Apple Blossom Time (23 page)

‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

I don’t know why I was so snappy. Mother looked hurt. She only wanted to mother me. She pulled up a chair and sat very close.

‘Darling, I don’t want to be nosy … do tell me if it’s none of my business … but – but are you going to have a baby?’

‘Good Lord, Mother!’ I nearly dropped the bowl of peas and that would have had us scrabbling in the grass for ages. ‘Whatever made you think that?’

‘I didn’t … I don’t … Just … just … well, there’s a war on and girls are – are freer than they used to be in the last war, but even then – even then, girls … you know…’

‘Went to bed with a man before they were married.’ I had to finish the sentence for her. Her face was scarlet, turned away from me. ‘Did you, Mother?’

‘Laura! What a thing to ask…’

‘I’m sorry. That was an awful thing to say. I don’t know why I asked. It’s none of my business.’

‘Exactly. Not that I mean … and, of course, you have been married, so you’re not … and you must have – have needs that an unmarried girl wouldn’t naturally have … you must miss … so … I would understand, Laura, darling. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.’

I could have told her then. I could have said
I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be missing.
I ought to have said
How could I possibly have a baby, when I’m still a virgin?
I don’t know what would have shocked her more – an illegitimate baby or my married virginity. On the whole, I think, probably, the latter.

I simply said, ‘Mother, you can sleep comfortably. I am
not
having a baby. There. Does that make you happy?’

‘Of course, silly me. I knew you weren’t really, darling. I just thought I ought to – you know – check that you were all right. Let me help you with those peas. Isn’t it lucky that we’ve always been able to talk about anything?’

Dear Mother,

The Magister always starts assembly with the school casualty lists now. There were four names today. Farley, Bryce, Heatherington and Swindell. I remember them all. Bryce was quite old. He was a prefect when I first arrived here. He was gassed at St Julien. What a rotten weapon to use. Trust the Hun to have such a beastly idea. Heatherington was in the First Eleven and Victor Ludorum last year. They were all decent chaps. It makes us all quite mad to get out there and have a crack. Tom and I want to try for the same battalion. We shall not be able to escape from here until the summer, but it is never too early to start planning. Some people say the war won’t last, but I think it will probably go on for a bit longer. We have both done well at OTC camp, so hope to get our first choice. Do you think Father could pull any strings? Would you ask him? I hope you and Father are both well.

Your affectionate son,

Edwin

He was getting closer. I could almost hear him breathing. If I put out my hand, I might even be able to touch him.

I had known that Tom and my father had been close, but I hadn’t realized just how long they had known each other. My image of Tom was changing, too. Standing behind my gentle stepfather was a boy who was flogged almost every week, a boy whose mother had died in India, leaving him alone with his grief.

Why had he joined my grandmother’s conspiracy of silence?

*   *   *

The army hadn’t actually forgotten me. Nothing remained of my chickenpox spots except the two little scars on my forehead. Nothing remained, either, of my sick leave. I had never been so reluctant to go back to duty before. It was the most crucial and thrilling stage of the war. I ought to have been anxious to play my part. I went back to Bletchley with sticky kisses from Jonathan and Jennifer and a bag full of letters. Grandmother would never miss them.

Nothing had changed. Buses still rumbled round the lanes at shift change, picking up and dropping off staff. The night silence was still splintered by the coughing roar of motorcycles. Mrs Granby’s cooking hadn’t improved.

‘I see you’re back again,’ she’d said as I walked in on my first evening back. She was gazing into the mirror above the mantelpiece, taking out her metal curlers (what a pity she hadn’t given them up for salvage – now that would really have been patriotism) and fluffing up the resulting frizz. ‘I’ve had my tea and there isn’t a bite in the house. I’m off to the pictures. Don’t forget to leave your ration card when you go off in the morning. TTFN, love.’

I could tell that she’d had her tea. The dirty dishes were still on the table – probably because the sink was still full of yesterday’s. I’d promised myself a stand-up strip wash at the sink with the door locked and the blackout drawn. Now I’d have to wash up first or make do with a basin of water. The windows were shut fast, taped crossways against splinters and painted black round the edges because the blackout blinds didn’t fit properly. The gloom hid the dust, at any rate. But at least the weather was warm and I didn’t have to save shillings to keep that miserable little gas fire alight.

I was back at work with a vengeance. The temperature in ‘E’ block was as unbearably hot in summer as it was cold in winter. We could only open the windows the barest crack, because of the blast shutters. In quiet moments during night shift, and they were pretty rare, our wind-up gramophone used to grind away at Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters singing ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. We all knew how they felt!

Kate had been posted to Portsmouth while I was away. ‘Lucky me!’ she wrote.

Life among the eggheads was a bit too serious for me. I don’t know how you stand that place. Still, I suppose that all you want at your age is a hot-water bottle and a nice cup of cocoa before bed! I prefer something a bit livelier to keep me warm at night! Next time I write I shall tell you all about an absolute dreamboat of a first lieutenant who has his eye on me. Isn’t that tantalizing? I’ll bet you can’t wait for my next missive …

There was only one other letter waiting for me. It was from the Imperial War Graves Commission.

Dear Madam,

It is regretted that, due to the staffing position during the present situation, it has not so far been possible to answer your query regarding your father’s grave.

Records may, however, be consulted, by prior arrangement, by application in person at the above address during office hours. Enquiries should include, where possible, the casualty’s full name, rank and number; unit; age; place of birth; date and place of death.

Yours faithfully …

It was a bit of a blow. I’d no idea when I’d get time off to go swanning around on a search of my own. The office was near Beaconsfield, at Wooburn Green, not impossibly far away, yet I couldn’t make it. We were working double shifts again and I was never free during office hours. I’d had too much time off sick to ask for any special favours. And if I knew the date and place of death, I wouldn’t be asking, would I? No, that wasn’t fair. They were only trying to be helpful, I suppose. The boy who had been my father was buried somewhere. I was determined to find out where. I owed it to him.

How strange to think that you’re older than your father ever was. Fathers are supposed to grow old ahead of you, visibly and gracefully. They’re not supposed to stay boys for ever.

*   *   *

‘Vee – it’s Laura.’

‘Laura? Hey, that’s great! Where are you?’

‘At work. I haven’t got long. Vee – will you do me a favour? Please?’

‘Sure. Name it.’

‘Will you pretend to be me? No, I haven’t deserted and no, I’m not hiding from the MPs. I’m not as daft as all that. Not yet anyway. Will you go to the War Graves Commission offices for me? I want to know where my father is buried.’

‘That’s a pretty odd one. I mean – most people know where their folks have been put. What happened? Did you mislay him, or what? That’s a bit careless, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Very funny. Catch me on another day and I might laugh. Look, it’s very important to me. Vee, please?’

‘I guess I could manage that.’

‘You’re wonderful. And there’s just one more thing, Vee.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think you could possibly stop talking like a Texan millionaire’s wife?’

‘Get lost, Kenton!’

Dear Mother

You will be glad to hear that Tom and I have arrived safely with the battalion. We had a quiet crossing to Le Havre. The Channel was very still and the moon was so bright that we could see to read as we sat on deck. The shapes of our escorts were quite clear and very reassuring. Although all ships were darkened for safety, it made no difference. We could have been sailing in broad daylight.

So far, we haven’t seen anything of the war. We had a pretty decent train journey, although the men were rather squashed in their carriages. France looks very peaceful so far. The only reminder of war was the hospital train that passed us travelling in the opposite direction. Quite a few of the walking wounded put their heads out of the window and waved to us as we passed. I must say, in spite of their bandages, they looked awfully cheerful. It is good to see such a splendid spirit.

The battalion is in the rest area at the moment. They had a bit of a mauling earlier and have been pulled back to recuperate. We are in a pretty village, just like a picture postcard. There is a church and a café (of course), a square with chestnut trees and a duckpond.

The men are billeted in a farmyard with two great stone barns. They have made themselves tolerably comfortable in clean straw and have been visited by a mobile bath unit, which was much appreciated. The farm is run by a very old man, his wife and their granddaughter, who is not at all pretty. I have not yet seen any French men under fifty years of age. The officers have taken over a large house at the edge of the village as the mess. The owner has moved to Paris in a funk. It has a pleasant garden and comfortable furniture. Tom and I share a room and a batman called Conibear, a good-humoured chap who makes a respectable cup of tea and keeps a miraculous shine on our boots. He used to work in an hotel in Harrogate. So it is quite like school again here. The sun is shining. You must not worry, everything is tickety-boo.

We are settling in well and getting to know our fellow men. The lads rather look down on two brand new subalterns, which is a bit of a cheek as half of them are nearly as new as we are. The second-in-command is an old regular, very down-to-earth, and is, they say, the only officer still left of the original battalion. He doesn’t talk to subalterns at all, or to anyone else below the rank of major until after breakfast. The adjutant is very quiet, with rather a board school accent, but seems quite efficient and has kept us up to scratch in our duties. He has a moth-eaten terrier called Rags that he found wandering around a deserted farm. It never does what it’s told, but that’s because it only speaks French!

I am told they are expecting quite a few replacement subalterns, so we shall soon not be the new boys. We have not yet met the CO, as he is on leave. He is said to be a bit of a disciplinarian. That seems to me to be only right and proper. A battalion needs a strong leader. Tom and I will get on very well. As I said to him, all we have to do is do as we are told and we shall be all right. We are both keen as mustard and anxious to get up to the Front.

Well, Mother, I must close now as it is my turn to examine the men’s feet. That is one of the less pleasant aspects of a subaltern’s life. You must not believe everything you hear about French food. So far, it has not come up to scratch and I am very tired of omelettes. Please give my regards to Father.

Your affectionate son,

Edwin

What a good boy. Not one word that he wrote would have to be obliterated by the censor. No place names, no regiment, no dates, no personalities. What use was that to me?

*   *   *

The last thing I expected was a posting, particularly at a time when we were working flat out, day and night, to keep encrypted signal traffic flowing to Normandy. Still, I suppose someone had to be at the other end, to decrypt back into plain language.

Once in, never out, they used to say at Bletchley Park. Once you were in intelligence work, you learned so much that they couldn’t afford to let you out again. Brickfield Cottages for ever and ever. What a thought! A life sentence couldn’t be any more depressing.

Thank goodness it was just a rumour. When I walked down Mrs Granby’s path for the last time, with my posting documents and travel warrant buttoned safely in my pocket, I could have thrown my cap in the air and given three cheers.

All she said was ‘Never again.’ Her voice followed me, persistent as a bluebottle and twice as irritating. ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end to satisfy you. Lady Muck. Don’t like this and don’t like that. Coming and going at all hours. It’s not decent, young women gallivanting about after dark, war or no war. I’ll look for a nice commercial gentleman next time. They’re ever so much less trouble – more grateful for the least little thing you do for them.’

She’d miss my rations, though, and the twenty-five bob a week the army had paid her to keep me.

*   *   *

With a mixed draft of drivers, telephonists, cooks, clerks and ack-ack girls, I sailed to France to join Rear HQ 21st Army Group, sick all the way – and we’d been fed bully beef and treacle tart in Southampton – in the teeth of a summer gale, landing at Arromanches. Was it worth four shillings a day to hang over the side, heaving all the way to France? If this was what a third stripe entailed, they could keep it!

The girl in front of me balked as she clambered into the LCI – Landing Craft Infantry. ‘After you, Claude,’ she muttered. And for once the ITMA catchphrase didn’t seem funny. No-one quipped back, ‘No, after
you,
Cecil.’

‘Get a move on, that woman,’ yelled a petty officer.

We squeezed in as well as we could, kitbags slung over our shoulders, clutching our tin hats, looking about as warlike as though we were wearing saucepans on our heads. What a ridiculous shape they were. They never stayed on unless you fastened the chin strap tight enough to throttle you. The ship pitched and rolled as we were swung out on davits. The sea looked a horribly long way down, heaving with a smooth, glassy, hungry swell. Unidentifiable things – sharp, sloppy, spiky, squidgy, smelly things, things we didn’t want to know about – bobbed against the ship’s sides. Up here we were safe. Down there was – oh, God … We all squealed as the LCI dropped towards the waves with a sickening swoop, worse than any lift, and splashed down. The landing craft surged towards the shallows, dropped its bow door and we were in France.