A Woman's War

by S Block

  Steph threw her arms around Stan, buried her face in his neck, and held on to him for nearly a minute.

  ‘Love you, Stan Farrow,’ she eventually whispered.

  ‘You too, love,’ he whispered back.

  Steph felt all the dread that had collected inside her on the ward drain from her now. The hours she had lain awake imagining a seemingly infinite variety of ways Stanley could die horribly in battle suddenly counted for nothing. All concern for the state of her heart, for the restricted life she would now have to lead, fell from her mind.

  He’s going to stay. He’s going to be safe. He’s going to be safe!

  The words went around and round inside her head, and seemed to lift her off the ground.

  They walked in silence the rest of the way home. Steph looked around at the landscape that had made her the woman she was, one season at a time. Steph kept glan-cing up at her husband and smiling to herself, her anxiety about her heart fading with each step now that her son was staying with them.

  ‘Mind,’ said Stan. ‘I’m not having you argue with any of the changes we’ve made when we get back,’ he said. ‘Not one word. They’re staying, and you’re using them, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Steph looked at him with mock-seriousness. ‘Wouldn’t dream of arguing, Stan Farrow.’

  ‘You’d better not.’

  As they approached the farmhouse Steph heard the same cry she had heard on the fateful afternoon, moments before she had rushed out to save her son from the German pilot. Only today it wasn’t infused with terror but joy.

  ‘Ma!’

  She turned to her left and saw Stanley sprinting across the same field he had fled across to escape the gaining German. Stanley’s face wasn’t now contorted in abject fear, but split by the widest grin.

  ‘Ma!’

  Steph stood and smiled as her son rushed up to her and threw his arms around her, almost knocking her off her feet.

  She threw her arms around him, and mother and son clung to one another for an age.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .’

  Chapter 41

  AFTER A LONG and thankfully uneventful night at the Observation Post, Laura helped Brian clean and pack away their instruments ready for the next shift, later in the day. They had kept each other awake by lively conversation, but their energy for chat was sinking as fast as the sun was rising. Having been awake since 10 p.m. the previous night, both were dog-tired and eager to get back to their respective homes, and beds. They were all but silent as they climbed down the short ladder onto the road.

  ‘See you soon,’ said Brian with a weary wave of his hand. ‘Pleasure, as always.’

  ‘See you soon,’ Laura replied, waving back with a tired smile. ‘Likewise.’

  Laura enjoyed Brian’s friendship, and the verbal shorthand they had developed over many hours sky-watching for the first sign of approaching bombers.

  Brian cycled off at low speed. Laura watched him disappear around the corner and expressed a long, leisurely yawn. After staying awake and alert all night, Laura’s mind was now pleasantly fuzzy. Having found it difficult to adjust at first, she had come to appreciate the particular light and sounds of dawn, as the world woke around her. The air was still and subdued. The foxes had gone to ground, replaced by the first enterprising birds of the day, out to catch the first available food.

  The walk home was quiet. Laura fastened onto the sound of her own footsteps, as if she were following someone else. Her thoughts turned superficially to the various concerns that occupied her. The ongoing feelings of grief and sorrow over her father’s death. The empty space she felt from Tom’s absence. Her concern over how her mother was coping without Will. The scholarship exam. She was too tired to give any of these much focus, preferring to wander along in the direction of home and allow her mind to do the same. The road from the Observation Post led into the centre of the village. As she walked along the row of houses Laura saw someone approaching in the distance on a bicycle. The cyclist drew closer and Laura realised it was Spencer, delivering his first round of post of the day. He cycled past and called out, ‘Just been to yours! Letter for you!’

  By the time Laura had registered what he’d said, Spencer was already a hundred yards up the road. Laura nevertheless called back, ‘What kind of letter?’ But Spencer was no longer within range, and continued to pedal until he disappeared from view.

  Laura was only expecting one letter – her scholarship exam result, accompanied by a pleasantly worded missive of regret, informing her in the nicest way possible that she hadn’t been awarded a place at the university’s medical school.

  She hadn’t been expecting the letter to arrive on any particular day, and this morning was as good – or bad – as any. Yet it still took her by surprise. She continued to walk home, slowing her pace. Why rush to receive bad news? Whenever she arrived, it would be there to greet her. Better to gather herself for disappointment, and the outpouring of solace from her mother.

  Turning the corner to cross in front of St Mark’s, Laura was surprised to see her mother walking quickly towards her with a letter in her hand. Erica knew what time Laura finished her shift at the Observation Post, and knew the route home she would take.

  ‘Have you come to intercept me?’ Laura asked.

  Erica took a moment to catch her breath. Her brow was damp with sweat. Evidently, she had been running to meet her daughter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The letter from the university came this morning.’

  ‘I know,’ said Laura. ‘Spencer passed me on his bike and told me a letter had come for me. And since that’s the only letter I’ve been expecting—’

  ‘I had an idea,’ interrupted Erica, ‘and if you’d rather not then you must say, and we’ll go home and open it there.’

  Laura was momentarily puzzled. ‘What idea?’ she asked.

  Erica’s breath was now under control and she looked at her daughter solemnly for a few moments.

  ‘To a very real extent this journey over the past few months was instigated by your father. I thought it might be easier for you to open the letter with him.’

  Laura didn’t quite understand, but suddenly realised her mother meant beside her father’s grave in the cemetery at St Mark’s.

  ‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ she said finally.

  Erica smiled. ‘I’m so pleased.’

  Erica held out her hand and took Laura’s and gently led her towards the church. Once inside the graveyard, the two women swiftly made their way to Will’s grave, and took a moment to compose themselves.

  ‘We are here, darling. I’ve brought Laura. The letter from the medical school came this morning and we thought we would like to open it with you.’

  Erica then slowly offered Laura the envelope from the university’s medical faculty.

  Laura stared at the envelope for several moments. Her mouth became suddenly dry, and her palms instantly clammy.

  Laura took the envelope and looked at her mother.

  ‘This is it then,’ she said.

  Erica nodded. ‘Whatever it says, Laura, your father and I could not be any prouder of you. If isn’t the news you were hoping for, there will be many other opportunities for you to pursue. You are a very resilient young woman—’

  Laura couldn’t wait for her mother to finish her well-rehearsed speech to help her daughter cope with the disappointing news she was anticipating, and tore open the envelope.

  As soon as Laura read the first line her eyes started to well up. As she read on, her hand covered her mouth in an attempt to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my darling girl,’ said Erica, stepping forward to wrap her arms around her daughter. Before she could get to Laura, Laura lifted her eyes from the letter and looked at her mother.

  ‘I got it,’ she said, in a voice so disbelieving that it made her reread the letter in case she had made a terrible mistake. She hadn’t.
<
br />   ‘What?’ Erica’s voice had been prepared for intense disappointment, not this.

  ‘I got the scholarship!’

  Erica blinked for a moment, and then rushed to Laura and threw her arms around her.

  ‘Let me see!’ she demanded.

  Laura gave her the letter and Erica quickly scanned it.

  ‘You’ve got it!’ she exclaimed, struggling to comprehend the full import of the news.

  Erica hugged Laura so tightly with delight that Laura struggled to breathe. But she didn’t mind. After nearly a minute they stepped apart, each with tears down their cheeks.

  ‘Do you want to tell him, or shall I?’ Erica asked.

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Laura.

  ‘Of course,’ Erica said.

  Laura slowly knelt beside Will’s grave, the wet dew on the grass gently soaking her knees. She barely noticed. Laura lowered her face to the fresh brown soil until her lips were just an inch or two away from its surface.

  ‘I got it, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I got the scholarship. I’m going to be a doctor.’

  Chapter 42

  ON THE DAY Pat and Bob moved into their new house, six miles from Great Paxford, Frances and her sister, Sarah, had gone over to Joyce’s house to see them off and to wish their old friend well.

  Pat had seemed happy to be leaving, while Bob appeared relaxed, courteous, and even friendly towards two women who he had previously held at arm’s length. Bob historically regarded with suspicion anyone with whom he had to compete for Pat’s attention; and anyone who he suspected of having rather more insight into the way he had treated his wife than he would have liked.

  Consumed by curiosity, Frances and Sarah had wanted to pay a visit to Pat’s new home at the earliest opportunity, keen to see if it lived up to Pat’s description, or whether it conformed to their expectation of what Bob would pay for.

  For nearly three weeks after the move no one heard from Pat. She cancelled her shifts at the telephone exchange, and hadn’t attended the most recent WI meeting. There was another village closer to Pat’s new house than Great Paxford, so it was little surprise that she hadn’t come into the village for groceries.

  Frances and Sarah planned to take a bus to within half a mile of Pat’s new house, but on the day Sarah had received a second letter from her husband, Adam. Her delight scotched all plans of doing anything other than spending the next few days trying to parse every drop of meaning from each line he had penned, and to write back once more. Her joy at finally hearing from Adam was shared by her sister, and the two women set to work de-coding the letter like a pair of cryptographers at Bletchley Park. From what they could glean, Adam was in good health despite a minor illness earlier in the Autumn. In addition, several of his ‘chaps’ had discussed trying to make an escape from the camp, but Adam had discouraged them until the Spring, when the weather would improve and their chances of surviving off the land as they made their way towards neutral or allied territory would significantly increase.

  ‘They’re so lucky to have Adam with them,’ said Frances. ‘Adding a measure of reality and sanity to their endeavours.’

  ‘He understands the urge to escape well enough,’ said Sarah, ‘but knows it needs to be balanced with patient planning. There really is little point breaking out only to be shot in the attempt, get captured immediately or die from exposure shortly afterwards.’

  She was immensely relieved to receive the very strong impression that conditions were tolerable, the Germans were treating them with a modicum of decency, and that Adam had decided to bide his time for the next few months.

  ‘Who knows,’ said Frances, ‘if the officers of the Wehrmacht came to their senses and mounted a coup, the war could be over at almost any time.’

  Another week passed while Sarah penned and re-drafted and re-drafted a letter back to Adam via the Red Cross, with a food parcel. Her letter was also cryptically incongruous, yet contained enough clues for Adam’s knowing eye to discern that his wife was telling him to do nothing stupid to jeopardise either his health or life until the war’s end.

  *

  So it was nearly four weeks after Pat’s departure from the village that Frances and Sarah, and now also Alison – keen to see how her old friend was settling in – set out to make an impromptu visit to Pat in her new home. The bus ride out of Great Paxford was unremarkable, and they alighted at the designated stop in the middle of nowhere. Hedgerows and fields stretched as far as the eye could see, without interruption by any human habitation that wasn’t a farm building. Ever prepared, Frances had brought along a map, which they followed assiduously.

  Neither Sarah nor Alison quarrelled with Frances’s directions. Each knew from experience she was likely to be fastidiously correct, having worked over the route for hours the night before. And if Frances had by some peculiarity got it wrong, and was leading them wildly off course, she wouldn’t believe it until proof was staring her in the face in the form of an open cave, a gushing waterfall or a precipice greeting them where Pat’s new house should have been.

  But Frances hadn’t got it wrong, and after a mile of brisk walking she lifted her head from the map and announced that Pat’s new house should be – no, would be – just around the next corner.

  And there it was.

  From the outside, it perfectly matched Pat’s description, except that it seemed much bigger than she had described. Where Pat and Bob’s old house had been joined at the hip to the Campbell house, their new property stood alone, beside a young wood recently established by the Forestry Commission.

  It was very solid-looking, built of the earthy red-clay brick that was so characteristic of the area, with a dark roof covered with slates mined from the quarries of North Wales. There were two chimneys, and thick, milky wood-smoke pumped into the air from one.

  ‘They’re at home then,’ Alison observed. ‘At least we haven’t wasted our time.’

  They approached the house and took in more of its features. The front door was acid yellow, beautifully inlaid with stained glass, and framed by a tall, thickly spiked Pyracantha bush. The path leading up to the scarlet doorstep was made up of chequered tiles, with a neatly manicured square of lawn on either side, and rose bushes beneath each of the bay windows. As they approached the clattering sound of Bob’s typewriter emanated from within.

  ‘Another book?’ Alison asked in response to the noisy typing. ‘I read his last one. Awful. God help us.’

  ‘It’s a very handsome property,’ said Frances. ‘A lot for Pat to take care of.’

  ‘Regardless of what you think of it, Alison, Bob must be doing very well,’ said Sarah.

  Frances pulled the front door bell, hearing it chime inside the house. They each fixed a smile on their face and waited for Pat to open the door.

  But Pat didn’t open the door.

  Frances looked puzzled, glanced at the other two, and pulled the bell a second time. Again, they heard it ring inside the house.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ said Sarah, ‘Bob’s typing doesn’t stop when we ring the bell.’

  ‘Try one more time,’ said Alison. ‘Third time lucky.’

  Frances pulled the bell a third time. Again, it rang within the house. Again, Bob’s typing didn’t stop. And again, Pat failed to appear at the door.

  ‘His nibs is clearly not going to be disturbed,’ said Frances. ‘Perhaps she’s in the garden?’

  They went to the left-hand side of the property and stood on tiptoes to see over the fence into the garden. There was no sign of Pat. They did the same at the right-hand side, with the same result.

  ‘She must be out,’ Sarah said. ‘Why don’t we try and get Bob’s attention to see if he knows when Pat might return? If it isn’t too long we could wait.’

  ‘I rang the bell three times. He ignored it. What would you have me do? Holler through the letterbox?’

  ‘If it’s beneath your dignity, Frances, it isn’t beneath mine,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Or mine,’ said Alis
on. ‘Rather that than waste the entire journey.’

  Sarah and Alison knelt before the letterbox and called out for Bob, while Frances – after her sister gesticulated that it should be her contribution – pulled the bell once again.

  As loud as they hollered, and as hard as Frances pulled, the hammering from Bob’s typewriter was incessant.

  Frances was the first to give up and stepped back and looked up at the house. The sun had been out when they had first walked up, causing the house to look grand and statuesque. But now, with the sun obscured by tufts of thickening cloud, it took on a darker, more morose character, exuding not a little foreboding. Frances half-expected to see a sign somewhere, declaring ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’.

  Sarah and Alison got to their feet and stepped back.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Bob wasn’t a little deaf, having to listen to that racket all his working life,’ Frances ventured.

  ‘All this way for nothing,’ said Alison, flatly.

  ‘Not for nothing,’ Frances declared, determined not to be beaten by circumstance. ‘I’ll leave a note.’

  Frances opened her handbag and took out a small brown notebook and pen she carried with her at all times in the event a brilliant idea for a WI initiative came to her suddenly.

  ‘What will you say?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘I’m going to say that we came out to see her, hoping she would enjoy the surprise, and that we were disappointed to find her out. And to remind her about the WI meeting tonight, and that everyone would simply love to see her.’

  By now, Frances was coming to the end of the note.

  ‘Will you say that despite ringing the bell three times, and screaming like banshees through the letterbox, Bob failed to answer the door?’ Alison asked.

  ‘I shan’t say that – it would look snarky, and we don’t need to look snarky. If he’s in full flow then he has every right not to answer the door. I am the same with unexpected visitors and unexpected telephone calls. I don’t ask people to come by unannounced, or to telephone, so why must I drop everything and give them my attention?’