Bobby's War

by Shirley Mann

  He checked the safety equipment and the rigging and set off from Gosport, dousing all lights. He started the engine but winced at the noise and immediately switched it off. He looked at the stretch of water in front of him and was just considering how he was going to take his boat noiselessly through it on his own when a gruff voice yelled, ‘What the hell’s going on,’ and then a tousled head of grey hair appeared in the hatch.

  ‘Turner! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘We’re going on a fishing trip,’ Edward replied with a grin, looking at the man who had taught him to sail as a boy.

  John Blake looked around at the horizon and spluttered.

  ‘Fishing? At this time of night and in these waters?’

  ‘Well, we’re fishing for a couple of men,’ Edward told him. ‘It’s a mercy mission now come and help me and take the wheel, we can’t put the engine on.”

  John Blake shook his head and then regretted the move. It reminded him of how many beers he had actually consumed the previous night but still grumbling, he silently took the helm as a member of a well-practised crew while Edward sprang into action and jumped onto the deck to haul and let the sails out, breathing that familiar sigh of satisfaction as the wind caught them. They kept quiet as they left the town of Gosport behind and headed into open water.

  The winds were increasing. Edward trimmed his sails and set his compass towards the rendezvous point half way between England and France. The waves were beginning to hit the deck, but he knew his boat inside out and had faith in its sturdy construction. It was a ketch with a beautiful mahogany wheelhouse and he was confident it was a capable and seaworthy craft. Edward checked his timings; at six knots it was going to take eight hours to get to the coordinates. He yelled to John Blake to start up the engine to supplement the sails, he was going to need every bit of power he had to compete with the waves.

  Standing next to the mast, Edward had never felt more alive and wondered, not for the first time, how long he was going to have to remain stuck behind a desk all day.

  He was grateful there was hardly any moonlight in the cloudy skies but it meant he had to be constantly on the lookout for lightless naval patrol boats crossing his path. He did not want to be spotted by anyone. The slow, ponderous civil servant was unrecognisable as Edward leapt about the deck, adjusting sails. He was a naturally nimble man and he had sailed in far worse weather.

  He did not even struggle to stay awake. He was completely alert. Once they had settled their course, he went back to the wheelhouse to take over the helm.

  ‘Evening John, good to see you. Now, be a good chap and go and put the jug on, I’m parched and you look as if you could do with a hot drink.’

  Captain John Blake longed for a strong coffee but had to settle for tea, which was all they had on board. He did not argue with the man he had known for years, who was having the time of his life. John clung on to the side of the hatch against the pulsing hangover that was making him unsteady and went to light the gas on the gimbled cooker. The two men had been firm friends from the first day when a young lad in neatly-pressed shorts had turned up for a sailing lesson. John had watched with pride as the shy, gawky Edward blossomed into a capable, likeable young man with an unexpected wild streak. Young Edward proved to be not only a willing learner but also an hilarious companion. The two spent comfortable weekends in each other’s company exploring the south coast, battling with the elements and sharing stories over a campfire on shore. Away from the confines of a stifling upper-class household, Edward discovered an adventurous side to him that was as joyous as a lark suddenly finding wings and John Blake was as proud of him as any father.

  Blake got out the two metal mugs and the tea and muttered about how he had always known that the pin-striped suit was a disguise and that, in fact, the man at the wheel was as mad as a hatter, albeit a damned good sailor.

  ‘Taught him everything I knew,’ the older man said to himself just as a large wave hit the side of the boat. ‘Just as well, looks like we’re going to need all the help we can get tonight.’ They were being tossed around like a cork.

  Hours later, the waves had subsided, along with John’s headache and the boat was zipping across the water. In the distance, Edward focused his binoculars on a small vessel coming towards them.

  ‘Bloody Nora, I hope that’s them,’ Blake said. ‘I don’t want to explain to any authorities what the hell we’re doing here.’

  Edward peered out carefully, checked his compass bearing and then beamed.

  ‘It’s them, there are four of them and one of them has got a black beret on. You can’t get more French than that.’

  ‘I just hope he doesn’t smell of garlic,’ John replied. ‘My stomach couldn’t take it.’

  ‘Maybe we should get the jug on again, Blake, they’ll be in need of a cup of something hot. Heaven knows what sort of hairy escape they’ve had to get here.’

  ‘We’ve only got tea, and they’ll hate that,’ John told him, but went anyway.

  Edward threw a line and the two boats briefly came alongside and a remarkably sprightly Raoul and Michel jumped across. They gave a grateful wave to the French fishermen who had brought them and turned around to face their new rescuers.

  They grabbed each of the Englishmen’s hands and pumped them up and down, babbling in French, very little of which Edward understood. John Blake looked blankly at them both.

  ‘I apologise, we speak English now,’ the older man said with a huge smile. ‘It is England that is to be our home until this war is over, no?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Edward replied. John reached across them with two mugs full of hot tea. They took them gratefully but winced with distaste when they sipped the tea.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s English tea,’ Edward told them, ‘it’s all we’ve got.

  ‘Come below and I’ll go through the arrangements with you. John, take the helm, would you?’

  Chapter 40

  Harriet had been on a week of nights but as soon as she was able, she went in to see Gus. She knew what the doctors had said and she knew what his parents had said. She also knew what she was about to say.

  She marched towards his bed. He seemed to have shrunk into his body and he looked listlessly towards the window.

  Harriet pulled the curtains round the bed and stood with her arms folded. She waited.

  ‘What? What do you expect me to do?’ Gus finally said, furiously.

  ‘I expect you to deal with this and not give in,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a long way to go but you will get there. Do you know how many times I’ve waited for crews that didn’t come back at all? And the ones that do often have disfigured faces or have to have amputations. You’ve just got to teach your legs to walk again.’

  She looked at his crestfallen face and added with a smile, ‘Besides, I’m going to marry you Gus Prince and you are going to stand at that altar on your two legs as I walk down the aisle.’

  Gus looked at her in astonishment and then burst out laughing. The vision of this pretty, dimpled girl in front of him looking fierce and determined was the first thing in days to pierce his misery.

  ‘Who says you’re going to marry me? I haven’t asked you. I might be in love with someone else.’

  ‘Poof, an infatuation and you know it. We’ve been destined for each other since we were at school. You’re not going to escape me, especially now you can’t walk too well,’ she grinned.

  He lay back on his pillows and gave her a wry smile.

  ‘We’ll see, Harriet Marcham, we’ll see.’

  Harriet called the orderly who was passing with the meal trolley and said imperiously, ‘He’ll have some supper now, thank you.’

  She sat down next to Gus and tucked a napkin into his pyjama top. He looked in indignation at her.

  ‘I don’t need feeding, thank you very much.’

  ‘Good. Well, here, there’s nothing wrong with your hands, take this knife and fork and eat up. You’re looking a bit
pasty and your mum’s worried about you.’

  Gus resignedly put the first morsel of real food he had tasted in days into his mouth.

  While he was chewing, Harriet took the opportunity to lecture him further. ‘You’re being pathetic, sitting here feeling sorry for yourself,’ she told him. He tried to retaliate but she held up her hand to stop him.

  ‘I’ve seen men learn to walk with false limbs, you have to believe you can walk again. It all comes from up here,’ she said, prodding his forehead with her finger. ‘Your dad’s spoken to the doctors and they say you have a fighting chance of not being in a wheelchair but it’s going to take time – and effort – and I’m not going to let you give up. I’m going to be with you every painful step of the way.’

  She looked threateningly at him.

  ‘OK, OK, I hear what you’re saying,’ Gus said. He put down the fork and stared at his plate. He felt tears prickling his eyes.

  She softened her voice. ‘Come on, Gus, you can do better than this. You’re a strong, healthy young man with your whole life ahead of you. You have nothing to lose by giving it your best shot. Your mum, dad, brothers and me . . . we can all help you. You just have to stop feeling like you need to be perfect and accept you’re an ordinary human being. It’s OK to have frailties you know.’

  He could not speak but reached out his hand toward her. She grasped it, trying to pass on her strength to him.

  ‘Now, where’s that sponge and custard?’ she said, looking round for the orderly.

  That night, as Gus went to sleep, he felt as if a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders. He had been feeling guilty about his need for perfection since Bobby had been to see him. Disturbingly, it had brought reminders of Hitler’s Aryan race to mind and he had been disgusted with himself. Harriet had somehow given him permission to be a normal human being and her belief in him had given him the kick up the backside he needed. He smiled when he thought about the telling off she had given him but then a vision of her dimpled cheeks and soft smile came into his head and he felt a strange tug on his heart.

  When his parents came in the following day, turning the corner towards his bed with dread, they saw their son sitting up in a chair with his hair brushed.

  His mum rushed forward and hugged him. ‘Oh, Gus, you look so much better! What’s happened?’

  Gus smiled sheepishly at them both. ‘I’ve had the Harriet Marcham treatment.’

  His father looked puzzled but his mother nodded knowingly.

  ‘Ah yes, Harriet. Don’t ever underestimate that young woman.’

  She had always loved Harriet, finding her so much more approachable than Roberta Hollis, who she had begun to suspect her son had fallen for. She hated the way that girl strode into church on Sundays as if God were lucky to have her there and felt a little frisson of excitement at the thought of the delightful Harriet as a daughter-in-law, imagining swapping cake recipes with her and fussing round a little dimple-cheeked grandchild in a bonnet.

  The visit was spent discussing Gus’s treatment. He had agreed to have experimental therapy and sounded almost excited at the possibilities. A specialist physiotherapy unit had been set up locally and he was going to be at the forefront of some new equipment that could strengthen his muscles enough to allow him to walk. The previous reliance on bed rest was being challenged in America and Gus had volunteered to try the new techniques.

  Gus looked around him and for the first time noticed that the curtains on the screens around his bed were blue.

  Chapter 41

  Mathilda Hollis was all of a dither. The visitors were due in an hour and she had not put the flowers in their rooms yet. Her husband had not come out of the study all morning. After some softening of the relationship between them, he had been very quiet for a week now; ever since Edward Turner had telephoned them with a very difficult conundrum. In his study, Andrew stared out of the window, looking calm but inwardly, his stomach was churning.

  Agnes knocked on the door and walked straight in. Andrew turned to face his sister-in-law and, just like every occasion that he had seen her since the fire, he marvelled at her bright eyes and slightly flushed face that was haloed by her grey hair, singed in places by the fire. He had delighted in the change in her over the past few weeks and for a moment, the frown on his forehead eased.

  ‘Hello Agnes, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I wanted to know whether you’d decided where the Frenchmen are to be housed. I presume Michel will go in the room he had on his last visit but what about his father?’

  This was exactly the quandary that Andrew had been battling with for several days now. He had been stunned when Edward Turner had told him they had carried out a rescue mission to get the two men out of France and his wife had excitedly taken over the phone call to insist they both came to stay at the farm. Too chilled to speak, he had backed away from the receiver, for once, grateful that she had taken the lead.

  The thought of having Nicole’s rightful husband under the same roof with him prompted emotions that Andrew thought he had buried in the Normandy fields, along with nearly all his troop of soldiers.

  He was so angry with himself. He had been in control for many years, managing to deal with a wife with overwhelming grief, concealing his own feelings about losing his son and cutting off any affection for the remaining daughter, but then all that changed when Michel burst into their lives and he had been forced to face his demons. Now the biggest demon of all was coming to stay in his own home.

  ‘I don’t know, Agnes,’ he admitted. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  Agnes looked surprised to be asked for her opinion and took a moment to think.

  ‘Well, from what Michel has told us, Raoul sounds like a forgiving man and if you meet him halfway then I think it might be all right, and he’d be quite comfortable in the front bedroom.

  Andrew nodded. ‘All right, put him in there, then,’ and uncharacteristically, he added with a grin, ‘but if he floors me, you’ll have to come to my aid.’

  As this was the first time in more than twenty years that Andrew Hollis had joked with her, it took a little while for Agnes to respond but emboldened by her new relationship with Archie, she replied, ‘I’ll have the Germolene ready.’

  They smiled at each other, ready to enjoy this new rapport between them, knowing they made good allies.

  For the next hour, the house became a hive of activity and when the clock struck five, the toot of a car was heard coming up the drive.

  Andrew took a huge breath and went to join his wife on the porch. Agnes stood behind him, remembering another welcoming party on the porch in 1919. She felt it was a shame that Bobby was not there to share in this moment and resolved to store up every detail to recount to her in a letter that night.

  The car door opened and a chauffeur went to the back doors to let the occupants out.

  Rachel, who was peering from inside the hallway marvelled at the shininess of the car and the smart-looking man in a peaked cap who was now standing to attention next to it. This Edward Turner certainly came from another world, she thought, if he could organise a car like this in times of petrol rationing.

  Michel almost fell out of the back seat, filled with enthusiasm to be back in what he now thought of as his second home.

  Mathilda rushed forward towards Michel but her path was blocked by Raoul, who rushed round from the other side of the car to envelop her in such an enormous hug that he lifted her off her feet. She giggled with delight and it was only when he put her down to stride up to Andrew, that she was able to run to greet Michel.

  Andrew stood stiffly but Raoul immediately grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a loud kiss on each cheek and then pumped his hand up and down.

  ‘I am so, so pleased to meet you,’ Raoul said, beaming from ear to ear. ‘It is so kind of you to welcome us into your home.’

  Agnes looked sideways at her brother-in-law and could not help but smile at the look of astonishment on his face. H
e had never been kissed by a man before.

  Raoul then spotted her and marched up to grab her by the waist and swing her round. ‘And this must be the wonderful Tante Agnes. I hear so much about you.’

  She clutched her chest to get her breath and laughed.

  Raoul stood back and looked around him with delight.

  ‘Ah, but it is exactly as Michel described. What a beautiful house, wonderful countryside and such beautiful people.’ He clapped his hands with excitement.

  Michel came up to Andrew and shook his hand firmly. ‘Thank you so much, sir, you are too kind to invite me and my father here. It seems we are, once again, in your debt.’

  Mathilda proudly took control and ushered everyone into the drawing room, which, Agnes suddenly felt, looked brighter than it usually did.

  Mrs Hill arrived with a large tray of tea and freshly-baked scones, which had used the week’s rations all in one go. Rachel followed behind with the teacups, loving every moment of this bizarre family reunion.

  There was not a moment’s awkward silence during the rest of the afternoon. Michel filled them in on how they had escaped the clutches of a vengeful, retreating army and they all listened intently. He stopped when he got to the point where he needed to tell the family the real story about Elizé. He took a breath and began. ‘You need to know that little Elizé was brought to us after her father was shot in front of her and her mother was taken on a truck to a camp. We then had to get her out of France. I think now, you have heard about these camps?’

  He looked at Andrew Hollis, who nodded gravely but in fact, his mind was recalling the day Elizé had been brought to the house. He had always suspected Bobby’s story about Elizé was a fabrication.

  Michel hesitated and glanced at his own father. They had discussed with Edward Turner how much they could tell this family.