Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  Sometimes, people would notice her playing and clap. But mostly they stood in small groups sipping champagne or cocktails, discussing the work of Augustus John, George Orwell and that simply outrageous book The Laughing Torso, by that bohemian woman Nina Hamnett.

  Sitting on her stool, fingers (at that time, long, slender and perfectly manicured) flying over the keys, it was plain to Elspeth that very few people talking about the book had actually read it. Then, she’d thought that darling and very clever. Now, she’d changed her mind.

  Still, it was in that house that she met her first love. Gregor Fox was an artist. He rented a room along from Elspeth’s on the third floor, only his was large and faced north. ‘North light is vital,’ he said.

  For some time, she had been aware of him watching her come and go. In the morning, when she left for work, he’d be standing at the window, looking down at her tripping along the street in her red coat with matching hat and gloves.

  They shared a bathroom that was opposite Elspeth’s room. One night, as Elspeth slipped across the hall with only a towel wrapped round her, Gregor swung open his door and said, ‘Drop it.’

  Elspeth stopped, clutched the towel closer and said, ‘Drop what?’

  ‘That towel you are hiding behind. Drop it, I want to see you.’

  Elspeth said she’d do no such thing. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’

  He said, ‘Of course you are. All girls are that sort of girl, you’re just afraid to admit it. Drop the towel, I want to see you. I’m an artist, I will look at you professionally.’ He stepped forwards, grabbed the towel and whipped it away. He stood, hands on hips, scrutinising her. ‘Perfect, absolutely perfect. In fact, exquisite. I will paint you.’

  It had taken him days to persuade Elspeth. He’d banged on her door demanding to be allowed in, he had to explain his art to her. ‘It’s not anything in the least sexual. It’s art. Of course you will be without clothes, but I don’t see the nudity. I see the woman.’

  So, Elspeth agreed. He told her to look defiant. ‘Being unclothed is natural. It’s how we come into the world. Be proud. Laugh at anyone who might be shocked.’

  It wasn’t long before Elspeth began to enjoy their sessions together. She loved being naked, loved the feel of air on her skin. She loved that he told her she was perfect, exquisite, beautiful. And she loved that she was doing something that would horrify her mother.

  Now, chewing her sandwich, she thought that was the real reason she’d done it. She’d been at an age when horrifying her mother was a good reason for doing anything.

  Gregor took her to the Fitzroy Tavern, pointed out Augustus John. Once they stood at the bar next to Dylan Thomas. Another time they’d spotted George Orwell sitting alone at a table. Elspeth was impressed. Fancy that, she thought, me mingling with intellectuals and artists.

  After an evening at the Wheatsheaf, giddy from a surfeit of gin, Elspeth let Gregor take her to his bed. The affair lasted for six months. Elspeth was proud of herself. She worked at the perfume counter in Selfridges, she was an artist’s model, she’d rubbed shoulders with famous people. She had a lover. She was a woman of the world.

  Soon, though, she was just another abandoned girlfriend. One evening, returning from work, clicking along the street, anticipating the fabulous things she and Gregor would get up to that night, she met him. He was carrying a large suitcase and a portfolio. ‘Off to Paris,’ he said. ‘Montparnasse, that’s the place for an artist to be.’

  Elspeth asked when he was coming back.

  He told her, ‘Never. I may move on to Provence, or Greece. But this country is too dull and cold. I need light and warmth.’

  Elspeth sniffed. Uninvited tears welled, and slipped down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Gregor. ‘Don’t cry, that won’t do. When someone wants to up and go, you smile and say goodbye. You’re not bloody falling in love with me, are you? I wouldn’t recommend that.’ He hurried past her, disappeared round the corner, didn’t look back. Elspeth never saw him again.

  It took months for her heart to recover, but, in time, she met Michael Harding. He was kind, considerate, moderately handsome and quite well off.

  ‘And I let him go because I wanted to learn the accordion.’ Elspeth finished her bottle of tea, dusted crumbs from her dungarees and declared herself a fool. ‘A bloody idiot, flitting from notion to notion. Not just a butterfly, a stupid butterfly.’

  She considered the view. Now, it was no longer splendid. It was bleak. An unwelcome wind whipped round her, shoved through her hair. She shivered. Looked down at her muddied boots and dungarees and told herself she hated her life. ‘I have plummeted from exotic to ordinary. Not like bloody Izzy. She has risen from shy little dumpling of a girl to flying ace. Bloody Izzy with her bloody American boyfriend going to bloody dances, eating at bloody posh hotels, living the bloody high life. And it’s all down to me. I’m the one who brought her out of her shell. I taught her about love and life and art and music. I encouraged her to learn to fly. And what does she do? She ignores me. She used to visit every few weeks, then it was every month or so. Now it’s never. And not a letter in ages. Bloody Izzy has forgotten all about me.’

  In a rage she stood up, sniffed, wiped her self-pitying eyes. It was time to head back to bloody, bloody camp to eat bloody Spam and bloody boiled cabbage.

  She slid on her bum down the heathered slope, climbed onto her bike and started the long cycle home. She didn’t have a watch, but could make a rough estimate of the time by the sun. It was about six o’clock, she reckoned. Puffing as she pedalled homewards, she vowed that the minute peace was declared, she’d go back to London, and she would be outrageous.

  She’d come further than she’d thought. It took her two hours to get to Duncan’s cottage, a few miles from the camp. She decided to take the short cut through the woods. She’d have to walk, pushing the bike, but it would take a couple of miles off the journey.

  Dark, that moment when the air turns granular, bats were coming out, and the forest was full of noises. Such things no longer scared Elspeth. Rustlings would be deer, foxes or, perhaps, a badger. She was hungry. Had missed the evening meal and hoped Lorna had saved her something.

  For a fleeting moment, when a hand gripped her shoulder, Elspeth thought it was Tyler. She turned. Duncan held her close, pressed his lips onto hers. Hot whiskied breath in her face. She tried to push him away. He held on, moved his lips to her neck, saying, ‘Please.’

  She struggled, pushed, twisted her face from side to side, avoiding his lips. He said, ‘Please,’ again. Then pushed her to a tree, slamming her against the trunk, knocking the breath from her.

  He tore at the top of her dungarees, grabbed her breasts, rubbed himself against her, shoved his hand between her legs. Told her he wanted her. ‘I just want you.’

  She kicked his shins.

  He slapped her and told her he knew she wanted him, knew she wanted any man. He’d seen her with that Newfie. He yanked down the straps of her dungarees and tore at her shirt.

  It was a silent, desperate scuffle. He tried to hold her by the wrists to stop her slapping him. Then his hand gripped her breast. Hard, calloused against her skin. He pulled her to the ground, pressing against her as he wrestled with his belt, unbuttoned his trousers. He yanked her dungarees down past her knees.

  She bit his lip, scratched his face, screamed and shoved him away. He punched her. The blow landed on her cheek. She slapped him. He grabbed her wrists, held them above her head, looked down at her. Then the writhing and wrestling stopped. He hated her. Punched her again and again. ‘What kind of woman are you? You’ve done this to me. This never happens to me.’

  She pushed him from her, struggled to her feet and kicked him. Caught him on the knee – the troubled, aching, withering knee. She was shouting and sobbing.

  ‘You’re not even a man. You can’t manage, can you? Can’t get it up? Useless, useless.’

  He howled. Bent to grip his leg and she kick
ed him again, caught him on the face, and sent him reeling. He was on the ground, clutching his knee. ‘Please.’

  She kicked him again. Said he couldn’t have her. ‘Please, you say please when you’re doing that?’

  He said, ‘Please,’ one more time. ‘I just couldn’t take all that wanting any more.’

  ‘Useless, useless,’ Elspeth repeated. ‘You don’t just take a woman because you want her.’ She picked up her bike and ran down the path to the road.

  She cycled to camp, and only stopped once she’d passed the stables, to straighten her clothes and run her fingers through her hair. She was shaking, and only now realised she was hoarse. Her throat hurt. She’d been screaming much more than she realised.

  Once in the camp, she propped her bike outside the ablutions hut and went inside to wash. Her face hurt where his blows had landed. She touched it softly, felt the swelling. There would be bruises tomorrow. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder, and she was bleeding. He’d bitten her. ‘Bastard.’

  When she’d finished, she went outside, stood awhile breathing, collecting herself. Then she went into the hut where the girls were getting ready for bed. The stove was on, lamps were lit, Lorna was waving. ‘Here you are. I was getting worried.’ Then, shocked, she said, ‘My God, Elspeth, what’s happened?’

  Elspeth said, ‘I fell off my bike.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Just Round the Corner

  JULIA HAD THOUGHT that Walter would travel to France, watch the first stages of the invasion and come home again. But he hadn’t. She’d heard nothing from him in two weeks. Nights, she stayed home listening to the news, imagining Walter making his way across Normandy, crossing fields, taking cover behind hedges.

  Every time she turned into the lane leading to the cottage, she expected to see him standing by the gate, waiting for her. And, when he wasn’t, she’d think he’d have taken the key from under the stone by the front door and he’d be inside, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking whisky and brimming with tales to tell her. She’d go inside, run down the hall looking for him. She was always disappointed.

  She asked Izzy how things were at Jimmy’s hospital. ‘Are there a lot of casualties?’

  ‘Goodness, yes,’ said Izzy. ‘It’s overflowing with patients. So many, they’ve put tents between the Nissan huts. Big sheets of black canvas, and people in beds under them. Jimmy’s working round the clock; I hardly saw him last time I went over there. Nurses running about, people all bandaged up and Jimmy looked awful. He’d hardly slept for days.’ Then, forgetting to be tactful, she said, ‘It was carnage on Omaha Beach.’ Seeing Julia’s expression, she added, ‘But Walter was at Gold Beach. That wasn’t so bad. He’ll be fine. Anyway, he wouldn’t have gone ashore till the beach was taken.’

  Julia said she supposed so. ‘But I haven’t heard from him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be anywhere he could sit down and write a letter,’ said Izzy. ‘But he’ll be thinking about you.’

  Julia sighed. ‘I hate this. I hate looking out for the postman, hoping for a letter, and I hate waiting for the phone to ring. I hate being in love. I always said it was something to be avoided.’

  ‘My friend Elspeth said it was the most wonderful misery you could ever experience.’

  ‘True,’ said Julia. ‘I think I’d like Elspeth. You must introduce us one day.’

  Izzy said she would.

  ‘What else did Elspeth say?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Izzy. ‘She said flying was better than sex.’

  ‘Do you agree with that?’

  ‘Depends on which one I’m doing when I think about it. I don’t know what Elspeth thinks now she’s chopping down trees in the far north of Scotland. I don’t expect there’s a lot of opportunity for sex.’

  ‘Aren’t there any men working near her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Hundreds and only forty or so women.’

  There was a long silence.

  Julia said, ‘Izzy, you’re a goose.’ She slapped her hands on the table. ‘You’ve cheered me up. C’mon, let’s go out. I can’t sit here feeling glum any more. It’s not good for me. We’ll have supper at the hotel. My treat.’

  The Golden Mallard was packed, but they got a table – Julia always got a table – and ordered roast chicken.

  ‘Do you think it’s real roast chicken? Or some mocked-up chickeny thing?’ asked Izzy.

  ‘Of course it’s real,’ said Julia. ‘But it will be scrawny. Chickens are on rationing just like the rest of us.’

  They tried not to speak about the war. Julia didn’t want to be reminded of it at the moment. She asked Izzy about her trip to Scotland in August.

  ‘We’re going to visit my folks. It will be good, relaxing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘We could all do with a bit of relaxation these days. Shall we go through to the bar? I feel like a drink.’

  The bar was even more packed than the dining room. Julia pushed through the crowd, saying hello as she did so. She knew a lot of people. She ordered a whisky for herself and bought Izzy a shandy and said they should take their drinks outside to the terrace. ‘It’s too smoky in here. And there are too many people I know, I don’t feel like chatting tonight.’

  The sun was dipping low, the sky red. Some swans flew over. Izzy said, ‘I love swans. They’re so serene. Not like me.’

  ‘You’d like to be serene?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Yes, sort of quietly knowing. Sophisticated.’

  ‘You’d have to drink something a little more daring than shandy,’ said Julia.

  ‘I like shandy. It’s the only alcoholic thing I can drink. Whisky makes me sleepy and that’s not sophisticated at all.’

  Julia asked if Elspeth was sophisticated.

  ‘Yes. She once posed nude for an artist in Chelsea. She went to fashionable bars and she listens to Mahler. But she jumps from notion to notion. That’s how she ended up working in the forest. She thought it would be wonderful to commune with nature, and she thought she’d get a plaid shirt.’

  ‘And she didn’t,’ said Julia.

  ‘No. She says it’s bitterly cold in winter, it’s so cold it hurts to breathe. And the food’s atrocious. There’s no electricity and no plumbing. She dreams of hot baths.’

  ‘I have problems committing,’ said Julia, ‘I wouldn’t even buy furniture for my flat. I thought, what’s the point? I might die. Walter insisted I get a sofa at least. Something to sit on.’

  ‘Something to sit on’s good,’ said Izzy.

  ‘He said I should commit to being alive, and I should commit to him. So I did.’

  ‘You bought a sofa.’

  ‘I got married,’ said Julia. ‘No sofa, yet.’ She looked at her watch. It was almost nine o’clock, normally the start of an evening out for her. ‘We should get back.’ Walter might be there. She might have missed a call. Or, he might call later. She needed to be at home when the phone rang.

  Just before they turned the corner at the end of the lane, Julia’s hopes rose. Walter would be standing, leaning on the gate, waiting for her. When he saw her coming towards him, he’d take his hands out of his pocket and wave.

  He wasn’t there. The phone wasn’t ringing. As she passed it in the hall, Julia lifted the receiver, listened, checking the dialling tone. It was still working.

  This was her routine for the next two weeks. Coming home from work, she’d freewheel down the hill, thinking that surely Walter would be there at the gate or at the front door watching out for her to arrive. When he wasn’t there, she’d run inside hoping he’d be there. When he wasn’t, she’d go into the hall, lift the phone receiver, checking the line.

  When the package arrived, Julia turned it over in her hands, then took it upstairs to her bedroom. She wanted to be alone when she opened it.

  It was from the news magazine Walter worked for and contained several of his notebooks, a couple of letters he’d written to her and a letter from the editor. He was sorry to inform her that Walter had been kil
led on 18 June, as he crossed a field in Normandy. ‘He was,’ the editor wrote, ‘an outstanding war correspondent and a wonderful man. He would be sorely missed not just as a gifted colleague, but as a remarkable raconteur, drinking companion and friend.’ He was deeply sorry for Julia’s loss. ‘I am enclosing two letters he wrote to you while covering the Normandy landings, along with his notebooks. Walter was buried by his companions in the field in a cemetery outside Caen.’

  Julia sat on her bed, holding Walter’s letters. She didn’t cry. Not yet, she told herself. She sighed and admitted she’d known for some time that Walter was dead. In fact, on that morning when she’d reached across the bed to touch him, and found an empty space, a rumpled pillow and his blankets thrown back, she’d known he wouldn’t come back to her.

  She went downstairs and gave the others her news. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ she said. ‘I need to think.’ Izzy offered to go with her. Julia shook her head, ‘I’d rather be on my own.’

  She walked by the river, hands in pockets, kicking the occasional stone. If anyone else was on the path, she wasn’t aware of them. She passed the little tearoom and the hotel, walked till the path ended in a tumble of fallen trees, branches and brambles. She stopped, picked up a stone and tossed it into the water, watched the ripples spread where it landed and sank to the bottom. That’s it, she thought. I’m on my own and I better get used to it. She’d been married for three weeks.

  Back at the cottage, she went upstairs, switched on the light and lay on the bed to read Walter’s letters. The first had been written when he was still aboard the ship. He described the landings at Omaha Beach – planes strafed the beach first, then the whole place was lit by chandelier lights, men poured off their ships . . . the men aboard the ship would do the same in half an hour at Gold Beach.