Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  I will follow later. The mood here is tense. Men who know they might die soon have slipped into silence, thinking, I suppose, of their wives and lovers back home. Can’t resist one last battle. Then, I promise, I’ll settle down. I have a notion for a rose-covered cottage somewhere. I will get a Labrador, stroll the lanes, grow vegetables in the garden and write thrillers. You can learn to bake scones. We will be happy in our little cliché of contentment.

  I love you and very soon I’ll be with you again.

  The second letter was written in a tent somewhere outside Caen. He described the onslaught.

  They are flattening the place. The mood is of elation, triumph, fear (a lot of that), bravado (we don’t admit to being afraid) and a certain amount of anger that we need to be here at all. The war is definitely coming to an end. Perhaps even by Christmas. This will be our first Christmas together. I propose we spend it alone. We shall have a tree surrounded by glorious presents, we shall eat and drink ourselves silly and make love by the fire.

  I think we should be in Paris next month. After that, I’ll come home. I just want to see it liberated. I’ll bring you some Camembert and, since I am in Normandy, a bottle of Calvados, if I can find it.

  I love you. You are constantly in my thoughts. I will keep myself safe for you. Keep yourself safe for me. There is so much for us to do together, I would make a list but it would stretch for pages.

  Love

  W x

  In the morning Julia got up, dressed and went to work. She flew a Spitfire to a base not far away in Lancashire. And every time she thought of Walter, when tears threatened, she’d swallow, take a deep breath and say, ‘Steady, steady.’ The words her nanny said if she tripped running down the stairs, hurt her knee and started to howl.

  In the evening she cycled home. Approaching the corner to turn into the lane, she thought, Walter will be there. For months and months, that was her thought, Walter is just round the corner, waiting for me.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  What Have I Done?

  ELSPETH ROSE EARLY, packed her case in the grey light while the other girls slept. She stepped out into the morning, cool air on her aching face, and went into Duncan’s hut.

  ‘Look at me.’

  He was behind his desk, filling in a report, and put down his pen, lifted his scratched and bruised face. ‘I’m not looking so good myself.’

  ‘You think I care about that? Look what you’ve done to me.’

  He turned away and muttered he was sorry.

  ‘Don’t say sorry. Sorry is nothing to me. I need to get away. I can’t let anybody see me like this.’

  ‘Didn’t the girls see you last night?’

  ‘The hut was dark. They only saw me in the half-light. I said I’d fallen off my bike.’

  He nodded. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to go to my cottage till the bruising fades. I want you to give me the money for the fare. And I want you to drive me to the bus stop.’

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘But you won’t say no, will you? I won’t just tell everyone what you did to me, punching me, biting me. I’ll tell them that in the end you couldn’t manage. You couldn’t get it up. You’re useless. So give me the money.’

  ‘You’d humiliate me?’

  ‘Just as you tried to humiliate me. Yes, of course I would.’

  He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and threw two pounds onto his desk. Elspeth looked at it, shook her head and stared at him. He put another three pounds on top of the two already there. ‘Blackmail,’ he said.

  ‘You bet,’ said Elspeth. ‘What are you going to do about it? Tell the police? Now drive me to the bus stop. I’m going to my cottage. I’ll be back when my bruises have gone down.’

  He reached into a drawer and threw a letter on to the desk beside the small pile of notes. ‘Arrived for you yesterday.’

  They drove in thick, vile silence to the village. Red flares of morning flickered through passing trees. Elspeth looked out the side window; Duncan stared ahead at the road. At the bus stop, Elspeth climbed out.

  ‘The bus isn’t due till nine,’ said Duncan.

  ‘The wait might calm me down,’ Elspeth told him.

  He put the van into gear, turned to her and said, ‘It was the drink.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then. It was the drink. You’re not to blame at all. There’s not one iota of shame in you, is there?’ She slammed the door.

  Duncan drove off. Yes, he was ashamed. He was ill with shame. He’d just long forgotten how to show it.

  The bus got into Fortham at noon. Elspeth walked, collar turned up, head down, watching her feet move over the pavement – familiar ground, same old cracks. She didn’t meet anyone, but curtains moved. Her return had been noted.

  She walked up the path to her front door, noted the scrambling weeds in her front garden and the overgrown hedge. The lock was stiff; she had to bang the door with her hip to open in. But, at last, she was inside, alone and safe.

  She walked down the hall, put her case in the bedroom and, in the living room, sat on her sofa and wept. When she stopped, when she’d no tears left, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, sniffed and looked round. God, the place was dusty. It smelled of stale air and damp. The curtains were drawn. It was gloomy.

  She got up, pulled back the curtains and opened the windows. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle to boil water for a pot of tea. She fetched coal from the cellar and lit a fire in the living-room hearth. She fetched sheets from the linen cupboard and made up her bed. She dusted, wiped, polished and swept the kitchen floor. The activity made her feel better, hungry even.

  Her cupboard, however, was bare, save for a packet of tea. ‘Shop or starve,’ she said. ‘Better shop.’ She combed her hair, powdered her nose, put on her jacket and stepped out. The shops were only a few minutes’ walk from the cottage. If she walked quickly, she might manage to avoid meeting anyone and having to explain her bruises.

  She had her story ready, and had to use it in every shop she visited. She had the same conversation in every shop. ‘Miss Moon,’ said the butcher, the woman in the fruit shop and Jean at the grocer’s, ‘you’re back. Long time no see.’ They’d peer at her and declare, ‘What’s happened to you? You’ve been in the wars.’

  Elspeth always answered that she’d fallen off her bike. ‘It was dark, couldn’t see the road properly. I took a bit of a tumble.’

  The shopkeepers told her she’d have to be more careful in future. Elspeth headed for home with a basket of treasures – a lamb chop, two ounces of bacon, potatoes, bread, onions and an egg. ‘Treats,’ she said.

  As she walked home, she planned her days ahead. She’d laze in bed, read by the fire, bathe in hot water, she wouldn’t go out much – she’d pamper herself. She hurried up the hill to her house, eager to get home, lock the door and shut out the world. She wanted to be alone.

  ‘Elspeth,’ came a voice behind her. ‘Good heavens, Elspeth.’

  She turned. Izzy’s father was striding towards her. Her heart sank. She had never liked this man.

  ‘How’s our little lumberjill? How is life in the forest?’ he asked.

  She stopped, smiled a thin smile and told him she was fine and life in the forest was hard, ‘but healthy’.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said. ‘Doing your bit for the country.’

  Elspeth said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s man’s work, though.’

  ‘I manage,’ said Elspeth. ‘All the girls manage.’

  He asked how long she was home for.

  ‘Just a few days.’

  ‘But we can expect to see you in church on Sunday?’

  ‘If I’m still here.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said and put an enthusiastic hand on her shoulder. She flinched. Pretending not to notice, he asked if she’d heard from Izzy recently.

  ‘No, not for a while. I expect she’s busy.’

  Elspeth reme
mbered the letter Duncan had given her that morning. She’d recognised the writing on the envelope. It was from Izzy – bloody Izzy leading her bloody glamorous life.

  ‘We haven’t had a letter in a while, either,’ said Hamish. ‘She usually writes once a week. Keeps in touch.’

  Elspeth said, ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her, putting his face close to hers. ‘Are you all right? You’re looking a bit bruised. Accident in the forest? I expect it’s dangerous work.’

  ‘It can be,’ said Elspeth. ‘But this wasn’t a forestry accident. I fell off my bike.’

  He said, ‘Ah, can’t be too careful.’

  It wasn’t a good moment for her. She was tired. She hurt. She longed to get inside her cottage, to be safe and on her own. Here she was talking to a man she disliked, at a time when she wasn’t feeling kindly to men, all men.

  This man standing before her, hands in pockets, talking too loudly, seemed arrogant, overly buoyant.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Izzy’s bound to be busy right now with all that’s going on. It’s a big responsibility being an ops officer, directing planes all over the place, checking the weather, keeping in touch with other bases. Hard work, but at least she’s desk-bound. Thank goodness we don’t have to worry about her having any nasty accidents.’

  Elspeth snapped. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No. It’s not as if she’s flying the damn planes.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’ said Elspeth. ‘Well, that’s just fine. Everything in the world is rosy. God’s in his heaven and Izzy isn’t flying planes. That’ll be right.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘You work out what I mean by that,’ said Elspeth. ‘You think what you want to think. Or at least, you think what Izzy wants you to think.’ She walked away.

  At home, she dumped her shopping in the kitchen. She took off her jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, reached down and pulled Izzy’s letter from her pocket. She opened it and sat at the table to read it.

  Dear Elspeth,

  I’m so sorry I haven’t written in ages. I’ve been in the most awful accident. A plane I was in burst into flames. I got out. Well, I was dragged out. But my friend Diane was burned to death.

  Elspeth said, ‘Oh, God.’

  The smell, I’ll never forget the smell. I was off work for a while. But now I’ve been passed fit to fly. But, Elspeth, I get horrible nightmares. And sometimes, I can’t stop shaking.

  Elspeth said, ‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’

  I think of you all the time. I wish you were here. I wish I could talk to you. You were always such a friend to me.

  Elspeth put down the letter. She put her hand over her mouth. She was a terrible person. A few moments ago, she had betrayed her best friend. ‘Oh, God,’ she said again, ‘what have I done?’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Mary Queen of Scots’ Teaspoon

  FIVE O’CLOCK, IZZY and Jimmy got out of the bus at Fortham and

  looked round.

  ‘It hasn’t changed. Never does,’ said Izzy.

  ‘You thought it might have changed?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I just hoped it hadn’t.’

  She looked up and down the street as the bus rumbled away. ‘There’s Mary’s sweet shop where I used to spend my pocket money. Digby’s the newsagent, the butcher’s and Macgregor’s the draper where I used to get my school uniform. And, there’s the pub.’

  ‘Where you had your first drink,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Hell, no. I’ve never been in there. My father would disapprove.’

  ‘Your father disapproves of pubs?’

  ‘No,’ said Izzy. ‘He loves pubs. He’s a regular in that one. He just doesn’t like his daughter drinking in them. In fact, he disapproves of any woman going into a pub. He’s very old-fashioned.’ She shrugged.

  They walked up the hill to the manse, passed the cobbled square where there was a small hotel, a teashop and an antiques shop. Jimmy said they must go there. ‘I might find something to take back to America. Something old and Scottish.’

  ‘Like my dad,’ said Izzy. ‘Don’t tell him I said that.’

  He put his arm round her and said he wouldn’t.

  It was warm, the sun casting their shadows before them as they walked, trees spread up the hillsides beyond the village, the first slight glimmer of autumn in among the haze of green. There was nobody about.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ asked Jimmy. ‘The place is empty.’

  ‘It’s five o’clock,’ Izzy told him. ‘Teatime. Everybody’s at home having their tea.’

  She stopped walking, sniffed deeply. ‘Lovely. You can smell life here. New-mown grass, somebody’s just cut their lawn. Pine from the trees, and coal fires and cooking fat. I love that. It makes me homesick every time I smell it.’ She was a little disappointed that the street was so quiet. She’d wanted to show off her American boyfriend.

  At the manse, Izzy banged the knocker, burst in through the front door and announced, ‘I’m home.’

  Her father appeared at the door of his study, smiling. Her mother bustled from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. Then she held out her arms ready to embrace her daughter. ‘Here you are.’ She held Izzy close, then stood back looking at her. ‘Still not in uniform.’

  ‘I’m on my holidays,’ said Izzy. She introduced Jimmy.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir, ma’am.’ He shook hands with them both.

  Izzy’s father said, ‘I always like good manners in a person. But none of this sir and ma’am business, we’re Hamish and Joan.’

  Joan headed back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Tea will be along in a minute. I got a lovely bit of boiled ham at the butcher’s. Been saving my coupons.’ She turned to Hamish. ‘Show Jimmy his room. Bathroom’s upstairs. I expect you’ll want to freshen up. Trains are filthy these days.’

  Jimmy’s room was on the ground floor, Izzy’s upstairs. They exchanged a small look of resignation, but said nothing. They were both tired. It had been a long journey. Izzy had caught the first train of the morning from Blackpool at six o’clock. She’d met Jimmy at York and they’d travelled north together, sleeping most of the way. At Edinburgh, they’d boarded the train to Perth, after that, a bus to Fortham.

  Jimmy said he could do with a wash.

  The first sign of discord came when they were gathered at the dining-room table. Hamish asked Jimmy how he and Izzy had met. Izzy kicked Jimmy under the table. He looked surprised, leaned down to rub his shin and said it was at a dance. ‘We hold them at the base most Saturdays. Izzy came along with Claire.’

  ‘Her parents live near the base,’ said Izzy. ‘She’s a pilot.’

  ‘So,’ Hamish asked Jimmy, ‘what do you think of this business of women flying?’

  Jimmy said from what he’d seen, they seemed to be very good at it.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Hamish. ‘Women don’t have the logic or the reactions for flying. They don’t anticipate danger like men. Women are made to nurture.’

  Izzy said, ‘That’s rubbish.’

  Hamish said he knew what he was talking about. ‘Women weep easily. Not good in an emergency. Have any of the women you work with had an accident?’

  Izzy said that her friend Diane had been killed. She prodded her food with her fork. She didn’t want to think about this. ‘Some of the men seek out danger. They take risks – do rolls and loops in the air. They fly under bridges rather than over them. They hedge hop.’

  Her mother drew in her breath. ‘A woman dying in a plane crash, that’s horrible.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Izzy. ‘The plane was wrecked so the results of the enquiry weren’t conclusive. But they think she’d had a leaking fuel pipe.’

  ‘See,’ said Hamish, prodding the air with his fork, ‘that’s what I mean. A woman just doesn’t have a mechanical brain. A man would have spotted that right away and would have had it fixed before he took off.’

  Izzy said that wasn
’t true. She didn’t like the way this conversation was heading.

  Hamish said, ‘I hate to think of a woman in danger. I hate to think of something awful happening to one of them. They are gentle souls. A man’s job is to take care of them. How would a man live if he knew a woman he loved died a horrible, violent death?’

  Joan ended the dispute in the way she dealt with all fraught situations. She brought out her fruit cake and scones. ‘Have a scone. Try a slice of fruit cake, made it myself.’ She spoke slightly too loudly. Shot her husband a swift and searing look. Enough, it said.

  Jimmy asked Hamish if there was any chance of a game of golf. ‘I’m in Scotland. I have to play a round while I’m here.’

  ‘Golf,’ said Hamish. ‘Of course. We have a splendid course here. I’ll phone the captain of the club in the morning and arrange something. Always delighted to accommodate our American friends.’

  Next morning, the discord started up again. Hamish arranged for Izzy and Jimmy to play a round of golf and lent Jimmy his clubs. Izzy, who was finishing her breakfast, said, ‘Excellent, I’ll get changed.’

  Ten minutes later she appeared in the kitchen wearing a pair of pale-coloured slacks and a blue shirt, with a red jumper draped round her shoulders.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going dressed like that?’ said Hamish.

  ‘To play golf,’ said Izzy.

  ‘You are wearing trousers.’ He pronounced each word slowly, emphasising his disapproval.

  Izzy said she knew that. ‘I just put them on.’

  ‘Take them off. No daughter of mine is going about wearing trousers. I hate to see women in trousers. It isn’t right.’

  ‘Lots of women wear trousers these days,’ said Izzy. ‘Katharine Hepburn dresses like this.’

  ‘You are not Katharine Hepburn,’ said Hamish. ‘Put on a skirt.’

  Izzy said, ‘No. This is comfortable.’

  Hamish sighed and asked Jimmy what could he do with a daughter like Izzy. ‘Always does exactly what she wants. A son, I could understand, but a daughter puzzles me.’

  Jimmy said he never did understand women. ‘But then my wife always used to say she didn’t understand men. She thought we were too matter-of-fact.’