by Peggy Savage
She shivered a little in the cold. Was it the cold? What would Britain be like then? Conquered and subject to Germany? Blasted and flattened? No, she thought, no such thoughts. We will win. We will win.
She went to see Mrs Lewis. ‘It’s just a visit, Mrs Lewis,’ she said at once. ‘Nothing to do with Sara.’
Nora smiled and took her into the kitchen. ‘Cup of tea, Doctor?’ she said.
‘Yes please.’
Nora put on the kettle and got out the best cups and saucers.
‘Has your husband been called up yet?’ Amy asked.
Nora nodded. ‘He got into the Navy – that was what he wanted.’ She bit her lip. ‘He would, wouldn’t he – go into the one that’s doing all the fighting. The Germans are sinking our ships all the time, aren’t they?’
‘You must be very proud of him,’ Amy said. ‘We couldn’t do without the Navy. It’s our lifeline.’
‘Yes,’ Nora said, ‘I am. But he couldn’t even say goodbye to Sara.’
‘Have you heard from her?’ Amy asked. ‘Is she all right?’
‘No, she isn’t,’ Nora said. ‘She’s very upset. She can’t get into a proper school. I don’t know what to do.’
‘It might not be the right time to ask,’ Amy said, ‘but I wondered if you were thinking of taking a job?’
Nora was surprised. ‘I suppose I’ll have to sometime,’ she said. ‘Everybody’ll have to do something, won’t they?’
‘I wondered if you’d like to work for me?’ Amy said. ‘I need a housekeeper to look after the house and do simple cooking. My husband’s a surgeon. We’re both out most of the time.’
‘Oh!’ Nora said, surprised. ‘It might be better than working in a factory or on the land. I’d be there for Sara if she comes home. Would I have to live in?’
‘Only if you want to,’ Amy said. ‘Or you could come in each day.’
‘Are you sure I could do it?’ Nora said. ‘I’m not a fancy cook. It would all be a bit plain.’
‘We’re not fancy eaters,’ Amy said. ‘Plain food suits us fine. And there won’t be much else when the rationing really gets going. I expect just about everything will be rationed in the end. My daughter will only be home in the university vacations, and my son when he gets leave.’
‘Can I think about it?’ Nora said.
Amy smiled. ‘Of course. I’ll come round in a couple of days and see what you think.’
After she’d gone Nora sat down and had another cup of tea. What a surprise that was! It might be a good idea – the job. Sara would come home sometime, she supposed, and she wouldn’t mind if her mother was working for a couple of doctors.
Sara went to school every day and came home frustrated and angry. It wasn’t the teachers – they were nice, but as every day went by she felt her dream slipping away. They even asked her to teach some of the little ones now and again, they were so short of teachers. She helped the little ones with their reading. The headmistress seemed to think she was very good at it. ‘You should be a teacher, Sara,’ she said. Her reaction to that had been to feel a bit sick. No, she thought. No. I shouldn’t.
Mrs Brooks had invited her mother for Christmas Day and her mother had brought one of her Christmas puddings with the threepenny bits. She had given her a book about zoology – a second-hand one that she had found in the Portobello Road.
‘It’s lovely, Mum,’ she said, ‘but I want to come home. Nobody’s bombing anybody, are they, and you’re all on your own. There haven’t been any raids at all.’
‘Please, Sara.’ Nora was almost in tears. ‘We don’t know what’s going to happen and you’re safer here with Mrs Brooks.’
‘But I’ll miss everything at school.’ Sara was crying now. ‘I’ve already missed one term. If I miss any more I’ll never get to university.’ Her mother didn’t seem to know what to do. Nora had been in tears herself before she left, but she hadn’t taken her home.
Sara lay in bed at night, restless and unhappy. I’m not doing this, she thought. I’m not just going to let it all be taken away. I’m not staying here. A plan was becoming a certainty. The pound note was still under the mattress, she checked every night. I’m going home, she thought. I’m not a baby, I’m twelve now and my dad was working when he was twelve. Nobody can stop me, and my mum won’t send me back. I just won’t go.
Mrs Brooks was going out next morning. She said she was trying to get some eggs from one of the farms. If she went home she would have to take her ration book. She knew where it was. Mrs Brooks kept it in a drawer in the kitchen.
She got up quietly, got out the pound note and put it in her satchel. She packed her clothes in her little case and hid it in the wardrobe. Then she tore a page out of her exercise book and wrote a note to Mrs Brooks. ‘I have gone home. Thank you for having me. Love, Sara.’ Then she went to sleep. Tomorrow she was going home.
She took the train in the morning. It was packed, mainly with soldiers, and she couldn’t get a seat. She stood in the corridor, squashed up against a large lady in a damp fur coat that smelt of dog.
‘Do you know where I have to change trains to get to London?’ Sara asked her.
‘Maidenhead,’ the woman said. ‘Are you on your own? You’re a bit young to be going about on your own, especially with all these soldiers about.’
‘I’m twelve,’ Sara said. ‘I’m all right.’
The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know what’s going on half the time. There’s a war on, I suppose. You be careful. I’ll tell you when we get there.’
Sara changed trains. The London train was worse, more packed than ever. There were soldiers lining the corridors, all smoking, and the smoke made her cough. They seemed to go so slowly, past the bare fields and woods of the countryside, and the rows of little houses on the edges of the towns. They’d taken all the signs down at the stations to fool the Germans and she’d no idea where she was. Still, the guard or somebody shouted the station names when they stopped.
‘Paddington’ the guard shouted. ‘Paddington station.’
Sara felt a flood of relief and pure joy. She was home. She climbed off the train and went to find the bus.
Nora opened the front door. Sara rushed in and threw her arms around her mother’s neck.
‘I’ve come home, Mum. Please, please don’t send me back.’ She burst into tears.
Nora held her close. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She held Sara away from her and looked into her face. ‘You tell me the truth, Sara. Did somebody do something to you? Some man?’
‘No, Mum,’ Sara said. ‘Nothing like that. I just wanted to come home.’
Nora took her into the kitchen. ‘Sit down there,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Now tell me what happened.’ Nora was ready to be outraged – ready to do battle with anyone who had hurt Sara.
‘Nothing, Mum,’ Sara said. ‘Mrs Brooks was very nice, but the school was useless. I was even teaching some of the little kids sometimes. They said I’d make a good teacher. A teacher, Mum!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a teacher,’ Nora said. It might be a good idea, she thought, to suggest some other career, just in case.
Sara began to cry again. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘All right,’ Nora said. ‘You’re not going back.’ She put Sara to bed early.
She sat by the kitchen fire. What a world, she thought. Who would have imagined that there would be another war? With Jim away fighting, it didn’t seem real. The confusion of the last few months was terrible. But perhaps, in a small way, things were working out a bit for her. If she took the job with Doctor Fielding she wouldn’t have to go into a factory or on the land, and she’d be there for Sara. Sara was at home, upstairs in her own bed, and it was lovely. She was growing up – thirteen now. In another year, she thought, she’ll be the same age as I was when I went into service. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to her.
Someone knocked at the door. It was a young policeman. For a m
oment she was terrified. Was it Jim? No, they sent a telegram from the Navy if anything had happened, not a policeman. She asked him in. He was checking to see whether Sara had got home safely. Mrs Brooks had contacted the police. She must write to her, Nora thought, and thank her for everything.
She stared into the fire, the flickering flames soothing and calming her. The child was right. Why should we let them spoil everything? No bloody German was going to stop Sara doing what she wanted, war or no war.
Amy did her surgeries in the Harrow Road. There were some children about again, playing in the streets, and coming in with their coughs and colds and runny ears. ‘They’ve come home,’ their mothers said. ‘They weren’t happy there, and there’s nothing happening, is there?’ It all seemed to have been a panic for nothing. Fears about bombing seemed to be unfounded and the children were trickling home from everywhere. Perhaps the Germans really were going to do the right thing and not bomb civilians.
It began to feel almost normal again, apart from the blackout, and even that had eased a little. Cars had cardboard covers over the lights with little slits in them to let out a modicum of light. Some street lights were lit – blue lamps shaded from above. The road accident rate had gone down a little, according to Dan.
She called on Nora again, praying that she’d take the job. Things were getting difficult at home. The rations were minute, and she didn’t have time to stand in queues to get whatever was going. Oranges and bananas and lots of other things had disappeared. Merchant seamen’s lives weren’t to be put at risk to bring in such luxuries. Our world has contracted, she thought. This little island really is an island now, the horizons drawn in, the walls building.
Nora opened the front door and beamed at her. ‘Come in, Doctor.’
Amy followed her into the kitchen. ‘You seem very happy today, Mrs Lewis,’ she said. ‘Have you had some good news?’
Nora nodded. ‘Sara’s home. She came back. I didn’t know how much I missed her till she came back.’
‘Is she here?’ Amy asked.
‘No. She’s back at school. She’s as happy as could be to be back there. The other school was no good for her – just a little village one. You know what she’s like.’
Amy smiled. ‘A lot of the children seem to be coming back. I’ve been seeing them in the clinics.’ Some of the older ones, she was well aware, didn’t want to come back – back to the poverty and squalor of the slums. Many of them had arrived home clean and nit-free and wearing new clothes, and angry, aware for the first time that other people didn’t live like their families did, dirty and hungry, squashed in a couple of squalid rooms, helpless and hopeless. She’d had a letter from Mrs Parks in Marlow. They’d had a little girl from the East End, six years old, billeted on them, she’d written. She was filthy and covered in head lice, half-starved by the look of her, and she didn’t know how to use a toilet. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ she wrote, ‘children like this, in a so-called civilized country.’
‘You’ve come about the job, I expect,’ Nora said. ‘I’d like to take it, if that’s all right. At least, I could do a month, say, and see how we get on.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Amy said. ‘When can you start?’
‘Next week?’ Nora said. ‘I’ll just get Sara settled down. I’d rather live here, if that’s all right. When Jim comes home on leave he’ll want to be in his own home.’
‘We can get our own breakfast,’ Amy said, ‘so you can get her off to school before you come.’
‘Sara would have to come to your house from school,’ Nora said, ‘but she won’t be in the way. She’ll only be doing her homework.’
‘That’s fine,’ Amy said. ‘You can both have dinner at my house, if you like, and you can leave a meal ready for my husband and me. Have you told her? Is she happy about it?’
Nora gave a broad smile. ‘She’s thrilled to bits. She’ll be living surrounded with doctors.’
Amy laughed. ‘So she’s still determined?’
‘Yes,’ Nora said. ‘Just the same.’
‘Fine,’ Amy said. ‘Can you come Monday morning, Mrs Lewis, about nine o’clock? I’ll take an hour or two off and settle you in.’
‘I’ll be there,’ Nora said, ‘and call me Nora.’
Chapter Eleven
1940
At last Charlie and Tim were posted to an operational squadron.
‘Spitfires,’ Tim said. ‘Just look at them.’
The planes were lined up along the airfield. The sleek lines were beautiful, Charlie thought, but the aircraft was intimidating. Its beauty hid a mighty beast, one that he would have to learn to control.
They had more lectures – Tim complaining again – then they actually sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire. They must learn where the controls were: know them with their eyes shut, literally. Charlie chose not to think about smoke-filled cockpits, or worse. They practised taxiing. The Spit had a long nose with no forward vision and they had to swing from side to side to see where they were going.
Then at last on a clear blue-sky day, they went solo. Charlie was strapped in at the edge of the runway. ‘Can’t give you any dual training, obviously,’ his instructor said cheerfully. ‘You’re on your own. Just get in and get on with it.’
Charlie opened the throttle, not knowing quite what to expect. The Merlin engine roared in front of him. He reached flying speed and the Spitfire rose gracefully into the air. The aircraft was a complete surprise. This great machine responded like a dream – no pushing or pulling on the controls. A gentle touch was all that was needed. Now he knew why they said that playing the piano was good training – flying a Spitfire was gentle, sensitive, like touching the keys. You just had to stroke it, breathe on it, and it obeyed you. It turned on a sixpence and it came out of a spin like a lady. He climbed to 5,000 feet and threw it about the sky a bit. It was far, far better than he’d ever expected. He flew lower and looked below him at the English countryside, at the neat fields and the farms and the woods. Now, in this fabulous machine, he really felt like a dragon-killer. It reminded him of Arthur. He wondered what he was doing now.
They gathered in the mess in the evening. ‘What do you think?’ Tim said.
Charlie smiled, a daft, dreamy smile. ‘Brilliant. I think I’m in love.’
Tim laughed. ‘We can play dogfights tomorrow. Chase each other around. Bet I shoot you down.’
‘Two pints says you don’t.’
They ceremoniously undid the top button of their uniform jackets – the self-awarded privilege of being fighter pilots.
A new pilot had joined the mess, posted back from France. He was the only one they’d met who’d actually been in combat. They gathered round him, eager to hear what he had to say. ‘I think I got one,’ he said, ‘a 109, but you can’t be absolutely sure. It’s like a madhouse for a bit, and then it all stops – everybody disappears.’ He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Don’t underestimate them – the Germans. They’re good. They’ve been well trained. I think their 109s are a bit faster than the Spits but the Spit will out-turn them every time. Get above them, come in out of the sun and get in close. Two hundred yards is a reasonable range, or even closer if you can. No further out.’
They plied him with beer. He became faintly philosophical. ‘Don’t be mistaken about them,’ he said. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you that they’re good chaps and just like us. They’ve been shooting up refugees on the roads – women and children. They’re bastards. We’ve got to get them – do what our squadron leader said – get in amongst them and shoot them down.’
Charlie managed to get a word with him on his own. ‘What’s it really like?’ he said.
‘Piece of cake,’ the pilot said. He grinned. ‘Haven’t had any brown trousers yet. You’re too busy. I suppose you get a bit sweaty afterwards. But it’s all right. It doesn’t last.’ He was smiling, but the smile faded suddenly. Charlie asked no more.
The next day Charlie met his instructor on the field. ‘I’m coming up in another
aircraft, Charlie,’ he said. ‘And I’m going to shoot you down.’ He grinned. ‘Theoretically, of course.’
They took off together. Charlie climbed away at once and did a neat stall turn. He looked around him, circled, flew lower, trying to remember the lectures on combat manoeuvres. There seemed to be no sign of his instructor. Have I lost him, he thought? Already? That didn’t seem to be too difficult. He began to feel rather pleased with himself.
The voice came over the radio. ‘Takatakatakatak. I’m on your tail, Charlie. You’re a dead man.’
‘God,’ Charlie said aloud. If he hadn’t been strapped in he’d have jumped out of his seat.
After a few more abortive attempts on Charlie’s part to escape his instructor, they landed and debriefed. ‘Not bad, Charlie,’ his instructor said, ‘but it needs more work. Do not ever hang about wondering who’s there or where they’ve gone. Do your bit and when you run out of ammo get out. And never, never, follow a damaged aircraft down. Let it go, or you’ll be a sitting duck and some other crafty sod will get you. Don’t do anything predictable, don’t fly straight and level for more than a few seconds.’
March wore on; the weather grew warmer. The pilots stripped to the waist and spent their spare time filling sandbags to build up protective walls around the aircraft. There were sporadic reports of encounters in France: some pilots dead, some safely bailed out, some taken prisoner. The loss of pilots was already deeply worrying. Where were their trained replacements to come from? It was all taking too long. The losses in France were too many, for very little tangible return. The Germans weren’t retreating.
Charlie flew and flew. He began to feel that his aircraft was part of himself, an extension of his will. He began to feel that he might be ready. More than ready. He wanted to get in there, have that first real experience, prove to himself that he could do it, prove himself in battle. But still their bombers didn’t come.