Izzy's War

by Isla Dewar

  In London she knew too many people to be alone if she didn’t want to be. And, she thought, if she was going to be a solitary soul, she’d rather it was in her own home. She could cry there.

  She handed in her notice the next day and, on the way home, dropped in to see Izzy. She sat on the end of the bed, asked how she was feeling.

  ‘I’m being tended,’ said Izzy. ‘I hate it. I’m not meant to put my feet on the floor for a fortnight. I’ve done ten days. It’s boring.’

  ‘You haven’t got up?’

  ‘Yes, I have. But don’t tell Mrs Brent. I get up when she’s out at work and he’s away delivering eggs, chickens and whatever else he delivers and I wander about taking the baby with me. He likes it.’

  Julia said she was sure he did. She went over to peer into the crib. What happened shook her. The child was awake, staring up at her, moving his mouth, waving a tiny fist. Julia’s heart turned over. It was such a strange and urgent feeling – and so unexpected – she took a step back.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Izzy. ‘He won’t bite you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Julia. She put her hand to her stomach to quell the longing that had started there. ‘I’m just not used to babies. In fact, up till this very moment, I thought I didn’t like them.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Izzy. ‘I was dreading him coming along. But he seems fine. I think we’ll get on. Especially once I’m back at the cottage. Here I’m expected to feed him every four hours on the dot and not pick him up otherwise. Mrs Brent and the midwife say if I do I’ll spoil him. But I intend to spoil him. I wasn’t spoiled and look what happened to me.’

  Julia smiled. ‘Actually, that’s what I came about – the cottage. I’m leaving. Going back to London. You really will be on your own, darling.’ She was secretly pleased to see Izzy’s disappointment.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ said Izzy.

  ‘I’ll miss you. But I won’t be that far away. You can come see me any time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Izzy.

  Julia asked if she’d be all right. ‘You know, money and everything. You’ll be paying all the rent now.’

  Izzy said she’d be fine. She had a load of money saved. ‘I’ll have to move on myself, sometime. Get a job somewhere. Don’t know what I’ll do, though.’

  Julia said she’d been wondering about that herself. ‘I wrote after several jobs, but nobody’s hiring women pilots. Absolutely nobody.’

  ‘Doesn’t really surprise me,’ said Izzy. ‘Thing is, flying is the only thing I can do.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Julia. She got up, kissed Izzy, said she had to go. ‘So much packing to do.’ Then she leaned into the cot, touched the baby, and said, ‘You take care of your mother.’ At the door she turned. ‘By the way, what did you call him?’

  ‘Sam,’ said Izzy. ‘I don’t know anybody called Sam. Haven’t slept with anybody called Sam and nobody in my family is called Sam. So, it’s a whole new fresh person in my life.’

  ‘Good plan,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll be orff.’

  ‘Well, orff you go,’ said Izzy. ‘I’ll miss not having someone in my life who says “orff” instead of “off”. I’ve come to like it.’

  Julia said, ‘I’m orff, then.’ As she walked to the front door, shouted, ‘Orff, now. Taking orff and orff I go.’

  She got Eddie Hicks to drive her, and her cases and large trunk, to Blackpool. The women porters there loaded her luggage onto the guard’s van. In London, she gave her taxi driver a five-shilling tip to help her get everything up the stairs to her flat. Both of them were bent double, sweating and complaining.

  Then she was on her own. She dragged the trunk inside, shut the door and sat on it, looking round. Walter had been right, she needed furniture.

  She opened a couple of windows, put the kettle on and walked through to the bedroom. She touched the pillow where Walter had put his head, opened the wardrobe, stroked his jackets. She held one of his shirts to her face, breathed him in. The scent of him – cologne, tobacco – she’d forgotten that. She went back to the trunk, sat on it. Now was the time to cry. But she couldn’t. She thought she’d forgotten how.

  Over the next few weeks she visited salerooms, and eventually found a sofa and a chair that she liked enough to buy. She furnished her kitchen, put rugs on her floors, bought cups and plates. In the evenings she wrote to everybody she knew asking for a job. There was nothing. There was no chance of anybody employing a woman pilot. She gave up. Celebrated her defeat by putting on her favourite evening dress and going out to the 400 Club to drink champagne and dance.

  In late July, the heat lay outside, a huge tangible thing. All the windows of the flat were open. Julia lay on her sofa, reading. She wore a silk robe, sipped the iced tea she’d made.

  When the doorbell rang, she considered not answering it. She really wasn’t feeling sociable. But it rang and rang. Whoever was out there was keeping a stubborn heavy finger on the bell. Sighing, she got up and opened the front door. Almost wept with relief.

  ‘Charles.’ She opened her arms, took him to her, hugged him.

  He held her with one hand, the other was gripping a black-lacquered stick that was keeping him upright.

  She stood back, considering him. He was thin. He looked older, tired. ‘You look absolutely awful,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Shot in the knee.’

  ‘How absolutely awful for you.’

  ‘I’m just lucky it wasn’t higher up.’

  She laughed, a small snort, for she didn’t really think it funny.

  ‘It’s not without advantages,’ he said. ‘A limp, a stick and a uniform have some perks. I get offered a seat on the train, cars let me cross the road in front of them, people step aside with deference on the pavement. I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘You would,’ she said.

  He limped through to the living room. ‘My God, furniture. Very grown up of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I thought it time.’

  He sat on the sofa, wounded leg stretched, unbending, in front of him. Walking stick propped against the arm. She sat next to him and asked what happened.

  ‘We were under fire. I was on one side of a track, dug in. The enemy not far beyond us. Chaps on the other side of the track, but about half a mile away from me, were making breakfast. I tried to run back to get some. Got hit in the knee.’

  ‘Trust you,’ she said. ‘Wounded in pursuit of a fry-up.’

  He put his arm round her. ‘That’s right.’ Then, he said, ‘Met some of your cronies at the Savoy last night. They told me you were in town, and about your husband.’

  She said, ‘Walter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not long after D-Day, in France. Silly bugger had to see the action.’

  ‘You’re a widow. I’m going to limp into my dotage. Not so good, is it?’ He sighed. ‘To think, we used to be beautiful.’

  ‘I still am,’ said Julia.

  He kissed the top of her head and said, ‘Of course you are.’

  Chapter Forty-six

  Should’ve, Should’ve, Should’ve

  SUNDAY LUNCH AT the manse was no longer lavish. Of course, rationing meant large joints of beef were no longer available, but Hamish had also lost his appetite. ‘Just don’t feel like eating these days,’ he said. ‘Haven’t been feeling quite myself for weeks.’

  He toyed with the small slices of brisket on his plate. Joan told him he should keep his strength up. Then, she said, ‘That was a lovely service this morning.’

  He’d spoken, with passion, about the evils of gossip. He’d told his parishioners to cast rumours aside. ‘Listen to your heart,’ he’d said. ‘Judge the man, the person you see before you, by what you know and not what others say about him.’ There had been coughs and the sound of people shifting in their seats, tweed sliding over old wood.

  Joan fetched the pudding, apple crumble and custard, and put it on the table.

  ‘I noticed you biting your tongue when you were at
the door saying your goodbyes and thanks for coming. That was good. You didn’t boom.’

  After the service, several people who’d been avoiding Hamish had shaken his hand, but didn’t look him in the eye. He’d been tempted to boom, ‘You were all wrong. Gossiping is wrong.’ But hadn’t. Joan had shot him a scathing look.

  ‘I’m prone to booming,’ Hamish said. ‘Must stop.’

  Joan served two portions and handed Hamish the jug of custard. He gazed into it.

  ‘Custard makes me sad. Reminds me of Izzy. How is she, do you know?’

  Joan said she’d tried to get in touch last week. ‘She wasn’t answering the phone. It rang and rang. I phoned the local cottage hospital to find out if she was there. She wasn’t. I have no idea where she is. She hasn’t written, either. I haven’t had a letter for a few weeks.’

  ‘Izzy,’ said Hamish. ‘I should’ve let her come home. I should’ve welcomed her and her baby. I should’ve been more understanding.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve, my life is full of should’ves – things I ought to have done.’ He got up, said he was going for a walk. ‘It was all about me. I didn’t let Izzy come home because I was worried about me, my reputation.’ He jabbed himself in the chest.

  Izzy was back in her cottage. The move had been a grand affair. Lacking a car, and not wanting to see the new mother walk for several miles, William had borrowed a horse and cart.

  Mrs Brent, holding the baby, sat up front with William. Izzy was in the cart with the crib and a box of baby clothes. It had been an enjoyable trip that had involved a lot of waving as they trundled through the village. As a means of transport, Izzy rated horse and cart second to flying. For a few days, she’d toyed with the idea of trading in her motorbike for a pony and trap.

  Mrs Brent had scoffed at the notion. ‘Where would you keep a pony? And how would you feed it and groom it when you’ve a baby to look after. You’ve no sense, girl.’

  ‘It was just a thought,’ said Izzy. ‘That ride on the horse and cart was the most fun I’ve had since . . . since . . .’

  ‘Since you got yourself in the family way.’

  Izzy thought that might be true, but didn’t admit it.

  Mrs Brent said, ‘The fun’s over for you, my lass. You’ve a baby to look after, responsibilities. Mark my words, once you’ve had a baby, it’s downhill all the way.’

  The child had been crying at the time and Izzy was walking up and down the kitchen, making soothing sounds, trying to calm him. ‘I think he’s bored,’ she said. ‘It must be boring being a baby. All they do is sleep and eat. It’ll be easier for him once he can read and chat.’

  ‘It gets worse as children get older,’ said Mrs Brent. ‘First, they’re not where you put them down. They crawl away. I don’t know about reading, mine never did that. But talking. You’ll rue the day you taught your boy to speak. First, it’s questions, questions, questions. Then they start to answer you back. Like I said it’s downhill all the way from now on.’

  With Julia and Claire gone, Izzy had told Mrs Brent she no longer needed to come and clean the cottage. ‘I don’t think I can afford you. Not with having to pay all the rent on my own.’

  Mrs Brent understood. But she still visited everyday. If there were dishes to do, she did them. If the floor needed swept, she swept it. She bustled. It was a habit. She brought food, couldn’t help it. She was sure Izzy would neglect herself.

  ‘Just a bit of pie I had left over, couldn’t see it go to waste,’ she’d say, laying a large portion of rabbit and mushroom pie on the table. ‘I expect you don’t have time to cook, what with the baby and all.’

  Izzy was grateful. Cooking bewildered her.

  Her life had changed. Izzy had thought she’d miss flying, but she hadn’t the time. She lived in a whirl of washing clothes, feeding the baby, picking the baby up, walking about with him, beseeching him to sleep. She had imagined a quiet, contemplative life – reading, sitting by the fire listening to the wireless, writing long letters to Elspeth. But none of this happened. She was too busy.

  She had visitors. As well as Mrs Brent, Eddie Hicks and his wife sometimes stopped by, and Dolores was a regular.

  ‘Left the ATA,’ she said. ‘Soon they’ll close the whole thing down.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Izzy. She sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. The time will come when I need to earn some money. I’ve got a bit saved. But it won’t last.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dolores. ‘Alfie and me are going to get busy on the house. If we don’t do some repairs soon, the goddam place will fall down. Then we’ve got to get the estate going. I fancy cattle, I know something about that.’

  ‘Won’t all that take a lot of money? I thought . . .’ She stopped. It didn’t do to discuss money.

  ‘Oh, you thought Alfie didn’t have any. You’re right, he doesn’t. But I do. My family own half of Texas. I think that had something to do with him marrying me.’

  ‘Oh, surely not,’ said Izzy.

  Dolores flapped her hand. ‘Get real.’ She looked down at the baby, smiled. ‘Cute,’ she said. ‘Can I pick him up?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Izzy.

  Dolores reached into the crib, took Sam up in her arms, rocked him, kissed his head. ‘I love babies. That’s the next job I’ve got lined up for Alfie. I want one of them.’

  After Dolores left, Izzy went upstairs to check her savings. She had a plan. She had enough to put down a deposit on a house. She’d take in lodgers to pay her mortgage. Then, when Sam was old enough to attend school, she’d get a job – any job.

  At first, she couldn’t believe what she saw. She stood holding a small bundle of notes. I had more than that, she thought. She raked in the drawer, pulled out her knickers and found Jacob’s note: ‘You owed me.’

  ‘Bastard!’ she cried.

  She sat on the bed, staring across at the open drawer. ‘Bastard.’ Jacob had come into her room, rummaged through her personal things and stolen her money. ‘Bastard.’ And given her back her bloody pen. ‘Bastard.’

  She imagined him striding towards Poland, smoking a cigar, laughing at her. She went downstairs, slumped into a chair, gave in to despair. Across the room, the child started to cry, then bawl, then scream. Izzy ignored him. She sat, head in hands, mourning her lost cash. ‘I should’ve put it in a bank. I should’ve taken it with me when I was having the baby.’

  The baby’s shrill screaming heightened Izzy’s turmoil. She rounded furiously on him. ‘It’s your fault. You did this. It’s you made me lose my job. And it’s your fault I wasn’t here so Jacob could come in and take my money. You’re to bloody blame for everything.’

  She rushed at the crib in a fury, stared down, saw her son, sweat-drenched, fists flailing, face red, lips blue, tearful and her heart turned over. The guilt. She scooped him up, pressed his rigid body against her, rocked him, hushed him. Loathed herself for her foul accusations. Then, she calmed. Comforting the infant, she momentarily comforted herself.

  She couldn’t stop the rage, though. It was there when she woke every morning. Sometimes, she’d be walking back from the shops, or preparing supper, or sitting in the kitchen feeding the baby, and it would come to her. That bastard has stolen my money. She imagined herself destitute, living on the streets, clutching a hungry child – homeless.

  It was Thursday, rent day. Izzy had just returned from the landlord’s office when the phone rang.

  ‘Izzy?’ A voice shrill with anxiety. It was her mother. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch.’

  ‘Having a baby,’ said Izzy. ‘A boy.’

  ‘But I phoned and there was no reply.’

  ‘I went to Mrs Brent’s,’ said Izzy. ‘So there would be somebody to tend me, as they say.’

  ‘You should’ve been here. I should’ve looked after you.’

  ‘Dad didn’t want me there,’ said Izzy.

  ‘That’s why I’m phoning. Your father’s dead. He had a heart attack a
week ago.’

  ‘Last week, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Well, I tried, but nobody answered the phone. He went out for a walk and didn’t come back. So, I went looking for him. He was in the garden. Sitting on the bench out there. He’d just died.’

  Izzy said nothing.

  ‘I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, but I thought you should know. We buried him on Tuesday,’ said Joan.

  ‘You should’ve told me. I would have come for the funeral. I should’ve been there.’

  ‘It would have been a long journey. And you with a baby.’

  ‘You didn’t know about the baby. I would have come.’

  ‘I know.’

  Another long silence. Then Izzy said, ‘I should have come to see him. I should have told him I was sorry. I should have asked him to forgive me for lying to you both.’

  ‘It was as much his fault as yours. I don’t think you should berate yourself too much. He did admit he’d been wrong. It was almost the last thing he said to me.’

  Izzy asked her mother what she was going to do now.

  ‘Well, I can’t stay at the manse. They will be appointing a new minister soon enough. I’ve decided to use the money you sent us to buy a small house in the village and stay on here.’

  ‘I thought you were going to move to the seaside.’

  ‘Not now. I don’t want to go where I don’t know anybody. I have friends here.’

  ‘Can I come and see you?”

  ‘Well,’ said her mother, ‘in time, when you feel up to it.’ She hadn’t told anybody about Izzy’s baby. She was torn between seeing Izzy and the baby and facing up to a bout of scandal – her unmarried daughter and her child. Oh, the whisperings that would set up. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Izzy. ‘He’s beautiful. You should come and see him if you’re too ashamed to have me up there.’

  ‘One day, I will.’

  Izzy said she’d look forward to it. The pips went and they were cut off.

  Sometime, long after midnight, the baby woke her. She lifted him from his crib and took him into bed with her. Sitting, leaning on her pillows, she dropped the front of her nightgown and fed him. She stroked his head. She loved that little head, loved the smell of it.