A Woman's War

by S Block

‘I didn’t have to do it, Stan. I didn’t shout out. I never gave him a chance. The look on his face when I rolled him off Little Stan, onto his back—’

  ‘It was an act of war, Steph, what the kraut did to Stanley. What you did in response – also an act of war. You think ’cause it happened on the farm it wasn’t, but it was. The Germans are bringing the war here with this bombing. This lad fell out of the sky and brought it to ground level, that’s all. You said he had a gun . . .’

  Steph stopped by the front door and nodded. ‘Never used it, though.’

  ‘Didn’t want to attract attention with a shot. Everyone would’ve come running.’

  Stan had been preparing what he wanted to say to Steph all the way home – a little speech intended to erase the feelings of guilt that poured out of every line in her letter to him. He thought he’d try to speak less as her husband than a serving soldier who’d seen more death and destruction in war than he ever wanted to recall.

  ‘A soldier would’ve called out for him to stop in that situation,’ she said. ‘You would have.’

  Stan nodded. This is where he wanted to get her, to this comparison.

  ‘A soldier’s trained, Steph. You’re not. You’re being far, far too hard on yourself. You were a civilian woman faced with extraordinary danger, and you dealt with it the best you could. In my eyes, brilliantly.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Stanley’s still alive – that’s how. And if the kraut had finished off Stanley, you think the Nazi bastard wouldn’t’ve come for you and Isobel?’

  Steph looked at Stan and suddenly felt nauseous. ‘Let’s shut up about it for now,’ she asked.

  ‘For now,’ he agreed. ‘But there’s still the article in the Echo to deal with.’

  ‘I thought of telephoning the newspaper to ask them not to print it.’

  ‘You don’t want people to know?’

  Steph shook her head. ‘The reporter persuaded me. Said it might give people a bit of a boost. But the more I’ve thought on it, it doesn’t seem that way to me. He said people will only think good of us. But some people are strange, Stan. They don’t go the way you think.’

  ‘Good ’uns will.’

  ‘But there’s not just good people. There’s all sorts.’

  ‘Bloody good story, Steph.’

  ‘To everyone but me, maybe. And Stanley. He thinks it’ll be wonderful. Thinks people’ll see him as a hero.’

  ‘Probably will. What’s wrong with that if he was?’

  ‘He’s too young to get caught up in all that.’

  ‘Could help bring him out of himself. Grow up a bit.’

  Stan looked at his wife’s profile. Her mouth was set firmly against the idea, and she looked straight ahead. He knew better than to press her when she was in this mood.

  ‘Let’s talk it over later before we telephone anyone.’

  ‘So glad you’re back, love,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek and squeezing his hand tightly.

  ‘Me too. Can’t begin to say how much I’ve missed you.’

  Stan gently guided Steph into the farmhouse and closed the door behind them.

  *

  Over supper they pretended to Stanley that all was well. While Steph washed up, Stan asked his son to recount the episode with the German pilot in as much detail as he could recall, which Stanley gleefully did. Once again, the boy adjusted the fact of who had been chasing who across the far field that afternoon. The father praised the son for his courage, and told him how proud he was of him. The son glowed.

  Later, in bed, Steph asked Stan if he would re-join his battalion if and when all this fuss about the pilot blew over? He shook his head.

  ‘Made me realise, my place is here.’

  Steph kissed him.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘not sure the army’d be too happy seeing me coming and going as I please, despite being reserved occupation.’ He pulled her closer and held her tightly in his arms. ‘No, love,’ he said. ‘I’m back for good.’

  Chapter 16

  ONCE IT HAD been decided the WI would put on a Christmas party for the children of Great Paxford, Frances asked Noah what kind of party the children might like. She discovered that his least favourite option was one that included girls, while his frontrunners in terms of games were those that involved splitting the boys into two factions and have them fight one another. Clearly, the war had sunk its teeth into Noah’s imagination deeper than Frances had thought. Though, given the child had lost both parents and his home as a direct consequence of it, she oughtn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Are you sure the other boys would want to play games of that nature?’ Frances had asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, with an air of certainty Frances found amusing and slightly alarming in equal measure – she admired his conviction but was apprehensive about its future impact on the world when he grew older. Though she was a woman of firm opinion herself, she had often tempered Peter’s more dogmatic positions concerning a variety of issues. She could see the same streak of unflinching certainty in Noah, and wasn’t sure whether to encourage it to arm him against an unflinchingly competitive society, or soften it with the notion of seeing other people’s point of view. For the moment, compromise seemed not to be of much interest to Noah.

  ‘The boys at school will like these games because we play them all the time at playtime.’

  Frances wasn’t sure if this was true or whether Noah had quickly developed the rather masculine skill of making up facts to suit whatever argument he was advocating. She would ask his teacher.

  Talking to Noah more about the kind of Christmas party they might put on, Frances began to feel increasingly out of touch with what children like to do on such occasions. This partly stemmed from her own dislike of mass gatherings of children when she had been a child, and partly from a lack of exposure to children’s parties for most of her adult life, on account of not having children of her own to take to them. Until now.

  Consequently, she thought it might be a good idea to approach younger members of the WI, on the basis that it wasn’t so long ago that they were children too, and could more easily recall what they liked and disliked about parties. Frances lighted upon Laura as a good person to approach. Laura was only seventeen, and had that nice mixture of seriousness coupled with a capacity for enjoying herself when the occasion arose. Frances had also noticed Laura was very good around children. She thought taking on the responsibility of organising a children’s Christmas party would develop Laura’s organisational skills, and provide a helpful distraction.

  With her father dead, and her boyfriend contemplating becoming a pilot, and Laura herself weighing up the legitimacy of following Will’s suggestion that she too might become a doctor, there was a lot of seriousness currently in her life. Putting on a Christmas party for children sounded like the perfect antidote.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ Frances told Laura, beaming. ‘It’s one thing to have initiatives at the WI. But the real skill lies in finding the right people to implement them.’

  ‘Does it matter that I’m so young?’ Laura asked.

  ‘There are some members – no names – who are three times as old as you, and I wouldn’t ask them to organise turning the lights off after a meeting. This is not about age but competence. If you’re old and wise enough to be in the WAAF you’re old and wise enough to do this.’

  Laura hesitated for a moment, before replying. ‘You do know I was made to leave the WAAF?’

  ‘I do. Most unfairly. Your mother explained it all to me in excruciating detail. The old boys’ network at its worst, if you ask me. An officer behaves appallingly by seducing a young girl and they know punishment is due, but they can’t bring themselves to punish one of their own or it might be their turn next. So, they punish the girl, and sign off the paperwork. Abysmal cowardice, but that’s the way the masculine world works, Laura. According to their rules. Now you know, you can and must be more watchful.’

  Laura love
d listening to Frances speak like this. Not only because she was so supportive, but she never minced her words. Frances’s characterisation of standing up against unfairness sounded like not only the right thing to do, but terrifically exciting. She agreed to take on the party on the spot.

  Organising games would be easy enough. Laura could remember enough games that children liked to play from her own attendance at many parties over the years. Musical chairs, pin the tail on the donkey, pass the parcel – the key thing was to keep children entertained in a non-stop blizzard of activity and then, when they were exhausted, feed them with all sorts of nice, sweet things. It was a formula for success that had stood the test of time.

  Laura remembered she had attended one party held in a barn, after the parents of the featured child decided to try and be a little bit different to other parents. The occasion had gone very well until the time came to eat.

  Several children had over-indulged far too quickly and suffered instant and painful brain freeze, and started to cry. This took no one by surprise and the distressed children were swiftly taken care of. More problematic was a greedy child called Oliver, who wolfed down three portions of jelly and ice cream, and then managed to ingest a single piece of straw from one of the many bales scattered around the barn. It got wedged in the back of his throat, which prompted the child to unceremoniously vomit up his recently consumed party food. Oliver’s vomiting immediately triggered the gag reflex in at least eight others, who proceeded to vomit themselves, and the party came to an end. Not one child – including Laura – escaped without being vomited on by at least one other child.

  No barns. And perhaps no jelly and ice cream, to be on the safe side. But you have to have jelly and ice cream. What else? Sandwiches and cake . . .

  *

  Laura had asked Frances to give her a budget to work from. Instead, Frances had told Laura that she would rather Laura plan the party she wanted then come back to Frances – and Alison as branch treasurer – to see if they had the funds and rations to cover the expense. Frances did hint that Laura not think too lavishly, as much of the WI’s reserves had been spent setting up and supplying the soup kitchen for trekkers. It was with this in mind that Laura went into Brindsley’s butcher’s to speak to David, who was now running the business side of the shop while his mum took care of baby Vivian, and his father took care of the heavy lifting, carving, sawing, and serving. It was hard to believe she and David had been at school together just a year before. In such a brief slice of time, Laura had lived through scandal while David had been to sea and back, returning badly scarred. Both were now determined to build new lives for themselves.

  ‘Ham goes a long way at a party,’ David said, repeating lines he’d heard his father say dozens of times to customers seeking catering advice. ‘Cheap. But not as cheap as luncheon or potted meat, which you can spread as thinly as you want. How many people are you expecting?’

  Laura had calculated up to thirty might attend; possibly more if the older children felt supremely bored at home and turned up to kill some time.

  ‘Have you thought about sausages?’ David asked, trying to give Laura more options. ‘Everyone likes sausages. Children love ’em. And we can make them up specially for the party. You tell us how much meat you can afford and we can add as much bread as you like to make your budget stretch. The children will have no idea. To them, a sausage is a sausage. They’re not fussed.’

  Laura and David discussed how little meat a sausage required to still be considered – and taste like – a sausage, then calculated how much that amount of meat would cost if each child were to consume two sausages apiece. She then did the same for ham, on the basis of half a slice per sandwich, and three sandwiches apiece. As she made the calculations she glanced momentarily at David, and saw him smiling at her.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Smiling like that. What am I doing wrong?’

  ‘You’re not doing anything wrong, as far as I can see. I’ve just never seen you this serious before. I mean, I’ve seen you miserable. You know, over the Wing Commander Bowers business—’

  ‘We no longer mention that man.’

  ‘But I’ve never seen you like this. Business-like. Behaving so grown up, I suppose.’

  ‘I want to make a good fist of it.’

  ‘When I told Ma you were coming over to talk numbers for the party she said, “Laura’s just the young woman for the job.” “Young woman”, Ma said. Not “girl”.’

  Laura could feel herself blush from Miriam’s compliment.

  ‘I think Dad’s death brought home how quickly time passes. It feels like yesterday when he first told Kate and I he was ill. A few minutes later – so it sometimes seems – he’s gone. It’s the same for everyone.’

  David nodded. ‘One minute I’m doing my job below deck. The next I’m in the water trying to swim away from burning oil. The next I’m in hospital with half the skin on my back gone. The next I’m back in Great Paxford, stepping off the bus.’

  ‘I want to do something with my life, David. Before it just drifts away.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘I see a lot of people just living quietly day to day.’

  ‘Maybe that’s their way.’

  ‘One night I was sitting beside Dad at home. He was dozing. It was near the end. I looked at his face and thought, You haven’t wasted a minute. I thought perhaps that’s why he accepted his diagnosis the way he did. Not that he wasn’t afraid of dying, because I think he was a little.’

  ‘Blokes on the ship said they weren’t afraid of it. I didn’t believe them.’

  ‘Dad packed his life. He wanted more time with us, but I think he felt he’d led a fulfilled life. I’d like to feel the same, if possible.’

  David had never heard Laura talk this way before. He thought he was the only person his age in the village who considered these things. They were both growing up.

  ‘So . . . what do you want to do?’ he asked.

  Laura hesitated for a moment, as if daring herself to say the next sequence of words, and then said them.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of becoming a doctor.’

  Laura deliberately left off the story about her father suggesting it with his almost last words to her. She scrutinised David’s face for his reaction. He was a no-nonsense boy who knew his own mind and held worthwhile opinions he could back up. And he’d known her all her life. She trusted his judgement, perhaps more than Tom’s.

  David looked at Laura impassively for several seconds, and then nodded.

  ‘I can see that,’ he said seriously. ‘That makes sense.’

  Laura felt her heart skip a beat with gratitude. David had affirmed her. She wanted to kiss him. She didn’t. Instead, she placed her hand on his and squeezed it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That means more to me than you know.’

  Walking home from Brindsley’s, the meat-related details of the Christmas party resolved, Laura felt the first fragile shoots of optimism for the first time since she had seen her father’s coffin lowered into the earth. She made a diversion to St Mark’s, pushed open the gate and walked across the soft grass of its cemetery towards her father’s resting place. The earth was dark and fresh. The headstone absent, under construction.

  She stood in silence, imagining Will lying in perfect repose six feet below. ‘Were you serious?’ she asked finally. ‘Is this something you really believe I could do? That I’d have a genuine aptitude for? Or was it one last, desperate throw of the paternal dice before you left – pushing me towards something, anything, and medicine was the only thing that came to mind?’

  A final thought occurred to her that she didn’t say out loud out of respect for her father.

  Or were you, in your last moments, as the cancer ate into your brain, simply going mad? And your suggestion that I consider medicine merely an expression of your final insanity?

  Laura looked at the ea
rth, as if in expectation of some signal that her father had heard her. Instead of a sign from below, it began to slowly rain from above. Cold, wet drops spattered against the back of Laura’s neck and trickled down, beneath her collar, causing her to shiver. She found it impossible to grasp that her father would not find some way to claw his way to her and give her his answer; impossible that he would remain in a box in the ground not only for the duration of her life, but for as long as the Earth revolved around the sun.

  She waited there for several minutes, and then turned her collar up against the strengthening rain and hurried home.

  Chapter 17

  TERESA HAD WAITED several days before deciding it was pointless to hope for the perfect time to speak to Nick about bringing Annie to convalesce in the house. The perfect time to speak to him simply didn’t exist, for the simple reason that Nick was pre-occupied with the war twenty-four hours a day, now and until either the Luftwaffe had turned Liverpool and Britain’s industrial belt to rubble, or the RAF exacted such a price on the German air force that the Blitz stopped. Neither seemed likely to happen any time soon. Nick had explained to Teresa that though the Germans had developed the X-beam to help guide their planes towards their targets, the British had developed RADAR to detect those planes on approach. Consequently, he’d told her, the battle was balanced, intense and brutal for both sides.

  ‘But we can drive them back?’ Teresa had asked.

  ‘If we can stay in the fight long enough. Though after their attack on Coventry on 14 November, there’s no doubt the Luftwaffe has the upper hand.’

  To try to stay worthy of Nick’s conversation about his job, Teresa followed the war closely in the newspaper, and on the radio, and was always ready to open a conversation about this or that aspect of the defensive campaign against the Germans. The problem was that Nick was privy to so much more information about it all than she was.

  On the evening she had decided to broach the subject of Annie to Nick, she thought to lead up to it by mentioning an article she had read in the Liverpool Echo about the poor conditions at the internment camp in Huyton, on the outskirts of Liverpool.