by Isla Dewar
‘We all lumber. We all doubt. Just modern women keep their chins up. They don’t let their mistakes show.’
Izzy looked glumly down at her swelling stomach. ‘My mistake is really showing.’
At first, Izzy had thought that the look she’d got from Claire was The Look, but then decided it wasn’t. It was something else. Izzy puzzled over it, till Julia guessed it must be Claire’s fear. ‘She thinks none of us know about her affair. But it’s hard to miss the lustful way she gazes at Simon in the mess. She sees you, Izzy, and she thinks it could be her. She can’t bear to think what her husband would do or say if he came home to find a child that obviously couldn’t be his.’
But Claire was good to Izzy. Understood her discomfort, brought her bottles of dandelion and burdock to ease her heartburn. Made her put her feet up in the evenings and gave her news of the doings in the mess. She kept quiet about the shock Izzy’s pregnancy had been. One of the men had said, ‘That’s the big difference between men and women pilots. The men aren’t going to leave because they’re in the family way.’ Dolores had told him to shut up.
But still, The Look bothered Izzy enough to stop her going out. She tucked herself away and tried not to think about how she’d get by after the baby came. As for the actual birth, she dismissed that from her mind. It was too much to contemplate.
One morning, as Izzy sat in the living room, feet up, listening to the Radio Doctor advising the nation, in his own kindly way, to open their bowels once a day, Mrs Brent barged into the room sideways. It was the only way she could get herself and the large box she was carrying into the room. ‘There,’ she wheezed and dumped the box at Izzy’s feet. ‘For the baby.’
Izzy raked through a pile of knitted jackets, nappies, bootees, tiny shoes, blankets, a shawl and other baby clothes. ‘Goodness. Thank you. Where did you get all this?’
‘They’ve been collecting it in the village. Eddie Hicks put up a notice in the garage. The Izzy Fund.’
‘Gosh.’
‘The word got round, and everyone knows how hard it is to get baby things, so people gave what they no longer needed. Oh, there’s those that disapprove of you. But plenty folk know how it is. A moment’s nonsense, a bit of passion and look what happens – a baby on the way. That’s life for you. Nothing to be ashamed of.’
Izzy said she wasn’t ashamed. ‘My only mistake was to fall in love.’
‘Ach, love,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘It’s all bluebirds and roses, sighing and longing at first. Then, you end up in the family way, waddling about and plagued with indigestion. After that there’s the chapped hands from washing nappies and swollen ankles from being on your feet all day. And you’re tired out from sleepless nights.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Izzy.
‘Well it’s the truth. I fell for Mr Brent and I wound up in that cottage worrying about how to make half a pound of mince feed a family of four for two days.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘After you’ve peeled the potatoes, you can go and thank Eddie for all the stuff he collected. Stupid man still thinks you saved his life. After that, when you come back, I’ll show you how to make soup. Soup’s handy. Or are you going to sit staring at the phone all day?’
Izzy said she kept hoping Jimmy or her father might get in touch.
‘If they do, you’ll hear the phone in the kitchen.’
‘I want my father to change his mind and ask me to come home. He’s disowned me.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Brent. She’d found the letter in Izzy’s drawer, and read it. Put it back, shaking her head. ‘Ach, the man’s a fool.’
Izzy said she wanted him to forgive her.
‘Perhaps you should think about forgiving him. He’s not being very nice, as I see it.’
She took Izzy’s arm, heaved her from her seat. ‘You can peel some potatoes.’
‘He thinks I’m a fallen woman,’ said Izzy.
‘And so you are,’ said Mrs Brent.
The next day Mrs Brent arrived at the cottage and found Izzy on all fours scrubbing the kitchen floor. Izzy looked up at her and said, ‘I don’t know what’s got into me. I suddenly had to do this.’
‘Nest-building,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘It’s a sign. You’re going to be a mother soon.’
Chapter Forty-two
Not for You, It’s Not
IT WAS A whisper, but it spread. One of the men who’d taken a load of logs down to the railway station had heard that the war was over. It had been announced on the wireless. He’d come back to where the girls were working and told Lorna, who’d told Elspeth, who’d told Dorothy; soon everyone knew. They downed tools and started hugging one another. Duncan blew his whistle and ordered everyone back to work.
Dorothy asked if it was true that a peace treaty had been signed. ‘Is the war over?’
Duncan said, ‘Not for you, it’s not.’
Elspeth asked what that meant.
Duncan said, ‘It’s over when I say it’s over.’
Hoots of derision. ‘You’ll be phoning Churchill to tell him, then,’ said Elspeth. ‘Better call the King, too. He likes to be kept informed.’
After that, the heated everyday pace slowed. Elspeth abandoned her quota. Why bother? she thought. I’ll be going home soon.
On the way back to the camp, everyone sang. They tramped down the road hollering ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘Pack up Your Trouble in Your Old Kit Bag’. The girls skipped, danced, twirled. The men whistled.
Elspeth took the horse to the stables, rubbed her down, fed and watered her. She washed in the ablutions hut and joined the others for supper. They were halfway through their meal, when Duncan came in.
‘You’ll all know by now, the war’s over. Tomorrow’s VE Day. You’ll not be needing to work, it’s a national holiday.’ He stumped out.
‘To victory, ladies!’ shouted Tricia.
‘To our boys coming home,’ said Lorna.
They raised their mugs and toasted victory in Europe with murky tea.
It wasn’t a night for sleeping. They kept the blinds up so the moonlight drifted into the dormitory. They lay in their beds, talked, dreamed and planned.
‘How long before we get to go home?’ asked Tricia.
‘A month, maybe two,’ said Lorna.
‘Two, I should think,’ said Dorothy. ‘Time the troops come home, settle in and get back to work.’
‘Yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘Two months for sure.’
Lorna said that she’d never look at another tree again. ‘Every time I see one, I’ll just think about being cold, eating carrot sandwiches and bleedin’ snedding.’
‘God, snedding,’ said Elspeth. ‘I wish I’d never heard of it.’
Tricia said, ‘I’m going to wear high heels all the time. And lovely skirts and have my hair done and put perfume on every bit of me.’
‘Roast beef,’ a voice in the dark. ‘Soon as I get home, I’ll have roast beef, roast potatoes and no carrots. I’ll never eat cabbage again.’
Other voices, more wishes – scrambled eggs with butter, tea from a real china cup, stockings, proper sheets. ‘Just soap,’ said Dorothy. ‘A bath with lovely scented soap.’
‘Home,’ they sang. ‘We’re going home.’
Lorna started to sing ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ and they all joined in, soft voices filled with longing.
The next afternoon Elspeth and Lorna cycled into the village. The place was alive with bunting; tables had been set up the length of the High Street. It was the children’s party – adults serving sandwiches, cakes, jelly and lemonade. Elspeth and Lorna watched, but didn’t join in. Eventually, they strolled arm in arm by the river.
‘I can’t remember ever being so excited,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ll go back to my cottage first. I’ll sleep in my own bed. I’ll sleep and sleep and sleep.’
‘Then what?’ said Lorna.
‘I’ll probably go to London. See if I can get a job there. City lights for me.’
‘I’m going to try t
o get my old job back. I’m going to walk the old familiar streets, see all my pals and just be normal again. Nothing fancy. Just plain ordinary life, coming and going. Being at home with my folks, listening to the wireless at night, having the odd hot bath and sleeping. I’ll be doing a lot of that, too.’
‘I know,’ said Elspeth. ‘Waking up in your own bedroom listening to the sounds of the day outside, seeing the same old familiar faces. You don’t know how good it is till it’s gone.’
They sat down, watched the water, sighed and dreamed. ‘Know what I’m most looking forward to?’ said Lorna. ‘No whistles.’
‘God, yes,’ Elspeth agreed. ‘A whistle-free life.’
By seven at night the party in the street had changed. The pub was thronged, people spilled out on to the street, drinking. There was a bonfire, flames curling up, sparking into the sky, though it was still light, couples danced round it. Elspeth managed to get herself and Lorna a glass of beer each, and they sat on chairs left on the pavement after the children’s party, sipping and still dreaming. They danced with one another, joined in the singing, toasted the King and drank some more beer.
By half past ten the pub had run dry. But the singing and dancing went on. Elspeth took Lorna’s arm and said, ‘Have you noticed? There’s nobody from the camp here. Let’s go back, see what they’re up to.’
They cycled back into the forest. It was getting late, but still light. Elspeth stopped, standing in the middle of the road, astride her bike, and wept.
‘Don’t cry,’ said Lorna.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s the relief. I’m so happy.’
‘I know,’ said Lorna. Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘You’ve set me off, now. I’m happy, too. We’ll see each other again, though. We’ll keep in touch, write. I’ll want to know what’s happened to you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’m not letting you go. Never.’
‘We’ll get back to the camp, find somewhere quiet,’ said Lorna. ‘And just sit and be glad that we’ll soon be on the train heading home.’
Elspeth said, ‘Good idea.’
They heard the party long before they reached the track that led to the huts. Singing, shouting, whooping and someone had brought along the gramophone. The Kitty Vitty Minstrels were blaring.
Whisky was being handed round. They’d long abandoned their mugs and were swigging from the bottle, passing it on. They waltzed, jitterbugged, jived. It was frenzied.
The men gathered round the girls and clapped, egging them on. Tricia had whipped off her shirt and was cavorting in the light of tilley lamps that were lining the duckboards. Other girls joined her. They linked hands, formed a circle and whirled round shouting, ‘We’re going home! We’re going home!’
The circle became a conga line and they whooped along, kicking their legs out as they went, and the chant got louder. ‘We’re going ho-ome. We’re going ho-ome.’
Elspeth and Lorna put their bikes down and joined the men, looking on. Tyler sidled up beside them. ‘You’ve been missing the party.’
He took Elspeth in his arms and swept her up in a dance. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘Back to Newfoundland. Back to where I belong. Sea and sky and forest and family.’
The conga line was now bobbing and weaving through the crowd of drinking men, girls stripping off their tops, shouting, ‘Home! Home! Home!’
At first nobody heard the whistle. When they did, and turned, they saw Duncan standing outside the dining hut, cheeks stretched, face red, blasting and blasting.
He turned on the conga line. ‘Home? What’s this going home? You’re not going anywhere. You’re all a bloody disgrace.’
‘But the war’s over,’ said Tricia. ‘We can go now.’
‘Yer not going nowhere till the Forestry says you can go.’
‘When will that be?’ asked Tricia.
The girls had all stopped dancing, were staring at Duncan, mouths agape. A few clumsily pulled on their clothes.
‘The country needs trees. It’ll always need trees. And it’ll need you to cut them down. It’ll be years before you get signed off. Bloody years,’ said Duncan. He was getting a great deal of pleasure from giving them this information.
It took a few seconds for this to sink in. A long and awful silence before they howled, ‘You’re kidding.’
‘I never kid,’ said Duncan. ‘Get to bed, the lot of you. You’ve got work tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after and after that. For years, do you hear me?’
He limped away back down the path to his cottage. ‘Years and bloody years.’
Elspeth reached out, took Tyler’s hand. ‘All right. I’ll marry you.’
Chapter Forty-three
Bike Tyres and a Lucky Stone
IZZY WAS COMING down the stairs when the first pain struck. It shot across her lower back, stopped her in her tracks. She stood, gripping the banister, wondering what had happened. The pain passed, she carried on down the stairs and into the kitchen, put on the kettle, made tea, drank it, started a letter to Elspeth and a second pain screamed across her back. She put her hand against it, leaned into it and groaned. When the third pain came, slow at first, then getting more and more intense, she thought, Oh hell, this is it.
At her last visit to the clinic, the midwife had crisply told Izzy that the baby would be coming very soon, and when that happened she wasn’t to panic. She panicked. First she ran up and down the hall, wondering what to do. Then she phoned the doctor but was told he was on his rounds. ‘How far apart are the pains?’ asked the woman on the other end.
‘About an hour,’ said Izzy.
She was told to call back when they were twenty minutes apart. She sat down, waited for the next pain. Got bored and went upstairs to pack her bag, then set out for Mrs Brent’s cottage. She got as far as the front gate before another pain took hold. She stood, clinging to it, waiting for the pain to pass. When it did, she decided that walking to Mrs Brent’s was out of the question. She’d take the motorbike. She’d be there in minutes.
She strapped her bag on the back, hitched up her skirt and climbed on and kick-started the engine. She was in the throes of a contraction when she arrived and sat, head on the handlebars waiting for it to pass, engine roaring. William came out, saw her, and asked, voice at full stretch over the noise, what was up. Izzy said she thought she was having a baby.
Jacob was in the kitchen when William brought Izzy in. He watched with mild interest as Izzy carefully lowered herself into a chair.
‘Put the kettle on,’ said William.
Izzy said she didn’t think they’d need boiling water yet. ‘Why do they boil water when someone is having a baby, anyway?’
Walter said he’d no idea, but this was to make a cup of tea. He turned to Jacob and told him to go fetch Mrs Brent, who was at the Golden Mallard doing the dishes. ‘Take Izzy’s bike.’
Ten minutes later, Jacob burst through the back door of the hotel and told Mrs Brent the news. She abandoned the dishes, dried her hands and ran out to her bike, cycled off, apron flapping, to find Mrs Gribbon, the midwife.
Jacob was never a man to miss an opportunity. He knew Izzy would have left the cottage door unlocked, and he knew she wasn’t likely to return to it for at least a fortnight. Julia and Claire were at work. This was his moment.
He parked the bike outside the cottage, walked up the path and knocked on the door, after all, somebody might be there. Nobody answered, so he went inside, climbed the stairs and, once in Izzy’s room, opened the underwear drawer.
The money was where it had always been, underneath a pile of knickers. As he took it out, he noticed a letter tucked underneath, and, unable to resist, read it. Izzy’s father didn’t want her to come home. ‘Fool,’ said Jacob.
He put the letter back and stuffed the money into his pocket. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped. ‘Damn.’ He could hear sounds from outside – a thrush singing, radio playing next door. He was breathing loudly and wanted to get away. But it had occurred to hi
m that he was leaving Izzy destitute. And, damn it, he liked the woman. He’d imagined Izzy would marry her American friend and go off to a new life. She wouldn’t actually need her money. But there had been no sign of the American for months. ‘Damn,’ he said again. He ran back up the stairs, put fifty pounds back in the drawer. He found a notepad in the kitchen, tore off a page and wrote an apology to Izzy. ‘You owed me.’ Back upstairs, panting now, he put the note in the drawer beside the money, and, as an afterthought, dropped the tortoiseshell Parker pen in, too.
He shut the drawer. This was the right thing to do, he was sure of that. He wanted to go home, needed to go home. The journey would be terrible. He’d sleep in ditches, meet desperate and hungry people – he was used to that. Still, in the end, he’d had a good war. He’d slept in a warm bed, eaten well. His wife wouldn’t have. It made him guilty. He wasn’t used to that. He’d welcome fear, discomfort and hunger. It was what he deserved. It would ease the guilt.
Outside, he climbed onto the bike and roared off. He stopped at the pub, sat on the bench outside, heart pounding. Stealing things, little things, had always filled him with glee. It had given him a surge of triumph, power. He was in control of his situation, gathering small trophies that might, in time, help him on his journey home.
But that had been no fun at all. Still, he needed to get back to Poland. Damned if he was going to wait for the government to repatriate him. And Izzy did owe him, look at how popular she’d become. Yes, he’d done the right thing.
As he sat, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal, Mrs Gribbon and Mrs Brent whizzed past him, both sedately overweight and both old enough to be called elderly. Heads up, bells ringing, they pedalled with a purpose and didn’t notice him.
He had a couple of pints of beer. By the time he got back to the Brents’ cottage, Izzy was in bed in the spare room downstairs talking to the midwife, Mrs Brent was making a pot of tea and Mr Brent was in the garden, keeping out of the way. Nobody noticed Jacob going up to his room to pack.