When she was washed and put in a clean nightdress, with the baby in the cot beside her, she fought to stay awake for a little longer, knowing how anxious Charles and Mildred would be to see their son’s child.
‘All right now?’ Chrissie made sure the bed was tucked in properly. ‘Shall we let everyone come in, then you can sleep?’
‘John’s parents first, Chrissie.’
They came in very quietly and gazed into the cot, where their granddaughter was now sleeping peacefully. There were tears, and that was quite understandable. Even Charles had to blow his nose.
Mildred bent over the bed and kissed Amy on the forehead. ‘She’s beautiful. Thank you, my dear.’
Charles did the same. ‘What will you call her?’
‘I’m going to call her Grace.’
‘Excellent choice.’ He glanced at his wife who was now mopping up fresh tears. ‘Don’t you think so, my dear?’
‘Yes, that’s a beautiful name; she’s a gift of grace.’
‘You must leave now.’ Chrissie urged them out. ‘Amy’s very tired.’
Amy was vaguely aware of the others coming in, but she was exhausted mentally and physically. John’s child had been born safely, she was perfect, and that was all that mattered…
Amy’s recovery was quick, and by the time Howard and Chrissie’s leave ended, she was already up. Charles also had to return to work, but Mildred stayed for another week, reluctant to let her grandchild out of her sight. The baby was a real blessing, and had given them all hope for the future after the crushing sorrow of John’s death.
Baby Grace was a contented little girl and only cried when she was hungry. Over the next few weeks her hair began to grow and, although it was going to be light brown and not black like her mother’s, it was fast turning into an unruly mop. It was the only thing she seemed to have inherited from Amy, which her mother was pleased about.
By the time she was two months old, the resemblance to her father was beginning to show. She had gentle blue eyes, and it hurt Amy sometimes when she saw those bright, intelligent eyes watching her, reminding her so much of the man she had lost, but there was also joy that she had been given the wonderful gift of his child.
As December arrived they began to plan for a special Christmas. Baby Grace was going to be the centre of attention, and spoilt on her first Christmas, Amy was sure.
Then on 7 December they received the astounding news that the Japanese had bombed the American fleet at Pearl Harbor.
There was an air of suppressed excitement around the camp. Ben could feel it, see it in the faces of the other prisoners. He swore under his breath. There was so much to sketch here and he couldn’t get enough blasted paper. Charlie had pinched a pencil for him from somewhere – no one ever asked where Charlie got the things he turned up with – and he’d been given a small notebook, but that was now full.
Charlie sauntered up to him. ‘The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor and sunk most of the American ships. The Yanks are now in the war with us.’
Ben watched him walk away to pass on the news to the next group of men. So that was what had happened! He clenched his fists. Things were going to get interesting, and he was stuck in this bloody place! He would have to see the Major and ask if there was any way he could get out. He was going to go mad if he had to stay in here much longer.
‘Heard the news?’ The Major fell into step beside him as he prowled the fence, trying to take in the implications of America joining the war.
He nodded. ‘I can’t believe the Japanese would do such a crazy thing. You sure it’s true?’
‘Positive. Heard it myself on our illicit wireless set. This means Britain is no longer alone. The Germans have now lost the chance to invade. They should have done it immediately after Dunkirk.’ Major Roberts grinned. ‘That was Hitler’s big mistake. He gave us a chance to recover and he’ll live to regret it.’
Ben stopped and bowed his head. ‘God, Major, I want to get out of here. Is there any chance?’
‘Not at the moment. The tunnel we were digging collapsed, nearly killing the man down there. This soil is too sandy and we couldn’t find enough wood to line it right to the trees.’ He gave Ben a sympathetic shrug. ‘We all want to get out.’
‘Major!’ Shorty hurried up to them. ‘There’s some people arrived and they’re at the commandant’s office. We think they might be Red Cross or something, because one of the blokes got close enough to hear them speak, and they ain’t German.’
‘They might be Swiss. I’ll see what I can find out.’ The Major marched towards the office.
Shorty looked up at Ben. ‘Exciting day, ain’t it? If it is the Red Cross I wonder if we can get some fags? I’m desperate for a smoke. Don’t suppose you’ve got any?’
‘Sorry, I’d give them to you if I did. I’d rather have some decent food.’
‘Ah, well, I expect you would.’ Shorty’s glance swept up and down Ben. ‘There’s a lot of you to fill up.’
Both stood, hands in pockets, staring through the barbed wire.
Shorty broke the silence. ‘What do you think will happen to us when the guards see that they are going to lose the war? And by God, they will now. We’d have beaten them on our own, of course’ – he gave a confident nod – ‘but with the Yanks on our side they don’t stand a chance. Do you think they’ll abandon us or shoot us?’
‘Just take off and leave us, I expect.’ Ben smiled down at his companion, knowing how badly Shorty wanted to survive and see his wife and two kids again. ‘If they start getting nasty you can hide behind me.’
‘Too right!’ Shorty roared, pounding Ben’s arm, his gloom vanishing. ‘Remind me to stick close to you.’
‘What are you doing in the Christmas concert?’ Ben changed the subject, keeping the conversation light. It was too painful for any of them to dwell on home, how long they might be here, or what might happen to them, although the questions were always with them.
‘Don’t tell anyone, but I’m dressing up as Vera Lynn to sing “The White Cliffs of Dover”.’
‘Oh, God!’ Ben shook with amusement. ‘You’ll have everyone crying!’
‘Not a chance.’ Shorty smirked. ‘They’ll be too busy laughing at me in a frock. It ain’t a pretty sight.’
‘I can believe that.’ Ben gazed down at the man who looked like a diminutive prize-fighter.
‘What’re you doing? You ought to be a chorus girl with your long legs.’
‘No fear! I’ve been recruited to do something with the scenery.’ Ben gave a wry smile. ‘Little Amy would never let me live that down. A forger might be acceptable in the circumstances, but a chorus girl? I’d never hear the last of it.’
Shorty eyed him with renewed interest. ‘Amy your girl?’
‘She’s like a sister to me, and is married to a doctor. But she’s special and you’d like her. She’s shorter than you.’
‘Pretty, is she?’
‘No, more fascinating, I’d say. She has a wide mouth, strange up-tilted green eyes, and an unruly mop of black hair. It’s a face that’s a joy to paint.’
Shorty gave him a beseeching look. ‘I’d like to meet her one day.’
Ben straightened up. ‘I’ll make sure you do. When we get out of here you must tell me where you live and you and your family can come and meet my lot. You’ll like everyone at the Chelsea house.’
‘Thanks. I’ll keep you to that, Ben.’
‘It’s a date. Now, let’s go and see if the Major has found out anything of interest.’
The men all gathered round the officer as soon as he returned.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. The commandant wouldn’t let me in, and by the time I had argued my way through the guards, the visitors had left, but one of the other guards did tell me they were from the Red Cross and they were gathering names of all prisoners.’ The Major glanced around the crowd. ‘That, at least, might mean we’ll receive parcels, and maybe letters.’
There were mutters o
f satisfaction about that. After the chaos of Dunkirk, none of them knew if their loved ones had been told whether they were dead or alive, or just missing, which was the most likely thing.
Ben stepped forward. ‘My friend was with me at Dunkirk, and I’m desperate to know if he made it back.’
‘I’ll see if I can find out what this visit was all about, but don’t hold out too much hope. The last thing the Germans want is for us to know what’s going on.’
They all dispersed then, their frustration showing.
*
Somehow Charlie had come up with a large tin of white paint and a sheet big enough to cover the back of the stage they had erected. Ben was of the opinion that the man was more than a pickpocket: he was a skilled burglar.
‘You’re obviously good at getting in and out of places unseen,’ Ben said, ‘so why don’t you escape from this blasted camp?’
‘I will one day, when I’m ready.’
Ben believed him. The man was devious enough to have a plan and not tell anyone else. ‘Take me with you when you go.’
‘Sorry, mate, but I’ll stand more chance on my own. Always worked alone, you see.’ Charlie opened the tin with a penknife he kept hidden in his shoe. ‘This stuff any good to you?’
‘Not like that. We will have to divide it up and put in something to make green, blue and brown, keeping a little of the white, of course.’
‘That’s easy enough.’ Charlie began to pour equal amounts into various tins he’d ‘found’.
They worked together, trying various ways of colouring the paint. A little ink dealt with the blue, then they crushed some grass, which was added to another tin to make green.
Stirring vigorously, Ben grimaced. ‘I don’t think I want to know what you’re going to suggest for the brown.’
‘That’s a tricky one, I must admit.’ Charlie disappeared out of the door, chipped away at something, came back and opened his hand to let fine granules run into the paint. It turned an orange brown as he stirred.
‘What have you put in it?’
‘Rust.’
‘Rust?’ Ben gaped in astonishment. ‘I bet Michelangelo never had to go to these lengths to get his colours.’
‘Who’s that?’ Charlie looked completely blank.
‘Never mind.’ Ben surveyed the paints. The colours were awful, but it was better than nothing, and no one was going to worry about the artwork.
After a couple of hours, he had a snowy woodland scene painted as a backcloth to the makeshift stage. It was no work of art, but he had enjoyed the challenge.
‘Hey, that’s great.’ Shorty stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Real colourful. Reminds me of the New Forest.’
‘Really?’ Ben stepped back and mirrored Shorty’s stance. ‘Well, all I can say is that you must have poor eyesight. That’s the worst painting I’ve ever done in my life, and the worst materials I’ve had to use.’
‘Nah, you’re wrong. You’re a real clever bloke.’ Shorty had a gleam in his eyes. ‘I’ve thought of something you can do in the concert – something we can do together.’
Ben eyed him with suspicion. ‘Such as?’
Shorty whispered so no one else could hear, and Ben snorted. ‘You must be joking?’
‘Come on, it’ll cause a laugh, and that’s what we need in this place. It’s a hard time of year to be separated from our families. Let’s find somewhere to practise.’
Ben couldn’t argue with Shorty’s views. Christmas away from home was hard on all of them.
With everyone busy preparing for the concert it was easy to find an empty hut. By the end of an hour, Ben was howling with laughter. ‘You’re half my size and we look ridiculous!’
‘That’s the whole idea.’ Shorty rubbed his hands together, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘We need a couple of hats, so let’s find the tailor and see what he can rustle up for us. There’s still three days to Christmas Eve, and we’ll have the routine off pat by then.’
The evening of the concert arrived and everyone was in high spirits, looking forward to the show. It was helping to take their minds off their families and home.
There was a varied programme of singers, tap dancers, comedians and impressionists. Shorty’s rendition of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ was excruciating and much enjoyed by them all. He quickly changed out of his frock, grabbed Ben and dragged him on the stage when they were announced.
Their impersonation of Flanagan and Allen caused uproar. A more ill-suited pair could not be imagined. When Shorty put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, he had to stand on tiptoe to reach, and milked the joke for all he was worth. No one could hear how bad the singing was, because the entire audience was joining in at the tops of their voices.
The concert had been a great success, but the sadness would come tomorrow – Christmas Day – as each man silently yearned to be at home with his family, and worried what 1942 would bring.
33
Baby Grace kicked and waved her arms about, happy to have a clean nappy pinned in place.
‘You’ve had a lovely Christmas and New Year, haven’t you?’ Amy picked up her daughter and settled her back in the pram, looking forward to the summer when she would be able to put her in the garden. She had to watch Oscar though, as he appeared to be fascinated by the new arrival. Amy had found a piece of net curtain to fix across the hood of the pram so he couldn’t jump in.
There was a knock on the door and, seeing Grace was already asleep, she went to answer it, as Mrs Dalton was busy trying to tidy Howard’s workroom after his brief visit home.
‘Oh, how lovely to see you,’ Amy exclaimed, seeing Ben’s parents on the doorstep. ‘Please come in.’
It wasn’t until they were in the kitchen that she noticed Ben’s mother had been crying. She felt a cold chill run through her. Was there news about Ben, and was it bad?
‘We’ve had another telegram.’ Mr Scott spoke gruffly. ‘Show it to Amy, my dear.’
Her heart crashing against her ribs, Amy shook her head. She knew she wouldn’t be able to read it in this state; the words would be an incomprehensible muddle. ‘What does it say?’
‘He’s alive.’ Mrs Scott’s voice wavered. ‘He was taken prisoner at Dunkirk.’
‘Oh…’ Amy had to sit down as relief swept through her. ‘I always felt he was still alive, but it’s wonderful to have it confirmed. Do you know where he is?’
‘They haven’t told us that, but somewhere in Germany, I expect.’ Mr Scott smiled then. ‘But thank God he’s alive. The not knowing has been agony.’
Amy agreed with that. The uncertainty about Ben had been awful for all of them to deal with. ‘Howard will need to be told at once.’
‘We sent a message to him this morning, as soon as the telegram arrived.’
‘He will be so relieved as well.’ Amy looked at Mr Scott and smiled, then stood up, went to the door and called, ‘Mrs Dalton, come quickly, we’ve had some wonderful news!’
Mrs Dalton arrived at once, out of breath from rushing up the stairs, and when Amy explained about the telegram, she raised her eyes to the ceiling as if giving thanks to a higher being.
‘That’s the best way to start nineteen forty-two. I’m so happy. Thank you for coming to tell us.’
‘Being a prisoner of war won’t be easy for him though. We must remember that.’ Mr Scott dropped the note of caution into their joy. ‘This conflict isn’t going to end in a hurry, even though we’ve got help now. He could be there for a long time.’
‘We know that, my dear.’ Mrs Scott dabbed her eyes. ‘But he’s alive, and we can be thankful about that.’
‘And he’s out of the fighting.’ Mrs Dalton put the kettle on to boil. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea.’
Amy picked up Grace, who had begun to grumble. ‘What do you think about that, poppet? When the war’s over your Uncle Ben will be coming home and we’ll get him to paint your picture.’
The only response to that piece of news was for the baby to study these ne
w people over her mother’s shoulder.
‘My goodness!’ Mrs Scott was now on her feet. ‘She’s grown since we saw her just after she was born. May I hold her?’
Amy handed her over. ‘She’s looking more like her father every day.’
‘She’s a darling.’ Mrs Scott walked around the kitchen telling Grace how beautiful she was.
‘She’ll stand any amount of that!’ Amy watched for a moment, smiling, then laid out the cups and a plate of biscuits.
Ben’s parents stayed for an hour and when they left, they promised to let Amy know if they received further news.
Ted arrived soon after they’d gone and was as relieved as everyone else to hear the news, but, like Mr Scott, he was cautious. ‘He’s going to hate being confined like that without his paints, but he should be safe unless he tries to escape.’
‘He mustn’t do that.’ Mrs Dalton looked worried. ‘He’s got to sit tight until the war’s over.’
‘If he does anything silly I’ll never forgive him, and neither will Grace. I’ve told her all about him, and he’d better come back. We’ll be very cross with him if he does anything daft, won’t we, sweetie?’
Grace’s face began to pucker, working up to a cry. Amy kissed her. ‘Now, don’t you worry because we’ll write a long letter telling him to be a good boy. And we’ll write to Uncle Howard as well.’
Ted and Mrs Dalton watched Amy chatting to the baby as if she could understand, smiles of amusement on their faces.
Amy carried on. ‘Your mummy has a job with writing, so I’m banking on you growing up bright like your dad. He could read the most difficult books without any trouble at all. He was ever so clever. He was a doctor.’
She had talked to Grace about John from the moment she had been born. It hurt terribly, but she was determined to do it. Her father might not be here for her, but Amy wanted to make him a part of their daughter’s life through her memories of him.
Ted chuckled. ‘Have you told her the first Americans are arriving in this country?’
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