by S Block
What would you advise, dear Mass Observation reader, in your room piled high with manuscripts from women like me? To take him on trust? Or trust nothing?
Or does it matter either way, if my soldier and I are waiting to be together? It matters because I have to live with whichever configuration it is. If he is being genuine then shouldn’t I be genuine back – even if it doesn’t materially affect what I plan to do once the war ends? And if this is a ruse to have me lower my guard, then shouldn’t I be extra-vigilant, and play a game of my own out of self-protection?
You cannot see how he is towards me, so I am telling you his change in behaviour has all the appearance of being genuine. Perhaps this is the case. Let us say it is. He has been this way before and I have seen it crumble away at the first sign of stress. His book is selling well at the moment, and he is feeling confident and loved by readers once again. What happens when that inevitably subsides? When the tide of publishing drags the accolades and royalties back out to sea. Will he revert?
I have been thinking about broaching this matter with him. Asking him what has brought about this change? I have grown so used to thinking inwardly about everything. I am well aware of my own capacity to convince myself that a situation is one way when I have simply been too close, too affected by it to see its details clearly. Perhaps it is better to ask him directly, and gauge his answer. If he is now being genuine in his care towards me then he would understand my suspicion. If he is not, am I naive to believe he would reveal his true purpose? Wouldn’t he continue to play this part of loving husband in which he seems to have cast himself? Or will he step out of this character and be his true self once more?
This will surprise you, but I suspect I would prefer the third possibility. I do not have the energy to begin to try and like him once more. I cannot ‘love’ him again – I am certain. When he is at me constantly I know where we stand. It brings my hatred of him to the boil and that sustains my defiance, which keeps me going.
What do you think, my dear, patient reader? Does a leopard ever change his spots, or can it only cover them temporarily? Can such a man as my husband ever truly change for the good? What should I do? Try and give him the benefit of the doubt? What, I wonder if you were sitting here with me, would you advise?
Chapter 23
THOUGH THE BLACK saloon approaching the farmhouse had looked like an official vehicle of some kind, causing a spike of dread to rise in the Farrows, it was in fact the car of a young, ambitious BBC radio producer who had read about Steph and Stanley’s ‘triumph’ over the German pilot in the Liverpool Echo at breakfast that morning. Eager for a scoop in his own medium, he had set out immediately for Great Paxford to try to record an interview with Mrs Farrow and her son that would be broadcast on the wireless at the earliest opportunity. In the producer’s view, it would be ‘a story of immense interest to our listeners’. The producer wished to get to the Farrows before any of the newsreel competitors, as he knew that the first outlet to secure an interview would receive the most honest emotional account, uncontaminated by rehearsal and repetition. After the producer had explained himself, Steph was initially reluctant, but he told the Farrows that once Steph and Stanley had completed an interview with him she could legitimately tell anyone else who came calling that she’d said all she wanted to say on the matter. It seemed unarguable to Steph. She would tell the lie once more, and never again.
‘Besides,’ he told her, ‘radio is neither as intrusive nor as exposing as the newsreels. No camera means you have no need to be self-conscious about how you come across. On the radio, you simply relax as far as you can and talk into the microphone in the same voice and volume you would to talk to a friend, and say what you want to say. The nation would be fascinated to hear yours and Stanley’s story, Mrs Farrow. In your own words, not some hack reporter’s.’
Watched by Stan in the corner of the kitchen, Steph and Stanley gave their account of the event, and then answered the producer’s questions about how it had left them feeling. Stanley’s answers were predictably full of derring-do and excitement and bravado, as he told the producer that he felt proud of what they’d done. He interpreted the behaviour of the German as ‘like a madman’, and was glad he and his mother had been able to stop him before he turned his madness on others.
Stan could see the producer was more interested in Steph’s account of the shooting, and of how it had left her. Steph was far more measured and far less gung-ho than her son. Stan could see she was struggling to contain her sense of guilt at having shot the pilot, and tried to encourage her across the room by gently nodding along with her account. She said that the event itself passed in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed. But the consequences, she had started to realise, would remain for a long time; perhaps for the rest of her life.
‘Why do you say that, Mrs Farrow?’ the producer asked.
‘If I was a soldier it might not,’ she replied. ‘But I’m just a farmer’s wife. I look after my animals. Tend the land. I’m not meant for anything else.’
‘But in a way,’ persisted the producer, ‘do you not feel you were serving your country?’
‘I was saving my son,’ she said. ‘Others can see it how they like. There’s nothing I can do to stop them. Everyone’s full of invasion talk. I saw my son fighting for his life and did what any mother would’ve done.’
‘Most mothers don’t know how to handle a shotgun, Mrs Farrow,’ the producer said, with a hint of amusement in his voice.
‘Then they’d do what they had to do. I just did what I had to do to save Stanley. I didn’t think much about it at the time. Like I said. It all happened so fast.’
The producer was about to bring the interview to a close when Steph gestured that she had one more thing to say.
‘Is there anything you’d like to add, Mrs Farrow?’ he said.
‘Only . . . I’m not proud of what I did. I’m pleased I saved my boy, of course. The pilot was a German, but that’s not what I saw when he was lying on the ground. I saw a young boy, little older than mine, put in a plane to drop bombs on us, told it was the right thing to do. I imagine his mother and father waiting on news of him.’
The producer, Stanley, and Stan looked at Steph as her eyes welled up.
‘Think you’ve got enough,’ said Stan gently, bringing the interview to a close.
The producer leaned forward and turned off the recorder.
‘Not as straightforward as you thought, is it?’ said Steph, wiping her eyes.
‘On the contrary, Mrs Farrow. I imagined this event might have a profound effect on you all. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve managed to convey that to our listeners. We want to communicate the complexity of what happened – that there’s no simple response to it one way or the other. War – and this was an act of war that you and your son were engaged in – is a complex, messy experience. We all know that. Hearing how it affected you will help prevent people imagining winning this is going to be easy, and not a very hard road indeed.’
When the BBC producer had packed away his recording machine and microphone he thanked Steph and Stanley for their co-operation and gave them a final piece of advice.
‘Don’t let this event take over. I’ve seen that with people I interview. Traumatic events dominating their entire lives. At the right time, put it behind you.’
The Farrows watched the producer’s car disappear the way it had come. Steph let out a long sigh, and felt drained.
‘I need some air,’ she said. ‘I might go for a walk.’
‘I’ll come with,’ said Stan.
‘No. I’ve some things to pick up from the village. I could use the time to myself. Stanley – why don’t you show your dad what we’ve done to the farm while he’s been away?’
‘How bad is it?’ said Stan, smiling, ruffling his son’s hair.
‘Everything’s better – you’ll see,’ said Stanley.
‘Better? Right then – I’ll go back to the battalion if you don’t need me.
’
Steph looked sharply at Stan. ‘It’s the army that doesn’t need you. I couldn’t stand you leaving again.’
On her way into the village, Steph reflected on the interview she’d just given. Even the act of talking into the microphone had subtly altered the way she’d spoken, making her more careful about the choice of words she used, and her tone. What had first been an account of what had taken place that afternoon was inevitably becoming ‘the story’ of what had happened, and Steph had been all too conscious of how she was telling it. The producer had asked her to address the microphone as if she were speaking to a close friend, so the account would sound intimate and immediate. But he also told her to hold nothing back. If she stumbled during the telling that would be fine; he would edit out any mistakes when he returned to the office.
I don’t want to tell it again. If people want to know they can read the paper, or listen to the wireless. The BBC man was right. It happened, there’s nothing I can do about that. As terrible as it is, there’s nothing I can do. An act of war. That’s right. What else was it but that? He wouldn’t have been on our land but for the war. Wouldn’t have attacked Stanley. I wouldn’t have . . .
Steph closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to leave the sentence unfinished.
Let God sort out the whys and wherefores. That’s His job, not mine.
Walking along the road lined by high trees on either side, Steph felt herself becoming calmer, and tuned in to the surrounding environment by way of distracting herself. The wind rushing through bare branches. Crows calling to one another in the high wind. It was good to get away from the farm for even an hour.
Everything will be better now Stan’s back.
Steph entered the High Street and saw Mrs Talbot and two friends standing outside the newsagent’s, talking animatedly amongst themselves, looking at a newspaper one of them was holding. Steph averted her gaze so as not to catch theirs, but it was too late. Mrs Talbot had seen Steph, and nudged her two friends to pay attention. As Steph drew closer one of the women held aloft the newspaper. It was a copy of that morning’s Liverpool Echo, and the page was open on the interview Steph had given to the reporter, Philip Shepherd. Steph had no idea what to do, so she continued to walk towards them. As she drew closer to the three women, Mrs Talbot began to applaud her. Almost instantly, the other two women followed suit.
‘Please, don’t,’ said Steph as she walked past.
‘You deserve it,’ Mrs Talbot called out. ‘He could’ve killed anyone one of us. Or more than one. You stopped him going on a rampage, Mrs Farrow! Bravo! Mrs Farrow! Bravo!’
As they clapped, heads appeared in shop doorways along the High Street, wanting to know what the noise was for. Steph hurried past with her head down, and went into Brindsley’s. The butcher’s was full of women queuing for that week’s ration. All eyes turned on Steph.
‘Here she is!’ said Bryn as soon as he saw Steph, his large face beaming. ‘Great Paxford’s very own Nazi hunter!’
On cue, the women in the shop broke into a round of applause for Steph, each channelling the great sense of relief they had experienced when they learned the German pilot was no longer at large. None could have imagined for a moment that it would be one of their own who brought their terror to an end.
‘Thank you!’ one called out.
‘Our hero!’ called another.
‘All the army, police, and Home Guard looking and it takes one brave woman to do the job!’ said a third.
Steph stood transfixed, trapped in their applause, wanting none of it. She turned to Bryn and blurted, ‘I’ll come back later,’ then stepped back out of the doorway and hurried home. She took the back route, avoiding streets, houses and roads, crossing fields and footpaths where she was unlikely to encounter anything but wildlife. Finally, she ran up to the farmhouse and went inside, shook off her coat, changed into her overalls and went back out and into the chicken coop. As the hens clucked softly around her feet, Steph stood rooted to the spot looking at the door, breathing heavily, like a fox in a hole waiting for the hunt to pass.
Chapter 24
THERE WAS SNOW in the air on the day of Laura’s meticulously well-planned Christmas party. Not a blizzard, but enough to send parents and children hurrying towards the warmth and shelter of the village hall. There, Laura and the women of the WI waited to greet them after working from sunrise to bedeck the hall with as much Christmas spirit as their combined skills could muster. The sight befalling all visitors was certainly one for sore, wind-lashed eyes. The walls and ceiling dripped with colourful bunting in Christmassy red and green, and table after table groaned with pies and cakes and buns and jugs of squash, all miraculously made out of rations, aided by a little added WI hustling of local suppliers to give a bit on the side for a unique occasion. The hall smelled – and looked – delicious. A local four-piece band was tuning up in the corner beside the centrepiece of the entire event: the largest Christmas tree Steph had Stan and Stanley carry back from a local copse. It was two feet short of the ceiling and glittered with stars and reindeer made from twigs and pieces of wood that had been glued together and painted in bright, eye-catching colours.
The children stared around the hall in amazement at the transformation the women had wrought, and their parents put their hands to their mouths and tried not to cry with joy at the wonderful effort that in the darkest time provided them all with some cheer.
Laura and her team greeted everyone with broad smiles, and the promise of an afternoon of unmitigated fun followed by a dance for the young and ‘not so young’. She had persuaded Myra Rosen to come, and had even managed to get Erica out of the house for the first time since Will’s funeral.
Laura had been thorough in her preparation. She had drawn up a list of everyone in the village and had handwritten – and hand-delivered – invites to everyone. A week after delivering the invites, Laura returned to each home to ascertain how many would be attending so the WI could organise itself into sub-groups for food, decorations, Christmas tree, games, and dance. In all, forty-three families said they would be coming. It was more than Laura had anticipated, and the prospect of having to keep so many children entertained and fed left her momentarily paralysed with terror, remembering Teresa once telling her that there was nothing quite as horrifying as a room full of bored children. There were so many constituencies to satisfy. Laura had initially consulted her mother – a woman who had spent quite some time trying to keep her own children entertained over the years.
‘Just keep them busy,’ Erica had advised airily.
‘What if some of them don’t want to “be kept busy”? What if some of them just want to sit at the side and watch?’
‘Then let them.’
Laura didn’t find this satisfactory.
What if all the children decided to sit at the side and not take part in the fun and games? The party would come grinding to a halt.
Laura wanted each child to enjoy themselves enormously, and return home at the end of the afternoon with their parents bubbling over with excitement about the time they’d had at an event that would give them a warm glow for weeks afterwards. If the war continued, this might be the only bit of cheer they had.
*
Teresa arrived with Annie in her wheelchair, ‘for an afternoon out’. While Teresa and Laura kept the children busy and entertained, Annie sat in a corner with a glass of squash and watched with admiration and amusement as Teresa cajoled and marshalled the children to do her every bidding, without ever once raising her voice. Periodically, girls and boys would approach Annie and stand a little way off and stare at her in the wheelchair. Annie initially found this disconcerting, but eventually realised they were simply inquisitive, and asked them if they had ever seen someone in a wheelchair before. When they shook their heads, as they invariably did, Annie asked if they wanted to know why she was in a wheelchair? And when they nodded their heads, as they invariably did, Annie told them the story of the fateful night she had
been forced to make a crash-landing in heavy rain at Tabley Wood – sparing no detail except the gruesome nature of her injuries, which she skilfully elided over. Within seconds, the children’s mouths dropped open in mute awe, as they realised Annie was not only a ‘girl pilot’, but a girl pilot who flew Hurricanes and Spitfires. The girls listened with deep awe to hear of their own doing something that they had only previously believed men could do. For nearly all of them, Annie was suddenly the most impressive person they had ever met. When her tale was over, Annie, enjoying the effect her storytelling had wrought, gently sent the children back to the throng with the following words. ‘You didn’t know women could fly planes, did you?’ The children shook their heads. ‘Well, now you know they can crash them too!’ The children laughed, and returned to their friends to tell them all about Annie, and what a wonderful story they had missed by gorging themselves on jelly and cake.
While the adults looked on with grown-up drinks and bided their time for the dance later, the party games flowed seamlessly from one into the next, with Laura making sure that what small prizes were awarded were dispersed equitably. Overly competitive boys were reined in so that their determination to win everything at all cost didn’t come at the expense of other children’s enjoyment. There was one nosebleed through over-excitement during a game, causing a small girl named Molly to crash into a large boy named Hugh, face-first. There were two grazed knees when children playing a game of chase stumbled and slid along the parquet flooring longer than their skin could take.
Despite the presence of Erica and Myra, Laura dealt admirably with these minor injuries.
‘The first thing you have to do with an injured child,’ her father had once told her, ‘is to stop them crying. Only then can they begin to tell you where it hurts, and how much.’
Laura had followed Will’s advice and found it worked like a dream.