The Penny Bangle

by Margaret James

  ‘But, sir – I want to get a medal to send home to me mum,’ protested Private Thornton, grinning.

  ‘So do I,’ said Private Blain. ‘A medal would shut me father up, stop him goin’ on about us youngsters knowing nothin’, that he’s surprised we manage to wipe our arses in the dark. Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Go on, sir – be a sport and let us come.’

  In late April, Cassie had a letter from Mrs Denham, inviting her to go and spend a day or two in Dorset, if she could get some leave.

  ‘My word, that will be thrilling,’ said a driver, and she grinned. ‘Visiting your future ma-in-law – you’ll have enough of her when you get married.’

  ‘Ooh, you’re gonna to get the third degree,’ went on another driver, a girl from the East End. ‘I remember when I went to meet my Frankie’s mum. She’d set up all these tests.’

  ‘What tests?’ asked Cassie, laughing.

  ‘She ’ad me in the kitchen makin’ rissoles, to see if I could cook. She ’ad me in the wash-’ouse where she was boilin’ up great piles of socks, to see if I could mangle.’

  ‘Oh, I can mangle,’ Cassie said.

  ‘Yeah, and so can I. But then she didn’t like my Cockney accent. She wrote to Frankie, she told ’im it was common, that I should be savin’ up for elocution lessons. When I got back to barracks, I wrote a note to Frankie, an’ I told ’im it was off.’

  ‘But Mrs Denham’s very nice,’ said Cassie.

  ‘You wait an’ see, my girl. You’re gonna take her precious boy away. You mark my words, Cass, nice or nasty, she’ll be like a tigress with a cub.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cassie, feeling anxious now.

  But she found she didn’t need to worry. When she arrived in Dorset, Mrs Denham met her at the station and gave her a big hug.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Cassie,’ she began. ‘I must say, you’re looking very well. London obviously agrees with you.’

  ‘It keeps me busy,’ Cassie said. ‘But Mrs Denham, how are you?’

  ‘I’m managing.’ Rose Denham shrugged. ‘It’s sometimes rather difficult, you know, since Alex died. But I mustn’t grumble. I shall start to cry, and God knows I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.’

  Cassie saw Rose Denham’s eyes were sad, and guessed she wasn’t sleeping much, alone in bed at night. It must be so awful, Cassie thought, to have lost a man she’d loved so much.

  When they got back to the bailiff’s cottage, Tinker wagged his tail and barked in welcome. Tess and Shirley, Melbury’s current land girls, had made some frosted fairy cakes, using hoarded sugar and a couple of precious eggs.

  ‘So, Cassie,’ said Rose Denham, as they sat down together in the familiar cottage kitchen with its scrubbed pine table, gleaming pots and pans and dresser full of twinkling china, ‘many congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Denham.’

  She looked all round to see if Mrs Denham had set up any tests. But she couldn’t see any evidence of rissole making, or piles of dirty socks. The only visible socks were those on Mrs Denham’s feet. ‘I – er – I hope it wasn’t an unpleasant shock for you?’

  ‘A shock?’ Rose Denham smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Cassie. We all knew that Rob was keen on you.’

  ‘But you don’t mind him marrying me?’

  ‘Cassie, I’m very happy for you both.’ Mrs Denham filled the teapot from the old black kettle on the hob. ‘What did your granny say?’

  ‘I haven’t told her yet. But I’m going to see her soon, and then I can tell her face to face.’ Cassie looked down at her finger nails. ‘I don’t know how to tell her, actually. You see, Rob’s not a Catholic, and I know she’ll be upset. I mean, it doesn’t matter to me at all, and I’d love Robert, anyway. But Granny – ’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mrs Denham. ‘You’re her only grandchild, after all. So she’s bound to want the best for you.’

  ‘But she’ll have the best for me!’ cried Cassie fervently. ‘Mrs Denham, don’t misunderstand me, I think Robert’s perfect! I can’t imagine being married to anyone but him.’

  ‘But he’s not a Catholic, and I doubt if he’ll convert, so I can see it’s going to be a problem. Cassie, I think we could dispense with all this Mrs Denham stuff. We’re going to be related, so why don’t you call me Rose?’

  It took a bit of doing, but by the following morning Cassie managed to call Mrs Denham Rose, and not blush as red as one herself. ‘So shall you like to be a farmer’s wife?’ asked Rose, as she and Cassie emptied chicken mash into the buckets to go out and feed the hens.

  ‘I think so,’ Cassie said. ‘It’ll make a change from Brum, of course, and it’s very quiet here in Dorset. But it will be much better for our kids, to grow up in a place that isn’t full of factories, and smuts, and smog and grime.’

  ‘You won’t miss the city?’

  ‘Perhaps I shall – a bit,’ admitted Cassie. ‘But I like the peace and harmony of the countryside.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not all peace and harmony,’ Rose said, smiling wryly. ‘There’s always something going on, some feud or fight or scandal.’

  ‘What sort of thing do you mean?’

  ‘Well, for example – Alex and I had years of trouble with our nearest neighbour. One summer, there was an awful storm, and it caused a cliff fall. Part of our road from Melbury to Charton fell down on to the beach.

  ‘Our neighbour was very awkward about letting us use the road across his land, and in the end we had to build another road ourselves, to link us to the one going into Charton. It cost a whole year’s profit. It wouldn’t have hurt our neighbour to let us use his road for a few years, but he refused.’

  ‘The mean old bugger!’ Cassie cried.

  ‘Quite,’ said Rose, and laughed. ‘Cassie, you’re always so direct. I’ve never met anyone as blunt as you.’

  ‘Sorry, Rose,’ said Cassie, blushing red. ‘I do try to be more ladylike, I promise you. But sometimes things slip out.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie, don’t be sorry! It’s quite refreshing, to hear someone speak her mind, and the way you talk is part of you.’

  Rose picked up a bucket. She glanced up at the clock. ‘I don’t know where those girls are, they’re very late this morning. Last month, they decided to get lodgings in the village – not that I blame them, Cassie, it must have been very dull for them, sitting here in the evenings with a sad old hen like me. But they’re not reliable. Let’s go and feed the chickens, and then we’d better start to milk the cows.’

  The land girls turned up fifteen minutes later, all apologies. Jumping off their bicycles, they ran into the cowshed, to take over the milking.

  So Rose and Cassie did some other jobs around the farm, then Rose took Cassie for a walk into the village, to buy some flour and salt and coffee beans – there was a rumour that the shop had got some in, and Rose loved good coffee. Cassie breathed in the sweet, fresh air, and thought how much she’d love it here, when Rob came home again.

  In the evening, when the cows had all been milked, the stock had all been fed, and the land girls had gone off to meet their friends in Charton, Rose and Cassie sat with mugs of cocoa in companionable silence, and listened to the wireless.

  They didn’t need to say they were both thinking about Robert, for each could see it in the other’s eyes.

  ‘He’s very like his father, loyal and honest,’ Rose told Cassie. She glanced up from her heap of darning. ‘So I’m sure he’ll make you a good husband.’

  ‘I’ll make him a good wife.’ Cassie stitched away, putting the elbows back into a jumper which she recognised as one of Robert’s, and pausing every now and then to rumple Tinker’s ears. ‘At least, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘My dear, I’m sure you will.’ Rose shook her head. ‘You’re bound to have some trouble with Steve, you know. He’s going to be so jealous.’

  ‘I know the twins are close,’ said Cassie. ‘But I don’t intend to come between them.’

  ‘You might not mean to, but you will.’ Rose sighed. ‘S
tephen has always idolised his brother. Rob’s the bigger, stronger, cleverer twin, the one who always led while Stephen followed. You’re going to take his place in Robert’s heart. Or anyway, Cassie, that’s how Steve will see it.’

  Cassie didn’t need this pointed out.

  Nowadays, the formerly friendly, easy-going Stephen was often moody, awkward and bad-tempered, and cross with everyone and everything – even worse than Robert when she’d first met him.

  But she still made sure she was especially nice to Stephen. She realised he was damaged, and he needed kindness, especially now Frances had her Simon, and so she didn’t hanker after Stephen any more.

  She hoped the girl from Shropshire would end up being the one for Steve, the one who’d make him happy – if it was possible for Stephen to be happy?

  When she had first met the Denham twins, she’d thought they were the opposite of what they’d actually turned out to be. She knew now that Stephen had a dark and melancholy secret side to him, while Robert was the open, direct, candid, artless one.

  Almost everything Robert thought was usually said a moment later. But with Steve she often didn’t know what he was thinking, and this made her nervous.

  One day, she thought, he might surprise me, and I’m not sure I’m going to like it – whatever it might be.

  ‘How did it go?’ demanded Cassie’s fellow driver, when Cassie got back home to London. ‘Your bloke’s old mother – did she get you boiling up the socks?’

  ‘No, of course she didn’t,’ said Cassie, grinning. ‘But she did have a great big pile of mending, and so I darned some jumpers.’

  ‘Get to a decent pub, an’ have a sing-song?’

  ‘No, in the evenings we drank cocoa, and listened to the wireless.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that sounds exciting. What else did you do?’

  ‘I fed the chickens, and I milked the cows.’

  ‘God almighty, girl – you’re middle-aged already. I tell you, Cassie Taylor, leave’s for going out and getting four sheets to the wind, not listening to the wireless, darning jumpers.’

  It was so hard for Cassie, all the non-information, the not-knowing. She wished she had a little more of Robert – more letters, a more recent photograph, or even two. Why hadn’t they had some done in Alexandria, she wondered, because there were photographic studios everywhere, mostly run by Arabs, Greeks and Lebanese. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She’d have liked a book or two of his, a handkerchief, perhaps. She wished she’d pinched his jumper and stuffed it in her kitbag.

  But she hadn’t liked to ask his mother for any souvenirs. Rose might have thought that Cassie meant she wanted something valuable, and thought she was a gold-digger already, and Cassie dreaded that.

  She wore her silver bracelet all the time. She polished her penny bangle too, and it stayed in her sewing kit, wrapped up in a clean white handkerchief, and cherished like the holiest of relics.

  She couldn’t wear the bangle. Robert had been right, it was made of some cheap alloy trying to look like silver, and had made her skin go green.

  But she still treasured it.

  In June, she had the news she had been waiting for so long. The Allies marched into Rome. The Germans retreated even further north, so what with that, and the good news from France, people started to hope the war would very soon be won.

  The Chelsea billet, where Cassie and the other drivers lived, was a pretty stuccoed Georgian townhouse, high-ceilinged, light and airy. The grey reflections from the river painted patterns on the plaster ceilings, and in summer long French windows opened out on to a little garden, which by now was very overgrown.

  One Sunday morning in late August, when Cassie was off duty, and she and some of the other girls were lying or sitting in the garden, reading, writing, knitting, gossiping, she heard the doorbell ring.

  Always hoping, always praying Robert would come home, Cassie jumped up eagerly and ran into the house.

  ‘Cass, you have a visitor!’ called one of the girls, who was busy making lunchtime sandwiches in the cluttered kitchen, and had been to answer the front door.

  It might be Daisy, Cassie told herself.

  Daisy had been away on tour with ENSA, but she was expected back this week. Sometimes she dropped into the Chelsea house, always looking like a fashion plate in her lovely hats, her chiffons, satins, tweeds and velvets, high-heeled patent shoes and pale silk stockings, and always bringing presents for the girls – chocolates, cakes or flowers, but God alone knew where she got them.

  Or maybe it was Stephen? But she thought Stephen was in Surrey – his CO had a house there, and sometimes Stephen was invited down for the weekend.

  So could it, please God, could it be Robert?

  It was Frances.

  Cassie jammed a smile on to her face. ‘Frances, what a nice surprise!’ she cried. ‘Why didn’t you say you were in London? Did you come with Simon? We’re all out in the garden, in the sunshine. We’ve got some beer and cider. Come and have drink with us, and would you like a sandwich?’

  ‘I’ve already eaten, thank you.’ Frances was looking anxious and uncomfortable now. ‘Cass,’ she said, ‘do you have somewhere private where we could go and talk?’

  ‘Oh – er – yes,’ said Cassie, suddenly worried about her friend. What had Frances done? Oh, Holy Mother of God, she must be pregnant. Of course, she’d have to leave the army. Simon would do his duty, she was sure. But if Simon didn’t, she’d help Frances out. She had some savings –

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ she said. ‘Fran, don’t look so frightened. We can sort it out.’

  Frances followed Cassie into an empty bedroom and sat down on a bed. ‘Mrs Denham wanted me to see you, to talk to you in person,’ she began.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong in Melbury?’

  ‘She – she’s had some absolutely dreadful news,’ said Frances. ‘She couldn’t leave the farm herself, of course, but she didn’t want to write to you. She wanted somebody to come down here and tell you, and she didn’t want it to be Steve. In fact, she hasn’t dared to tell him yet. She wants him to go home.’

  ‘But, Frances, tell me what?’ demanded Cassie.

  ‘Robert’s missing.’

  ‘Missing,’ repeated Cassie, as she tried to take it in.

  Then she thought, missing doesn’t mean a thing, of course. They mean they don’t know where he is, that’s all. They’re not saying he’s been wounded, or he’s –

  ‘Cassie,’ continued Frances gently. ‘I’m afraid it might be worse than missing. Mrs Denham’s had a letter from Rob’s commanding officer, and he thinks Robert’s dead.’

  ‘No, that can’t be right,’ said Cassie, frowning. ‘It’s all a big mistake. Frances, think about it, think how clever and courageous – no, Robert can’t be dead!’

  ‘Cassie, if you want to have a cry – ’

  ‘Why should I want to cry?’ Cassie put her shoulders back and forced herself to grin. ‘Fran, you’re all so gloomy, so bloody pessimistic, you don’t have any faith.’

  But, later on that evening, when Cassie was alone and trying to sleep, she found faith was very hard to come by, that despair was stronger, and she feared Robert might indeed be dead.

  The letter which came the following morning was a cruel mockery of hope.

  ‘We’ve taken Florence,’ Robert wrote. ‘It’s all moving very nicely now. So I don’t think it will be long before we meet again, my darling.’

  Yes, thought Cassie wretchedly, but in this world, or the next?

  Chapter Fourteen

  When one of the drivers in the Chelsea house told their commanding officer what had happened, that Cassie’s fiancé had been reported missing and was most likely dead, Cassie was informed she was entitled to some compassionate leave.

  But she didn’t take it. Robert was just missing, that was all. He wasn’t wounded, wasn’t dead, and he would turn up again, she knew it.

  If he were trapped behind the German lines, she told herself, some Italian f
amily would help him, take him in. Italians weren’t all Fascists, and they didn’t all side with the Germans.

  There were lots of rumours going around about Italian partisans receiving drops of arms and ammunition from American and British planes, then blowing up river bridges, railway lines, and killing German soldiers in ambushes and raids. There were also stories about American and British soldiers going on secret missions behind the German lines, and helping the Italian partisans.

  Daisy was optimistic about Robert’s chances, too. She was sure he must be holed up somewhere, maybe with Italian partisans, waiting for a chance to get back to the Allied lines.

  ‘But what if he’s a prisoner?’ Cassie asked, when she and Daisy met for lunch at the Savoy, on a day when Daisy didn’t have a matinee, and thus had some free time.

  ‘He’ll be treated well, my love, don’t worry,’ Daisy said, as she ate her ultra-patriotic Woolton pie. ‘POWs get food and shelter, and Red Cross parcels, too. So, if Rob’s a prisoner, once we find out where he’s gone, we’ll send him scarves and jumpers, tins of soup and spam, and books and magazines.’

  ‘If Robert is a prisoner, he’ll escape,’ said Cassie, as she toyed with her parsnip, carrot and soggy oatmeal mush that didn’t really taste of anything.

  ‘Yes, of course he will,’ said Daisy, smiling. ‘Yes, my darling – knowing Rob, I’m sure he’s working on it now. Come on, love, eat your lunch. Or else you’ll waste away, and when Rob comes back he’ll be so sad to think you pined.’

  So Cassie forced herself to eat, and after she had eaten all her pie, she felt a little better.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Daisy as she signed the bill. ‘Let’s go and look at gloves and scarves and things. I saw some lovely Fair Isle jumpers in the Army and Navy yesterday. They should have Robert’s size. I’ve got some coupons.’

  But although his sister and Cassie were so optimistic, Stephen wouldn’t have anything to do with their determination to look for silver linings. Sunk in gloom and misery, he was drinking far too much, and Cassie ached for him. But she didn’t dare to try too hard to cheer him up, in case he took it the wrong way.