by Carol Rivers
‘I’ll go.’ Connie took off her apron.
‘Miss Marsh – Miss Connie Marsh?’ A tall, distinguished-looking man wearing an officer’s hat and an elegant moustache that grew like a butterfly across his lip smiled down at her.
‘Yes.’
‘May I introduce myself?’ He took off his flat cap. ‘I’m Major Adrian Rees-Duncan from GHO . . . er . . . that is, Government Headquarters Overseas. I wonder if I could have a word?’
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. I’ve just had a chat with Mrs Grant, who directed me here.’
‘Pat?’ Connie began to be alarmed. ‘It’s not Laurie, is it?’
‘No, no, it’s not.’ He shook his head ponderously and a shock of light brown hair slipped over his forehead. James let out a great bawl from the kitchen and he glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think we should speak privately, if you don’t mind.’
If she hadn’t felt so worried about what he wanted, Connie would have laughed. Privacy was something you wouldn’t find at number thirty-three Kettle Street, or, in fact, in any other house still standing on the Isle of Dogs.
‘Perhaps . . . my car?’ the Major suggested as the men came striding up the garden path, politely nodding as Ebbie and Kevin made their way towards them.
‘What’s going on?’ Ebbie demanded as Connie grabbed her coat off the hook.
‘I . . . I don’t know, Dad. I’ll tell you in a minute.’
‘You ain’t going off in that thing, are you?’
‘No. I’m only going to talk in it.’
Connie hurried after the major, who opened the rear door of the big black car. She climbed inside, inhaling the not unpleasant but rather formal smell of cigar smoke and polished upholstery. The watery November sun played through the big back window, giving the atmosphere an unrealistic quality.
‘What is it?’ Connie stammered as she moved across and he sat beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
The major smiled. ‘Nothing, nothing at all, but what I have to tell you may come as something of a shock.’
Connie’s mouth felt dry. She clenched her hands in her lap.
‘Miss Marsh, I am pleased to be able to tell you that your fiancé, Lieutenant Victor Champion . . . is alive.’
Connie stared at him. Was he joking?
‘But I must add, after building up your hopes, that he is still in enemy-occupied territory. Italy to be precise.’
‘Italy!’ Connie exclaimed hoarsely. ‘But I was told there were no survivors from his ship.’
‘Yes, and that was what we, too, believed, until our sources discovered that your fiancé was recovered from the sea and taken as a prisoner of war to a concentration camp on the Adriatic coast of Italy. Here he recovered from the wounds he had sustained and eventually escaped into the foothills. He joined a number of partisan fighters and continues to this day to oppose the Fascist militia. The longevity of his group, despite unavoidable casualties, is partly due to the fact that the terrain in this area is miserably inhospitable but virtually inaccessible to German troops. Your fiancé, in effect, is now our number one contact inside enemy lines.’
Connie shook her head slowly. After a moment’s silence, she whispered, ‘Are you sure this man is Vic?’
The major smiled again. ‘In August of this year our reconnaissance made radio contact with Italian resistance. We formed strategies in order to penetrate behind enemy lines. Our first task was to parachute men and arms into Italy under the cover of darkness and this we did successfully, thanks to the support and information provided by Lieutenant Champion and his group.’
Connie tried to absorb the details the major had given her. The only question she could think of to ask was, ‘When will he be coming home?’
‘Sadly, I can’t say.’ The Major frowned. ‘You see, your fiancé remains – voluntarily – in Italy. We could get him out now, if he so wished, but he’s chosen to stay and help the people who have helped him – and us – in our fight against the enemy.’
Connie felt a stab of dismay as tears sprang to her eyes. Why hadn’t he chosen to come to home to her? Hadn’t he given enough to his country? They had both endured the torment of being apart and, in her case, even believing he was dead!
‘Miss Marsh, I know how painful his decision must be for you to accept. But may I remind you of something you undoubtedly know? Lieutenant Champion is a very brave man indeed. He is unique in his determination and strength of character and is now invaluable to British Intelligence. Would you really expect any less of him when faced with such a choice?’
Connie looked into his eyes and knew that she wouldn’t. She was being selfish in wanting Vic’s return, but then she was only human and her heart was aching in a very human way. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ She quickly wiped a tear from her eye.
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. And all we have discussed must be kept in the strictest of confidence. Lives depend on the fact that nothing is leaked, not even the slightest word.’
‘Did you tell Pat when you saw her?’
‘Only that her brother is alive.’
‘She must be so happy—’ Connie stopped mid-sentence as a thought struck her. ‘You needn’t have told us, need you?’ she breathed haltingly. ‘You could have let us go on thinking he was dead.’
The major nodded slowly, quirking an eyebrow. ‘Your fiancé had one request, and I vowed to honour it personally. That is why I am here today and have told you all I am able to.’
Connie’s face suddenly filled with joy. ‘He mentioned me?’
The major smiled but said nothing.
‘Can I tell the rest of my family?’
‘Yes, but not where – or how. Only that he did not go down with his ship. I’m sorry, but in your fiancé’s case, and that of the men working with him, silence is truly golden.’
Connie looked at the man who half an hour ago had not existed in her life. ‘So I’ll just have to wait until the war is over?
He smiled gently. ‘With God’s grace, we are winning, Miss Marsh. Hold on to that hope.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m very glad – and honoured – to have met you.’
Connie watched the sleek vehicle glide away into the thickening November mist. She wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh. She wanted to jump for joy and run through the houses telling everyone Vic was alive. No one knew if the V2 menace would strengthen the sting in the enemy’s tail. No one knew what would happen in Europe or in the Far East. But the major had told her to hang on to hope. And that was what she was going to do.
After the car had driven away, she walked slowly back into the house. She pushed open the front-room door. Her family gazed up at her from the big oval table where all the dirty plates were stacked in a pile, knives and forks balanced on top of them. Olive was dishing the pudding into bowls, an unrecognizable pile on to which Sylvie was pouring condensed cream. Kevin and her father were waiting for seconds, their faces anxious as they stared up at her.
‘Well?’ they all shouted at once. ‘What happened?’
Connie felt tears spring to her eyes once more. Her dad leaped from his chair and hugged her.
‘What’s wrong, love, what is it?’
‘He’s alive, Dad. Vic’s alive.’
Suddenly she was surrounded, the questions coming from all angles. How dearly she longed to be able to share her news. How much she wanted the war to be over when she could shout from the rooftops that her sweetheart was coming home.
Amidst tears and laughter Connie promised herself she would never lose hope again. She believed that her love had kept him safe and that same love, tenfold in its strength now, would bring him back safely into her loving arms once more.
Epilogue
June 1954
Vic took a long, slow breath and leaned his arms on the polished oak rails of the cross-channel ferry. The warm sun played on his neck and burned into the cloth of his sports coat. The spray that had moistened his face as he’d ga
zed over port side was drying on his cheeks, highlighting the slim white scar that began in the centre of his forehead and disappeared under a shock of thick dark hair.
His mind far away, he gazed at the disappearing white cliffs of Dover and his hand went up involuntarily to stroke the pale, twisting thread. Sliding his fingers along to the triangular bump on the pinnacle of his skull he massaged the hard contours. Immediately pictures flew up before his eyes as they did every time he performed this unintentional ritual. After Georgie had died, he’d not noticed the shard of metal sticking up from his own crown, not felt a flicker of pain. He’d been too busy trying not to drown, too occupied in clinging to the wreckage of his little ship and watching it sink before his eyes; listening to the gurgle of water gulp and groan and the metal creak, until nothing was left above the waves. Nothing, that was, of his remaining crew, of the brave lives they had lived and the courage they had shown.
Why had he survived and not them? Why hadn’t he sunk to the bottom of the ocean on that sad Sicilian shore? What or who had given him life in the face of death? He’d tried to understand, tried even harder to justify his survival, but even the years he’d spent as a partisan hadn’t lessened the guilt he felt. Not even when he’d been repatriated and crossed this same strip of water in a navy cruiser just after VE Day, not even then had he felt justified in walking on English soil once more. Georgie, Tommy Drew, Sammy Kite, they were all gone. Billy too . . .
Vic looked down into the foamy white wake, a healthy sea filled only with fish and the keels of friendly vessels. His eyes skimmed the dancing water and swooping gulls, lifting to the bright blue sky over Dover. He remembered how good it had felt nine years ago to see those liberated cliffs. To inhale the pure air and know that, in the end, the struggle for freedom had been worth it. That Georgie and Billy and the others hadn’t died in vain.
But it wasn’t until he’d taken Connie in his arms and pressed his lips against hers that he dared to hope it was all real. That he was home again and it was finished. It was over.
‘Darling?’
Vic swung round. Connie stood before him, as lovely as the day he’d first met her. Age had delicately added a wise beauty to her features, deepening the colour of her eyes, a thousand shades more intense than the blue of the sea. Her blond waves blew in the breeze over the collar of her shirtwaister dress. She took his hands, placing them on her slim hips hidden elegantly under the fashionable sheath skirt.
‘It’s beautiful up here,’ she whispered. ‘But lonely.’
He held her face in his hands. ‘Not now you’re with me.’
She gave a little tremble and he pulled her against him. ‘What’s wrong?’
She laid her cheek on his chest. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to get upset when we see his grave.’
‘We’ll be with you.’
She sighed softly. ‘I just can’t believe he’s gone sometimes. Billy was so full of life.’
Vic looked into her eyes. ‘He died a hero, Con. Imagine that. A posthumous medal an’ all. Now that’s serious business.’
Her soft mouth curved into a wry smile. ‘Hark who’s talking. You had yours pinned to your chest by the king. I still haven’t got over finding myself in Buckingham Palace in that room with all those oil paintings in gold frames and big red velvet chairs. Mum and Dad still go on about it even now.’
‘It should’ve been Georgie and the others there – not me.’
‘They were with you, you just couldn’t see them.’
He grinned. ‘Now I can hear Gran talking.’
‘Well, she was there too, although I doubt she’d have agreed to curtsy, more like she’d have sat on one of those posh chairs and asked for a cup of tea. Served in best china, mind.’
They laughed softly, swaying in the breeze, their arms around one another. ‘There’ll be so many other graves,’ she said suddenly. ‘How will we know where he is?’
‘Don’t worry, they’ll show us.’
‘Is Normandy far from Calais?’
‘Not as the crow flies. We’ll stop the car halfway and find somewhere to eat.’
‘Don’t forget, we’ve got to drive on the opposite side.’
Vic chuckled. ‘Reckon we won’t be the first British to make a mistake or two. Now tell me, what’s it like being the wife of a successful businessman?’
Connie arched her fine eyebrows. ‘Hark at it! Is that what you call yourself these days? Well, don’t let it go to your head, Victor Champion. I’m still wondering when I’m going to get those nice new shoes I asked for about a year ago!’
‘A year?’ He looked mortified. ‘Was it that long ago?’
‘No, it was only a month, actually. But I’m putting in me order before the queue gets any longer.’
‘As if I’d see my lovely wife standing in a queue!’ He shook her gently and they laughed again. If anyone had told him when he was a nipper that he would end up a shoemaker, he’d have laughed his head off. But his Italian friends had taught him a thing or two about cobbling and making boots for the partisans, a skill that had set him up for life. He’d opened two workshops now, in Poplar and Stepney, and planned a third near the city centre. The world and his wife wanted good shoes – they never went out of fashion. It was hard to imagine that he’d learned his skills in the foothills of an Italian mountain range, hammering out goatskins!
‘I always thought you’d go back to sea, you know,’ she murmured as they began to walk arm in arm along the deck. ‘I thought you couldn’t resist it. The PLA wanted you back and you loved the docks . . .’
‘I loved you and the kids more.’
She stopped and the big ship rolled gently. ‘It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, it did.’ The silver tail on his forehead disappeared into the furrows of a frown as he spoke hesitantly. ‘Con, I know this trip is to see Billy, like we always said we’d do when we could afford it. But coming away like this has made me think. We should have a few good holidays now the business is doing all right. What I mean is, how about somewhere like Switzerland later this year?’
‘Switzerland!’ Connie gasped.
Vic nodded. ‘Kev’s been with me two years now. He knows the ropes.’
She gave a little cry of delight. ‘Oh, Vic, that’d be lovely.’
‘We could buy a tent, have a camping holiday if that’s what the kids fancy.’
She nodded eagerly. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Course I do. Everyone’s going abroad these days. Besides, Lucky’ll be fifteen soon. He’ll be wanting to get off with his mates. I’d like him to remember one or two good holidays, not just bed and breakfast in Margate with the twins and Pat and the kids. I want to make special memories like this with just the four of us.’
Connie looked into his eyes. ‘You’re a wonderful dad, the best.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, I try to be.’
‘Say that again . . . our word . . .’
Slowly he lowered his head and murmured against her lips, ‘My darling sweetheart . . .’ He kissed her longingly.
‘Mum! Dad!’
A tall fair-haired young lad came bounding towards them. He was accompanied by a girl half his size dressed in a blue gingham dress. She had Connie’s big blue eyes and long, light brown hair tied in a pony tail. His son and daughter were the apple of his eye. His adopted son, Victor Junior, more often than not still called Lucky, and his seven-year-old daughter, Alice.
‘Look in my bag!’ cried Alice. ‘We’ve bought funny cards for Grandad and Grandma, a stick of rock each for the twins. And a packet of stamps for Larry’s album. Oh, and a bottle of eau de cologne for Grace. Now she’s got a boyfriend she wants to smell nice.’
Connie looked impressed. ‘I hope you practised your French.’
Alice looked up at her brother. ‘Lucky did.’
The handsome young man of fourteen blushed above his white, open-necked shirt. He was as tall as his mother now and dressed in smart gre
y flannels and a navy blue blazer. ‘I only tried out a bit but the lady seemed to understand me.’
‘I said merci bucket,’ giggled Alice shyly.
‘Did you now?’ Her father grinned. ‘Well, even your old dad might try a word or two of the vernacular when we dock at Calais. I’ll start with a quick bonjour mademoiselle to the nearest gendarme.’
Alice slapped her father playfully on the arm. ‘Don’t be daft, Dad. A gendarme’s not a lady. He’s a French policeman.’
Vic smirked. ‘Clever clogs.’
‘So you’ve both spent all your pocket money?’ Connie concluded ruefully.
Alice tutted. ‘No, course not, Mum. We’ve still got to get Auntie Sylvie and Uncle Kev their souvenirs. And Auntie Pat and Uncle Laurie’s stinky cheese. And then there’s Nan and Lofty, who said they want something nice for their new house in the country.’
Connie grinned. ‘It’s not the country, love, not really. It’s called Osterley Park, in Middlesex. And it’s not a house but a flat that’s built specially for older folk.’
‘Is that where you and Dad are going to live when you’re old?’
‘Certainly not!’ Vic exclaimed, wheeling his daughter forward along the deck. ‘Your mum and me are going to live right where we’ve always lived, in our nice big house on the island, right by the river.’ He pulled her pony tail. ‘And as far as getting old is concerned, why, we’re only spring chickens yet. In fact, I’ll have you know we’re off to Switzerland very soon, so there!’
Lucky turned to stare at his father. ‘You’re joking, Dad!’
‘Not on your nelly.’
‘Where’s Switzerland?’ Alice asked.
‘Turn left after France.’ Vic strolled on casually. ‘I’m taking your mum up a mountain. Now what do you think of that?’
‘What, without us?’
Vic shrugged. ‘Well you two wouldn’t be interested, not in climbing right up to the top in all that snow and getting all puffed out and moaning that we forced every step out of you.’
Alice jumped in front of him, her freckles glowing. ‘Lucky and me never moan. We’d only do that if we was left behind.’