Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  The first hard frosts came in November, and with them, mist – thick, freezing mist. A shroud that clung to trees, made moving about the forest difficult. Disembodied voices called, ‘Timber.’ Trees crashed through the swirl of white and landed on the hard ground. Sudden figures, black shapes, loomed out of the weather, only becoming familiar when they were feet away.

  Working with the horse had its advantages. Elspeth could warm her hands on the horse’s belly, press her frozen fingers on the soft flesh where her legs met her body. And, running back and forth meant she didn’t get as cold as she had when she was standing still snedding. Back then, there had been that moment when, stepping into the warmth of the hut, her blood had started to thaw and to move more freely through her veins, feeling returned to her numbed fingers and toes. The pain, when that happened, had been excruciating.

  The workers had moved to a new part of the forest. They were felling trees on the other side of the road several miles beyond Duncan’s cottage. She and the horse turned left at the end of the track instead of right. It had taken the horse over a week to get used to this.

  Lorna was not the only person to notice the change in Elspeth. Tyler also thought her distant, but didn’t think it had anything to do with falling off a bike. He’d known women who’d become strangely hardened overnight. One day they’d been laughing and flirting. Next, they’d be removed, withdrawn, buttoned up to the neck. Not a glimpse of tit, he thought. Well, Elspeth wasn’t as bad as that. But she’d definitely changed.

  He’d seen Elspeth’s bruises and thought them familiar. They hadn’t been caused by any beautiful flight through the gloaming. He knew the after-effects of a punch when he saw them. The bruising on her arms and breasts had been caused by some man mauling at her, he’d seen that sort of thing before. He also noticed the scratches on Duncan’s cheeks. Well, he’d been scratched like that in his life. Long deep red scars like that were the work of a furious woman. He put two and two together, and decided Duncan had raped Elspeth. His lovely Elspeth violated by an ancient, moody, foul bastard. Tyler resolved to get even.

  He would wait until the war was over. The night before he took the train south to board the ship home, he’d strike.

  Meantime, he kept watch over his woman, as he liked to call Elspeth. Though not to her face – he’d a notion she wouldn’t like that. He rose early every morning, followed her as she walked to the stables holding her tilley lamp aloft to light her way. He thought he was being discreet, was sure she didn’t know he was behind her. But she called out, ‘I know you’re there, Bute. Why are you following me?’

  ‘Just out for a morning stroll.’ As soon as he’d seen her arrive safely, he’d go back to his hut. On Fridays, dung nights, he trundled her barrow to Duncan’s cottage, dumped the load at the foot of the garden, and wheeled Elspeth back to the stables.

  Every night he did a tour of Elspeth’s hut, walking round it, making sure nobody was lurking in the dark. He often came across Duncan, who’d be standing in the darkness at the side of the hut, hoping to hear Elspeth play.

  Tyler would lean against the hut, hands in pockets and stare. Duncan would stare back, but he always lost the battle. He’d sigh, toss his cigarette to the ground, stamp on it and start walking to his cottage. Tyler would follow. Once, Duncan had turned. ‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked.

  Tyler said, ‘Why would I be threatening you? Have you done anything that would make me do that?’

  When Duncan didn’t reply, Tyler said, ‘I guess you must be guilty about something.’

  By now, Elspeth had resumed her winter routine. She wore her long johns, a woolly hat and socks in bed, and, in the evenings, sat by the stove in the hut, joking with the girls and playing her accordion. Girls put off going to the loo, trips across the duckboards meant stepping out into the chill. They’d sit cross-legged, jiggling till nature’s demands had to be answered. Then, cursing, they’d shove on their coats and hurtle into the night.

  The weather got worse. Hail, sleet, gales beat down on them as they worked. ‘We’ll soon be out of all this,’ Elspeth told Lorna. She’d been following the news on her Saturday trips to the cinema. Paris had been liberated in August, Brussels a month later. ‘Soon it will be over and we can all go home.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Lorna. ‘Imagine sleeping in a room on your own. No lying awake listening to people snoring and dreaming. No stumping across to a hut to get your breakfast. A bath to yourself alone. Luxury.’

  On the last Friday of the month, Elspeth gave a recital in the village hall. ‘You won’t get paid,’ Duncan told her. ‘Lady McKenzie is holding it to raise money for the village Spitfire fund.’

  Elspeth shrugged and said she could hardly refuse. ‘I suppose there will be tea and cakes, though.’

  ‘There’s always tea and cakes,’ said Duncan.

  He drove fifteen of the forest workers to the village on the night. They all climbed into the back, nobody wanted to ride in the cab with him. Elspeth squeezed herself against Tyler, tucking her hands under her armpits. ‘Can’t play if they’re cold.’

  He opened his coat, said, ‘Come in here. There’s room for two.’

  Lorna said, ‘Take him up on it. Two in a coat’s cosy. Besides, it’s lovely to have someone watching over you. Makes you feel safe.’

  Elspeth supposed it did. She hated to admit it, but she rather liked the way Tyler kept an eye on her. And, yes, it did make her feel safe.

  They trundled and bumped along the road, wind biting their cheeks. At the door of the village hall, they bundled out, stood swinging their arms against their bodies trying to warm up. The poster by the door said, ‘Concert Recital by the Renowned Elspeth Moon in Aid of the Spitfire Fund. Entrance Sixpence.’

  ‘I don’t have sixpence,’ said Lorna. ‘I don’t have any money. I thought we’d get in free ’cos we came with the band.’ She pointed at Elspeth.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Elspeth. ‘It’s my treat. Duncan will pay for you all from my share of the dung money. Won’t you, Duncan?’

  There were four men in the group, some even bigger than Tyler. They stood, hands in pockets, waiting for Duncan to refuse. He didn’t dare. He reached into the back of his good trousers, saved for special occasions like this, brought out his wallet and gave the woman on the door a pound.

  Elspeth took the change. Dropped it into Lorna’s hands. ‘That’s more of my treat, for tea and cakes at the end. Tea and cakes on me.’ She got a round of applause and a scowl from Duncan. It wasn’t quite the dire humiliation she wanted, but, Elspeth thought, it was a start.

  The concert went well. Elspeth played her favourites – Brahms, Chopin, Beethoven and Mozart. At the end of each piece, her companions cheered and stamped. Tricia, as ever, surprised everyone by putting her fingers to her mouth and whistling. Lorna gazed at her in awe. She had a new heroine. ‘Teach me,’ she whispered.

  The recital ended with a selection of popular tunes – ‘We’ll Meet Again’, ‘As Time Goes By’, ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’, ‘I’ll be Seeing You’, ‘The Very Thought of You’, and more. Everyone sang.

  Then they stampeded to the buffet and ate fairy cakes, malt loaf, gingerbread and jam sponge. All of the foresters nodded their appreciation to one another. Their mouths were too full to speak.

  Elspeth and Lorna stood to one side watching the display. ‘You can’t say us foresters let anyone down when it comes to bad manners,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lorna, ‘I’m proud.’

  ‘You’re smiling,’ said Elspeth, touching Lorna’s cheek. ‘Haven’t seen you do that for a while.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lorna. ‘Most of the time I’m bloody freezin’ and bloody hungry and the only man I ever loved was killed by a falling tree. But I’m smiling. God knows why. But you’re smilin’ yourself. You haven’t done much of that recently, either.’

  Elspeth said that a grand night out with free tea and cakes could sometimes do that.

  ‘Nah,’ said Lor
na. ‘It was seeing you get one over on Duncan after what he did to you.’

  ‘What did he do to me?’

  ‘He attacked you. Come on, Elspeth, everybody knows what happened. You never fell of your bike. He jumped on you. He attacked you. We all saw him in the morning, covered in scratches. And you were bruised all over. I saw when you were getting undressed. Tyler thinks he raped you. But I don’t. Dungarees are awful hard to get into. He didn’t, did he?’

  Elspeth shook her head. For a moment she contemplated disclosing Duncan’s failings, but didn’t. Blackmailer’s honour, she thought. He paid a fiver for my silence.

  ‘Now you’ve got him back. Hit him where he hurts – in the wallet. Got him to stump up a whole pound. Makes me smile,’ said Lorna

  Elspeth smiled, too. But she thought that a pound and that earlier five pounds were not nearly enough.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  You Goose, Izzy

  IZZY WAS PREGNANT. Mornings, she would wake, experience a small moment of peace, then she’d realise she was in hell. Her boyfriend was in France. She was expecting his child. She’d lose her job. It was the end of everything.

  She was four months gone. But the truth of her condition had only dawned three weeks ago. Pregnancy hadn’t been something her mother had willingly discussed. When Izzy had asked what it was like to be expecting a baby, her mother had said, ‘Oh, you’ll find out one day.’ They never talked about anything intimate.

  Apart from her mother and Mrs Brent, the only women she knew who’d had babies were Claire and Diane. Neither of them talked about the business of being pregnant – it wasn’t a topic that came up in the mess. And now, Diane was no longer around. Izzy vaguely recalled Claire saying she’d been sick for the whole nine months while she was carrying Nell, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Izzy had found pregnancy rather frightening, and had no intention of ever letting such a thing happen to her.

  The dawning had come when she was sitting on the bathroom floor having thrown up her porridge for the third morning running. A damp clammy sweat glistened on her face. She wondered what on earth could be wrong with her, explored dire possibilities – an ulcer? A wave of realisation prickled over her scalp, buzzed down through her, shifting across her stomach. Oh my God, she thought, I’m bloody pregnant. Up the spout, in the pudding club, having a baby. She was sick again.

  She flushed the lavatory, splashed cold water on her face, cleaned her teeth, vowed not to tell anyone. She would keep this a secret for as long as possible. She would keep flying.

  Her feelings bewildered her. She was filled with dread – what would happen when people found out? She’d be without a job, that was certain. But would there be whisperings behind her back? A scandal? Shame? Definitely, she thought. There was something relentlessly inevitable about pregnancy. The thing inside would have to come out one day. This terrified her. As did the idea of looking after a baby. The only things Izzy knew about babies were that they cried a lot, were sick a lot, didn’t seem to sleep when you wanted them to and needed their nappies changed a lot. And yet, despite the resentment and dread, she rather loved the thing. For a while she called the baby ‘It’. Now it was Buster. A word she’d picked up from Jimmy. ‘OK, Buster,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s see you hit that ball clean up the fairway to the green.’

  At night, in the cottage and alone – Julia had resumed her social life, and Claire was always slipping off somewhere or other – Izzy would chat to Buster. ‘Shall we listen to I.T.M.A.?’ ‘Looks like it’s corned beef for supper.’ In the air she’d give a running commentary on events while flying. ‘We’re at one thousand feet and the weather’s fine, visibility perfect.’ She said that even if it wasn’t true. She didn’t want to worry Buster, since these days, she worried herself. Always, when lying in bed, just before she fell asleep, she’d say, ‘Nightie night, Buster. See ya in the morning, when you make me throw up again.’

  Of course, it was all her fault. On that night of passion in the Edinburgh hotel with the sounds of night trains rattling in and out of Waverley Station and traffic on Princes Street, she had persuaded Jimmy to make love to her without a condom. He’d given her a teaspoon, such a silly a gift – a private joke between them. ‘That tankard belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie,’ she’d said in the antique shop, ‘and I’m Mary Queen of Scots.’

  That night he’d brought it out. ‘Your teaspoon, ma’am,’ he’d said. They’d laughed.

  When they made love, she had pleaded that just once, just tonight, ‘I want to feel you inside me. Just you, just me and not that bit of rubber in the way.’ He’d obliged. Perhaps he’d drunk too much whisky in the bar, or perhaps he wanted that freedom, too. Maybe he’d thought it would be his last act of love. He was going to France. He might die there.

  This pregnancy was her comeuppance, Izzy thought. It was what her father had always preached about – dire things happened to sinners. She was a sinner, addicted to thrills – flight, sex and – on that night – whisky. She’d had two glasses, and, after she’d got over the shock of how it burned after swallowing, had thought it quite nice. ‘Sweet and malty,’ she’d said. It had gone to her head, unleashed her deepest passion. The lovemaking had been wonderful. She had given herself over to it. Their passion, deep, intense, filled the room.

  When Izzy had said she wanted to feel him inside her, it had been the whisky speaking. But when, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d told Jimmy she loved him, it wasn’t.

  Three days before Christmas, Izzy had her first letter from Jimmy from the field hospital at Namur. He apologised for not writing sooner, explaining, ‘I’m working twelve or fourteen hours a day. When I’m not working, I’m sleeping.’ He told her he wasn’t going to describe what it was like in the field hospital only that he’d seen things he never wanted to see again. ‘God, it’s cold here. Snow, snow and more snow. It’s about three feet deep. Supplies are brought in by road, the Red Ball Express. They have cut down on winter clothing to make more room for ammo, gas and food. I am treating a lot of trench foot and frostbite. And it’s snowing. I did I mention that? Snowing so hard you can’t see what’s going on outside.’

  He told her he dreamed of Montana. ‘I smell it in my sleep, grass, clean air coming off the mountains, everything fresh and pure. I hope, when this is over, that I can persuade you to come visit me there.’

  Izzy replied, saying that she’d love to go to Montana one day and that life with her was pretty much business as usual and she hoped that, despite everything, he had a good Christmas. She didn’t mention Buster. She thought he had enough to worry about. It never crossed her mind that hearing he was about to become a father might delight him.

  On Christmas Day Izzy and Julia were working. Claire had said she was going to visit her parents. On Christmas Eve she’d made a big show of going out the front door carrying her overnight bag. She’d shouted goodbye, and ‘Happy Christmas when it comes!’ Then she’d walked down the lane and slipped across the bridge to Simon’s cottage. The pair planned to spend the day holed up together, doors locked, curtains drawn, fire blazing in the hearth. They’d toast each other with whisky, eat the chicken Simon had bought and spend as much time as possible in bed.

  Izzy had a pleasant day. A familiar flight into Yorkshire, passing over rooftops, gardens, copses and country roads she’d come to know well. She chased clouds, passing through one, moving on to another. Always a pleasing thing to do. She was home by five o’clock, met Jacob coming out of the cottage.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked. She wasn’t in a good mood. The only thing she’d eaten since she’d thrown up her porridge that morning was a bar of chocolate for lunch. It had given her heartburn. Now, she – and Buster, she presumed – were hungry.

  Jacob said Mrs Brent had sent him to deliver some turkey for supper. ‘Left it on the kitchen table. It’s good.’

  ‘You haven’t taken anything, have you?’ said Izzy. ‘I know you take things, don’t deny it.’

  He said
he hadn’t.

  ‘You haven’t taken my teaspoon,’ said Izzy. ‘It’s important to me.’

  He shook his head. Tried to look hurt at her suspicion. In fact, he’d seen the spoon, turned it over and over, examining it, decided it was worthless and abandoned it. After that he’d slipped upstairs to Izzy’s room to check that her stash of money was still tucked beneath her underwear. ‘I haven’t touched your spoon,’ he said. He walked away, arms stiff by his side. He had Izzy’s bicycle pump up the sleeve of his jacket.

  By the time Julia arrived home, Izzy had heated the roast potatoes, gravy, bread sauce and Brussels sprouts. She asked Julia if she was eating out tonight. ‘It being Christmas.’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Nope. Staying in. Got invites to a couple of parties, but I’m not in the mood.’

  They listened to the wireless as they ate. The news was of the battle in the Ardennes. Izzy switched it off. ‘Can’t bear to listen.’

  After they’d eaten, they sat by the fire. Julia poured them both a whisky, held up her glass. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘You, too,’ said Izzy. She held her glass to her lips, made a show of sipping, but nothing passed her lips. She’d gone off whisky.

  Julia asked how the weather was tasting these days.

  ‘Snow coming,’ said Izzy. ‘The air has a grey, gritty and damp feel on the tongue when that’s happening.’

  Julia sighed, ‘I do like snow at Christmas. So did Walter. This would have been out first time together at this time of year. We were looking forward to it. We planned to have a tree and everything.’

  ‘You really miss him,’ said Izzy.

  ‘I surely do. He was my best friend. He slipped into my heart while I wasn’t looking.’ She took another drink. ‘At first I didn’t believe he was dead. I kept thinking I’d come home, swish round the corner on my bike and he’d be there, waiting for me. Actually, I still do think that.’

  ‘I suppose it’s hard to accept that someone you loved is gone. That you won’t see him again,’ said Izzy.