A Distant Dream

by Pamela Evans

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was January 1944, and after another make-do wartime Christmas, people were weary of waiting for the eagerly anticipated second front. To add to the gloom, Londoners found themselves under attack from the air again at night after nearly three years of relative calm. They were out of the habit of sheltering, and it was hard to have to climb into those dark, damp holes again.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother to go down the shelter,’ said Dick Stubbs on the first night of the air raids since the lull. ‘I’ll take my chances up here.’

  ‘Oh no you will not,’ his wife pronounced. ‘I’m not having you asking for trouble. That’s just plain stupid.’

  ‘She’s right, Mr Stubbs,’ added Connie, who was understandably nervous of air raids having lost her grandfather and her home to one. ‘Best not to chance it.’

  ‘Consider yourself told, Dad,’ said May with feigned cheeriness. ‘You don’t have a hope against all us women.’

  ‘The story of my life,’ he said. Everyone was behaving with false jollity. ‘I’ve always been short of male allies.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll be all right when George comes home,’ May reminded him. ‘You’ll have a son-in-law to take your side then.’

  ‘It can’t come soon enough for me,’ he said.

  ‘How do you think I feel then?’ responded May, grabbing her gas mask, coat and blankets and heading out of the back door into the garden. ‘But even apart from getting you some male support in the family, everyone is sick and tired of the war now and we want the boys home.’

  ‘Surely the Allies’ invasion must start soon,’ muttered Flo, collecting her coat. ‘Why don’t they get on with it?’

  ‘Because it’s such a massive operation to organise, I suppose,’ her husband suggested. ‘They’ll want to make absolutely certain it doesn’t go wrong. Nobody wants another Dunkirk.’

  ‘I hope Dot and Joe are all right,’ fretted May. ‘Joe was only a baby during the Blitz and he slept through most of it. Not so little now. He might be terrified.’

  ‘Well don’t get any ideas about going round there to check on them while the raid is on, because we won’t let you out of the shelter,’ declared Flo.

  ‘I’ll pop round there on the way to work in the morning,’ May remarked. ‘I hope Tiddles will be all right too. I wish that darned cat would come down the shelter with us instead of shooting off to God knows where as soon as the siren goes.’

  ‘Cats are free spirits,’ said her father. ‘You can’t keep them in like you can a dog. He’ll find a place to hide.’

  ‘Here come the bombers,’ announced Connie as the drone of enemy aircraft grew louder. ‘Hold on to your stomachs.’

  There was an attempt at laughter as they climbed into the shelter, but the only sort that emerged was the nervous kind. The feeling of resignation they’d developed during the Blitz was noticeably absent because they were out of practice, and they were all very frightened.

  Dot was absolutely terrified when the siren sounded after being silent for so long. She was paralysed with fear, breathless and shaky, the symptoms exacerbated by the worry that she might let Joe down because of it. Somehow she got herself into action, collecting gas masks and blankets and hoping she had a candle left over from the Blitz.

  ‘What’s happening, Gran?’ asked Joe, who was still up but in his pyjamas.

  ‘It’s an air raid, sweetheart, and we’re going down the shelter,’ she told him.

  ‘Cor, how exciting,’ he enthused. ‘Can I take my toy soldiers with me?’

  ‘Yes, as long as you’re quick; you’ll need something to amuse yourself with. Bring the snap cards as well if you know where they are,’ she told him.

  Together they went into the back garden and climbed down into the Anderson. To Dot it was a hateful prison, damp, smelly and full of spiders. To Joe it was an exciting adventure which would delay his bedtime.

  The noise was terrific: planes, bombs and the crack of anti-aircraft guns. Dot made a makeshift bed for Joe. He lay down, but there was no sleep in him and he didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the racket outside.

  ‘Fancy a game of snap, Gran?’ he asked.

  It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she needed to keep them both distracted from what was going on outside.

  ‘All right then. Give us the cards and I’ll shuffle them,’ she offered.

  ‘It’s good in the shelter, isn’t it, Gran?’ he remarked happily as she prepared the playing cards. ‘You get to stay up late and play games.’

  ‘I can see that you might like that part of it,’ she said, hearing another enemy plane drawing nearer and feeling her tummy tighten. ‘But as far as I’m concerned it’s a flaming nuisance.’

  ‘Well, grown-ups can stay up late whenever they like, can’t they? So you don’t need air raids,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘I certainly don’t need them,’ she said, careful not to show her fear and pass it on to him.

  She dealt the cards and the game began, accompanied by explosions all around them, though none sounded as though they were too close.

  ‘Snap!’ shrieked Joe.

  ‘All right, no need to shout,’ said Dot, as though these were ordinary circumstances. ‘I’m not deaf.’

  ‘Sorry, Gran,’ he said.

  Overwhelmed with love for him, she leaned across and hugged him. ‘That’s all right, darlin’,’ she said, with renewed strength. She knew that while she had this child to look after she could get through anything. He had proved to be her salvation and she adored him.

  George was far away from the air raids, stationed in a camp in the countryside. They were undergoing special training, so all leave had been cancelled. He could endure the harsh regime, the lack of freedom and the general physical hardship of army life in wartime, but he wasn’t a happy man for other reasons.

  Fate had played a cruel trick on him and brought someone into his life to torment him, resurrecting all the anger and lust for revenge that he’d experienced for so long after his father’s death. As he’d matured and become a father himself, he’d managed to put the murder and his feelings about it into the past. Now it was back with a vengeance, and all because of a man called Ron Bikerley who had joined the platoon a few weeks ago and who was the son of the man who had taken George’s father’s life.

  Everyone George held dear – May, Joe and his mother – was overshadowed by the violent longing for recompense, a feeling that he must right a wrong for his father. If Ron Bikerley had made the connection he showed no sign of it. But Bailey was a common enough name so it probably hadn’t occurred to him. It could even be that his family had kept the details of the killing from him when he was a boy.

  But George knew who Ron was. How many Bikerleys were there in Shepherd’s Bush, or London even? It was a very unusual name. And a few seemingly casual remarks had ascertained that Ron’s father had died around the time Bill Bikerley had been hanged, so there was no doubt about it in George’s mind. Obviously the man wasn’t going to make the circumstances of his father’s death generally known, but George knew it was him.

  Ron Bikerley seemed like a decent enough bloke and was popular with the rest of the men, which made George’s dreadful plight even worse. Because he wanted to kill him, and that was a very powerful and frightening feeling. It took a great deal of effort to keep his emotions under control, and he wasn’t sure for how long he could restrain himself.

  As the air warmed towards spring, the air raids died out and the main topic of conversation, in shops, offices, pubs and on the street, was the Allied invasion, otherwise known as D-Day; when it was going to start and how much blood would be shed to get this war won.

  ‘Will George be involved in it, do you think?’ Connie asked May one day on their way to work.

  ‘I should think so now that he’s back in England. I suppose that must be what his special training is for.’

  ‘That must be worrying for you.’

 
‘Very, but worry is as natural as breathing to us now, isn’t it? If we’re not holed up in the shelter worrying about staying alive until morning, we’re bothered about the men at war or when we are next going to get a decent meal.’ May paused, grinning. ‘Ooh, hark at me. I’ll be renamed Moaning May if I carry on like that.’

  ‘We could go to the pictures tonight and forget all about the war and flaming D-Day if you like,’ suggested Connie.

  ‘Yeah, let’s do that,’ agreed May. ‘We might as well make the most of the fact that the raids seem to have stopped again.’

  They went on their way chatting amiably and anticipating a night out at the flicks. One thing the war had done was make them grateful for small blessings. All most ordinary people wanted was a return to normality. But peace was such a terribly long time in coming.

  George’s feelings finally got the better of him one night in the NAAFI when he was having a drink with his mates. Ron Bikerley was in the bar with another group of men from the platoon. The soldiers trained hard all day so some relaxation when they were off duty was much needed. Having had a couple of pints George was feeling cheerful and was actually laughing when Ron Bikerley walked past him on his way to the bar counter. Instantly George’s mood changed, and on impulse he walked over to Bikerley and grabbed hold of him roughly by the arm.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked in a belligerent manner as the other man turned towards him.

  ‘Yeah, of course I do,’ said Ron, looking puzzled. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Say my name; go on, say it.’

  The other man stared at him, perplexed. ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Say it!’

  Bikerley shrugged. ‘George Bailey,’ he said. ‘There. Are you happy now?’

  ‘Does the name ring any bells?’ asked George.

  ‘No. Should it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes it bloody well should,’ said George, rage scorching through him. ‘Bailey, Bailey, Bailey, son of Joe Bailey, who your old man murdered in cold blood.’

  There was a long silence, then Bikerley said, ‘Oh, so that’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought that would jog your memory,’ said George.

  ‘I think you and I have some business to sort out in private, don’t you?’

  George’s pals were trying to intervene. ‘Leave it, George,’ said one of them. ‘You’ll get put on a charge if you start brawling. You know the army takes a dim view of that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, George, leave him alone,’ said another man, trying to drag George away from Bikerley. ‘You don’t want to get into trouble; save your energy for the battlefield.’

  Bikerley spoke up suddenly. ‘George is right, lads. We do have private matters to attend to. We’ll go and do it outside.’

  He walked towards the door, and George followed him as though Bikerley was now in control.

  Immediately the door had closed behind him, George took charge again, grabbing the other man roughly by his battledress. ‘Do you know what your father put my family through?’ he snarled. ‘Not only did he kill my dad, he almost finished my poor mother off; she was a nervous wreck for years after the murder. So my sister and I lost her as well as our father in a manner of speaking.’

  He laid into Bikerley, aiming blow after blow, beside himself with rage, but he was taking punches too. Both men were extremely fit and strong from army training and Bikerley wasn’t prepared to take this attack without retaliation.

  ‘I lost my father too,’ he reminded George breathlessly.

  ‘He deserved to die,’ said George, wrestling the other man to the ground and pinning him down by the arms. ‘And all because my father was a decent man who wanted to keep boxing clean and your old man wanted a fight fixed.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what they told you, is it?’

  ‘Of course that’s what they told me because that’s how it was; that’s what the fight was about.’

  ‘The fight had nothing to do with boxing.’

  ‘Of course it was to do with boxing,’ said George, panting from exertion. ‘What else would it be about? That was their line of business; their connection.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true, but the fight wasn’t about business.’

  ‘Course it was.’

  ‘No! It was about your father and my mother,’ blurted out Bikerley, struggling against George’s grip. ‘Your old man had been sleeping with her. That was why my dad went after yours, and I don’t blame him either. Any decent man would have done the same thing. The fight got out of hand and your old man copped it. It could easily have gone the other way.’

  ‘Don’t try and lie your way out of this,’ said George.

  ‘I don’t have to lie my way out of anything. All this happened years ago when we were both just children and was nothing to do with either of us. It wasn’t me who had the fight with your dad. I would have been at home in bed at the time, the same as you. But since you want to make an enemy of me because of it, you might as well have the facts. Yes, my father did start the fight, because he was angry and I can understand why. Now that you’re a man yourself and have heard the truth, you can probably understand it too.’

  ‘That’s a pack of lies,’ George protested. ‘My mum and dad were devoted. He wouldn’t have cheated on her.’

  ‘He did, mate. It happens.’

  ‘Stop lying.’

  ‘No lies,’ stated Bikerley. ‘But it’s all in the past, so let it go, for pity’s sake.’

  But George could neither accept what he’d heard nor move on from the terrible sense of injustice that had haunted him for so long. It was almost outside of himself, and the violence of his emotions frightened him. He feared that if he struck one more blow he wouldn’t stop until he’d killed Bikerley.

  The door opened and one of the soldiers said, ‘The sarge has got wind of a barney and is on his way.’

  George and Bikerley scrambled to their feet.

  ‘What’s going on ’ere?’ demanded the platoon sergeant, a bully of a man who relished his authority and welcomed any opportunity to inflict punishment.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said the two men in unison, standing to attention.

  The sergeant’s deep-set eyes darted from one to the other. ‘That isn’t what I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘Someone told me there was trouble out here, and the army doesn’t tolerate fighting among our own men, as you very well know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said George.

  ‘Sir,’ echoed Bikerley.

  ‘So get back inside and don’t let me hear of any more bother, or you’ll both be on a charge.’

  ‘Sir,’ said both men again.

  The sergeant went back inside with the two of them following. Bikerley rejoined his pals, but George went back to the barrack room.

  Lying on his bed, George recalled the events of the evening and cast his mind back to the time of his father’s death, trying to work out if Bikerley’s version of events could possibly be true. He didn’t want even to consider it but felt compelled to do so. The whole thing had been shrouded in secrecy at the time. As far as he could remember, he and his sister had been told what had happened by their mother, who had asked them never to mention it again as it was too upsetting for her. Could she have lied to them to protect them because she knew how much they had loved and looked up to their father? Or had they just assumed the reason for the fight and she’d gone along with it because it was less painful for them that way.

  If Bikerley’s story was true, George’s mother must have known about it, because it would all have come out at the time. She would probably have had to go to court when Bikerley senior was sentenced, though George couldn’t remember anything about that part of it. It hadn’t been the sort of case that had made the headlines for long; just a back-street brawl that had gone wrong.

  Looking back, the whole thing was very hazy indeed, but he did remember how his mother had changed. He’d always believed it was because of the death alone. Supposing she had found out
that her husband had been cheating on her as well; that was all the more reason for her heart to be broken and her nerves shattered.

  In an uncomfortable corner of his mind he was beginning to realise that Ron Bikerley’s story could be true and that George’s beloved father had been an adulterer. Even more devastating was the thought that he himself was a chip off the old block because of what had happened with Betty. He’d always put that down to too much cider and an overload of youthful urges, but maybe he wasn’t able to be faithful either.

  Of course, years of army life and mixing with men of all types had made him realise that sex was less of an emotional commitment for men than it was for women. But he still had his standards and he wanted to keep it that way, despite his bad blood.

  He was tempted to write to his mother and ask for the truth, but he knew he would never do that. For one thing it would open old wounds and cause her pain; for another, he wanted her to believe that he and Sheila still looked up to their father’s memory. So he would never speak about it. He would protect her as she had protected him and Sheila all these years. No wonder the poor woman had almost been broken by it.

  Turning his mind to the more recent past, he was deeply ashamed of his violent behaviour and very unnerved by it. He could have killed one of his fellow soldiers, a member of his own platoon. It had been as though his actions had been guided by someone else. He’d been a man possessed, and all because of something that had not been the fault of his victim. Until now he’d never considered himself to be a violent man, but the fact that he was scared the hell out of him.

  Could his behaviour be a legacy of war? After all, he had seen a lot of action in the Middle East. But he had always believed that military killing was just a job, something done under orders. What he had wanted to do to Bikerley was quite different and there was no excuse for it. He had a son of his own and should know better.