A Wartime Friend

by Lizzie Lane

  Talking of animals brought Ray to mind. He’d been so intense about having the dog live with them. It wouldn’t happen, though she had to admit the animal would be more at home in this countryside retreat than in a house in London.

  While Meg cheerfully rattled on about how green everything was Lily stood mute, totally unresponsive, not moving or saying a word.

  Meg persisted. ‘Look. I can see cows in the distance. And sheep. Don’t you want to see them, Lily?’

  Lily took one more glance then proceeded to study her immediate surroundings more closely, turning her head and staring around her as though monsters lurked in the corners. Was there nothing likely to entice the poor child from the closed world she presently occupied?

  At night, Meg tossed and turned. It was hard to think of something new that might trigger a response. ‘Things will improve,’ the doctor had told her on the last occasion he’d examined Lily before leaving hospital. ‘New surroundings would help no end. But give it time.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t recover?’

  She’d seen reticence in the pale eyes viewing her through the thick glass of horn-rimmed spectacles, and knew he was weighing up whether to reassure her with half-truths or be totally honest. Swallowing her apprehension, she’d pressed on. ‘I’d like to know the truth, Doctor.’

  He’d nodded in a vague kind of way, pushing his spectacles upwards with one finger until they sat in the indent at the top of his nose. ‘If she doesn’t recover, then we may have to arrange specialised treatment in a hospital for children with psychological illnesses.’

  ‘You mean the mad house?’

  The doctor snatched his spectacles from his nose in one fell swoop – like an eagle snatching its prey. ‘Mrs Malin! We do not refer to such places like that these days. Mental health is an illness that can be cured like any other,’ the doctor indignantly declared.

  Meg refused to be intimidated. ‘My child is not going into such a place whatever you might like to call it. And that is that!’ She surprised herself when she referred to Lily as though they were related by blood. My child!

  My child. She flinched at the thought of that conversation. Ray’s warnings were ripe in her mind. At some point Lily would remember who she was or somebody might recognise her. Then she would no longer be her child. She would belong to somebody else.

  Getting down on to her knees, she smiled into Lily’s eyes and stroked her cheek. ‘It’s nine weeks or so before you begin school here, so we’ve got plenty of time to explore. Just the two of us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Lily said nothing and did nothing.

  A sharp pain stabbed at Meg’s heart and for an agonising moment she felt that pain turn to anger. ‘I want the real Lily back!’ she wanted to shout, but she restrained herself from doing so. Shouting was likely to frighten Lily, sending her deeper into this hollow shell she now resided in.

  ‘Let’s go back downstairs,’ she said, letting the curtain go and watching the spider scurrying away. Their footsteps echoed down the narrow staircase, sounding as hollow as her thoughts. She wanted Ray, she wanted her old life back, and it was only her responsibility towards Lily that kept her from catching the train back to London. She had to give the child a chance.

  The hot weeks of July and August were spent rambling through fields ripe with corn and filled with the laughter of land girls helping with the harvest. At least the fresh air would do both of them some good.

  Most of the land girls were city girls who’d never seen a cow before, let alone learned how to milk one or drive a tractor or toss sheaves into a threshing machine. Meg much admired them. Every time they took a short cut across a field, she waved at them and they waved back.

  Lily did not acknowledge them in any way. As far as she was concerned, they might as well not be there. She was totally unresponsive and Meg was at her wits’ end. Only the promise of her Uncle Ray coming to visit seemed to raise any interest at all, and even then it was only a sideways look from those sea-blue eyes. It was small comfort but all she had.

  Her hopes soared when a letter arrived from Ray saying he had leave coming and would be returning soon. ‘He’s coming home,’ Meg she said to Lily, excitement spilling from her voice. ‘He’s coming home. Isn’t that wonderful, darling?’

  She vaguely recalled reading in the letter that he was bringing somebody named Rudy with him. She would prefer he didn’t bring anyone. She wanted him to herself, so they could talk about Lily and how long it would be before she recovered from her ordeal on the night the bombers came. Perhaps she would have regained her memory by now if it hadn’t been for that.

  She went down on her knees so that she could stroke Lily’s hair and smile into her uncomprehending eyes in the hope she might understand better. Yet again she fancied she saw a flicker of response, but it was so difficult to tell.

  The hot day cooled into twilight. It was just after she had put Lily to bed that she remembered who Rudy was. The dog! Her mind had been so preoccupied with worrying about Lily, she’d forgotten. The last thing she wanted was a dog. This place was dreary enough without bringing a dog into it and Ray’s sudden mention of bringing the dog home with him angered her, so much so that she phoned him at the base. Thank goodness Aunt Lavender had had a phone put in so she could keep in touch with her daughter in Scotland.

  ‘I need to talk to Flight Officer Ray Malin,’ she said in a clipped tone, gripping the receiver as if she were attempting to strangle it.

  ‘I’m sorry. He’s not here at the moment.’

  Meg heaved a big sigh of exasperation.

  ‘Would you like to leave a message?’ asked the polite young woman on the other end of the telephone.

  Meg bit her bottom lip. Her exasperation had not gone away. She was still annoyed but it wouldn’t be fair to have Ray come back to a bad-tempered message. She made the effort to regulate her tone.

  ‘Yes. Will you please tell him that I cannot possibly cope with him bringing a dog? Tell him that. Tell him not to bring the dog.’

  She waited a few hours before phoning again. Ray was still not available. He never went into detail about the job he was doing. Incisive questions were met with deep silences. She only knew he wasn’t on ordinary bombing missions. He was involved in dangerous missions in enemy territory, but that was all he would admit to. The details were top secret.

  Enemy territory! The thought of him being captured was frightening.

  The only clue she had was him suggesting they might think about living in France once the war was over. The very thought of it had made her shudder, but that was when the house in Andover Avenue was still standing.

  There was always fear at a time like this. She closed her eyes. ‘Please come home safe,’ she prayed. She derived some reassurance when Ray didn’t get in touch and neither did his commanding officer. No news was good news.

  She occupied herself by day with Lily and making new things for the house, keeping it clean and chasing the resident spiders from their knotty holes in the plasterwork. By night she had time to dwell on things. ‘Don’t let it be too long,’ she whispered when the moonlight fell like a skein of silk across her bed and bats fluttered from the church tower.

  The day the telegram arrived saying he was on his way home, she sprang into action cleaning, and making the place as perfect as possible almost became the obsession it had been back in London. She tried to involve Lily in tidying the cottage, weeding the garden, picking flowers to place in a vase, chivvying her along with her enthusiasm, trying to get her as excited as she was.

  ‘What about those pink ones? You like pink, don’t you?’

  Lily didn’t answer, only paying attention to the bright red poppies that grew in the long grass against the fence. She wasn’t picking the poppies but fingering them and then peeling the red petals away so that only the coal-black stamen remained.

  Fear clutched at Meg’s heart. It was always red and black Lily chose, never something girly and pink. Before the bombing, L
ily had been fond of colouring books and drawing, using all different combinations of colour to create a picture. Not now. She only used red and black. Red for flames. Black for the darkness of that terrible night. And the screaming. Nowadays Meg wished Lily would scream. At least it would be some kind of reaction.

  Long shadows fell across the garden and Lily was still unresponsive, standing in the middle of the lawn gazing at flying insects caught in the last mellow rays before the sun went down. Meg finally called it a day.

  ‘Come on, poppet.’ Taking hold of her daughter’s hand, she led her indoors but left the back door open. ‘There. So you can watch the sunset,’ she said lightly. ‘Or would you prefer to draw?’

  Ignoring the view out of the open door, Lily sat down at the kitchen table and pulled her drawing book towards her, picked up a black crayon and began to plaster the lower half of the paper with blackness. Seemingly satisfied that enough of the paper was black, she reached for the red crayon and covered the top half.

  Black and red. Darkness and fire.

  The following morning dawned cloudy and grey, a light drizzle falling like a gauzy veil, droplets of water hanging from the thirsty cabbage roses that bounced against the front wall of the cottage. The low thudding of raindrops on the zinc bath hanging on the back wall got on Meg’s nerves, though it did remind her that an umbrella was needed when visiting the primitive toilet at the end of the garden.

  The cottage was even darker without the benefit of sunlight. Meg tried not to think of the rain and greyness as a portent of things to come. You can’t have every day being sunny, she told herself as she peered around her. She so wanted the day Ray came home to be sunny. It might help all of them be happy, including Lily.

  Finally, the rain stopped. On opening the kitchen window, the smell of a wet garden came in and for a moment lifted her spirits. She placed a piece of buttered toast and a boiled egg in front of the silent waif she had brought into her life, slicing off the top and handing Lily a spoon so she could feed herself. Whatever was going on in Lily’s mind, it had not affected her appetite.

  Meg sipped at her tea and gazed out of the window. Birdsong and the smell of flowers wafted in, but she hardly heard one or smelled the other. In fact, she wasn’t really tuned in to seeing the garden in all its summer glory. Her mind was preoccupied with all the things she needed to do before Ray came home. Even though he would bring his own ration book with him, she’d really pushed the boat out, queuing for the little luxuries that would make him feel truly at home.

  Ron Place, the local farmer, had butchered a cow that was no longer giving milk and she’d been lucky enough to purchase a piece, a definite change from rabbit. Everyone in the village had access to rabbits and wood pigeons. Fresh food was more plentiful in the country and it was also much safer.

  Lily had eaten her egg and toast and drank her milk. She was drawing again. Meg sighed. Red and black again. Never mind, she thought as she swilled her cup under the tap. Ray would be home in two days. He’d be disappointed in Lily’s progress and perhaps decide they should move back to the city, close to the experts who might help Lily further. It cheered her to think they might have to move back to London, though she shook her head at the thought of the threat from overhead. London was being badly bombed.

  Somebody knocking at the front door jerked her thoughts back to the here and now. ‘Who can that be,’ she said as she took off her apron and hung the tea towel to dry in front of the range. ‘Can’t go to the door unless I look my best, can I sweetheart?’ she said to Lily.

  Lily didn’t look up.

  After quickly running her fingers through her hair, Meg headed for the front door. She assumed her visitor would be another of those Women’s Institute ladies pressing for her to attend one of their village meetings. ‘You will be most welcome,’ her neighbour Mrs Dando from across the other side of the village green had insisted, a thin-lipped smile creasing her already wrinkled face. Oh well. She would be polite and tell her plainly that she had not changed her mind.

  It was not Mrs Dando.

  A young man with a freckled complexion and ginger hair stood on the doorstep. He wore the uniform of a telegram delivery boy and the front wheel of his bicycle peered from behind the garden gate.

  ‘Mrs Malin?’

  He didn’t smile. If he had smiled she might not have felt what seemed to be cold fingers gripping her heart. If he had smiled she would have thought that Ray had sent a telegram saying he would be coming home early. This afternoon’s train perhaps?

  He didn’t smile and the colour drained from her face.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ He handed her a plain brown envelope, touched his cap and was gone.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there staring at the envelope. The postmark, War Office, didn’t really register because she didn’t want it to register. She didn’t want to open it.

  A sudden scream from the kitchen took her running to Lily’s side. The girl was staring at the fire in the range. Meg had lit it in order to do some baking. Thinking to take advantage of the heat, she’d spread a few things in front of the fire to dry and there really hadn’t been room for the tea towel she’d put there. The smell of scorching filled the kitchen. The tea towel had burst into flames.

  The washing-up water was still in a bowl in the sink. Thinking on her feet, Meg grabbed it, throwing the water over the fire. There was a sizzling sound as steam replaced the smoke sent up by naked flames.

  Lily was still screaming.

  Meg wrapped her arms around her. ‘It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.’

  Lily stopped screaming, pushing herself from Meg’s arms. Her face was expressionless as she made her way back to the kitchen table, her crayons and her drawing. It was as though nothing had happened. The moment was blocked out, another incident to be buried with far worse memories.

  Meg squeezed her eyes tightly shut. If she didn’t rein in her feelings she too would be screaming. It was bad enough coping with Lily, but now there was a message – from the War Office. Her heart was beating swiftly.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. One thing at a time. One problem addressed and another one to come. Hands shaking and heart thudding, she picked up a butter knife and slit open the envelope. The words were straight to the point.

  ‘We are sorry to inform you that Flight Officer Raymond David Malin failed to return from a mission and is presumed dead after his plane went down over enemy territory.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After receiving the news of Ray’s death, Meg held herself stiffly as though she was made of cast iron. Ray wasn’t coming back. He would never again complain about mowing the lawn, decorating the house or trimming the rose bushes. With hindsight she realised just how much he’d hated all those things. He’d preferred meeting friends at the pub, rambling around London streets with a drawing pad, talking to new and exciting people. The last thought hit her like a bus. She recalled how he’d seemed twice the man when meeting new and different people or socialising with friends owning as much ego as he did. Now he was gone. A light had gone out in her life.

  For the rest of that day she flitted around the cottage numb from head to toe and without shedding a tear, holding everything back behind a concrete dam for Lily’s sake. Long after the girl had gone to bed, she carried on polishing furniture that didn’t need polishing, sweeping a floor that had already been swept three times that day, and washing items of laundry that she’d just brought in from drying on the line.

  That night, once in her own bed and with the cottage creaking around her, she stared silently into the darkness awaiting tears that did not come. What was wrong with her? She felt sad so why didn’t she cry? Inexplicably, her sorrow changed to anger.

  ‘Oh, come on, Meg. This war will be one great adventure.’

  No, she wanted to shout. No! It is not an adventure. It’s dangerous and takes you away from your proper home.

  How dare he go away! How
dare he volunteer for missions over enemy territory! If he’d been more content with his home life and a more mundane wartime job, perhaps in administration or training, he would still be alive.

  ‘See,’ she said, her voice shrill because she restrained from shouting, in case she woke Lily. ‘If you had been content with being at home, this would never have happened. And now you’re dead!’

  Yes, the telegram said missing presumed dead, but she knew what they meant. Why didn’t they just spell it out as it was instead of giving her false hope? She hated this war. She hated the faceless bureaucrats in Whitehall who thought they knew best how things should be worded, how best to handle a woman who had lost the man she loved. They knew nothing!

  Sleep was elusive. Throwing back the bedclothes, she sat on the edge of the bed starting out of the window, unseeing as the night sky turned to grey and fingers of orange from the rising sun streaked the sky.

  Memories from their first meeting, their courtship and their marriage flooded into her mind. He’d worked in the city for an insurance company and, by his own admission, was recognised as a rising star. His own enthusiasm for being well thought of did not match that of everyone else, however; especially his father.

  ‘It was the job he wanted for me, not one of my own choosing.’ His manner had been unusually bitter. ‘I hate doing the job I’m doing. My heart’s not in it.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘In Montmartre,’ he’d said wistfully. ‘I love drawing and painting. I love France and everything French. When I was younger I had it in my head to be an artist in Montmartre in Paris and follow the path of Maurice Utrillo.’

  Meg had cringed at the thought of being married to a husband who didn’t keep standard office hours. Luckily Ray had loved her enough to marry her and buy a house in the suburbs. He’d never get to France now, she thought glumly. Never get to choose where to live and work once the war was over.