A Woman's War

by S Block

  ‘But John—’

  ‘John is very good with people. He has a gift for putting them at their ease. I’ve seen the look on some people’s faces, though. They don’t want him to put them at their ease. They just want him to go away. That’s why I’m mindful. People can be funny buggers. You have to hold them at arm’s length, wear kid gloves.’

  By the time they were within five hundred yards of Frances Barden’s house the all-clear sounded across their region, and they walked back the way they came arm in arm, wished one another goodnight, and went their separate ways. The hundred or more bombers that Brian and Laura had reported had overlooked them once again, aiming their bombs on Liverpool’s morale.

  *

  At home, Teresa sat in the dark in her front room, waiting for Nick to return. She looked around and imagined the armchair they had bought for visitors filled with Annie.

  Imagine if Annie were here now. What might we be doing? I wouldn’t be sitting alone in the dark for one thing.

  An image of them upstairs in bed together flashed in and out of Teresa’s mind, taking her by surprise. She felt herself blush hard. She placed the fingertips of her left hand to her cheek and felt its heat. She felt ashamed . . . yet thrilled by the glimpse of what might happen with Annie in the house.

  Teresa sat back in the armchair and waited for Nick. She wouldn’t mention the idea tonight. He would be too tired, and if the raid had gone badly he would want to talk about his men. If it went well, and all his boys returned safely, there was a good chance he would want to go to bed and make love before falling into a deep, revitalising sleep.

  Another image of Annie lying in their bed flashed through Teresa’s mind. This time, Teresa closed her eyes to keep it in place so she could linger.

  The image was of an afternoon. Sunny outside. Annie lay naked under the sheets, looking at Teresa, smiling. Her strawberry blonde hair, customarily tied in a single thick plait when she flew, had been let down, and fanned out from her head onto the pillow, framing her elegant face. Teresa, also naked, slipped into bed beside Annie and held her in her arms. They kissed and lay together, looking at one another. A bright shaft of sunlight suddenly passed over Annie’s left eye, causing her to close it. Teresa placed her hand to shield it from the bright beam. Annie craned forward and kissed the inside of Teresa’s palm, then lay back down again and opened her eyes.

  ‘My heroine,’ Annie said, smiling.

  Teresa now opened her eyes and allowed them to slowly acclimatise to the gloom of the unlit front room of her marital home. She looked at the window and sighed loudly. She wondered how long it would be until Nick’s return, and how long she could leave it after that to ask him about moving Annie in to live with them.

  Chapter 14

  SARAH COLLINGBORNE STEPPED out of the small front door of the squat house near the canal in which she now lived after the diocese had asked her to vacate the Vicarage, and immediately felt the icy wind on her face. A grey, sparkling sheen of frost glazed every surface, making Great Paxford appear like a frozen village in a fairy tale, awaiting the arrival of a prince to kiss a deserving female and bring everything back to life. The war had exerted a similar effect, placing normal life on hold until Hitler’s grip on the world could be smashed.

  For Sarah, the only man with the power to bring her out of emotional hibernation was not a prince but a vicar. Nor would it require a kiss. A single look from a bus or train window, or even a letter, would be sufficient to instantly shatter the ice that seemed to have enveloped Sarah’s spirit since Adam’s capture at Dunkirk.

  She now walked slowly towards the village centre, feeling the soft crunch of frost beneath her shoes. Her breath billowed from her mouth, and hung in the air in front of her, kept visible by the low temperature of the air. She was on her way to sit in on an early shift at the telephone exchange, with Pat.

  In Adam’s absence, Sarah had found herself brooding about him, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Even when she spent time with her sister and her adopted little boy, Sarah would spend the greater proportion of it thinking about Adam. She recognised it as a form of constant, internal yearning.

  Of course, Sarah did count herself immensely fortunate to have received a telegram informing her that Adam was missing after Dunkirk, and not dead. So many women in the area had received the very worst news about their sons, husbands, and brothers. Sarah had been told Adam had been taken prisoner, but not where.

  With so many questions about his whereabouts, his state of health and mind, and when she might see him again, swirling around her head from the moment she woke in the morning until the moment she went to bed, Sarah needed to keep herself distracted. Consequently, she decided to volunteer as an operator at the telephone exchange. In addition to keeping herself busy by learning a new skill, she fancied that occasionally listening in to other people’s chitchat might prove an easy diversion from her constant internal, revolving monologue about Adam.

  Pat was her designated mentor. Having shown Sarah the basics of how to operate the equipment, she was now training Sarah by example, so that by the time Sarah could fly solo she would look and sound as good as any of the more experienced operators. Sarah would watch and listen as Pat took and connected calls, and then gently cross-examine Sarah about what she had seen Pat do, and why.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend this is difficult,’ Pat had said at their first training session, ‘because it isn’t. Not if you’ve half a brain. But you do need to concentrate, and you need to be precise with your connections. Also, the correct manner is essential, regardless of whether the call is social, a local crisis, or one concerning a national emergency. Don’t be alarmed. A national emergency has yet to trouble the exchange – though we’ve had plenty of calls relating to local crises. That said, you never know what your first call is going to be, so you have to be prepared for all eventualities.’

  Sarah had wondered if she would be expected to talk in a certain way.

  ‘No one’s expecting you to put on a voice. You should speak with a tone you feel comfortable with. But you need to strike a balance between friendliness and professionalism. People want to hear reassurance on the other end of the line. But they also want to know their call is in good hands, and that you’ll do your very best to connect them where they wish to be connected.’

  So it had proved. The work wasn’t difficult, but close attention to Pat’s operation of the switchboard showed that a degree of practice would be required until it became second nature to Sarah.

  On this particular morning, Sarah had left the house a little earlier than usual, hoping to enjoy a slow walk during which she cleared her head of all her thoughts about Adam, and be in the right frame of mind upon her arrival at the exchange. This generally took the form of Sarah wondering what Adam’s equivalent task might be right now. When she ate breakfast, she imagined Adam eating his breakfast, and dreaded to think what it might consist of.

  She would chat to him about it, and imagined his wry responses. The same for lunch and supper, and indeed, throughout the day.

  This hadn’t been a calculated treatment for her loneliness, but had arisen naturally, as she realised he was unlikely to be coming home soon. It enabled Sarah to imagine her husband into her life in some form, and incorporate phantom-Adam into her daily routines.

  She arrived at the exchange on time, expecting to find Pat had already opened up with everything ready for their shift together. Only, Pat wasn’t there. The exchange was empty. Sarah looked on the desks for a note of explanation, but there was nothing. Sarah closed the door behind her and sat down to wait, turning on the switchboard in readiness. She took a deep breath and savoured the combination of the interior, musty smell of the exchange and its particular kind of almost-silence. Suddenly, the switchboard lit up.

  Sarah wasn’t yet a qualified operator but she knew enough to take a basic call and re-route it correctly. She looked at the switchboard and saw the call was coming from Joyce Cameron’s hous
e. Sarah knew that Pat and Bob were currently lodging with Joyce, and surmised the call might have something to do with Pat’s failure to arrive on time.

  Pat was famously punctual. Any delays usually meant something had happened at home. An argument. Or worse. Sarah wondered what state Pat might be in when she arrived.

  What do I say, Adam, if she comes in with a bruise on her face?

  Sarah imagined Adam sitting opposite, taking his time to think it through, and then advising that she make no reference to the bruise if there is one, but simply offer friendship and – by implication – support.

  I should answer it. I’m sure I can do it. Better that I possibly mess it up than not try and deal with it at all.

  Sarah removed her hat, then reached forward and placed the headset over her hair and ears, and plugged in the connector.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in her best, nicely modulated ‘exchange’ voice.

  ‘Mrs Collingborne?’ said the man’s voice at the other end. Sarah immediately recognised it was Pat’s husband, Bob.

  Sarah hadn’t liked the man even before she had discovered that he was verbally and physically violent towards her friend. Being the wife of the vicar hadn’t helped, as it meant she was forced to be civil to every one of her husband’s congregation, irrespective of what she knew they got up to in the privacy of their own homes.

  ‘Yes, it is, Mr Simms,’ she said calmly. ‘Is anything the matter? I thought I was doing another shift with Pat this morning.’

  ‘That’s why I’m telephoning. Pat’s running a little late. She wanted me to telephone ahead. Let you know she’s on her way.’

  ‘Very well,’ Sarah replied. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘She didn’t want you sitting there not knowing what was happening.’

  Sarah didn’t want to speak to Bob for any longer than necessary.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to call. Now I know she’s coming I’ll wait. Goodbye, Mr Simms.’

  The call ended and Sarah pulled the connector from the switchboard.

  When Pat arrived a few minutes later she was bruise-free and all smiles. She apologised for being late – even though it was only by five minutes – and explained that Bob had decided to bring her breakfast in bed that morning. Pat had been surprised to say the least. She actually couldn’t recall the last time he had done that – or anything like it. She told Sarah he had made Pat and Joyce lunch a couple of days earlier, but didn’t believe it was anything other than a rather strange one-off.

  ‘I was very suspicious, in fact.’ Pat knew that Sarah would understand why she said that. There were a select few women in Pat’s circle who had a pretty decent idea about Bob’s behaviour towards Pat over the years, and Sarah was one of them.

  ‘Why suspicious? Because he never did anything nice for you?’

  ‘Certainly that,’ Pat said. ‘But also because of the food he prepared. It was the same that gave him terrible food poisoning a while ago.’

  ‘I remember,’ Sarah said. ‘You told us he accused you of trying to kill him.’

  ‘I couldn’t understand what sort of message he was trying to send by making it. I half thought he may have been trying to get his own back in some twisted way. But in the end . . . I think he made it simply because it’s one of his favourites, and it’s one of the few things he can make well.’

  ‘But why had he made you lunch?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He said it was to thank us both for looking after him so well.’

  ‘And he meant it?’

  ‘I can generally tell if he’s being sarcastic. He seldom sees a need to disguise his feelings. But I couldn’t see any trace of that.’

  ‘And now breakfast in bed this morning?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Pat replied. ‘I did ask what it was in aid of. He said he just woke up and wanted to do something nice for me.’

  Pat didn’t tell Sarah that this particular outbreak of Bob’s pleasantness followed close on the heels of being particularly unpleasant on the night of Will’s funeral.

  ‘It would be about time, wouldn’t you say?’ Sarah asked, hopefully.

  Pat forced a tired, wan smile.

  ‘Or is it just too little too late?’ Sarah said, trying to read between the lines.

  ‘I’m not an unpleasant woman, Sarah . . .’

  ‘Of course you’re not! On the contrary . . .’

  ‘It’s not that making me lunch and bringing me breakfast in bed would be a matter of being “too little too late”. More . . . why is he doing it? Until I know what’s really behind it I can’t take him on trust.’

  Sarah nodded her agreement. ‘How will you find out?’

  Pat shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. He’s after something, I’m sure of it.’

  Pat didn’t want to talk about Bob anymore. She smiled at Sarah and reminded her of the routine they went through before starting each shift.

  Sarah listened carefully, and made some notes in a small notebook she kept in her coat pocket. But she was only half listening to Pat’s advice about operating the switchboard. She watched her friend’s face, noting to herself that Pat had lost some weight, which revealed more lines around her eyes than she’d noticed before.

  Beside the notes about being an effective operator, Sarah made another note in much smaller handwriting.

  It read, ‘Keep an eye on Pat over next few weeks. Bob’s afoot. Tell F.’

  Chapter 15

  STEPH WAS ALONE in the farmyard tending the chickens when she heard the gate creak on its rusting hinges. In the wake of the incident with the German pilot, she liked spending time with the chickens – their fuss and noise distracted her from dark thoughts. As she cleaned out their run, collected their eggs, and fed and watered them, the inquisitive birds demanded just enough of her attention to block out everything else.

  Steph turned towards the gate, expecting to see Stanley and Isobel coming back into the farm after repairing the damage to the fence in the far field, caused by the German pilot climbing over in his pursuit of Stanley. It was only when she brushed the hair from her eyes that Steph realised the man walking determinedly towards her was not Stanley.

  ‘Stan!’ Steph cried, dropping the basket of eggs she was holding and running into her husband’s arms. ‘You got my letter! I was waiting for a reply!’

  ‘This is it. You didn’t sound in a good way, so I discharged myself and came straight home.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for that. That’s not why I wrote.’

  ‘I know. But you knew I’d come.’

  Steph nodded. ‘I hoped.’

  ‘I can go back if you want,’ he said, smiling and kissing her face all over. ‘Just say the word, girl.’

  Steph gripped his face between her hands and stared intensely into his eyes. ‘I need you more than Churchill does.’

  ‘I’m not sure he needs me that much at the moment. Had us spending most of our time doing drills and playing cards.’

  Having rushed to join up at the outbreak of war, Stan had found himself rescued from Dunkirk by a small fishing vessel, which managed to dodge a German air attack and bring Stan back to the south coast. He was then kept in storage with his comrades at an army base, while the government and military calculated their next move. It was there that he was able to tell Steph where he had been, and that he was now safe.

  In the interregnum between being de-mobbed after the First War and joining back up for the Second War, Stan had forgotten that being a soldier involved vast amounts of doing nothing at all, interspersed with frenzied bursts of taking the most appalling risks with one’s life to secure small strips of territory. Word spread it was unlikely British troops would set foot on European soil until the Allies had achieved air superiority, and no one could tell how long that might take. Sitting around for weeks doing endless amounts of square-bashing and kit cleaning wasn’t what Stan had expected when he’d joined up. On the farm or on the battlefield, mending a fence post or attacking an enemy position
, Stan was at his best when using his hands. Boredom, not Hitler, became Stan’s enemy. Surviving Dunkirk had been exhilarating. Enduring the inaction that followed had given him increasingly itchy feet. In a reserved occupation, Stan had been contemplating discharging himself and returning to the farm. Then Steph’s letter arrived. It forced his hand.

  They kissed for what seemed like a minute.

  Steph looked noticeably thinner to Stan. The veins on her hands stood out, suggesting she wasn’t eating properly. He could see dark rings beneath her eyes. Her lips, usually full and red, were dry and pale. She looked utterly drained. Stan wrapped her in his arms.

  ‘It’s going to be all right . . .’ he whispered. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘How can it?’ she replied in a whisper. ‘You can’t undo what’s done, even if you think you can. And be careful what you say in front of Stanley. He thinks I’m fine.’

  ‘Then he’s an idiot. I could see straight away you’re not right.’

  ‘He sees what I want him to see – his mam, coping.’

  ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘I can’t get the pilot’s face out of my head. Or that of his mother and father.’

  Stan looked at her, puzzled how she could picture the pilot’s parents when she’d never set eyes on them.

  ‘He carried a photograph of them in his flight jacket. He was barely older than Stanley.’

  ‘You said. Several times.’

  He threaded his arm through hers and began to walk her back towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Let’s get you inside. Brass monkeys out here.’

  Steph lowered her eyes to the ground as they walked across the yard.