Octavia's War

by Beryl Kingston

  Octavia felt she was carrying a heavy burden that season. It was important for everything to go well and for her family and her pupils to have the best possible time of it, but the closer it came the more she foresaw the possibility of failure, particularly at home. The rations were so tight now and there was so little extra food in the local shops that there were days when she wondered whether she ought to go to London and see if she could get a few extras on the black market. It was against her socialist principles but something had to be done.

  In the end it was Tommy Meriton who solved her problem for her. He and Elizabeth arrived to visit Lizzie one dank afternoon at the end of December, asking for permission to take her to Guildford for tea, and when the school day was over and his daughter had been safely returned to Downview, he turned up on Octavia’s doorstep carrying a hamper. It was obviously very heavy and he and Elizabeth were grinning widely.

  ‘There you are, my dear,’ he said to Tavy, when he’d carried it into the house. ‘To add to the feast.’

  It was a mouthwatering collection of Christmas food, an enormous turkey – how on earth did he get that? – a ham, tinned peaches, tinned pears, a box of marrons glacés, sugared almonds in a transparent paper cone tied with a trailing ribbon, shortbread biscuits in a tartan tin, three bottles of wine, a vintage port and a huge box of chocolates.

  ‘Good God!’ she said. ‘However did you manage to get all this?’

  ‘Trips to America, old thing,’ he explained. ‘I gather you like it?’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ she said and it was true. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said and kissed her.

  So it was a luxurious Christmas after all and Emmeline’s children and grandchildren all managed to get to Woking to enjoy it. The two Johns couldn’t join them until Boxing Day but they were given such a rapturous welcome that it soon felt as if they’d been there all the time, and there was plenty of cold ham and turkey to feed them on and Emmeline was so happy she couldn’t stop smiling.

  ‘I don’t know when I’ve had such a good Christmas,’ she said when the meal was over and they were clearing the dishes.

  ‘And there’s still the evening to come,’ Octavia said. She’d got a surprise for them and she couldn’t wait to reveal it.

  That afternoon as they digested their meal, they played Pit by the drawing room fire and pushed the chairs into a circle so that they could play charades and decided they really didn’t want to listen to the news. ‘It’s bound to be bad,’ Emmeline said. ‘And we’ve had enough bad news. Who’s for a cup of tea?’

  Tea and a slice of her cake and then a pause, while she made up the fire.

  ‘Don’t put the chairs back round the fire,’ Octavia said. ‘Push them up against the wall.’

  ‘Why?’ the children asked. ‘Why, Aunty Tavy?’

  ‘Because we’re going to dance,’ Octavia told them.

  ‘In here?’ Dora said. ‘But there’s no piano. What’ll we dance to?’

  ‘There’s a gramophone,’ she told them, standing beside its unobtrusive cabinet. ‘Look!’ And she lifted the lid to show them the turntable and opened the fancy double doors to reveal a stash of records, all standing together neat and upright in their brown paper sleeves. ‘What do you fancy? There’s Roger de Coverley and The Dashing White Sergeant, or a quickstep or a waltz, or you could have a polka. Your choice.’

  Barbara chose a polka, even though she didn’t know what it was, and the record was pulled from its sleeve and put on the turntable, while they all stood round to hear what it would be like. ‘Come on,’ Tavy said, holding out her arms to the nearest child. ‘One, two, three, hop. One, two, three, hop. See?’

  Soon they were all squealing and hopping together, Dora and John, David and Barbara, Edie and Joan, Maggie and her Uncle Johnnie. The room was hot and grew hotter as they spun and giggled. And when the record stopped and Joanie said, ‘Do it again!’ they laughed and clapped and said, ‘Yes, do!’ until Tavy put it on again.

  ‘Change partners,’ she ordered. ‘Johnnie to dance with his mother.’

  ‘I can’t dance,’ Emmeline protested. ‘You know that. I’m too fat.’

  ‘Rot!’ Johnnie said. ‘You’re just a good armful.’ And he seized her round the waist and spun her away, still protesting but hopping with the rest of them. It was, as she said, when the dancing was finally done and the children were taken off to bed, ‘the best Christmas I’ve ever had.’

  But Octavia was wondering how people were getting on in London and whether there’d been a raid. It would be too dreadful to be bombed out on Christmas Day.

  There were no raids reported in the papers next morning which pleased her even though she knew that the lack of news could have been because the editor had censored it. But there were more raids planned, nobody had any doubt about that, and the Blitz certainly wasn’t over. On the 29th of December when there was a low tide on the Thames and a full moon – which Londoners were learning to call a bombers’ moon – there was a massive and terrifyingly destructive raid on the City. Goering knew what he was about, for the first bombs to be dropped were thousands of incendiaries, so many, that when the AFS arrived to deal with them, the water in the hydrants ran dry. On every other occasion when this had happened, they’d taken the water they needed from the river, but on that night the tide was so low it couldn’t be done and without water to fight them the fires raged out of control. St Paul’s was ringed by a roaring inferno and the flames were so high and so fierce they could be seen in the suburbs. It was a terrible night. And Elizabeth Meriton was in the middle of it.

  Tommy had been none too pleased when she’d told him she was going to a night club. ‘Tonight?’ he’d said.

  ‘I did tell you, my dear,’ she said, brushing her hair. ‘It’s Annabella’s fiftieth birthday.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I’ve promised her.’

  ‘Put it off,’ he said. ‘It’s my last night at home.’ He was off to the States again the next morning, as she knew very well.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘You know I can’t. I’ll see you when you get back.’

  ‘But that’ll be weeks.’

  ‘Eight days,’ she corrected, smiling at him.

  ‘You’re a hard-hearted woman,’ he said, pretending to complain. ‘I was going to take you out to dinner, make a fuss of you, soft lights, champagne, sweet music and all that sort of thing. Now I suppose I’ve got to stay here all on my own and finish off the goose.’

  ‘Afraid so,’ she said, putting on her lipstick.

  ‘What time will you get back?’

  ‘Not till the early hours I shouldn’t think. You know what Annabella’s like.’

  She looked quite delectably pretty sitting at her dressing table with her hair brushed and shining, her lips reddened and the pearl necklace he’d given her glowing against her throat. As he watched her, she leant forward towards the mirror so that he saw three images of her, with her left and right profile flanking the full beauty of her face and he was filled with the oddest yearning, almost as if he was seeing her for the last time. ‘Please don’t go,’ he said.

  She stood up, slipped out of her negligee and stepped into her dress, arranging it carefully. It was her red silk, the one he’d always liked the most. ‘Zip me up, my darling,’ she said, turning her back on him. He obeyed her, as he always did, and she turned to the mirror to check that everything was as it should be, saying, ‘How do I look?’ the way she always did.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he told her.

  She took his face between her hands and kissed him, very gently so as not to smudge her lipstick. ‘Darling Tommy,’ she said. ‘I shall be back before you know it.’

  It was lonely in the house without her, so he went to his club, where he had a lively night with several old friends. They spent most of it in the cellars because the sirens went almost as soon as they’d arrived but that was no hardship because most cellars were pre
tty comfortably furnished by then, and there were cards to play and plenty to drink.

  Just after midnight, Tubby Ponsonby arrived to tell them that all hell was breaking loose in the City and he and Tommy went upstairs to the third floor lounge to have a look. The long room was completely empty and the blackout tightly drawn so they had some difficulty edging their way past too many easy chairs in the smoky darkness, but eventually, after some cussing, they reached the window, opened the curtains and looked out into the night. Pall Mall was so clearly lit they could see every stone in the building opposite shining whitely in the moonlight. Above their heads, the black sky was patterned with the long white beams of the searchlights, swinging and searching. There was no doubt that there was a big raid going on. They could smell the smoke of the fires even behind their unopened window and hear the throb of the bombers, and when they craned their necks they could see a terrifying forest of flames, rising and writhing as thick as tree trunks amid sudden showers of red sparks.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be in the fire service tonight,’ Tubby said. ‘And that’s a fact.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be in the fire service any night,’ Tommy told him, watching the flames. ‘They’re bloody heroes.’ But he was thinking of Elizabeth and feeling relieved that the Germans were attacking the City instead of going for the West End. She’ll probably see all this too, he thought, if she can drag herself away from her friends, but she won’t be at risk. It pleased him to think that they would be sitting at their breakfast table in an hour or so talking it all over. How callous you get in wartime, he thought. There are men out there risking their lives, people getting killed and injured, and all I’m thinking about is whether my wife is safe.

  The night went noisily on. They played cards, drank whisky, dozed. At half past two Tommy decided he’d had enough of club life and ought to go home. ‘Good idea, old fruit,’ Tubby said. ‘I shall follow you.’ But he was too squiffy to stand up so he stayed where he was.

  It was bright moonlight out in Pall Mall and Tommy’s Silver Cloud was the colour of its name. As he drove off along the empty street, the sky was stained an ominous misty red by the fires and he could hear an ambulance ringing somewhere nearby. It’ll be good to be home, he thought. I wonder whether Elizabeth is back.

  She wasn’t, which was a disappointment. But never mind, she’d be back soon. He switched on the bedside light and lay down on their bed to wait for her. And the next thing he knew his alarm clock was yammering and it was half past seven. It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Then he realised that her side of the bed hadn’t been slept in and went off to look for her in the spare room. She wasn’t there either. So where had she got to?

  He put on his dressing gown and went downstairs to find his housekeeper, Mrs Dunnaway. She was in the kitchen, capped and aproned and waiting to cook his breakfast. ‘No, sir,’ she said, ‘Mrs Meriton hasn’t come down yet.’

  ‘I don’t think Mrs Meriton has come home from her party,’ he said. ‘I should think they all went on to breakfast somewhere.’

  Mrs Dunnaway smiled benignly as if it was perfectly all right and the smile irritated him. Elizabeth had no business staying out all night, especially when he was going to the States. It wasn’t kind.

  He ate what breakfast he could, showered, dressed, checked that he had his flight ticket and his passport, and there was still no sign of her. I’ll phone Arabella, he decided. But that was a waste of time because Arabella wasn’t at home either and neither was her husband. Now there were only a few minutes left before he had to leave for the airport. He sat down at her dressing table and wrote her a note. ‘Dearest Elizabeth, Who’s a dirty stop-out? Ring me when you get back, my darling. Leaving now. 8.33 a.m.’ Then he drove to Croydon, feeling aggrieved.

  It was Octavia who took the phone-call. It was a man’s voice, asking if he could speak to the headmistress. ‘Speaking,’ she said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Ah!’ the voice said. ‘I’m trying to contact one of your parents. Percy Carswell. Air Raid Warden.’

  ‘We’ve no one of that name, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, no,’ the voice said apologetically. ‘That’s me. I’m Percy Carswell. No, The person I’m trying to contact is someone by the name of Meriton. Major Meriton. His housekeeper said he was one of your parents. Daughter called Lizzie, I believe.’

  Octavia’s heart gave a painful lurch. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘It’s a matter of identification,’ Mr Carswell said carefully. ‘We had an incident in the West End last night and we were rather hoping that Major Meriton could help us. Could your pupil tell us where he is? His housekeeper said he’d gone to America, but she couldn’t say where we could find him.’

  ‘Washington,’ Octavia told him. ‘British Embassy. I’ve got the phone number if you’ll hold the line for a moment.’ And she searched through Maggie’s careful files, her heart shuddering with alarm. If it was an incident in the West End it was either one of the boys or Elizabeth. ‘Here it is,’ she said, picking up the receiver again. And she gave him the number.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Before you go,’ she said, speaking quickly before he could hang up. ‘Would you mind telling me something more about your casualty. I assume it was a fatality.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, with weary sadness. ‘But we’re not allowed to divulge any details except to next of kin.’

  ‘That’s quite understood,’ Octavia said, ‘but I need some information if I’m to be ready to help my pupil when the identification is made. Is this a young man, in air force uniform perhaps, or a woman?’

  ‘The latter,’ Mr Carswell told her. ‘Which is why we want to contact her husband.’

  Oh dear God! Octavia thought. My poor Tommy and my poor little Lizzie. She didn’t know which of them she felt most sorry for.

  ‘Well, thank you again,’ Mr Carswell said, and this time he did hang up.

  For the rest of the day Octavia struggled to decide what she ought to do. As she cycled between her two school buildings, with her basket full of books and papers, her scarf flying behind her and her button boots slipping on the damp pedals, she turned the choices over. Should she tell her now, very gently of course, it would have to be done very, very gently, or should she just throw out a hint of some kind to warn her? Or should she say nothing until she knew for certain who the person was? After all, it might not be Elizabeth. It could be someone else. In the end she decided to say nothing but to wait until she heard from Tommy.

  When she got home from school that afternoon, Janet and Edie were full of news about the raid on the City.

  ‘One a’ the woarst raids they’ve ever knoan, so they say.’ Janet told her. ‘There’s a photo here of St Paul’s and you can hardly see if for smoake.’

  ‘It’s a wonder it wasn’t burnt to the ground,’ Edie said. ‘They say there’s nothing left of the City.’

  Emmeline walked into the kitchen just as they were pushing the evening paper across the table for Octavia to see, and she knew at once, from the anguish on her cousin’s face, that there was something seriously wrong. ‘What is it, Tavy?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Tommy’s Elizabeth,’ Octavia said shortly. ‘It looks as though she was killed in the raid last night. I had a warden on the phone asking for Tommy’s address in Washington.’

  They were all shocked and Janet and Edie were silenced. ‘Oh my dear,’ Emmeline said, her face full of concern. ‘Does Lizzie know?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Octavia said, struggling to stay calm. ‘They’ve got to identify the body before they can…’ And then the words got choked in her throat and she had to sit down at the kitchen table and breathe quietly to bring herself under control.

  ‘Of course,’ Emmeline said. ‘That’s the way it is.’ And she changed the subject. ‘How did you get on with your nice Chairman? Is he going to be able to get the money for your extra beds?’ />
  So they struggled through the bad moment and Edie hid the paper away. But it was bad, bad, bad and none of them could deny it or change it.

  Tommy and his team were doing rather well on this latest trip. The reports that Alistair Cooke was broadcasting from London were beginning to change minds and, of course, Roosevelt had been comfortably re-elected and could back them rather more easily. Tommy was enjoying a cigar and feeling quite pleased with himself when he was called from the conference table to take ‘a call from London’.

  ‘Meriton here,’ he said.

  ‘Major Meriton,’ the voice said. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but may I ask when you will be returning to London?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  Mr Carswell identified himself and spoke rather vaguely about a casualty ‘whom you might be able to identify, sir. Your daughter’s headmistress gave me your telephone number.’

  Oh God, Tommy thought, he’s told my poor Lizzie. He was suddenly uncontrollably angry. ‘You had no business talking to my daughter.’

  ‘No, no, sir,’ Mr Carswell soothed. ‘Nothing has been said to your daughter. You have my word on that. It was you I wanted to contact, seeing as…’ And his voice drifted off.

  Tommy’s feelings plummeted from anger to an unnatural coldness. ‘It’s my wife, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re afraid it might be.’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can get a flight,’ Tommy said. ‘Whom do I contact? You’d better give me a name and address.’

  * * *

  The morgue was ice chill and peculiarly dark after the bright light of his flight and every sound echoed, footsteps reverberating along the corridor, the door opening with an unnecessary thud, papers rattling, somebody coughing like an explosion, and even though the voices that spoke to him were muted they resonated with what felt like menace.