One Step at a Time (40 page)

‘You’d better invite Charlie as well, because I
wouldn’t have been able to carry on without his help.’

‘Done!’

Just then the Major came up to them. ‘This place is packed and, now everyone’s rested, we’ll have to reorganize the living quarters. It’s going to be damned uncomfortable, but it won’t be for long. If the news I’m receiving is correct, then we’ll soon be liberated.’

‘Hope you’re right, Major.’ Charlie staggered over to the window. ‘What’s all the commotion outside?’

‘The Red Cross have arrived with parcels.’

The strain left Charlie’s face as he made for the door.

‘There’s no need to rush.’ The Major caught his arm. ‘I’ve put men in charge of seeing that they are distributed fairly.’

‘You should have given me that job,’ Charlie protested, looking a picture of innocence.

The officer gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘You must be joking?’

‘I’ve reformed, sir. No more thieving for me.’

Ben laughed, and was shocked at the sound. How long was it since he had found anything amusing?

‘Sir.’ Shorty raised his hand. ‘Is there any chance we could get some letters through to those at home? My missus must be worried sick about me, and I know she’d be writing.’ His hand dropped weakly. ‘I’d love to know if she and the kids are all right.’

‘We’re doing what we can.’ The Major patted Shorty’s arm. ‘Hang on in there. This isn’t going to last much longer.’

As he walked out of the hut, Charlie muttered, ‘They keep saying that, but I won’t believe it until I see our blokes opening the gates to let us out.’

‘Me neither.’ Ben felt exactly the same. They kept receiving news that raised their hopes, only to have them dashed again. They had nearly died on that march, and now they’d been dumped in an overcrowded camp. He wasn’t a fool, and knew that the next few weeks, or however long it might be, were going to be difficult. And there would always be the fear that the Germans would try to move them again.

He had been a prisoner for years without canvas or paints. If he lived to return home, how would he ever be able to paint again? At that moment the separation from the people he loved, and art, which had been the focus of his life, was unbearable.

No, he wasn’t going to raise his hopes just yet.

Over the next few weeks Shorty made a good recovery and, although much thinner and drawn-looking, his bright banter returned as he, once again, tried to cheer everyone up. But all his efforts were wasted on Ben who had become quiet and withdrawn. It was as if the march had drained something vital out of him. They were all aware that they would never be the same after their experiences and long captivity, but some had been changed beyond all recognition. One of them was Ben. The need to get away from the constant press of men was beginning to fill his every waking thought. Even when it was snowing he would
stand outside drawing in deep breaths of icy air, oblivious to the flakes falling and settling on his hair. He’d seen men crack during his time in the prison camps, and he fought a silent, lonely battle for control.

It was now the beginning of March and spring couldn’t be far away. How he longed to see the sun and the wild flowers shooting into bloom the other side of the fence. Beauty was in short supply in the camp. The sound of engines caught his attention, and he looked up to see trucks rumbling up to the gates with the Red Cross painted on them. Haven’t seen those since we arrived at this place, he mused, but he didn’t bother to move as the camp sprang into life.

‘Ben!’ Shorty tore up to him a while later. ‘The Major’s got some letters. Come on, there might be something for us.’

Pushing himself away from the wall of the hut, he ambled after Shorty to where the officer was standing surrounded by men, all eager for news of home.

‘Carlisle.’

‘That’s me.’ Shorty leapt forward eagerly and took the envelope being held out to him. He looked up at Ben, unashamed tears in his eyes. ‘It’s from the missus.’

Ben watched him go into the hut to read it in private. He was glad his friend had received a letter from his wife. They had been few and far between over the years. The little man never made any secret
of his love for her and his children. The names were being called in alphabetical order, but he hardly listened, not daring to hope. There were hundreds of men in this camp and only a few letters, so many were going to be disappointed – again.

‘Scott.’

His head jerked up, and he stepped forward. There were three letters in all, and he recognized Howard’s writing immediately, then his mother’s and finally the last one was from… who? It looked like Mrs Dalton’s writing. If it was, then that would be news of everyone in the Chelsea house. He was ripping open the one from his parents as he walked into the hut to join Shorty.

There were quite a few men in there now, so he leant against a bunk and started to read. The one from his parents was little more than a note, and all it said was that they were all right, and hoped the war would soon be over so he could come home again. The one from Howard was also only a few lines telling him how he had survived Dunkirk, and adding a few little snippets of information about his life since then.

Ben was sorry it was so brief and out of date, because he had a desperate thirst for information about home. He grunted in satisfaction when he found the third letter much longer. It wasn’t from Mrs Dalton as he had first thought, but from Amy. Mrs Dalton had just addressed the envelope for her. Amy’s writing was still peppered with mistakes and
crossings out, but she had obviously made yet further progress over the last few years. He felt himself coming back to life as he pictured her sitting at the table with her tongue protruding in concentration. He could almost hear her chatter in his head, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. But the first piece of news had him gasping in horror. ‘Oh, dear God, no. No!’

‘Bad news?’ Shorty was immediately at his side, his hand resting on Ben’s arm.

‘Amy’s husband was killed in an air raid.’ His voice was harsh with distress. He continued reading until he got to the part about Grace being born. That was good news, but pain ripped through him when he thought of what Amy had been through. As if her early life hadn’t been bad enough!

Spinning round he crashed his hand against the wall in blind fury. ‘I should have been there, not stuck in a POW camp. I should have been there!’

‘Easy, mate.’ Charlie joined them. ‘My old dad was hurt in the bombing as well, but we couldn’t have done anything about it, even if we had been there.’

‘Is your old man all right?’ Shorty asked.

‘Yes, he’s staying with my sister in Surrey.’

‘That’s good, then.’ Shorty picked up the letter, which had dropped from Ben’s hand, glanced at it and frowned when he saw the mistakes. ‘How old did you say your Amy was?’

‘She must be twenty-five now.’ Ben gazed into space, his mind going back over the years since they
had found Amy. ‘She’ll be twenty-six this December, I think. She’s always had a job reading and writing.’ He took the letter back. ‘It must have taken her ages to write this, but she’s never been short on guts.’

‘She’ll be all right, then,’ Shorty pointed out, ‘and from what you’ve told me, she has others at the house to look after her, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ Ben closed his eyes, and then opened them again. Of course. Mrs Dalton and Ted would have made sure she was all right. For the first time in a long while a genuine smile crossed his face. ‘She’s got a little daughter by the name of Grace.’

‘That’s a nice name.’ Shorty was still watching his friend with concern, never having seen him erupt in fury like that before.

‘What about your family, Shorty? Are they all right?’

Shorty’s face lit up with a huge smile. ‘They’re fine. My nippers will have grown while I’ve been stuck in here, so we’ll have to get to know each other again.’

‘That’s something we’ll all have to do.’ Charlie gazed out of the window. ‘How much longer is this bloody war going to last?’

It was the beginning of April and Ben was woken at dawn by the sound of gunfire. It was very close. The hut was suddenly alive with men moving, rushing to look out of the windows and dragging on clothes.

Charlie was scrambling into his trousers. ‘What’s that?’

The door burst open, and a man from the next hut tumbled in. ‘The guards have gone! That must be our troops. The gate’s open!’

That set up a stampede to see for themselves.

The Major and the Captain were outside, yelling orders and trying to gain some kind of control. ‘Everyone stay inside until the fighting’s over!’

They were completely ignored as tanks began to rumble into view, and the cry went up, ‘It’s the bloody Yanks!’

The men surged forward to meet their liberators, but Ben stayed where he was, bowing his head.

It was over. At last, it was over.

37

‘Mummy.’ Grace ran in from the garden, giggling. ‘Oscar’s rolling over in the dirt. He let me tickle his tummy.’

Amy smiled at her daughter’s animated face. ‘That’s because he’s enjoying the sunshine. He’s getting old now and doesn’t like the cold.’

‘What you doing, Mummy? Can I help?’ Grace danced around, full of energy.

‘You can pop downstairs and see if Uncle Howard’s workshop is in a mess. If it is, we’ll clean it up for him, and you can help me with that.’

‘Ooh, Uncle Howard doesn’t like it cleaned.’

‘I know.’ She crouched down in front of Grace. ‘But he’s out at the moment, so we can do it before he comes back. You’d better have a look at Uncle Ben’s, as well, and see that you haven’t left any of your toys up there.’

Still laughing, Grace ran out of the kitchen and down the stairs.

Leaning on the sink to look out of the window, Amy worried her bottom lip. It was the first of May now, and the war was almost over. The general opinion was that it would be only a matter of days before the end came, and the closer it got, the more
she fretted. The Allies were in Germany, knocking on the door of Berlin, and still no word from Ben. Her hands clenched on the smooth sink. Where the devil are you, Ben? Prisoners were being released all across Germany; the Allies must have reached him by now, surely?

She had been gazing into space for some time when she felt a tug at her skirt.

‘Mummy,’ Grace whispered. ‘There’s a strange man upstairs, but he didn’t see me.’

Amy was alarmed that her little girl might have walked in on a burglar. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Painting.’

It felt as if her heart had stopped beating as she fought for breath. Painting! Turning, she ran for the stairs, pausing at the top for a moment before opening the door to the studio. Grace had followed her and Amy put her hand on her shoulder to stop her running into the room. There was a tall man daubing bright splashes of colour on a canvas. The height was right, but he was much too thin, and whatever he was doing, it was nothing like the beautiful work Ben had always done. This was almost grotesque, as if the painter had no idea how to blend, or use colour…

Grace tugged her skirt, so she put her finger to her lips, telling the curious little girl to stay quiet.

He seemed completely oblivious to their presence as he wielded the brush almost as if he were angry. He was wearing civilian clothes, but an army kit bag had been thrown on to the old settee in the corner.

She tried to speak, but no sound came out. After taking a deep, steadying breath, she tried again. ‘Ben.’

His hand stilled, but he didn’t move. After what seemed ages, he threw the brush down, and turned.

When she saw his face, she nearly groaned in anguish. It was Ben, but not the same one who had laughed and joked with her before the war. Standing in front of her was an exhausted, troubled man.

He said nothing. Just opened his arms and she rushed into them, holding on tightly. Neither of them spoke until Grace began to hit his leg.

‘Are you my Uncle Ben?’

He released Amy and bent down to the little girl, running his hand over her unruly hair.

What he did next took Amy completely by surprise. He stood up, walked out of the studio, down the stairs, and out of the house. He hadn’t said a word.

Grace’s bottom lip trembled with disappointment and her eyes filled with tears. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

‘That isn’t true, darling.’ Amy was having a job to stop her own tears from falling. ‘He’s been a prisoner of war for a long time, and he doesn’t look well. We have to be very kind to him, until he gets used to being home again.’

Finding himself outside the front door, Ben stopped and, holding on to the wall for support, took deep, rasping breaths. He was shaking with the range of emotions surging through him, emotions he had tried to block out in order to survive the years as a prisoner
of war. If you didn’t feel, then you could get through the days, weeks, years. But he had been completely overwhelmed when he’d seen Amy, no longer the little girl he had kept in his mind’s eye, but a grown woman. As he had held her in his arms he had been very aware of that change, and hadn’t wanted to let her go. Then he’d seen her daughter staring at him with eyes of the same blue as John’s had been, and Amy’s tousled mop of hair. It had all been too much and, completely overcome, he had fled.

Making his way along the side of the house, he staggered into the garden, sinking down on the top of the shelter. He bowed his head. God, he was in a mess, and it would be best if he stayed out of everyone’s way until he pulled himself together.

Amy didn’t know how long she had been standing there, trying to take in the fact that Ben was home, and obviously a very disturbed man. He was going to need their help to readjust. Hearing the front door open, she rushed to the top of the stairs, just in time to see Howard come in. ‘Howard! Come up here, quick.’

He still limped slightly, but it didn’t take him long to reach them.

‘Ben’s back.’

‘What?’ Howard rushed into the studio, spinning round. ‘Where is he? I’ve just been with his parents, and they don’t know where he is.’

The tears would no longer be denied, and they
flowed down her cheeks. It hurt so much to see Ben in that state. She had known he would be changed by his experiences – they all were – but not like this.