only frying pan for salvage?’ said Veronica. ‘Or lecturing villagers about how they’re not allowed to toss an old chop bone to their dog any more?’

  Aunt Charlotte, who’d made a point of wearing her bottle-green WVS uniform (though with a non-regulation and very expensive suede hat), bristled at this. ‘Bones, as you well know, can be made into glycerine, which is needed for explosives,’ she snapped. ‘And they can be turned into glue, which holds together the very aeroplanes that are protecting this nation! It may be just an old chop bone to you, Veronica, but that’s not how our brave young pilots see it . . . Oh, now, where is Tobias? I did tell him he ought to let Simon Chester make his own way here. And that’s another thing –’

  And she was off on a rant about how ridiculously expensive Rebecca’s clinic was, and how the best therapy for all those so-called ‘patients’ would be for them to do an honest day’s work in a munitions factory. Meanwhile, Henry was bouncing up and down in her seat at the prospect of seeing Toby again.

  ‘Have you been listening to the wireless? Have you, Sophie? Those dogfights over Kent, oh boy, are we showing those Nazis! Did you hear yesterday’s score? Eighty-three of theirs shot down, and we only lost twenty-five!’

  ‘So many people could be doing so much more for their country,’ said Aunt Charlotte, her furious gaze swivelling about the room like an anti-aircraft gun in search of a target. ‘I mean, just look at that young man over there, the one by the window. Why isn’t he in uniform?’

  So it was with great relief that I finally caught sight of Simon and Toby in the doorway. ‘Oh, here they are!’ I cried, and everyone, even complete strangers, turned to smile at the two handsome young men in RAF blue making their way towards our table. But as they drew closer, my heart sank. Simon looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, Toby had lost an alarming amount of weight, and it was clear the two of them had been arguing. They slumped into their seats with a few muttered words of greeting, and none at all of apology for their lateness.

  ‘Did you go flying this morning, Toby?’ said Henry. ‘Or did you have the whole morning off?’

  Toby propped his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, and stared blankly at the menu.

  ‘Still, even if you left very early, I expect it would take ages to drive all the way from Sussex,’ said Henry, beaming her forgiveness at him. He didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Yes, I do hope they give you pilots extra petrol coupons for your motor cars,’ said Aunt Charlotte, favouring Toby with her fondest, most indulgent look. ‘It’s so important that those serving in the forces can get away for visits to their family.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so much that they give us petrol,’ said Toby, glancing up at last. ‘More that there’s so much of it lying about the airfield that no one notices when some goes missing.’

  Aunt Charlotte pretended she hadn’t heard that. ‘Well!’ she said brightly. ‘So, Tobias, what are you having for luncheon? Goodness, all these new food regulations make ordering so complicated, don’t they? Only one main course permitted to be served at each meal . . . But Tobias, dear, you must order the lamb, a man needs red meat.’

  ‘I’ll have the chicken,’ Toby told the waiter, although when it arrived, he did no more than prod at it with his fork.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ said Henry. ‘You can have my fish, if you want.’

  ‘I’m just not very hungry,’ Toby said. He did, however, drink most of a bottle of wine that some old gentleman sent over to our table in appreciation of ‘the courageous job you lads are doing up in the skies’.

  ‘Everyone thinks what you’re doing is wonderful,’ said Henry. ‘Did you hear Mr Churchill on the wireless? “Never in the field of . . . something . . . was so much owed by so many to so few.”’

  ‘Must have been talking about our drinks bills,’ said Toby.

  ‘No, he was talking about how brave you are, and how you fighter pilots are the only ones who can stop the invasion! It’s like knights in shining armour going into battle, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ Toby said flatly.

  ‘Yes! You’re heroes facing the hordes of –’

  ‘Henrietta,’ said Aunt Charlotte sharply. ‘Stop chattering, and finish your food before it goes cold.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, but she obediently applied herself to her plate.

  Unfortunately, no one else was having any success at keeping a conversation going. Aunt Charlotte, after numerous attempts at drawing Toby out, turned to Simon to enquire about interest rates and war bonds, although his replies were so perfunctory that she soon gave up. Veronica started to talk about the newspaper reports of Oswald Mosley living a life of luxury in prison, but lost inte
rest halfway through and trailed off. Meanwhile, I was darting anxious glances at Toby, trying not to feel hurt that he was ignoring me. But it was a bizarre situation, I acknowledged that. The men who’d fought in the Crusades, or the Napoleonic Wars, or even in the trenches of the last war, hadn’t been able to take the day off to meet up with family and friends. But here we all were, having luncheon in a grand hotel. It made war seem so normal, so much a part of regular, everyday life. And yet, just look at what it had done to my brother. He was unshaven; there were dark circles, almost bruises, around his eyes; his whole body twitched when a waiter dropped a spoon on the table. And Simon looked almost as bad . . . But Henry had started in on him now.

  ‘What is it you actually do, Simon? I mean, at Fighter Command HQ? Or aren’t you allowed to say?’

  ‘He bosses us pilots around,’ said Toby with a humourless smile. ‘Don’t you, Simon?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Simon. ‘Not that you ever pay much attention to orders.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Henry. ‘Well, I suppose it’s an important job, whatever it is. Still, it must be annoying for you, Simon, being left out of the action. Gosh, it must be thrilling, getting to shoot down Nazis –’

  At that, Toby let his fork fall with a clatter. ‘You want to know what it’s like?’ he said.

  ‘No, actually, we don’t,’ said Simon quickly. ‘Sophie! How’s your job going?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Toby, shoving his plate out of the way and leaning across the table. ‘It’s exhausting and nerve-wracking and bloody terrifying. The first time I landed after coming under fire, the ground crew had to prise me out of the cockpit because all my muscles had seized up. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t talk, I was drenched in sweat, they had to drag me into the dispersal hut.’

  ‘Toby,’ said Simon, putting his hand on Toby’s arm, but Toby shook him off.

  ‘The first time I shot down a plane, I was amazed I’d managed to do it without panicking or throwing up or blacking out in the middle of it. The second time was right after I watched a friend go down in flames over the Channel. I shot the tail off a 109 and someone else did the rest, and yes, I was thrilled, I was exhilarated, I was ecstatic that I’d help kill a man. What a hero!’