Darkest Before Dawn (26 page)

However, he would have to accept that Seraphina would never be his, he told himself now, turning over the page to finish Angela's letter. There was not much more, just a bit about hoping he would have a good Christmas and saying that they rather dreaded a holiday spent in such different circumstances from those which had attended Christmases aboard the
Mary Jane
.

She had signed off,
From your affectionate friend, Angela Todd
, but had then added a postscript:
I always write as though I am expressing the feelings of my whole family, and so I am I'm sure, but today, because my thoughts are very much with you, so far from us at the festive season, may I tell you that I think of you with deep affection, as though you were, in fact, a member of my own family.
And then there was a shaky little arrow leading to the words:
Happy Christmas, Toby, with love from Angela.

Toby sat and stared at the postscript; what on earth did Angela mean? In his mind's eye, he conjured up a picture of her fair and gentle face, the soft pale hair, the steady regard of the dark blue eyes. It had never crossed his mind before to consider her beautiful, but now he realised that she was. Oh, she lacked the fire and vivacity of his beloved Seraphina, but she was beautiful, nevertheless, and she had a gentleness of spirit which, he told himself, would be a lot easier to live with than Seraphina's fieriness and unpredictability. And Angela was loyal and steadfast. Now that he thought about it, he realised that she had written to him once or twice a week ever since he had joined the army, and now she had sent him her love. Knowing her as he did, he realised that it could not have been easy for her to put her feelings into words, for he had no doubt that Angela meant what she said. Perhaps it was just because it was Christmas, perhaps it was to ease the pain of the blow she had dealt him when she spoke of her sister's engagement to Roger Truelove, but he knew Angela would never send her love lightly.

He stared down at the letter for some time, wondering what best to do. He could scarcely pretend an affection he did not feel, but he decided that if he ever got leave – if he ever got home again – he would take Angela out, perhaps dancing, perhaps on a long country walk, and see how the two of them got on together. He did not intend to make love to her, but just to get to know her better, and he thought that this would suit Angela too, since she, after all, could not have considered him as anything but her sister's friend until very recently.

Having come to a decision of sorts, Toby folded the letter and tucked it into the top pocket of his battledress. Then, abruptly, he remembered the parcel. His name and details were printed in block capitals and hope blossomed again as he carefully untied the string and began to unwrap the brown paper. You never know, he told himself as he did so, Seraphina may have realised that this Truelove fellow is just a horrible mistake. She may have decided to extend the hand of friendship, if nothing more. If this is a Christmas present from Seraphina . . . oh God, please God, let it be from Seraphina!

He unwrapped the last piece of brown paper and five tiny Woodbine cigarettes rolled on to his lap. They had been encased in a sheet of thin, cheap paper from an exercise book, and with his heart diving into his sturdy army boots, he recognised Evie's handwriting.

Smiling to himself at her exuberant display of puppy-like affection, he almost missed the postscript, scribbled at the very bottom of the page.

Toby stared, unbelievingly, at the words and then felt a slow smile begin to spread across his face. She was melting, if only a little. He longed to write to her, to apologise all over again for his behaviour, but a new caution warned him that this was not necessarily the sensible thing to do. She might easily resent his getting in touch just when she had got engaged to this Truelove fellow. Truelove! What a ridiculous name. No, he would bide his time. Besides, he and Fee were now on what you might call level pegging. She had written to him, unanswered, for six months, and he had done the same. Now he thought only his personal intervention could affect the issue; letters might merely aggravate it. He picked up the cigarettes and tucked them and Evie's letter carefully into his other breast pocket, smiling as he did so. Evie was a sweet kid and he could rely on her to tell him which way the wind was blowing so far as Seraphina was concerned. Then he remembered that it had been Angela who had broken the news of Seraphina's engagement, and not Evie. But perhaps Evie was trying to spare his feelings; she really did seem to know how he felt about her eldest sister. Sighing, Toby got to his feet and headed for the hut door, glancing once more at Evie's PS which he already knew by heart. Seraphina was thinking of him! It might not be much but it would have to suffice for now. Whistling, he set off for the cookhouse.

Chapter Eight

Dawn comes early in May and so, unfortunately, did the German fighter planes. Light was barely beginning to seep across the land when Toby was awoken as much by the roar of engines as by the pale and creeping grey of morning. He and his friend Boysie were lying in a ditch – fortunately a fairly dry ditch – overhung by a thick hedge, and further along the same ditch the rest of his platoon were spread out in its shelter, but now everyone began struggling to their feet. If they're like me, they're aching in every limb, Toby thought, as his weary muscles screamed a protest. The previous day they had marched forty miles as they had done the day before that, for this was an army in retreat, making its way down to the coast in the hope – probably vain – of being taken off before they were completely overrun by the enemy.

It had all happened so suddenly that none of them had been prepared. The Maginot Line in which the French had placed such total confidence had been a whole war out of date. The Panzer divisions had rolled across it as though it did not exist, though of course it had been the war from the air which had really crushed them. Every day since the Germans had crossed the Belgian frontier into France, the planes had shrieked overhead, machine-gunning, bombing and terrorising as they came. The Stukas emitted a fearsome noise as they dived towards the earth and a pal of Boysie's had said that the planes had sirens on their wings which made that dreadful, unearthly screaming. But most of Toby's platoon neither knew nor cared about the noise; noise rarely kills, but tracer bullets and bombs decimated the fleeing troops and broke their morale. Everyone had expected to make a stand, consolidate, face the enemy. Instead, they had been told at once to retreat so that they could re-form in Britain. It seemed to Toby, now, that this was the most disorganised rabble that had ever called itself an army. They were ill equipped, ill trained and ill informed. They had been making their way towards the coast now for four days and there had been no food provided, though most of them had managed to beg, borrow or, alas, steal from the farms and cottages they passed. They had been told to destroy all heavy equipment, including all vehicles, which was the sort of madness it would take a general to think up, Toby thought vindictively. A man who travelled everywhere by staff car would not consider how thousands of men were meant to make their way across hundreds of miles of unfriendly terrain without so much as a bicycle to speed them on their way. Toby's commander had been furious, had actually dared to load a great many men into a couple of lorries, had commandeered enough jerry cans of petrol to get them to the coast, and had then seen his men forced to disembark to allow a skinny, strutting senior officer, with a walrus moustache and weak eyes, to set fire to the vehicles. When the petrol had exploded, the officer with the walrus moustache had been thrown ten feet, broken both legs, and had all his hair, his moustache and most of his uniform burned off.

They had left him. Thanks to him, there were now no vehicles in which to convey the wounded. When one had to abandon a friend, it was with pain and regret and the hope that the German forces, so close behind, would treat the wounded well, but that officer could have rotted in hell for all the men cared.

‘Toby? Ready to move on, old feller?' That was Boysie, stretching and rubbing bleary eyes. ‘The rest of 'em's just about coming awake, so if we gerra move on we might forage us up some breakfast.'

Toby nodded. Boysie had been most impressed when Toby had showed him how to milk a cow, crouching in the field and milking it into his tin helmet. And then there had been the eggs. Toby had found a hen's nest deep in an overgrown ditch, and he and Boysie, and several other members of the platoon, had eaten the eggs raw since they were marching, and in any case had no means of cooking them.

As the men abandoned the ditch, a dive bomber came hurtling towards them, its guns spitting. Everyone scattered, and afterwards did not re-form even into the ragged line which had crept along when the sky had been clear of any aircraft. Now, they journeyed in twos and threes, dodging from tree to hedge, diving gladly into a wood when they reached it, hating the flat water meadows upon which a man showed up like a flake of snow in a coalfield.

Toby and Boysie ate a handful of raw turnips, drank some milk from a cow whose udder bulged – she was glad of the relief – and Toby found time to wonder why the farmer had not brought his beasts in for milking. Further along, the reason was clear enough: the farm had been bombed flat to the ground, a thread of smoke still rising from a burned-out barn. God knew who would milk the cows now, Toby thought in some distress. And God knew how this country would ever recover from the hammer blows the Germans were raining on it. Surely one did not conquer a country and then raze it to the ground? But Toby guessed that this was only happening because the British Expeditionary Force was retreating slowly across the land, trying to reach the channel ports; as soon as the army was totally destroyed, then the bombardment would stop and life would return, to some extent at least, to normal.

Another aeroplane roared overhead, the bullets it was pouring down on to the little lane they were traversing kicking up spurts of dust. The two men hurled themselves into the ditch for the dozenth time in an hour and Boysie said uneasily: ‘I dunno as we'll ever make it, old pal. Me belly thinks me throat's been cut, I'm that hungry, and me bones is aching from chucking meself into these perishin' ditches. How about finding somewhere to kip down for a few hours? Then we could walk at night – we'd be safer, I reckon. Any idea how much further we've gorrer go?'

Toby had no idea but he did not mean to say so for he knew they must simply keep going whilst they had the strength. ‘It can't be far now,' he said cheerfully. ‘Haven't you noticed? The nearer we get to the coast, the hotter the bombardment. Oh aye, I reckon we're closer than you think.'

Boysie gave him a weary grin out of his dirt-smeared, exhausted face. ‘I reckon you're right,' he said. He was still carrying his rifle though his gas mask had gone long ago. ‘C'mon then, best foot forward!'

They reached the coast soon after midnight, having been instructed by an officer that they must head for Dunkirk since it had been arranged that the men would be picked up from there. By now they were bone-weary, stumbling along in the darkness with many other men. They were all white-faced, exhausted and starving hungry, but worst of all they were leaderless. In the dark it was impossible to pick out the badges of rank, but in any event it was every man for himself, because of the constant bombardment and the dreadful conditions.

Toby had been afraid of missing Dunkirk, but as soon as they got within a few miles of it they could see it all right for it was on fire, lighting the sky with a fearful golden glow which at first glance he had thought was the approaching dawn. Boysie, trudging along beside him, remarked that the Jerries had lit a signal flare which would guide the British ships to the troops, though doubtless this had not been their intention. No one laughed, though, when they were near enough to see the damage which had been inflicted on the small town. There was very little left of it and a thick pall of black smoke hung over the ruins.