by Milly Adams
The struggling child slowly stopped. ‘She’s leaving.’
Bryony knelt, and turned her around. ‘It’s a difficult time, and we all have to do what is necessary. You, me, Frank, Betty, Adam, Eric, Uncle Eddie. Everyone. So, what you have to do is dry your tears, and get yourself back down those stairs and enjoy every moment before your sister goes. She says she will try to come at Christmas. Try, Cissie. It’s not a promise to come, but a promise to try.’
‘But there are bombs falling. She’s not safe in London,’ Cissie wailed.
‘Frankie, Betty and Sol’s parents also have those bombs. We all have to be brave, don’t we?’
Adam joined Gilchrist in the pub. He shrugged. ‘I started straight away like you said. “Bee, I need to . . .” But she rushed off. “Not now,” she said. Not now? Cissie was having a tantrum or something, or so Eric said. Eric, for Pete’s sake. He might as well bloody live there. So, the script didn’t work, Geordie, and I didn’t stay on the line for long, there was no point.’
Mick called from the bar, ‘From the look on that face I reckon it’s definitely a chaser too, so go to your secret store, bartender, and don’t spare the horses. But at least it’s not heartbreak, I reckon our laddie is cross.’
Adam was more than cross, he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. How the hell was he going to get through to her, when there was never any time? The High Ground was off again, and then Bee was joining the ATA, bloody Eric had said, coming on the line while his mum dashed about dealing with the other kids. It was total bedlam.
‘Eric said, just before the pips went, that there was going to be a party on the second of January to see her off to the ATA.’
Mick came over, bearing three pints. ‘Perfect. Did you have a chance to tell her you might be coming to Pompey? Did you tell any of them? Chasers are on the bar.’ He flicked a nod at Gilchrist. ‘Chasers are on the bar, I said.’
Mick repeated, ‘Did you tell them?’
‘Why, when we might not? What’s the point – and to tell him?’
Gilchrist came back with the chasers. ‘For pity’s sake, lad, faint heart never won fair lady.’
The sailors around cheered. Gilchrist bowed. Someone said, ‘Sir’s name’s Rabbie Burns under that weak and wobbly exterior.’
Geordie laughed along with them, but for Adam there was just a damn great furious ache. He sipped his beer. No, he hadn’t told them he could be coming into Portsmouth, because it had been a possibility before, and never happened. And why bother? It was Eric, Eric, and more Eric, so he’d only be a spare part, obviously, watching the rest of them have a good time.
‘Someone change his face,’ Mick groaned, ‘or he’ll explode.’
Adam laughed, ‘No, I’m fine. It’ll be OK.’
A seaman called from the doorway. ‘Aye, ’course it will. We could all be dead tomorrow.’
Another cheer greeted this, and Adam nodded. The Dream of Islay had gone down on the flank of the convoy, along with two merchantmen. He pulled himself together. He was tired, that was all, and he missed Bee with an ache that was deeper than he’d ever thought possible, and now it was mixed with a fury that made him want to pace the wharf until he was tired enough to sleep.
He sat straight. ‘Next round on me, lads.’
He was alive. So was she. It was enough and what’s more, Cobham said the men were having a great time sorting out his love life. There were bets on it, so best not to sort it too soon. Well, bugger that for a game of marbles, but on the other hand he wondered how much Geordie had on it working out. He asked on the walk back to High Ground. Geordie wouldn’t say.
Chapter Sixteen
25 December 1940
Jersey
Hannah woke, and stretched. It was Christmas Day, the early morning light was oozing round the edge of the blackout. ‘I’ll have to sort that, I suppose,’ she said aloud.
Hans tightened his arm around her. ‘Together we will do it.’ His voice was drowsy from sleep. She rolled over, and touched his face. ‘Liebchen,’ he murmured.
She said against his naked chest, ‘I don’t usually do this.’
‘Yes, and neither do I. It is fast to be here, in bed with you, but it is war. I have yesterday and today as leave. But how long I remain in Jersey, I do not know. We grab, I think you say, at love.’
He tightened his hold, kissing her hair, cheeks, lips. There was silence in the house, until a yelp from the landing reminded her that Rosie needed to go out, but she’d just have to wait a bit longer. Her aunt had come with the dog a few days ago, because her mother wasn’t feeling very well, and Rosie would whine so. Usually Sylvia, an early riser, put her out but she and Cheryl were spending Christmas with Bobby and his mates. Bobby had secured a goose for their lunch. Perhaps she and Hans would go, perhaps they wouldn’t. They might stay here in bed, all day.
Rosie yelped again. Hannah moaned as Hans ran his hands over her body. Rosie barked, Hans opened his eyes, and laughed. ‘We need to see to your dog or there will be things to clean up.’
She smiled, but it was hard. Damned dog.
Hans eased himself into a sitting position, and pulled her up too. Hanging on the door was his uniform. Somehow it was a shock. It looked dangerous, frightening, foreign. She turned away from it. A woman had pushed her off the pavement yesterday, and shouted, ‘Jerry-bag.’
But she wasn’t. She just loved Hans, not the German army. Hans, and it wouldn’t have mattered what army he belonged to. The minute he had danced with her at the party it was so nice. He was kind, a gentleman and had said, that first night, ‘I think, for some reason, I could love you. It is not what I expected from this war. It is not what I expected when I was at your relative’s farm. It is not what I might have wanted, but within minutes of this evening, Miss Miller, I think I could love you.’
He was twenty-two. She was eighteen. If there hadn’t been a war no one would have called her a Jerry-bag. It wasn’t fair. She reached for her clothes, putting on layers against the chill. He dressed too, in his ordinary trousers and a sweater. As they went downstairs Rosie met them halfway, her tail wagging. ‘Oh, stop it, Rosie. Get out of the way, you’re such a nuisance,’ Hannah muttered, pushing past her.
Hans followed. ‘You British and your dogs.’
‘At least we’ve kept her. A lot have had them killed, worrying they couldn’t feed them because of the invasion, or because they were evacuating and leaving them. It was terrible.’
In the hall, Hans stopped, swinging round. ‘It is war.’ His voice was wary, and there was an edge to it.
She nodded, and together they walked to the kitchen and she said, ‘Of course, and they didn’t have to go, they could have stayed, like me, and seen what you were all really like. Just people.’
‘Indeed.’
They walked to the kitchen now. She put out Rosie, and made Hans toast with bread he had brought. For lunch they were to have some steak, again something he had brought. She had vegetables from Haven Farm. As she spread her toast with butter, again from him, he said, ‘And now you go to your uncle to take your presents?’
Hannah nodded, her stomach clenching. ‘You would wish me to come too?’
She shook her head. ‘It will be quicker if I go alone.’ How could she tell him that her uncle had said he’d run him through with a pitchfork if he set one foot on his property? She could still hear the edge in Hans’s voice when he’d said, ‘It is war.’
‘They would not like us to eat with them?
Again she shook her head. ‘They’re old, they like a quiet time.’
He said, ‘It is not just that, Liebchen. It is who I am, but never fear, because soon we will win this war and they will be proud to have a protector, and people will not dare to call you Jerry-bag, for to do so will mean that they will be dealt with.’
He stretched out his hand, and grasped hers. ‘Trust me, I have seen that things change when people see that we are their rulers. They do not dare to behave in this way, so they will settle
, they will be proud to know me. And you? You will be a great painter, I will see to that.’
His eyes held hers. He kissed her hand, pressing his lips hard against her skin. ‘I love you. It is so strange. I have not ever felt this before. For this reason I am glad that war began.’
She left him in the house and walked along the road to Haven Farm. It was the road that Bee followed when she flew in, and Hannah imagined herself high up, looking down. She swung her arms. It would serve Bryony right to have to face having a sister who was powerful. Then they’d all have to come to her, Hannah Miller, for help. The bag over her shoulder wasn’t heavy. She had painted small pictures for her relatives for their presents before her uncle had told her that she and her boyfriend would not be welcome.
She had shouted, ‘So, it’s all right to be nice to the man I’ve come to love when he needs diverting from your damned pig.’
He had shouted back, as he cleared the ditch alongside the road, ‘You’re always bloody in love, but not with them, surely not with them. They’re the enemy.’
‘He’s not a them. He’s a man. You don’t know him at all.’
‘Aye lass, and you don’t know him either, not really, but now you’ll be known for ever as a Jerry-bag.’
Hannah stopped swinging her arms now, and crossed them, her shoulders slumping. She’d replied, ‘But he’ll be with me for ever and in charge of you.’
She’d stalked on and his words had followed her. ‘He’s a soldier, and we’re in a war. He might not live, they might lose, then what?’
She was nearly at the farm, and hesitated. Why was she even bothering?
She forced herself to walk up the path. The lavender had been cut down for the winter, the pinks too. She knocked, and waited. Her Aunt Olive answered. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she hugged Hannah. Her aunt smelt of lavender, as usual, but that was because she collected the flowers, dried them, and placed them into bags for her drawers and it impregnated her clothes.
‘Come in.’ She was almost whispering. ‘Your mother is in the front room.’
She led the way, and opened the door. Hannah’s mother was sitting in the easy chair near the roaring inglenook, knitting. She looked up. ‘Hannah darling, Happy Christmas. Come in, do.’ She held out her hand to Hannah, coughing. Hannah kissed her. Her mother didn’t stroke her hair as usual, or hold her close, but picked up her knitting again, mouthing: knit one, purl one.
Aunt Olive stood in the doorway and said nothing.
Hannah withdrew her gifts from the bag. Her aunt approached and unwrapped the one Hannah handed to her. It was a painting of the headland near their farm, above the cove. She said, ‘Hannah, how kind, lovely. You had such promise.’
Hannah muttered, ‘I still have, I’m not dead.’
Her mother was unwrapping hers. ‘Very nice, dear.’ It was of Combe Lodge. ‘It all seems such a long time ago, a sunny time.’ She coughed again as she placed the painting down on the side table to the left of her chair, and continued knitting. The logs were spitting in the grate as silence fell. Her mother slowly put down her knitting and looked at her daughter. Her aunt stood motionless. The front door opened, slamming back against the wall.
Hannah said, ‘When Germany wins the war, Hans said I would become a great painter with his help, and I would have thought you’d be more grateful for your presents. What’s the matter with you both, you’re even crosser than usual and it’s not fair.’
Aunt Olive sighed. ‘Your uncle’s back, and you probably know his wine and beer were stolen from the cellar yesterday. We’re all, well, we’re all . . .’
Her uncle stood in the front-room doorway now. Aunt Olive held out Hannah’s present to him. He ignored it. ‘I’m not having her in the house, I told you women I wasn’t when I found me wine gone. Go on, sling your hook, Hannah Miller. You’re the only one who knew about the wine, apart from the three of us, so what have you got to say about that?’ He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but powered on. ‘Nothing? But what can you say? Take your poxy present with you and sling your hook. We’ve all had enough of you and your tricky ways, even your mother.’
Hannah heard the words. His booze was stolen? But why was that her fault? ‘I didn’t take it,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
She looked to her mother for support, but saw only the same distance in her eyes that was in her aunt’s.
She reached out. ‘Mum, it wasn’t me. Why would I? I even helped him with the pig.’
Her uncle said, ‘Go back to your soldier, the one who will win the war and make you a great painter. Go on, you’ve chosen your side, and it isn’t us, but that’s no surprise to me if there’s some gain in it for you.’
Aunt Olive came across and took her arm. ‘Come along, Hannah. He’ll cool down, but best to leave it for now.’
She escorted her to the door. Hannah said, ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Maybe not, but perhaps it’s the company you keep, and the things you tell them. You’re a silly girl, Hannah, and not safe to have around.’
Hannah called, ‘I’ll come and see you, Mum.’
‘If you like, dear, but not for a while.’
The tone of her mother’s voice was chilling. She walked down the path, and somehow struggled back along the road, to Hans.
She told him what had happened. He said, ‘Bobby must have heard you at the party, just as I heard you. You do say too much, Hannah. It is something you must guard against. I am a German, you are British, so must I also be careful what I say?’ There was a real question in his voice.
She almost blurted out the actual truth about the wireless but just in time she caught the words and bit them back. What was the point? Though it might be some news that he would value, it would be further proof that she was indeed loose-tongued.
He kissed her. ‘My little love, this will pass and I am proud of you because I have just given you the chance to betray him further, and you have not. There is, after all, much you could say about rats who squeal.’ He smiled.
She said nothing for a while, because war was so difficult, and it really wasn’t a game, but a frightening new world. Her uncle had been right, she didn’t really know this man, or was it the world in which he lived she didn’t know? She asked, ‘Can you get the wine back?’
He shook his head. ‘Bicycles are one thing but I cannot touch this man, as he will supply others in the German army with produce from France. Don’t worry, Hannah. Remember that one day your uncle will be pleased to know you.’
He held and kissed her. Her family faded.
Combe Lodge was shrouded in mist on Christmas morning and though Wendy Jenkins had telephoned the previous day to say that she couldn’t come after all, she had promised absolutely to come for a week in the spring, so spirits were high.
These spirits rose even further at teatime when Uncle Eddie telephoned, promising he would be home for the party on New Year’s Day. He had decided that he and Bryony could travel to Hatfield together on the 2nd in order to get her settled in her lodgings, so she could report for duty, bright as a button, on 3 January. He had then asked to talk to April, who had shut the kitchen door and spoken quietly into the receiver.
Cissie had muttered, ‘Grown-ups and their secrets.’
Bryony leaned forward. ‘What secrets?’
Cissie shook her head, as Frankie giggled. ‘I don’t know.’
Bryony wasn’t sure if she believed her.
As December drew to a close, the Blitz of London rose to new heights and as it did so, Cissie, Frank, Betty and Sol grew quieter, worried about their families, and why wouldn’t they be? On New Year’s Day, however, with the farewell party imminent, the children decided to cheer up, and grinned when Catherine and Anne came knocking on the back door and came in with the chill.
‘Shut the door, please,’ April said. ‘You’re bringing in the breeze and letting out the heat. Now what can we do for you two girls?’
Catherine said
to the children sitting around the table, colouring some triangular flags, ‘We need some pram-pushers urgently, aged from seven to nine. We need free time to help convert the rations for Bee’s farewell party into something magnificent.’
Anne said, ‘We even have badges. The prams are parked outside with Bee and Eric junior champing at the bit.’
As the children put on coats, hats and scarves the front doorbell rang. April let in Alan Baker and Bill Thomas, Catherine and Anne’s husbands who had arrived last night, one from Catterick and one from Aldershot. They carried through a wooden box with mackerel from Barry Maudsley and soft cheese from the farm down the road for which they’d swapped eggs and a chicken.
‘Black market?’ Alan queried.
‘Now, now,’ Bryony wagged her finger. ‘We’ve been saving our stamps, and together they almost covered it. The chicken swap did the rest, and it’s for the good of everyone at the party.’
Bryony looked around the kitchen. Cissie waved as she ushered the others out in front of her. She’d assumed the role of older sister by dint of being the longest-serving evacuee, as Eddie put it. Bryony called, ‘Hey, Cissie. I have asked Frankie to organise the team to paste and plant the flags you’ve made along the drive. Are you up to be leader, or would you like a break?’
Cissie smiled, and nodded. ‘’Course I’m the leader. We’ll be back when we’ve finished the pram pushing.’ She started to follow them, then turned and ran to Bryony. ‘I’m going miss you. Everyone goes – Eddie, Adam, and now you. But it’s you I will miss most of all.’
‘I’ll always come home.’
Cissie stepped back, shaking her head and not meeting her gaze. ‘No one can say that any more.’
The food was prepared by five, and Bryony was sneaking a piece of mackerel pâté on toast when April peered around the kitchen door. ‘Hey, madam. Out of those overalls.’ She tapped her watch. ‘We said we’d start early so people wouldn’t be traipsing home too late. There’s work to get to in the morning for most of them.’