Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  ‘But for the grace of God,’ he whispered to himself. His heart was pumping as he and his mates were given the order to disperse. As they did so, they heard the tank burst out of the woods and head towards the remains of the convoy.

  Alan and Ginger stuck together. He went back for his bike but the Jerry plane had rendered it useless. The bullet-riddled petrol tank was pouring fuel over the road and the back wheel was buckled beyond repair. ‘Look out!’ Ginger cried and at the same moment, the bike exploded into flames.

  Alan had no time to register his shock because Ginger cried, ‘Look out! There be another one, boi.’

  Alan glanced behind him and spotted a tank only about thirty yards away and coming up the road towards them. The two men made a dash for the ditch and ran through the mud as fast as they could. Breathless and scared, they reached some sort of gate and made their way along the other side of the hedge until Ginger got a stitch and had to stop.

  ‘Go on, go on, Alan,’ he said urgently. ‘No need for you to risk capture as well, boi.’

  But Alan didn’t want to risk going on alone. ‘I’m not leaving you,’ he said. ‘We stick together.’

  The tank rumbled past them, German troops with rifles running alongside it. Alan and Ginger held their breath. The enemy were so close they could almost touch some of them, but they managed to stay hidden. They stayed under the hedge for a couple of hours and as the light was fading, they decided it was time to move on.

  ‘Don’t want to miss the eve’n performance,’ Ginger joked.

  Luckily for them, the night wasn’t too dark and they managed to stay close to the road until they reached a farmhouse. Neither of them spoke French and the farmer couldn’t speak English but somehow or other they managed to understand each other. The farmer’s wife gave them a hot drink and some bread and cheese before her husband pointed them in the right direction for Dunkerque.

  When they reached the beach about eleven hours later, tired and hungry, they had the most appalling shock. The sands were crowded with men – exhausted, injured, and looking like thousands and thousands of dejected black crows without hope. In front of them lay the Channel, glistening, cold and deep, and far out to sea, they spotted a Royal Navy ship. Clearly the water was too shallow for it to come any closer or it would run aground. The pier had been bombed so men waded in the water to meet a small craft ferrying them from the beach to the ship. It would take hours, days to get this many men onto the ship via such a small craft. With the enemy like a pharaoh’s army behind them, they faced twenty-two miles of water between them and home, but this time there was no Moses to hold out his staff to make the waters part. They were well and truly trapped.

  Alan and Ginger threw themselves onto the sand to rest. There was some chap asleep nearby but as Alan looked more closely he could see his tunic was covered in blood. The man was as dead as a doornail.

  Alan would have wept if he had the energy, but he didn’t. At least they could lie down and recover for a while and then, he supposed, he would be a prisoner of war for the duration.

  ‘I suppose we can thank God we’re safe,’ said Ginger.

  But then they heard the drone of a German plane.

  Uncle Lorry twiddled the knobs of the radio until a voice cut through the early morning stillness of the kitchen. The nine o’clock news last night had been grave. The British Expeditionary Force was in retreat.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen.

  ‘This is a BBC announcement read by Alan Howland. A number of appeals for recruits have been issued today. The Admiralty wants men experienced in marine internal combustion engine or service in the engine room of yachts and motorboats. Others who have had charge of motorboats and have good knowledge of costal navigation are also needed. Applications should be made to the nearest Registrar Royal Naval Reserve or to the Fishery Officer.’

  Seventeen

  Broadwater, Sussex, May 1940

  The pain was indescribable. She couldn’t believe it would be this bad. When it finished, Barbara relaxed her head on the pillow and wiped the dampness away from her face with her hand, letting out an involuntary sigh. She must look an absolute sight. Her hair was stuck to her forehead and she was all sweaty. Her mother leaned over her and gripped her shoulder.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ she said curtly, ‘but try not to make too much noise. We don’t want next door running for the doctor just yet, do we.’

  Barbara whimpered and then closed her eyes as another pain began to build.

  Her mother pressed a clean folded handkerchief between her teeth. ‘Here, bite down on this.’

  Barbara barely heard her as her stomach muscles tightened again. This was worse than dying. She wanted to cry out, ‘No, no, hang on a minute. Just let me get my breath,’ but once the pains started, there was no stopping them. It was relentless, persistent, demanding, and intense. It grew in strength until it consumed every part of her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. All she could do was grip onto the sheets and wait until it was gone. Just as she was beginning to feel that she could bear it no longer, the iron band across her belly began to fade. It faded but not altogether. And the worst of it was, even though it was gone, she knew all too well that any minute now it would start all over again.

  At first, she’d thought it would be exciting to have a baby. Her baby … Conrad’s baby would soon be in her arms. She could just imagine herself lying back on the bed looking all serene and beautiful like they do in the pictures. Her hair would be spread out on the pillow like luxurious velvet and her make-up perfect. When it was all over, he would come into the room and smile down at her. Then he would look into the crib, all white and frilly, and catch his breath when he saw his child for the first time.

  ‘Darling,’ he’d say, ‘you are such a clever girl. I love you so much …’

  In short, he’d be over the moon.

  Oh God, the pain was coming back again. It had been like this for hours. It seemed a lifetime ago when Barbara woke up with a mild stomach ache. She’d called out to her mother as she’d tumbled out of bed. It was six-thirty in the morning.

  ‘Thank God it’s not the weekend,’ her mother had murmured as she covered the bed with an old blanket and some towels before making Barbara lie down again. ‘At least the neighbours are out at work all day.’

  Through the thin walls of their two-up, two-down semi-detached cottage, they heard their next-door neighbour setting off for work at seven. After a short lull, their grandchildren would turn up, ready for school, and then their grandmother would set off with them, pushing her bicycle so that she could jump on it and head for the hospital where she worked as a ward cleaner, once the children were through the school gates. The postman knocked at nine fifteen with a parcel and the milkman left two pints on the doorstep at eleven. Apart from that, Barbara and her mother were alone all day. They didn’t even respond when someone knocked on the back door at about one o’clock, but Mrs Vickers couldn’t resist peeping out from the behind the curtain in the back bedroom. It was only Alice Davis come for a cup of tea and a natter. Thankfully she wandered off after about five minutes. Hiding Barbara’s pregnancy for the past six months had been an enormous strain on them both. Thank goodness it was almost over.

  The labour proceeded normally as Barbara’s waters broke. Meanwhile, their neighbour rode up the garden path at about four and their grandchildren came back home from school at four-thirty. Their grandfather arrived back home at five. There was a sticky moment when her neighbour knocked on the wooden partition between their two sculleries for a chat while she was making the tea but Mrs Vickers ignored her. It was better if their nosey neighbour thought she was out for the day. She couldn’t risk her wanting to come round for something. After that, whilst the appetising cooking smells wafted through the window, Barbara’s labour pains continued.

  It took a great deal of effort not to cry out but Barbara knew it was imperative that their neighbours didn’t know what was going on next do
or.

  In between her pains, Barbara couldn’t help wondering why Conrad had never replied to her letters. She had been bitterly disappointed, there was no denying that, but she told herself it was probably because he was too busy doing his part to entertain the armed forces. Now that he was part of ENSA, Conrad would be keen to get a firm grip on his chosen career so she knew he wouldn’t say no to any booking, no matter how far flung the post. As the months rolled by, she decided that he had replied but most likely the postal service was a bit naff. Or maybe he’d been moved on to God-knows-where before her letters had arrived. She gave up writing when she was seven months gone. She didn’t want him arriving home to see her looking massive and with swollen ankles anyway. She would try again once the baby was born and while her labour progressed, she fantasised how it would be when he finally found out.

  A little later, Barbara and her mother were relieved to hear the children’s father arriving next door to collect them for the weekend. Once the children were gone, and their neighbours, still none the wiser about what was going on next door, set off for the workingmen’s club for the evening, Mrs Vickers and Barbara could relax a little at last.

  But in no time at all, it was eleven-thirty and the neighbours were back home, albeit a bit tipsy. Mrs Vickers watched from behind the curtain as they staggered up the garden path, hanging onto each other to stay upright.

  ‘That’s good,’ her mother whispered as she came back from the window. ‘With a bit of luck they’ll both crash out like a light and sleep soundly.’

  As the night wore on all Barbara wanted was for it to end but her labour went on and on. At one time she’d cried and, glancing anxiously at the dividing wall, her mother had pressed the pillow across her mouth.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Mrs Vickers whispered. ‘Another twenty minutes and it’ll be all over.’

  Barbara groaned inwardly. Twenty minutes! That sounded like a lifetime. Twenty more minutes … Tearfully she moaned in anguish. ‘I can’t, I can’t.’

  Her mother wiped her face with a cold flannel. ‘Don’t be silly now. Come on, when the next pain comes, push.’

  And so as the thin grey light of morning came, the baby’s lusty cry filled the air.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ Mrs Vickers said delightedly, ‘and he’s a sturdy little fellow.’

  Turning her head away, Barbara wanted nothing more than to sleep. Mrs Vickers cleaned the baby up and wrapped the afterbirth in newspaper ready to put it on the fire in the range. It only remained to wash her daughter and make her comfortable. Once all that was done, Mrs Vickers felt free enough to start removing the last of the padding from around her own stomach. What a relief! Over the past few months, while Barbara hid upstairs pretending to be in Lewisham with her auntie, Mrs Vickers had added layer upon layer across her belly to keep up the appearance that she was expecting. They had concocted the plan almost as soon as Barbara realised she was in the family way. As luck would have it, the conception coincided with the last time her husband had come home on leave. She pretended to be excited. In truth, nobody envied a woman in her early forties having to start a family all over again but they admired her courage and her ability to stay cheerful. A few people asked her if Barbara would be coming home for the birth and tutted behind her back when she said the girl couldn’t get away. Mrs Vickers knew what they were saying but she didn’t mind. Once the baby was born Barbara could get on with her life with nobody any the wiser. The baby would stay in the family but it would be brought up as Barbara’s little brother or sister.

  Barbara looked exhausted.

  ‘I’m going to knock on the wall for the neighbours now,’ said her mother picking the baby up. ‘You can stay here in bed. I’ll tell everybody you’re resting because you’ve been up all night.’

  ‘Where are you taking him?’ Barbara asked weakly.

  ‘To my bedroom,’ said her mother. ‘It’s got to look right.’

  ‘Can I hold him?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Best not to,’ her mother said firmly. ‘It will only encourage your milk to come in. Besides, you mustn’t let yourself get too attached. From now on he’s your little baby brother, remember?’

  Barbara stared, aghast.

  ‘It’s for your own good, Barbara,’ said her mother. ‘It’s what we agreed.’

  Her daughter nodded dully. ‘Can I give him a name?’

  Mrs Vickers frowned. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she began irritably.

  ‘It’s just a name, Mum.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Robert,’ said Barbara, tears welling in her eyes. ‘He’s called Robert.’

  Her mother pulled the corners of her mouth down disapprovingly. ‘Oh no, he’ll end up being called Bob. I think Derek would be much nicer.’

  Barbara looked horrified.

  ‘Anyway I’m taking Derek into my bedroom,’ said her mother. ‘He can sleep in the bottom drawer for now.’

  Barbara watched her own bedroom door close and a few minutes later she heard her mother knocking on the wall. ‘Mrs Reed. Mrs Reed, can you do a bit of shopping for me? I’ve had my baby.’

  Barbara heard a muffled reply through the wall.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother went on. ‘It came about six o’clock. A little boy. I’ve got my Barbara but she’s exhausted, poor lamb. She’s been up all night helping me.’

  Mrs Reed said something else.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Vickers. ‘She came home last night. Yes, yes, it was a stroke of luck but she’ll have to go back for a couple of days. My sister says Barbara has been a godsend.’ There was a pause and then her mother added, ‘Oh yes. The doctor is very pleased.’

  Barbara turned her head towards the wall and allowed her tears to fall. When they’d planned all this she hadn’t counted on being so upset. She’d just given birth to Conrad’s baby and already she was being forced to give him up. She hadn’t even been allowed to see him properly and her mother was insisting on calling him Derek. What was even worse, from now on she had to treat her own child as if he were her brother. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped her wet cheeks with her hand. This was going to be so hard, much harder than she had imagined, but she supposed mum was right. It was the only way to protect her good name. No man wanted soiled goods and Barbara knew she couldn’t bear it if everybody knew she’d just given birth to an illegitimate baby.

  Eighteen

  Broadwater, Sussex, June 1st 1940

  These were very anxious days: days in which the whole nation listened to every news bulletin with bated breath for news of what was happening in Dunkirk. There were stories of men being machine-gunned from the air, drowning in the sea, and ending up too badly wounded to survive. It was also becoming more apparent that the whole army had gone into action with outdated weapons. Rifles originally issued in the Great War had been mothballed for years. The only good thing that could be said about them was that they were capable of killing the enemy. The army had no mortars or hand grenades and there was a shortage of spare parts for the anti-tank rifles. The revelation brought a rising tide of anger throughout the nation.

  With news as bad as this, everybody was struggling to stay calm. Wherever Frankie went, apart from the weather, people could talk about nothing else. And why not? Most knew someone who was over in France, be it a husband, brother, father, nephew, grandchild, a work colleague, a friend, or a neighbour. It was a shared experience. At home, Aunt Bet said nothing but she was short-tempered. The old cockerel ended up in the cooking pot because he’d chased her and tried to give her a peck one time too often.

  ‘He’ll be as tough as old boots,’ Uncle Lorry grumbled, and he was right.

  As they all gathered around the wireless for the BBC’s nine o’clock news broadcast a couple of days later, it was with a degree of relief that they heard about the evacuation. An armada of fishing boats, shrimpers, trawlers and pleasure boats were on their way. It almost sounded romantic except that the brave little ships were being targeted by the Luf
twaffe as soon as they went to sea, although the RAF boys high above the clouds were doing their best to protect them.

  By the time Alan and Ginger got on board a ship, they had been stuck on the beach for three days. It wasn’t going to be possible to get the equipment back so the men had made an improvised pier using their lorries. Once they reached the end of the ‘pier’, it was just water. Alan and his mate had been standing in line for hours which was very cold and uncomfortable. The German planes kept coming back and every time they machine-gunned their bullets sent sprays of water into the air.

  ‘I think I prefer the beach at Lowestoft to this, boi,’ Ginger joked. ‘The ice cream queues are a lot shorter.’

  Alan knew he’d soiled himself but what could he do? Nobody spoke much but he guessed there was a lot of praying going on, even from chaps who didn’t believe in God. Every now and then someone would get hit and fall into the deeper water and drown.

  There was a destroyer tied to the mole. It was badly damaged but that didn’t stop the gunners having a go with their anti-aircraft guns. They kept it up until finally a German bomber brought the gun down.

  A ship called The Curlew moored alongside a couple of Thames barges which had run aground. Alan and Ginger made their way over the side and found a small space on the crowded deck. Once there was no more room, the little ship set off. Even when they were on the open sea, the danger still hadn’t passed. The Germans were still shooting and they had to avoid the traffic jam as they were going in the opposite direction to the boats heading for Dunkirk and the men still waiting on the beach. It only took a minute or two before Alan’s mate was asleep.