Octavia's War

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Come an’ sit on my lap, old thing,’ he said, stretching out to hold her hand. He’d spoken out of turn, by hoping it was a mistake. Now he must make amends. Poor Edie.

  She crept into his lap like a miserable child needing comfort, which was most unlike her. Normally she’d have kept him at arm’s length for quite a long time after a mistake like that. Now she put her head on his shoulder and wept into his shirt.

  He put his arms round her and held her close, stroking her back and thinking hard. There had to be an answer. There were always answers. Come on, Arthur Ames. Use your wits. Think. The baby was on the way. There was no doubt about that. So what was to be done? He’d have to earn more money. That’s what. He hadn’t got the faintest idea how he would do it but it would have to be done.

  Edie pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. She was still awash with anxiety, drowning in it. ‘What are we going to do?’ she wept. ‘What if you get laid off?’

  ‘I’m a skilled mechanic,’ he told her, with some pride. ‘We don’t get laid off. There ain’t enough of us to go round.’

  She wasn’t convinced. ‘You very nearly did that time, when the garage closed and everything. If you hadn’t been took on by old man Murchison it would ha’ been all up with us. We’d ha’ been on the dole.’

  ‘But we wasn’t,’ he said. ‘It never come to it.’

  ‘It’ll come to it this time,’ she said miserably. ‘I don’t see how we can avoid it.’

  And he suddenly saw how. Like a light being switched on. ‘I shall join the Territorials,’ he said. ‘They’re advertising for car mechanics. I saw it in the paper only the other day. Good life. Out in the open air. Uniform provided and that’ll save on clothes. Good grub and that’ll save on food. Good pay, or so they said. Can’t be worse than what I earn now anyway. Could be a lot more. That’s the answer. I shall join the Territorials.’

  ‘But that’s the army,’ Edie said. ‘You’d be a soldier.’

  ‘Only part time. You come home nights. Most nights anyway. You can go on with your trade. That sort a’ thing.’ He wasn’t entirely sure of his facts because he’d only scanned the advertisement but he had to make it sound acceptable. ‘Could be just the ticket.’

  ‘But what if there’s a war?’

  ‘There won’t be.’

  ‘That’s not what they say in the Mirror. They reckon there’s a big war coming. They’re always on about it.’

  All perfectly true but he didn’t want to be reminded of it. Not now. He couldn’t afford to be faint-hearted now or to think about what might – or might not – happen. He’d made his decision and he would stick with it. ‘You don’t want to take no notice of the Mirror,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That’s all newspaper talk. They don’t mean half of it.’

  ‘I don’t want you in a war,’ Edie said. ‘I don’t hold with wars.’

  ‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘What say you put the kettle on?’

  At Octavia’s dinner party the talk had turned to war too. They were twelve to table and four of the guests were old friends of her father’s who belonged to the Fabian Society and consequently kept well abreast of the latest news.

  ‘I used to think Winston Churchill was just a warmonger,’ Frank Dimond was saying, ‘but I’m not so certain now. The situation in Spain is absolutely appalling and as to what is happening to the Jews in Germany…’

  ‘I still think the League of Nations should be taking action,’ Octavia said. ‘I know Hitler has taken Germany out of the League but that’s no reason for the rest of us to ignore what he’s doing. That’s just playing his game.’

  ‘But what action could we take?’ Elizabeth Meriton asked. ‘If he ignores the threat of sanctions, as he invariably does, what other weapon do we hold?’

  ‘That,’ Tommy said, dabbing his mouth with his table napkin, ‘is the nub of the League’s problem. Without an army to back up their demands there’s nothing much they can do. Any international power needs an international army if it is to stand up to an international bully. It was a major oversight not to set one up right at the beginning.’

  The storm had blown itself out and now it was a peaceful summer evening. There was a blackbird singing in the garden and sunlight flowed through the windows in long visible columns, making the glasses shimmer and warming their earnest faces.

  ‘I feel as if we’re all drifting,’ Emmeline said sadly. ‘Nobody in their right mind wants another war and yet we’re drifting towards one. That’s what will happen, isn’t it, Tommy? If the League can’t do anything then we shall have to.’

  ‘I wish I could say no,’ Tommy said, ‘but I fear you may be right. As far as we can see at the Foreign Office, since Hitler occupied the Rhineland he’s had carte blanche to do what he likes and so has Mussolini. Gassing defenceless Abyssinians was against every code of warfare that’s ever been written and yet he got away with it. It’s a very serious situation.’

  ‘What I can’t understand is why the government will go on talking about appeasement,’ Frank Dimond said. ‘They must know it isn’t going to work.’

  ‘It’s more diplomacy than hope,’ Tommy said. ‘They know how important it is for people to believe that peace is possible, and of course they don’t want to spread alarm. It’s a different matter behind the scenes. There are no official statements about it, naturally, but they’re actually beginning to make preparations, pushing for more men to join the Territorials, manufacturing gas masks, stepping up on the production of arms. That sort of thing. Churchill’s pressing for more, as you would expect, but at least it’s a start. They’ve put in orders for the new fighter plane too, the one called the Spitfire. I expect you’ve heard of it.’ Heads were shaken around the table. ‘No? It was on show at Southampton. Me and a few chaps went down to see it. Fastest thing in the air, so they say, and I can well believe it. Rolls Royce engine. Twelve cylinders. Handsome little plane. Just the sort of thing we shall need if it comes to it.’

  ‘How many have we got?’ Octavia asked.

  ‘Six,’ he said, and when she grimaced, ‘but there are more on order.’

  Six, she thought, against an entire German Air Force. What good is six? If we’re going to fight them we shall need hundreds and the young men to fly them. Then she noticed that Johnnie was listening just a little too ardently and that Emmeline was watching him and looking anxious, and she tried to think of another subject to distract them.

  J-J was thinking the same thing. Now he leant into the conversation. ‘What a topic for a fine summer evening!’ he said, smiling at them. ‘Have any of you been following the Berlin Olympics, I wonder?’

  They had and took his lead at once, grateful to be thinking of something other than death and destruction. The wonderful performances of Jesse Owens in the hundred and two hundred metres were remembered and praised – ‘He’s the fastest man in the world, imagine that, and he’s modest about it’ – Hitler’s rudeness in snubbing him was deplored – ‘But what can you expect? He’s a nasty vulgar little man’ – the British success in the four hundred metres relay was enjoyed again. The dinner party relaxed and eased. Only Octavia sat a little apart, contributing to the general talk in a vague way but still thinking and worrying. There had to be some way to stop this war. She couldn’t just sit there in her comfortable chair in her comfortable room and ignore it. It wasn’t in her nature. Once or twice, Frank Dimond looked across the table and gave her a brief smile as if he knew what she was thinking, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She would talk to Pa after the guests were gone and see what he thought about it.

  But as it happened, it was Frank Dimond who brought up the topic again, and he did it when most of the other guests had left and he and his wife were putting on their coats and saying goodbye to Octavia in the hall.

  ‘A most enjoyable evening,’ he said to Octavia. ‘And very informative, if I may say so. I had no idea the government had so many preparations under way.’
r />   ‘Nor had I,’ Octavia told him and smiled. ‘I think our Tommy was being rather indiscreet and thank God for that. I’ve never been in favour of official secrets.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said smiling at her, ‘may I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, wondering what it would be.

  ‘I belong to an organisation that might interest you,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I should say a committee, for that’s all we are at the moment. But committee or organisation, our aims are the same. We are doing what we can to get as many Jews out of Germany as possible. We’re afraid Hitler might close the borders, so time is of the essence. Would you be interested in helping us?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said again. ‘If I can.’ It was just the sort of thing she ought to be involved in. ‘You must tell me more.’

  ‘I will ask our Mrs Hutchinson to contact you,’ Frank said, and turned as J-J and Emmeline walked into the hall to say goodbye too. ‘A splendid evening, J-J.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ J-J said, shaking his hand. ‘It was good to have your company.’

  ‘A lovely dinner, Emmeline,’ Mrs Dimond said. ‘Splendid food, lovely wine, good company, what more could anyone want?’

  They left smiling and Octavia smiled too, although rather absent-mindedly. She was wondering when Mrs Hutchinson would get in touch and what she would say when she did.

  Her phone call came two weeks later. And it caused a row.

  Chapter Two

  Octavia had spent the morning in her school. The start of the autumn term was only nine days away and she wanted to be sure that everything was ready for it, that the new stock had been delivered, that the repairs to the science rooms were completed, that everything was clean and in order. She and Maggie Henry, the school secretary, had inspected every room, noting everything that wasn’t entirely to her satisfaction and she’d returned to Parkside Avenue, with Maggie’s notes in her attaché case, ready to deal with anything outstanding. That afternoon she sat in the garden, smoked a few necessary cigarettes and wrote a lot of necessary letters, while her father talked to Emmeline and enjoyed the afternoon tea she’d provided for them. The sound of the phone suddenly trilling inside the house was decidedly unwelcome. It had to be answered, of course, the new term being so close, because there was no knowing who it might be, but it was a nuisance.

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly into the receiver.

  The voice that answered sounded unsure of itself. ‘Miss Smith?’ it asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Ah,’ the voice said and gave a nervous cough. ‘Um, my name is Stella Hutchinson. Mr Dimond asked me to contact you. Is this an inconvenient time?’

  Frank’s committee, Octavia thought. Of course. She’d been so busy she’d forgotten all about it. She moderated her tone at once. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’ve just rushed in from the garden that’s all. I’m a bit breathless. How I can help you?’

  ‘Well…’ Mrs Hutchinson said, ‘how much do you know about our organisation?’

  ‘Only what Frank told me,’ Octavia admitted, ‘which wasn’t a great deal. I know you’re trying to get as many Jews out of Germany as you can, which seems admirable to me – and necessary given what’s going on there.’

  ‘You know about the concentration camps then.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours. Yes.’

  ‘From the newspapers?’

  ‘Yes. I have no other source of information.’

  There was a pause, then the gentle voice went on, ‘The situation is much worse than anything you’ll read in the newspapers. Worse than you could possibly imagine. From what our refugees have been telling us, it looks as though the camp guards are deliberately starving the inmates to death.’

  The voice was cool, quiet, almost emotionless but that made the impact of the words even more terrible. ‘That’s appalling,’ Octavia said, and instantly began to think of some action she could take. Some action she must take. It was imperative. A letter to The Times perhaps. A petition. ‘Something must be done,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Our most pressing need at the moment,’ Mrs Hutchinson said, ‘apart from raising funds, is to find people in London who could offer our new arrivals temporary accommodation until we can move them on to something more permanent. Would that be possible?’

  ‘Yes,’ Octavia said at once. ‘Of course. We’ve got a spare room they could have.’

  The voice changed, became businesslike. ‘How many does it sleep?’

  ‘There’s a double bed and a small single but we could squeeze another single in if there were four of them.’

  ‘When could it be ready?’

  ‘When would you want it?’

  ‘Would next Tuesday be possible?’

  ‘Of course,’ Octavia said. There was no doubt in her mind. ‘You will need my address.’

  She strolled back into the sunlit garden feeling undeniably pleased with herself. From the ease and affluence of her life here with Pa, she was going to do something positive, to help people who needed help, to make a difference. It was right and proper and she was buoyed up with the satisfaction of it.

  ‘There you are, Pa,’ she said when she reached his chair. ‘I’m going to do something useful with my life.’

  ‘Which of course you’ve never done up to now,’ her father laughed. ‘What particular good work is it this time?’

  She sat down beside him and gave him a smile. ‘Taking some of the wind out of Hitler’s obnoxious sails,’ she said. ‘You remember what Mr Dimond was saying at the dinner party, about the committee – the people who are trying to evacuate the Jews from Germany – well, he put me on to the secretary and she’s just rung and asked me if I will take some of her refugees in, and I’ve said yes.’

  ‘How many?’ Emmeline said, and her voice was ominous.

  Octavia was too caught up in happy altruism to notice. ‘Two, three, four, it depends,’ she said.

  ‘And how long would we have to have them?’

  ‘Two or three days,’ Octavia said. ‘Until they’ve found somewhere permanent for them to go to. Not long.’

  ‘So when are all these people coming?’ Emmeline asked, and this time the tone of her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘Well, actually, it’s next Tuesday,’ Octavia admitted, and now she was worried because her cousin looked cross. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, should it? I mean we’ve got the room and the beds. It will only be a matter of making them up.’

  Emmeline shuddered. ‘Only!’ she cried. ‘Only! Oh, Tavy, for heaven’s sake! You double the number of people in the house and you tell me it’ll only be a matter of making up a few beds. Have you any idea how much work this will make? They’ll need feeding and looking after and sheets washing – you think what it’ll be like if the children wet the bed and ten to one they will – and dirty clothes every five minutes and dirty nappies I shouldn’t wonder, and double the shopping every day – and I have quite enough shopping to do without that – and clearing up after them and I don’t know what all. I can’t do it, Tavy. It’s too much.’

  Octavia tried to reassure her, ‘We’ll help you, Em…’ but her words were waved away as if they were flies.

  ‘Oh, don’t talk such rubbish, Tavy. You won’t help me. You won’t be here. You’ll be at school all day and Johnnie’ll be at work and you can’t ask Uncle to make beds and fetch and carry – not at his age. And don’t say you’ll help when you’re at home. That’s no earthly good at all. The work’s all been done by the time you get back.’

  ‘There’s Mrs Benson,’ Octavia pointed out.

  But that only provoked a snort. ‘Mrs Benson,’ Emmeline said sternly, ‘only comes in twice a week for two hours. She’s a help, I’ll grant you that, but four hours will be a drop in the ocean if we’re going to have the place crawling with foreigners. Oh no, I shall bear the brunt of it. That’s who it’ll be. Me. On my own. And I’ve got enough on my plate without taking on a lot of refugees. Why
can’t they stay where they are?’ She was hot with distress, her cheeks flushed and her untidy grey hair escaping from its pins.

  ‘Because they’ll get sent to a concentration camp if they do,’ Octavia said. ‘Come on, Em, we can’t have that.’

  Emmeline was truculent. ‘I don’t see why not.’ She was very near tears and she knew she was being unreasonable but, really, this was all too much. ‘And there’s Arthur joining the Territorials, as if this isn’t bad enough. I don’t know what’s to become of us. The world’s gone mad. Stark, staring, raving mad.’ And she stood up quickly before they could see her cry and half-walked, half-ran off towards the house.

  Octavia was on her feet at once, feeling guilty and ready to run after her. She couldn’t have Em upset, not her dear Em whom she loved so much and had lived with for so long, not when she worked so hard and looked after them so well. And she was right, of course she was right, she would do the bulk of the work. I must do something about it, she thought.

  Her father caught her by the arm. ‘Leave her,’ he advised. ‘Give her time.’

  ‘But she’s upset and it’s my fault,’ Octavia said. ‘It’s no good making that face, Pa. It is my fault. I shouldn’t have sprung it on her. It was thoughtless. I should have asked her about it before I said yes.’

  ‘Then you must think now before you say anything more,’ her father said. ‘We must both think.’

  Octavia was thinking already and thinking aloud. ‘I can’t back out of this now, Pa. It’s too important. And I’ve given my word. But she’s right about me not being able to help her. I can’t leave the school and stay at home. Not at the start of term. There’s too much to do and it wouldn’t be fair on the staff to leave them. And with the best will in the world, you can’t help her either. So there’s really only one answer, isn’t there. We must hire some help. I think we could run to it. No. I’ll rephrase that. We must run to it. There isn’t any option. I can’t have Em upset. What sort of wages should we offer?’