An Ordinary Life

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Absolutely, but this job is about neutrality,’ Mr Allan had stressed. ‘It’s about liaising with the prisoners of war – a welfare check, if you like. We as a nation are proud to uphold the values set by the Red Cross and the Church; it’s about treating people humanely and fairly without letting personal prejudice cloud your understanding of the fact that their needs are the same as yours. One human to another. You don’t need to like them or approve of them, and you should try not to judge them. This role is administrative, not emotional, and it requires someone with your level of clearance and your level of German language.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had nodded in the end.

  ‘Is that a “yes”, you understand the requirement – or a “yes”, you will take the job?’ he had asked.

  ‘Both, Mr Allan,’ she had answered coolly. ‘Both.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He had smiled and then winked; his response gave her the creeps.

  It had been no more than a three-hour journey and Molly found herself in the countryside, where the air tasted sweeter, reminding her of a winter jaunt in an open-top MG. The sky was huge and the smell was of the earth and all it grew, rather than the smog of city life and all the anxious people crammed into its streets. She looked to the horizon of the Kentish land in which she stood and pictured Joe in his pram, generously bought by her sister, and thought how lovely it would be to push him in it today in the garden of England, to meander along the lanes and soak up the sun . . .

  ‘Right, Molly, all set. The car’s out at the front.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She nodded at Telsie, who so far seemed to be the only downside to her new role. Molly had always worked with smart, witty women such as Geer, Marjorie and Violet, but she had never encountered anyone like her new colleague, Telsie, or, more accurately, ‘Telsie the third’, as the girl had informed her, ‘named after my grandmother and mother respectively’. Telsie was petite, pretty and an insufferable giggling chatterbox. In fact, ‘chatty’ did not even begin to cut it. She liked to stream her interior monologue on all matters, from what she had heard on the wireless, through what she was going to have for her lunch and what she might have for her supper, to the route her bus took on the way to work and details of who was on the bus, along with any other useless snippets that might pop into her head. Telsie shattered Molly’s peace and upset her rhythm. Molly was aware that Telsie wanted to be friends, but preferred to keep their relationship professional. Not only was she unwilling to let another Geertruida into her life, knowing the pain of losing that friendship was too high a price, but the thought of spending any more time with the girl than she absolutely had to was not something that appealed. Telsie hummed a popular ditty as they walked to the front of the station and climbed into the waiting car. The driver was a stern and silent young man in RAF uniform, which suited Molly just fine; she was in no mood to chat. Telsie, however, had other ideas. Leaning forward from the back seat as the car pulled away, she tried to engage him in conversation.

  ‘So what’s it like working with the Germans?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he replied, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead.

  ‘Have they ever tried to escape?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they could, though, right? I mean, they’re only on an open farm during the day with other fruit pickers and workers – what’s to stop them wandering off and turning up at some remote village and murdering everyone in their beds?’

  Molly felt her pulse race as she pictured the boisterous German soldiers from the Café Hubert barging down Joyce and Albert’s front door, Joe screaming and her not close enough to make a difference, to save him. A hot flush of unease crept over her skin at this unwelcome thought . . .

  ‘Can you be quiet, Telsie, just for one second?’ she asked. ‘Let the poor chap drive and let me gather my thoughts!’

  Telsie slunk back onto the rear seat.

  ‘Kent is famous for apples and hops. I was trying to think of what you could make with apples and hops . . .’ and Telsie was off again, nattering to herself about something inane while Molly and the silent driver kept their peace.

  The car slowed as they approached the entrance to the farm, the wheels clattering over the cobbles, and Molly pictured the forecourt of the farmhouse in France, wondering not for the first time what might have happened to Lisette, Jacques, the young girl at the table prepping rhubarb and the others in the wake of events.

  The farm manager, Mr Wilkes, was waiting to meet them. He stood with his arms folded across his tank top, shirtsleeves rolled high above the elbow. A tweed cap softened by age sat over his bushy grey eyebrows and darkly tanned face. Spotting his grimy hands, Molly was thankful he didn’t offer a handshake.

  ‘’Bout time. You’re late!’ came his bellowed welcome.

  ‘We were at the mercy of the railway timetable, I’m afraid,’ she said, smiling sweetly. He ignored her.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this over and done with,’ he called over his shoulder, as though their very presence was at best an inconvenience and at worst an irritation. She marched behind him, with Telsie following.

  ‘Fruit beer!’ the driver called after them – either because the answer had only just occurred to him or because it had taken him this long to feel comfortable enough to speak freely, she wasn’t sure which.

  Telsie waved at him and laughed loudly. ‘Yes, of course – fruit beer!’

  The driver beamed before disappearing back into the car. Molly felt the smallest twinge of conscience and reminded herself to be patient with young Telsie.

  ‘So it’s carrots they’re pulling today?’ Molly asked, in an effort to engage Mr Wilkes.

  ‘At the moment it is. We have a nation to feed!’

  ‘Absolutely. And my understanding is that the POWs arrive each morning and are collected at night?’

  ‘That’s about the sum of it. The wife cooks all the lunches and includes them at the table. Many of the locals won’t sit with them, and I dare say one or two extra ingredients might find their way into that lunch, but what can you do?’ He shrugged and gave a small chuckle.

  ‘Do you segregate the POWs from the other workers?’ she said, stepping surefootedly over the cobbles and onto the grass verge.

  ‘Nope. If a job needs doing, it needs doing. I don’t give a rat’s arse who does it! But I don’t see much mixing, that’s for sure.’

  Molly quite liked his lack of formality and undiscerning approach. Acceptance and integration without prejudice were cornerstones of their mandate that she could follow, even if she didn’t feel this in her heart.

  ‘Do you have any cows, Mr Wilkes?’ Telsie piped up. ‘I love them! I’d love six pet cows. I’d name them all and make them wear bonnets on a sunny day!’

  ‘You’re addle-pated, you are!’ the farmer shouted, and marched off.

  Molly and Telsie smiled slightly in response, neither quite sure whether this was an insult or a compliment. Despite Telsie’s many irritating habits, it was impossible not to find the girl’s sweet, uncensored world view appealing. Making their way down the narrow path alongside a thorny hedgerow, they came to a clearing that opened onto a wide, ploughed field. Dozens of people, men and women, stood bent among the furrows, hands rooting under the lush green fronds for a firm grip to pull the carrots from the earth, then knocking off the soil and tossing them into large panniers as they moved along the furrow.

  ‘They’re due a break about now. I’ll call them in and you can have your chat,’ Mr Wilkes said, stepping forward and placing two fingers under his tongue, ready to make an ear-splitting whistle. The workers stopped what they were doing and stood upright, before stretching their arms over their head or rubbing at the base of their spine and then walking over to a flatbed truck parked in the far corner; from the back of this, they unloaded a churn and some baskets. Molly, Telsie and Mr Wilkes walked across to meet them. Molly lifted her chin to find composure, aware that she was once again about to engage with the enemy. She noted the marked difference b
etween the two groups, locals and POWs. The locals were a mix of men and women, all with dark hair and rosy cheeks, chatting together with obvious lifelong familiarity in their singsong Kentish tones. The other group, sitting on hay bales dotted around for the purpose, were quiet, blond and muscular, without an ounce of spare fat.

  ‘This is your lot.’ Mr Wilkes pointed at them, and her face coloured. Being lumped together with the prisoners in any fashion was not a pleasant thing.

  ‘If you could go and chat to the locals, Telsie – find out their take on things, how it’s working, et cetera – I’ll go and speak to the Germans.’

  Telsie nodded and approached the group. Molly ignored Mr Wilkes and walked over to where the men sat. She had been practising German in her head for days now and it came fairly easily.

  ‘Hello, my name is Miss Collway and I am here today representing the Government and agencies who have an interest in your fair treatment. I’m here to . . .’ The words abandoned her as a man who had been working on the far side of the field came over to join his countrymen. He walked in long strides, carrying a mug full of milk and what looked to be a bread bun in the other. Her eyes stayed on his face, and many of the other captured Germans followed her line of sight until they too were staring at him, wondering what was such a draw. It was unmistakable – fair hair with a long fringe that flopped over his face, a strong jaw and broad shoulders – he looked terribly similar to Johan, and it threw her completely. Of course, he didn’t really, not close up, but when her eyes and heart were continually searching in crowds for one particular face, because her mind refused to believe she would never see that person again – this was her brain clutching at straws. She swallowed, concentrating on her words.

  ‘I’m here to make sure that you’re being treated well and to ask if anyone needs medical attention. Are there any other issues you might wish to raise?’ She avoided looking at that particular man’s face.

  ‘I have a question?’ It was the man with whom she was avoiding eye contact who asked this.

  ‘Yes?’ She kept her voice curt.

  ‘We were told it would be possible for post to come through from home, but we are yet to receive anything. Is that because the process is taking time or are the letters being withheld from us?’ His voice was quiet, intelligent and yet still with the staccato, guttural edge that put her in mind of so much bad propaganda.

  ‘I will certainly find out for you.’ She nodded. ‘Does anyone have any other issues they would like to discuss – health or welfare problems?’

  A slightly older man put up his hand. ‘My name is Klaus—’

  ‘Hello, Klaus.’ This introduction caused a small ripple of laughter among Klaus’s compatriots.

  ‘And I hate fish.’

  ‘I see. All fish or . . .?’ This inadvertently caused even greater mirth.

  ‘We have fish at least every other night, and I hate it. I eat it, but I hate it. Is there anything we can do about that?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I suppose that’s one of the perks of being close to the coast.’ She held his gaze and the laughter stopped. She knew many a family in the city who would give a lot for fish and all its health benefits right now. ‘I will be here tomorrow and there will be a medic here, too, if anyone wants to meet with him. Thank you.’ Molly began to walk away, heading towards Telsie and the group of local farm workers, who were seated on similar bales with their milk and buns, the main difference being the lively hum of conversation that hung over them in a cloud. Telsie, she noticed, was among them with a milk moustache and half a bun in her hand.

  ‘Had a nice chat with them, did you?’ a big woman called out, her face lopsided by her smirk.

  Molly ignored her. ‘Ready when you are, Telsie.’

  ‘Don’t know how you can bring yourself to stand and talk with them like they’re mates in their ’orrible language! Makes my skin crawl, it does.’ Again the woman spoke loudly, and one or two in her band nodded their agreement.

  Molly more than understood the woman’s hatred, but addressed her calmly and directly. ‘I think that, no matter how much troubles or divides us, I hope the people we love who are being held against their will or who find themselves in difficult circumstances all over the world right now are being treated with similar care and compassion, because, after all, they are someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s husband.’

  ‘I ain’t seen my husband for three years! I bet he’s not being given double rations and a comfy bed every night with a cushy bloody job!’ She threw the last of the milk down her throat and tipped the drips out onto the soil.

  ‘I did tell her you were all right,’ Telsie piped up, and Molly felt happy at the girl’s endorsement, but also riled by this unnecessary hostility from the woman, wishing she could flop down beside her, take her hand and look her in the eye to tell her, ‘I feel the same! I have lost my one true love and my son is away from me! I understand!’

  Instead, she cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, Telsie. I think all we can do is make the best of what is often a trying set of circumstances.’ She now addressed the group, who had gone a little quiet. ‘We will be back again tomorrow if anyone has any issues or questions that we might be able to help with.’

  Molly turned to make her way back to the path and saw the man who reminded her of Johan standing only feet away.

  He raised his hand towards her. ‘Thank you for saying that.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ She heard the tut and snicker of the woman behind her.

  ‘Here.’ He beckoned her closer and held out his hand. She took two steps forward and reached for the photograph he proffered from the pocket of his shirt. It was a little dog-eared around the edges and with a crease running down the middle, but unmistakably a picture of him crouching with one hand resting on the shoulder of a pretty girl and on her lap a bonny baby boy of about two, his other hand cradling the boy’s head. They were in rather a grand garden with a bower of yellow roses in full bloom hanging overhead on a sunny summer’s day. The couple were smiling, sharing the joy of their little one . . .

  ‘My wife, Liesl, and my son, Otto. It’s my name too: Otto. He’s named after me.’ He beamed at the picture she held in her hands.

  ‘Lovely.’ She handed it back to him, stiffly.

  ‘She will always find a way to write to me and I’m expecting a letter from her with news of my son . . .’ He swallowed and let this trail.

  ‘As I said, I will do what I can to find out.’

  ‘Thank you!’ he called as she marched towards the path.

  ‘Wait for me!’ Telsie called after her, catching up only when she had made it to the courtyard and the waiting car. Molly climbed in and slammed the door, rubbing her hand over her face and trying to gain composure.

  ‘If I could just take a minute,’ she said to the RAF driver, who discreetly kept his gaze to the front. Telsie jumped in the back and the whole car juddered.

  ‘Well, that went well, and I thought they were quite a nice bunch. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.’ Telsie looked at Molly and took a sharp breath. ‘Molly! What’s the matter? Are you feeling poorly – shall I fetch someone? Do you want some tea?’

  Molly shook her head.

  ‘Do you feel faint?’ Telsie asked, continuing to press her. ‘You look very pale. I fainted once. Hated it.’

  Another day, another time, and Molly would have pointed out that no one actually liked fainting. But her thoughts were far too preoccupied for that. She took the handkerchief offered by Telsie and wiped her eyes.

  ‘It’s okay, Molly. Don’t cry.’ The girl scooted closer to her side.

  ‘I’m not crying!’ Molly sniffed, unwilling to open up and invite further comment.

  ‘In that case, I think your eyes are leaking a bit,’ Telsie said with a sweet smile. Molly looked out of the window towards the farmhouse where ‘the wife’ would no doubt be knocking up lunch, and she thought of Liesl, who was at home somewhere in Germany with her bonny baby boy, wonde
ring as to the fate of her man. The picture had been like holding up a mirror – a reflection of a life that would never be hers . . .

  ‘Don’t be sad,’ Telsie began.

  ‘I am sad – I am so bloody sad!’ The truth escaped after all.

  ‘I am too,’ Telsie smiled and nodded.

  ‘No, Telsie, no, you are not,’ Molly sniffed. ‘You are Miss Perpetual Sunshine! Always smiling, chatting, singing or humming! Jesus Christ – do you ever just let yourself be silent?’ She regretted the words the moment they had left her mouth.

  Telsie turned to face her as the car pulled out of the driveway to take them to their digs for the night.

  ‘I’m silent when I’m not at work because I have no one to talk to.’ She let this permeate. ‘I lost everyone, Molly – everyone. My mother, my brothers, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins and my father, all of them, all gone.’ Molly felt sick to her stomach with sadness for the girl and no small amount of shame at having kept her at arm’s length. Telsie blinked as if it was still too difficult to voice. ‘I was silent in the truck that smuggled me out. I could smell the fuel and it made me feel sick, but I kept quiet, like they told me to. So I came here on my own because the captain wouldn’t take me, said I was too small and a nuisance, crying and all that. So I was sent on without them. A stranger brought me here and my whole family was in a boat that got hit, torpedoed. Not one of them survived. Not one.’

  ‘Telsie . . .’ Molly reached out and took the girl’s hand in hers.

  ‘I know.’ She smiled, swiping at her own tears now and grabbing the handkerchief back from Molly. ‘Fucking war.’

  Molly laughed out loud at these words, so incongruous to the girl’s sweet nature. ‘Yes, fucking war.’