A Family's Duty (12 page)

‘I suppose you were swooning over Rhett Butler,’ he teased.

‘No, I didn’t care for him at all, I much preferred Ashley Wilkes.’

He laughed at her seriousness. ‘For my money, Scarlett O’Hara beat them both into cocked hats! So, little Valerie, you’re doing your bit on the home front. I can just picture you with those kids at the nursery. Hitler must be scared stiff!’

‘You can mock, but the children all have mothers working at the munitions factory, which they couldn’t do without us,’ Valerie pointed out, disappointed at his attitude. ‘And I’m so grateful to Lady Neville, who got me the job and persuaded my mother to agree to it.’

‘Lady Neville – ah, yes.’ He wondered how much Valerie knew about Rebecca. ‘Her son got out of Dunkirk, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but only after most of the survivors had got away. He stayed back with a friend who’d been wounded, now in hospital at Southampton. His father’s an MP, and Miss Neville goes to visit him when she gets a free day from work at Yeomans’ Farm. She’s a land girl.’

‘Oh. That must be a big consolation to him.’

‘I’ve heard he’s very ill, and might not recover,’ she said seriously.

‘Let’s hope for the best, then.’

His expression gave nothing away, and when they reached her home, she turned to face him on the doorstep. ‘It was a wonderful film, John, and thank you for taking me.’

‘My pleasure.’ He put his arm around her waist, anticipating the further pleasure of a kiss. Willing and wanting to return it with equal warmth, she offered her lips – and drew back with a sharp gasp when he pushed his tongue between her teeth, and held her body close against the hardening beneath his trousers. Never in her dreams of John Richardson had she imagined anything as physical as this, and to her shocked surprise found herself repelled; she just wanted to say goodnight and get indoors.

‘I’d like to ask you in for a cup of tea, John,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but Mother and I keep very early hours, you see. It’s nearly ten o’clock, and—’

‘It’s all right, little Valerie, I understand,’ he said, and kissing her lightly on her nose, disappointed by her silly shyness, but glad to be spared another encounter with the old trout.

Paul had returned to the war in Europe, and Rebecca and Philip Saville travelled down to Southampton by train; it was a weekday, because of Saville’s duties at St Peter’s on Sundays.

Trying to make conversation, she remarked that her mother appreciated his piano lessons to the Perrin boys, and his provision of music for the Ladies’ Knitting Circle on Wednesdays.

As always, he glowed with admiration at the mention of Lady Isabel Neville.

‘You and your brother are fortunate in having such a lady for your mother, Miss Neville. And I expect you take after her,’ he said with shy sincerity that Rebecca found rather touching.

‘It’s kind of you to say so, Philip, and I hope I can live up to her example, but in fact she’s not my birth mother. I was adopted, soon after my brother Paul was born.’

His jaw dropped in amazement. ‘But – you look so much like her!’ he exclaimed.

‘She has been a good mother to me – I couldn’t have had a better – and I’m very thankful indeed that she took me as her daughter – but yes, I was adopted.’

No more was said on the subject, but Philip pondered on the information, wondering what circumstances could have led to the adoption of a second child so soon after Isabel Neville had borne Paul, the child of her first marriage.

At the hospital, Geoffrey Bannister was improving. He was no longer feverish, and was strong enough to take a few steps with the aid of crutches. He seemed to welcome Saville, though privately thought him a poor advertisement for life as an amputee; and when Rebecca said she would take a
walk around the ward to speak to other patients, he did not object; in fact he took advantage of a few minutes’ time to talk to Saville alone.

‘I’ve appreciated your visit, Philip,’ he began. ‘It’s obvious that Rebecca brought you over to give me encouragement, but in fact I’ve got another use for you.’

‘Yes, Geoffrey?’ Philip wondered what on earth was coming.

‘I don’t need to tell you how much I care for her, and the dear girl says she cares for me in return. We’re not officially engaged, but – both families expect us to be, as soon as I’m stomping around on a handmade leg.’

Philip was mystified. ‘Go on.’

‘The truth is that I don’t intend to marry her or any other girl until I’ve got my life in order. Things are completely different now, and I’ll have to look for another way to live out my life and still be of use. And that could be – a year? Two years? Five years? I don’t intend to allow her to sacrifice her life to look after me, nor do I need pity. She must be free to do what she pleases in this ghastly war, and who knows, we may come together when it’s all over, or she may find another lucky fellow. That’s where you come in, Philip, to explain this to her, comfort her if necessary, and you may need to talk with her parents, though I shall write to them, and explain to mine. Understood?’

‘My dear chap – are you really sure?’ Philip was unable to miss the irony of the situation. Isabel Neville had asked him to accompany Rebecca on her visits to this man, not only because of the experience of amputation that they shared, but also to shield Rebecca from too close an intimacy, because, she had confided to him,
Rebecca was not in love.

‘Absolutely sure. You can choose the time and place to tell
her, if there is ever a right time for something like this. Only don’t water it down at all, let her know that this is final, that I’m breaking off the unofficial engagement. Her mother will comfort her, if it comes as a very great shock.’ He held out his hand. ‘Thanks, Philip – sorry to land you with it, but there’s no other way.’ His mouth was set in a hard, straight line, and Philip was bereft of words as he shook hands. ‘And another thing, Philip, get yourself a decent artificial leg with a proper knee joint, and throw that stick away. It’s not too late for
you
to join the land of the living.’

When they left the hospital, before they reached the railway station, the news was on everybody’s lips, all around them, being broadcast on the wireless ahead of the newspapers. There had been an air raid on London: bombs had been dropped, and people killed and injured. Suddenly the air raid shelters, the sandbags and wail of the air raid siren had become reality.

Britain was under attack from the air, and all other news became insignificant. Philip Saville never plucked up courage to give Geoffrey’s message to Rebecca, but quietly told her mother that a letter from Bannister would arrive for her and Sir Cedric. He was overwhelmed by her thanks, and it was she who told Rebecca.

Ernest Munday’s thoughts were bleak as he cycled the four miles from Everham to North Camp on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It would have been perfect, he reflected, were it not for the ongoing invasion from the air, the wave upon wave of Messerschmitts flying over from a conquered Europe to the southern shores of England, to be met by the Royal Air Force, the young, newly trained men piloting Spitfires and Hurricanes which met machine-gunning with
machine-gunning
, so that aircraft from both sides went nose-diving down into the sea or hit the ground, where they usually burst into flames. People looked up from the streets of London or the green countryside of Kent, Essex and Sussex to see the ‘dog-fights’ overhead, holding their breath to see whether the aircraft with the swastika or the concentric circles on its wings would fall to earth. Or both.

Ernest was visiting his father and the family at 47 Rectory
Road, though Devora had hoped he would join her and the family on a picnic. A houseful of teenagers on their summer holidays was not easy to manage, especially now that Ayesha was getting asthmatic attacks quite frequently. These would have terrifying onsets, in which she gasped for breath and went blue in the face. She had been prescribed an inhalation contained in small glass ampoules which Ernest and Devora, now their only parents, had to break into handkerchiefs and hold the released vapour to her nose and mouth. Ernest was sorry to leave them, but had insisted that he pay a family visit to his father and the Nuttalls at a time when young Jack Nuttall was facing danger and death in the battle of the skies.

‘Dad! How are you?’ He clasped Tom’s hand, noticing how pale and tired he looked. Young Doreen, not at work, greeted him eagerly.

‘It gets very tense here, Ernest,’ said his father in a low voice, ‘with young Jack out there – or rather up there, facing those Messerschmitts. He’s a rear gunner, hardly trained to fly, let alone engage in battles. Grace is taking it very badly, poor girl.’

‘We all went to church this morning, Granddad, except for Mum,’ said Doreen, ‘and Mr Kennard prayed for our men in their aeroplanes, and specially mentioned our Jack and the rector’s son. Did you go to church too?’

‘No, Doreen, my family’s Sabbath was yesterday,’ he said with a smile. ‘And as we haven’t got a synagogue in Everham, we join with two or three other families to share the readings and a meal in the home of one of us. Where’s Grace?’

‘She’s resting. Didn’t have a very good night,’ said Tom. ‘And Rob’s gone out to the LDVs – I mean the Home Guard, as they’re called now – at the cricket field. It’s hard on him, too, him being Jack’s father.’

‘Hello, Ernest, I thought I heard your voice,’ said Grace, coming into the room. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘Yes, Gracie!’ He got up to kiss her. ‘I didn’t think you’d want an invasion from my howling mob, the Mundays and the Pascoes!’ Too late he regretted the word
invasion
, seeing that young Jack was among the RAF fighters resisting invasion from the air.

‘How are the Pascoe children?’ asked Tom.

‘Not bad, really. Young Jonathan and David are like the ones in the Bible, just like brothers. Ayesha’s not so well – she gets these asthma attacks that frighten us to death, and she still wakes up screaming in the night with bad dreams, which wakes us all up. Devora’s very patient with her, but doesn’t get thanked. I suppose Ayesha can’t forget what happened to her own parents, and won’t accept us taking their place.’

‘Poor child,’ sighed Tom, but Grace said curtly that it would be a lot worse for Ernest and Devora if their David was in the RAF at this time, and Ernest nodded and agreed.

‘The rector’s son Lester is in the same situation as your Jack,’ he said gently. ‘We pray for them all, these young heroes, in church and synagogue, and at home.’

Grace was not to be persuaded out of her chronic, corrosive anxiety, and scowled.

‘
I
shan’t set foot inside that church again until I see my son alive,’ she snapped. ‘Nor that Ladies’ Circle or whatever she calls it now. She was calling round here the other day, that curate’s wife, and I soon sent her on her way.’

‘That was a pity, Grace,’ said Ernest. ‘It just doesn’t sound like the Grace Munday I used to know – a little tomboy always up to mischief, but full of life and fun.’

‘Oh, yes, I was a proper little goer,’ she answered with a dangerous edge to her voice.

After a pause, Ernest took a large round pie-dish out of the leather bag he had carried on the back of the bicycle. ‘Devora sends her love to you all, and has made you this apple pie from our own early apples.’

‘Very kind of her – thank her from us,’ said Tom, smiling.

‘Strictly kosher, I suppose,’ said Grace without smiling.

‘How’s our David getting on?’ asked Tom. ‘He must be – er – fourteen by now.’

‘Fifteen this year,’ said Ernest. ‘Yes, he’s a good lad, says he wants to come into the family firm later on, so Munday and Pascoe Accountants of Everham will go on!’

‘Oh, very nice, what a comfort,’ said Grace with bitter sarcasm. ‘Here’s my Rob can’t get enough woodwork jobs to pay our way, and my poor Doreen doing her best to please the Lady de la Mucks who go to Thomas and Gibson’s – but the Pascoes of Everham will never go short of anything; that’s Jews for you!’

There was a stunned silence from the men, and Doreen looked anxiously from one to the other. Tom muttered, ‘Grace, that’s a wrong thing to say—’ and then Ernest spoke quietly.

‘You know that’s not worthy of you, Grace, not the little sister I used to know. I accept that you’re under an intolerable strain, and I pray every day that your brave boy will come through this hell. But if you’re going to make insulting remarks about a persecuted race, I can’t come here, or any of my family, which is hard on Dad and my niece Doreen.’

He paused, expecting some sort of half-apology, which he would have instantly accepted. But Grace, avoiding his eyes, left
the room without another word, and Ernest took his leave soon after, commiserating with his father over their present troubles.

On reaching home again, he found that the family had not gone on a picnic after all because Ayesha had had another asthma attack, frightening them by stopping breathing while they watched her eyes staring blankly out of a livid blue face. Devora had broken one of the glass ampoules and held it to Ayesha’s nose and mouth, after which her colour returned and she breathed normally but more rapidly than usual.

‘I
know
it’s because she’s unhappy, Ernest, but I also know that she brings on these attacks deliberately at the most inconvenient times,’ said Devora. ‘It’s only rarely that she has an attack at school. I think she gets a kind of satisfaction out of upsetting us all.’

‘We must be patient, Devora, my love,’ he said. ‘People who are anxious and unhappy for whatever reason are to be pitied, and we have to make allowances for them.’ He sighed heavily, thinking of Grace Nuttall. ‘When you remember how Ayesha and Jonny were forcibly removed from their parents and baby brother, it practically moves
me
to tears. We have to go on doing our best, and not expecting thanks.’

By the end of August the Luftwaffe had lost more aircraft and men than had the RAF, and the Prime Minister had praised the ‘Few’ to whom the many owed so much. Lester Allingham had returned home a war hero, decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross and bar, and more than one WAAF in love with him. Jack Nuttall was in the Queen Victoria Hospital at East Grinstead with burns on his face and hands.

Barbara Seabrook’s joy at the homecoming of war hero Lester Allingham was such that her parents had to rejoice with her, and be prepared at last to receive him at their home. In the evening of the day of his arrival, Barbara walked up to the Rectory wearing a light-green sundress and white sandals; her heart fluttered at the thought of meeting the rector and his wife, and she hoped that Lester had prepared them to receive her as their soon-to-be daughter-in-law. She carried an invitation from her own parents for them to visit with Lester at their earliest opportunity, though she longed above all to be with him alone. She had something very important to tell him, and felt nervous but sure – fairly sure – that he would be happy to share her secret – their secret – and arrange for an early wedding, when they would have to face their relatives and the whole of North Camp. She felt sure she could count on their sympathy; he was after all a war hero, one of the ‘Few’ that Churchill had so openly praised. She held her head up high as she walked up to the Rectory door and rang the bell. It was answered by Mrs Kennard.

‘Hello, Barbara! You look very nice! What can we do for you?’

‘I’ve come to see Lester – and Mr and Mrs Allingham, if it’s convenient,’ she said with a smile. Joan Kennard hesitated for a brief moment, and then invited her in.

‘They’re all upstairs in their living room, Barbara. Shall I go up and tell them that you’re here? They just might be having their celebration supper – it’s such an exciting time!’

‘No, Mrs Kennard, no need to announce me,’ said Barbara with a confidence she showed in her happy smile, and without another word made for the staircase. The living
room door was open, and conversation mingled with the clink of champagne glasses. She went in.

The Allinghams were indeed celebrating with friends of theirs, standing around in groups, and they all turned to look at her. Tall and handsomely attractive in his RAF uniform, Lester Allingham stood by a buffet table, holding hands with a pretty woman wearing the matching uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force Service, a WAAF.

‘Oh, er – hello, Barbara,’ he said with a smile and a quick glance at his companion. ‘I was, er – thinking of calling on you some time tomorrow, so many people to see – and this is Vicky, she’s my good luck charm when I’m up in the air – Mother! Can you pass that plate of vol-au-vents to Barbara, please – and Dad, is there still some champagne?’

The look that Mrs Allingham gave Barbara was far from friendly, and she made no move to pass the vol-au-vents, though Roland Allingham picked up a bottle and glass, glancing briefly towards his wife.

‘I have to do what I’m told, you see,’ he said with a heavy attempt at humour. ‘Champagne, Miss – er – or would you prefer sherry?’

Barbara stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, and realised that she was going to be sick. She turned and raced down the stairs, her hand over her mouth, hoping to find the toilet before she threw up. She hadn’t time to look for it, and had to use the kitchen sink, only just in time. Joan Kennard came to sympathise and offer water to clean her mouth when she finally stopped retching. ‘Sit down for a while, dear,’ she said, ‘until you’ve recovered.’

Barbara shook her head, and not another word was said as she left the Rectory.

What on earth was she to do? Her period was now thirty-seven days overdue, and she could not tell a soul, least of all her mother – and to tell Lester now would be a disaster. What should she do, to where could she turn? She had heard whispers among girls, even as far back as schooldays, about how some girls ‘got rid of it’. They spoke of knitting needles and crochet hooks being pushed up the vagina, or a face-flannel soaked in boiling water and thrust in as far as it would go. She’d also heard of the dangers, and how one girl had died in North Camp last year. She was desperate, almost at the point of bursting into tears and telling her mother all, especially when Mrs Seabrook asked about Lester, and was he coming to visit them? She simply shook her head, and no more questions were asked, though her mother looked at her anxiously and advised her to eat more.

Then she heard two women talking in low voices at the shop while waiting to be served with their meat ration by Mr Seabrook.

‘Yes, she’d gone three weeks past the time they said she’d have it, and was as big as a house,’ one said in a loud whisper. ‘In the end the midwife gave her this huge great dose of castor oil to take.’

‘Go on! And did she manage to swallow it without throwing it straight back?’

‘Yes, she kept it down, and in the night she had this terrific clear out – couldn’t get to the lav in time, but it did the trick, and the labour pains started that night – and she had a big baby girl by morning – weighed ten pounds.’

Mr Seabrook was now ready to serve them, and they stopped talking, but Barbara had heard enough. As soon
as she could leave the shop, she went to the chemist’s for a bottle of castor oil. It was worth a try, and she forced down as much of the thick oil that her stomach would tolerate.

She never forgot that night. She was seized by violent, agonising cramps, and had to stuff a handful of sheet into her mouth to stop her from crying out. She heaved herself out of bed and stumbled to the lavatory where she sat while her bowel discharged its contents, hard at first, then softer until it was pouring out copious evil-smelling liquid. Her head swam, and she felt herself falling.

She came to, and found herself lying awkwardly on the floor, still discharging uncontrollably from the bowel; the mess was all over the toilet seat, the floor and her nightdress. She groaned aloud, and tried to heave herself up to sit on the seat again.

And there it was, mixing with the bowel matter –
blood
! And more blood that trickled down her legs, definitely coming from the vagina. Her delayed period! Barbara burst into tears. Oh, thank you, God, thank you, thank you!

Hearing the sound, her mother left her bed and came to her daughter. Her mouth dropped open in horror at what she saw.

‘
Barbara!
What’s happening? Oh, what awful diarrhoea, whatever have you eaten? And your period’s come on – oh, my poor girl, let me run you a bath and clear it all up!’

Her ordeal was over. And Barbara Seabrook never knew whether her period had been delayed by emotional anxiety, and brought on by the over-action of the bowel, or whether the violence had caused an early miscarriage.

She was never quite sure, only of one thing – that she would never take such a terrible risk again. Not ever.

Tom Munday’s eyes were shadowed with anxiety when he spoke to Eddie Cooper in the Tradesmen’s Arms, and indeed the whole of the public bar fell silent, trying to hear what he was telling his old friend.