War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Charlie!’

  Miriam’s voice had been no more than a hushed whisper. Her eyes shone with delight but every so often she glanced furtively over her shoulder, terrified her mother might appear and explode with anger.

  ‘Your mother won’t eat you,’ said Frances.

  ‘No,’ whispered Miriam. ‘But she might lock me in the coalhouse again. In the dark. I hate the dark …’ She shuddered before changing the subject. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘Only for a walk.’

  Frances thought back to the smell of coal and the smattering of dust on Miriam’s coat. She did not know what to say in response to the older girl. Shutting Miriam in the coalhouse was wrong – very wrong.

  Miriam bit her lip. ‘I wish I could come with you.’ Her eyes glistened as she regarded the little boy. ‘If you ever need anyone to look after him …’

  Miriam was the last person Frances could ever leave Charlie with, though the poor girl didn’t seem able to accept that.

  Frances had given up feeling guilty about leaving Charlie the day he went missing. Nor could she believe that the little boy had managed to undo the buckles on his harness. Deep down she was sure it was Miriam who had taken him as well as ‘found’ him.

  Once Miriam had handed over the lollipop and put the money in the wooden box on the shelf behind the counter, she held her finger up to her mouth. ‘Shush. I’m going to run away,’ she breathed, her eyes fluttering from side to side as though afraid somebody might hear her.

  Frances was dubious as to whether Miriam could actually plan anything without her mother finding out. ‘Will you go to your grandmother’s?’

  Miriam had stared at her. ‘You mustn’t tell. Promise you won’t tell.’

  So that was it. Miriam was going to run away and live with her grandmother in the Forest of Dean. Frances decided that if she was in Miriam’s position she would do the same.

  ‘I lived with Ada for a while,’ said Frances.

  Miriam sucked in her breath. ‘You mustn’t call her that. My mother says I must call her Grandmother – even Gran, but never Ada – even if Grandmother insists.’

  ‘Why? She’s not my grandmother,’ Frances said gently, before wishing Miriam good luck with her plan and promising to keep it to herself. Now, far away from the shop at the bottom of Cherry Garden Hill, Frances thought about how much she’d enjoyed living with Ada Perkins in the Forest of Dean. One day she would go back there, but that depended on her uncle having petrol for the car and the prospect of her old friends still being there. Deacon, Ralphie, Merlyn and the rest of them. What fun they’d had and what a lot she’d learned. She didn’t think any of them had been called up yet – none of them were quite old enough. But if the war went on much longer they might be.

  ‘Time to go home,’ she said to baby Charlie. Getting a good grip on the handle, she turned the pushchair around so they were pointing back up the hill. ‘Sounds like thunder,’ she said to him. Not that Charlie understood what she was saying. He was still sucking his lollipop.

  Although the sky was dark grey, it didn’t seem warm enough for a thunderstorm.

  The rumbling sound got louder and louder, rolling towards her from some way along the road that connected Bath with Bristol. Holding tightly to the pushchair, she peered to where the road snaked over the railway lines that dropped down the slope from Bitton Railway Station. The actual village of Bitton was some way further on towards Bath, a place of stone cottages and substantial houses belonging to people of note – land owners and business people. All of the houses were quite old, some dating back to Jacobean times. There was also a pub, the White Hart.

  However, there were few houses lying in the direction of Bristol, but there was something there. She detected humps of blackness moving along the road towards her.

  Grabbing the pushchair handle more tightly to her chest, she flattened herself against the hedgerow behind her, curious to see what this noise was about.

  Gradually the shapes she’d interpreted as black humps took on recognisable forms. The sound of engines, metal and wheels grinding along on gritty tarmac became louder. The first hump – some kind of vehicle – appeared, followed by more vehicles of differing shapes and sizes, though all of the same shade of khaki, army vehicles sporting a white star on the doors of the drivers’ cabs.

  Lorry after lorry and open cars with canvas canopies rumbled past. The curious faces of soldiers peered out from the open ended trucks from beneath a covering of tarpaulin. There were wolf whistles and waves.

  Frances felt quite breathless, both flattered that she was deemed old enough – and pretty enough – for such attention and embarrassed.

  ‘Hi there, honey.’

  The voice of the soldier who’d shouted out to her was joined by other voices, more whistling; more waving.

  The cavalcade slowed suddenly as though the vehicles heading the column had ground to a halt. There, right in front of her, was the rear end of one lorry from which a sea of youthful faces grinned at her and eyed her in a way nobody had ever eyed her before – certainly not in such large numbers.

  ‘Hey, doll,’ said one of the GIs.

  Her eyes sparkled. Her face glowed with pleasure. First she’d been honey. Now she was a doll. She loved it.

  ‘Hello.’ Even to her own ears she sounded nervous, yet she didn’t really feel that way. She felt excited. She also thought she knew who these young men were.

  ‘Is that your baby?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s my nephew. His name’s Charlie.’

  ‘Want some chocolate?’

  Chocolate? These young men had chocolate? Sweets were on ration and chocolate had become a luxury. The young man was offering her a whole bar. She could see it in his hand. She nodded avidly, her eyes fixed firmly on the chocolate.

  After a quick glance to see that nobody in charge was looking, the young soldier leapt over the tailboard of the lorry, his boots making a loud thudding sound as he landed.

  He was grinning at the same time as chewing something, his teeth glowing white as he tossed it from side to side in his mouth. He was holding the bar of chocolate at shoulder level. Frances assumed there was a price to pay for that chocolate, though wasn’t too sure what it would be.

  ‘So,’ he said, still grinning and still chewing gum. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Frances. Frances Sweet.’

  ‘Frances. That’s a pretty name. Pretty girl too. You live around here?’

  His grin was infectious. And he was tall. She had to crank her neck back to look up at him. She liked him immediately.

  ‘Up in the village.’ She pointed back up the hill. ‘My uncle has a bakery and my cousins bake cakes and things and give talks and demonstrations for the Ministry of Food. I live there. And work there,’ she added, just in case he thought she was a kid and still at school.

  She became self-conscious about her skirt. It was an old one, navy blue and cut down from a school gym slip. And she was wearing socks. If only she had stockings; even lisle stockings, thick and black and itchy. But she didn’t. She was wearing grey socks.

  The young man in the uniform didn’t seem to notice. He kept smiling and chewing, his teeth showing brazenly white even when he nodded. She couldn’t help fixing her eyes on that grin, those white teeth. Didn’t he ever stop grinning?

  Charlie hated it when they were stopped or when he wasn’t tottering alongside the pushchair or off on his own improving his walking. If he had to be in his pushchair, he had to keep moving. Gradually, with snuffles, snorts and a curled up lip, he began to grumble his disapproval.

  ‘Hey little guy. How about some chocolate?’

  He broke off a couple of squares holding it in front of Charlie’s face. Charlie looked entranced. His chubby fist shot out and took it. Without glancing at his benefactor, Charlie proceeded to demolish the chocolate, sucking at it until it was soft enough to swallow.

  ‘Hey EB! Get back here. We’re moving.’

  The c
onvoy of army vehicles had indeed begun to move.

  ‘Here. Take this,’ said the golden-haired young man she now knew as EB.

  He handed her the remains of the bar of chocolate.

  ‘Your name’s EB?’ she shouted as he took off, running towards the back end of the lorry.

  ‘Ed Bergman,’ he shouted back. ‘See you around, sweetheart, and if you’re ever in need of extra ingredients for your baking, you can call on me. Ed Bergman. US Army Catering Corps.’

  He waved frantically as he dashed off. Even from a distance his teeth seemed to glow in his sun-burned face. And he was so tall. And broad-shouldered. And he had a dimple in his chin just like … She tried to think of the name of the actor she had in mind, but decided it didn’t matter. Ed Bergman was head and shoulders above the actor whose name she had forgotten. He was handsome, big, and brave and on top of all that he’d insinuated that he could get some extra ingredients for their baking recipes. Well, they could certainly do with that. The cupboard was running pretty bare, what with trying to help local people with family celebrations, birthdays, christenings, wedding cakes and the like. If anybody was celebrating anything and needed something special, it was the Sweet girls they went to.

  ‘Ed Bergman,’ she whispered. ‘Ed Bergman.’

  Even the sound of his name made her tingle.

  Like a long line of khaki-coloured beetles, the stream of American army vehicles moved forward, though not for long. Somebody shouted something from up front. Relayed from the front of the convoy all the way along the line, the shout became louder.

  ‘Reverse! Back! Back!’

  One by one, starting from the very back of the convoy, the vehicles began moving. Instead of eyeing the middle part of the convoy, she found herself level with the very first vehicle.

  A man in the passenger seat stood up and yelled over the head of the man driving.

  ‘Hell. Doesn’t anyone here know how to navigate? Warmley, then Siston. That’s where we’ve got to go.’

  ‘That way,’ shouted Frances, pointing up the hill. ‘You need to go that way.’

  The man who looked to be in charge doffed his cap and thanked her. He was quite plump and obviously not on rations. ‘We know that now, miss. Though really appreciate you confirming it.’

  With a screech of tyres, the whole column began moving forward, the front vehicles turning into Cherry Garden Hill. The route would take them down Cowhorn Hill, through Warmley and up on to the common.

  There were more catcalls and whistles from other young soldiers, but Frances couldn’t get EB, Ed Bergman, out of her head.

  She stood there until the very last vehicle had gone up the hill and disappeared from sight.

  Even then she stood there, staring after them, her heart beating like a drum. The Americans had arrived and they were beautiful! So beautiful!

  Before going home, she broke off some more of the chocolate. It was so rare to have chocolate nowadays and it tasted delicious. She closed her eyes and murmured her appreciation. On opening her eyes she looked down at Charlie. Although he’d eaten most of the chocolate he’d been given, some of it was plastered over his face.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Frances with a grin. ‘I don’t think we’re going to keep this chocolate much of a secret are we?’

  By the time she got back to the bakery it was lunchtime. The whole family, plus Bettina Hicks, was seated around the kitchen table and the smell of stew and dumplings lay heavy on the air. Nobody was speaking and even when they noticed Charlie’s chocolate-covered face, nothing was said. Everyone seemed too quiet, too still. She presumed it was her fault and that they were just priming themselves for telling her exactly what they thought.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said. ‘It was an American soldier. He gave us a whole bar of chocolate. Look!’ She took the remains of the chocolate from her pocket and held it up.

  Her uncle Stan was the first to speak. ‘You saw an American soldier?’

  ‘Not just one soldier. Lots of them. They were in lorries – I think they were lorries – and they were going along the road at the bottom of Cherry Garden Hill. Then they stopped and reversed and went up Cherry Garden Hill.’

  Although his face was sombre as though not quite engaged in what she was saying Stan Sweet nodded in that knowing way of his. ‘I heard them go past. The whole building shook. They’re being billeted at Siston. No doubt we’ll be seeing a lot more of them.’

  He didn’t seem much impressed; in fact he looked very concerned.

  Frances began breaking off pieces of chocolate. ‘Does anybody want some of this?’

  Mary got up and fetched a flannel from the kitchen sink. ‘Let’s get you tidied up young man.’ She turned to Frances. ‘You shouldn’t have given it to him. It’ll spoil his dinner.’ Her tone was unusually clipped.

  ‘I didn’t give it to him,’ Frances protested. ‘Ed Bergman gave it to him.’

  ‘Ed Bergman?’ Mary stopped wiping Charlie’s face. She glared at Frances. Her cousin’s expression was somewhere between a smirk and a blush.

  The words tumbled out of Frances’s mouth. ‘They called him EB, but that’s just his initials. His name’s Ed Bergman. He’s the American soldier I met. It was him who gave Charlie the chocolate and then he gave some to me. When I told him we baked bread and did baking demonstrations for the Ministry of Food, he said that if we needed any extra ingredients he would get them for us. He’s with the catering corps you see. A cook, I suppose.’

  She looked at all three of them. Nobody was smiling. Surely giving Charlie chocolate wasn’t that serious. Was she in for that serious a telling off?

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil Charlie’s dinner.’ Her voice was timid, not something she often sounded or felt.

  Stan Sweet lowered his eyes and Mary looked as though she were about to burst into tears. Ruby seemed distracted, a faraway look on her face before she buried her face in her hands.

  ‘It’s not you, love,’ said her uncle. ‘There’s been news. We heard it on the radio. The Japanese have taken Singapore. It’s a disaster. A total disaster.’

  Frances’s excitement at being the first in the family and possibly in the whole village to meet the Americans vanished. Young as she was, she could only guess at the gravity of the situation, but she could hear it in her uncle’s voice, see it in her cousins’ faces.

  ‘Oh.’

  She couldn’t bear to say anything else. Like the rest of them her spirits plummeted. She remembered Ruby saying that John Smith was in Singapore. She didn’t like to ask if her cousin had news of him, good or bad. It was something they’d likely face in the days to come.

  ‘Go and wash your hands,’ Mary said to her.

  Frances obeyed.

  Once she was gone to the bathroom, Stan Sweet regarded his daughters and Bettina Hicks. His mouth was dry. His heart was heavy.

  Mary began to cry. Ruby sat as though she had turned to ice.

  Stan Sweet exchanged a look with Bettina Hicks before stating what was on his mind.

  ‘That’s all we tell her,’ he said quietly. ‘Say nothing of the atrocities likely to have been perpetrated in Singapore to that young lady. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Do you think it might be as bad as Nanking?’ Bettina asked quietly.

  Stan nodded. Bettina noticed he was clasping his hands so tightly together, his knuckles were turning white.

  Bettina said nothing. The Japanese had slaughtered over one hundred thousand non-combatants plus soldiers back in 1937 – a year of horror it had been called. It was hard to suppress the shiver that ran down her spine. She feared for all those caught up in the surrender of the Far Eastern fortress.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ALTHOUGH THEY HAD a telephone at the bakery, it wasn’t often it rang and when it did, Stan Sweet fully admitted to the darn thing scaring the life out of him.

  Resigned to being the bakery telephonist, Ruby breezed through, a pile of pillowcases over her arm that she’d just made fro
m some old sheets that were beyond repair. Buying new was out of the question. ‘I’ll get it, Dad.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he grumbled, settling back down in his favourite chair, tea and a slice of cinnamon cake balanced on his knees. The tea leaves were being used for a second scalding; the thin sliver of cake was left over from a recent demonstration Mary had given in a church hall in St George, a suburb of Bristol. There was just enough sugar in the tea to make it palatable. It went some way to making up for the weakness of the brew.

  Stan sighed. No point in moaning. There are worse things going on in the world, he thought to himself, especially with regard to Singapore and the Malay Peninsula.

  The paper he was reading reported that things in the Far East had been a complete and utter disaster. Although they did try to hide the truth, it was pretty obvious that too little had been done too late. The huge guns installed in Singapore only a short time before faced seawards where it was thought the Japanese attack would come. As it turned out the Japanese army had attacked from the north, pushing through thick jungle with their bicycles. Bicycles, for God’s sake! Stan swore under his breath. Some of the old duffers in charge would still be using mounted cavalry given half the chance.

  The paper cracked as he shook it fully open, with indignation rather than anything else. He heard Ruby calling Mary and guessed it was Mike on the phone.

  ‘Give him my regards,’ he shouted through.

  Ruby came back into the room with Charlie hanging on to her skirt. He heard Mary say hello before the door closed between the living room and the hallway.

  ‘Cake,’ exclaimed Charlie, let go of Ruby’s skirt and headed for his granddad’s plate.

  Stan’s eyes flickered between his paper and his grandson who was picking the edges of the cake he’d been about to enjoy.

  ‘How’s Mike?’

  ‘Fine, as far as I can tell. You know Mike. Everything is fine, except …’

  ‘What?’

  Stan left his paper and managed to claw back half his slice of cake, not that he was likely to get to eat it himself, but it would prevent Charlie from stuffing the whole slice into his mouth. He couldn’t possibly eat it all at once and there would be crumbs everywhere. The girls had enough to do without extra mess.