The Caxley Chronicles (29 page)

'They'll never get here,' said Bertie robustly. 'Napoleon was beaten by the Channel and so will Hitler be. The Navy will see to that.'

'At times I half-hope they will get here,' said Sep with a flash of spirit. 'There will be a warm welcome! I've never known people so spoiling for an encounter.'

Bertie was enrolled as a Local Defence Volunteer, soon to be renamed the Home Guard, and enjoyed his activities. One day, he hoped, he would return to army duties, but meanwhile there was plenty to organise in the face of imminent invasion.

Edward, now commissioned, had been posted to a squadron of Bomber Command in the north of England and was engaged in night bombing. Dickie Bridges was one of his crew. His letters showed such elation of spirit that the family's fears for him were partly calmed. Edward, it was plain, was doing exactly what he wanted to do—he was flying, he was in the thick of things, he was at the peak of his powers and deeply
happy. The mention of a girl called Angela became more frequent. She was a Waaf on the same station and Winnie surmised that much of Edward's happiness came from her propinquity.

On a glorious hot June day, while haymaking was in full spate in the fields around Caxley and children refreshed themselves by splashing in the river Cax, the black news came over the radio that France had fallen. Joan Howard heard it in a little paper shop near the nursery school at dinner time. The old man who kept the shop beckoned her to the other side of the counter, and she stood, holding aside a hideous bead curtain which screened the tiny living-room from the shop, listening to the unbelievable news. She grew colder and colder. What would happen now?

The old man switched off the set when the announcement was over and turned to face her. To Joan's amazement his expression was buoyant.

'Now we're on our own,' he exclaimed with intense satisfaction. 'Never trusted them froggies for all old Winston said. We're better off without 'em, my dear. What was you asking for?
The Caxley Chronicle?
Thank you, dear. That's threepence. And now I'm off to get me Dad's old shot-gun polished up!'

She returned up the steep hill to the nursery school with the dreadful news. Miss Schmidt, the Viennese warden, always so gay and elegant, seemed to crumple into a frail old lady when Joan told her what she had heard.

'He is unbeatable,' she cried, and covered her face with her hands. Joan remembered the man in the paper shop and felt courage welling up in her.

'Rubbish!' she said stoutly. 'He's got us to reckon with. We'll never give in!'

'That is what my people said,' Miss Schmidt murmured, 'and the Poles and the Dutch. All of us—and now the French. The devil himself is with that man. He will rule the world.'

'You must not think that!' cried Joan. 'You know what the Prime Minister has said: "We'll fight on for years, if necessary alone," and it's true! We've all the Empire behind us. We can't lose, we can't!'

A child came up at this moment clamouring urgently for attention, and Miss Schmidt wiped away her tears and returned to her duties. But Joan could see that she could not believe that there was any hope for this small island where she had found brief refuge.

As for Joan herself, in some strange way her spirits grew more buoyant as the day wore on. Walking home that afternoon, through the brilliant sunshine, the confident words of the old man echoed in her ears: 'Now we're on our own. Better off without 'em, my dear!' They were as exhilarating as a marching song.

All Caxley seemed to share her mood, she discovered during the next few days. There was a fierce joy in the air, the relish of a fight.

'I'm sharpening up my filleting knife,' said Bill Petty at the fish stall in the market. The son of fat Mrs Petty, now dead, who had served there for years, Bill was a cripple who could never hope to see active service. His gaiety was infectious.

'I'll crown that Hitler with a jerry!' cried his neighbour at the crockery stall. 'Very suitable, don't you think?'

The spirit of Caxley was typical of the whole nation, roused,
alert and ready to fight. As Doctor Johnson said: 'When a man knows he is going to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' Caxley concentrated to the full. Feverishly, defence plans went forward, old weapons were unearthed from cupboards and attics, and everyone intended to make it a fight to the finish.

'The Pry Minister,' said the B.B.C. announcer, 'will speak to the nation at hah-past nine tonight.' And the nation, listening, rejoiced to hear that brave belligerent voice saying: 'What has happened in France makes no difference to our actions and purpose. We have become the sole champions now in arms to defend the world cause. We shall fight on unconquerable until the curse of Hitler is lifted from the brows of mankind. We are sure that in the end all will come right.'

And somehow, despite the disaster of Dunkirk, the shortage of weapons, and the acknowledged might of the enemy, the people felt sure that all would come right.

It was two days later that a letter arrived at Rose Lodge from Edward. It was short and to the point.

'Angela and I have just got engaged. So happy. Will bring her down to see you next weekend.

Love to you all,
Edward.'

S
HE WOULD
never do, thought Winnie, gazing at Angela. She would never do at all. And yet, what was to be done about it? There was Edward, his dark eyes—so like his father's—fixed upon the girl, and his face wearing the expression which her mother so aptly described as 'the-cat's-got-at-the cream.'

The memory of her own disastrous infatuation rushed at her from across the years. Was Edward about to make such an error of judgment? Or was she herself over-sensitive to the circumstances?

She tried to rationalise her feelings as she poured tea in the drawing-room at Rose Lodge. After all, she did not really know the girl. She must have faith in Edward's judgment. He was twenty-three, quite old enough to know his own mind. He was certainly very much in love, by the look of things. But—was she?

It was impossible to tell from Angela's cool, polite demeanour. She was small and very fair, with the neat good looks which would remain unchanged for many years. Just so had Winnie's mother been, trim and upright, and only recently had come the grey hair and wrinkles of old age to mar the picture. Old Mrs North's sharp blue eyes were now assessing the girl before them and Winnie wondered what she would have to say when at last they were free to speak together.

She did not have long to wait. Edward took Angela to meet Bertie and Kathy and to show her something of Caxley. Winnie and her mother washed up the rarely-used fragile best china while their tongues wagged. Old Mrs North was surprisingly dispassionate. She loved Edward dearly and Winnie quite expected fierce criticism of his choice.

'Seems a ladylike sort of gal,' declared the old lady, dexterously exploring the inside of the teapot with the linen towel. 'And got her head screwed on, I don't doubt.'

'That's what worries me a bit,' confessed Winnie. 'Do you think she's in love with him? I think Edward's rather romantic, for all his shyness.'

'Hardly surprising,' commented her mother dryly. 'And I'd sooner see the girl level-headed about this business than getting foolishly infatuated. Let's face it, Winnie—we've seen what happens in that sort of situation in our own family.'

Winnie flushed. It was all so true, and yet, despite the wisdom of her mother's words, the nagging doubt remained. Was this girl the sort who could make Edward happy? She could only hope so.

They were married in August in a little grey church in the village by the aerodrome. Winnie and Joan had a nightmarish railway journey involving many changes and delays. They were the only representatives of Edward's family, for Bertie was now back in the army, blissfully happy in charge of fleets of army lorries at a maintenance unit. Kathy could not leave her family, and Sep and Robert were inextricably tied up with their business commitments.

Angela's mother was there. Her husband had left her some years before, but she was in the company of a prosperous-looking sixty-year-old who was introduced as 'a very dear friend'. Winnie disliked both on sight. Angela's mother was an older edition of the daughter, taut of figure, well-dressed, with curls of unnaturally bright gold escaping from the smart forward-tilting hat. Her fashionable shoes, with their thick cork soles and heels, made Winnie's plain court shoes look very provincial. She sported a marcasite brooch in the shape of a basket of flowers on the lapel of her grey flannel suit, and spoke to Joan and Winnie in a faintly patronising way which they both found intolerable.

She had travelled from Pinner in the friend's car, and Winnie would dearly have loved to enquire about the source of the petrol for this journey, but common decency forbade it.

The service was simple, the wedding breakfast at the local public house was informal, and the pair left for a two-day honeymoon somewhere in the Yorkshire dales. On their return the bridegroom would continue his bombing of Wilhelmshaven, Kiel or Bremen. How idiotic and unreal it all seemed, thought Winnie, making her way back to the station. The only real crumb of comfort was the memory of Edward's face, alight with happiness.

The golden summer wore on, and the blue skies above Caxley and the southern counties were criss-crossed with trails and spirals of silver vapour as the Battle of Britain raged in the air above the island. This was truly a battle for life and freedom as opposed to death and slavery at the hands of the Nazis.
Across the channel the enemy amassed his armies of invasion, and by night and day sent waves of bombers to attack London and the south-east. The achievements of the R.A.F. gave the nation unparalleled hope of ultimate victory—long though it might be in coming.

The raids now began in earnest. The phoney war was at an end and the evacuees again began to stream from the stricken towns. Many of them spent the rest of the war away from their own homes. Many had no homes to return to. Many adopted the town of their refuge, grew up, married and became happy countrymen for the rest of their lives.

Sep's six boys had been found new billets when Edna died. Now he was anxious to have at least two back with him, despite the fact that his household help was sketchy. It was old Mrs North who thought of Miss Taggerty as housekeeper.

Miss Taggerty, almost as old as Sep, had once been in charge of Bender North's kitchenware department. She retired to look after an exasperating old father who was bed-ridden when being watched and remarkably spry on his pins when not, and who lived until the age of ninety-seven in a state of ever-growing demand. On his death, his cottage was due for demolition and poor, plain Miss Taggerty was to be made homeless.

The family had been anxious about Sep for sometime. Joan very often called in to see her grandfather on the way home from school. He was touchingly grateful for her visits and Joan grew to love him, during this summer, more deeply than ever before. Bit by bit she began to realise how much Edna had meant to this lonely old man.

They sat together one hot afternoon in the little yard by the
bakehouse, and Sep spoke of his lost wife. On the grey cobbles, near their outstretched legs, a beautiful peacock butterfly settled, opening and closing its bright powdery wings in the sunshine.

'Edna was like that,' said Sep in a low voice, almost as if he spoke to himself. 'As bright and lovely. I never cease to wonder that she settled with me—someone as humdrum and grey as that old cobblestone there. She could have had anyone in the world, she was so gay and pretty. I'd nothing to give her.'

'Perhaps,' said Joan, 'she liked to be near something solid and enduring, just as that butterfly does. If you are fragile and volatile then you are attracted to something stable. Surely that's why you and Grandma were so happy. You gave each other what the other lacked.'

'Maybe, maybe!' agreed Sep absently. There was a little pause and then he turned to look at his grandchild.

'You're a wise girl,' he said. 'Stay wise. Particularly when you fall in love, Joan. You need to consult your head as well as your heart when you start to think of marrying—and so many people will give you advice. Listen to them, but let your own heart and head give you the final answer.'

'I will,' promised Joan.

Later she was to remember this conversation. And Sep, with infinite sadness, was to remember it too.

Meanwhile, it was arranged for Miss Taggerty to take up her abode at Sep's house. The family was relieved to think that Sep would be properly looked after at last. With winter approaching, such things as well-aired sheets, good fires and a hot steak and kidney pudding made from rationed meat now and again, were matters of some domestic importance. With Miss
Taggerty in the market square house the two evacuee boys could return, and Sep would be glad to feel that he was doing his war-time bit as well as having the pleasure of young company. As for Miss Taggerty, her cup of happiness was full. Used to a life of service, a gentle master such as Sep was a god indeed after the Moloch of her late father.

The winter of 1940 was indeed a bitter one. The War grew fiercer. Britain stood alone, at bay, the hope of the conquered nations and the inspiration of those who would later join in the struggle. The weather was unduly cold, fuel was short and food too. In Caxley, as elsewhere, this Christmas promised to be a bleak one.

But December brought one great glow of hope. The Lend-Lease Bill was prepared for submission to the United States' Congress. It meant that Britain could shape long-term plans of defence and attack with all the mighty resources of America behind her. It was a heart-warming thought in a chilly world.

Rose Lodge was to be the rendezvous for as many members of the Howard and North families as could manage it that Christmas. It looked as though it might be the last time that they would meet there, for, with the renewal of fighting, the question of turning the house into a nurses' hostel once again cropped up. This time it seemed most probable that it would be needed early in the New Year, and Winnie and her mother planned to move into the top floor of their old home, now Edward's, in the market square, for the duration of the war. At the moment, Robert was being allowed to use the flat as. storage space. The thought of moving out his supplies was something of a headache but, as Sep pointed out rather sternly, it must be done.