The Night Raid

by Clare Harvey

  ‘God’s own country,’ she said. ‘I tell myself that this is what we’re fighting for, when I have doubts.’ She sucked in more smoke, looking at the way the horizon trundled a hazy line between fields and sky.

  ‘Doubts?’

  ‘Forgive me. I’m an old woman. I’m not like you brave boys. I think too much, that’s all. I’m sure it must all be very – very enervating for you youngsters. But for those of us who went through it last time round it’s . . .’ She drifted off, exhaled slowly. There were no words to describe how she felt at this moment.

  ‘Indecent,’ the tank commander said, completing her sentence. His voice was very low, not loud enough for his gunner or driver to hear. ‘When I joined up it was fun,’ he continued. ‘I felt powerful, raging round the countryside in this thing, blowing things up. But soon – really soon – it won’t be cardboard tanks, and fake buildings, it’ll be the real thing, with real people on the other end of it. It plays on your mind, sometimes.’ The gunner was pouring the tea into enamel mugs. Laura watched as he stabbed a hole in the evaporated milk tin.

  ‘Why did you enlist, if you felt that way?’ she said.

  ‘What, wave the white feather? Not my style. Anyway, I didn’t feel like that, not at first. It was all a bit of a rowdy game in basic training. Then you meet some of the lads who’ve made it back from North Africa – but it’s too late to think like that, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s never too late. There’s always a choice,’ she said.

  ‘If I pull out now, someone else would have to take my place, wouldn’t they? In any case, I’m not a coward and I’m not going to be a deserter.’ He spat, then, as he said the word, and there was a soft plop as it landed in the frozen mud at their feet.

  Laura saw the gunner stir the tea in the mess tin. His face was in shadow, but a ray of sun caught his hair: perfect spun gold. Beautiful.

  She and the commander carried on smoking their cigarettes, looking out over the rolling farmland. The driver had sat up now, knees hunched, regarding them gargoyle-like from the tank as he clutched his brew. The gunner brought two steaming mugs of tea up to them. Laura looked out at the fields through a blur of steam, sipping slowly, finishing the smoke, and letting the thoughts come:

  Everyone had called Harold a conchie back in ’14, Laura remembered. At first she said she understood, was steadfast and loyal. But it was so hard to stay that way, especially after his collapse. So when the offer came to leave, to go and paint young, muscular, perfect boys like this, she’d gone. She left Harold and went off with the soldiers, and then – no, it was in the past. She had nothing to feel guilty for, had she?

  A sparrow-hawk was hovering in the next field, wings quivering, waiting to fall on its prey.

  The gunner began to pack the stove away, and there was the tine of metal against metal. The driver turned away, sitting back on the front of the vehicle, whistling again, the tune catching the chill air. She threw her fag end to the ground, took a last gulp of tea, and thanked the commander as took her mug from her. He took a step back down the hill, then paused.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said at last. ‘Do you think I should have been a conchie? Or is it better to do my bit for King and country, even if that means killing whoever I’m told to, without question or compunction?’

  ‘What do I think?’ Laura said. She drew breath. Pictures shoved through her mind as she looked back with horror over the years: a long gallery of factories and workshops where she’d been employed to picture the making of instruments to kill: sugar-coating the murderous intent of it all.

  In the distance she saw the sparrow-hawk, resolute, torpedo down.

  Laura looked away. ‘When has it ever mattered what I think?’

  The commander walked silently back to his tank. Laura tried another sketch, but it was no use. As they prepared to move out, she asked whether there were postal facilities in the NAAFI, and what time it shut. They told her they could make it back in time, if she didn’t mind a bit of speed, and she said not at all, it would be fun, you’d give an old lady a bit of excitement, and they’d grinned, and laughed together as the tank bump-rushed back downhill to the training camp.

  But none of them thought to ask her why she had to find a post office with such urgency, so she didn’t have to tell them about the telegram that she now knew she had to send.

  Chapter 27

  Violet

  They wouldn’t tell her anything except that the foster parents would be arriving after her feed and she was to wait in the parlour.

  Vi held her daughter high up against her left shoulder and swayed rhythmically from side to side, feeling the baby’s warm peach-skin head against her cheek. She had a muslin cloth slung over her shoulder to protect her dress – it wouldn’t do to get it dirty, not when she’d have to travel in it later. They’d already phoned the hostel to say that Violet would be back that night, and she’d be starting work again the following night.

  Vi’s bag was packed and ready, next to the horsehair sofa. The baby’s layette was laid on top of the crocheted doily on the circular occasional table. She’d covered the box herself with scraps of nursery wallpaper that the home’s staff had given her: rabbits and daffodils on a pale green background. Inside were the baby clothes she’d made: matinee jackets, caps and matching mittens and bootees laced with ribbon, in white and yellow wool – for who could tell whether her baby would be a boy or girl, they said. And when Vi had said she knew she was having a girl, and asked for some pink wool, or at least pink ribbon to lace the mitts, they’d laughed at her, said it would be asking for trouble, because what if she was wrong and had a boy? What if? Vi said. Babies didn’t care what colour they wore, so long as they were warm. She’d only just finished making the blanket this morning, edging the cream and green wool squares with a line of raspberry pink. See, she said, I told you I was having a girl. The blanket was folded up on top of the clothes in the box. She’d tucked a sheet of notepaper underneath:

  Dearest darling

  I am sorry that I can’t look after you myself just yet, but I will come and find you as soon as I am able, I promise.

  Love you always, Your mummy xxx

  The baby wouldn’t be able to read it, but somehow it felt important to put it in. She needs to know that she is loved, Vi thought. She needs to know it deep down inside, for when someone finds out the truth – because people always do – and calls her the bastard child of a slut of a factory girl, she needs to know that she is loved more than a goddess, in this moment, and forever.

  Vi hugged the warm bundle closer in, turning to kiss her head, smelling her sweet-baby scent. She was asleep already. With any luck she’ll stay asleep as she’s passed to the foster parents, Mrs Scattergood said. She won’t even know she’s been given away.

  Vi continued to sway, rocking the girl, who made tiny snuffling noises in her sleep. The foster parents were prepared to look after the girl until she was school age. Vi had five years to sort herself out and the child could be reclaimed at any point during that period. And in the meantime, if she changed her mind about the arrangements, a formal adoption procedure could be started. That’s what Mrs Scattergood had said this morning, looking over Vi’s shoulder as she sat and signed the forms. ‘Reclaimed’ – Vi thought Mrs Scattergood made it sound as if her baby were lost property. In a way, she is, Vi thought, I’m sending her to the lost-and-foundling. She winced at her poor pun. When she swallowed, there was a sour taste on her tongue.

  The blackout curtains were already drawn, so she couldn’t see out of the parlour window, but she heard the car draw up outside Cloud House, the crunch of tyres on the icy road, the sudden silence as the engine cut out. And Vi reminded herself again that she was doing the best she could for her baby girl. Mrs Scattergood said that Cloud House only dealt with the ‘right sort’. And a couple with a car, and petrol, had to be well-heeled, didn’t they? Even if it were a taxi, well, that would cost a bob or two, so surely there was some comfort to be had in the fa
ct that her baby girl was going to be looked after by a posh family, somewhere.

  Vi heard one car door slam, then another, and two sets of footfalls on the front path. The doorbell drilled. Her baby shifted at the sound. ‘Shh,’ Vi said, hugging her tighter, seeing how her tiny fingers curled in distress at the nasty noise. She’s like me, Vi thought. She balls up her fists when she’s anxious. Of course she’s like me. She’s my baby girl. And I’m her mother.

  Vi heard Mrs Scattergood’s footsteps on the tiled corridor floor and the front door being opened from the inside. There were voices: a man and a woman’s. They sound nice, Vi told herself. They sound well-bred. They sound like they have a wireless in the front room and a maid in the kitchen. They probably have a garden with a swing hanging from a branch of the cherry tree and rose bushes in the borders. There would always be meat on the table at dinner time and story books at bedtime and enough money to pay the doctor’s bills. They can give her more than I ever had – more than I ever could.

  The front door slammed shut and the voices and footsteps moved down the corridor towards the office. They’ll have to sign all those forms, Vi thought. And maybe they’ll be offered a cup of tea. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. How long does it take to drink tea, she thought: five minutes? Ten, if they have to fill in paperwork, too.

  She still had ten minutes left with her baby daughter. Vi held her close, and began to sway a faltering waltz around the room, humming loud enough to block out the sound of the ticking clock. Her jaws felt as if someone had wired them shut, aching with the premonition of grief. Oh heck.

  You can get her back, Vi reminded herself. This is just until you can make enough money to support you both. She was waltzing faster now, round the little table with its gift-boxed layette. She saw the armchairs with their antimacassars, the murky watercolours of woodland scenes, the cold, empty fireplace. The clock tick-tocked like a metronome, marking time, and her baby slept soundly on, soothed by the warmth and scent of her mother, and the motion of the dance.

  What if I can’t earn enough money to support us both by the time she’s five, what if I never can, what then?

  Vi heard voices and footsteps approach the door. She looked at the clock. It hadn’t been five minutes yet. They hadn’t even taken tea, and she’d been cheated out of five precious minutes with her girl. ‘This way, if you will.’ Vi heard Mrs Scattergood’s voice just outside the parlour door. She kept on waltzing.

  What if I go to get her back and she’s already calling these people Mummy and Daddy and doesn’t know me at all? What if she’s got used to the cherry tree and the bedtime stories and doesn’t want me?

  Vi stopped dancing as the door began to open. The baby, sensing the change, began to gripe, balling her fists and squirming. An older couple came into the parlour: grey hair and nervous smiles. They’re too old to have their own, Vi thought. And once they’ve got my baby girl, my perfect baby girl, they’ll want to keep her. They’ll do all they can to keep me away. Because I’m just a good-for-nothing slut of a factory girl and I should be grateful that anyone would take on my bastard child.

  Mrs Scattergood came into the room, too. She didn’t even close the door behind her. And that’s when Vi realised it would just be a grab-and-go affair. She marched right over to Vi and reached out for the baby. ‘Come on now,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’ Her knotted fingers grasped at the baby’s torso, but Vi found she couldn’t let go. The baby began to scream, her little mouth an oval of despair.

  Vi saw the grey-haired woman wince, the partridge feathers quivered in her hat. ‘Come on, Violet. Everything is in place. Don’t be a silly girl.’ Mrs Scattergood pulled again and Violet hung on tighter and the baby howled louder and Vi thought she saw the man roll his eyes at the woman.

  ‘No,’ Vi said, wrenching her child away from Mrs Scattergood’s grasp. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m keeping my baby.’

  George

  George took a card from the rack, checked the name and tossed it in the bin. Pamela Walker (née Jones), 18, from Streatham: hadn’t lasted five minutes. That was happening a lot, nowadays, girls with boyfriends in the forces, married and pregnant before a forty-eight-hour leave pass was up. It was hard to retain them, at that age. He looked up at the output graph on the wall. Those blips in output could mostly be put down to sheer biology. If only there were some way of managing it, instead of losing all that expertise to maternity. He sighed.

  A mental picture of a line of swaddled babies trundling along a production line like the shell casings at the Ruddington works came to mind. He shook his head and blinked the image away. He was overtired, that was all. He’d been working all hours since the raid. But what the man from the ministry didn’t know, what the Chairman of the Board didn’t know, was that his titanic work ethic had nothing whatsoever to do with the war effort. It was not an act of selfless commitment to the common good. Quite the reverse: he lost himself in work to try to forget about Zelah. He dreaded the day the war ended – and it would end, one day – and he’d be forced to take a holiday, visit his family, have time to sit and think.

  If only the war could go on forever, he thought, and was immediately outraged at his own selfishness.

  He took a deep breath in. Enough. Right, where was he? Rescheduling the night-shift rota. Then there were the purchase orders to authorise, the report for the ministry to complete, and the works council needed an answer on the proposed new health insurance scheme. With Pamela Walker off, that was five lost to maternity this month alone, so he’d need to put in a request to the Labour Exchange for cover. He put his pipe back in his pocket and ran a hand across his face. Better get on with it, man.

  There was a knock at the door, then. An interruption, just as he’d got his thoughts in order. ‘What is it?’ he said, spinning on his heel to face the incomer.

  The door opened with irritating slowness, so he couldn’t see who it was, at first, just heard a voice above the blare of the factory: ‘Good evening, Mr Handford.’

  ‘Good evening,’ he said as the figure entered. He couldn’t help the questioning tone of his voice. ‘Violet Smith?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking,’ she said, standing awkwardly, right hand still on the door handle.

  And held in the crook of her left arm was a shawl-wrapped bundle: a baby.

  Violet

  Was it a mistake? Keeping her baby, the night-time flit to the factory –was it just another impulsive decision that would only get her into more trouble? Violet thought, as the taxi jolted them over the canal bridge.

  Mr Handford had paid for the cab in advance, given her his door key, said she and the baby could sleep the night in his bed.(Their presence would not be tolerated in the hostel: Matron had been perfectly, judgementally, clear on that score.) But won’t people talk? she’d asked. And he’d said about what? You’ll be there and I’ll be here on the night shift, what’s there to say, and what do either of us care, in any case? So she’d let him call for a taxi, bundle her and the sleeping baby into the back seat and give the driver the address. So she had a bed for the night. But what about tomorrow, and the night after that, and all the other nights to come?

  The stars were out, skies glitter-clear, and the moon a hazy crescent bobbing above the city centre. She held the baby tight against her, so close that she could smell the sweet-baby scent of her, even over the stale-smoke dankness of the back of the cab.

  ‘The corner of Tunnel Road and Cavendish Crescent, is it?’ The driver’s jowl was a mauve oval catching the dim light from the shielded headlamps, as he half-turned towards the back seat.

  Violet nodded. ‘The white one with the blue door.’ She spoke as if she knew, but she was just repeating what she’d heard Mr Handford say to the driver. She’d never been to this part of town before. The houses were all blacked out, but the starlight hinted at huge slabs of buildings, like a whole street full of Methodist chapels. So this was where Mr Handford lived – it was the kind of place she’d imagined the bab
y’s foster parents would have lived: large homes with cars on driveways and a servants’ entrance. Baby might even have been able to spend her childhood in a place like this, Vi thought. Baby might have had a decent start in life, if Violet hadn’t stupidly, selfishly, changed her mind. And now the poor mite was saddled with a mother who had nothing: no husband, no house, no money, not even a pot to piss in. What had she done? Oh, heck.

  She reached into her pocket to find the key Mr Handford had given her, and her fingers connected with the paper-wrapped package. He said it came a few days ago; he’d meant to give it to her when he visited. The car was travelling slowly now, as the driver looked out for the white house on the corner. Vi put the baby down next to her on the seat. She was fast asleep and barely stirred.

  It was only a small package, hardly worth wrapping at all – whatever it contained could probably have been fitted in an envelope. Vi undid the scratchy string and the outer wrapping. Underneath was a folded sheet of paper and something inside some crumpled tissue. Her fingers worried open the tissue, tearing it a little. Inside was a gold ring. Someone’s wedding ring? But whose? She unfolded the sheet of paper. A cheque! She squinted down, trying to make out the letters and numbers.

  The cab pulled up in front of a white cottage halfway up the hillside. ‘Here you are, duck.’

  Vi narrowed her eyes, trying to bring the cheque into focus. It was made out to Violet Smith, and the amount was three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds!

  ‘Need help?’ the driver said, as the engine idled. Violet didn’t answer, and he turned off the engine.

  A wedding ring and about a year’s wages, for her. It couldn’t be true. She turned the outer sheet, to see if she could recognise the handwriting, and there, written on the reverse, a note scrawled in charcoal: Dearest Violet. A second bite at the cherry, should you wish. All my love, Laura x