Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  ‘They’ve been seconded to help at a nursery in East Worthing,’ said Stella. ‘They’re crop-picking.’

  Stella opened the front door, and they left the pram in the substantial hallway before she invited them in.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Pip remarked. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Since 1937,’ said Stella. ‘I came the day we got married. Please, make yourselves at home.’

  They put the children in the spare bedroom upstairs, and under protest, Dorcas was given Stella’s bed, which was in what would have once been the dining room. As soon as everyone else was settled, the three women turned the sitting room into their sleeping quarters.

  ‘I see you’ve got a piano,’ said Lillian. ‘Lucky thing.’

  ‘It’s my mother’s old one,’ said Stella. ‘She’s a music teacher.’

  Lillian ran her fingers along the keys but didn’t press them enough to make a sound. ‘I’ve always fancied playing the piano.’

  ‘Who is the man in the picture?’ Pip asked. They were pushing back chairs to make room on the floor and forming mattresses out of cushions and blankets. Pip was pointing to a picture in a silver frame. In it, a good-looking man in army uniform smiled into the room.

  ‘That’s my Johnny,’ Stella said wistfully. She gazed at it lovingly, and her heart gave a guilty lurch. What with everything else going on around her, she hadn’t given him a thought for ages. How could she forget him so easily? ‘My husband.’

  ‘Is he overseas?’ Lillian probed.

  ‘He’s been in Tobruk.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Pip murmured. The news bulletins had been full of Rommel and the taking of Tobruk. The Libyan port had suffered an overwhelming onslaught, with heavy tanks crashing through the perimeter fences. It was a bitter blow, and thousands of Allied soldiers had been taken prisoner. ‘He’s not . . . Is he?’

  Stella nodded. ‘He’s still alive. As a matter of fact,’ she sighed, ‘I just heard today that he’s been captured.’

  ‘Oh, Stella, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Where exactly is Tobruk?’ asked Lillian.

  ‘The Middle East,’ Stella said, ‘but my husband is apparently a prisoner of the Italian Government.’ She paused. ‘My mother-in-law seems to think that being a prisoner of the Italians is better than being with the Germans.’

  ‘Looks like we’re both in the same boat,’ said Lillian drily.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Stella.

  ‘I mean you’re not the only one,’ said Lillian with a sigh. ‘My old man is a German POW.’

  ‘Oh, Lillian,’ said Stella sympathetically. ‘I wish I hadn’t said that now. I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. Is he in Germany? Are they treating him well?’

  Lillian shrugged. ‘I suppose so. He doesn’t write much.’

  ‘How long has he been a prisoner?’

  ‘Ever since Dunkirk.’

  ‘Dunkirk!’ Stella blurted out.

  Lillian laughed sardonically. ‘You know, everyone talks about the miracle of Dunkirk, but they forget about the thirty or forty thousand men, including my husband, who were captured.’ She tossed her head. ‘Still, one good thing – unless he can escape and get back home, I guess Gordon’s war is over.’

  They fell silent until Pip, who up until now had kept quiet, said, ‘She’s right about us being in the same boat. My husband was captured earlier this year after the fall of Singapore. He’s a POW of the Japs.’

  ‘You never said,’ Lillian said accusingly. ‘How could you keep it to yourself all this time?’

  Pip shrugged. ‘I was trying to keep it from Georgie and Hazel,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anyone saying anything in front of them.’

  ‘You could have trusted me,’ said Lillian.

  Pip looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Throwing a couple of redundant cushions onto the upright chair at the table, Stella tried to lighten the mood. ‘Anyone fancy a cup of tea before we bed down?’

  The suggestion was greeted warmly, so Stella went into the kitchen. While she was gone, first Pip then Lillian had a wash in the tiny bathroom. Afterwards, having got ready for bed, they settled down.

  Stella handed each of them a welcome cup of tea. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of lacing it with something,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  No one objected.

  ‘Will you go to the hospital first thing in the morning, Lillian?’ Pip asked.

  ‘That old dragon of a sister said visiting hours didn’t start until three,’ said Lillian. ‘I’m working tomorrow anyway, so I’m sure Mum will go.’

  ‘Would you mind if I went to see her as well?’ asked Stella.

  ‘Of course not,’ cried Lillian. ‘The more the merrier.’

  The tea was wonderful, and the nip of brandy warmed their throats on the way down. Stella sat on the edge of the cushion-less sofa because the exposed springs dug into her legs, Pip sat cross-legged on the cushions that were lined up on the floor, and Lillian leaned back on some blankets with a sigh.

  Pip reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  Lillian nodded. ‘I know. I just wish that awful woman wasn’t there.’

  ‘She’ll be off duty and tucked up in her own bed by now,’ said Pip.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lillian, cheering up.

  ‘Actually, she made me quite cross as well,’ said Stella. ‘There was no need to behave like that.’

  They fell silent for a second or two. Stella sipped her tea and looked at her new friends. They were both attractive women but very different. Pip wore her chestnut-brown hair long, but swept up at the sides and curled under. It looked a little wild right now, but after the day they’d just had, that was only to be expected. She had a peachy complexion. Despite being a mother twice over, she was slim, and Stella admired her long, delicate fingers, though her nails were short and chipped. Lillian looked much younger: probably only about twenty or twenty-one. Her blonde hair was curly, and at first Stella thought she’d had a perm, but now that she was really close up, it looked natural. No, she must be younger than that. She still had a few childhood freckles over the bridge of her nose.

  When they’d finished their tea, and while Stella took the cups into the kitchen to rinse them under the tap, the girls bedded down. Pip had her face to the wall, and Lillian had pulled her blanket over her head. When she was ready, Stella turned out the lights and the room became pitch-black. Not even a chink of light showed: the blackout curtains saw to that. She lay down on the sofa and tried to get comfortable. Even though she’d put a couple of coats over the springs, they still dug in. She couldn’t sleep anyway. All she could think about was poor Johnny. She hoped her mother-in-law was right and that the Italians treated their prisoners of war well.

  It didn’t take long for the tears to fall. Although silent, they soaked the pillow under her head and trickled off the end of her nose. She heard one of the others trying to blow her nose quietly. Then someone cleared her throat.

  ‘We’re all awake,’ Lillian said into the darkness. ‘Does anyone want to talk?’ Her voice was thick, as if she had a heavy cold.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Pip. It would be good to talk about Peter, and it would stop her thinking about little Flora and her burns. Lillian wasn’t to know, but the sight of her daughter in that state had brought back some uncomfortable memories.

  ‘Shall I put the light on?’ Stella asked.

  ‘No!’ cried Lillian. ‘Please don’t.’

  There was a silence; then Pip said, ‘She’s right. It might be easier to talk in the dark.’

  ‘So?’ said Stella. ‘So who wants to go first?’

  ‘We’ve been told so little,’ Pip complained. ‘I had a telegram telling me Peter was a prisoner of the Japanese Government, but I have no idea where he is.’

  ‘Gordon sent me a postcard saying he was being well treated,’ said Lillian, ‘but that’s about it.’

  ‘And I’ve heard nothing,’ said St
ella. ‘Not from Johnny, anyway.’

  ‘Gordon didn’t actually write on the card,’ said Lillian. ‘There were tick boxes next to the sentences. He ticked two, one saying he was a POW and another saying he was being well treated. You just have to hope it’s true.’

  Pip gave her nose a hearty blow. ‘I wish Pete could write to me.’

  ‘I don’t know how you bear it,’ said Stella. ‘To be honest, I’m scared.’

  Pip sighed. ‘So am I. They say the Japs are ruthless.’

  The other girls didn’t say anything, but they were all remembering the stories that had filtered back to Blighty after the fall of Hong Kong. The newspaper headlines screamed, ‘Horror at Japanese Atrocities,’ and Mr Anthony Eden, the British foreign secretary, told an appalled House of Commons that not only were the Japanese refusing to let the British bury their dead but that fifty British officers and men in the overrun HQ had been found bound head and foot and bayonetted to death. The Japanese Army not only had a reputation for being callous and despicable but had also refused to sign the Geneva Convention with regard to their treatment of prisoners of war.

  ‘I guess we all feel the same,’ Pip went on, ‘but it’s best not to dwell on it. We have to keep going. They have to have something to come home to.’

  ‘What do you think, Lillian?’ Stella said eventually. ‘Your husband has been a prisoner the longest.’

  Lillian was aware that the other two were crying. She wasn’t. Glad of the darkness, she swallowed hard. ‘She’s right,’ she said. ‘You have to keep going.’

  ‘You’re so brave,’ said Pip.

  ‘No,’ Lillian protested. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Stella. ‘I’m not sure that I could be as calm as you.’

  ‘Like you said, my husband has been gone a long time,’ said Lillian. ‘I thought I would die when I got the news, but you cope. It gets easier as time goes on.’

  Stella blew her nose again. ‘Oh, Lillian, you’re amazing.’

  ‘Please,’ Lillian protested, ‘don’t put me on a pedestal.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Pip. ‘You’re an absolute inspiration.’

  Lillian could feel the tears coming to her own eyes now. Her friends were grieving, wounded because the men they loved weren’t coming home until the war was over. Thank God it was so dark in the room. She was glad they couldn’t see her face. It was burning with embarrassment and shame. How could she tell them the truth? How could she explain that she really didn’t care if Gordon never came back? Oh, she didn’t wish him harm, and she hoped with all her heart that nothing bad would ever happen to him. She honestly hoped he would survive the war. She just didn’t want him back home, especially now that she’d met someone as wonderful as Woody.

  CHAPTER 5

  PETER SINCLAIR, JAPANESE POW

  If I was able to write to you, my darling, this is what I’d say.

  It looks as if we’re in for a pretty rough ride until all this is over. I’m so thirsty, my tongue is really swollen, and it feels like the sun has burned the skin on my shoulders right through to the bone. Bloody painful. Mind you, I’m sore all over. After a couple of beatings and then being tied to a post for a day and a night, I can hardly walk. Thank God a couple of the lads were detailed to help me into the hut. I couldn’t have done it on my own, but at least with their help, I had some dignity.

  When we were captured, the Kenpeitai were sent in. They wanted to know what equipment we had – how many ships, how many planes, how many men, all that sort of thing. I began by trying not to say anything – just my name, rank and number – but in the end, just to make them stop, I had to say something. So I made up some numbers. Equipment: basic. Planes: forty, the rest all shot up. Men: no more than twenty thousand. None of it true, of course.

  The Japs took everybody by surprise. We’d all been led to believe they were nothing more than a bunch of Boy Scouts when it came to fighting. Everybody was convinced they’d invade by sea. How wrong can you be? They came swarming in like bloody locusts through the jungle and mangrove swamps. We hadn’t a hope. They’re pretty ruthless too. Some of the lads have been telling us that the Japs have killed everybody in the hospital. They’ve doused the Australians with petrol and set them alight, and they’ve even killed civilians for no better reason than they wanted to. In our briefings before the fighting started, we were told that according to the Geneva Convention 1929, prisoners should be treated humanely at all times. They should be protected from reprisals, acts of violence, insults and public humiliation. Well, I can tell you that’s a bloody laugh out here.

  Of course, if I could write, I’d say none of that. I’d tell you I’m fine. I’d say I am missing you. I’d tell you I can’t wait to come home and that it won’t be long.

  I’m on a cot now, and someone is cooling me down with a bit of rag soaked in water. Dear God, how am I going to survive? If I could write, I’d tell you how much I love you. I’d say whenever I close my eyes, I can see my darling wife and my kids. We’re all on the beach and I’m building a sandcastle for Georgie. Yes, that’s what I’d tell you. I can’t believe how fast my boy is growing up. Will he even know who I am when I see him next? Oh God, I’ve got to get through this. I want to come home again. I want to hold you in my arms once more, my darling Pip. I want to kiss my little girl goodnight and tuck her into bed.

  The adrenaline is pumping through my veins again. I can feel a cup on my lips. The water isn’t clean, but by Jove it tastes wonderful.

  CHAPTER 6

  Pip was up first. Years of keeping an ear out for the children had conditioned her so the moment she heard a padded footfall on its way to the kitchen, she was wide awake. However, it took a second or two more to remember where she was. She lifted her head. The other two were still sleeping soundly, but it was morning. She could tell that by the faint haze round the edges of the door.

  She got up carefully and crept silently out of the room. There were low voices and the smell of toast coming from the kitchen. Pip pushed the door open and the two land girls looked up sharply.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said one.

  Pip put her finger to her lips and closed the door quietly. ‘Any tea in that pot?’ she said, sitting at the table with them.

  One girl reached for another cup and saucer. ‘I’m Vera,’ she said, ‘and this is Brenda.’

  ‘I’m Pip Sinclair,’ said Pip, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Are you working with us?’ asked Brenda.

  Pip explained briefly what had happened and why she was in Stella’s kitchen so early in the morning. ‘I’m sorry if we disturbed you when we came in.’

  ‘Didn’t hear a thing,’ said Vera, ‘but we did wonder about the pram in the hallway when we came downstairs this morning.’

  ‘That plane coming down must have been the awful bang we heard last night,’ said Brenda, glancing at her companion. ‘We thought a sea mine had gone off.’

  ‘Stella told us you were crop-picking,’ said Pip, sipping her tea.

  ‘Cucumbers,’ said Vera. ‘Eight ruddy greenhouses stuffed full of them. There must be millions of the damned things.’

  Brenda giggled.

  ‘What on earth will you do with them all?’ gasped Pip.

  ‘We’re packing them for Covent Garden,’ said Vera. ‘The owner’s son died and he had a breakdown. The government couldn’t let good food go to waste, though I doubt he’ll be allowed to grow them again next year.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Brenda chuckled. ‘Not much muscle-building power in a cucumber.’

  Vera glanced up at the clock. ‘Come on, Bren,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘It’s ten past six.’ She gathered her flask and some sandwiches. ‘Nice to have met you.’

  When they had gone, Pip had a quick wash and made another pot of tea. A minute or two later, Lillian put her head round the door. ‘Blimey, look at the time. I’m on duty at seven.’

  Stella woke to the sound of children’s voices. Her back ached, and she had a dent
at the top of her leg where the springs had dug in. She was alone in the room. By the time she had emerged tousle-haired in the hallway, Pip had already dressed her children and was putting them back into the old pram.

  ‘Sorry to rush off,’ she said, ‘but the kids want their breakfast.’

  ‘You can have your breakfast here,’ said Stella.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Pip, ‘but I run a small nursery in my front room and one of the children comes in just before eight. If I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late.’

  ‘Where are the others?’ Stella asked.

  ‘The land girls went to East Worthing to pick cucumbers, Dorcas went home, and Lillian went to the station.’

  ‘Off out for the day?’

  ‘No,’ said Pip. ‘She works there. She’s a porter.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stella. ‘I had a sneaky feeling I’d seen her somewhere before.’

  ‘I’ve cleared up a bit in the kitchen,’ said Pip, opening the front door. The early morning sunshine flooded in. ‘Thanks for everything. You were an absolute brick.’

  Stella waved her hand to kindly dismiss the compliment and the door closed. For a second or two, she stood in the hall and tried to collect her thoughts. It was very quiet, and for the first time since Johnny went, she felt utterly alone.

  When her mother had told her to grab her things the night before, Lillian had taken her uniform. She was on an early shift this morning. When women were conscripted into war work in 1941, Lillian had been among the first to volunteer. The government required women between the ages of eighteen and sixty but started off with single or widowed women in the twenty-to-thirty age group. These women were assigned to munitions factories, heavy industry and ship-building, sometimes miles away from home. Other women joined the three services, the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, Women’s Royal Naval Service and the Auxiliary Territorial Service.

  It didn’t take long before the shortage of manpower led to the inclusion of married women and older women in the scheme. Women with small children, like Lillian, weren’t exempt either. Those who didn’t have a relative or friend who could look after their children were expected to make use of the nurseries the government had set up. Luckily, Dorcas was only too delighted to look after her little granddaughter, and so long as they made sure their shift patterns didn’t clash, everything worked out very well. On the rare occasions when both were working, Pip looked after Flora for a while, and she didn’t charge too much.