Octavia's War

by Beryl Kingston

  When she’d first moved into the house in Ridgeway, the trees had been heavy with fruit, and when Emmeline had finally joined her, they and Janet had set to work to harvest the crop. She’d thought what fine trees they were and how lovely they would look in the spring. Now she stood in the garden in the clear light of a May morning and wept because the delicate pink and white blossoms were so fragile and young and vulnerable and soon to fall. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘save our soldiers. They’re fighting a war that is none of their making and they don’t deserve to die in a trap.’

  Knowing that nothing could be done to save them dragged her down in the long days of waiting. She kept up her spirits at school for the sake of the girls and the staff but by evening she was drawn with fatigue, and when the phone rang, she answered it dully, merely repeating her number.

  ‘Tavy, my dear,’ Tommy’s voice said. ‘I’ve got some news for you. Keep it under your hat until it breaks because it’s all hush-hush at the moment.’

  There was so much excitement in his voice her heart leapt. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That goes without saying. What is it?’

  ‘There’s a plan afoot for getting the army off the beaches,’ he told her. ‘Totally foolhardy but it just might come off. They’re mobilising all the little boats they can find, mostly in the south-east, but they’re searching further afield as I speak: pleasure boats, fishing boats, anything that can sail across the Channel and pick up a few men. Troop ships can’t get ashore, you see, not on an open beach, but they could, and even if they only manage to take off a few, that’s better than none at all. There should be quite a flotilla, if it all goes according to plan.’

  It was imaginative, daring, a last hope, but a very bold one. It lifted her spirits simply to hear about it. ‘Thank God!’ she said. ‘When are they going?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  Alvar Liddell, the BBC newsreader, broke the news the next afternoon, in his usual calm and measured way. ‘A fleet of small ships especially mobilised for the purpose has been evacuating troops from the beaches at Dunkirk throughout the day. Several thousand men are already on their way back across the Channel and the evacuation is planned to continue. The men are reported to be in good spirits.’

  The next morning, The Times was more forthcoming. ‘British troops,’ it said, ‘are fighting a desperate rearguard action on the French coast around Dunkirk as German troops finally move in and surround them. The first men of the B.E.F. to be picked off the beaches arrived home yesterday. They told how they had been bombed and machine-gunned as they waded out to the ships. One private described how he had walked over thirty miles to the beaches with a bullet in his foot, another reported that the British artillery had put up a mile long barrage on one sector in an effort to stop the German advance. The Germans had advanced right into it and must have taken tremendous casualties. Despite everything, seven thousand men have been rescued in the first day alone and the evacuation is continuing.’

  ‘Well it’s not much,’ Emmeline said, ‘but it’s a start.’ The phone was ringing into her thoughts, alerting her to the possibility of more news. She eased herself to her feet. ‘That could be Edie,’ she said.

  It was Dora, and she was in a state of high excitement. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Ma,’ she said. ‘My John’s been posted to Dover. I had a letter this morning. He says it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Ever so big and hardly planned at all. They just gave the skippers fuel and charts and let them get on with it. Imagine that! It’s his job to refuel them as they come in. They’ve been coming in and out all day long, he said, and there are still new ones arriving. Isn’t it just the most wonderful thing?’

  ‘Have you heard from Edie?’ Emmeline asked.

  ‘I went to see her yesterday. They’re all right. No news of Arthur yet but, like I said to her, you wouldn’t expect it, not yet awhile. I mean there’s a lot of men to rescue.’

  ‘Ring me as soon as you know anything,’ Emmeline said.

  ‘’Course,’ Dora said. ‘Chin up!’

  The first troop train pulled in at Woking station later that morning, full of exhausted soldiers on their way to London. News of its arrival spread through the town like the ringing of bells. People went down to the station at once, some with urns to make tea, some with packets of postcards so that the men could write home, some simply to stand in the Broadway and cheer. Poppy and Lizzie went down with the rest, for as Poppy said, ‘I might see my dad. You never know.’ In fact there were so many people there it was hard to see who they all were, but the two girls handed out postcards and gathered up the completed ones and felt they were being useful. They were shocked by how dirty and exhausted the soldiers were and much impressed by how brave they’d been and, although they were late back for their next study period, nobody rebuked them. ‘You’ve been on war work,’ Miss Gordon said.

  By the time the third train arrived, everybody was organised. The WVS were there to hand out tea, sandwiches and cigarettes, there were hundreds of postcards stacked in cardboard boxes, ready and stamped, and several senior girls, including Lizzie, Poppy and Mary, had been commandeered to act as interpreters for the French troops. It was, as the three girls told one another at the end of the day, a humbling experience.

  The days passed, more trains arrived at their station, somebody calculated that they were handing out four hundred postcards every day, and as people all over England held their breath, the numbers taken off the beaches continued to rise. The newspapers and the BBC bulletins kept a daily tally – ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a quarter of a million, and hopes and hearts rose with the figures. But there was still no news of Arthur, and Emmeline was irritable with anxiety, especially when the weather was bad.

  ‘If we’re going to get our boys off those damned beaches,’ she said, ‘we need sunshine and a calm sea, not all this wind. They’re such little boats, Tavy, they’re not built to withstand storms.’

  ‘They’re not built to withstand dive bombers, either,’ Octavia pointed out, ‘but they’re doing an amazing job just the same.’ What was happening on that French beach was beginning to look like a miracle. The total number of men who had been rescued was reported to be over three hundred thousand, and laden trains were still passing through Woking station where most of her senior girls were waiting to help them and interpret for them. It surprised her that the German army seemed to be holding off. The Luftwaffe went on strafing the beaches and bombing the ships, despite the most valiant efforts by the RAF, but the Panzer divisions had come to a halt. And thank God for that, whatever the reason.

  ‘A few more days,’ she said, ‘that’s all we need.’

  By now messages were beginning to filter through to the many waiting relatives. Poppy’s father had been taken back to England on the third day and had sent postcards to his wife and daughter as soon as he landed. Poppy wept with relief when hers arrived. She simply couldn’t help it. After seeing all those weary, blood-stained soldiers in the trains and knowing what horrors they must have gone through, it was miraculous to think that he’d got home safely.

  ‘He isn’t injured or anything,’ she said to Lizzie.

  Lizzie hugged her and said she was so, so glad but secretly, and like the realist she was, she was beginning to wonder what would happen next. Once the British Expeditionary Force have pulled out, she thought, there’ll be nothing to stop the Germans conquering the whole of France, the way they’ve conquered Holland and Belgium. And then what will happen? They could invade us too and we wouldn’t be able to stop them.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not in the fifth form,’ she said, ‘taking their exams with all this going on. At least we can skip lessons if we like and go down to the station to help, but they’re stuck.’

  In fact, the last day of the great sea rescue was June the 4th, which was the second day of the General School Certificate examinations. By the end of the day a total of 338,226 men had been taken off the beaches. There were more still waiting to be rescued but by evening the o
peration had to stop because the German troops had captured the town.

  ‘What will happen to the men they’ve left behind?’ Poppy wondered.

  ‘They’ll be taken prisoner,’ Lizzie told her, still reading her newspaper. ‘It says here there’s a casualty station for the wounded still on the beach. The doctors drew lots to see which of them would stay behind and man it. Now, I call that really brave.’

  ‘So do I,’ Poppy said. ‘When you think what it must be like. Oh, I’m so glad my dad’s home and out of it.’

  For a few days, the euphoria of the rescue carried them all along. Then Emmeline had two phone calls that brought her down to earth with a jolt. The first was from Johnnie, although he was talking in such an odd way that it took her a little while to realise who it was.

  ‘Is that you, Mater?’ his voice said.

  The name made her cringe. He never called her Mater. Ever. It was always Ma, never Mater. There was something the matter. She knew it at once and her stomach tensed with the dread of what was to come. ‘Johnnie?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Me as ever is,’ he said, but his voice was too light, too casual, almost as if he was playing a part. ‘Thought you’d like to know I’ve been in action.’

  She suddenly found it hard to breathe. ‘Action?’ she said.

  ‘Flown my first sorties, old thing,’ he said, as casually as if he were talking about a trip in a balloon. ‘Over Dunkirk. Shot down my first Stuka. Absolutely wizard.’

  She didn’t know whether to praise or commiserate. ‘Oh Johnnie!’

  ‘Knew you’d be pleased. Bunty bought it, though. That was a poor show.’

  Bought what? she wondered, but didn’t like to ask.

  ‘Blighter came out the clouds. He didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Oh, Johnnie!’ she said again. The conversation was making her feel quite ill. He was telling her about somebody being killed, not somebody buying something. How could he be talking like this, in this silly flippant way? It was hideous.

  ‘That’s war for you,’ he said. ‘Still, we’re putting on a damned good show. I’ll say that for us. Are you getting on all right?’

  She told him she was. How could she say anything else? She could hardly tell him about her problems when he’d been talking about his friend being killed.

  ‘Good-oh!’ he said. ‘Must dash.’ And hung up.

  ‘It was horrible,’ she said to Octavia that evening. ‘Like talking to a stranger.’

  ‘I think this is something that happens when the fighting starts,’ Octavia said, trying to comfort her. ‘They learn a new way of talking to cover what they’re feeling. Think how Algie wrote to us from the trenches. I am in the pink. I am ticketty-boo. Please send more jam.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Emmeline said, ‘but I wish my Johnnie wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s got any option,’ Octavia told her. ‘It’s probably the way they all talk. A sort of emotional camouflage. It must be pretty terrifying, if you think about it, fighting in the air, knowing they’ll be shot down and killed if they make one false move. It’s no good making that face, Em. None of us wants to think about it but it’s a fact, whether we do or not. You can’t blame them for finding ways to play their feelings down. I think it’s admirable. And brave.’

  But Emmeline’s expression made it clear that she didn’t want to think about it at all. ‘I hate war,’ she said. ‘Changing my Johnnie. As if I haven’t got enough to do with all this worry over Arthur.’

  ‘Edie hasn’t phoned then?’

  ‘No, poor girl. And she’s worried sick.’

  ‘She’ll hear soon,’ Octavia comforted. ‘It’s bound to take time, given the number of men involved.’

  In fact, she rang the very next morning, just as Octavia was leaving for work, and she was hysterical.

  ‘He’s been taken prisoner,’ she wept. ‘I’ve just had the letter. Some awful place I can’t even pronounce, and God knows where it is or how he is and it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Edie, be sensible,’ Emmeline said, trying to reason with her. ‘You can’t help the war.’ And she mouthed the news to Octavia who was standing beside her. ‘He’s been taken prisoner.’

  Edie was wailing. ‘You don’t know the half of it, Ma. I knew this would happen. I’ve known it all along. I should have stopped him before he started. Only we just sort of… I mean, we were…’ Her voice was so thick with tears and distress it was quite hard to understand her. ‘Oh, my poor Arthur. It’s all my fault, Ma. It is. All my silly fault. I should never have agreed to it. Only we were in such a pickle. I mean…’ She blew her nose and wept and snuffled, while her mother struggled to think of something to say to comfort her. Then the explanation came out with a rush of tumbling words. ‘If I hadn’t fallen with our Joan he’d never have gone into the army in the first place. I knew it was a mistake, I’ve known it all along, but we didn’t have any option, not if we were to stay in the flat and not with a baby coming, and now he’s in a prisoner a’ war camp and I shan’t see him for years and years and it’s all my fault. All my own stupid, stupid fault. I can’t bear it.’

  Emmeline tried to be practical. ‘Is he hurt?’ she asked.

  But that brought another outburst. ‘How should I know?’ Edie cried. ‘They don’t tell you anything. Only where he is. They send you these horrible letters and they don’t tell you anything. Just a prisoner a’ war camp. I shan’t see him again for years and years. I know it, and it’s all my fault. Oh Ma, I can’t bear it.’

  Emmeline could hear a child crying in the background. One of the girls, of course. Poor little thing. ‘I’ll come back,’ she decided. ‘Go and give your girls a cuddle and try not to worry. I’ll be there on the next train. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing? It is! It is!’

  ‘Put the letter on the mantelpiece,’ Emmeline said, in her firmest voice, ‘and we’ll look at it together. Two heads are better than one.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off at the station,’ Octavia offered, as her cousin reached for her hat and coat. ‘We’ll just let Janet know what we’re about.’

  ‘I’ll take what’s left of the fruit cake, if that’s all right,’ Emmeline said. ‘I’ll bet she hasn’t thought to give those children their breakfast.’

  Edith was standing by the window in the front bedroom when her mother arrived. She’d been prowling the flat ever since she put the phone down, fidgeting and worrying, picking things up and putting them down, unable to settle to anything. The sight of her mother’s comfortable, comforting figure taking the last few waddling steps up her pathway triggered another outburst of passionate weeping. But then Emmeline was through the door and in the flat and she had her arms round her daughter and was patting her back and stroking her hair out of her eyes the way she’d done when she’d been upset as a child, and everything eased. They walked into the kitchen arm in arm. The three little girls were sitting round the kitchen table, subdued and anxious.

  ‘Let’s get that kettle on, shall we?’ Emmeline said, smiling at them. ‘I don’t know about you three but I could go for a cup of tea. I’m parched. Now,’ pulling the cake tin out of her bag, ‘I brought a little bit of fruit cake because I thought you might like it. Could you fancy a slice?’

  The kettle steamed and whistled, the cake was put on one of Edie’s best plates in the middle of the table and generous slices cut for both adults and all three children. Joan’s bib was found and tied around her neck, as she was told what a good little girl she was. And as the familiar patterns were reasserted, the day shifted and became normal.

  They were drinking their tea and eating every last crumb of cake and Emmeline was carefully reading Edie’s official letter when there was a ring at the door.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Barbara said, licking the last of the crumbs from her fingers. ‘I’ll go.’

  It was Dora, looking determined. ‘Now what’s all this?’ she said to Edi
e. ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of what you were on about on the phone. Is he injured?’

  Emmeline handed her the letter. ‘No, nothing like that,’ she said. ‘Your sister was a bit upset. That’s all. Bit of a shock.’

  Dora read the letter quickly. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Yes. Well. I can see why you were upset, expecting him home and everything. But look on the bright side. At least he’s out of danger. It must be horrible to think of him being locked up. I’m sure it is. I’ll grant you that. And I don’t suppose it’ll be much fun for him. But at least you won’t have to worry about him being injured or killed or anything. You’ll get a letter from him soon, you see if I’m not right, and he’ll tell you he’s not hurt and he’s all right and you’re to keep your chin up.’

  Edie was calm enough now to accept that all this was probably true. He would write. Of course he would. And even if he had been injured, they’d look after him, surely. They might be Germans but they weren’t barbarians.

  ‘’Course not,’ Dora said, in her pragmatic way. ‘He’ll be fine, you’ll see.’ She folded the letter, handed it back to her sister and turned to easier and more immediate matters. ‘Is there any tea in that pot?’ she said. ‘I see you’ve scoffed all the cake.’