by Helen Bryan
When Ted arrived he established himself in the garden shed at Glebe House, almost before anyone realized he had done so. In return for a camp bed and a spirit lamp he helped Evangeline with the gardening and odd jobs, talking nonstop. He wanted them all to become socialists. The longer he stayed, the more convinced Elsie was that Ted had driven his family mad with his politics and they had thrown him out. He lectured and hectored everyone: Oliver about religion being the opium of the masses, Albert about solidarity with the working class, Frances and Evangeline about suppressing the workers and imperialism, and Alice about social revolution and why the Church was a bourgeois tool of oppression.
When he harangued Bernie about the inherent flaws in the capitalist system, Bernie snapped, “’E’s drivin’ me round the bleedin’ twist! Woss ’appened to me peace and quiet, eh? Like a bleedin’ circus round ’ere. We get married so’s we can be togevver, then Agnes is ’angin’ around in the room wiv us, an’ now we got bleedin’ Ted! Either ’e goes or I break ’is jaw to shut ’im up.”
“Bernie, I got to keep an eye on Agnes. Ted’s always goin’ on at ’er about free love—I ’eard ’im—next fing you know, she’ll be in trouble an’ ’e’s not the marryin’ kind. Where’ll she be then? I’ll tell you where, back wiv us wiv a flippin’ baby! I owe it to Mum to look after ’er. Blood’s ficker than water.”
“Glad I never ’ad no bleedin’ family!”
“Bernard Carpenter! You ’ave so got a family! You got me, ’aven’t you?” Elsie put her arms round Bernie’s neck. “Always will too, if you know what’s good for you.” He relented and gave her a kiss. It was hardly the perfect moment for her to tell him that he was, in fact, about to have more family than he expected. She had had a letter from the people who had taken in her brothers: they had had a fire, so they and seven children were now living on top of each other in a neighboring family’s tiny two-up, two-down cottage, the only accommodation available at the moment. Since Elsie was now a married woman they were sending the boys to her.
She put off telling Bernie as long as she could, which wasn’t long because she discovered the boys were due to arrive on the weekend train. “At least you’ll be together for Christmas,” wrote the woman whose house had burned down. Elsie groaned.
“Wot we need,” she told Bernie, when she finally confessed that the boys were on their way, “is a ’ouse of our own. And for once, I don’t care how you get it if so long’s we can all be togevver.”
“Only on condition that Ted don’t come too,” said Bernie firmly.
And he did find them a house, which was a miracle with housing in such short supply. It was at the end of a once-genteel terrace in Eastbourne. Shabby and near-derelict, it nevertheless had a number of bedrooms, a double drawing room, and bells everywhere for summoning a now nonexistent maid. It had an odd assortment of furniture left behind by the previous owners, who had had an overwhelming fondness for red velvet, chandeliers, mirrors, and brightly patterned carpets. “Blimey, it’s a palace, innit, velvet curtains an’ all!” exclaimed Elsie, gazing at Bernie in wonder. “However did you find it? No, don’t tell me!”
So Bernie didn’t tell Elsie it had been a brothel Uncle had owned. On his shady solicitor’s advice Uncle had registered the title to the property in the name of Bernard Carpenter, who, unbeknownst to the land registry, had been a child at the time. Shortly before Uncle went to prison, he told Bernie what he had done, knowing the boy was too much in awe of him to ever try to deprive him of this property. Now, though, Uncle had died, and the former inhabitants had moved on to greener pastures in London. Bernie reasoned it hadn’t been requisitioned because the authorities didn’t like requisitioning brothels, so it must be his to move into.
Agnes balked at going to Eastbourne, insisting that she would stay on in Elsie and Bernie’s room at the top of Glebe House. But Elsie wasn’t going to leave her alone with Ted. She obtained a transfer to rat catching in Eastbourne with Agnes as her assistant.
“I’ll miss you,” said Evangeline sadly, “’specially with Alice leaving too and Frances away so much.”
“I know, I hate to fink of goin’, but what else can we do? I owe it to Mum to look after the boys and Agnes.”
After Christmas Evangeline and Alice waved Elsie, Bernie, Agnes, Dick, and Willie off to their new home. Before long Ted appeared in Eastbourne, much to Bernie’s annoyance, and stayed.
The day after the planes bombed Crowmarsh Priors, uncertain whether she should have mentioned it earlier, Frances went up to London, sought out the little man, and asked his advice. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but she had found a radio in the airing cupboard at Gracecourt after having lunch with Leander a year earlier, which might or might not be odd. And she was being hounded by Hugo who was increasingly persistent with his marriage proposals. She had begun to think him deranged. No sooner had he accused Oliver of being his rival than Frances had overheard him telling Leander that “they would deal with Hammet.” She had thought Hugo had meant the church authorities would discipline Oliver for having an affair with a parishioner, but could he have gotten wind of her marriage? She thought it unlikely, because Hugo had seemed merely jealous, but then the church was bombed, a most peculiar target, surely…there was no point in their bombing an isolated church and a few hills.
“Hmmm. Perhaps Hugo is just madly in love with you,” said the little man.
“No, he isn’t. That’s what makes it odd. Men have been in love with me before—you needn’t raise your eyebrows, most girls have had men in love with them at some point—and men in love don’t behave in this, this intense, unpleasant way. Hugo is practically snarling his proposals. Something is decidedly ‘off’ with him.”
The little man said they mustn’t jump to conclusions, but now she must watch Gracecourt and both de Balforts as closely as she could. If Frances was right, it wouldn’t be only the de Balforts who were involved, and she mustn’t give the game away before they could spread a net to catch everyone. “And Frances,” he warned as they parted, “never forget for a minute how dangerous collaborators are. They have everything to lose.”
Frances stayed in the village for Christmas instead of going to her father. She disappeared on long rambles into the country and came back with pheasants, rabbits, and even a small roe deer once. Poaching provided her best alibi. In training they were told that when they had to lie, they should stick to the truth as far as possible.
Alice had been ordered to report for duty in London early in the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, after the children were asleep, she came to say good-bye to Evangeline and Frances. She was wearing her new WVS uniform for the first time. She had lost weight and the uniform’s skimpy skirt showed off her slim figure and long legs. Its tailored style suited her. She had made an effort for the first time in months, manicuring and buffing her nails, applying lipstick—a going-away present from Elsie—and under the jaunty WVS cap, her hair was arranged in the victory roll she had finally perfected. She looked a different person: efficient and capable but unexpectedly glamorous, like a forces’ pinup in uniform.
Over the last bottle of wine from Lady Marchmont’s store she and Frances and Evangeline chatted. Frances had been devoting her few spare moments to help Oliver at the makeshift chapel Oliver had arranged in the vicarage dining room so the village had a place to worship. “So good of you, Frances,” Alice remarked.
Frances made a self-deprecating face. “You were always the mainstay of St. Gabriel’s, and someone’s got to help Oliver keep the parish together when you’re gone,” she told Alice.
Evangeline stared at her. She thought Frances was a most unlikely candidate to fill Alice’s shoes, but she and Oliver always seemed to be together now, and when they weren’t, each was looking for the other. Odd.
“Anyway, darling, since you’re leaving us, I’ve a little present for you.” Frances changed the subject. “You never know what might happen or who you’ll meet in London. If the right man comes along, I
daresay you’ll need this.” She handed Alice the crocodile dressing case Albert had seen her holding on the station platform the day she arrived in Crowmarsh Priors.
“Oh, Frances…” breathed Alice. She stroked it and then opened the catch. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen, let alone owned. Inside it was beautifully fitted in silver and mother-of-pearl, with a brush and comb, a manicure set, a sewing kit, a crystal powder bowl with its own large puff, holders for three lipsticks, and two Lalique scent bottles, each half-filled with Vol de Nuit. There was a mother-of-pearl-handled toothbrush, a little box for tooth powder, a padded drawer for jewelry, and a clean handkerchief edged with lace. In the back a mirror swivelled out on a clever little hinge. “Oh, Frances—I’ve never owned anything so pretty!” she said. “When I die they’ll find it and say I—that I…had…a friend…”
“Let’s not be morbid, darling. No tears! Something in my bones tells me you’re going to meet a wonderful man soon and you’ll need this for a wedding trip. Promise to write and tell us all about it when it happens.”
After she had gone, Evangeline and Frances finished the wine and gazed into the fire. “You and Oliver,” said Evangeline after a while, “you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
When you have to lie, stick as close to the truth as you can. “Yes,” Frances said. “I know what you’re thinking, that it doesn’t make sense, but, Evangeline…no one must know. It must be a secret for now. Please, say nothing.”
“I can keep a secret,” said Evangeline. “You’ve no idea.”
“If you’re my friend, keep it, and please, don’t ask me anything else. But if anything ever happens to me—a bomb falls on me or something—promise you’ll look after him. He’s got, I mean, he let drop, he’s got some sort of heart condition, it doesn’t show, but he does.”
“Promise.”
“Feels like this war’s gone on forever, doesn’t it?”
32.
West London, August 1944
Alice had struggled all day to get a grip on herself, but felt she had lost the battle. That morning she had gotten out on the wrong side of bed to find a gray, damp day, unseasonably cold. She hadn’t been able to concentrate properly, as if the atmosphere oppressed and smothered her every thought and movement. She felt irritable and longed to be somewhere that wasn’t cold, dark, dirty, and dangerous. Somewhere the sun was shining and she could have a proper bath instead of a hasty wash from a tap in a bathroom with a broken window.
Now the day was nearly over—no doubt to be followed by another equally dreary tomorrow. She concentrated on arranging biscuits in neat circles on a cracked platter. She straightened the teacups, waited for the tea urn to bubble, and wondered why she had volunteered again to play hostess for another church social when she hated them—especially when she was exhausted and would rather be in bed. Never again, she promised herself.
Suddenly one of the dreaded V2 rockets whooped over the church. The ominous sound drowned the gramophone, the chatter stopped, and everyone in the hall froze. There had been no warning sirens and no time to run for the air raid shelter. You were all right as long as you could hear the noise. It was when you couldn’t that it was dangerous, because that meant you were directly beneath it.
“Under the tables, everyone!” Alice shouted just as they heard it hit. Another followed and fell close by, probably intended for Paddington Station. The third whoop stopped suddenly, and the rocket brought down half the ceiling with a thud and put out the lights. Alice crouched, eyes shut tight and seeing again the little boy lying dead in the street yesterday after a direct hit. She had picked him up and asked the neighbors, dazed survivors, who he was. Nobody knew. She had kept a stiff upper lip, of course: she had tucked the little corpse into an ambulance, then got on with directing stunned people who no longer had homes to temporary shelters and hot food.
When the raid finally ended the church hall was full of fragmented plaster, broken glass, and people asking each other if they were all right. Someone produced a torch. The urn lay in a puddle on its side, surrounded by broken cups. The blackout curtain rails were askew across the broken windows, and they could see searchlight beams across the sky. “Extinguish that torch!” someone ordered, and the tiny gleam of light disappeared.
Alice felt limp and was choking and gasping for breath, throat gritty with dust. Somehow the tall American airman who had been talking to the vicar had an arm round her shoulders and was trying to help her up. But Alice wasn’t sure she could stand. She felt so weak she wanted to collapse in a heap. Tears pricked her eyes. Mustn’t cry, she told herself sternly. It would never do for the WVS to give way. They had to set an example and carry on. She was just tired, she muttered to the airman. They were all tired—Ellen, Judy, and the vicar too. Suddenly she realized how comforting it felt to have a man’s arm round her in the dark. She was shaking.
“You’re the first girl I met over here could quote the scriptures,” he said in her ear.
From the number of very white teeth Alice could see in the gloom, she grasped he was smiling. He had an odd way of talking, as if he was in no particular hurry to say what he had to say. “I beg your pardon?” she said.
“You just said, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
“Did I?” Her colleague Ellen had warned her that she had been talking to herself. I am turning into an eccentric, bitter woman, like Mummy, she thought. The knowledge weighed her down like another wartime burden. “Well, those were rather close! Still, we must count ourselves lucky; remember that others are worse off.” She had tried for a brisk tone—why had her voice wobbled? Deep breaths, my girl. You’ve lasted this long, she reminded herself.
“If those bombs had fallen any closer we are the ones that’d been a lot worse off. Ma’am,” he said in that slow voice. The “ma’am” was respectful, but he had managed to keep his arm round her shoulders. It felt nice and strong. Weakly, Alice decided to let it stay for a minute, just until she stopped shaking and collected her thoughts. But she continued to shake.
The man put his other arm around her and held her tightly to him. “It’s all right,” he said. “You English are somethin’ else. That rocket scared the daylights out of me and I’m in the air force. You’re just a gal, and gals’ve got a right to be scared. I bet you been through this lots of times since the war started, and still here you are tryin’ to act like everything’s normal. It isn’t, but it’s all right now.”
After a short time the shaking wore off and Alice began enjoying the warm, solid feel of the man close to her. Then she reminded herself that Americans had a shocking reputation; she shouldn’t encourage advances. He was probably married anyway. First Richard, now this fellow…who seemed kind. They were all married. Alice sighed, fought back self-pity, and began to pick glass out of her hair. She sniffed, and something splattered onto her jacket.
“You’re bleeding,” said the airman. “Hold still.” He took out his handkerchief and held it to her nose.
“It’s only a nosebleed—I’m hardly a war casualty,” she wanted to say briskly. Instead she quavered, “Thank you. Oh, no! I’ve bled all over the front of your uniform!” She wished the earth would open and swallow her, bloody nose and all. First the rockets, now this, on the first occasion she had talked to an attractive man in ages.
He was grinning now. “That’s all right. Have a good cry if you want. Go ahead, I’m used to it. Women always feel better after a good cry, least that’s what my sisters tell me. And I have five. Somebody’s always crying, getting something out of her system. I’m Joe Lightfoot. US Air Force.” He wetted his handkerchief in some of the spilled water from the tea urn and gave it to her. “And you?”
“Oh. Yes.” Sniff. “How do you do?” Sniff. Alice mopped at her face and eyes and dabbed at her nose. “I’m Alice Osbourne. Women’s Volunteer Service. How long have you been in England?”
“Six months. I fly a bomber, missions over Germany, helped back up the invasion on D-
day. Pretty busy. Had a weekend leave, so I decided I better see London. Boy, those trains are crowded. I got to London, and it’s all so dark. I didn’t know what to do until I stopped to ask directions and I saw the sign says y’all were havin’ a social tonight and servicemen were welcome. Been watching you from across the room, moving around, organizin’ things like you’re in charge. This your church?”
“Sort of, now I’m in London. I help out sometimes.” Watching her? Dismayed, Alice brushed hard at her uniform. She must look terrible. Perhaps it was a good thing the lights were blown out. Why, oh, why hadn’t she remembered her lipstick? She hadn’t had a bath in days. And why couldn’t she think of anything to say? She fell back automatically onto a familiar topic. “My father came here as assistant vicar when he was first ordained. Then they gave him his own parish in the country where—”
“Your daddy was a what?”
“A vicar.”
“So you’re a preacher’s daughter! Well, Alice, I come from a churchgoing family myself, where all the firstborn sons are named Joe. Officially I was baptized Joseph Lee Lightfoot the Fourth. Don’t know what denomination this here church is, but my family’s all Southern Baptist. You bein’ a churchgoin’ woman, I thought I better mention it and get that out of the way.”
Alice had never heard of Southern Baptists. “Oh?” she said faintly.
“You feelin’ better? Good, I’ll keep talking. I come from the country too, a little town called Goshen, Georgia. ’Bout a hundred miles from Atlanta. You’ve heard of Atlanta, haven’t you?”
She nodded. She had no idea where it might be on the map.
“My family’ve had a farm there since before the Civil War. Daddy’s branched out a little, has him some stores that sell feed and hardware. Had about ten between Goshen and Atlanta by the time I shipped out. Wants me to come back and help him run the business, seein’ I’m the only boy. Promised me two hundred acres to build my own house when I do.”