The Way Ahead

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Mama, I’m always ready to leave everything about everything to you,’ said Leah. ‘I’d marry Edward tomorrow, but he thinks we’re not old enough yet.’

  ‘He’s a sensible young man,’ said Rachel. ‘Much could happen in a year at your ages. Perhaps what you both want now won’t be what you want in twelve months’ time.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we both understand that,’ said Leah. ‘Edward thinks the war could be over by this time next year, and that in peacetime we could examine ourselves more calmly than in wartime.’

  ‘Examine yourselves?’ said Rachel.

  ‘Well, perhaps he didn’t say exactly that, but I’m sure it’s what he meant,’ said Leah.

  Rachel smiled.

  ‘Did you know that Edward’s brother Bobby is waiting for an armistice before he marries his French sweetheart, Helene Aarlberg?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, Edward mentioned it to me quite a while ago,’ said Leah.

  ‘Then I suppose Bobby is being wise too,’ said Rachel. ‘I should mention one thing, and that’s that I think our way of life is in favour of you and Edward, or we wouldn’t be working for Sammy Adams on our Sabbath, would we?’

  ‘Rabbi Symonds doesn’t mind,’ said Leah.

  ‘Well, he’s an English rabbi who guards our religion, but accepts the sensibleness of conforming to some English customs,’ said Rachel. ‘What shall we do now, praise Vera Lynn and the white cliffs of Dover?’

  ‘Turn the radio on,’ said Leah, ‘and perhaps she’ll be singing the song.’

  She wasn’t, but there was more good news about the Allied advance in Italy. Although it was slow, the Germans were being pressed remorselessly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MRS CASSIE BROWN, ABOUT to prepare a light midday meal for her dad and the children, answered a knock on her front door. A burly balding bloke in shirt, trousers and braces addressed her.

  ‘Kids,’ he said.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said Cassie, looking quite nice in a floral-patterned apron.

  ‘Kids. They yourn?’

  ‘I do happen to have a girl and boy,’ said Cassie.

  ‘Well, young missus,’ growled the burly bloke, ‘do us a favour and keep ’em to yerself. Me domain ain’t a penny bazaar, it’s me private ’ome that I share with me old lady.’

  ‘Might I request your name and what you’re talking about?’ asked Cassie, taking umbrage.

  ‘I’m Jack Hobday, and so’s me old lady—’

  ‘Your wife’s Jack Hobday, same as you?’

  ‘Mrs Jack Hobday, and she ain’t keen on kids running in and out,’ said the burly man. ‘I dunno, you leave yer front door open to let a bit of air in, and what happens? I asks yer, what happens?’

  ‘Draughts?’ said Cassie, always capable of standing her ground, especially in defence of her children.

  ‘Draughts? Draughts? Now would I come and knock at yer door on account of any draughts? I tell yer, ten seconds after I open me front door in come kids, two of ’em. In and out they run, in and out, jumping on me mat, and when I holler at ’em about where they come from, it’s here, they say. This house, young missus, which makes ’em yourn.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Cassie. Muffin and Lewis had been used to playing with next door’s children in the Wiltshire village, and that play included taking advantage of an open front door. The neighbours didn’t mind. It was scampering play, with a bit of jumping, but if kids weren’t lively, said the neighbours, if they didn’t go racketing and scrumping, you’d have to think about taking them to see the doctor.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Hobday,’ said Cassie, ‘I’ll talk to them.’

  ‘Yus, I’d recommend that,’ said Mr Hobday, giving his braces an aggravated flip. ‘You’re new round here, ain’t yer?’

  ‘No, my husband and me lived here until just after the war started,’ said Cassie, ‘but he’s in the Army now and I’ve been living in the country with our boy and girl.’

  ‘Well, me and me old lady – here, what’s going on?’ Mr Hobday stepped back to scowl up the street. ‘Well, can yer believe it? They’re at it again, the little perishers.’

  Cassie came out and looked. There were Muffin and Lewis, six doors up, running in and out through the open gate.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ she said.

  ‘Kids, I dunno,’ said Mr Hobday. ‘Hello, hello, Maudie’s on the ruddy warpath.’

  Out of the house lumbered an oversized woman, yelling. In her right hand was a saucepan. She was waving it about, and it had GBH written all over it.

  ‘I’m after yer, yer little devils!’ she bawled. ‘I’ll tan yer both!’

  Muffin and Lewis fled far up the street. The woman heaved herself rapidly through her gate, her buxom bigness loosely shaking, as if most of it had come adrift. It had rained earlier, and as soon as she put one foot on the wet pavement, the sole of her shoe skidded, and she collapsed in slow, heavy motion. Her expansive bottom softly thudded on the pavement. She didn’t howl, she only heaved the sigh of a body sadly put upon.

  ‘That’s unfortunate, specially on a wet pavement,’ said Mr Hobday. ‘Kids. I knew it, I knew this wasn’t going to be me old lady’s lucky day. I can tell, yer know, I’m prophetic. I told her first thing this morning. Don’t go out today, I told her, do some ironing. Then I had second thoughts. No, don’t do no ironing, I told ’er, the iron’ll drop on yer foot.’

  ‘Mr Hobday, is that your wife that’s sittin’ on the pavement?’ said Cassie.

  ‘That’s her, that’s Maudie,’ said Mr Hobday. ‘Kids, I tell yer. We’ve had Hitler and his ruddy bombs, but we ain’t had too many kids, seeing most’ve been in the country. Pity you brought yourn back, young missus.’ He shook his head gloomily.

  ‘Mr Hobday, aren’t you goin’ to see to your wife?’ asked Cassie.

  ‘Not while she’s still holding that saucepan,’ said Mr Hobday.

  Mrs Hobday gave up sighing. She hollered.

  ‘Jack Hobday, come ’ere, you ’ear me?’

  ‘Be with yer in a tick,’ called Mr Hobday. ‘I got me foot caught in this here lady’s gate for the present.’

  ‘Come ’ere!’

  Cassie hurried up to the aggravated lady, who had managed to unfold her abundant self and clamber to her feet, saucepan still in her hand.

  ‘Mrs Hobday, pleased to meet you,’ said Cassie. ‘Sorry about my children, they’re sort of over-active. I hope you’re not hurt, are you?’

  ‘Hurt? Course I ain’t.’ Large Mrs Hobday’s well-padded body did look pain-proof. ‘Just me dignity. Them kids yourn?’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘In and out, in and out,’ growled the fat lady, ‘jumping in over me step onto me mat, jumping out again, I ain’t been more sorely tried since we was bombed out of Bermondsey and moved in here. Them kids, where are they?’

  ‘Mrs Hobday, you’re not going after my children with that saucepan, are you?’ said Cassie.

  ‘No, course not, I’ve had some of me own, ain’t I? I sent me old man to talk to you about me interrupted privacy, and what did he do? Left the door open again, didn’t he? And in come them kids again, jumping like circus fleas, didn’t they? Where is he? I ain’t brought me best saucepan out ’ere for nothink.’

  Cassie turned, just in time to see Mr Hobday doing a fast runner that took him into Walworth Road. He disappeared. I don’t believe this, she thought, it’s like the old South London Palace that used to put on music hall turns.

  ‘He’s gone, Mrs Hobday,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure he didn’t leave your front door open on purpose.’

  ‘Wait till he comes back,’ said Mrs Hobday, ‘I’ll learn ’im.’

  ‘I’ll speak to my children,’ said Cassie, noting that Muffin and Lewis were keeping well out of the way.

  ‘You do that, dearie,’ said Mrs Hobday, ‘I don’t want no more running and jumping on me doormat.’

  I’m home, thought Cassie, I’m home in Walworth.

  Mrs Polly Adams, back in the
delightful cottage by the village of Corfe Castle in Dorset, was gardening. If she was middle-aged (as she was, much to her disgust) she was still a woman with a flair for exuberant living, and a vivacious personality that had never allowed the years to blunt its fine edge. For her gardening, she wore gumboots, skirt and shirt-blouse without looking like a cabbage. While hoeing, she was thinking about the disappearance from Dorset of the larger part of the American troops. Reasons for? Plenty. But there could be a particular one. Very particular. Was Hitler going to get it in the back of his neck at last, and while he had his work cut out in dealing with successive Russian offensives?

  The twins were running about.

  ‘Mummy!’ yelled Gemma. ‘There’s a rabbit!’

  ‘A baby one!’ yelled James.

  ‘Curses,’ said Polly.

  ‘What, Mummy?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘Shoo it off, darlings,’ called Polly, ‘it’ll bring its whole family to eat my lettuces.’ She had taken determinedly and then enthusiastically to her vegetable plot.

  ‘Mummy, it’s there!’ shouted James.

  A small white-tailed bunny whisked past Polly.

  Gemma and James came running. The bunny disappeared into the bushy hedge.

  ‘Oh, it’s gone,’ said Gemma, and she and James gazed dolefully up at their mother. Polly smiled, loving the wonder of knowing they really were hers. Life in one’s middle age would be heavenly, she thought, if only the war wasn’t going to take Boots away from her for God knows how long. Whether he and the battalion had embarked or not, she didn’t know. She’d had a letter from him two days ago, but he’d said nothing about date or destination.

  ‘Darlings, we can’t encourage visits from bunny rabbits,’ she said, ‘they’ll eat up everything we grow.’

  ‘Couldn’t we share?’ asked Gemma.

  ‘Yes, couldn’t we?’ asked James, in whom Polly always saw Boots.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said, and off the twins went to search for the rabbit and give it news that held a promise of hospitality.

  A very attractive young lady in a WAAF’s uniform came out from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m back, Aunt Polly, but I’m goin’ out again this evening,’ she said, and Polly regarded her silently. Kate Trimble was on leave from her station at the moment. Orphaned, she was encouraged to regard the cottage as her home. ‘Something wrong, Aunt Polly?’

  ‘Are you going out with Captain Walters again?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Kate.

  ‘Does David know you’re becoming very attached to Captain Walters?’ asked Polly. Captain Elmer Walters was an American Army officer based near Wareham with a unit still in position. David was Boots’s nephew, the son of Tommy Adams, waiting at the moment for a call-up that would enable him to go into the RAF.

  ‘No, David doesn’t know,’ said Kate, looking a little guilty.

  Polly knew David felt he had an understanding with Kate, but she also knew a uniform had a glamorous appeal for this young lady, especially an American uniform. David had been an exceptional help to Kate when her only close relative, her Aunt Hilary, had been arrested over two years ago on suspicion of being an agent for Germany. It left Kate, sixteen at the time, completely alone, and David had galloped to the rescue immediately. Polly didn’t think Kate should easily forget that. On the other hand, she accepted that a good deed, however exceptional, didn’t mean Kate was bound to David for life.

  ‘Kate,’ she said gently, ‘I think you should tell him.’

  ‘But I’m not actually in love with Captain Walters,’ said Kate.

  ‘Is it possible, though, that he’s in love with you?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Oh, lor’,’ sighed Kate, a cockney from Camberwell, ‘he keeps saying he is. Oh, here’s a letter for you. It was on the mat, a late delivery.’

  The post wasn’t as punctual as in former days, nor were there twice-daily deliveries.

  The letter was from Boots to tell her the corps was in position for embarkation, and that only by a stroke of luck had he been able to catch the post. He couldn’t, unfortunately, tell her when she might next hear from him, but to remember that out of touch didn’t mean out of mind. Well, she wasn’t the kind of woman – or wife – who could slip easily from the memory, and as for the twins he’d be thinking of them every day. He dealt cheerfully with family matters, saying he was happy to know his stepfather was upright again after his horizontal spell, the kind of position he’d never favoured except for his nightly sleep, and that his recovery had made Chinese Lady count her blessings. All in all, the letter in its lighthearted nature was what his mother would have called airy-fairy, and it made Polly suddenly feel it hid a lot more than it revealed. One phrase caused her to think. ‘In position for embarkation.’ In position? She’d never come across that before. A unit simply travelled by train or road to the relevant port and went aboard a waiting troopship. It could take time, of course. Hours. All day sometimes. Did being in position mean the corps was camped indefinitely on a dockside? Never. Troops under orders for overseas duty did not arrive at a dock until the day of sailing or, at a pinch, the day before.

  ‘Aunt Polly, is there something in the letter you don’t like?’ asked Kate. ‘It’s from Uncle Boots, isn’t it?’ She had recognized the writing on the envelope.

  ‘Yes, Kate. It’s just that he’s about to go overseas again.’

  ‘Oh, that’s hard luck, Aunt Polly, is he goin’ back to Italy?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Polly, keeping to herself her suspicion that Boots was set to be involved in an invasion of France. It had to be that, it had to be the overdue Second Front. Oh, bloody hell, she thought, and wondered, as she often did, why love never went away to let simple content settle in.

  Boots, in fact, was incarcerated, with his corps, and thousands of other officers and men, in a designated area that no man was permitted to move outside or to communicate by letter or phone with any person beyond it. Such letters that were written would not be posted until the day after departure.

  The wait for the off was going to be nerve-racking, the date governed by conditions, the need for secrecy absolute. Nothing could be done about Germany’s acceptance that an attempted invasion was inevitable, but everything possible had been done to deceive them as to time and landing area. Field-Marshal Rommel was in command of Hitler’s Western defences, and represented a formidable foe indeed to catch off guard.

  * * *

  A Commando force, in which Colonel Lucas and Tim were present, waited at an airfield.

  In London, at the Free French headquarters, liaison officer Subaltern Eloise Lucas, wife of Colonel Lucas, was being kept in the dark, but there were hummings and murmurs that created tingles of excitement.

  That night, suspicions burning, Polly lay awake. I’m going to have a breakdown at the thought of Boots being thrown into France against a million iron-jawed Nazi fanatics. They’re freaks. They like marching into hell for demon Hitler. That man’s unfortunate mother must have had a carnal visitation from Satan himself. On the other hand, Polly old girl, it’s got to be opened up, this Second Front, and in the years to come when the twins ask me what their father did in the war against the mad Fuehrer, I’ll be able to tell them he landed on his doorstep and asked to have five minutes alone with him.

  Oh, good thinking, Polly, now have hysterics.

  Hysterics didn’t arrive, however. Instead, she dropped off. She had not driven an ambulance for four years over the muddy roads of France for nothing.

  Polly could look at the devil without flinching.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saturday evening

  THEY SAT AT the kitchen table, Caterina Angeli and Pilot Officer Nick Harrison, playing a card game by the light of a candle lamp. There was no electricity in the region. Supply was cut from eight every evening until six in the morning, and sometimes later. Under the German occupation, Italy was becoming an impoverished country, although in the south, the Allied armies had liberated the peop
le. In the north, however, the Germans were still thick on the ground, and doing their worst in their hunt for Italian Jews. They had received help from collaborators in other occupied countries. They received none from Italians, not even from those who were still adherents of Mussolini, currently the head of a tinpot Fascist state in the extreme north of Italy.

  The Allied advance was grinding on slowly, and it was Nick’s fifth day in the house of his Italian Samaritan. They knew each other now. They had exchanged names, after all, as well as personal details. She had told him a great deal about her late husband, Pietro Angeli, a courageous partisan who had died a vicious death at the hands of the Gestapo. Nick had told her about his wife and children, and the bombing raids suffered by the people of Britain since 1940. Caterina said war was always terrible, but who could forgive the German people for the way they had turned this war into the most barbaric conflict ever known? They had caused the Allies to reciprocate in kind, for it was true, wasn’t it, that German towns and cities were being devastated by Allied bombers?

  ‘Very true,’ said Nick.

  ‘They cannot complain,’ said Caterina, ‘they worship Hitler as if he were God, and they carry out evil deeds for him. When they are defeated – and you must defeat them, Nicki – they will try to make excuses. My Pietro told me there can be no excuses, that they knew how Hitler and his SS treated the Jews well before the war began, and they stood aside. Worse, many of them informed on Jewish neighbours, and Pietro said thousands have been sent to die in terrible camps. Mussolini at least did not attempt to deliver a single Italian Jew to Hitler, and nor did he wish to fight Britain or America. France, yes, perhaps, because of Corsica. He always said it would be a mistake to fight your country, and I am happy to make up for that mistake by looking after you until your soldiers arrive.’