Keep the Home Fires Burning

by S Block

  Passing through the church door, Pat saw a line of refugees waiting patiently for food in the dimly lit interior. Knowing they would receive supper in Great Paxford meant they no longer had to carry food and pots and crockery and cutlery out of the city, lightening their loads considerably. They seemed genuinely grateful for what they were given, and took their bowls to the pews, where they sat and quietly ate. The branch had held a competition to devise the most appetising recipes from the non-rationed food at their disposal, which meant the variety of vegetable soups from one day to the next all tasted good. What conversation there was emerged as an ecumenical murmur. Pat smiled to herself at the effect on everyone present of the imposing figure of the crucified Christ carved in dark wood, looking down from above the altar.

  If Jesus hadn’t been the son of God he would have made an excellent librarian. No need to shush anyone. A single look from those eyes and any chatterbox would fall silent immediately.

  Pat smiled a second time as she remembered Marek’s hand finding hers as they had stood wordlessly side by side here, alone before the altar at the end of a service to commemorate the silencing of the bells. His first touch had sent a delicious shock shooting from her fingertips, along her arm, through her shoulder, and into her heart.

  ‘Pat.’

  Pat turned and saw Erica looking at her from behind the soup- and bread-laden trestle table, working with several women from the WI to keep the food moving from cauldrons and baskets into bowls and plates. Pat walked over to her.

  ‘How’s Will?’ she asked.

  ‘Kate and Laura are at home with him and Dr Rosen. They all but pushed me out of the house for a couple of hours’ respite while he sleeps.’ Erica smiled thinly. Even by the candlelight inside the church Pat could see she looked utterly exhausted.

  ‘You look shattered, Erica. Why don’t you go home? I can take over,’ Pat suggested.

  ‘His cancer is remorselessly advancing,’ said Erica, as if she hadn’t heard Pat’s proposal. ‘We’ve been told to expect periods of not much change and then sudden deterioration. Would you mind cutting more bread? There are more loaves in the baskets under the table.’

  Pat took the hint, and asked no more questions about Will.

  She has to live it every waking hour. I can understand why Erica wouldn’t want to talk about it too.

  As Pat began to slice the loaves into thick slices, Erica asked, ‘How’s Bob?’

  ‘The same,’ said Pat.

  ‘And . . . Marek?’ Erica’s voice dropped in volume at her mention of his name. ‘Was his letter what you hoped it would be?’

  Pat looked at Erica and nodded.

  ‘Do you think it’s wise, Pat? To reignite this? I’m not talking about Bob, but for yourself. Captain Novotny is a soldier. War is escalating across Europe. Anything may happen to him. If it does, you will be left utterly devastated.’

  ‘If that does happen I will have had something, Erica, where I had nothing.’

  ‘Bob is becoming quite successful now. His new book serialised in a national paper . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kate saw an article by him about Cheshire life under the bombing run into Liverpool.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mightn’t he change?’

  Pat was puzzled.

  ‘I gave up all hope of that years ago.’

  ‘But with success, I mean. He hasn’t had that before. What reason would he have to continue to behave the way he has, when he now has every reason to be happy? And treat you better as a result?’

  ‘You’re right to say that when Bob is happier he does treat me better.’

  ‘Well then—’

  ‘Treating me better still isn’t the same as treating me well, Erica.’

  Erica frowned, struggling to see the world from Pat’s perspective. Pat could see it in Erica’s face and decided there was little to be gained by further explanation. She simply needed Erica’s support.

  ‘I replied to Marek straight away. Please look out for another letter from him soon. It will be addressed directly to you this time. I told him to put his initials on the flap, so you’ll know it’s from him.’

  Erica looked at Pat for a moment, considering whether to say what was on her mind. Looking after Will in recent weeks had conditioned her to be more assertive about voicing questions and concerns she might previously have kept to herself. Certainly, time to talk about important matters with Will was running out. But it was a fact of life that time was always running out, so why not speak one’s mind?

  ‘People change, Pat. When their circumstances change, people do too. Even Bob must have that capacity. After all, didn’t he change from the man you married to the man he is today? If so, isn’t it possible for him to change back?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Erica. He’s always been the man he is today. He was able to control it better when he was younger, that’s all. I can’t thank you enough for passing on Marek’s letter, but—’

  ‘Could I have another piece of bread?’

  Pat and Erica looked round and saw a tired-looking young woman standing before them on the other side of the trestle table.

  ‘My daughter’s ravenous.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Pat. ‘Take what you need.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much for what you’re doing.’

  The young woman took one then a second piece of bread and hurried back to the pew where she had been sitting with her husband and small daughter.

  Mrs Talbot was standing in the door to the vestry, keeping a close eye on each of the trekkers, as Steph Farrow and Little Stan approached with more collected vegetables to add to the store.

  ‘The greed of it,’ Mrs Talbot said when Steph was in earshot.

  ‘The greed of what?’ Steph asked as she and Little Stan edged past with the heavy load of swede.

  ‘Not one of them has offered to pay a penny for the food they’re getting. Not one, on any of the days we’ve been doing this.’

  ‘They haven’t been asked to,’ said Steph from inside the vestry. ‘It’s a soup kitchen, Mrs Talbot. Not a restaurant.’

  ‘Missing my point, Mrs Farrow. They should at least offer. Instead they just take and take. Someday they’ll take too much!’

  Steph came out of the vestry, wiping her hands on an old piece of cloth.

  ‘Why can’t you look at what’s being done, and how much they appreciate it, and feel proud you’re part of it?’

  ‘Because I don’t like to see the village being taken advantage of, that’s why.’

  ‘How is it being taken advantage of if they’re accepting what we’ve offered?’

  ‘Of course, you’re a staunch ally of Frances Barden so I’d hardly expect you to see things in anything but the most simplistic manner, to not see the threat they pose.’

  ‘Since when was being nice to strangers “simplistic”, Mrs Talbot? It’s basic human decency. Come on, Stanley.’

  Mrs Talbot watched Steph and Little Stan make their way to the main door and leave.

  ‘We’re at war,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘It’s no time to be nice. Mark my words, this won’t end well.’

  Pat let out a breath as she saw Steph and Little Stan walking away from Mrs Talbot. For a moment, she’d feared an ugly outburst. Relieved that all was well, she turned back to Erica, and saw she was taking off her apron.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right to take over from me?’ Erica asked.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, Erica. Thank you. I mean it. Knowing I can receive Marek’s letters without having them intercepted makes living with Bob endurable and gives me hope. Believe me, I have given Bob so many opportunities to change. Too many to count. I’ve been forced to conclude the capacity to change simply isn’t in him. And never will be.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re wrong.’

  Pat nodded.

  ‘You could never hope it as much as I have over the years
. Goodbye, Erica. And thank you again.’

  Erica smiled wanly, put on her coat and hat, and walked towards the church door, where a few tired stragglers were still coming in. As she reached it, Erica turned and looked back at her old neighbour with a look of profound pity.

  I wish you could feel a fraction from Bob what I feel from Will. Even now, at his weakest, though he can barely speak, I feel nothing but love from him. What you have with Marek isn’t the same. The heat and pressure of a moment. One that will inevitably pass. How can it not, when the world is so rapidly turning itself inside out? How could anyone hope to hold on to something so flimsy in all this?

  As Erica watched her, Pat looked over from serving refugees and raised her hand to her. Erica raised her hand back, and hurried from the church, eager to return home and to Will.

  Chapter 55

  As the last member of the WI remaining at the end of the evening, Alison quietly moved through the village hall, making one last check that all the visitors had what they needed for the night, before collecting her hat and coat and leading Boris out, closing the door behind her. She had rejoined the WI shortly after her encounter with Frances on the village green when Noah was missing, and it felt good to be back at the heart of the community.

  Coming out into the cold and windy night, Alison glanced into the cloudy, moonless sky, trying to assess whether or not it was likely to rain before she reached home. The wind was certainly up, and Alison could see thick cloud rolling over the village. That it wasn’t yet raining meant nothing. If she could coax Boris into a brisk walk they might be home before it started.

  As they came down the path connecting the hall to the high street, Alison saw the pinprick glow of a cigarette, and then the silhouette of the man holding it, sitting on the wall opposite, looking up at the sky. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she realised it was John Smith. He heard her footsteps on the path and turned his head towards her.

  ‘The rest of your colleagues left a while ago, Mrs Scotlock.’

  ‘I offered to stay until everyone had what they needed, and settled,’ Alison replied. ‘You should get your head down, Mr Smith. Long walk back in the morning.’

  ‘It takes me a while to get in the right frame of mind for sleep,’ he said. ‘Too many thoughts tumbling around. Most nights I have to make myself dog-tired before I can put my head down.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Alison said. She recalled how often she had lain awake in bed over the past twelve months, unable to ignore the plethora of worries that seemed to boil and churn on the ceiling overhead.

  John shuffled forward and dropped off the wall, landing lightly on his feet.

  ‘I find that difficult to believe. You don’t look to me like a woman who’s missed a minute of beauty sleep.’

  Alison was glad it was so dark that he wouldn’t be able to see her blush.

  ‘Beauty sleep and I parted company many moons ago, Mr Smith. Believe me.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said sincerely.

  Alison hadn’t received a compliment about her appearance in nearly twenty years, and quickly changed the subject.

  ‘On behalf of the WI, I would like to thank you for all your help since we started this initiative. Not only have you spread the word wonderfully, you’ve been as busy as any of us helping people feel reassured and welcome.’

  ‘What you’re doing deserves to be brought to their attention. People’s nerves have been shredded by the constant raids. They badly need to rest. And while I don’t mind sleeping outdoors if I have to, it hardly suits everyone. Especially those with kids.’

  ‘And what – if you don’t mind me asking – makes you so robust, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I’ve travelled a great deal, Mrs Scotlock. Worked in many great shipyards. Sailed in many great ships. When you’ve slept through a mid-Atlantic storm, the English countryside seems like a giant mattress.’

  At that moment Boris let out a loud yawn.

  ‘My apologies, Mrs Scotlock. I’m keeping your dog from his bed.’

  ‘I don’t know why he should be remotely tired. He sleeps for ninety per cent of the time these days.’

  ‘Have you far to go?’ asked John.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Will . . . Mr Scotlock be waiting up when you get home?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not, Mr Smith. He’s been deceased for twenty-two years.’

  Alison could see John’s mouth open in horror at the faux pas he’d just unwittingly made, and smiled.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. How on earth were you to know? Do you have family, Mr Smith? You seem like the type who would, and yet you appear to travel alone.’

  ‘Perhaps I seem like the type who would like to have had a family? My luck didn’t fall in that direction. Came close several times, but the knot refused to be tied.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Smith: did you really go to prison for beating two men who were attacking a woman? I know you said as much at Mrs Barden’s house, but it occurred to me later that you might have doctored your story a little, under the circumstances.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘If it was for something worse, you might not have wished us to know.’

  ‘I had no need to tell you at all. But it was part of how I came to find the boy. I was spared, Mrs Scotlock. I have no doubt. Spared to save him.’

  Alison looked at John for a moment.

  ‘God bless you, Mr Smith.’

  ‘And you, Mrs Scotlock.’

  John graciously doffed his hat and looked intently at Alison. She was no longer blushing. She smiled and gently tugged on Boris’s lead to prompt him to start moving.

  ‘Come along, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I dare say,’ he said, smiling. ‘By the way, Mrs Scotlock, friends call me John.’

  ‘Do you consider me a friend, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I would like to, Mrs Scotlock.’

  ‘Very well, John. My friends call me Alison. And this,’ she said, gesturing towards Boris, ‘is Boris.’

  ‘Unusual name for a dog.’

  ‘Named after my favourite actor.’

  ‘You’re a fan of Boris Karloff?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Me too!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You like his films?’

  ‘Very much. There’s nothing like a scary picture to get the pulse racing.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. I’ve seen all his pictures – Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein, Son of Frankenstein.’

  ‘Did you see him in The Mummy?’

  ‘As Imhotep, yes, I did.’

  ‘Did you know he was born in Middlesex?’

  ‘Middlesex? I assumed he was Hungarian or from somewhere like that.’

  Alison shook her head and smiled.

  ‘His actual name is William Henry Pratt.’

  John smiled back.

  ‘Well I never. Were you tempted to call your dog William?’

  ‘I liked the name Boris before I knew he was really a William. So Boris it was.’

  Alison and John looked at one another for a moment.

  ‘Well, good night, John. It was very nice talking to you.’

  ‘And to you, Alison. Perhaps we might continue our mutual admiration another time.’

  ‘Mutual admiration?’

  ‘Of the work of Boris Karloff.’

  Alison smiled.

  ‘I’d like that. Good night.’

  Alison led Boris away. As they walked, Boris glanced up at her.

  ‘What an agreeable man,’ she whispered to the dog. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Boris turned away and focused on the road ahead.

  ‘Of course, you don’t think anything except walk, bowl and sleep,’ she chided matter-of-factly. ‘But I’m telling you. Very agreeable indeed . . .’

  Chapter 56

  After helping refugees settle for the night, Teresa
made her way back to an empty house. Following every air raid, Nick stayed at Tabley Wood until the last of his pilots finally touched back down, remaining to help them depressurise. So it was with some surprise that Teresa walked through the door to be immediately embraced by her husband.

  ‘I heard you coming up the front path,’ he said as he kissed her. ‘Surprise!’

  The odour of cologne, tobacco and beer that rose from his uniform was comforting. After the momentary surprise subsided, Teresa relaxed into Nick’s arms and kissed him back.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again or I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

  Nick apologised and kissed her again, more passionately. He tried to draw her towards the staircase and the bedroom, but Teresa subtly dug in her heels.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ she said apologetically. ‘Perhaps after a nightcap?’

  Teresa watched as Nick prepared them each a drink. Every movement he made was effortlessly fluid, each flowing into the next in a way that reminded her of Annie, who shared the same natural grace that good breeding imbues.

  ‘Why are you home so soon?’ she asked, relaxing into the armchair.

  ‘We had a spectacularly good night for a change. Forced back a squadron of Heinkels and brought one down. All over very quickly.’

  ‘Where did it come down?’

  ‘Within ten miles of Great Paxford. We have search teams out.’

  ‘Did the pilots manage to get out?’

  It was the question Teresa always asked when Nick reported a kill on either side. From him, she had learned a respect for all pilots, overcoming her natural antipathy to understand that the Germans too were drawn from ranks of young men driven to serve their country.

  ‘We think two parachutes were sighted. But it was dark and overcast, low, dense cloud, so . . .’

  ‘Two? But that’s good, isn’t it?’

  Nick hesitated.

  ‘Heinkels have three pilots.’

  He said this without emotion, then sipped his Scotch. Teresa sometimes struggled to remember that as kind and loving as Nick was, he was a soldier, with the instincts and emotional landscape that came with that. He could tell from her expression what she was thinking.

  ‘The loss of that one life will almost certainly have spared many more in Liverpool tonight.’