An Army of Smiles

by Grace Thompson

  ‘I miss belonging,’ she said softly, a sadness clouding her eyes. ‘I’ve been so lucky to have Kate and Rosie as friends. In fact, I can’t imagine ever losing them. I just know we’ll be friends for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘But…’ he coaxed.

  ‘I had a sister and brother, I had a mother and a father. Dad was wild and was often dangerous but they were my family and, hard perhaps for you to realize, I miss them.’

  ‘I can understand you missing Glenys, after all she’s gone for ever, and your brother, who might be anywhere. I know you must miss your mother, I miss my own. But your father? To say you miss him implies affection, even love. How can you say you miss a violent man who inflicted pain and terror on you all?’

  ‘Because it’s better to have a violent father than not have one.’

  Albert shook his head, reaching over and covering her hands with his own. ‘My parents and young brother were killed in an air raid, I lost my two closest friends in Norway when the Germans pushed us out. And another in Dunkirk. I know about loss, sadly most of us do, but your father, that’s something I’ll never understand.’

  ‘He’s my dad,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It’s easy to remember the bad and forget the good, and there were good times.’

  ‘Of course. There would have to have been, or your mother wouldn’t have stayed with him.’

  ‘My childhood was carefree and as Dad was so often away, I usually felt safe and loved. There was nothing I wanted that I didn’t have, probably because living in such a small village I didn’t know about all the things other people had – there was nothing to pine for. I only remember being happy. Dad was always a threat and I learned to behave differently when he was around. It was better when he wasn’t there, and we could all relax. But he was away for days at a time, and longer when he was arrested for fighting. I was treated as someone special, with a grown-up brother and sister as well as Mam. Dad was Mam’s problem, not mine.

  ‘I think the worst thing that happened was my sister’s death, but it was in the days before that happened that Dad became worse, more violent. Something had occurred, something he couldn’t cope with. He drove Wesley away and she swallowed and took a few breaths as she remembered – ‘it was then he began hitting my mother. He’d often flipped her out of his way and sometimes pushed her roughly, but he’d never hit her as badly as he did in those last few days before Glenys died.’

  ‘You still have no idea what caused this flare-up? Something to do with Wesley, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know why, but I’ve been over and over this since we last talked of it and I’m sure that I must have been the cause. But I can’t work out how. If Mam had confessed that Dad wasn’t my father, that I’d been the result of her carrying on when he was in prison, why did my sister kill herself?’ She flopped back against the arm of the seat they shared, tears welling up in her eyes, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know, and without more information I never will know. And I’m never going home to find out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve upset you again. I promise to avoid the subject in future.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Albert. I have to talk about it sometimes.’

  Tentatively, aware of others now filling the bar room, Albert slid an arm around her shoulders and handed her a handkerchief. She leaned back against him and dried her eyes. They didn’t move for a long time. Albert afraid of making the wrong move and Ethel grateful for the warmth and comfort of his nearness.

  At two o’clock the landlady called time and, easing himself regretfully away, Albert paid the bill, helped her on with her khaki jacket and they left.

  * * *

  Walter was waiting for Wesley when he returned to camp two days later. He had Wesley’s jacket over his arm. He had kept it although there had been no need. All he’d had to do was leave it in the hut in the care of one of the other men, to be given to him on his return, but Walter wanted to talk to the man, find out how well he knew Ethel and, if possible, learn the address of her father.

  Turning him down in favour of that flyer Duggie, then causing him to lose his job, she had something coming to her and with luck payment would be soon. He removed the picture from the wall again and stared at it to reassure himself it was Ethel Twomey. Then he smiled as his inspection confirmed his first impression. It was Ethel all right.

  When Wesley came in he was carrying a biscuit tin, which Walter guessed contained a cake from home. Most mothers saved the ingredients from their meagre rations to make a cake for their sons to take back to camp. His pulse quickened at the thought that Wesley might have seen Ethel a matter of hours ago.

  ‘I was asked to return this,’ he said, offering the jacket. ‘You’ll need it in the morning and might wonder where it was.’

  Welsey thanked him off-handedly with a nod. ‘There was no need, you could have left it with one of the others, or in the canteen – I know exactly where I left it.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought… well, the fact is, I did bring it back and when I came here I couldn’t help noticing your picture of a friend of mine. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Ethel Twomey with her family. Friend of yours too, is she?’

  Startled, caught unaware, Wesley replied, ‘Ethel? I used to know her but we’ve lost touch. This war, eh?’

  ‘You know where she lives though?’ Walter asked a little sharply.

  Something about the man made Wesley stop the automatic response explaining that they were near neighbours, living but a short distance from each other. Instead he shook his head, stared at Walter and said, ‘No idea. Sorry.’

  ‘We were to keep in touch,’ Walter explained, ‘but I’ve mislaid her address.’ Wesley knew that was a lame excuse. If Ethel had wanted to keep in touch, she would have written to him. ‘Bad luck, mate,’ was all he said, taking his jacket and putting it into his locker.

  ‘If you could give me her home address,’ Walter coaxed, ‘I could write to her there.’

  ‘Forget it, I can’t help.’ It was clear that he didn’t know much about Ethel or he’d know that her family didn’t know where to find her.

  Wesley wrote a letter that evening, addressing it to his parents. He told them of the man’s enquiry and asked them to be vigilant in case there was some threat to Ethel. His warning was vague but he had disliked the man and had a strong feeling that his need to find Ethel bode ill for her.

  Walter had no trouble getting Wesley’s home address. There was something about the man’s reaction to his enquiry that suggested there had to be more than a once-upon-a-time friendship. A man doesn’t keep a tatty photograph unless there was something special about it. If they were still together he’d have been given a more recent snap or a replacement. On his next leave, after checking at Ethel’s last posting to find out where she had been sent, he would visit Wesley’s home, where he was sure he’d find Dai Twomey close by. They could have a nice little chat.

  There might even be money in it for him. If the man was so anxious to find his daughter he might be willing to pay. He’d play dumb at first, promise to find out where Ethel was and let the man know. That way he’d be more likely to be promised some cash.

  Wesley sat on his bunk and wondered about the man called Walter Phillips. His reasons for enquiring about Ethel were unlikely be good ones. He had a devious look about him. If only he could find Ethel, it might be a good idea to warn her or at least find out what Walter was up to. Taking the photograph from the wall once more, he went up to the canteen. Some new Naafi girls had arrived that weekend, it might be worth showing the picture and asking them. They moved around from camp to camp and there was a slim chance, a very slim chance, they had seen her.

  ‘No,’ one bright young girl replied with a smile. ‘And what are you asking about her for when I’m standing in front of you, free, fascinating and fabulously rich?’ Wesley smiled and turned away. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  * * *

  For Walter, finding Wesley’s address had been simple, and on his next weekend lea
ve he went to the area and tracked down the Twomeys, in spite of the lack of signposts and the refusal of local people to help for fear they were assisting an enemy spy. He booked into a bed-and-breakfast for two nights and promised himself that when he returned to camp, Dai Twomey would be aware of his daughter’s whereabouts.

  Outside the front door was the powerful Vincent, and the number matched the one in his memory. Remembering the violent behaviour of the red-haired man, he was cautious as he walked up the path and knocked on the door. It was to his great relief that the person who opened it was a small, greyhaired woman. Dressed in black and wearing no make-up even to hide the bruises on her cheek, she frowned and waited for him to explain the reason for his call.

  ‘I wondered, is Ethel here?’ he asked.

  ‘You know her? You know where she is?’

  ‘I think I can tell you exactly where she is,’ he smiled.

  ‘I… I can’t ask you in, my husband is sleeping and he wouldn’t like being woken,’ she said, glancing behind her nervously. Whispering now, she begged tearfully, ‘Just give me an address so I can write, please.’

  ‘Well, I can take a message, but it was her father I wanted to talk to. She’s upset and wants to make up their quarrel. I know she’d be pleased if he went to see her. I’d hoped to plan a little surprise.’

  ‘Sorry, but that wouldn’t be a good idea.’ He waited but she didn’t explain. She asked again for an address but when he shook his head sadly, she pushed him with surprising force away from the door and closed it firmly. ‘Stay away from here,’ she hissed through the crack of the door. ‘There’s been enough trouble.’

  Walter walked away, there was no need to knock again, no need make a scene. The man would come out some time, and he had all day.

  There was a field opposite the Twomeys’ house and, although it was cold and it soon began to drizzle, Walter waited, sheltering under a tree that was as useful as a sieve. He was soon very uncomfortable, with icy cold drips trickling through the trees, flattening his hair, soaking his shoulders and running down his neck. He ate the remains of the breakfast toast which he had brought with him and tried to ignore his growing discomfort.

  There had been no movement from within the house all day. As darkness fell he saw the curtains being pulled across the windows and someone stepped outside to adjust the shutters that blacked out the porch.

  A few minutes later he heard the front door open and in the gloom of the evening saw a shadow emerge. Then the motorbike started up and, with a roar, moved slowly down the narrow path and over the bridge. Before he could reach it, the driver had opened her up, it sped down the road rattling the air with its noise, and the shaded rear light disappeared from sight. Walter went back to the bed-and-breakfast to dry his clothes and find some food.

  The following morning, with only four hours left before he had to leave, he once again stood in the field opposite the house and waited. It was quiet. There were only a few houses in the country road with wide spaces between them. An overnight mist was slow to clear and he felt confident of not being seen as he leaned against the smooth trunk of an elderly beech and watched the house for movement.

  The hand over his mouth, another twisting his arms together and the knee in the small of his back came without warning, and shocked him. Sweat burst out on his forehead. His eyes opened wide. He tried to struggle but whoever was holding him knew how to render a man incapable and after a few seconds he relaxed and awaited his fate.

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded, easing the hand away from his face to allow him to answer

  ‘I don’t mean any harm,’ Walter panted.

  ‘Who are you? Just answer my questions,’ the man growled.

  ‘Walter Phillips. I’m a friend of Ethel Twomey, I wanted to talk to her father.’ Slowly and to his utter relief, the hands holding him relaxed and he was spun around to face a man six inches taller than himself, with red hair and bright blue, angry eyes. So like Ethel’s father, but too young. ‘But you aren’t Dai Twomey? Who are you?’ he dared to ask.

  ‘Her brother! And I don’t want you talking to my father, understand?’

  ‘I wanted to try and settle the argument between your sister and your father. Life is so precarious these days and I wanted to help to bring them together, in case… in case something awful happened to one of them.’ He was lying but hoped he sounded pious enough to be believed.

  ‘You’re lying. And if I find you anywhere near Ethel or any of my family again, you’ll live just long enough to regret it. You’d do well to remember that your war is with me. So far as you’re concerned, I’m to be feared more than Hitler’s bombers, believe me,’ the man warned, before pushing Walter away from the house.

  Pushing him in front of him, Sid guided the frightened Walter across a field and into a lane on the far side. He demanded Ethel’s address and, fearfully, Walter told him what he knew, insisting that he didn’t know her present whereabouts. He explained about seeing her father at the airfield, and told the man that Ethel and he had been been moved on separately. After a few minutes of being pushed around and threatened, Sid let him go.

  Stumbling clumsily, his legs as useless as chewed string, Walter went back across the field and worked his way warily around the lanes to the bed-and-breakfast, collected his things and went to get the bus. As he found a seat he glanced back and was startled to see the red-haired man sitting astride a bicycle, watching, his expression a reminder of his threat.

  When the bus had gone, Sid Twomey sat for a while, his heart racing with his performance of Sid Twomey, violent son of the violent Dai. He hadn’t inherited his father’s temper and neither did he enjoy fighting, but this was one time when he had been able to use the threat of his father’s reputation to good effect. If Walter had swung a blow at him he’d have been able, by his remarkable strength, to push it aside, but he would have found it impossible to retaliate.

  He went back home hoping his father was having one of his calmer days and that he wouldn’t have to fend off an attack on himself or his mother. He had run away on the night of the row, after Ethel had pleaded with him to leave before their father killed one of them. But once Ethel had gone he had returned, knowing that his mother needed him.

  Working in a munitions factory and spending almost every other moment at home was hardly a life, but until his father calmed down and accepted the situation, he had to stay. Thank goodness Wesley was in touch, news of him reaching them from his parents. One day they would find Ethel and then everything would be out in the open.

  He sighed. If only he were a little more like his father, he would have forced Walter Phillips to tell him where Ethel was. He hadn’t believed him when he’d insisted he didn’t know. Another chance lost. Perhaps his father was right and the world really was run by bullies. The meek hardly inherited the earth with people like his father around. And what was Hitler if not a bully? Destroying, taking what he wanted by force, using his power to rid the world of people whom he considered unsuitable.

  He’d missed an opportunity to beat the truth out of Walter, but he still couldn’t accept that violence was the right way to get what you wanted. Ethel would get in touch. Their father would one day be too weak to bully his way through life. He smiled grimly at that unlikely thought. Even when disease or age weakened him, the man would survive on his past record, creating fear in everyone who met him, until the day he died.

  * * *

  A call at six thirty one morning woke Ethel and Rosie; Kate slept peacefully on, her face shining with cream, hand underneath her head with fingers in between the metal curlers holding her rolled up hair, to ease the discomfort of her necessary suffering.

  ‘Get your things together, you’re moving on,’ they were told. Half an hour later, Kate was still half asleep, struggling to untangle some recalcitrant ‘Dinkie’ curlers from her long hair. They had been given just enough time to drink a cup of tea and swallow a few biscuits then the three girls and four others were on their way to a n
ew destination.

  On arriving at the new camp a few hours later, one of the first people they met was Baba Morgan. He rushed up and gave Ethel a hug as the others were scrabbling around in the truck to find the clothes they had hastily thrown on board, not having time to pack properly.

  Rosie turned and blushed alarmingly when she saw him. ‘Baba! I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

  ‘I knew you were coming, Albert told me. He’s over there getting the beds moved in.’

  ‘Oh no, damp beds and cockroaches in the cupboard,’ wailed Kate in mock distress, ‘and nowhere to wash our hair.’ She was laughing, pleased to see Baba too.

  ‘I hope the canteen is up and running and we don’t have to move out spiders and mice,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m starving, we didn’t have breakfast before we left.’

  ‘You? Hungry?’ Baba teased. ‘I can’t believe that, Rosie Dreen. Come on, there’s soup and fresh bread for you sent over from the cookhouse.’ He took Rosie’s arm and led them to where a table was set and a meal prepared.

  Looking around them preparing to disapprove, they were gratified to see that the place was clean and ready for the eleven o’clock tea break. Having to complain about something, Ethel said, ‘This tea’s a funny colour, I bet that urn needs a good cleaning, eh, Rosie?’

  ‘And that sweeping brush has swept its last crumb. I’ll insist on a new one straight away,’ Kate added. She patted her curly blonde hair and rubbed a licked finger across an eyebrow. ‘Got to keep up our standards.’

  Baba was there on loan for a month or two, to help train new recruits in vehicle maintenance, and when the girls’ first weekend off came around he was free too.

  Rosie was going home to stay with her grandmother, Kate planned to visit her parents. Baba invited Ethel to go with him to London.

  ‘Air raids. Bombs. What d’you want to go there for? Come home with me,’ Kate said, a hint of jealousy in her protest.