Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  Chapter Seventeen

  Winning’s Important

  CHARLES HAD ALWAYS been in Julia’s life. Their parents were old friends. Once, at a weekend party at Charles’ family’s country house, he’d told Julia about sex. She’d been fifteen at the time, and innocent.

  They’d just finished a game of tennis and were lying on the grass outside the court. Sounds of a new game drifted across to them – a ball being whacked back and forth. On the terrace, Julia’s mother and Charles’ mother were having tea. Every so often, their laughter would bounce through the afternoon. Julia was glistening hot. Charles had dark patches of sweat on his shirt. ‘I won,’ said Julia.

  ‘You always win,’ Charles admitted.

  It wasn’t because he let her. She was good at everything she took on, and, winning mattered more to her than it did to him. He stroked her cheek with a daisy. ‘You’re growing up.’ He was four years older than her. He leaned over and kissed her. She rubbed her dampened cheek. Not that she hadn’t liked the kiss. It was a reaction to the small thrill that rippled up from between her legs to her stomach. She hadn’t felt anything like it before. But it was, she thought, really rather nice. Much, much better than the thrill she felt on Christmas morning.

  ‘You don’t like being kissed?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m beginning to like it. I used to hate it. Of course, it all depends on who’s kissing me.’

  ‘What about when I do it?’ He leaned over and kissed her again. ‘I’m waiting for you to grow up so I can make love to you.’

  She asked what he meant by that.

  ‘I want to be your lover.’

  She looked blank. And he said, ‘Sex. I want us to have sex.’ He watched her face as she wrestled with this. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. Well, she was aware there was something about men and women nobody was telling her. And the word ‘sex’ wasn’t new to her; she just didn’t know exactly what it meant.

  He rolled back on the grass, covering his face with his hands, ‘Oh God, oh God. You are such an ignorant virgin.’

  Offended, she got up to flounce off. He grabbed her arm, pulled her back down beside him and whispered in her ear. He told her everything, no detail spared. She was shocked. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s true,’ he said. ‘That’s what grown-ups do.’

  ‘Well, I’m not ever going to do that. Ever, ever, ever.’ And off she flounced. She strutted and huffed across the lawn and up the steps of the terrace, past the tea-drinking women.

  ‘Flouncing again, Julia,’ said her mother. ‘What’s wrong this time? Didn’t you win at tennis?’

  ‘Of course I won,’ said Julia. ‘I always win. Winning’s important. It’s just Charles. I hate him.’

  A few years later, Charles became her first lover. She decided that sex was fine. Indeed, more than fine, it was rather splendid.

  She thought she might marry one day. But not now, not yet. She made sure she always had two lovers, and joked about this. ‘I like things in twos. I never have one gin, always two.’ Or, ‘Two lovers keep me awake, on my toes.’ Though she rarely said that since Claire had remarked that it was more likely they kept her on her back. But really, it was a safeguard against needing one man too much, or ever feeling lonely, or getting her heart broken. However, one of her two lovers was always Charles.

  When Julia had got home from the Myra Hess concert, she’d slammed the front door and clattered down the hall shouting, ‘Yoo-hoo, darling, I’m back and ready to be ravished!’

  Silence. Bastard’s still in bed, sleeping, she thought. But the bed had been empty, blankets tossed aside. Charles’ uniform, which had been draped over the end, was gone. ‘He’s buggered orff,’ said Julia out loud. Still, she’d searched the flat. Peeped into the tiny spare room, the bathroom, living room and kitchen. ‘He has absolutely gone. Damn.’ She’d been in the mood for a bit of ravishing.

  Back in the bedroom, she’d found a note on the dresser:

  I hate this flat without you in it. It’s cold, empty, no wireless and no food. I’m starved. Gone to Cornwall to eat lots and say goodbye to Ma and Pa. See you when I get back from Burma. Probably won’t write, I’m useless at keeping in touch. But you keep well, and think of me.

  C x

  Julia had reread the letter several times before slipping it into her pocket. She made the bed, washed the cups and teapot, pulled the blackout curtains, then locked up the flat and headed for the station.

  She’d thought about Charles on the journey back to Skimpton, sitting on the rattling train, chugging through the dark. Then, on the country bus that trundled slowly, slowly along narrow roads and was dim inside because the interior lights were taped over, Julia cursed herself. She shouldn’t have gone to the lunch-time concert, she certainly shouldn’t have agreed to have tea and a bun with a stranger. She wished she and Charles hadn’t bickered before she left. There’s no time to bicker these days. And, she should have told him she loved him. She thought, because in a way, I do. And if something happened to him out there, he would never know.

  But by April, when the world turned balmy, she was in love with someone new.

  A few days after she’d got back from London, Walter Cruickshank phoned. He was coming up her way in a couple of days, and could he take her to dinner?

  ‘Ooh, dinner,’ said Julia. ‘Lovely, darling, I’ll look forward to it.’

  They ate roast beef at the Golden Mallard, and afterwards walked over the long lawns to the river. She took his arm. He asked why she called everyone darling.

  ‘Bad habit, and, to tell the truth, I’m not awfully good at remembering names.’

  ‘Mine’s Walter, call me that. If you call me darling, I’ll think you’ve forgotten that I’m Walter, and don’t care.’

  ‘All right, darling.’

  They walked on, arms linked. He said, ‘We must do this again some time soon.’

  She said, ‘I’d like that.’

  The following week, they’d dined again at the hotel, walked by the river and chatted. He told her he thought she was a toff.

  ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘But, so what? I’m not going to apologise for being born into a wealthy family. I think you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a good chip. It has served me well. I’m proud of my chip.’

  He picked up a stone and skimmed it across the water. He watched it bounce to the other side of the river. ‘So, the flying thing, how did that happen?’

  ‘My father gave me lessons for my twenty-first birthday.’ She paused. ‘And an aeroplane to go with it.’ Then she asked what he had got for his twenty-first.

  ‘A suitcase.’

  ‘A hint that it was time to leave home.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Did wonders to nourish the chip, though.’ He skimmed another stone. ‘Perhaps that’s why you got a plane. Your parents thought it time for you to fly out of the nest.’

  She thought that might be true. ‘They were certainly keen to marry me orff. They kept introducing me to eligible young men.’

  ‘But you didn’t get any offers?’

  ‘Of course I got offers. I just didn’t accept any of them. All the men I knew wanted a wife who’d produce a clutch of children while they went orff to have fun being soldiers or working in the city.’ She sighed. ‘Didn’t think it was for me.’

  He agreed, he didn’t think it was for her, either.

  The next time they met, he hadn’t told her he was coming.

  She’d had a busy day. She’d taken a Spitfire into Yorkshire, been driven twelve miles to another airbase, picked up a damaged Spitfire, taken it to a repairs unit and then brought an Oxford back to Skimpton to be moved on the next day. The weather had been chasing her all day, giant black clouds gathering behind her – the downpour arrived not long after she’d landed. She’d waited till it was over, then cycled home, deliberately splashing through puddles.


  It reminded her of when she’d been a child and had ridden her bike top speed down a hill in the family’s country home. She’d whizzed along, hair flying up, urging herself to pedal faster, harder, till she realised, to her horror, she couldn’t stop. She’d crashed into the lake at the bottom of the hill, sending up a shrieking squall of ducks. Puffing out her cheeks, relieved at being alive and unhurt, she’d hauled her bike out of the water, and wheeled it back to the top of the hill. That had been wonderful. What speed, such a thrill. Taking risks was such a hoot. She’d do it again.

  She took her feet off the pedals at the top of the hill that led down to the cottage, and freewheeled, rattling over cobbles, bouncing in the saddle and careened into the lane.

  Walter was leaning on his car, hands in his pockets, waiting for her. A tremor ran through her stomach, her face creased into a broad grin. She waved. And she didn’t like herself at all. She hated when her body did that – acted on its own, without waiting for instructions from her. She liked to be in control of her emotions.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She hoped he hadn’t noticed how delighted she was.

  ‘Came to see you,’ he said. ‘Thought you might like to go out to dinner.’ He followed her as she wheeled her bike up the path. She told him she was tired. ‘But, thanks.’

  Inside, she went straight to the kitchen and put the casserole Mrs Brent had left into the oven to heat up. ‘You can set the table,’ she told Walter, flapping her hand towards the cutlery drawer. ‘For two, Izzy and Claire are away tonight.’

  He asked where.

  ‘A dance.’

  ‘When will they be back?’ He was hopeful it would be late.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  He said, ‘Ah.’ This was better than late.

  She went upstairs to change out of her uniform, ‘There might be some whisky in the living room if you want it.’

  He did. He poured a glass, emptied it, poured another and emptied that. Then he went outside to fetch the bottle he had in the car. He kept it on the table as they ate, topping up his glass from time to time.

  ‘Do you always drink whisky with meals?’

  He shrugged. ‘No. I prefer beer with food. Whisky afterwards.’

  ‘I think perhaps you drink too much.’

  He thought about this – long nights in bars, the bottle he kept in the desk at work, the first thing he did in the evening when he got home was pour a drink. And that was after several in the pub. He tried to think of a single war correspondent who didn’t drink too much. But couldn’t.

  ‘Goes with the territory,’ he said. ‘Like saying “orff” instead of “off”.’

  She told him saying ‘orff’ wasn’t bad for her liver.

  He said that having a plummy accent might do some damage to her health sometime.

  ‘Are we bickering?’ she asked.

  ‘I do believe we are. I think we should wash up and go to the pub before it develops into a full-blown argument.’

  She glared at him. For a moment, he thought she didn’t want to go to the pub. But realised it was the washing-up part she didn’t approve of.

  ‘You don’t wash up?’ he asked.

  ‘I leave it for Mrs Brent.’

  He said he couldn’t do that. ‘It’s my old army training. Can’t leave a mess.’ He tossed a dish towel at her. ‘I’ll wash. You dry.’

  Painstakingly wiping a plate, she said, ‘I didn’t know you were in the army.’

  ‘Gordon Highlanders.’

  She moved on to a second plate. ‘Did you wear a kilt?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I love men in kilts.’

  ‘Most ladies do.’

  He finished washing the dishes, took the dish towel from Julia and started to dry them. ‘You’re taking too long. I want to get to the pub before closing time.’

  ‘So, when were you in the army?’

  ‘When I was eighteen. I was at the Somme.’ Wiping a bowl, he remarked, ‘The rhubarb crumble was excellent, by the way.’

  ‘Mrs Brent does a good pudding.’

  He folded the dish towel, draped it over the edge of the draining board, put on his jacket and said, ‘Let’s go.’

  The Duck’s Foot was Saturday-night humming, heaving with people drinking, talking, singing. Beer was being served at full throttle. The old wooden bar was already filmed and sticky with froth. The small space between the top of the drinkers’ heads and the beamed ceiling was thickly wreathed with smoke.

  Walter pointed to the only vacant table and instructed Julia to grab a seat in the snug, while he shoved and shouldered his way to the bar through the mass of uniforms – Americans and Canadians billeted in the village. He had to shout his order, ‘A pint and a half pint for the lady,’ so the barman would know to serve it in a stemmed glass. He held the glasses aloft as he jostled back to his seat.

  ‘I don’t drink beer,’ said Julia.

  He told her she did now. ‘Unless you’d prefer a port and lemon. They’re out of gin.’

  She shook her head and sipped her drink. ‘It’s quite nice.’ Then, she asked, ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘No, I’ve ordered drinks before. And it’s been a long, long time since I’ve been asked if I’m old enough.’

  ‘I mean at the Somme. You were just a boy.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t scared. I was absolutely bloody terrified. Couldn’t breathe for fear. Legs like jelly, thought I wouldn’t be able to walk.’

  ‘Walk? I’d have run.’

  He took a long swig. ‘Orders were to walk. Fifty yards a minute.’

  At first there had been artillery fire. It had gone on so long, so loud it stopped sounding like a series of bangs. It became orchestrated. ‘An orchestrated bombardment.’ Yet, the silence that had surrounded him was intense, and the fear-filled staccato breathing of the soldier next to him had made him want to scream. When the whistle went he’d climbed the ladder and started to walk across no man’s land.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know if I could have run,’ he said. ‘I was carrying two hundred rounds of ammunition, two sandbags, two grenades, two gas helmets –’ he counted on his fingers ‘– wire cutters, an entrenching tool and extra rations. Oh, and we had a tin triangle tied to our backpacks, so those watching from behind the lines could mark our progress from the reflected glint in the sun.’

  ‘Probably running would have been difficult,’ said Julia.

  He nodded. ‘Anyway, there we were walking into gunfire. Couple of officers linked arms and looked as if they were out for a Sunday stroll in the park. It was sunny, nice day for a walk. They got shot. Every so often we’d flatten ourselves to the ground. And, every time I got up again, I’d see fewer and fewer men in the line. We were sitting ducks out there. I was in Berlin a few years ago, nineteen thirty-five, met a couple of Germans who were at the Somme. They said if we’d run, we’d have made it to the trenches and probably beaten them.’

  He finished his drink. Pointed his empty glass at her and asked if she wanted another.

  She shook her head. ‘I have to work tomorrow.’ She watched him shove through the throng, and lean on the bar trying to attract the landlord’s attention. He was chatting to a man and a woman. Locals, Julia thought. Locals always hogged the area near the bar. She leaned forwards and saw that Walter was chatting to the Brents. Mrs Brent waved. Julia trilled her fingers in reply. Someone, in the depth of the room, Julia couldn’t tell who, started to sing ‘April Showers’. Others joined in.

  Walter returned, put his drink on the table and asked if she liked a sing-song.

  ‘Sometimes we have one in the taxi Anson coming home. That’s fun.’

  The singers moved seamlessly into ‘The Old Bull and Bush’.

  ‘Where was I?’ asked Walter.

  ‘The Somme, you were walking across no man’s land on a sunny day.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That was it, really. I reached the trenches but didn’t get through. I never got to use my knuckleduster.’

&nbs
p; ‘You had a knuckleduster? Was that part of your kit?’

  ‘No. Lots of us had them, or chains, in case of hand-to-hand combat. We were a rough lot. Kids from the streets, mostly. But my kilt got caught in the barbed wire. I didn’t make it any further.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The singing was getting louder, merrier and ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ was being belted out with gusto.

  ‘Got caught in the wire. Panicked. Got caught up even more. Could hardly move. Got shot.’

  It had felt like someone had run at him and whacked him in the leg with an iron bar. And the world melted. He’d screamed. Not that anyone would have heard, everyone was screaming.

  ‘Anyway, I lay there by the barbed wire for hours. Then the stretcher-bearers found me, took me back behind the lines. Few weeks later, I was sent home.’

  The singers, most of the pub by now, were roaring ‘Roll Out the Barrel’.

  ‘I hate that song,’ he said. He downed the last of his beer. ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Yes, it’s getting rowdy in here.’

  They waved to the Brents as they left. Outside, they linked arms and started down the hill to the cottage.

  ‘I usually like rowdy pubs,’ he said. ‘But I’m not in the mood tonight. I was hoping to have a game of darts. I’d have let you win.’

  ‘No need to let me,’ said Julia. ‘I’d have won, anyway. I always win.’

  ‘It’s important to you?’

  ‘Very,’ she said.

  They walked on, the roar of singing following them. She said, ‘You got shot in the leg and you don’t limp.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘But only when it rains.’

  He asked who Charles was.

  ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘The couple at the bar, the Brents, asked if I was one of your new boyfriends now Charles was away.’

  ‘Charles is a friend. I’ve known him all my life. Our parents were friends. He’s gone to Burma.’

  ‘He’s your lover?’

  She nodded.

  He said, ‘What did they mean “one of”? One of your new boyfriends – you have others?’