by S C Worrall
‘How much?’
‘Six pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence.’
Roseen gasps.
‘What if we both put some ration points towards it?’ Nancy suggests.
‘But, darling, you need your points for other things. I’ll be on a special account in Cairo.’
‘Think of it as a going-away present.’ Nancy looks at her affectionately. ‘For my soon-to-be sister-in-law.’
‘Half in points? Half in cash?’ The sales assistant closes the case.
‘Account, actually.’ Roseen glances to the rear of the store. ‘We’re going to have a spot of lunch. Can you keep it?’
‘Of course, madam.’
The only table available in the restaurant is in the corner, wedged between a column and the wall.
‘Thank God eating out is off-ration!’ Roseen points to the menu. ‘I like the sound of the chicken fricassée.’
Nancy rubs her hands together as though warming them. ‘I feel like something hot.’
‘Beef broth or mulligatawny . . . ’ Roseen reads from the menu.
Two hefty-looking women in Auxiliary Territorial Service uniforms sit down at a nearby table. Nancy glances over at them, then back to Roseen. ‘War makes everything so ugly, doesn’t it?’ she says behind her hand. ‘The whole world is khaki. It’s a new kind of puritanism, don’t you think?’
‘They’re helping win the war, darling! What colour do you expect them to be wearing? Pink?’
Nancy wrinkles her nose. ‘Rose?’
Roseen rolls her eyes. ‘It’s not a fashion show, darling!’
Nancy leans across the table and whispers, ‘You know, Martin made me promise never to join the ATS.’ She chuckles. ‘Didn’t want to think of me in scratchy khaki.’
Roseen bursts out laughing. ‘Such a romantic!’ She takes out a small, white envelope. Inside it are two photographs. ‘I want you to have these.’ She hands the pictures to Nancy. ‘For safekeeping. Till I return.’
The first shows Martin, aged six, with Molly Graves, his mother, sitting in an antique chair on a sunny veranda. She wears a wide-brimmed sun hat with a bow and a striped dress cut low at the front. Martin sits in her lap, dressed in white shorts with braces; a T-shirt, and sandals. His legs are suntanned and his dark eyes glow, even then.
‘Oh, my God. He’s so adorable!’ Nancy almost kisses the photo. ‘But he looks as though he is desperate to squirm out of her lap, doesn’t he?’
‘It’s the white leather boots that get me!’ She points at Molly’s legs. ‘It’s about a hundred degrees in the shade there and Mummy puts on white kid leather boots!’
‘Always the grande dame.’
‘She looks like she’s on her way to a rehearsal of Carmen, doesn’t she?’
‘Who’s this?’ Nancy points at a figure in the background of the picture, framed by a first floor window.
Roseen picks up the photo and studies it. ‘I never noticed that before.’ She holds it up. ‘You know, I think that’s our father.’
‘He looks rather mysterious.’
‘Controlling, more like. He couldn’t bear how Molly doted on Martin.’
‘They didn’t get along very well, did they?’
‘My father was not an easy man. Most judges aren’t.’
Nancy picks up the other photo. A colonial birthday party. A garden in Cairo. In the background, a large white house surrounded by palm trees. Martin is in the foreground, sitting on a white Arabian pony, dressed in a pressed white shirt; shorts and sandals. He looks serious, posed. Happy.
‘How old is he here?’
‘Seven?’
There is a moment of silence as each woman stares fondly, in their different ways, at the boy in the photo. ‘Is that you?’ Nancy points to a tall, thin girl in a white dress in the background.
‘They called me “the bean pole” at school.’
‘And is this Cairo, too?’
‘Yes. That’s the garden of our house.’
‘You had such exotic childhoods. Egypt, Switzerland. Servants, staff cars.’
‘Believe me, Martin and I would have swapped it all for a normal life with two parents who loved us and wanted us around.’ She looks over at Nancy. ‘Have you got the letter?’
Nancy digs in her bag, hands Roseen an envelope. Inside is a letter from the British Red Cross Society that she received a week ago. Dated 28 January.
Dear Miss Whelan,
Your letter to Mrs Bennett has been forwarded to me by our Prisoners-of-War Department. I greatly regret that up to the present we have been unable to obtain any news of Lieut. Martin Preston, Oxford and Bucks L.I. We made a request to the International Red Cross at Geneva that Captain Elliott Viney at Oflag VIIC should be interviewed with a view to getting information about Lieut. Preston, but these enquiries take a long time and so far we have had no reply.
With regard to your enquiry about men in hospital in France and Belgium, a good many of these have been moved into Germany, but I fear it is impossible to say what proportion still remain.
We will communicate with you as soon as we receive any information and may I offer you the sympathy of this Department during your long anxiety.
Roseen folds the letter, then her hands. ‘If anyone can survive this, my brother can.’
29 APRIL 1941
Blythe Cottage
When the phone rings, Nancy is perched on the arm of the sofa, drying her hair. Pat is reading a book. LJ is in his customary position, barricaded behind The Times. Peg is in the kitchen, cooking a thin piece of gammon. It’s a cloudless Tuesday tea time.
‘Hallo?’ Phone in hand, Nancy flips her hair back over her shoulders, then wraps it in a towel, turban-style and knots the towel. ‘Molly! How are you? I’m fine. Thank you.’ Nancy’s pulse quickens. It’s the first time she has had any contact with Martin’s mother since that fatal Christmas dinner. Why is she calling now? Has she heard from Martin? ‘Oh. I see. Yes. Fifteen minutes?’
She puts the phone down. Her legs have turned to jelly.
‘Who was that?’ Her father peers over the top of the paper.
‘Molly. She says a letter has come.’ Nancy frowns. ‘From the War Office. She wants me to come over to Whichert House.’
‘At this time of the night?’
‘It’s only a ten-minute bike ride. It’ll be light for hours.’
‘Your hair is still wet.’
‘I’m fine, Daddy. Really.’ Nancy goes over and kisses him on the top of the head. ‘I’ll be home for dinner.’
Molly is sitting on the Chesterfield by the fire, in a blue and white dress with long puff sleeves and high-heeled, black shoes. A string of pearls the size of mothballs dangles between her breasts. A whisky and soda rests in one hand. But Nancy sees only one thing: the letter in Molly’s other hand.
‘Drink?’ She indicates the sideboard. ‘No. Thank you.’ Nancy takes off her coat.
Molly gets up and pours a large whisky, squirts a jet of soda into the glass. Hands it to Nancy. Her eyes are red from crying. ‘This came this morning.’
Molly settles back on the Chesterfield, fingers her pearls, picks up the letter as though to read it, then hands it to Nancy. ‘You’d better read it yourself.’
The War Office Casualty Branch. April 26th 1941.
Madam, I am directed to acknowledge your letter of the 21 March 1941, regarding 2nd Lieutenant M. S. Preston, The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry.
The Officer Commanding 2nd Lieutenant Preston’s Unit was asked to institute an enquiry concerning your son’s fate. He can only say that 2/Lt Preston took a patrol out at 11.30 on the night of 27 May. While covering the withdrawal of some troops, the Germans drew close and he ordered a non-commissioned officer who was managing a gun near him to go back while he took over the gun and enabled the rest of the covering party to withdraw. 2/Lt Preston was last seen manning the gun in the street in Hazebrouck being surrounded rapidly . . .
As Nancy reads on, she feel
s a chill creep over her, as though an ice-cold hand is reaching deep inside her.
. . . a few names are still being received of officers and men who were in hiding abroad or are prisoners-of-war but with the passing of time this possibility has become very slight.
Very slight? The words hit her like a hammer blow. Her hand shakes so much that she drops her whisky glass on the floor with a clang. She doesn’t look up. Her mind is spinning out of control. Her stomach is heaving. Yet very slight does not mean nil. Does not mean Martin is no longer alive. Somewhere. Somehow. There’s hope in those words, a tiny crack of ambiguity her heart can shelter in, like a wren with a broken wing?
‘There are some more details here,’ Molly says, passing over a brown folder.
Nancy knows from her researches into how fatalities are reported what this means. And as she reads the words International Committee of the Red Cross on the folder, her last, very slight ray of hope evaporates, like a drop of water on a red-hot stone.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Molly begins to rise from her chair. Her face is distraught.
‘No . . . I . . . ’ Since the evening when she overheard Molly bad-mouthing her at dinner, Nancy has felt a visceral dislike for Martin’s mother. Now, though, all her distrust and anger vanishes. They are two women allied in their grief. She takes Molly’s hands and squeezes them. ‘I know how much he loved you.’
Molly lets out a sob. ‘And I know how much he loved you.’ She buries her face in a handkerchief, then looks up. ‘I have been such a fool.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Nancy bends forward and hugs Molly.
They stay like that, clinging to each other for support. Then Nancy picks up her bag and goes towards the door.
‘Shan’t I get Bryant to take you home?’ Molly calls.
‘It’s all right, thanks.’ Nancy opens the door. ‘I’ve got my bike.’
Outside, birds are singing in the twilight. The air is fresh, and translucent after rain. Half stumbling, she climbs onto her Raleigh and heads out of the driveway, up the road towards Penn. At the footpath leading to the woods where she and Martin met so often, she leaves the bike and walks on. An excruciating pain stabs at her side, as though a knife has been stuck between her ribs.
At the kissing gate, she breaks down completely, gripping the wood to stop herself from falling. Her head is spinning, tears pour down her face. Martin dead? ‘No!’ she wails. ‘No!’
She stumbles on up the hill, gasping and choking, the pain in her side so sharp that she has to stop and catch her breath, to stop herself from throwing up. As she enters the wood and sees the old oak tree where Martin proposed, she sinks to her knees and leans against the gnarly trunk, sobbing. The tree that was their secret rendezvous point, and witness to the budding of their love that first golden September, now towers above her, almost menacingly. The sounds that were like music when they stood here together that magical day – the cooing of the wood pigeons, the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker – now have a distorted, nightmarish quality; hellish creatures mocking her.
She looks down at her engagement ring, sees him kneeling in front of her, her brave soldier in his new uniform, hears his voice proposing to her, the popping of the champagne cork and the clink of glasses; feels his soft, brown eyes on her and the softness of his lips. Surely, all that life, all that hope and beauty, can’t have been extinguished so suddenly!
The thought makes her howl like a wounded animal, a terrible, retching sound that claws at her insides. The pain in her side is even sharper. Her breathing comes in short, sharp gulps, like a woman in labour. Sliding down the trunk of the tree, tearing at the bark with her nails, she falls to the ground, pressing her tear-stained face into the earth, and lies there, as though paralysed.
When she comes to, she takes out the folder that Molly has given her. It’s still light enough to read and, as her eyes move back and forth across the page, her imagination fills out the bare details of the War Office’s report with images of chaos and death: a column of Panzers advancing on the town of Hazebrouck; the scream of shells flying over the rooftops; the groans of dying men; Martin and his unit forced to take cover in an orphanage; buildings in flames; the acrid smell of smoke; the rattle of machine guns.
She rolls over on her back and stares up through the branches. High above her, in a cloudless sky, she can just make out the silver sliver of a crescent moon. A gust of wind shakes the branches above her head just like it did on the first day she lay here with Martin. The spring’s new leaves quiver, like bits of tissue paper. As she watches them, her thoughts leap across space and time to Martin on that fateful night in Hazebrouck.
27 MAY 1940
The Orphanage
Martin and the rest of the officers sit around a long wooden table in the cellars of the orphanage. The table is littered with empty bottles of wine and overflowing ashtrays. Shell bursts make the walls and floor vibrate. The men are unshaven and exhausted. A line of paraffin lamps projects their silhouettes on the walls, like an image from a Giotto fresco.
The German attack began at dawn yesterday. Stukas dive-bombed the town as German field guns pounded away with a fierce artillery barrage. Martin had never seen anything like it. But he had to keep working, preparing the defences around the Keep: erecting barricades with anything they could get their hands on, from farm carts to abandoned cars, wooden pallets and even furniture.
Then the Panzers, backed by infantry, launched their offensive. Though outmanned and outgunned, the battalion’s troops positioned at different locations in a ring around the town had fought like lions to hold off the German advance. But, one by one, they had been overrun. Street by street, the German infantry, backed by light tanks, flame-throwers, and grenade batteries, had then pushed into the town centre. Much of it is now in flames. The cobblestones are strewn with unrecovered corpses. German Panzers are only half a mile away in the Grande Place. The orphanage is their last redoubt. The Keep.
Major Heyworth clinks his empty wine glass with his knife. ‘I have called this orders group to get a better picture of our situation, and the options available to us.’ He looks down the table. His face is drawn, dark rings circle his eyes, but his uniform is crisp and clean. Standards have to be maintained, even in the face of death. He signals to the quartermaster. ‘Q, perhaps you’d like to start, with a short summary of the food and water.’
Captain QM Pallett rises slowly to his feet, pulls a dog-eared piece of paper out of his pocket, puts on his glasses. ‘Meat and eggs, two days. Dry goods, four. Water.’ He pauses. ‘Water’s a bit of a problem, sir. Jerry just blew up one of the tankers. So, unless we start boiling water from the canal, I would say we have enough for less than a day.’ He pauses. ‘Fuel is much the same. We lost that tanker at Tournai. So I estimate we are now down to five hundred gallons.’ He folds the piece of paper, and sits down.
Heyworth looks down the table. ‘Sergeant Major: transport and ammunition?’
The RSM would rather be attacked by a swarm of wasps than speak in public. He gets to his feet, takes out a notebook, reads as though barking orders on the parade ground:
‘Lost or disabled, four lorries. Working: six 30 cwt, five 10 cwt. Plus four troop carriers. Ammunition: 5,000 rounds of .303; 2,000 rounds machine gun; 150 hand grenades; 100 mines.’ He looks up, disdainfully. ‘French.’
Next, Captain James Ritchie gives a head count of each company from a leather-bound notebook. ‘Some of these numbers may only be estimates now, based as they are on a count taken at 6 p.m.’ He reads: ‘HQ Company, 102 men. B Company, 62 men. As you know, D Company’s position has been overrun so I don’t have numbers there.’ He hands Heyworth the notebook. ‘We have lost a lot of men.’
As Martin looks round the table at his fellow officers, he remembers the group photo that was taken at Newbury racecourse, just before they embarked for France. The senior officers resplendent in their polished boots and smartly pressed uniforms, their faces clean shaven and full of optimism. Now, they are haggard wit
h exhaustion. But at least they are all still here. He scans the table. Bligh Mason; Brian Heyworth; James Ritchie; the two Viney brothers, Elliott and Lawrence; Rupert Barry; Brian Dowling; John Kaye; David Stebbings. Men he has grown to love and respect.
One officer is missing from the group: Hugh. His D Company had taken the brunt of the initial German assault out on the St Omer road. They resisted, heroically, but since six o’clock this evening no news has come through from Hugh’s position. As the paraffin lamps flicker on the faces around the table, Martin is not even sure if the friend he raced cars and played tennis with is alive.
‘Trevor?’ Heyworth signals to Gibbens. ‘What are the latest casualty figures?’
The doctor rises to his feet, and says, in a calm, measured voice: ‘The full tally of fatalities cannot be known at this time, Brian. As you know, the French authorities are responsible in the first instance. And conditions being what they are, I am still waiting for a list.’ His expression darkens. ‘Until then, for obvious reasons, it is better not to speculate.’ He looks up. ‘As to the wounded: I currently have in my care some forty-five men. Twenty of those are severely wounded. More are arriving by the hour.’
Heyworth frowns. ‘Have you enough medicine?’
‘Basic medicines, yes. Bandages, dressings, penicillin,’ the doctor responds. ‘But we are running low on morphine.’
‘Thank you, Trevor.’ Heyworth looks down the table and clears his throat. ‘I think we all now have a better idea of the circumstance we find ourselves in.’ He pauses. ‘Communications have been severely damaged. I will be sending out patrols later to ascertain our fighting strength. In the meantime, I would like to remind you of our orders.’
Captain Viney mutters something under his breath.
‘Do you have something to say, Elliott?’ Heyworth looks down at his second-in-command. ‘If so, perhaps now is a good moment . . . ’
Viney leans forward and places his hands, palms down, on the table. ‘As you know, the Viney family has a long association with the battalion.’ He looks round the table. ‘My father fought at the Somme. My brothers and uncles have all served.’