by Isla Dewar
Julia nodded. ‘It’s really hard. I got to thinking that he’d been mean to me going off and not saying goodbye properly, just leaving a note. So I hated him a bit. Then I decided I’d imagined it all. I wasn’t really in love with him. He wasn’t wonderful. The times we’d had together weren’t wonderful. You know, when he made me laugh in bed, when we danced – those things. But that strategy didn’t work. Now I think I was lucky to have known him. He helped me. He honoured me by letting me into his life, and I sort of had my own honour restored by that. I’ve changed my ways. I no longer think you should always have two lovers, and I don’t think love is something to be avoided.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Izzy.
‘We wanted to have babies,’ said Julia. She gave Izzy a sharp look.
‘Did you?’ Izzy fought to sound innocent on the subject of babies.
‘Yes,’ said Julia. She refilled her glass. ‘Ever flown a Warwick?’
Izzy shook her head. ‘Ugly things, aren’t they?’
‘Ugly and horrible to fly. I had one today. And I thought about you.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Izzy, offended.
‘No, listen,’ said Julia. ‘It has all these petrol cocks that you have to check pre-flight. I had to laugh, because written in the handling notes in huge letters, it’s got – All cocks should be checked before flight.’ She snorted. ‘Everybody has a little laugh when the see that.’
Izzy smirked.
‘I don’t mean to be filthy but, you didn’t do that, did you, Izzy?’ said Julia. ‘Check the cock before you took off.’
Izzy blushed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t take precautions. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ said Julia.
Izzy couldn’t look at her. Stared into her glass. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘You’re not very silent when you’re throwing up in the morning.’
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ said Izzy.
Julia said, ‘No, I won’t tell. I promise on my newly found honour.’ She reached over, took Izzy’s hand, squeezed it. ‘You goose, Izzy.’
Chapter Forty
Eating for Two
BY THE END of February, Izzy was wearing her flying suit most of the time at work, even in the mess. It was voluminous, big enough to take two of her, ideal for concealing her condition. She knew, however, that the day of reckoning was coming. She couldn’t hide Buster for ever.
She was alone in the cottage most evenings. Claire was always out. Julia, too, since she had taken up her social life again. ‘No lovers, though,’ she told Izzy. ‘I just like being with friends. It stops me brooding.’
Izzy sympathised. She was doing quite a lot of brooding herself.
She wrote to Elspeth, to Jimmy and to her mother and told none of them about Buster.
‘One day it will all come out,’ Julia said. She was on her way out to go with some airmen friends to her favourite club in Blackpool. She planned a lot of dancing. ‘Going to a sweaty, smoky dive. Such places remind me of Walter.’
Izzy said that one day Buster would come out, and that would be it. ‘No hiding him.’
‘Buster?’ said Julia. ‘You’re not going to call the baby Buster, surely. That’s a dog’s name.’
Izzy said she knew that. ‘I have no idea what I’ll call the baby, but for now it’s Buster.’
Julia said, ‘Whatever.’
A car tooted outside.
‘I’m off. Look after yourself, darling. Go to bed early. You and Buster need your rest.’
Izzy waved goodbye. She still envied Julia. Grief had not diminished her beauty. If anything, it had enhanced it. There was a deep and remote sadness in her eyes. Something that said, keep away from me, which had a magnetic effect of men. Julia’s beauty filled every room she entered; people stared. That beauty had filled this small living room, made Izzy feel lumpen, dowdy. But then, that could have been the hideous dressing gown she was wearing.
There was Julia, off to a nightclub, to drink, dance and flirt, no doubt, in her blue dress. Lips and nails painted scarlet. And here was she, bundled into an enormous and unflattering garment her mother had chosen, suffering dreadful heartburn. Life wasn’t fair.
Julia was rich, beautiful and had a brand-new handbag. She’d got one of the pilots to bring it back from Brussels, where leather goods weren’t rationed. She had asked Izzy if she wanted one. ‘Shoes, too, if you can trust a man to bring you something you’d actually wear.’
Izzy had refused. ‘I need all my money for when the baby comes.’
Still, Izzy, Claire, Julia and all the others were busy. Izzy figured as long as she kept out of the way, slipping into the operations room and the mapping room when they were too busy for anyone to notice her, her secret was safe.
Of course, Mrs Brent had noticed Izzy’s condition. She had scrutinised her, noticing the glow in Izzy’s cheeks. ‘She’s in the family way,’ she told Mr Brent. ‘I know when someone’s expecting. I’ve seen it too many times.’
‘It’s not right,’ said Mr Brent. ‘Flying about and her in the puddin’ club. Little baby won’t know what’s happening to it, whooshing about way up high.’
‘It’ll be snug as a bug where it is,’ said Mrs Brent.
They were at the kitchen table, spread before them was a selection of chutneys, jams, scones, cheese and an apple pie.
Today had been a good day for Mr Brent. He’d traded a dozen eggs for two bottles of cider at the pub, a rabbit – skinned and ready for the pot – handed in to the doctor’s surgery had bought him ointment for his bunions, a hen, too old to lay, had been slipped over the counter at the chemist’s shop and three bars of soap, some toothpaste and a jar of cold cream slipped back at him. Soon, it would be warm enough to open the beehives. He’d planted this year’s potatoes, carrots and cabbages in the garden. The strawberries, blackcurrants and gooseberries had survived the winter. Rationing didn’t really touch the Brents’ lives.
He reached over for a third slice of pie, just a sliver to go with the last of his cider. Mrs Brent slapped his wrist. ‘Greedy guts. That’s for Izzy. We’ve got to keep her fed, she’s eating for two.’
Mr Brent drew back his hand, sighed and wondered who was the father of Izzy’s baby.
‘That Yank she’s been seeing. When she was ill that time, he came to see her. I was there, but I had to go to do the washing-up at the hotel. But I slipped back later to see she was all right. Well, the pair of them were in bed, curled up together, sound asleep, stark naked. Didn’t see me. I left them to it.’
Mr Brent tutted and said, ‘Young people these days.’
Mrs Brent folded her arms, leaned back in her seat and told him that Izzy and her Yank doctor weren’t doing anything they hadn’t done. She turned heftily in her chair and shouted, ‘Jacob, I know you’re out there in the hall eavesdropping. There’s some apple pie and cheese here for you to drop off at Izzy’s on your way to the pub.’
Hearing about Izzy’s pregnancy upset Jacob. He had his moves planned. As soon as peace was declared he’d start his journey back to Poland. He hoped to get a flight to Berlin with one of the pilots. He assumed they’d be taking supplies over there. All he had to do was find someone corrupt enough to take a bribe. He had his eye on Gerald Harper, a pilot who’d been court-martialled out of the RAF for hedge-hopping and had a fondness for women, whisky and gambling. Jacob reckoned Gerald might be tempted by fifty pounds in cash. The fifty pounds, Jacob had in mind was, right now, in Izzy’s knicker drawer. It was Jacob’s wish that it stayed there. If Izzy moved away, his plan would be scuppered.
He put the apple pie on Izzy’s kitchen table – he’d eaten the cheese on the way – and told her it was a present from Mrs Brent. ‘She says you’ll need it now you’re eating for two.’
Izzy picked at the pie, popped a sliver of pastry into her mouth and asked how she’d known that.
‘She knows everything,’ said Jacob. ‘She looked at you and knew.’
/> Izzy said, ‘Yes, I’m pregnant.’ Then, she pleaded, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Your secret is safe with me.’ Of course it was. He needed Izzy to stay put. If her pregnancy was discovered, she’d be sacked, and she might leave the village.
She thanked him and offered him some pie. ‘Or a cup of tea? Some cheese? We have Camembert. It’s a bit ripe, we’ve had it for a few days.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘Somebody brought it back from France and gave it to Julia. She has her admirers.’
‘And how did the pilot get it? Did he buy it?’
Izzy said, ‘No. I don’t know what use money is over there. People seem to be more interested in getting things that aren’t available in the shops.’
‘Such as?’ said Jacob. For someone who planned to barter his way home, this was interesting.
‘Bicycle tyres, apparently,’ said Izzy. ‘Everyone’s keen to get bicycle tyres.’
Jacob helped himself to a piece of runny cheese and said, ‘Really.’ Bike tyres, in a million years, he’d never have thought of that.
Izzy lasted in her job for another three weeks. She was to remember the exact date of her downfall for the rest of her life. On 24 March 1945, she was standing in the mess listening to a report about airborne troops crossing the Rhine. She’d been thinking about Jimmy. He hadn’t been in touch for weeks. She was standing in the doorway, sideways on to the corridor, hands in pockets with the light behind her, highlighting her shape.
Edith bustled past, small steps, shoes squeaking on the lino. ‘Hello, Izzy,’ she said. Then she stopped, backtracked, ‘Izzy? Izzy? Are you . . . ?’
Izzy blushed and said, ‘Yes.’
Chapter Forty-one
The Truth About Love from Mrs Brent
IZZY WROTE TO Elspeth. ‘I have goofed. I have truly messed up my life. I’m going to have a baby. I am a fool. Obviously, I’ve left the ATA. To be honest, I feel so stupid and ashamed, I hate going out. I am going to be that most reviled thing – an unmarried mother.’
Within days, Elspeth replied. ‘Oh Izzy, I’m so sorry. I wish I could get away and come to you.’ Then, ‘By the way, does your father know?’
He did. Izzy had written to her parents, telling them. A pile of crumpled paper had gathered under the kitchen table as she worked out the best way to break the news. Looking back, she decided her approach had been too flippant. She should have been remorseful, begging forgiveness.
‘The good news is, I’ve left the ATA and I am no longer seeing my American doctor. He’s gone to France. I haven’t heard from him in a while. The bad news is I’m expecting his baby.’ She’d asked if she could come home and give birth to their grandchild there.
The reply, from her father, came a week later. ‘I worry about you. Your life seems to be a journey from stupidity to more stupidity. I wish you and your child well. Unfortunately, you can’t come home. Your condition would make a mockery of all my sermons. I’d be a laughing stock.’ But, of course, he would pray for her and the child. In fact, Hamish felt there was scandal enough about him without his daughter being spied, fat with child, trudging up the High Street. He thought it better she kept away, gave birth, then discreetly married someone suitable. She could then come home in triumph. Of course, he did not mention this in his letter.
Izzy read the letter several times, then folded it carefully and put it away in her underwear drawer. She imagined her father sitting in his study, furiously writing to her. She thought he might have ripped up her letter to him. The atmosphere in the manse would be thick, black with disapproval and fury.
When she cried, it wasn’t from self-pity. It was sorrow for faded dreams. She had imagined sitting at the kitchen table with her family – mother, grandparents and child. She’d dreamed of her father and Buster walking hand in hand in the garden, him stooping low to point out flowers and bumblebees, the child marvelling at the old man’s wisdom. This was not going to happen.
So, Izzy stayed at the cottage. She had nowhere else to go. Once a week she travelled three miles to the next village to attend the clinic at the local cottage hospital. She’d sit in the waiting room ready to be examined, knickers off, utility stockings rolled down, to her ankles, clutching a urine sample in an old ink bottle. She went on her motorbike.
She lay on a long table while the doctor pummelled her stomach, told her the baby was coming along nicely and warned her that there were strange blue flakes in her sample. ‘Wash out the bottle properly next time.’
A nurse, who Izzy reckoned could only be about four foot six, stood on a box while she pressed an extremely cold trumpet against Izzy’s stomach listening for a heartbeat. ‘Ticking away,’ she said.
The doctor asked where Izzy planned to give birth. ‘Here or at home? It’ll cost you one and sixpence to have it in the hospital.’ His tone was curt. He didn’t look her in the eye. He thought her a disgrace and wanted her to know it.
When Izzy said the hospital, and one and sixpence was fine with her, the doctor checked his admissions book. ‘You’ve left it too late,’ he said. ‘I doubt there will be a bed available when you go into labour. Home birth it is.’ He nodded to the nurse, who said she’d tell the Inspector.
‘Inspector?’ said Izzy.
‘The Health Inspector will visit you at home, a general cleanliness check.’
Izzy said the place was immaculate. ‘Mrs Brent would be very hurt at your suggestion it wasn’t.’
The doctor said there were rules to be obeyed. ‘The Inspector will call in a few days. And,’ he added, ‘if I see you on that motorbike again, I’ll refuse to treat you.’
Chided, Izzy went home.
Mrs Brent was at the cottage when the Inspector came, and accompanied her and Izzy on the cleanliness check that took in the kitchen, the bathroom and Izzy’s bedroom. ‘This is where you plan to have the baby?’
Izzy nodded.
‘Now,’ said the Inspector. ‘Who is going to tend you?’
‘That would be me,’ said Mrs Brent.
‘You?’ said Izzy. ‘I thought there would be a midwife and a doctor.’
‘Well, naturally, the midwife will see you through the delivery. Dr Grant will come along if there are complications. But I meant afterwards, who will tend you?’
Izzy said she wouldn’t need tending. She’d be fine.
‘Dear girl,’ said the Inspector, ‘you seem to know nothing about having a baby. Who is going to bring you meals? Who is going to deal with your bedpans? Who is going to look after baby as you lie in?’
‘Lie in?’ said Izzy. ‘I won’t have time to lie in, I’ll have a baby.’
Mrs Brent and the Inspector exchanged looks, rolled their eyes.
The Inspector tucked her notebook into her bag and said, ‘The standard recommendation is a fortnight’s bed rest after giving birth.’
‘What? A fortnight?’ said Izzy. ‘I’m not lying in bed for two bloody weeks.’
‘You bloody well are,’ said the Inspector. ‘Is there a neighbour? A relative we could call on?’
Izzy said she shared the cottage with two pilots. But they were away all day, and she was positive neither of them would empty a bedpan.
‘There’s me,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘I’ll look after Izzy.’
‘You’re a relative?’
‘I’m the housekeeper.’
‘So you live in?’ asked the Inspector.
‘No,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘There’s things to do at home. William needs his tea. She can have the baby at my house. I like babies. Can’t be doing with children these days, but babies are lovely.’
‘So plainly,’ said the Inspector, ‘I am inspecting the wrong house.’
Mrs Brent said that anybody was welcome to inspect her house anytime. ‘You’ll find it as spotless as this one.’
Izzy’s days passed slowly. She hid. She spent her time waiting and hoping. She watched for the postman every morning, thinking today would be the day there’d be a
letter from Jimmy. Nothing. She sat in the living room staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It never did.
She heard planes flying overhead, wondered who was in them. She listened to the news. She walked by the river, always at five o’clock when nobody was about – everyone went home for tea – as she didn’t want to meet anybody. She couldn’t bear ‘The Look’. She got it everywhere she went.
The Look was about more than disapproval. It went beyond shock and horror that she was – very obviously – a fallen woman. It told Izzy that the bestower of The Look thought she should know better than to get pregnant. Immaculate behaviour was expected of a lady pilot. The Look told Izzy she had no right to get up to mischief with a man. She was a fool, a strumpet, a disgrace.
The first person to give Izzy The Look was the woman in the fish and chip shop. Her eyes had fixed on Izzy’s swollen belly, then moved up to her face. Izzy knew she was no longer a hero. After that came the CO. Izzy squirmed when she entered his office and was greeted by it. He did, however, come from behind his desk and took Izzy by the hand. ‘We’re sorry to lose you,’ he said. ‘If ever I can be of help, let me know.’ It was kind of him. But The Look was what Izzy remembered.
Now, Izzy got The Look from people in the village. A raw hush spread through shops when she entered. She no longer dropped in at the chip shop. The Look kept her away. Wherever she went, she heard tuts and whisperings behind her back. ‘And her a lady pilot, too,’ she overheard someone say. She didn’t turn round to find out who the whisperer was.
Julia didn’t give her The Look, but she often told Izzy she was a goose. ‘You should have got a cap, like me.’
Izzy said she couldn’t have gone to the doctor in her home village. ‘He’d have told my dad.’ And, she hadn’t wanted to go to someone here in Skimpton. ‘I was embarrassed.’
‘A moment of embarrassment, a little bit of discomfort, but look at the trouble it saves you. It’s what us modern women do,’ said Julia.
Izzy doubted she was a modern woman. ‘I don’t think I’m poised like them. I just lumber through life making mistakes.’