Bombers’ Moon

by Iris Gower

  ‘Another visitor.’ The nurse’s voice, growing familiar now, was hearty. A cool hand touched Kate’s cheek, the soft touch of a friend, the unmistakable perfume of Hari.

  ‘What have you gone and done to yourself?’ The creak of a chair as Hari sat down, the crack of the material of her coat as she reached to shake Eddie’s hand—sounds were what Kate identified with now, sounds told her what was happening around her.

  ‘We all heard the explosion.’ Hari’s soft voice revealed the horror of the moment. ‘We rushed outside, saw the flames, saw the… the carnage. Poor Janey, and then you lying there covered in blood. I thought you were dead, Kate, along with the others. We never found Bob.’ There was a break in her voice and then a pause and Kate imagined Hari’s beautiful face realigning itself as she pulled herself together.

  ‘But the nurse tells me you’ll be fine, in time,’ Hari said. ‘Just fine.’

  ‘I’m a bit sore, can’t see a damn thing.’ Kate heard her voice thin as a reed but she felt hope fill her heart, her love was here with her, her Eddie. And her best friend in all the world, Hari, was here too. Mammy and the children were gone, taken by the war, and she would grieve for them forever, but she had two people who loved her and that was more than some folk ever had—many people, now the war was overwhelming them, were alone in the world.

  ‘Mother of God keep us all safe,’ she whispered under her breath.

  Kate went home two weeks later. Eddie had returned to his regiment and it was Hari who drove her to Eddie’s house.

  ‘Come inside, my dear Kate,’ Eddie’s mother said, ‘find your way around the living room first of all and then you can explore the rest of the house when you’ve rested and had a cup of tea with a bit of brandy in it to warm you up.’

  Kate brushed away her tears. She felt the fat arms of an easy chair and gingerly eased herself into its bulk. Cushions were piled behind her back and a footstool slipped beneath her feet.

  ‘You are going to be spoilt rotten here I can see,’ Hari said with a laugh in her voice.

  The chink of tea cups was followed by the sound of liquor being added and Kate’s hand was directed to the handle of the cup. The saucer was sensibly dispensed with.

  Kate wondered what she should call Eddie’s mammy but that problem was solved by Hari. She leaned close to Kate’s ear.

  ‘We’re to call Eddie’s mum Hilda,’ she said, ‘I’ve had my instructions and was told to pass them on to you.’ Hari paused. ‘Eddie is coming home on leave in a few weeks and then you’ll be married, you lucky girl.’

  The tea was hot and the brandy taste strong and Kate began to relax.

  ‘Were they good to you in hospital?’ Hari touched her arm. Before Kate could answer there was a ring on the doorbell and the sound of Hilda opening the door. Kate froze as she heard an anguished cry.

  ‘God no, not again. So soon, it can’t be!’ Hilda came back into the room her footsteps dragging against the lino and the sound fading as she stepped on to the jute carpeting.

  ‘I’ve got a telegram, Kate, about our boy. He went back to the front line and no one can find him.’ There was a rustle of paper. ‘Missing believed killed in action, it says. Dear God, I can’t go through it all again.’

  Kate held out her arms and the two women embraced, crying soundless tears. Her life was over. Eddie had come to her in hospital, offered her love and marriage and now he was gone again. How could she bear to live for even one more day?

  Sixteen

  I was glad Hari was too busy to come and see me at the farm. I knew I was jealous of her and I hated the way she and Michael had looked at each other. Aunt Jessie talked to me about it and I listened; she knew Michael better than anyone in the world. She was his mother after all, even if she wouldn’t admit it. I knew she had her reasons; Auntie Jessie always had her reasons. Part of it was to do with Michael’s German father.

  ‘People often have an attraction for each other,’ she explained again, with patience. It won’t last, believe me. Your sister Hari is clever, she will go far, she’s not cut out to be a farmer’s wife.’

  ‘But again, am I?’ It was a question with a deeper question behind it and we both knew it.

  ‘You might just be.’

  ‘Danke!’ I’d never shown Aunt Jessie I was learning German and I saw at once I’d made a mistake.

  ‘Don’t you dare use that language here girl!’ She was fierce. ‘Don’t you realize Michael could be deported and what would we do then, eh?’

  ‘Sorry—sorry, I won’t do it again Aunt Jessie. It’s just a word I heard. I think it means thank you and I was just being clever. I see now it’s silly of me, “twp” as you would say.’

  Aunt Jessie calmed down. ‘I know you’re a bright girl, you probably have a head for languages; I know you speak Welsh better than you ever did in Swansea and there’s no harm in that, no harm at all—but German? No!’

  ‘I understand.’ I hung my head. We both knew I wouldn’t put Michael in danger any more than she would. ‘I would be lost without Michael.’ It was unnecessary to say it but it pleased Aunt Jessie and she smiled.

  ‘You’d best get ready for school, miss. You’re getting older, you need your education more than ever now. The world is changing, Meryl, lots of doors are going to open to women, you see, because the war is claiming our young men, older ones too now the age of call-up is raised. See, even my farm is smaller now, just a few cattle, enough to keep us going; it’s all Michael can cope with anyway but one day Michael will want to make his own life, perhaps far away from our shores.’

  I knew what she meant, he might want to go to Germany, see if he could find his father again. At the thought, my heart plummeted. But that wouldn’t happen, not unless he took me with him. I was decided on it.

  I saw him across the fields. He was turning the big horse round. I had no idea what task he was doing, I only had the vaguest idea of farm life and didn’t really want to know any more. Michael and I wouldn’t be spending our life on a farm.

  As I neared the red-brick school I saw George in the distance. I noticed he was bigger now, thinner but with broad shoulders. His ginger hair had darkened to a nice brown; he wasn’t bad-looking now, nearly as nice as John Adams. I smiled wryly as I hadn’t thought about John in a long time. I hadn’t seen him—not since we were taken off the bus at Carmarthen and sent to our ‘new homes’.

  ‘Bore dda, Meryl,’ George said. I knew he meant, ‘Good morning’ but I gave him a fierce look.

  ‘What’s good about it now I’ve seen you?’

  ‘Nice to see you still got a sense of humour, girl.’

  ‘Sense of humour? You wouldn’t know one if it bit you on the bum.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a bite on the bum,’ he said, ‘but I know well enough what a clout between the legs feels like.’

  I had to laugh then. ‘All right, George, you’re growing up but don’t think this makes us friends. I had a lot more bruises than you when you gave me a hiding.’

  He went red in the face and looked ashamed. ‘I wouldn’t hit you now, Meryl.’ His eyes roved over me and I knew my breasts were poking out through my coat. I had hair on the lower part of my belly now. I suppose I’d become a woman without really noticing. I hoped Michael had noticed.

  Feeling happy at the thought, I actually smiled at George for pointing out I’d changed from a spoiled kid into a nearly grown-up woman.

  George looked dazzled. ‘Could we be sort of friends?’ he asked. I put my head on one side and considered.

  ‘As long as you don’t try kissing me or anything daft like that.’

  He clutched his cap in his hand, screwing it up into a ball. The wicked witch Dixon wouldn’t like that at all. I decided to be friends with George if only to irritate his mother.

  ‘Aye, we can be friends, George.’

  He smiled. He wasn’t half bad-looking these days I thought again. Funny I hadn’t noticed before.

  The teacher rang the bell and we fi
led into our classes. I was in the ‘A’ block for maths, so was George. He took the liberty of sitting beside me and I froze him with a look. He didn’t seem to notice and soon I was immersed in the magic of numbers.

  When the bell sounded for the end of the lesson I became aware of the smell of newly sharpened pencils and saw that George had put down the little blade he kept in a leather pouch. It was a shaving thing with two arms like pictures you see of Sweeney Todd, the barber. My pencils were laid in a row each with fine points on them. I glanced at George.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said ungraciously.

  I was pretty good at the next lesson, English, too but I made sure I sat far away from George who didn’t know how to spell and said his words all wrong. The teacher even came up with a word I couldn’t say, it was picturesque and I thought it was pronounced ‘picturescue’ so I was brought down a peg or two but no one laughed. None of the class knew what it meant and the teacher had to explain it to us. After she finished I wasn’t any the wiser. I wasn’t as good at English as I thought.

  We were learning some French. I didn’t like the language much, which made me try harder. The words were never finished but ended in a tailing off of the letters as though the one speaking was puffing out a heavy breath. Nevertheless I learned enough to convince my teacher I was a good linguist.

  I tucked my knowledge of German away inside me knowing it was dangerous but after the French class the others started calling me teacher’s pet. I was glad when it was time to go home.

  I wandered along the road at a dawdle and then my stomach turned over as I heard the sound of enemy aircraft. By now I could tell the difference between a Spitfire and a German plane. I crouched near the hedge as the planes swept by overhead. I thought I saw a pilot looking down at me but I suppose all he saw were fields and trees and a few heads of cattle.

  I wondered how it was I could love one German and yet fear all the others. But then Michael was half Welsh, I suppose that made all the difference.

  The next day was Saturday and Hari came in her jeep with Kate at her side. I could see at once Kate wasn’t herself. She blinked her eyes rapidly as Hari helped her out of the jeep and then she clung to my sister’s arm for dear life.

  ‘Michael!’ Hari had spotted him near the barn and was waving her arm to him. He ran towards her while my stomach did a jig and a rush of fear and pain rooted me to the spot. Michael took Kate’s arm and together the three of them went into the house without any of them even noticing me. Following them, I realized with a sharp feeling of horror that Kate couldn’t see. Her feet felt for the step hesitantly and she shuffled into the hallway of the farmhouse.

  The house looked better these days mainly due to the fact that I made Michael clear up after himself. The place was free of clutter, the towels and sheets were put away in proper cupboards or waited in the outhouse for wash day.

  Kate was taken into the parlour and she sat gingerly on the chair near the fire. She’d been crying, her face was whiter now, the yellow colour fading. I knew she wasn’t working the munitions any more—how could she go back when she’d been in a terrible explosion?

  I touched her hand. ‘Kate, it’s me, Meryl the pest.’

  Kate looked at me—at least her eyes were turned in my direction. They looked the same as ever, Irish pure blue with dark lashes that looked like they were made up with dark pencil.

  Kate clutched my fingers. ‘Meryl, your voice is different, you sound so grown-up.’

  ‘You’re like Hari, she always seemed to forget I’m getting old.’

  Kate laughed, a proper laugh. ‘Sure you’re very old.’

  I sat beside her, still holding her hand. ‘I remember when I was sixteen,’ she said, ‘Mammy made a cake, a plum cake it was and she cut a candle up to make little ones, she was so clever.’ Her voice halted and I remembered her mother had died in one of the raids. I was glad Kate couldn’t see my face because I was remembering being under the table when our house was bombed, the way the lights went out, Mrs Evans’s big toe through a hole in her slipper. And Kate’s red shoes. I wondered if she still had them. Now she was wearing plain flat shoes, sensible shoes that no doubt helped her to walk without stumbling too much. No more red shoes for Kate.

  I looked up suddenly. Michael and Hari were looking at each other like moonstruck kids. I wished Hari would go back home to Swansea and leave us alone.

  ‘Michael!’—I sounded like his mother—‘come and talk to Kate.’ He came at once and draped his arm around my shoulder as he bent over Kate to speak to her. I preened and there was a warm glow inside me. Michael was mine and no one was going to take him away from me. No one, not even my lovely sister Hari, however much she turned on her charms. I met her eyes and she looked away first, and then I knew there was a different feeling between my sister and me. It was probably called jealousy.

  Seventeen

  As Hari drove away from the farmhouse she knew she had felt the attraction again as she’d talked to Michael. He’d bent over her, his big shoulder touching hers, the magnetism between them almost palpable. Aunt Jessie didn’t like it, she made that abundantly clear.

  And there was Meryl, she clearly thought herself in love with Michael but perhaps it did no harm. Meryl was still a child and Michael an honourable man. In any case Jessie would keep a strict eye on things.

  Kate stirred at her side. ‘This is a bumpy road so it is.’ She shifted in her seat and Hari slowed down.

  ‘Sorry, I was going too fast. Habit I suppose.’ Last time she’d driven the jeep it was to take some messages to Bletchley Park in England. She had no idea what the messages contained as they were shut away in a leather bag with a lock on it and she was happy she’d been kept in the dark. She was in enough danger as it was without having secrets to hide. Any German would soon get the truth out of her. With a sharp pain she remembered that Michael was half German but then he was different from the ‘Huns’ and the cruelty they inflicted on civilians with their bombing raids.

  Hari forced her thoughts away from the war. ‘How’s your tummy?’ She glanced down at Kate’s thin figure. Her belly bulged, still swollen, probably still swathed in bandages. Hari was only too aware that Kate was lucky not to have died in the explosion.

  ‘Still sore.’ Kate was listless and no wonder, she’d lost her sight, her baby and the man she loved. To add to her misery, her family had been bombed into oblivion in one of the raids. The only friends she had were Hari and Hilda.

  ‘Do you get on with Eddie’s mother?’ she asked.

  ‘Hilda’s kind,’ Katie said with a sigh. ‘I’m all she’s got left of her son. We share memories of him and it comforts us. She wishes we’d had the baby, a real bit of him but the Holy Mother didn’t will it so.’

  Hari felt tears mist her eyes. ‘You’ll have other children, a new life after the war, you’ll see.’

  Kate tried to be realistic. ‘I only wanted a baby by my Eddie and he’s gone, lost in some bloody field in a foreign land fighting to keep us free.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Changing the subject so I am but do you think Michael is half German?’

  Hari felt a chill run down her spine. ‘No! I’m sure not,’ she said firmly. ‘He would have been deported, sent to the Isle of Wight or where ever they put the Germans. No, I think he’s probably Norwegian.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ Kate said softly. ‘In any case you can’t hate a whole race for what one mad leader is doing.’

  Hari drove in silence for a time as it was getting dark and it took all her concentration to negotiate the winding lanes towards Swansea. And then at last she came off the common with its vast pony-ridden land and saw a glint of the sea and a big white house on the horizon that she knew led to the coast road. She was home and she was glad.

  The next day Hari was back at work; the factory had been quickly cleared up after the explosion but the gaping teeth of blackened wood showed where the shed containing shells had once stood and, as Hari passed it and made her way quickly to the
warmth of her office, she shivered with an icy fear.

  It was a wet day with sullen clouds lying low over the buildings of Bridgend and Hari was glad to be working indoors. Colonel Edwards nodded absently and continued to write in his neat, precise handwriting.

  She sat at her desk, took off her gloves and watched him. He wrote something down in swift, precise handwriting.

  ‘How did you enjoy your trip to the country?’

  ‘Not bad, sir, I took my friend Kate with me, the girl who was in the explosion.’

  ‘All right is she?’

  ‘Kate is blind, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry, fates of war.’ He pushed a piece of paper under her nose. ‘Do your best with this, there’s a good girl.’

  Hari gritted her teeth; he could be so unfeeling at times. Still, he was efficient, and kind sometimes, hadn’t he arranged driving tuition for her? She’d gone through it very quickly, supervised by an army instructor. She could now drive the jeep and any other vehicle she chose.

  Hari bent her head over the paper and began to work out the strange code, one she’d never seen before. She glanced over it. It wasn’t her job to interpret it, it was still in some form of more complicated code, but it was ready now for the colonel.

  Later he came into her office with the familiar pouch of leather.

  ‘An important missive,’ he said, looking at her from under bushy eyebrows. ‘You must take this to the prime minister at once.’

  ‘Winston Churchill, sir?’ Hari had never had such a request before; it was an honour and she knew it. She looked at the colonel; he was pale; this was an important matter of war and she wished she knew what it was but that was not her business.

  In her jeep she secured the chain of the leather pouch to her wrist and struggled for a moment with the intransient gears of the jeep. And then she was on her way home to gather a few belongings: precious soap, a towel and some fresh underclothes.

  Mr Evans was standing outside her door looking up and down the street as if waiting for someone. Hari stepped out of the jeep and touched his arm. ‘What’s wrong, Mr Evans?’