There was a stunned silence from the men, and Doreen looked anxiously from one to the other. Tom muttered, ‘Grace, that’s a wrong thing to say—’ and then Ernest spoke quietly.
‘You know that’s not worthy of you, Grace, not the little sister I used to know. I accept that you’re under an intolerable strain, and I pray every day that your brave boy will come through this hell. But if you’re going to make insulting remarks about a persecuted race, I can’t come here, or any of my family, which is hard on Dad and my niece Doreen.’
He paused, expecting some sort of half-apology, which he would have instantly accepted. But Grace, avoiding his eyes, left the room without another word, and Ernest took his leave soon after, commiserating with his father over their present troubles.
On reaching home again, he found that the family had not gone on a picnic after all because Ayesha had had another asthma attack, frightening them by stopping breathing while they watched her eyes staring blankly out of a livid blue face. Devora had broken one of the glass ampoules and held it to Ayesha’s nose and mouth, after which her colour returned and she breathed normally but more rapidly than usual.
‘I know it’s because she’s unhappy, Ernest, but I also know that she brings on these attacks deliberately at the most inconvenient times,’ said Devora. ‘It’s only rarely that she has an attack at school. I think she gets a kind of satisfaction out of upsetting us all.’
‘We must be patient, Devora, my love,’ he said. ‘People who are anxious and unhappy for whatever reason are to be pitied, and we have to make allowances for them.’ He sighed heavily, thinking of Grace Nuttall. ‘When you remember how Ayesha and Jonny were forcibly removed from their parents and baby brother, it practically moves me to tears. We have to go on doing our best, and not expecting thanks.’
By the end of August the Luftwaffe had lost more aircraft and men than had the RAF, and the Prime Minister had praised the ‘Few’ to whom the many owed so much. Lester Allingham had returned home a war hero, decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross and bar, and more than one WAAF in love with him. Jack Nuttall was in the Queen Victoria Hospital at East Grinstead with burns on his face and hands.
Barbara Seabrook’s joy at the homecoming of war hero Lester Allingham was such that her parents had to rejoice with her, and be prepared at last to receive him at their home. In the evening of the day of his arrival, Barbara walked up to the Rectory wearing a light-green sundress and white sandals; her heart fluttered at the thought of meeting the rector and his wife, and she hoped that Lester had prepared them to receive her as their soon-to-be daughter-in-law. She carried an invitation from her own parents for them to visit with Lester at their earliest opportunity, though she longed above all to be with him alone. She had something very important to tell him, and felt nervous but sure – fairly sure – that he would be happy to share her secret – their secret – and arrange for an early wedding, when they would have to face their relatives and the whole of North Camp. She felt sure she could count on their sympathy; he was after all a war hero, one of the ‘Few’ that Churchill had so openly praised. She held her head up high as she walked up to the Rectory door and rang the bell. It was answered by Mrs Kennard.
‘Hello, Barbara! You look very nice! What can we do for you?’
‘I’ve come to see Lester – and Mr and Mrs Allingham, if it’s convenient,’ she said with a smile. Joan Kennard hesitated for a brief moment, and then invited her in.
‘They’re all upstairs in their living room, Barbara. Shall I go up and tell them that you’re here? They just might be having their celebration supper – it’s such an exciting time!’
‘No, Mrs Kennard, no need to announce me,’ said Barbara with a confidence she showed in her happy smile, and without another word made for the staircase. The living room door was open, and conversation mingled with the clink of champagne glasses. She went in.
The Allinghams were indeed celebrating with friends of theirs, standing around in groups, and they all turned to look at her. Tall and handsomely attractive in his RAF uniform, Lester Allingham stood by a buffet table, holding hands with a pretty woman wearing the matching uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force Service, a WAAF.
‘Oh, er – hello, Barbara,’ he said with a smile and a quick glance at his companion. ‘I was, er – thinking of calling on you some time tomorrow, so many people to see – and this is Vicky, she’s my good luck charm when I’m up in the air – Mother! Can you pass that plate of vol-au-vents to Barbara, please – and Dad, is there still some champagne?’
The look that Mrs Allingham gave Barbara was far from friendly, and she made no move to pass the vol-au-vents, though Roland Allingham picked up a bottle and glass, glancing briefly towards his wife.
‘I have to do what I’m told, you see,’ he said with a heavy attempt at humour. ‘Champagne, Miss – er – or would you prefer sherry?’
Barbara stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, and realised that she was going to be sick. She turned and raced down the stairs, her hand over her mouth, hoping to find the toilet before she threw up. She hadn’t time to look for it, and had to use the kitchen sink, only just in time. Joan Kennard came to sympathise and offer water to clean her mouth when she finally stopped retching. ‘Sit down for a while, dear,’ she said, ‘until you’ve recovered.’
Barbara shook her head, and not another word was said as she left the Rectory.
What on earth was she to do? Her period was now thirty-seven days overdue, and she could not tell a soul, least of all her mother – and to tell Lester now would be a disaster. What should she do, to where could she turn? She had heard whispers among girls, even as far back as schooldays, about how some girls ‘got rid of it’. They spoke of knitting needles and crochet hooks being pushed up the vagina, or a face-flannel soaked in boiling water and thrust in as far as it would go. She’d also heard of the dangers, and how one girl had died in North Camp last year. She was desperate, almost at the point of bursting into tears and telling her mother all, especially when Mrs Seabrook asked about Lester, and was he coming to visit them? She simply shook her head, and no more questions were asked, though her mother looked at her anxiously and advised her to eat more.
Then she heard two women talking in low voices at the shop while waiting to be served with their meat ration by Mr Seabrook.
‘Yes, she’d gone three weeks past the time they said she’d have it, and was as big as a house,’ one said in a loud whisper. ‘In the end the midwife gave her this huge great dose of castor oil to take.’
‘Go on! And did she manage to swallow it without throwing it straight back?’
‘Yes, she kept it down, and in the night she had this terrific clear out – couldn’t get to the lav in time, but it did the trick, and the labour pains started that night – and she had a big baby girl by morning – weighed ten pounds.’
Mr Seabrook was now ready to serve them, and they stopped talking, but Barbara had heard enough. As soon as she could leave the shop, she went to the chemist’s for a bottle of castor oil. It was worth a try, and she forced down as much of the thick oil that her stomach would tolerate.
She never forgot that night. She was seized by violent, agonising cramps, and had to stuff a handful of sheet into her mouth to stop her from crying out. She heaved herself out of bed and stumbled to the lavatory where she sat while her bowel discharged its contents, hard at first, then softer until it was pouring out copious evil-smelling liquid. Her head swam, and she felt herself falling.
She came to, and found herself lying awkwardly on the floor, still discharging uncontrollably from the bowel; the mess was all over the toilet seat, the floor and her nightdress. She groaned aloud, and tried to heave herself up to sit on the seat again.
And there it was, mixing with the bowel matter – blood! And more blood that trickled down her legs, definitely coming from the vagina. Her delayed period! Barbara burst into tears. Oh, thank you, God, thank you, thank you!
Hearing the sound, her mother left her bed and came to her daughter. Her mouth dropped open in horror at what she saw.
‘Barbara! What’s happening? Oh, what awful diarrhoea, whatever have you eaten? And your period’s come on – oh, my poor girl, let me run you a bath and clear it all up!’
Her ordeal was over. And Barbara Seabrook never knew whether her period had been delayed by emotional anxiety, and brought on by the over-action of the bowel, or whether the violence had caused an early miscarriage.
She was never quite sure, only of one thing – that she would never take such a terrible risk again. Not ever.
Tom Munday’s eyes were shadowed with anxiety when he spoke to Eddie Cooper in the Tradesmen’s Arms, and indeed the whole of the public bar fell silent, trying to hear what he was telling his old friend.
‘Came down in the Thames estuary, and the Messerschmitt who shot ’em got away. The pilot and the other man were killed straight away when it burst into flames, but our Jack by some miracle got clear of the plane and floated on the water; he doesn’t remember much about how he was hauled onto a Thames barge and ended up in a hospital in Margate.’
Tom paused, and his hearers listened.
‘As soon as they heard, of course, Rob and Grace went off to visit him. What they must have felt when they saw him … well, they didn’t see him, not his face, it was covered over with wet cloths, and his hands were covered in wet bandages.’
He paused, and Eddie said softly. ‘Poor boy. Poor Rob and Grace. Did they speak to a doctor at all?’
‘The ward sister told them that he’d been visited by a surgeon who specialises in burns, and treats them in a new way that he’s worked out. Only it means that Jack will have to be transferred to this man’s hospital at East Grinstead, so it’s not going to be quick or easy.’
‘And – how did his mother react?’
‘Well, needless to say, they both had to agree, and they’re going down to the Queen Victoria hospital, as it’s called, on Friday. Me and Rob, we say to Grace that at least the boy’s still in the land of the living, and if this man’s half as good as he’s made out to be, then our Jack’s in with a chance. And there’ll be no more dicing with death in the RAF.’
The next family member to visit the Nuttalls was Isabel Neville, having heard of Jack’s condition from her father. She went alone, taking early fruit and vegetables, and pots of her own home-grown and home-made blackcurrant jam. She met with even more hostility than her brother Ernest, for scarcely had Tom showed her into the parlour than Grace Nuttall stormed in after her.
‘You can come round here with your garden produce, but don’t imagine I’ll ever forget what you did, my Lady Isabel! There’s your son sound in body and mind, while mine’s lost half his face burnt away, and a crazy old doctor carrying out experiments on him!’
‘That’s why I’ve come today, my poor sister, to try to give you a little comfort,’ Isabel said steadily, having steeled herself for a rough rejection of her sympathy. ‘Jack’s injuries are not of my making, you know. He lives and therefore there’s hope, Grace. Look, let me sit down here beside you, and—’
‘No! Never! You took my little girl – you took her away, and never let me have her back – and now that she’s grown into a beautiful woman, you take all the credit for her!’
Isabel turned to her father in near despair.
‘That’s not true, Grace, and you know it – and you know it, too, don’t you, Dad?’
‘I guessed it when Grace came home looking so poorly after having Becky,’ said Tom sorrowfully. ‘And when you married Cedric—’
‘Yes, when she married Cedric!’ Grace almost shrieked. ‘That’s when you should’ve given me back my Becky! After all, you’d got a son and a rich husband, plus a manor house to live in, Lady bloody Neville! You never offered her back to her own mother, so don’t come round here weeping crocodile tears over my poor Jack, when you stole my daughter!’ She spat, her face contorted with rage, and Isabel drew back, very pale. There was clearly no point in trying to reason with her sister. She picked up her bag and crossed the room to take her father’s hand.
‘Very well, Grace, if that’s what you think of me, I’ll leave now, and won’t come back until I’m invited. Dad, you know you can come and visit me at the Manor whenever you like, and so can Doreen and Rob. And give my love and best wishes to Jack, tell him I look forward to seeing him again when he’s out of hospital.’
‘What do you care about my poor Jack?’ barked Grace in fury. ‘You’ve got Paul – oh, go away, go away!’
Isabel left the house she had been brought up in, and got into the pony-trap. Her thoughts were of Rebecca as a tiny baby, and what kind of a scene might erupt if Grace and Rebecca were to meet in North Camp. I shall have to tell my poor girl and warn her, she realised, though she shrank from the very idea.
Reaching home, she led the little pony to the stables, and then sought out Sally Tanner, her loyal friend and confidante.
‘I was afraid something like this would happen one day, Isabel, and always hoped it wouldn’t. It’s going to be much more difficult now,’ Sally sighed. ‘I’ll stay while you tell her, and comfort her as well as I can.’ (And you too, Isabel, she thought to herself.)
‘We won’t bring her back from the farm – we’ll wait until she next comes home, and then tell her together,’ said Isabel, dreading the inevitable moment when she would have to ask her daughter to sit down and listen to something very important.
Sure enough, Rebecca was mystified, and felt suddenly alarmed, as if she was being asked to hear unwelcome news. Paul? No, it was not about Paul. Then what?
‘I’ve always told you that I adopted you from a desperate single girl whose fiancé had gone back to the fighting and been killed there, Becky, in that terrible war,’ said her mother.
‘Yes, Mother, I’ve always known that. And I’m very glad that you adopted me.’
‘Well, now, Becky dear, certain things have happened that make it necessary for me to give you more information,’ said Isabel, trying to speak steadily.
‘What things, Mother? Tell me, for heaven’s sake!’
Rebecca’s voice rose, and Sally Tanner took hold of her hand. Isabel forced herself to continue. ‘Your mother was – is – my sister Grace. Now don’t upset yourself, please—’
For Rebecca had given a long, low moan, a cry from the heart, and buried her face in her hands. Sally put her arms around the girl, and made gentle shushing sounds.
‘No, Mother, it’s not true, it can’t be true! Tell me it’s a mistake!’
‘I’m so sorry, Becky, but it is true. Listen. You were conceived shortly before your father had to leave Grace and go back to that war, that dreadful war, that carnage, that blood-bath – I lost my own husband because of it—’ Isabel paused and put her hands to her face.
‘Be brave, Isabel,’ whispered Sally, and so she continued with the account of what had happened on that fatal, faraway day.
‘Your father was a captain in a Hampshire regiment, and it must have been so terrible for Grace when she learnt that he was killed in battle, decorated posthumously for his courage and care for the men in his charge. And then to find herself expecting his baby—’ Isabel’s voice shook, but she composed herself and continued.
‘It was all arranged that you were to be adopted at six weeks old, but on the very day that a woman official came to collect you, Grace – your mother – was in such a state of grief that I couldn’t bear it, I feared she might harm herself, and I told the woman that I would take you and bring you up as my own, a sister for Paul. And that’s what happened.’
‘Yes, Becky, that’s exactly what happened. I know, because I was there,’ said Sally.
‘Oh, Mother!’ said Rebecca, weeping. ‘I just can’t take this in. I knew I was adopted, but you always said you took me from a desperate single girl who couldn’t keep me.’
‘And that was true, Becky, she couldn’t. But I could, and I did.’
‘Your mother’s an angel, Becky,’ said Sally.
‘Oh, Sally!’ Rebecca turned to this woman she had known all her life. ‘Dear Sally Tanner, even you’ve been more of a mother to me than – than Mrs Nuttall is. I don’t even like her, and I can never call her Mother. Not ever.’
‘Hush, dear. She’ll go on being your Aunt Grace,’ said Isabel, ‘and I’ll go on being known as your Mother, though in fact I’m your Aunt Isabel.’
‘Never,’ said Rebecca. ‘I’ll never call you aunt. And why have you decided to tell me all this now?’
‘My poor sister Grace is in a turmoil over her son Jack who has been severely injured when his plane came down. I believe that it has unhinged her, and I’m telling you not to go near her, dear. Keep away from Rectory Road. She’s got this idea in her head that I should have handed you back to her when I married Cedric – your Dad – and she might completely lose her reason if she saw you now. Oh, Rebecca, my own dear, precious daughter!’
Tears were shed by all three of them, and then Sally bustled off to make tea. Rebecca was due back at the farm that evening, and she was thankful for the hard work that filled her busy days and gave her little time to ponder over what she had learnt. It explained her strong family resemblance to both her mother and aunt, and it also accounted for Grace Nuttall’s cool, unsisterly behaviour over the years towards Lady Neville. Rebecca felt that she never wanted to set eyes on her again.
Grim news continued that autumn of relentless bombing of London. Thirty miles from London, the wailing of the air raid siren situated in Everham became a familiar, almost daily, sound, warning that enemy aircraft had crossed the Channel and could be anywhere overhead. Every morning people switched on their wireless sets to hear of the devastation that had taken place in the night: first the East End, the docks, power stations and gasworks were hit, and the homes close to them, then the terror spread to other parts of the capital, and they heard of air raid shelters that had suffered direct hits, so the people chose to sleep on the platforms of the Underground railway network while explosions took place above them.
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