by Milly Adams
‘Come with us,’ Bryony whispered. ‘We’ve been missing you, we love you, we want you back with us. You don’t know how long Hans will be here. He could be posted, then what? We can’t come again. Oh Hannah, please come. I promised, and here I am.’ She heard the urgency in her own voice.
‘He’s telling his parents about me, now I’m teaching the old dears how to draw, so I’ll be part of the family. Besides, we’ll be over in England soon enough when they invade, and I’ll come and visit. I might even bring you something nice. Just don’t spoil it, for once.’
Bryony reached for her. ‘What happens if we win, Hannah? Will you be safe, what do people think about those who live with Germans? What can he do for you then? Oh, Hannah, be sensible. Come home.’
Hannah slapped her away. ‘We won’t win. Look at all the bombing and England’s so small and alone, against all that Germany has. Why don’t you all just give in, and what’s so wrong about loving him, anyway? Under the uniform he’s a man, just like Adam, or Eddie.’
Bryony grabbed her. ‘Come on, now, I’m not leaving you, you talk such utter . . .’
She stopped and pulled her sister, and Hannah fought her off, screaming, ‘Get away!’
A German shouted from upstairs, ‘Hannah, what is it?’
Hannah looked at Bryony, hesitated, then shouted, ‘I need help. Quickly.’
Bryony let her go, stunned. She heard the clatter of feet on the stairs, and Adam was pulling her away from the door. They tore down the path, grabbing Sylvia as they passed. ‘Run, run,’ Bryony hissed.
They ran through the fields, the mist still as heavy, and now Rosie was with them. There was a shot from behind. They ducked at the noise, but as they couldn’t be seen it was panic-shooting. Sylvia was labouring, and Adam grabbed the straps of the rucksack and heaved it off her. ‘Now go,’ he urged. ‘We’ll follow.’
He took up the rear position as Rosie bounded ahead. Bryony held Sylvia’s hand as another shot rang out. Germans called from the cliff. Oh God, it was the gun emplacement. They tore on, over the gate, scattering the sheep. On they ran in the darkness and mist, following Sylvia, who only stopped when they reached gorse bushes. ‘Here,’ Sylvia panted. ‘We must be close to the cliffs.’
Rosie was quiet, and waited. Bryony led now, almost feeling her way forward until at last there they were there, with a great nothingness at their feet. She edged her way along, looking for the ledge, but Rosie bounded past her and down it, scattering stones in her wake. Germans shouted to the right. Some shots were fired, but at what?
Bryony took a deep breath and followed Rosie, forcing herself not to rush, hearing the others behind. At the bottom the dog bounded across the sand and Bryony held her breath, but there were no explosions, so no mines. They followed in Rosie’s footsteps, collected the Goatley and eased it into the water. Adam held it while Sylvia and Bryony clambered in, finally easing himself in too. Rosie launched herself on top of him. He shoved her down between his legs. ‘For goodness’ sake, dog.’ But he was laughing quietly.
Why the hell was he laughing? Bryony thought as they paddled. Shots sounded, but hit no targets, and distantly a searchlight stabbed at the mist, but way off to the left. They paddled as though the furies of hell were at their backs, which they were. Ahead, they heard the Sunflower’s engine powering up. Thank God for Eric. They steered towards her, then hurried up the ladder. Adam hurled Rosie up, then followed, rope in hand. Together he and Bryony hauled up the Goatley. Bryony could hardly get her breath. Eric powered off, not looking behind, saying in a hushed voice, ‘Well, Hannah, at last.’
Sylvia said. ‘She wouldn’t come.’
Eric spun round, looking from her to Bryony. ‘A long story.’ Bryony could say nothing else, because her sister had betrayed her, and how can you explain that?
Adam put his arms around her. ‘She’ll regret it. I’m so sorry, darling, but we’ve done all we can, for now. After all, she’s just lost her mother, she’s in a strange situation, all we can do is wait until the end of the war, whichever way it goes.’
She loved this man so much, for he wasn’t berating the girl, he was thinking of a solution. Was this the love Hannah felt? Was it true love at last? But nevertheless would Bryony have . . .? She stopped. It was pointless. They had to get home, Adam had convoys to guard, and she had planes to fly. That’s all that she must think about.
Rosie was nudging her. Bryony sat on the bench, pulling Rosie’s ears gently, leaning back against Adam, watching Sylvia as she stood by Eric. They would have time to call in on Combe Lodge and leave Rosie there. Cissie would love that, and what about Sylvia? Where would she live? This was what she must concentrate on, this world, her world and the people in it. But all the time her heart felt bruised, and now she thought of her mother. She tried to concentrate on the better days but still all she felt was relief that she was dead, for what would she have said about Hannah? If it had been her usual nonsense, then Bryony could not have borne it, and if her mother’s heart had been broken, neither could she have borne that.
Adam whispered, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so. Are you?’
‘I think so, but it does take the bloody biscuit.’ His arm tightened around her. ‘All you can do is laugh.’
She smiled. ‘Ah, that’s why? Yes, that just about sums it up.’
Chapter Twenty
1st June 1941
Combe Lodge
Cissie was shrieking in Bryony’s ear, ‘Bee, Bee, wake up, it’s morning. April will be Mrs Standing by the end of the day, it’s so exciting.’ She felt the child’s hot breath on her neck, and her warm hands shaking her shoulders.
Bryony groaned, turned, forcing her eyes open, snapping them shut again and wincing at the light that streamed through her bedroom window. ‘Oh, Cissie, have mercy.’ She remembered through her headache that it was the morning of April and Eddie’s wedding, something that had been sprung on them a few weeks before, to everyone’s great delight.
Cissie laughed, shaking her again. ‘Uncle Eddie said you’d say something like that. He said I had to say, “Serves you right for drinking so much. It’s supposed to be the men who have the stag party.” Why is it called a stag party, Bee?’
Bryony felt the child sit on the side of the bed. Clearly there was to be no mercy so Bryony eased herself into a sitting position, peering towards the window. ‘Did you open the blind, and the curtains? You must have been very quiet.’
She saw the other three then, ranged at the foot of the bed, staring at her, jiggling with impatience. Frankie said, ‘We shouldn’t have been, I told you, Cissie. We should have shouted and poured water on her.’
Betty objected, ‘Then she’d have looked worse than she does. That eye stuff’s smudged all over her cheeks. It looks like shoe polish.’ Sol stared, horrified. ‘Will it ever come off? She looks like something horrid.’
Bryony looked back at the four children who were eyeing her much as if she was a specimen in a glass jar. She remembered, then, that she’d worn some of Sylvia’s mascara for the ‘few drinks’ on the terrace with April while Eddie had gone to the pub with Eric and the darts team. Well, not the whole team. She swallowed. Adam hadn’t been there. They had thought they would marry at the same time as Eddie and April, but leave had been changed, and the High Ground was to be ‘elsewhere’.
She flung back the bedclothes and checked the clock. ‘What?’ This time it was she who shrieked. It was 8 a.m. and the wedding was at eleven. There was the food to lay out, the children’s clothes to prepare, Wendy to meet from the bus. ‘Have you woken Trixie and Joyce?’
She snatched up her overalls from the chair next to the bed, and dragged on her pants under her nightie. She threw the nightie on the bed and hauled on a shirt, then overalls and socks. The children were watching, as though she was a circus turn.
Cissie muttered, ‘Trixie and Joyce have locked their door, and one of them sort of groaned, ‘Go away, and let me die.’
Betty lo
oked serious. ‘It was Trixie. She didn’t sound well. Do you think she’ll really die? Will they still have the wedding if she does?’
April entered now, with the bridesmaids’ dresses over her arm. ‘Well, the bride-to-be is feeling fresh and perky this bright June morning, thank you all very much for asking. How are you doing, Bryony Miller, supposedly my mainstay and support? Isn’t that what you called yourself yesterday as you opened another bottle of Eddie’s home-made elderberry wine? Our little gang’ – she indicated the children – ‘have been up and at ’em since six. Catherine, Anne and Sylvia are downstairs, beavering away in the kitchen. Eddie is prone in his room, with Eric snoring on the sofa downstairs. Am I making you feel a sufficient failure? Or are you still too excited about the remote but real chance of flying a Spitfire on your return? You’d better pass the test, my girl.’
‘Shut your noise, woman. I need coffee. And no, Betty, no one will really die today.’ Bryony fled into the bathroom: teeth, face, quick look in the mirror. ‘Oh God.’ She scrubbed at the mascara. ‘What was I thinking of?
‘I don’t know,’ said Frankie who stood in the doorway.
‘Is there no such thing as privacy?’ Bryony groaned.
Frankie shrugged and remained, with Sol. Cissie brought goose grease. ‘Sylvia said to use this.’ Betty had cotton wool, which she handed her. They all watched as she wiped the blackness away. Frankie said, ‘You still look awful, sort of extra tired.’
‘You don’t say that to a woman, my lad. Just remember that as you grow older, if I let you live that long.’
As she headed out of the bathroom she heard Frankie say to Cissie, ‘She’s a funny old thing and, what’s more, she’s Bee, not a woman.’
‘Mouths of babes and sucklings come to mind,’ April sang as she passed on her way to Eddie’s room, calling back, ‘Do have a go at Trixie and Joyce again. I don’t know, you’d think you flyers were a bunch of wilting violets the way you’ve all collapsed. How do you cope at the clubs in London?’
‘They don’t serve elderberry wine.’ Bryony called the children to her. ‘Go and knock on the girls’ door, and keep knocking, do not stop until you hear the key turning in the lock. I am going to find coffee. April promised me some of the real stuff and no one, including you, Frankie, is to ask where she found it. Then I’ll be in the garden, picking flowers for the lunch tables.’
She ran down the stairs, not even thinking about her headache. It would go. It must.
In the hall the telephone was ringing. She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘And hello to you, beautiful woman.’ She sagged. It was Adam. Oh, Adam.
‘Adam. I thought you’d have gone.’
‘Any minute now. The skipper felt the no-show bridegroom deserved a last call. Have you managed to call everyone to let them know? Did you give them my apologies, my sincere, sincere regrets? Just remember that it doesn’t matter whether we’re married or not, I will love you for ever, just as Mum and Eddie have loved one another. You and I just have to stay alive, do what needs to be done, and somehow, somewhere it will happen. You are my everything. Got to go.’
‘I love you so much,’ she said, wanting to weep but he was gone. ‘Be safe,’ she murmured.
‘He will be.’ It was Cissie peering over the banisters. ‘April said he wouldn’t dare not, because she’d have something to say about it. I love you, Bee. I really do, and I’m sorry you’re not getting married today as well, but it means we’ll have another wedding, and we four can be pageboys and bridesmaids again. Will we have to wear the same dresses?’
She was skipping down the stairs – when did she ever not? Together, hand in hand, they hurried to the kitchen, to be met by the aroma of coffee. Over by the back door the babies, Bryony and Eric junior, were beating at some sort of drum in their playpen. At the table, Catherine and Anne were mashing hard-boiled eggs for the sandwiches, and the smell sat heavily on the air. At the far end of the table Sylvia sliced home-made bread. Catherine raised an eyebrow, and said to Anne, ‘These fly girls are lightweights. We were on the terrace as well, keeping pace, and look at us in comparison to the state of her.’
Sylvia sniggered, then came and hugged Bryony. ‘Take no notice. I couldn’t do what you lot do. You’re all exhausted, that’s what’s wrong with you. Eddie, too.’
Anne muttered, ‘Well, he will be after tonight.’
The three women laughed. Cissie looked at Bryony, who was pouring coffee. ‘What’s happening tonight?’
Bryony muttered, ‘Sylvia, my dear girl, I will leave you to answer that.’
She sat at the table, removed a slice of bread and ate it, without butter. She was home. Adam wasn’t here, not actually here, but he was all around.
The church was within walking distance, which was as well, because by 10.20 Wendy had still not arrived. She had said that she and Timmo would be finding their own way from the station, not catching the bus. Apparently, Timmo knew a friend in the locality who had said he’d pick them up from the station and bring them to Combe Lodge. This friend knew it well.
Cissie, standing next to Bryony, fidgeted on the front steps of the Lodge. ‘We can’t miss it, Bee. I’m head bridesmaid. Where are they?’
Bryony checked her watch. She was wearing uncomfortable grey high heels to match her outfit, and taking the short cut across the fields didn’t bear considering. She made a decision. ‘Come along, we’ll walk to the end of the drive, and wait another five minutes. It’s wartime, a bomb could have damaged the train line.’
She began walking on tiptoes, but on the grass, not the gravel. Cissie held back, ‘Bomb? They’ll be hurt.’
Bryony cursed herself. ‘No, they won’t, we would have heard. Hurry up, now.’
She hurried on, pulling Cissie behind her, waiting for the question that would inevitably come. ‘How could they tell us?’
‘Cissie, there are ways,’ she snapped, then regretted it. She adjusted her hat. ‘The police would have told us. They always do. You’re next of kin, so never worry until you see them standing on our front doorstep, and they’re not, darling.
She snatched a look behind. Cissie was quickening her pace, her face lightening as a car swept into the drive and screeched to a halt in a shower of gravel beside them. Wendy called through the opening rear door, ‘Quick, quick, Sid will take us to the church. So sorry to be late, the train was held up. There was a raid as we were leaving London, or so they said. Probably just late.’
Cissie ran to her sister and jumped in through the open door. Sid leaned out of the driver’s window. ‘We meet again, Bryony Miller.’
She forced herself to smile. ‘We do indeed, Sid.’ She followed Cissie into the back seat. Timmo sat in the front passenger seat, in a navy blue suit. The smell of cigarette smoke was heavy. Sid turned the car and set off down the drive. ‘Me and Timmo was just doing a bit of business, Bryony, as yer do.’
She smiled at Wendy, who sat with her arm around Cissie, telling her she looked like a princess in her pale pink bridesmaid outfit. Bryony replied to Sid, ‘Yes, I’m sure it’s as you do, Sid.’
His laugh was hard. ‘Me and Bryony Miller has history, you see, Timmo. Dated her sister, I did . . .’ He raised his voice. ‘I heard tell you tried again, and she still preferred to keep ’er distance.’
Bryony stared into the rear-view mirror. ‘I don’t know where you hear such rubbish, Sid. But then I expect you have a finger in so many pies you don’t know which way is up as you swim through the slime.’
‘You gave her my present then, when you went over first?’
‘I told you back then I had.’ Beside her Cissie was laughing with Wendy. Timmo turned round and looked. ‘You tell the kid we can’t stay, Wendy. I know you missed the spring, but there’s a war on, and things happen. We’re off after a bit of nosh, kid. I don’t want no messing about.’
‘Why?’ Bryony shouted before she could stop herself, leaning forward, wanting to put the pimp in a stranglehold and choke the life o
ut of him. She forced herself to soften her voice. ‘Why? Cissie thought Wendy was coming now instead of spring. She’s got so much planned.’
Sid tutted. ‘Naughty naughty Bryony Miller, don’t do to cross our Timmo. Makes him all riled.’
Bryony banged her fist on Sid’s shoulder, wishing it was his face. ‘It doesn’t do any good to get me riled up, either, you little . . .’ She forced herself to stop, take a breath. ‘Just get us there, and then disappear. You’re bad news, and you too, Timmo. The least you could do is to give your girl some time off.’ The last was said in a whisper.
They were drawing up at the church as Timmo said into the silence that had settled on the car, twisting right round, ‘We’ve got a lot of business on, ain’t we, babe? We got ’ere, didn’t we, when we ain’t got time, not really. So Cissie will understand. Tell you what, when she’s a bit older, say twelve or so, she could come and stay, couldn’t she, long-term. We’d like that, wouldn’t we?’
The look he gave Bryony was cold and full of venom. She leaned closer and whispered, ‘That will never happen. I’ll drop a bloody bomb on you first.’
She opened the door. Eddie and April had broken convention and arrived together, though Eddie would wait in the front pew with his best man, Eric, while April and her retinue sorted themselves out in the vicar’s little room off to the side. Bryony clambered out of the car, followed by Cissie, who was still chattering and had heard nothing. But there was fear in Wendy’s eyes, and Bryony wished she’d remained silent. As they walked towards the church, she knew that something had happened to her when Hannah had chosen the Nazi over them. It had left Bryony full of – well, what? It wasn’t anger, it was – indignation, and more, it was strength. Yes, strength.
After all, she flew replacements for the RAF in all conditions, some of her friends had been hurt, some killed. The man she loved was out there doing his bit. She had looked after her sister so much of her life, and look at the result. What’s more, her mother was dead and couldn’t be hurt by Bryony’s behaviour ever again. These men were reptiles, squirming around in the filth making money out of the seamen in the convoys Adam was trying to protect. Why shouldn’t she defend those worth defending?