Cousins at War

by Doris Davidson

  In the morning they were given a cooked breakfast, then left to lie in comfort, a welcome break after tramping the moors for the past few days. Neil had time now to think about what he had learned while they had been at Queensbury, a village on a hill between Bradford and Halifax. He had heard of the Marquis of Queensbury of course, whose rules were still being used as a bible in the boxing world, but it had never occurred to him that it was a real place. They had been told that they would be there for four months, two weeks of which would be a hardship course, carried out under battle conditions. Rumours had abounded – someone had heard from someone else who had got it from someone in the village – that all the men on previous schemes had been sent overseas shortly afterwards, and they were ready to believe that, otherwise what was the purpose of the exercise?

  Most of the soldiers, Artillery and Ordnance Corps combined, were pleased at the prospect. The volunteers had volunteered for this alone and had been bored by having to while away their time in preparation for it; the regulars had been waiting to prove their skills in the martial arts they had been taught and had never had a chance to use properly; only those who had wives and children at home were less than thrilled at the prospect of being sent to a foreign country.

  Although it could mean that he wouldn’t see Queenie for a long time, Neil was delighted because the quicker they got stuck in against the enemy, the quicker the war would end. Wherever they were sent, they were prepared to fight to the death and if it meant his death . . . he would have given his life for his country. He didn’t feel morbid about it for it was a risk all servicemen took, and the letter in his pocket would let Queenie know how much he had loved her.

  The rattle of the lunch trolley made him sit up. Breakfast had been quite good, but it hadn’t filled the vacuum caused by not having had a decent meal for days, and he was looking forward to this. Poor old Alf would still be eating survival rations he remembered, a little guiltily, but Alf wouldn’t have cared if it had been the other way round, so why should he? He hadn’t asked to be one of the injured, he’d just been lucky. He hadn’t told Alf how he had been inveigled by Hetty into taking Olive out when he was home, nor that she had been writing to him again, for his pal would likely have said it was the price of him.

  As the empty dishes were being collected, one ‘patient’, a proper wag, remarked, ‘What price the ruddy Dorchester now? And we’ll be here for eight more days.’

  This set some of them off singing, ‘In eight more days and seven more nights, I’ll be out of the calaboose, eight more days and seven more nights, they’re going to turn me loose.’

  The school was far removed from being a prison, run more on the lines of a proper hospital and they all blessed the umpire for having chosen them as victims. Neil did think occasionally about Alf – still engaged in the ‘war’ against the blues, and facing the bitter elements with his usual dry humour and stoicism disguised as complaints – but this was the life and he would enjoy it while it lasted.

  A few weeks passed before Olive found an opportunity to talk privately to Queenie. The Potters were visiting King Street one Sunday afternoon, and Joe suggested that they all go out for a walk. ‘It’s the first sunny day there’s been for ages. I know it’s cold, but it’s not that bad.’

  Everyone agreed to go except Queenie. ‘I’ve some notes to write up for tomorrow, and I need peace to do it.’

  This was Olive’s chance; ‘I’ll stay with you and give you a hand if you get stuck with anything.’

  Hetty gave a laugh, ‘Olive’s not keen on walks, that’s the only reason she’s staying behind.’

  ‘Queenie won’t mind.’ Gracie shepherded the others out in front of her and turned before she closed the door. ‘Make a cup of tea for yourselves, you two, if you want to.’

  Olive waited until her cousin fetched her books from her room and spread them out on the table, ‘I believe Neil took you out when he was home?’

  It didn’t occur to Queenie that the question was anything other than friendly, ‘Yes, to the Palais.’

  ‘Are you expecting him to take you out again next time?’

  Still unsuspecting, Queenie said, ‘I hope so, I enjoyed it last time.’

  ‘It was the last time for you,’ Olive’s top lip curled in a sneer.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you’ll say no if he asks you out again. I’m not having you interfering between us.’

  Queenie remembered then what Patsy had said about Olive’s attachment to Neil but objected to being spoken to in such a manner. ‘If he asks me out, I’ll go,’ she retorted.

  Olive tried another tack, ‘You’ll be wasting your time. He loves me and he said he only took you to the Palais because he was sorry for you.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’ Anger made Queenie defiant. ‘He told me he was glad I wouldn’t be going back to London because he’d never see me and he . . . kissed me before we came upstairs.’

  ‘A cousinly kiss, because he felt sorry for you.’

  ‘It wasn’t cousinly, it was . . .’ Queenie stopped.

  ‘It was what?’ The words came out like a whiplash.

  Goaded into utter indiscretion, Queenie shouted, ‘He took me in his arms and kissed me like . . . it was a proper kiss.’

  Olive’s face was livid now. ‘It’s you that’s telling lies! Neil wouldn’t . . . you don’t know what a proper kiss is.’

  Queenie knew that she had the upper hand. ‘Yes, I do. It’s long and loving, and he was hugging me against him and . . .’

  ‘You must have led him on.’

  ‘He didn’t need to be led on. He wanted to kiss me and he wanted to do more than that.’ Queenie had gone over and over it in her mind and had realised why Neil had stopped.

  Jumping furiously to her feet, Olive shot out her arm and swept everything off the table. ‘You stupid little bitch! I wish you’d never come up here. Nobody wants you!’

  To avoid showing how much this hurt, Queenie bent down to retrieve the scattered books, papers and pencils, but Olive continued, doing her utmost to upset her cousin as much as possible. ‘Patsy hates having to share a bed with you, and Gracie and Joe have to pretend they don’t mind keeping you but they do, only you’re so . . . dense you can’t see it. Neil wouldn’t have asked you to the Palais unless Gracie had told him to take you out of her way for a while.’

  In spite of the cruel things Olive was shouting, Queenie was determined not to give way and spread her textbooks out on the table, laying each one down as if she’d nothing else on her mind. Her studied serenity incensed Olive even more. ‘You’re living in a fool’s paradise, Queenie Ogilvie! You’re the . . . biggest fool I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Have you never looked in the mirror?’ The clever riposte surprised both girls. Queenie had uttered it spontaneously and Olive was speechless at her nerve. ‘You’re as hard as nails,’ she muttered, at last. ‘Not a thing gets through to you, does it? But don’t think you’ll get away with this.’

  Although her inside was bubbling up like a kettle on the boil, Queenie knew that she had won and that she would be wise to stop now, to bottle up the words she wanted to spit out, the tears she had almost shed. Olive’s threat was empty – she could do nothing – and there was no truth in anything she had said. Taking out her fountain pen, Queenie pulled a jotter out of her bag and began to write, noticing out of the corner of her eye and with some satisfaction, that her cousin was hunched up in the armchair glaring at the fire, her scowling face dark and brooding.

  When the others returned, Patsy was the only one who was conscious of the repressed animosity in the room, but could say nothing until she was alone with Queenie in their room. ‘Olive looked a bit huffy, like she’d come off second best at something. What had she been up to?’

  Queenie shrugged, ‘If I tried to find out what was wrong every time Olive was huffy, I’d never be done.’

  ‘Did you get peace to finish your homework?’

  Queenie did not look at
her, ‘Yes, I got everything done.’

  ‘Did you not let Olive help you? That’s maybe why she was annoyed.’

  There was a small intake of breath. ‘She thinks she knows everything, but she’s wrong.’

  Patsy was satisfied that Olive had been offended because her offer of help had been refused and tired, from her walk, she soon fell asleep. Queenie, however, was still taut with the anger she had not had a proper chance to vent. It wasn’t true that Neil felt sorry for her. He hadn’t acted as if he felt sorry for her. He had enjoyed himself as much as she had – and he did like her, in spite of what Olive said. It was Olive he didn’t like. That’s what Patsy had said, and she would rather believe Patsy than that supercilious Olive Potter. Anyway, she would find out when he came home on his next leave. If he didn’t ask her out again she would know that he’d been sorry for her before, but she was almost sure that he would.

  The kiss Neil had given Queenie hadn’t been like the one he had given her, Olive thought in distraction. He had desired her and he wouldn’t desire a girl he didn’t love. For years she had thought she loved him – Alf had been a passing fancy – but that kiss had awakened her emotions properly, and she knew now what love really was. What did Queenie know about a woman’s feelings? She was still a silly young girl, and Neil had likely given her a little peck and she had jumped to the conclusion that he loved her. She didn’t know what a proper kiss was and how it affected a girl’s whole being.

  Olive turned cold. If Neil kept on taking Queenie out and kissed her every time, even lightly, he could easily imagine he was in love with her and that would be disastrous. What could she do? How could she turn him against that sweetie-sweet kid? She’d have to think of a way before he came home again; forget all about making him declare his love for her and concentrate on finding out how he felt about Queenie. It might be that she had made a mountain out of a molehill and was worrying for nothing, but it would be best to make sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Although Neil had not told her that he loved her – not in so many words – Queenie was practically positive that he did. He had asked her out when he was home at the beginning of March, but having thought a lot about Olive’s warning, she refused at first, making the excuse of having to study for her exams in May, and it had been Joe who told her not to be silly. ‘A young lassie shouldn’t be sitting in every night.’

  She was glad that he had persuaded her to change her mind. Being with Neil again had been wonderful, even if she’d been unable to put Olive out of her mind. On their way home from the Palais, Neil had said, ‘You’ve been quiet tonight. Did I say something to annoy you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure something’s wrong – just tell me.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’ But she couldn’t keep up the pretence. ‘Well . . . there is something. Olive said you only took me out because you were sorry for me.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! You shouldn’t believe anything Olive says. She loves making trouble.’

  ‘It wasn’t true, then?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I did feel sorry for you when your mum and dad were killed, but that was the only time. I wanted to get you on your own, to get to know the kind of girl you were away from the house and I enjoyed being with you, couldn’t you tell?’

  ‘I hoped you did but I wasn’t sure, then Olive said . . .’

  ‘Damn and blast Olive! I only take her out because . . . well, Hetty asked me. Just till she gets another boyfriend.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘As sure as I’m standing here – walking here,’ he added with a grin. ‘So come on, let me see you’re still my girl.’

  The tender look in his eyes had told her that he was only half joking, and recalling how he had stroked her hair as he kissed her – such gentle, loving kisses – Queenie knew that it wouldn’t have taken much for him to say that he meant it, that he did look on her as his girl. It would have been much better if he had told her he loved her, but he would surely tell her the next time he came home.

  Feeling quite let down because they had been sent back near Alnwick after their leave, with no prospect of going abroad, Neil lay on his bed to think about what had happened when he was home. He hadn’t meant to ask either of his cousins out, but Hetty had slipped him some money with a pleading look and he had been forced to make a date with Olive. Nobody had forced him to ask Queenie out, he just hadn’t had the willpower not to. He was certain now that she loved him as much as he loved her, but he hadn’t said anything to her because she was still only sixteen. In any case, he had the feeling his mother would be against it – she often reminded him that Queenie was his cousin – but what did that matter when they loved each other? The real fly in the ointment was Olive and he wished he had the courage to tell Hetty that the deal was off, that Olive had no intention of looking for another lad. She had seemed shocked when he told her off for being nasty to Queenie and had sworn blind that she hadn’t done any such thing and, while he couldn’t altogether believe her, he did wonder if Queenie had misunderstood her.

  He was ashamed at the way he had kissed Olive before and had been relieved that she’d been more subdued this time and hadn’t expected him to do it again. Her letters since he came back had been chatty and humorous – maybe she was growing up at last. After all, she was nineteen now.

  Olive Potter was in a very bad humour. She should never have let Polly persuade her to go the auditions for the Students’ Show. It was so humiliating that she’d felt like walking out after the first five minutes, but they wouldn’t believe her protests that she would feel a fool cavorting on stage in a skimpy costume and it had taken over an hour to convince them that she was serious. It was after eight and very dark when she reached the tram stop outside Falconer’s store, her coat already soaked by the lashing rain. There was a long queue and water dripped on to her shoulder off the umbrella of the woman in front but she was past caring. She had to think. Queenie had gone out with Neil again in spite of the warning, and had told him what she, Olive, had said. She had denied it, of course, when Neil accused her, but she wasn’t sure that he believed her. Worse even than that, it had been horribly clear that he cared for Queenie a lot more than he had ever done for her. It must be stopped.

  Having been jostled by several people hurrying home to get out of the rain and thinking dourly that nobody ever gave an apology, Olive lifted her head in surprise when a young man said, ‘Oops! Sorry.’ About to say that it didn’t matter, she suddenly recognised the girl walking alongside him. Queenie! It was just as well that her cousin was too busy talking to the boy to look round, for she didn’t believe she could have been civil to her. The two young people were soon swallowed up in the darkness of the dreich March night, but Olive was juggling with an idea that had occurred to her. They had not been holding hands, nor walking arm-in-arm, but Queenie had been with a boy! It was all Olive needed and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  When the tram pulled up, the conductor’s arm barred Olive from boarding. ‘Next tram, please,’ he called, giving three bells to the driver to show that the vehicle was full, and she didn’t feel in the least annoyed. She was first in the queue now and it gave her more time to figure out what she could write to Neil to put him off Queenie. Just saying that she’d been walking with a boy wouldn’t do; it had to be much stronger than that. . . much more condemning.

  When another letter from Olive arrived, Neil opened it with expectations of being amused by more tales about patients in Cornhill Mental Hospital, where she had to spend some of her time as part of her medical training, but his smile vanished when he read what she had written.

  15 March, 1942

  Dear Neil,

  Here I am again, though I haven’t time to write much. I’m kept busy at home writing theses for Medical School, but not too busy to write to you. I’m looking forward to seeing you, as always.

  I’ve been wondering if I should tell you this and please don’t think I’m doing it
out of spite but I feel it’s my duty to let you know. I was waiting for a tram tonight outside Falconer’s and I saw Queenie with a boy. I thought it was somebody she knew casually but they disappeared into the Adelphi – you know, the dark little alley that goes through on to Market Street? I thought they might be taking a short cut, though it’s not on her way home, but they weren’t. This is difficult for me to write because you’ll think I was spying on her, but I wasn’t. I know you like to keep an eye on her, and I wanted to make sure there was nothing funny going on, so I ran along to the top of Market Street but they didn’t come out farther down, and I ran back to the Adelphi. I won’t go into the graphic details of what I saw, but I can tell you that Queenie isn’t a virgin any longer. I’m sorry if this shocks you, but it’s better to know these things, isn’t it? Please don’t let her know that I’ve told you, because she would never forgive me.

  Now, I’ll get on to something cheerier.

  Sickened, Neil read no further. Nothing would cheer him now, and even Olive wouldn’t stoop so low as put something like that down on paper if it wasn’t true. What a fool he’d been to trust Queenie. Ripping the letter and envelope into small shreds, he stuffed them into a rubbish receptacle on his way to the workshop, thankful that he’d be busy over the next few hours, which might keep his mind off it. He wouldn’t let Queenie know that Olive had told him – he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of laughing at him. To hell with her. From now on he’d paint the town red. Any floozie would do if she gave him what he wanted for he’d been too long without it, and all for a worthless tart who opened her legs to the very first boy who asked . . . or had that one not been the first?

  It gnawed at Neil’s mind for days yet even when Alf asked what was bothering him, he couldn’t speak about it. His stomach heaved when he thought of what Queenie had done – he knew he should stop thinking about it but he couldn’t – and his anguish increased until it was almost more than he could bear. It came as something of a relief, therefore, when Alf said one afternoon, ‘That’s the third time you’ve put back the plugs on that ruddy truck without looking at them. Don’t tell me love has grabbed you by the balls at last?’