by S C Worrall
‘Merry Christmas!’
‘Let’s hope the next one is not like this.’ Pat fidgets with the scarf that Peg has knitted for her.
Peg frowns, but Nancy reaches over and squeezes the child’s hand. ‘We all hope we are back together with the people we love next Christmas.’
‘Have we heard from your parents?’ LJ asks.
‘My folks are back in Stepney. Me sister’s in Devon. On a farm. She hates it.’
‘Well, we’re very glad you’re here.’ Nancy gives her a hug.
‘She chopped all the vegetables for supper,’ Peg says. ‘The few we have.’
‘Me mum told me to be ’elpful,’ Pat says in her Cockney accent. ‘Be polite and don’t sass.’
Nancy reaches over and touches the girl’s hand. ‘And she’d be very proud of you.’
Since her arrival in the family almost three months ago, Nancy has developed a deep affection for this plucky little redhead from Stepney. Pat also helps take her mind off her mounting anxieties about Martin. In the evening, when she has got back from work, they sit up in her room together, playing Snap or drawing. At weekends, they go for long walks together at Penn. Nancy has even shown Pat the hollow oak where she and Martin trysted. Together, they clambered inside, making the trunk reverberate with their laughter. Another time, they stopped outside Whichert House.
Pat is also separated from her loved ones, and this has made them into allies and confidantes. Nancy has told the girl all about Martin: how handsome he is, and intelligent, and how much she misses him. Pat bubbles with questions: if they can have Scamp for a weekend, how fast the Bomb goes, and if Martin would take her for a drive when he gets back.
When Nancy is sad, the girl comforts her with her sunny disposition and a natural wisdom learned in the back streets of London, which Nancy finds astonishing in one so young. When Pat misses her parents, Nancy can offer her support. At night, she reads the child all her favourite stories: Winnie-the-Pooh, The Arabian Nights, Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.
Seeing the girl tucked up in bed, her red hair strewn across the pillow, reminds Nancy of being a child herself – but the daily shocks of war have made it hard to remember, or imagine, what it felt like to be innocent, and without cares.
‘How’s the chicken?’ Peg worries. ‘Not too dry?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’ LJ spears a potato. ‘Apparently, Tommy Lawton is going to be playing for Everton today. Everton against Liverpool. Now, that’s a derby match I’d love to be at.’
‘You don’t even like football!’ Peg snorts.
‘Who says?’
Nancy mimics her father’s voice. ‘Football is a gentleman’s game played by thugs.’
‘ . . . and rugby is a thugs’ game played by gentlemen.’
She winks at Pat and the two of them start to laugh.
‘It’s at times like this I wish I had a son.’ LJ sighs.
The Christmas pudding is the size of a tennis ball, the cream is watery, and there is no coffee. Or alcohol. But at least the tea and sugar ration has been doubled for Christmas, and Peg has managed to make some mincemeat out of stale raisins and apples sent over from Aunt Dorothy.
‘Did I tell you about that advertisement I found in the paper the other day?’ LJ goes over to the lamp stand by the sofa and picks up The Times, searches through the announcements and reads, ‘Cow Wanted!’
‘A cow?’ Pat giggles.
LJ pauses, theatrically. ‘Would someone give a cow to clergyman (formerly Australian Bush Brother). Kind treatment, house, glebe. Write Vicar, care of Smith’s Railway Bookstall, Lewes, Sussex.’
‘You’re making it up!’ Peg shakes her head.
He passes his wife the paper. ‘See for yourself.’
‘It’s almost three.’ Nancy points over to the wireless perched on the bookshelf. ‘We don’t want to miss the beginning.’
LJ leaps up and switches on the wireless. There’s a crackling sound, followed by a high-pitched screech. He bangs the top and the national anthem booms out, loud and clear, followed by the King’s voice. Slow, deliberate, tortuous, each phrase carefully stitched to the next, like bricks being laid on a wall. ‘In days of peace . . . the feast of Christmas . . . is a time . . . when we all . . . gather together in our homes . . . ’
Pat comes and sits in Nancy’s lap. Nancy slips her arms around the child’s waist. Is Martin somewhere in a prison camp or in hiding listening to this message of hope? She prays he is and that the message will lift his spirit and remind him of all they have waiting for them when he gets home.
‘ . . . the young and old . . . to enjoy the happy festivity . . . and goodwill . . . which the Christmas message brings. It is . . . above all . . . a . . . children’s day . . . and I am sure . . . that we shall all . . . do our best . . . to make it . . . ’
‘That’s it, Bertie!’ LJ wills him on.
Nancy presses her forehead against Pat’s bony shoulder and blinks back the tears before they can fall down her face.
‘. . . a happy one for them, wherever they may be.’ The King pauses. ‘War brings among other sorrows, the sadness of separation. There are many in the forces away from their homes today because they must stand, ready and alert, to resist the invader, should he dare to come; or because they are guarding the dark seas or pursuing the beaten foe in the Libyan Desert. Many family circles are broken. Children from English homes are today in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa.’
‘And Grove Road!’ Pat calls out. Nancy squeezes her hand.
‘And in the United States also, where we find so many generous, loyal friends and organizations to give us . . . un—’
The King’s voice grinds to a halt. Then continues. ‘Un . . . st . . . stinted help . . . ’
LJ leans forward in his chair and cheers him on, like a footballer who’s just scored a goal. Nancy is biting her lip, trying not to cry. Peg has balled up her handkerchief in her fist.
‘Warm-hearted people are keeping and caring for many of our children till the war is over . . . ’
Pat snuggles closer to Nancy, burrowing her face into her hair. Nancy squeezes the child tight; holds on, for dear life.
19 JANUARY 1941
Blythe Cottage
Nancy stamps her boots on the platform, claps her gloved hands together. The train home is late again. She plunges her gloves into her coat pocket. It’s been bitterly cold since Christmas. Biting east winds. Fog. Frost. Snow. The mercury has barely risen above freezing point since the New Year. Coal rationing keeps indoor temperatures barely higher than outdoors. She wears gloves in the office, sleeps in woollen underwear, under extra blankets.
Most days there is no sun. It’s dark when she leaves home, dark when she returns. She carries a toothbrush, in case she gets caught in an air raid; and a steel comb, in case she has to defend herself. The Tube is full of menace. Yesterday, a man approached her on the platform at Oxford Circus. City slicker. In a suit and camel hair overcoat. His flushed face leered out of the darkness. A cheeky wink as he passed. Then he turned and came back, slightly unsteadily, brushing against her. She could smell the whisky on his breath. The blackout is the perfect cover for every kind of pervert.
London has taken a pounding. The Christmas truce ended with 100,000 incendiary bombs dropped in one night. Water mains ruptured, lead roofs melted. The Thames was at its lowest of the year, so firemen had to crawl across the mud to get at the water. Since then, Bristol, Portsmouth, Plymouth have all felt Hitler’s wrath, but London remains at the centre of the vortex. At Bank Underground Station a bomb crashed through the roof, vaporizing the booking hall, killing everyone in its path. Men, women, children.
News continues to trickle in from France. She scans the new listings of POWs, her index finger working down the letters of the alphabet, searching for his name. She reads every obituary and oration in the personal columns. Heart-breaking glimpses into strangers’ lives by their friends and family. Horses he loved, and laughter and the sun. A so
ng, wide spaces, and the open air.
She has become expert in deciphering the gradations of hope. Announcements in the paper start with Missing now officially presumed lost. Next comes: Previously reported missing, now reported killed in action. A few days ago there was an announcement about another second lieutenant, also missing since 27 May during the retreat to Dunkirk. The same day as Martin, the same rank, the fatal words: Previously reported missing, now officially reported died of wounds in enemy hands.
There are happy outcomes, too. The local paper recently carried a story about two brothers from the Wooburn detachment of the Territorials, separated at Dunkirk. The elder brother reached England safely but for many months there was no news of the younger. Then, last week, it was announced that he was alive and a prisoner-of-war. She cried when she saw the photo: a young man of Martin’s age, dressed in the same uniform.
If they can be lucky, so can she. But the Preston family’s announcement in The Times asking for information has gone unanswered. Telephone calls and letters to the Red Cross, the War Office, and the Cowley barracks, even the Citizen’s Advice Bureau in High Wycombe, have all drawn a blank. Even the local grapevine has borne little new fruit. But as long as Martin remains unaccounted for she has hope. She clings to that.
Every day, when she gets home from work, she expects to see a letter lying on the mat. A foreign stamp. His beloved handwriting. But nothing comes. Then, yesterday, a letter arrived from Trevor Gibbens’ father, in Devon. She had been waiting for a reply since writing to him before Christmas, asking if there was any more news from the POW camp. As the train pulls out of the station, she takes it out and reads it again.
Dear Miss Whelan – I have had your letter this morning from my sister – also one from Trevor which went there. I enclose it at once. I am sorry my dear for you – but hope on – he says they must be well before reporting. I was on-board ship with Trevor before he joined up – going to the Cape and Rio – when Chamberlain went to Munich Trevor said to me ‘This is respite for six months – I have written offering my services to the army board.’ I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you – I know what my anxiety was for weeks and months.
I have had bad news just now. A bomb struck the London Works on Friday night at 9.30. They say it was a ton bomb. The works is large & might be taken for a munitions factory but is Hartley’s marmalade and canned fruit manufacturers! Four of our workmen were playing billiards and one scoring. All five were instantly killed.
My father-in-law (the late Sir Wm. Hartley) was always keen on the work people and their comfort and we shall take care of the families. We have had 2,000 people every night in the basements. My son, older than Trevor, is a manager and director. He says he hardly dares look in the morning – in case more men have been killed in the night. Dear girl, I wish the news were good.
Your faithful servant, Hartley Gibbens.
The train rattles and sways through the wintery landscape. No flowers, now. Instead, frosted brown stalks. Rusted bracken. Shivering trees. A few mud-caked bullocks. She pushes her hands deep into her fur muff. Dreams. Hopes. Prays.
When she arrives home, Blythe Cottage is in uproar. Pat is upstairs in her room, in tears. Her mother is lying down in the living room in the semi-darkness, with a cold compress wrapped round her brow, being fed cranberries by a pale looking LJ.
‘What happened?’ Nancy drops her bag on the floor, unwinds the scarf from around her neck and takes off her coat. Her father shoots her a glance: don’t ask. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’
Her mother opens a dull, fish-like eye and stares at her.
‘She had an asthma attack.’ He pats his wife. ‘It’s under control now.’
From upstairs comes the sound of someone kicking a cupboard, things being thrown across the floor.
‘What’s up with Pat?’ Nancy asks.
‘Leave her.’ Peg’s voice is cold, adamant. ‘She’s caused enough trouble for one day.’ A violent fit of coughing wracks her body. Her face turns purple in the candlelight. LJ takes a Benzedrine inhaler, tears off the top and presses it against her mouth. Peg inhales with her eyes closed, sucking at the plastic tube, like a hungry baby. The coughing subsides.
‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Nancy demands.
‘Pat refused to wear her clean dress.’ Her father shakes his head. ‘I got back from the office . . . ’ Her father sighs. ‘And found them in the kitchen, shouting blue murder at each other.’
‘She was shouting.’ Peg points her finger at the ceiling, indicating Pat in the bedroom upstairs.
‘That’s right. Pat was shouting at your mother.’
‘I’d spent all morning washing and ironing that dress . . . ’ Peg starts to sit up.
LJ places a firm, but gentle, hand on her arm. ‘Pat refused to wear it. They started arguing.’
‘Pat started arguing,’ Peg corrects him.
‘That’s right. Pat started arguing,’ LJ corrects himself. ‘Then she threw the dress on the floor.’
‘Does Pat really need to have a clean dress every day, Mum?’
‘Oh, don’t you start.’ Peg coughs.
‘But, Mummy, don’t you see how you’re wearing yourself out? Cooking, washing, ironing. Baking cakes for the WI. Can’t Pat have a clean dress every other day?’
‘Your mother has very high standards.’
‘She also has chronic asthma . . . ’
‘I don’t need a lecture from my own daughter.’ Her mother’s voice is weak and hoarse.
‘I think you do!’ Nancy blazes.
‘She said the most hurtful things.’ Peg wheezes dramatically.
‘She screamed at your mother. Said she hates being here. Wants to go home.’
The words hang in the air.
‘She is eight, Mummy!’ Nancy pleads. ‘She is lonely and scared.’
‘It was rude.’ Peg sucks at the inhaler. ‘We have done everything to make her feel part our family.’
‘But we’re not her family.’ Nancy throws herself in a chair.
‘That does not excuse her behaviour.’ LJ’s voice shakes. ‘If we let things slip on the home front, how can we expect to defeat Hitler?’
After a gloomy supper, during which Peg maintained a stony silence, Nancy lights a candle and climbs the stairs. On the landing, she stops at Pat’s door, turns the handle, whispers, ‘Pat, you still awake?’
There’s a sound of bedclothes stirring. Nancy goes into the room, sets the candle on the bedside table. Pat has her head buried under a pillow, a hand clutching Nancy’s worn-out teddy bear.
‘You all right?’ Nancy leans over and gives her a hug.
‘When can I go home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nancy strokes her hair. ‘When it’s safe.’
She leans over and gives Pat another kiss. The girl starts to sob. Nancy hugs her against her, rubs her back, tries to comfort her. They cry in each other’s arms. Two exiles from the ones they love.
9 FEBRUARY 1941
London
This morning she is typing in her cubicle, gas mask at the ready on the desk beside her. This is the new normal. Danger and death are everywhere. She is pouring a cup of tea in the cramped kitchen at the back of the office when the sirens go off. She grabs the gas mask and follows the others down into the basement. In the shelter, people joke and laugh, read the newspaper or sleep. When the all-clear goes again, they all troop back upstairs, the men cracking jokes, the girls humming the latest American hit or grumbling about their laddered stockings. They really do Keep Calm and Carry On.
At lunchtime, she sets off for Oxford Street. Roseen and Andrew are leaving for Cairo and Roseen wants help buying a new suitcase. A defiant notice at the entrance of Selfridge’s proclaims: London Can Take It!
‘Nancy, darling!’ Roseen calls to her across the perfume section, understatedly elegant in a charcoal grey overcoat; a sky blue wool cloche hat, and galoshes. ‘So sorry I’m late.’ She gives Nancy a hug. ‘I’ve got a mil
lion things to do before I leave.’
Nancy links arms and the two women, fiancée and sister, descend on the free samples, spraying each other’s wrists, sniffing, giggling. The perfume counters are not what they were, though. The Gestapo’s Parisian whores are bathing in Chanel, but theVichy government has embargoed exports to Allied countries. On the English side of the Channel, women make do with home-grown varieties.
‘Smells like Aunt D.’s flowerbeds.’ Roseen wrinkles her nose.
‘When do you sail?’ Nancy tries to sound casual.
‘Friday.’
Nancy feels tears well up in her eyes. She picks up a gold bottle, sprays some perfume on her wrist, sniffs it, then holds her wrist under Roseen’s nose. ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving already.’
Roseen takes Nancy by the arm and heads for the luggage section.
‘Can I help you, ladies?’ The sales assistant is a large, pasty-faced man in a dark suit.
‘We’re looking for a suitcase,’ the two women blurt out, in unison.
‘With enough room for a hundred pairs of shoes,’ Nancy adds.
The sales assistant pulls out a large, brown leather suitcase. ‘The Revelation. Leather handle. Vulcanized fibre.’ He winks at Roseen. ‘Plenty of room for shoes.’
‘Too masculine, don’t you think?’ Nancy fingers the leather.
The sales assistant produces a black suitcase.
‘Too gloomy.’
‘Then may I suggest this one?’ The sales assistant reaches under the counter and pulls out an elegant, white leather suitcase. ‘It was on order, but the lady has not come to collect it.’
‘Ooh!’ Nancy mimes a theatrical entrance. ‘You’ll arrive on a white steamer, in a white dress, with a white parasol, carrying this suitcase.’
‘I’m not going to Hollywood, darling. It’s Egypt. Wartime.’ Roseen runs her hand over the blue, cotton lining. ‘It is rather delectable, though, isn’t it?’ She gives the sales assistant a wry smile. ‘How much?’
‘It’s very reasonable, madam. When you take into account the quality of the workmanship . . . ’