by S Block
Frances sat at the head of her own dining table and looked at the faces of her inner circle: Steph, Teresa, Sarah, Miriam, Erica and Pat. But not Alison, her absence causing Frances a small twinge of regret, eliciting a sigh and an instruction to herself not to dwell.
What’s done is done. Move on.
‘I called this meeting, ladies, to discuss what seems to be a developing situation. Clearly, if the Luftwaffe stopped bombing Liverpool and the north-west today the issue would literally disappear overnight. But that seems like extraordinarily wishful thinking. The Germans are hell-bent on razing the city to the ground in much the same way as they seem hell-bent on levelling London. Bombing the world into submission seems to be Hitler’s favourite military strategy. That said, before we get too hot under the collar about the presence of city folk in our midst, we first need to establish whether this is a phenomenon that should cause us real concern.’
Miriam raised her hand to speak.
‘I think it very much will cause us concern.’
‘Very well. Why do you think that, Miriam?’
‘One or two have started coming in the shop to buy meat with their ration books.’
Steph frowned. ‘That’s allowed, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Bryn asked why they don’t buy closer to home and was told it’s increasingly difficult when butcher’s shops are getting hit by the Germans, alongside everything else.’
Teresa didn’t quite see the problem. Being Liverpudlian her natural inclination was to spring to the defence of her people.
‘That certainly chimes with what I’ve been hearing,’ she said. ‘But if they can’t find meat to buy at home why shouldn’t they buy meat here?’
Frances turned back to Miriam.
‘Is there an issue with the trekkers buying meat from Brindsley’s, Mim?’
‘Not at the moment, because there haven’t been many of them. But should the numbers increase we might have problems meeting demand.’
‘In that case you’d prioritise regular customers,’ said Steph, assuming the solution was quite straightforward. ‘Isn’t Brindsley’s there to serve Great Paxfordians first?’
‘We might want to,’ said Miriam, ‘but it might be impractical. Imagine you’re one of these trekkers who can’t get meat in Liverpool, and you’re standing in line at ours, and David or Bryn says, “Sorry, love, I can’t serve you but I can serve the person standing right behind you.” You can imagine the reaction, given they know we’re meant to serve anyone with a ration book. Puts us in a very tricky spot. Bryn can handle himself if things get out of hand, but not David, with the injuries he got when his ship went down. It’s a growing worry, I can tell you.’
The other women round the table looked at one another. Until now, any fears they had harboured about the trekkers had been fairly abstract. Miriam’s were not. Soon, unless the situation was brought under control, theirs might not be either.
Sarah generally hung back in discussions of this nature, often feeling that people rushed to judgement too early. She would have stayed silent longer had she not already given the issue some consideration after seeing a trekker family make camp around the back of the church three nights ago.
‘I believe a similar issue might arise concerning the air-raid shelter,’ she said.
The others looked at Sarah with interest. She was renowned for her calm common sense.
‘The shelter here was created with the village in mind. Specifically, for the villagers. What happens during an air raid when these people are out in the open? Do we say, “Sorry, but there’s no room for you here,” and leave them to their fate? If Adam were here, he would have something very forceful to say about that.’
‘We could put them in the crypt,’ said Miriam. She didn’t see there was much of an argument.
‘The crypt was decreed unsuitable as a village shelter,’ said Frances. ‘Are we happy to say it’s not good enough for Great Paxfordians but it’s fine for anyone else?’
‘We can only do what we can,’ said Steph.
Sarah looked at the others, slightly irritated her point was being missed.
‘I fully accept that. But what if the trekkers won’t accept it. Turning away potential customers in your shop, Mim, because there’s a limit to how much meat you can sell is not the same as turning away terrified people from our shelter with the sirens blaring. Don’t forget, these people are already so frightened they routinely abandon their own homes every night to seek safety out here. Some or all may not be in a fit state to be reasoned with – if it’s even possible to talk “reasonably” about denying others protection from aerial bombardment.’
‘And we don’t know them,’ said Mim. ‘We know everyone who comes into our shelter, but we don’t know them. We know nothing about them. Nothing at all. I think we’re asking for trouble to expect the village to sit cooped up with a bunch of strangers for hours on end.’
The other women looked at Miriam and nodded. Sarah sighed pointedly.
‘What choice would we have?’
Frances looked at her sister with deep admiration. Whether it was to do with taking Noah in, or helping Frances come to terms with all the consequences resulting from Peter’s death, Sarah had an innate ability to isolate the moral nub of an argument.
‘Shouldn’t we have more faith in our ability to accommodate these people safely, without getting carried away with phantom anxieties? We’re at war, ladies. We pull together. We help one another. As a village. As a country. It’s what civilised people do.’
‘We could take some into the shelter, I suppose, if we had space,’ Miriam conceded.
‘How would we choose which ones?’ said Sarah, continuing to interrogate the issue.
‘Children first?’ Pat suggested.
‘What if we only had space for some children but not all?’ Sarah persisted. ‘Which children? The youngest? The most scared?’
‘First come first served,’ said Miriam, feeling this generally settled most questions of prioritisation in the shop.
Sarah nodded. ‘That might work in the shop, but . . . turning people away from your shop is hardly a life-and-death situation, Mim.’
‘It is if you’re gasping for a bacon buttie,’ said Teresa. The others laughed at the joke, glad of some light relief.
Frances turned to Erica, who hadn’t spoken since the meeting opened.
‘What do you think, Erica?’
Erica didn’t answer. She’d barely heard the question. She had been too immersed in thinking about Will to register any of the discussion taking place around her.
‘Erica?’ repeated Frances softly.
Erica looked up.
‘You’ve been very quiet, dear. What do you think?’ Frances asked.
Erica looked round the table. The other women regarded her with growing consternation, sensing something might be wrong.
‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
Erica smiled unconvincingly and hoped Frances would move the discussion on to someone else. But she didn’t. Frances was sitting closest of all the women to Erica, and could see that below the table, out of sight of the others, and despite holding them tightly together, Erica’s hands were trembling fiercely.
‘Erica. Is everything all right?’
Erica looked at Frances.
Why did you have to ask me that? Why didn’t you continue to talk about whatever you were all talking about before? Because now I have to answer, and I’d sooner not because once I do . . . everything changes.
‘Will . . . ’ Erica said flatly.
‘Will?’ said Frances. ‘What about him?’
Erica looked at Frances.
Say the words, Erica.
‘He’s dying.’
She heard someone gasp to her left. Probably Teresa.
‘He’s been unwell for some time. And then the crash—’
She couldn’t continue. The women stared at her in shock.
‘What do you mean, “he’s dying”?’ asked Miriam.
>
Erica put both hands to her face, covering her eyes, and sat there like that.
Help me, help me, help me . . .
Sarah was first to her feet, crossing to Erica to put her arms round her. Next came Steph, who rested her hands on Erica’s shoulders and laid her head against hers. Then Pat and Miriam rose and crossed the room to Erica, adding to the embrace. Teresa was next, kneeling beside Erica and taking her hands. Held in their embrace, Erica began to sob.
Frances stood and looked at the women cocooning Erica, offering their strength and support while she wept. Peter had died suddenly, giving Frances no time to prepare. Everything about that event, and everything arising from it, had turned Frances’s life on its head. She had only just started to find a clear path through it all. She needed more time before she was ready to absorb more tragedy. But war compresses time, and the human brain can barely keep up, clinging to certain constants we hope will see us through to when the fighting stops.
Will Campbell had been one of the solid constants of village life. If you were ailing, Doc Campbell got you through. He was regarded as one of the pillars of Great Paxford, holding the village together day after day, getting everyone through. The revelation about his imminent demise shocked every woman present.
Frances looked at the women holding on to Erica, as they had once held on to her at Peter’s funeral, keeping her on her feet.
I can help you prepare.
Frances rested her hand on Erica’s shoulder and lowered her face to the side of her head.
‘You’re not alone,’ she said quietly. ‘Never alone.’
Chapter 32
Teresa arrived home from the committee meeting at Frances’s house, only to be disappointed not to see Nick’s car already outside. She was eager to tell him her first piece of significant news since they’d been married, and was interested in his thoughts about Erica’s revelation concerning the declining state of Will’s health. Teresa had been as deeply upset as any of the women in the room at the time, and hoped that discussing what had happened with Nick would give her a sense of perspective on the situation, not to mention the solace of a problem shared. After all, wasn’t sharing views, thoughts and feelings how husbands and wives established common ground? She and Nick talked every day, but almost exclusively about things that happened at the RAF station or at school – though while Teresa was free to talk about anything that happened at work, Nick was often unable to reveal a great deal about what took place at the RAF station. That said, Erica’s breakdown in front of her closest friends was far from work-related chit-chat, and Teresa was interested to hear what Nick thought about it. The news had been profoundly shocking. Teresa wanted to discuss it with her husband.
As a man in charge of men who face death many times, Nick constantly deals with extreme emotion. His insights might be very helpful.
At any given moment, Teresa liked knowing what was going to happen over the course of the next few hours. It meant she didn’t have to worry about the unexpected. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed teaching. If you planned things properly, as she always did, there should be no unpleasant surprises. Consequently, Teresa planned to spend much of the evening discussing Will and Erica with Nick, and then mention what she had learned about the trekkers. She looked forward to having a long, serious conversation with Nick about weighty issues, and felt confident it was an aspect of marriage at which she would excel.
Teresa entered the house and called out Nick’s name on the off-chance he had been dropped off by his driver, Tom. Nick didn’t answer, and his coat and cap were not hanging on the peg by the front door. She hung up her own coat and hat and went through to the kitchen to put on the white apron with a wildflower print on the front – a wedding gift from a relative. Teresa had never previously bothered with an apron when cooking, and didn’t much like the pattern on this one. But she had never cooked in earnest before, and it had been useful to have an apron to defend her clothes against the range of splashes and spills that accompanied culinary experimentation. She didn’t enjoy the sensation of tying herself into the apron, but gave herself over to it. Nick said he liked it, telling Teresa it made her look maternal. The word had sent a little shock wave through her. Their new home was comfortable, with modern furniture and colourful wallpapers. But there was nothing about it yet that suggested it was a home-in-waiting for children. Teresa had tried to laugh away Nick’s ‘maternal’ comment by pretending to scold him for suggesting the apron made her look like ‘his mother’. By the time Nick had explained that wasn’t what he meant at all, his attempt to gently reintroduce a conversation about starting a family had been scuppered. Teresa had breathed a small sigh of relief, but she knew he would return to the topic at some point. She just hoped it wouldn’t be soon.
But why wouldn’t it begin to preoccupy him? Why else did people marry unless to have a family? The war hasn’t turned everyone against bringing children into the world. A lot of people take it as a sign that life is short and unpredictable, so they’d better get on with it.
It wasn’t that Teresa had ever consciously decided that she didn’t want children of her own, more that she believed children were out of reach for women like her. She had carried that assumption into her marriage to Nick, until Alison raised it one day.
‘You’ll have children, of course.’
‘Will I?’
‘I expect Nick will want a family, don’t you?’
‘You and George didn’t.’
‘If he had survived the war I’m sure we would have. We often spoke of it. Nick will want a family with you, Teresa. I guarantee.’
When left alone to think about the possibility, it hadn’t alarmed Teresa as much as she thought it might. She adored children, and had made their education her vocation. To her surprise, when she did give the possibility some thought, the prospect of having her own children excited her.
But only when I feel completely ready. Events must happen in the correct order. One thing naturally leading to another. I have to prove I can make a success of marriage. It wouldn’t be fair to Nick, or to any child we might have.
Marriage had been a huge step for Teresa to take, and she needed to feel it would endure before she could justify becoming pregnant. It would mean giving up teaching, though she knew it was possible she would have to give it up simply for being married and taking up a position that could be given to men too old to fight. She had discussed all of this with Nick, stating that she didn’t wish to fall pregnant while the war was ongoing when the possibility existed that something terrible could happen to him, leaving any children he left behind to grow up fatherless. Nick had joked that he could just as easily be hit by a bus in peacetime as a Messerschmitt in war, but understood Teresa’s concerns, and agreed to follow the rhythm method for the time being.
Tonight, Teresa had decided to cook something simple. Not only because something simple offered her the best chance of cooking something edible, but because she didn’t want a sudden breakthrough in her culinary skills to amaze Nick so much that it interfered with their conversations about Will Campbell, and the trekkers. She settled on soup.
You can’t go wrong with soup. Nobody knows what’s meant to be in it so it’s nicely open to interpretation. As far as I can see, soup has few rules. It’s very difficult for anyone to be disappointed that soup failed to meet their expectations because most people’s expectation of soup is low. Because it’s just all sorts, mixed together. And as it isn’t a thing in its own right, as long as it has enough salt it’s difficult to mess up. Easy. Even I can make soup. I have made soup, many times. No one died. People actually finished it. More or less.
Teresa was chopping the last carrot to go into the saucepan when she heard Nick’s car pull up outside. Now she had in mind to tell Nick about Will and the trekkers over supper, she was slightly disappointed he’d arrived back before she was ready for him. Her schedule was based on Nick returning home just before supper, but not too much before, since that would leave the
m with too much time to fill with conversation before supper itself. She wanted them sitting down when she told him what had happened at Frances Barden’s house. She wanted Nick to give the matter his serious consideration, across the kitchen table. Like a real married couple. She wondered if other women found married life so complicated.
Still chopping, she heard the front door open.
‘Teresa?’
She smiled every time he called her name when he returned home. Each time he sounded excited. It was lovely to be anticipated without fail.
‘Kitchen!’ she chirruped back, already comfortable with the conversational short cuts used by married couples. Kitchen! Upstairs! Garden! Love you! You too!
She turned as he opened the door, and smiled at his very handsome face, beaming from under the peak of his RAF cap. She sometimes thought he looked like an American film star in his uniform. It fitted him so well, and vice versa.
‘I’ve brought someone back,’ he said.
Teresa must have frowned slightly, because Nick then asked, ‘Is that a problem?’
Inasmuch as it disrupted her plans for the evening it was a problem, but Teresa swiftly calculated it needn’t be an insurmountable one. If the guest was staying for supper, then she could tell them both about Will. If the guest wasn’t staying for supper then Teresa could wait until they’d gone before talking to Nick as planned, over soup.
‘Not at all. Who is it?’ she said a little more loudly than necessary, hoping her cheery tone would travel into the hall and welcome their guest.
Nick had brought officer colleagues back for supper on a few occasions since they’d moved in. They were usually unmarried young men with their nerves on edge after too many sorties against Luftwaffe bombers and their fighter escorts. All of them benefited from a few hours away from the RAF. Teresa had been fond of them all, even the near-silent ones. She had a graphic sense of what combat was like from Nick, who would whisper answers to her careful questions in bed, while she held him. Teresa found herself awed in the company of these extraordinarily brave young men, some no more than teenagers. They had all undertaken and witnessed such unimaginably terrible things. Teresa’s admiration for the young pilots Nick brought to their kitchen table was always fringed with sorrow, knowing the odds were stacked against seeing them again. When she thought about the dead pilot she had watched being carefully lifted from the Spitfire cockpit on her wedding day, Teresa tried to shut out the idea that one of her young guests from Tabley Wood might meet a similar fate. Or a much worse one. Each tried so hard to be cheerful and good company.