Octavia's War (30 page)

‘She's coming to her senses, you see,' he said to Octavia when he saw her that Saturday. ‘She's got over all that silly nonsense with the soldier. I knew she would, only you wouldn't have it. Bit of firm handling. That's all she needed. It'll do her the world of good to be working in the open air. Put some colour in her cheeks. Just what she needs before she gets on with her studies.'

So Lizzie and Poppy said goodbye to Smithie and their nice Miss Henry, promised to write to them and let them know how they were getting on, and went to work on a farm in Cambridgeshire where they picked potatoes and fed chickens and learnt to plough and milk cows, and Octavia welcomed her new first-formers and gave sashes and gowns to her new prefects, and Edie sewed more parachutes than ever, and Tommy took it easy, for the first time in years, and Ben and his fellow tankies prepared themselves for the decisive battle that Monty had promised.

It began on the night of the 23
^rd
of October, while Lizzie was asleep in her elegant room at St Hilda's and Tommy was at his club and Octavia was writing up her journal in her quiet bedroom, and it opened with a massive bombardment. It was put up by a thousand heavy guns and the noise of it was so deafening that Ben wrote afterwards that it was a wonder it
didn't split their eardrums. But it had the desired effect. By the early hours the New Zealand Division were in action clearing a gap through the minefields in front of the German forward position and they were followed by the armoured divisions. For the next two days what Montgomery called ‘a crumbling process' went on slowly and inexorably as pockets of resistance were tackled and ‘mopped up'. Then on November 2
^nd
the New Zealanders broke through the enemy lines followed by the 7
^th
Armoured Division and the Germans began to retreat. From that moment on the battle became a rout. It was, as Monty had promised, a decisive victory.

Back home, the headlines yelled ‘Success' and ‘Victory' and parliament gave permission for church bells to be rung in celebration. It was the first time they'd been heard since war was declared and the sound of them was heart lifting. ‘Now,' people said, listening to them as they sang across winter fields and peaceful villages and bomb-battered towns, ‘we're on the way to winning, at last.'

But it was Churchill who put the situation into words in a speech to the House of Commons. True to character, he was careful to sound a note of caution but the triumph of his tone was unmistakable. ‘It is not the end,' he said in his fruity voice. ‘It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.'

On the day that the speech was reported in the papers, Tommy rang Octavia in one of his happiest moods.

‘End of the beginning, you see,' he said. ‘Monty's done a great job. Now we're on our way. We've just been having a party.'

She laughed at that. ‘It sounds like it.'

‘I'd rather have a wedding though,' he said. ‘Just the time
for it, don't you think? Great victory, celebrations, end of the beginning, that sort of thing.'

She'd been buoyed up by the good news ever since it broke, feeling relieved and excited, and now his bubbling happiness was so infectious, it tipped her into a decision. He was right. It
was
the time for it. ‘We shall have to consult our diaries,' she said.

He cheered. ‘Dearest girl,' he said. ‘I'll bring mine with me on Saturday.'

Like everyone else in the burns unit, Johnnie Thompson was pleased by the news from El Alamein too, although privately he was even more pleased by the fact that after two painful operations his hands were so much improved. They were still scarred, of course, and more clawed than they should have been. That was something he would have to live with. But they were serviceable. They would hold a knife and fork or a cup. They would even do up the buttons on his tunic and that was a real achievement.

He was practising his new trick at that moment, sitting in a chair alongside his bed and feeling rather pleased with himself.

‘Look at you!' Nurse Jones said, as she walked up the ward.

Not for the first time, Johnnie thought what a very nice voice she had. It was so warm and encouraging and it had that nice lilt to it. ‘Good or what?' he said beaming at her.

‘First rate,' she said. ‘I've come to change your dressings but don't stop. Finish what you're doing.'

‘Will I get marks out of ten?' he asked.

She smiled at that because it was a long-standing joke between them that she gave him marks for what he endured.
‘I've brought your paper for you,' she said, ‘and you've got a letter. Which do you want first?'

‘Both.'

‘That's the trouble with you lot,' she said, putting the newspaper and the letter on his locker. ‘You're such
greedy-guts
. I never knew such a bunch. Right then. Are you ready for the torture?'

And that was another thing, he thought, as he eased back onto the bed. She was always gentle. She never hurt him if she could possibly avoid it. He picked up the paper and began to read it as she started work on his remaining foot, lowering it into its bath of salt water. ‘Ten out of ten,' she said. ‘That's coming along lovely. Mr Ferguson's visiting presently. He
will
be pleased.'

Her praise was pleasant but he was too caught up in the news to notice it. ‘Look at this, Gwyneth,' he said. ‘The Yanks are in the war at last.' And he read the headlines to her. ‘
Anglo-American force lands in North Africa.'

‘About time too,' she said, turning his foot to one side.

Johnnie went on reading aloud.
‘The greatest armada of ships and aircraft ever assembled for a single operation today landed American troops in Vichy-French North Africa. As Rangers, Marines and infantry landed from the sea, paratroopers dropped on key airports in Morocco and Algeria. They had taken all their objectives by nightfall.
They're going to encircle the buggers. Pardon my French, Gwyneth.'

‘Never mind pardon your French,' Gwyneth told him. ‘Hold your foot still or you won't get ten out of ten. It's more like seven at the moment.'

Johnnie picked up his letter and opened it. ‘Sorry about that,' he said and settled down to read quietly. It lasted all of five seconds and then he was chortling again. ‘Will you look
at this,' he said, waving the letter. ‘This is my Wing Co. He's found me a job.'

‘Well good for him,' Gwyneth said. ‘What is it?'

‘Tutor pilot, teaching the trainees. He says I'm just the sort of chap they're looking for. Plenty of flying hours, Spitfire pilot, that sort of thing.' Outside the window the sky was crumpled and colourless, like old sheets, but in this little corner of the ward the air was suddenly rosy with hope.

‘Will you go for it?' she asked.

He tried to be sensible although his heart was racing with excitement. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think I might. I'll have to get my tin leg fitted first but when I'm up and running…'

‘Good things happen in threes,' she said, gentling his foot back into the bath. ‘I wonder what the third will be.'

It came later that morning when Mr Ferguson did his rounds and examined Johnnie's stump. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘I think you're ready to have your prosthesis fitted. I will make the arrangements. I hear you've had the offer of a job.'

‘Not exactly an offer, sir. I can apply for it.'

‘Then I trust you will. We shall have you up and walking in no time at all now. If I were you I would put in the application today. Strike while the iron's hot.' There was nothing like the thought of being back in harness to keep up his patients' morale. ‘Well done.'

Johnnie saluted him. Nothing less than a salute would do.

Emmeline was none too pleased to be told that he was going to be moved. ‘It's miles out of the way,' she complained to Edith, ‘as if Tonbridge wasn't bad enough, and he's not allowed visitors. I told you, didn't I? What sort of a hospital is that?'

‘It's where they fit artificial limbs, Ma,' Edith said. ‘One of
the girls had a brother there. He swore by it. Do you want the sprouts doing?'

Emmeline looked at the clock. ‘They said they'd be ten minutes,' she said, ‘and they've been half an hour already. Yes, you'd better do them. They should have finished by the time we're ready, but if they haven't, they'll have to take a break and get on with it afterwards. Although why they should be making all this to-do about choosing a wedding day I can't imagine. They've had long enough to think about it, in all conscience, and they've got enough days to choose from.'

But as Tommy and Octavia were discovering, the number of days that were actually available to them was strictly limited and choosing a date for their wedding, followed by the ten days that Tommy said was the very minimum they needed for a honeymoon, was proving irritatingly difficult. At that moment, they were sitting on either side of the fire in the dining room, scowling at one another.

Tommy had started the discussion by suggesting the Christmas holiday, and had been told at once that
that
was out of the question.

‘Much too soon,' Octavia said firmly. ‘Anyway, Maggie Henry's going to have a holiday with her cousin. Long overdue I might say. She hasn't taken a break since the war began.'

‘Will that matter?'

‘Well, of course it will. We always share the care of our Downview girls over the holidays and one of us has got to be there. So that's out. Sorry.'

‘Can't some of the other teachers do it?'

‘No they can't. And I'm not going to ask them. Anyway, what about Lizzie?'

‘
What
about Lizzie?'

‘Won't she be home for Christmas?'

‘Apparently not,' he said. ‘She's going back to that farm with her friend Poppy, so she says. So we don't have to worry about her.'

His casual manner annoyed her. She thought of Lizzie waiting and worrying about Ben and felt cross on her behalf. ‘You might at least have given her a thought.'

‘Well, we've given her a thought and she won't be there. If we want to marry at Christmas, it's fine by me.'

‘You're not listening to me, Tommy,' she said, trying to be patient and not making a very good job of it. ‘Haven't I just told you it's out of the question?'

He held up his hands to placate her. ‘All right. All right. Have it your own way. Easter then. That should give us plenty of time.'

But, as he found out when he consulted his own diary, Easter was ruined by a conference he had to attend. ‘God damn it all. Will you look at that.'

‘Fifteen all,' Octavia said, trying not to sound too smug and failing at that too. ‘So that brings us to the summer half term. What about that?'

‘You only get a week though, don't you?'

‘Yes, we do,' she admitted. ‘But do we really need ten days for our honeymoon? I mean, we could compromise, couldn't we?'

Apparently not. ‘Out of the question,' he said. ‘If we can't have a decent honeymoon what's the point of getting married?'

‘I'm beginning to wonder,' she said. The euphoria that had carried her along when he first suggested choosing a date was being pecked away by all these ridiculous difficulties. It should have been so easy, and yet here they were on the verge of a row and they hadn't got anywhere.

‘I'm beginning to think your heart's not in it,' he complained and his face was dark. ‘I mean, God damn it, Tavy. There are three hundred and sixty five days in a year. Don't tell me we can't find one.'

‘It's not my heart,' she told him. ‘It's my diary. Come on Tommy, be fair. I did warn you it would be tricky. We've got busy lives.'

‘I'm dishing up,' Emmeline said from the doorway. ‘How are you getting on?'

Tommy recovered himself and grimaced. ‘We've gone through five or six years when nothing can be done,' he said, ‘but apart from that…'

Emmeline laughed at him. ‘Oh well then,' she said, ‘you won't mind putting it aside and having your dinner.'

In the end, when the meal had fed them back to good humour, and he'd spent the rest of the evening talking about Johnnie and Mark and Matthew, and when he and Octavia were satisfied and companionable in bed together, he decided the best thing they could do was to pencil in the first two weeks of the summer holiday and think about it again at the end of the summer term.

‘We could go on for ever, driving ourselves crazy and being disappointed,' he said. ‘It'll sort itself out.'

She was half asleep but stirred herself to answer him. ‘Very sensible,' she said. ‘You never know what's going to turn up.'

‘That's the problem,' he said.

What turned up on the 1st of December was revolutionary and encouraging. It was a report written by a man called Sir William Beveridge, who was the chairman of a committee set up to consider ‘Social Insurance and Allied Services' and it could have been written specially to please Octavia, for it
contained most of the ideas she and her father and the Fabians had been discussing and refining before the war. What Sir William was aiming at was ‘a system to abolish want'. He proposed that everybody would be entitled to free medical and hospital treatment so that nobody would have to forego the treatment they needed because they couldn't afford it; that there would be retirement pensions for everybody and family allowances of eight shillings a week for every child after the first one. To pay for it all there would be a single weekly contribution – a sort of national insurance – of four shillings and threepence from every worker and two and sixpence from their employers. The much hated dole would be abolished. All working people and their families would be cared for ‘from the cradle to the grave'.

When she'd read it, Octavia sat at the kitchen table and cheered. It was so exactly what was needed, so well thought out, so British, so timely. And she wasn't the only one who was approving. All through the day the BBC broadcast bulletins to the people in Nazi-occupied Europe to tell them what was being planned.
‘In the midst of war,'
they said,
‘Britain is grappling with her social problems and finding peaceful and positive answers to them.'
The implication was obvious. There is no need to conquer other nations and kill their people and exploit them to solve your social problems. You simply have to devise a fair system and finance it properly.

Emmeline had reservations about it. ‘Do you think they'll do it?' she said when she'd read the newspaper.

‘That will depend on what sort of government is elected when the war is over,' Octavia told her. ‘We must work to see that we get the right one. I will write to Mr Dimond.'

Emmeline made a face. ‘Haven't you got enough to do?'

‘This is important,' Octavia said, stubbing out her cigarette.

‘Well, I hope Tommy agrees with you, that's all. You'd better not let it get in the way of that wedding of yours or he'll have something to say.'

‘There's the post,' Octavia said, glad of an excuse to change the subject, and she went to get it.

It was quite a bundle. A short letter from Tommy to say he'd booked seats for a show on Saturday; a long one from Lizzie to say how much she was enjoying life at St Hilda's and to report that she was going to spend Christmas with Poppy and her family. She said she'd had three more letters from Ben and that he was impressed with the new Churchill tank and was keeping out of harm's way, and that she herself was well, although anxious,
as you can imagine
; a letter from Janet to say that the baby was coming along lovely and was quite recovered from the mumps,
dear little man;
and to her surprise and delight, a short friendly note from Mr Dimond, pat on cue.

He said he was wondering whether she would be agreeable to addressing a parliamentary committee on the future of education.
The Beveridge Report is turning our thoughts towards the peace,
he wrote,
but there are other major issues besides health and social security which also have to be considered, although of course those two are of prime importance. I think you might be interested to know that Parliament is in the process of setting up a working party to consider the sort of  direction school education should take once this war is over. I feel that your contribution to the debate would be invaluable and hope I can persuade you to give evidence.

‘Read that,' she said to Emmeline holding the letter out to her, ‘and tell me you don't think it's funny. He must have been reading my mind.'

But Emmeline was concentrating on her own mail. ‘He's
going to that other damned hospital tomorrow to be fitted with his new leg,' she said, not looking up from the page.

‘Good,' Octavia said. ‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘It's not all
that
good,' Emmeline complained. ‘If they don't allow visitors and if he's going tomorrow, I've only got today to see him. I wish they'd given us more notice. It's going to be a dreadful rush to get there.'

But she rushed notwithstanding and came home to report that he was in good spirits and looked better than she'd seen him in weeks. ‘That nice nurse was there,' she said. ‘She's such a nice girl. She can cheer him up in seconds. I watched her do it. I wish she could go with him to this new place.'