The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  I have stopped trying to explain to myself why you affect me so powerfully and why I long for you all the time from my little toes to the crown of my head. I tell myself: ‘You are in love. You need not worry. You’ve found someone who will haunt you always if she is not beside you.’ This is love.

  I’ve been extra busy because I’ve had to deal with some emergency drainage scheme as well as my officer training. I can’t believe I spend my days paddling about in some foul trench. But there is always something to everything and with a little imagination and good humour life isn’t so bad for a soldier, is it? Now that war has been declared I feel resigned to almost anything. Your love will see me through.

  The mornings make early rising worthwhile. At seven o’clock the colours of the sky become so misty and gentle that I want to take the veil of the dawn to show you, then to dress it round your head. A worthy setting for those blue eyes.

  I received a sweet letter from your mother. I am so glad that she and your father are happy about our engagement. I’m not going to do anything against the wishes of you all because I owe so much to you.

  I’m almost certain that I shall have leave at Christmas – as junior officer I may have to stay, but I think the Colonel understands about engagements.

  He raises the top of the pen to his mouth, bites on it. It’s not yet official, but he has it on good authority that the battalion will sail for France in the New Year.

  Christmas leave – and this is strictly between you and me – will also be embarkation leave. They reckon we will have one more month here. But I am only thinking of Christmas when I shall see you again for more than two days at a time. I know we will be lucky. We deserve it.

  Forgive me if I stop here. I can’t be coherent much longer because my eyes shut occasionally without request. Tomorrow we all dig fast, like moles. On Tuesday we will be reviewed by some general or other. I shall ring you up, if I can, before Friday to make sure you have not disappeared, like some Fata Morgana.

  All my love, Tino.

  13 DECEMBER 1939

  Levant, Sussex

  Sweat drips down Martin’s forehead into his eyes. It’s a freezing cold night back at the training camp in Sussex. A midnight gas drill. Martin tries to wipe the trickle of sweat inside his mask, but the Perspex lenses are in the way. It’s like being underwater. But instead of seaweed and fishes, all he can see are two black circles and the glow of a flare lighting a path through the forest. Twigs snap under his boots. Bracken slaps against his thighs. His breathing comes in heavy gasps. The lenses start to fog over. He rubs them with a gloved forefinger. But the condensation is on the inside of the gas mask.

  It’s their fourth month of training. With each new event in Europe, the prospect of deployment to France grows more imminent. There’s a new mood among the men, a feeling that their preparations are about to end and they will soon be in action. No one knows when the battalion will ship out to France. Every day brings fresh rumours, revised dates. But no one has any doubts that it will be soon.

  He runs on through the mud, struggling to see the path through the fogged lens of the gas mask. He wants to tear it off, the feeling of claustrophobia is almost unbearable. His breath comes in ragged, hot gasps. Then his head smashes into a low-hanging branch. Martin stumbles, almost falls. A voice barks obscenities. Effing idiot, why don’t you effing mind where you’re effing going, you effing ponce.

  He pulls himself upright, runs forward to catch up with the rest of the platoon. The lenses are now almost completely fogged over. Like a windowpane next to a boiling kettle. But they still have nearly a mile to go. He sucks air through the respirator, trying to fill his lungs. Ahead of him, the marching men look like a column of black-clad frogmen, who have just crawled out of a swamp.

  It’s almost one in the morning when he gets back to his tent, tired and hungry, and covered in mud. He pours water over his head from the basin, washes out the gas mask, and hangs it up. His whole body aches. A few minutes after lying down on his camp bed he is fast asleep.

  He wakes with a start shortly before eight, hauls himself out of bed, dresses. The temperature has dropped recently. The nights are cold. He pulls on a pair of long johns and a woollen vest, then puts on the rest of his uniform, and sits on the edge of the bed and slowly ties his boots.

  The latest news from Europe is grim. The persecution of the Jewish population of Poland. Stalin’s invasion of Finland. The battle for the high seas. According to The Times, forty-three German submariners have been imprisoned in the Tower of London, after their U-boat was forced to the surface in the North Sea by a concerted depth charge attack by three British destroyers.

  Reports have also filtered back to London of an attempt on Hitler’s life. Nine minutes after leaving a beer hall in Munich, where he had been giving a speech, a bomb exploded inside a pillar behind the speaker’s platform. Seven people were killed and sixty-three wounded, but unfortunately Hitler was not among them.

  Martin waves to Hugh Saunders and Gibbens as he enters the mess tent but chooses to sit at a table on his own. He has homework to do. An orderly brings him tea. Martin takes a slice of toast, butters it, then spreads it with marmalade. He is the only officer in the battalion with some knowledge of French, so it will be his job to deal with the local liaison officers, once they have arrived in France.

  He opens the notebook, covers one side of the page with his napkin, and begins to recite: ‘Armoured vehicles . . . des vehicules blindes. Barbed wire . . . des barbeles. To spread out . . . s’echelonner.’

  The language of war. Soon, these words will not be abstract concepts in a vocabulary book but real, deadly things. ‘Trench howitzer.’ He closes his eyes but the word won’t come. He uncovers the page. ‘Crapouillot.’ He tries to memorize how the word is spelled then repeats it, slowly, syllable by syllable. ‘Cra-poui-llot’.

  The rest of the day drags by with more military duties: fetching razor wire and fence stakes; changing the oil on the Panopticon; latrine digging; endlessly disassembling, cleaning and reassembling their rifles. As he works, he keeps thinking of Nancy, wondering what she is doing, what she is wearing. Is she happy? Is she reading or listening to music? Every fifteen minutes or so he glances at his watch, itching for the end of the day and the chance to write to her again.

  Finally, after supper, he manages to disentangle himself from the other officers and grab a table in the corner of the mess tent. A paraffin lamp burns on the table, making the amber-coloured whisky in the glass at his elbow glow. A gust of chill wind lifts the flaps of the tent, making the flame gutter. He spreads a sheet of notepaper on the table, unscrews the top of his pen – and begins to talk to her.

  Nancy, my very darling,

  I am now collecting my disjointed scribbles of the last few days to make a ‘fair copy’ for my fair lady. In all kinds of places, hard or comfortable, I’ve been storing up little things to tell you – the most marvellous thing in these tiresome months is to be able to think and dream about you. You are a magical person, because when I feel tired you turn weariness into cosiness, when I curse the cold you seem to come and love and make me glow and when I’m wasting my time you occupy my imagination. I love you so much that nothing really depresses me. Although this week has not been exciting there’s lots to tell you.

  But first, darling: all is well for the next weekend. I shall escape sometime in the afternoon and travel direct to town by train and meet you after your work. Would it be pleasant to entertain ourselves that evening? If I’m footsore after the morning march we’ll do something sedentary and dance on Saturday evening after dinner chez vous?

  He raises the top of the pen to his mouth, sucks on it, feelings of excitement at the prospect of seeing her, and foreboding at what will follow, battling for supremacy in his heart. It’s not yet official, but he has it on good authority that the battalion will sail for France in the New Year. How long will it be until he sees her again? He takes a gulp of whisky, then writes on.

  Las
t night the Colonel sprang a surprise on us. We suspected a night alarm so I went to bed in my battledress. Sure enough I was woken at midnight, somehow leaped out of bed and then proceeded to the rendezvous in preparation for a night move. The night and early morning were perfect – bitter cold, bright and beautifully coloured at the dawn. It was really lovely, if only it hadn’t been part of war training. The most unpleasant part was marching about a mile wearing a respirator. The heat on your face is incredibly unpleasant and there never seems to be enough air in your lungs.

  He lifts the pen, a smile playing on his lips. The thought of her, and the coming Christmas holiday, drives out any anxieties about the future. He writes at the bottom of the page:

  I’m longing to kiss you and hear you speak and sing.

  All my love, and more. Tino.

  CHRISTMAS DAY, 1939

  Blythe Cottage

  It’s a white Christmas, but even the bright blue sky and pure white snow can’t mask the signs of war. Blast tape criss-crosses the shop windows. Christmas trees have been banished to the rear of houses to avoid lighting up the night sky. Blackouts have become more frequent. Petrol rationing is in full force. Everyone is on edge. In a chemist’s shop window there is a new advertisement for the tonic, Sanatogen, with the slogan, Win The War On Your Nerves.

  Martin is waiting for her at the kissing gate. He has been allowed three days off from training and as he sees her bright blue woollen coat, brightening up the lane, his heart flip-flops. At the sight of him waiting she breaks into a slippery run, throws herself in his arms and smothers him with kisses. When he opens his eyes, he sees she is crying.

  ‘My love . . . ’ He brushes a tear away with his finger. ‘Don’t worry . . . ’

  She starts to cry again, great gouts of sobbing that make her body quake against his chest. She feels so frail and delicate, but a moment later her eyes blaze.

  ‘Why, when we have finally found love, must hate tear us apart?’ She looks confused as an innocent child. ‘Why, Martin?’

  A gust of wind blows up the valley. Safely enfolded in her arms and she in his, they cling to each other, as a cloud of snow swirls around them.

  Hand in hand they walk up the hill where they once raced, memorizing each step they take, every sensation: the crunch of the snow, the warmth of her hand, the glint of her hair in the sun. Who knows how long it will be before they are together on this path again?

  They find Roseen at the church door, cocooned in a long red coat and a blue cashmere scarf.

  ‘You’re looking very patriotic, Sis.’ Martin kisses her cheek.

  ‘You two should have driven up with us.’

  ‘But then we wouldn’t have been alone.’ He winks. Nancy and his sister embrace, like sisters. No matter what his mother thinks, Roseen and he agree that Nancy is the perfect addition to their family.

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing someone in this family is on time, or you wouldn’t have a pew to sit in.’

  Inside the church, sunlight streams through the upraised arms of St Katherine in the stained glass window at the end of the nave. The air is cold and smells of furniture polish and antiquity. Swathes of berry-laden holly and pine branches line the windowsills. With paraffin in short supply, the only source of warmth is the huddled congregation’s body heat, but once the Reverend gets going, standing to sing, sitting to listen, Martin knows they’ll warm up. Maybe even break a sweat.

  Nancy and Martin squeeze into the family pew with the Prestons. Michael gives her a toothy grin. Aunt D. mouths, Happy Christmas.

  ‘Let us pray,’ the reverend says. The congregation kneels. ‘Our Father who art in heaven . . . ’

  Martin entwines his fingers with Nancy’s and kisses her hand. Some day, he will stand at the front of this church and watch her walk down the aisle, and he will remember this moment and how they overcame the separation of war to come together as man and wife. The Reverend talks about conviction and God, and, true to form, he has them standing up and down about as much as the choir, whose voices are a bit worse for wear in the cold. But fused in song, the congregation sings loudly, defiantly. They are joyful and triumphant. And they take to heart the sermon. There is faith in their church, with its snub-nosed tower and brick-and-flint walls. Faith in its five bells and moss-covered gravestones and in the thousands of churches like it, in towns and villages all over England’s green and pleasant land. Faith that Britain will win this war; that light will defeat darkness; and humanity will defeat Fascism; that Germany will be vanquished. Faith they will come back to this church and be married one day.

  He knows it is her favourite carol, not only because it is one of the few carols written by a woman – Christina Rossetti, the poet – but because of the haunting melody.

  In the bleak mid-winter

  Frosty wind made moan;

  Earth stood hard as iron,

  Water like a stone;

  Martin steals her a sideways glance, gives her hand a furtive squeeze. Her voice is a pure soprano, like a skylark on wing. He is filled with love for her, this moment that he will remember for the rest of his life. She smiles up at him as they reach the end of the hymn.

  If I were a Wise Man,

  I would do my part;

  Yet what I can I give Him,

  Give my heart.

  ‘How about some of Aunt D.’s eggnog?’ Uncle Charles whispers, as they step outside the church. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  Martin looks at Nancy. ‘You’d better skip it then.’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t forget, Mummy is expecting us for supper this evening.’

  With the departure to France looming, the lovers can’t bear to be apart for a single minute of this precious time, so have decided to have Christmas with both of their families today – first the Prestons for lunch and then the Whelans for supper. Martin is afraid he won’t fit in his uniform if Aunt D. keeps trying to fatten him up, but it feels good to be made a fuss over and pampered. And, even with rationing, the food is certainly better than the camp mess.

  Aunt D. is by her usual perch at the end of the Chesterfield, closest to the fire. Next to her, Molly, who has been chauffeured up from her nursing home in Wiltshire, sits resplendent in velvet and pearls. Martin and Nancy warm themselves by the mantelpiece. Michael and Tom hand out glasses.

  ‘The chickens did their duty,’ Uncle Charles announces as he pours.

  ‘Is that a yoke?’ Michael says, cracking himself up. Tom rolls his eyes.

  ‘You’re funny, Michael.’ Nancy beams across at him.

  ‘Funny looking.’ Tom scowls.

  ‘Lovely service, didn’t you think?’ Aunt D. addresses no one in particular.

  ‘A bit long.’ Molly scowls into her eggnog.

  ‘Has anyone ever said: “I thought that sermon was too short”?’ Roseen jokes.

  ‘Where is Uncle Robert living now?’ Martin asks his mother, changing the subject.

  Molly looks up from her glass. ‘He and the new wife, Beryl . . . ’ the way Molly says the name makes it sound as though she is referring to the cleaner next door ‘ . . . have taken a cottage in south Devon. Near Torbay.’ Then, archly: ‘At least he has got rid of that ghastly American.’

  ‘You mean Laura Riding?’ Martin has told Nancy all about his uncle’s notorious American wife. But as soon as she poses the question, she feels she has spoken out of turn.

  ‘Yes. Laura Riding.’ Molly mouths the words, as though biting on a raw onion. ‘It sounds like a made-up name, for a novel, doesn’t it?’

  ‘A bad one,’ Roseen quips and everyone laughs.

  ‘Christmas feels rather queer this year, doesn’t it?’ Aunt D. says, biting her lip. ‘I don’t know whether to feel happy that we are all together.’ She gives Martin a worried look. ‘Or sad that so many of our men are away in France.’

  Uncle Charles straightens his shoulders. ‘We’ll show Hitler a thing or two about messing with us Brits, eh, Martin?’

  ‘Vanquish the Hun with Aunt D
.’s eggnog and good cheer.’ Martin raises his glass. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Uncle Charles raises his glass.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’

  16 JANUARY 1940

  Newbury Racecourse

  Martin stares into the camera. In the distance, he can see the grandstand outlined against the pale sky. Normally, this racecourse in Berkshire would echo to the sound of galloping hooves and cheering crowds. But, since it was requisitioned for the final stages of the battalion’s training before embarkation to France, the stables have been converted into sleeping quarters for the regular soldiers and the stands for the officers. Instead of horseboxes and hay lorries there are armoured cars and tanks.

  Now, it’s time for the official photo of the battalion’s officers. Martin is two in from the end of the second row, sandwiched between a gangly captain named John Viccars and a short, boxy lieutenant with a bottlebrush moustache. Below him, the senior officers, like Viney and Heyworth, are seated on chairs in the front row, on either side of the battalion’s Honorary Colonel, HRH The Duchess of Kent, a willowy woman with high cheekbones and an enormous fur stole swathed around her shoulders.

  Martin feels proud to be here. Since training began in August, they have grown from a ragtag collection of amateurs to a tightly knit group of soldiers, ready for battle. In that time, they have also become like the older brothers he never had. Like older brothers, they sometimes look down on him or play practical jokes – a few weeks ago, all his underwear mysteriously disappeared, only to resurface in the officers’ mess – but he knows, deep down, that most of them have come to respect, and like, him.

  Now, as they wait for the photographer to begin, he stamps his feet on the bench. Martin’s batman, Jenkins, spent yesterday evening armed with Brasso and polish, ensuring the silver bugle badge on Martin’s field cap is gleaming and his boots shine like mirrors. It’s bone-achingly cold. Intermittent snow swirls about in a low, grey sky. Martin pulls out a handkerchief and sneezes. The photographer, a large, bald-headed man wrapped in a blue overcoat, makes the final adjustment to the officers’ positions and postures, then disappears behind the camera and lifts the black cotton hood over his head. Martin pulls back his shoulders and tilts his head to the side. The flash bulb explodes. Martin closes his eyes.