A Distant Dream

by Pamela Evans

  At least once a week she and Connie went to the cinema, and having got used to the lack of air raids, sometimes Flo went to the pub with her husband on a Saturday night. Another wartime Christmas passed and Joe had his fourth birthday. May’s twenty-first birthday passed quietly. She didn’t want much of a celebration because it would have been Betty’s twenty-first too. So her parents gave her a watch and her mother made a wartime birthday cake and they left it at that.

  Then one day soon after her birthday, something magical happened to May. She received a letter from George, dated last September, explaining how he felt about her in case the worst happened and she never got to know. He asked nothing of her but spoke of how his feelings for her had changed from childish affection to deep adult love. He was in love with her.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ asked Connie as they headed to the bus stop to go to work. ‘You look as though you’ve lost a penny and found a fortune.’

  ‘I haven’t lost a penny,’ she said. ‘But I have been given more than a fortune.’

  ‘It’s something to do with that letter you got this morning, isn’t it?’ she guessed.

  May nodded, her face wreathed in smiles.

  ‘It was from your friend George, wasn’t it?’ guessed Connie.

  ‘More than a friend now,’ she beamed.

  ‘Oh,’ said Connie, unable to restrain a frown.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked May. ‘You don’t look very happy about it.’

  ‘Isn’t he the one who married your best friend when you were ill?’ she mentioned.

  ‘That’s right,’ said May.

  ‘Enough said, then.’

  ‘That was then, this is now,’ May reminded her.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Connie. She didn’t want to spoil things for her friend. She herself was in no position to judge, since she had never even met George and could have no idea of their feelings for each other. Her only concern was that May didn’t get hurt. ‘Does he want the two of you to be together when he gets back, then?’

  ‘He just wants me to know how he feels about me in case he doesn’t come back,’ she explained. ‘That’s enough for me for now, though of course I will write back and tell him how I feel. I’ve loved him all my life.’

  ‘And Doug?’

  ‘I cared for him deeply but there has never really been anyone else for me except George.’

  ‘I hope it works out for you then,’ said Connie, as the bus came and they moved with the queue towards it.

  ‘For the moment, I’m happy knowing what I know,’ May said, hopping on to the platform, feeling cherished and special. With George’s love to cheer and sustain her, no problem seemed insurmountable.

  ‘Grandma, come quick,’ shrieked Joe one Saturday afternoon in summer, banging on the front door with his fists. ‘I can do it. I can do it. Come and have a look.’

  The door opened. ‘What’s going on out here?’ asked Dot in concern. ‘What’s all this noise?’

  ‘Show her, Joe,’ urged May. ‘Let her see what you can do.’

  Cheeks glowing and shandy-coloured eyes shining with excitement, he clambered on to a small bicycle May had managed to get for him second hand and rode off without any help from May, who had been teaching him.

  ‘Oh well done,’ praised Dot.

  ‘Isn’t he clever?’ enthused a delighted May. ‘I’ve told him that now he’s got his balance he’ll be able to ride a bike for ever. It’s something you never lose.’

  ‘Can I ride to the end of the street?’ asked Joe, keen to try out his new skill.

  ‘Better than that,’ suggested May. ‘Why don’t we go to the park and you can ride your bike there?’ She paused, looking at Dot. ‘Maybe Grandma will come too.’

  ‘Yeah!’ cried the boy. ‘Will you come, Gran? I can show you proper then.’

  ‘I was about to do some baking,’ she began, then, infected by her grandson’s sparkling enthusiasm, she added, ‘All right then. Why not? I’ll just take my pinny off.’

  May was ridiculously proud of her godson’s latest achievement. It was one of those golden moments she knew she would remember long after Joe had forgotten it. It was a pity that neither of his parents was around to see it. As a stab of sadness about his mother threatened to rise up and spoil the occasion, she comforted herself with the thought that she could write to George and tell him all about it.

  Corresponding with him was her biggest joy in life and she couldn’t wait to put pen to paper tonight. His letters took ages to reach her and were very irregular, which was understandable under the circumstances; sometimes several came all together after a long gap.

  ‘He’s coming on a treat,’ Dot told May as Joe pedalled around the park, singing the wartime version of ‘Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree’ and showing off like mad. ‘You’ve done a good job teaching him to ride at this early age. I never had a bike when I was a kid – we didn’t in those days – so I still can’t ride one to this day.’

  ‘I’ll teach you if you like, on mine,’ offered May casually.

  ‘I think I’ll manage without that particular skill, dear, if you don’t mind,’ she said smiling. ‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for that sort of carry-on.’

  ‘You’re never too old to learn, and that applies to most things,’ said May. ‘But I won’t press you if you don’t fancy it.’

  Dot was watching her grandson riding round in circles with the confidence of a veteran.

  ‘I never thought anyone could give me such joy as Joe does,’ she confessed emotionally. ‘I thought my life had ended along with my husband’s, but since I’ve been looking after Joe, I’ve changed my mind in a big way. He gave me back my confidence and my appetite for life.’

  ‘I’m so glad, Mrs Bailey,’ said May.

  ‘He is so much like his dad at that age it’s quite uncanny,’ the other woman remarked. ‘It sometimes feels as though I’m bringing George up all over again.’

  ‘It’s a pity George isn’t here to see his boy growing up, and Betty too.’

  The other woman sighed. ‘Yeah, it’s a sad old business all right,’ she agreed. ‘It’s up to you and me to try to make it up to him. Fortunately the boy is young enough to adapt. I don’t think he even remembers his mum, though I know you mention her from time to time to give him a little reminder.’

  ‘Between us we’ll get him through until his dad comes home,’ said May.

  ‘Let’s hope it isn’t too long before George comes back for good.’ Dot turned to May. ‘I’m so glad you’re writing to him, dear. If the two of you get together when he comes home, you know you’ll have my blessing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said May, smiling at her. The truth was there didn’t seem to be any sign of an end to hostilities; just more shortages of everything and yet more government slogans urging the British people to pull together for the war effort. The only really good news was the current lack of air raids on the home front and the fact that the Americans were now with the Allies in the war. Most people were heartened by this because of the sheer might of the United States. ‘Nothing would make me happier, but there’s a long way to go. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  Generally speaking, at Websters parachute factory there was a good atmosphere. People had their differences, of course, but not usually anything that couldn’t be put right. Not many days passed without some sort of a laugh and a joke in the office.

  Then one day in the autumn of 1942 a cloud descended over the entire building when it was discovered that parachute silk was being stolen, for the black market it was thought as there was such a large amount unaccounted for. Suspicion immediately fell on the machinists because they were the ones with access to the material. Each one was summoned to the general manager’s office to be questioned and urged to speak up about anything suspicious they’d seen, even if it did concern a friend. All conversations would be confidential.

  Connie was distraught about the whole thing.

  ‘I’m sure they think it
’s me who’s stealing,’ she said to May and her parents over their meal that evening. ‘All the girls think the finger is pointing at them. It’s causing a bit of an atmosphere at work and we’re usually such a friendly bunch.’

  ‘Have they involved the police?’ Dick enquired.

  ‘No, not yet,’ replied Connie. ‘They want to keep it quiet for the sake of the firm’s reputation so they are doing their own enquiries. But I ask you, Mr Stubbs, how could any one of us girls possibly get the amount of parachute silk that’s unaccounted for out of the factory without anyone noticing?’

  ‘I don’t know what security precautions they have there, but I would think you couldn’t,’ he told her. ‘Not unless they suspect that someone who knows the layout of the factory is getting in at night or something.’

  ‘It can’t be that because there’s no sign of a break-in,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, whoever is doing it is costing the firm a lot of money.’

  ‘They would do,’ said Flo.

  ‘I hope they don’t cut our wage rate because of it,’ said Connie. ‘They can’t get rid of us because the parachutes are in such demand.’

  ‘They need to find out who’s doing it and get it stopped sharpish so that you girls can get back to normal,’ declared Flo.

  ‘Personally, I think it’s someone higher up in the company,’ Connie mentioned. ‘Someone with a key to the premises and contacts in the black market.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ said May. ‘I wonder if they are considering that.’

  ‘If they are, we won’t get to hear about it,’ proclaimed Connie. ‘Not unless they actually find out who the culprit is, then we might be informed, though I expect they’ll keep it quiet if one of the bosses is involved. Meanwhile we machinists feel as though we are living under a cloud.’

  ‘Try not to let it upset you too much, dear,’ urged Flo.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Mrs Stubbs,’ said Connie resolutely. ‘I’ve survived TB and being bombed out, so I’m damned if I’m going to let this destroy me.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ encouraged Flo. ‘And as a treat to cheer you up, you can have a few more runner beans from Mr Stubbs’ vegetable garden.’

  ‘Ooh, how lovely,’ whooped Connie. Extra food was always welcome, since hunger in varying degrees was a permanent state for most people. ‘But what about everybody else?’

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ said Flo.

  ‘Me too,’ added the others. They all wanted to cheer Connie up.

  ‘There’s enough for you to have a few more too, May,’ said Flo, going to the kitchen and returning with a saucepan.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She looked at her father. ‘You’re doing really well with the vegetables, Dad. I didn’t realise you had it in you. You never did more than keep the garden tidy before the war and you weren’t always very up to date with that.’

  ‘It makes a change from working with metal all day,’ he said. ‘I enjoy it.’

  ‘Tell ’em what’s next on your self-sufficiency agenda, Dick,’ his wife urged.

  ‘Chickens,’ he announced. ‘I’m going to get some chicks and rear them for the eggs.’

  ‘Oh how lovely,’ approved May. ‘Lots of people do that round here now. London is becoming quite a smallholding.’

  ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ said her father. ‘But I am rather looking forward to it.’

  ‘We’ll take it in turns to feed them,’ offered Connie.

  ‘I might hold you to that,’ said Dick.

  May thought how much a part of the family Connie had become. She would miss her when she left, though she might be here for a while yet, because the housing shortage was chronic in London with so many homes being lost to the Luftwaffe.

  ‘We’ll all help, Dad, since we’ll all be having the benefit of the eggs,’ said May.

  ‘We’ll see. I have to find the materials to build a chicken run first,’ he said.

  ‘As long as you don’t ask us to eat the chickens,’ said May, looking towards the windowsill, where the cat was lazing in the evening sun. ‘That would be like eating Tiddles.’

  There was a questioning silence as the three women stared at him.

  ‘I haven’t even made the damned chicken run yet,’ said Dick defensively. ‘But there is war on and food is very short.’

  May didn’t like the sound of that at all, but she didn’t say any more on the subject for the moment.

  Life and work went on at Websters and the mystery of the stolen material remained unsolved. According to rumour, the stealing had stopped so the subject was no longer the main topic of conversation in the office or the factory.

  News from abroad took precedence when they heard of an offensive in the desert involving hundreds of thousands of Allied troops. May wondered if George was involved in the battle for El Alamein.

  ‘If he is, he’s got the best possible man in charge,’ said one of the clerks when they were discussing it in the office. ‘General Montgomery, or Monty as they call him. They reckon he’s a marvellous soldier.’

  ‘Mm,’ said May, not at all comforted. ‘I suppose the worst part is not knowing what’s going on. He doesn’t say anything about the war in his letters.’

  ‘I think you might worry more if you did know what was going on,’ suggested someone. ‘At least we are spared the gory details.’

  ‘There is that, I suppose,’ May agreed, before her part in the conversation was terminated by every line on the switchboard lighting up and buzzing at the same time.

  Flo and May were still delivering the papers, as they hadn’t yet found any suitable boys for the job. May’s round took her past the Pavilion bomb site, which was already covered in stinging nettles and rosebay willow herb. She assumed it would stay like this for the rest of the war, because any sort of private building or redevelopment was prohibited.

  The mornings were cold now as the year headed towards winter, but May still took the time to linger awhile here, something she often did when passing, and said a silent prayer for George and Betty. The only remaining landmark was the old horse chestnut tree nearby, from where they had gathered conkers as children. Everywhere was silent at this time of the morning and the air was imbued with the damp mist of autumn.

  Into the stillness of her mind came the sound of children’s voices: George, Betty and herself. This small area had once been vibrant and cheerful; kids playing, adults going to the Pavilion and chatting over a cup of tea. Now it was dead and sad; just another piece of waste ground created by the bombing.

  One day it would be rejuvenated and returned to its former glory, she resolved as she went on her way to deliver the rest of the newspapers before going home for breakfast, her heavy bag slung over her shoulder.

  Although the gossip and speculation about the silk stealing at the factory had abated, no one had forgotten it and until the culprit was named anyone was potentially a suspect. It was a moment of carelessness on May’s part that finally solved the mystery and put her in a very difficult position.

  The switchboard was busy that morning and May was working flat out. A familiar voice asked for Mr Saxon, and when she enquired ‘Who’s calling?’ – a standard part of her duties – the reply came in the usual supercilious manner, ‘It’s a personal call.’

  May put the call through and carried on working with her plugs and wires, connecting and disconnecting, being polite to callers, some of whom liked to remark on the weather or the war or anything at all. She must have accidentally nudged a lever, because she suddenly found herself listening on her headphones to Mr Saxon’s conversation, something that was absolutely forbidden.

  Before she had a chance to put the matter right, the subject under discussion made such compulsive listening that she stayed on the line, freezing with horror at what she heard.

  ‘This is a very awkward situation you’ve put us in, Miss Stubbs,’ said Miss Palmer when May told her what she’d heard. ‘You’ve broken the terms of your employment here at Websters by listening in t
o the private conversation of a senior member of management. And, even worse, repeating it.’

  May stared at her in disbelief. ‘But they were talking about stealing silk, so I considered it my duty to listen for the sake of the company,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not sure if members of the hierarchy will see it like that,’ said Miss Palmer.

  ‘It was Mr Saxon all along doing the thieving, so surely he must be brought to justice,’ pronounced May. ‘The caller is obviously his black market contact; he was asking Mr Saxon about getting more material to him.’

  The older woman mulled this over. ‘You’d better tell me exactly what was said,’ she said eventually. ‘Verbatim if you can remember, please.’

  ‘Mr Saxon said he couldn’t risk getting more silk for him at the moment because the other stuff had been noticed. The caller asked how that could be because the silk was delivered direct to him on the way to the factory, one or two rolls per delivery. It never even went through the factory, which is why no one saw it go. It was never here.’

  Miss Palmer bit her lip worriedly. ‘Yes, that does add up. The thefts were only noticed because the number of finished parachutes didn’t match up with the amount of silk ordered,’ she explained. ‘Mr Saxon must have had an accomplice in Goods Inwards, who check deliveries with orders to make sure it’s all there.’

  ‘Anyway, the caller said that wasn’t good enough because they had a firm agreement and he was supposed to get a regular supply and he had customers waiting,’ said May. ‘He wasn’t happy and he sounded a bit threatening.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Miss Palmer.

  ‘Mr Saxon said there would be more as soon as he thought it was safe to get it to him and the caller said he had better not leave it too long. So there you have it. We know who the culprit is, so he can be named and all the speculation can stop.’

  ‘Hmm, it won’t be quite as easy as that,’ Miss Palmer said thoughtfully. ‘This is a tricky one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mr Saxon is a highly respected member of the management, and you are just the switchboard girl,’ stated the older woman.