The War Before Mine

by Caroline Ross

  Like a skylark, resting for a moment on its journey to a sunnier place, Rosie was netted and brought down to the level of the other crawling things around her, as silenced and hopeless as if she’d had her tongue torn out for a Catholic delicacy. At night in bed she cried for her uncle, even for Roger, but most of all, she cried for herself. How could Philip find her now?

  Beryl grew irritated. ‘All you need to do is have it and get shot of it, and you’ll be free as a bird again. Men can’t tell you’ve had a kid, you know, long as you act innocent enough.’ Since Rosie said nothing, she added, ‘I tell you something, Rosie, I’ll be glad to get over the other side at long last – won’t have to put up with your miserable face any longer.’

  But when Beryl’s pains started, and the nuns pushed her into a wheelchair, she clutched at Rosie’s hand and whispered, ‘Say one of your prayers for me.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I promise. You’ll be fine,’ Rosie said to the frightened face before it disappeared down the corridor. It wasn’t the time to tell Beryl she’d given up saying her prayers.

  The doctor said Rosie’s own baby could be born on Christmas Day. But it was early in the morning of the 23rd that she felt a trickle of fluid running down her leg. The nun knew at once. ‘Your waters have broken, Mullen. We must get you over to the other side.’ They put a cushion of old newspaper in the chair to soak up the wet, and wheeled her down the shining corridor past the Holy Mother, St Mary Magdalene and St Teresa. Rosie’s back hurt. Two midwives put her on a trolley bed, gave her an enema and shaved her. In the next room, the thirteen-year-old screamed she was dying and was silenced with a slap. ‘Don’t be so silly. The pain will get far worse than that.’

  It feels like riding a whale. Rosie’s belly ripples and writhes. Contractions drag her down then throw her up, gasping for air, and a few moments’ relief. Her body thrums, stretches. The green walls, the midwives’ faces, the trolley of instruments all recede as the pain takes her under, dark blueness swirling before her eyes as she fights, fights, fights for the surface.

  In France Philip dreams his drowning dream. Tucker’s voice; ‘Don’t shoot,’ the thump in his side, the rush of air and then the water closing over his head, roaring in his ears. Yes, this is what he wants…and then the panic. This is wrong, wrong. Must kick off boots. His body lifts slowly, so slowly, his lungs bursting, and at last, air, but also fire, screaming, and a mouthful of oil. He chokes, sinks again.

  The midwife’s face, concerned. ‘What size feet do you have?’

  What a question. ‘Three.’

  Pain crashes in, muffles the voice. ‘Has anyone measured this woman’s pelvis?’

  ∞

  Kick you fucker! Kick up! His head breaks the surface once more; he hears the terrible screams from where the oil burns. ‘Please help me! Oh God help me. Kill me. Please kill me.’ Going down, flailing, his hand finds a spar of wood, hangs on.

  ‘We’re going to have to use the forceps, Mullen, do you understand? We need to get this baby out…’

  ‘Help me!’ cries the thirteen-year-old. Fuck you, Rosie thinks. I’m the one who needs the help.

  ‘So just let me…and then when I say “push…”’

  The pain turns red, blazes into her eyeballs, tears at her insides, disembowels her. There must be a wolf there, tugging, biting, wanting to pull her insides out. Have them! Urghhh! Take them, you bastard! The glare softens; thrumming slows.

  ‘A boy. Quite a big boy. Going to have to sew you up now. This may take a while and I’m afraid it’s going to sting a bit.’

  Alex. Covered in blood and funny stuff like candle wax. Wiped off with a towel, swaddled in another and laid at her breast while they sew her together.

  ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’

  ‘A dream. Une rêve. Nothing.’ But Françoise rolls away from him and crawls to the window, the gun in her hand.

  ‘It was nothing. Just a dream.’ The usual one. He was drowning; hearing the others burning, begging for death. Françoise came back, curled up against him lithe as a monkey, and soon breathed easily in sleep.

  Philip lay awake, remembering holding on to the wood, praying he would not drift into one of the floating patches of burning oil. Then being in a darker place, the moon above him and a sense of warmth as blood loss and cold started to kill him. Then shingly landfall and a hand, turning him over; a face. The words he’d spoken. ‘Cache moi.’

  He’d been concealed, doctored, and now, nine months later, he was on his way south to the Spanish border with this brave resistance girl.

  Rosie woke up in the middle of the night and found they’d taken her baby away. She inched her legs off the bed and stood up, hearing in the quiet ward a thin wail that told her the way to the nursery. She waddled towards the sound, her body swinging, a bag of guts and soreness. In the nursery, Sister Frances, a nun she hardly knew, bent over one of the cradles.

  ‘Where’s my baby?’

  ‘He’s just here. No need to worry. He’s here.’

  Yes. Her son. Not crying, but sleeping. Rosie carefully unwrapped the towel, exposing the funny froggy legs, the perfect little curly toes. A tiny fist closed around her finger.

  ‘I love to come and see the new ones,’ Sister Frances said, her pink face shining. ‘Isn’t he a smashing little fella?’

  Rosie lifted her baby to her breast. As he fed, his long fingers stretched and curved like an illusionist’s making shadow puppets. Sister Frances watched and smiled approvingly. ‘Hasn’t he latched on well?’ she said. ‘You’ve got plenty of milk, too.’

  Rosie thought of Susie, crying because poor Mam had so little.

  The suckling caused pangs that went right down inside Rosie, quite painful. Strange that you could feel uncomfortable and so happy at the same time. After a while the nipple slipped from the baby’s mouth and his black eyes slid very slowly across her face.

  ‘Hello Alex,’ Rosie whispered, ‘I’m your mam.’

  Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006

  I wish I remembered more about the boat, because Frankie says we had the best time. We got the two things we’d never had – loads of food and fantastic freedom. The adults who were meant to supervise us got caught up in the fun of the long voyage, doing I suppose what they still do on cruises; bit of flirting, spot of sunbathing, ballroom dancing. Well either that or they were flat on their backs with seasickness. Whatever it was, they lost control.

  There’s a bleached roll of cine-camera film in my head showing a pair of skinny legs running up loads and loads of white steps, the prickly soundtrack being my puffed-out pursuit. No wonder I fell asleep just about anywhere. Frankie told me the night we sneaked up to the top deck to watch the dancing, I disappeared. ‘Searched high and low for you,’ he said, ‘Thought you’d gone and jumped in the drink.’ In the morning I was discovered curled up behind the drum kit.

  Frankie describes it like a boy’s paradise: wrestling and boxing matches, endless hide-and-seek and the most tremendous storms. In my short bit of film I see deckchairs flying around like stick men in pyjamas and hear the waves thwump into the side of the ship. I hold Frankie’s hand tight and watch the sea spatter the rounded toes of my shoes.

  And then we docked. Frankie told me about all the people waiting on the quay, and how us kids thought they were queuing up to be our new mums and dads, instead of officials welcoming an influx of what they called then ‘good white British stock’ of the kind the government wanted to keep the Chinks at bay. A few hours later, we were on our way to Dundrum. ‘Did it feel different, there?’ I asked Frankie.

  He said it did and it didn’t. At that point, we hadn’t got around to talking about the brutality and were sticking to geography. ‘It was the same kind of place on the inside; it was outside that was so strange.’

  It must have been a pretty stark contrast. London had lapped about Naz House, but beyond the gates of Dundrum there was Nothing and Nobody. ‘It scared me at first,’ Frankie said. ‘Then I got to love it. Remember Sundays?’r />
  I did remember. Sundays, we’d go bush in gangs of six or seven. Sundays, when the Brothers wanted shot of us so as they could celebrate the Lord’s day by boozing, we got let out into the Nothing.

  Once clear of the Dundrum fence, there was a bit of stiff Australian grass and then endless miles of empty low scrub. I recall having a very superior feeling because other kids my age just squatted a few yards beyond the fence, lacking the know-how or the guts to go any further. Some of them just lay down and closed their eyes, hoping to sleep off the hours of hunger before they’d be allowed back in.

  I was included in a gang of bigger boys because everyone knew I belonged with Frankie, the leader, and we were much more venturesome. Our pockets filled with bits of saved or stolen food, we’d raid the chook house for eggs and then head off into the wilderness.

  Did you know if you chase a rabbit and keep on running and running after it, finally it stops? Frankie taught me that. ‘Over here! Over here!’ I’d shout when I’d chased one to a standstill, and Frankie would come across, jumping over bushes and, ‘crack’, break its neck, so there’d be another rabbit to skin and spit for our cookout.

  Since I can’t recall much of the delights of the ship, going bush on Sundays was my brush with childhood happiness. It was like being in the Boy Scouts minus the adults telling you what to do. We hunted, built fires, had great fun poking snakes, chucking stones at kangaroos, climbing trees and stuffing, stuffing, stuffing our faces. We ate rabbit, eggs and bread and butter, trying to fill ourselves so full it would be enough to get through the ravenous week to come.

  After we’d eaten, the sun was going down and the Fremantle Doctor was rustling in the scrub, we’d sit around staring into the fire – what we Australians call watching bush telly, which is by far the best kind of telly in my opinion. The Brothers never came looking for us. I suppose they were too pissed, or too lazy. I don’t think it would have worried them if we’d all got eaten by crocodiles. When the fire died down and the big dark was nearly on us, we’d walk back.

  20

  Southern France, December 1942

  ‘Pour toi, Philippe.’ Françoise dug into a large bag and tossed over a pair of thick corduroy trousers. It was 8 a.m.. She’d gone out very early in the morning, leaving Philip in the stone barn where they’d spent a cold night.

  At least the trousers felt warm. He looked down at his white ankles. Very short, though. And huge on the waist. Françoise, stripped alluringly to her satin underwear, was burrowing into a cream-coloured knitted jumper. Her head emerged through the neck and she laughed at the picture he presented. There was plenty of twine lying on the barn floor. Philip threaded a piece through the belt loops and knotted it tight around his waist. His other clothing for the day comprised a smelly jumper of oiled wool, a bulky jacket, thick socks and a beret. A la French country bumpkin, he supposed. Françoise, now sitting on an old cartwheel, collapsed in a fit of giggles at the sight.

  ‘I look a complete hayseed!’

  Still giggling, she raised a slender leg to pull on a grey knee sock. ‘Hayseed?’

  ‘Farm boy.’

  ‘Yes! Farm boy!’ Françoise explained he was to be Auguste, she his sister, Celeste. If asked, they were en route to their uncle’s house – she thought for a moment – ‘Oncle Michel’ – taking Christmas presents. She stood up and put a narrow-brimmed hat on her head, ‘Comment regarde-je?’ She did a little twirl.

  Like a very sexy girl guide, Philip thought. Françoise had an athletic, almost boyish figure, its slimness emphasised by the pleated skirt and ribbed jumper. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘Quel âge?’

  ‘About fifteen.’

  ‘Bon.’ Françoise adjusted the beret on Philip’s head, ramming it down so that it made his ears stick out. ‘Parfait! Un idiot réel du village!’ Giggling, she knelt down and rummaged in the holdall once more, producing first one huge wooden clog and then a second. ‘Sabots!’

  ‘I can’t wear those!’

  Another yelp of laughter at his aghast expression. She pulled out a pair of girls’ lace-up shoes, and banged their wooden soles together. ‘Moi aussi.’

  ‘What about my boots?’

  ‘Impossible!’ She explained no one in France had such boots now and told him he must leave them, together with almost all the rest of their clothes. There would carry only what was essential and these items ‘nous emballons…’

  ‘Wrap up?’

  ‘Oui! Faites des paquets, comme les cadeaux de Noël.’ She handed him a roll of bright wrapping paper and some Scotch tape. Hampered by numb fingers and the dust doing its best to prevent the tape sticking, Philip wrapped his pistol and the torch into innocent looking packages, reflecting as he did that he was little more than an awkward and dangerous parcel himself. A parcel to be picked up, moved on, and set down along the way by various postmen of the Resistance, nearly always in darkness. Often, he wasn’t even able to see the faces of his deliverers as he was passed on with a few whispered words and led to another hiding place.

  Françoise was the exception. She’d been with him for the last three weeks, having apparently decided to devote herself entirely to getting him safely to the Pyrénées. Jeanne d’Arc to his inept Dauphin. Yes. He could imagine her in armour, pulling a helm off her head with a laugh to shake out her short blonde hair. He looked over to where she now sat, on a mound of hay, apparently occupied with a glass jar. ‘What are you doing?’ In one hand she held the jar, in the other…a hand grenade. A Mills hand grenade to be precise, a kind he’d used himself. ‘Where did you get that?’

  Françoise held the grenade against her cheek and smiled up at him. ‘Beau, n’est-ce pas, le Mills MK1?’ She turned the gleaming metal egg in her hand and pulled the pin.

  ‘Are you mad! Put it back!’

  ‘Bête. Je tiens le levier…’ Philip watched as Françoise, holding the lever down, lowered the grenade carefully into the jar. Then, as though proffering a sacred chalice, she held the container up to him. The demolition expert in Philip delighted in the simple brilliance of the idea. The sides of the jar prevented the lever from opening and setting off the detonator. Only if the jar smashed, would it explode. ‘But it’s easily seen…’

  She set the jar down on the floor and picked up a small paper bag, offering it to Philip.

  Chestnuts! He stuffed several into his mouth at once and took another handful before she stopped him, tipped the remainder into the jar and screwed on the lid. She lifted it, apparently to inspect the appearance, and threw it towards him.

  The jar seemed to hang in the air. He groped for it, felt it brush the ends of his thick fingers, lost it, reached for it again, held on. He clutched the jar against his chest, his heart pounding. ‘Are you stark raving bloody screaming insane?’

  She shrugged, completely unruffled.

  ‘Suppose I hadn’t caught it?’ he yelled.

  ‘Sshhh. Nous aurions quatre secondes.’ Four seconds to get out – well that was all right then. Absolutely fucking fine. She looked up at his furious expression and got to her feet. ‘Monsieur Hayseed,’ she breathed, taking his face in her hands and kissing him on the mouth. Then she sat down again. ‘Le Scotch, s’il te plaît.’

  Françoise wrapped the jar carefully in a piece of green-coloured paper, setting it down carefully beside two other jar-shaped packages.

  ‘Are they grenades too?’

  She shook her head.

  Philip buried everything they had to leave behind, including, with great regret, his boots, under the hay at the back of the barn.

  The bicycles rested against the wall by the door, Philip had done his best with oil and pump to ensure they were roadworthy, but they were heavy, ancient things with big baskets on the front, and looked bloody hard work. Françoise filled these baskets with the ‘gifts’. Philip carried the pistol and the ammunition, Françoise the grenade. She buttoned herself into a long wool cape and pulled on pink knitted gloves. ‘Okay? On y va?’

  They wheeled
their cycles down the track to the small country road. The dull light seemed dazzlingly bright to Philip, the bare winter landscape of rough pasture and stunted bushes gorgeously lush and beautiful. It was nearly nine months since he’d been outdoors in the daytime, and despite the old crock of a bike and the over-large sabots slipping on the pedals, a surge of joy ran through him as he followed Françoise up the first hill, his breath pluming in the icy air.

  He felt he’d been living in darkness for years; his first hole a disused henhouse, then a windowless attic, followed by innumerable other dark dens on the long road through France. The henhouse. He remembered it quite fondly, because its flimsy construction had actually admitted quite a lot of light, the sun coming through the wooden slats and making shifting patterns on the walls to entertain him during the endless days of his convalescence. Twice daily, a hatch had opened, a calloused male hand descending to deposit food, water and medicine in one of the laying boxes lined with ancient hay.

  Though he’d been ill, he hadn’t felt so powerless then. It was later, when he was strong enough to start south, that he’d begun to feel so emasculated. For him the escape so far had been endless hiding in holes, crouching, waiting, while other people planned routes and took risks on his behalf.

  He could never hope to repay those who’d helped him. He looked ahead to Françoise, for all the world a straight-backed country schoolgirl, and marvelled at her quicksilver qualities, her amazing energy and determination, all now devoted to getting him over the Pyrénées to the safety of Spain. Yes. His own personal Jeanne D’Arc.