A Girl in Wartime (12 page)

‘I 'ad to leave it at 'ome,' he said quickly as she led the way into the front room. He was offered a seat on the rather dilapidated sofa and she sat herself down next to him. He went on talking. ‘It's filthy – couldn't wear that here.' He made a feeble attempt at a joke: ‘You'd've taken one look at me and shut the door in me face!'

To his joy, she laughed. ‘No I wouldn't have.'

No, of course not. Filthy and lousy, he'd still have been wearing a soldier's uniform and she'd have looked proud instead of that sceptical look she had first offered him.

‘I saw a bloke a couple of days ago who wasn't in uniform,' she went on. ‘He was buying something in the shop where I work. Some customers began calling him a coward. Then one of their wives went and stuck a white feather in his breast pocket. The way he slunk out of that shop made me feel ever so embarrassed for 'im. He never said a word, just slunk out. I mean, who knows, he might have been in the forces, like you, on leave and just wanted to get back into civilian gear. Or he might not have been fit enough to be taken in the forces, though he looked 'orright to me. I think I've heard that some soldiers put on special armbands to show they're on leave when they put on civvies.'

The wind was spilling out of his sails with every word she spoke and he wished he hadn't come round here at all. But she was still talking.

‘I know you wouldn't have slunk out like that, Ronnie. You'd've walloped into one of 'em. I think you're a real hero, joining up like you did, and you still being underage when you did.' He was aware of her gazing sideways at him as she sat there beside him. ‘I often think about you and wonder how you got on and where you are,' she went on in a soft, dreamy tone. ‘I've not seen you for such a long time but I think about you a lot. Always did, right from school when I first knew you.' She leaned against him a little. ‘I hoped you might come to see me before you left. But you never did.'

She sighed deeply, then turned to him, giving him a lovely smile, changing the subject self-consciously.

‘Whyn't you take off your jacket? It's ever so warm in here. It's been a really close day, despite the rain, and we always keep the windows closed of an evening, especially when me mum and dad go out. They get worried in case someone gets in. You never know, do you? You might as well take it off. I'll hang it up for you.'

It
was
warm in here. Obligingly, he slipped out of his jacket, which she took and hung up on a hook behind the door, coming back to sit next to him again, her arm touching his. Through his shirt sleeve he could feel the warmth of her skin and something stirred in him, a feeling that instantly had him on his guard. He had no right to feel like this about her.

‘It was such a surprise seeing you after all this time,' she murmured, ‘and ever so nice seeing you on your own. We was always with lots of friends and it's nice just to be just the two of us. It's ever so early still and Mum and Dad won't be 'ome till the pubs shut. That's hours away yet.'

Her sitting so close to him was beginning to heighten that sensation inside him and he compressed his lips to control it as she went on. ‘I was really upset when I heard you'd joined up. That's when I realised I'd fancied you for years – ever since we left school. It sounds silly, but it's true. I always wanted to tell you that but when you went and joined up, that was when I really wished I had. Ain't that silly? But now you're here and it feels just right to tell you. And you did have a soft spot for me, didn't you, Ronnie?'

Yes, he had. At school she looked older than him, as girls often do, and his eyes would follow her slim, lithe figure. Fifteen, sixteen, always with groups of mates, other things to do, but he'd all but forgotten about her until this evening. Now, with her hand on his knee, the sensation it provoked growing ever stronger, he turned and kissed her. It was like magic as she placed her hand behind his head, preventing him from pulling away, and returning his kiss with such strength that he had to fight to stop himself pushing her down beneath him on the sofa. Seconds later, he pulled away from her, almost fiercely.

‘I'm sorry, Dorothy, I didn't mean to do that.'

She'd sat back, not looking at him, her lips forming a little pout.

‘I'm sorry too,' she said. ‘I thought … Well, I thought …' She let her words die away, then began again: ‘I just …' Again she lapsed into silence, leaving them both sitting in silence.

He was about to say that he should go, when finally she said, ‘I feel a real idiot, telling you how I felt.'

‘Don't feel like that,' he said lamely.

‘But I shouldn't've come out with it like that. It must've sounded so daft and so embarrassing and so forward.'

‘It wasn't.' He needed to say something else. ‘I've always liked you, Dorothy. More than liked …' It was hard to explain how he was feeling. ‘The way you say you felt about me,' he began again. ‘I think I feel the same about you. But what with the war and me going into the forces, I put so much to one side. Then I thought of you this evening and suddenly I wanted to come to see you, see if you still lived here. And you do. And I'm so glad. And I really want—'

He broke off, realising he must sound a complete idiot. Then he heard himself saying, ‘Can I see you again? I'd like to. Before I go back Sunday night.' He found himself out of breath in pent-up anticipation, and looked quickly at her to glean her reaction, saw those liquid brown eyes of hers, that shapely face, dark hair bobbed in the new style, and he knew: this was the girl he'd like to be with for the rest of his life.

She was gazing at him. He found himself waiting for a rejection. But instead she said, ‘On Sunday? What time?' It was a simple question.

‘Let's make it early,' he said, his heart racing.

On Sunday, they'd have the whole day together until six when he'd have to leave. They could have dinner out somewhere – get to know each other better. He would ask if he could write to her and if she would write to him. And who knows …

‘I'll call for you about ten o'clock?'

‘Lovely,' she said and leaned her head on his shoulder. It was just as if they'd been together for years.

‘You're my bloke now, aren't you?' she said suddenly. The way she said it made him feel he could have sailed on the clouds. ‘I know I'm seeing you on Sunday, but would it be all right if I come to the station and see you off?'

The request was so poignant that it felt they'd been together for years rather than just an hour or two. The next leave he got, whenever that would be, he'd be straight round to her house; he'd meet her parents and gain their blessing for her to be his. Meantime he'd write to her and she'd write to him. In time he would propose to her, buy her an engagement ring, and when this war was over they'd get married, find themselves a little place to live, settle down, raise a family. With the war over, please God, life would be golden. Such a wonderful dream. He found himself determined to make it a reality.

Sunday morning he took her behind a park shelter, and she in turn, not having intended to, gave herself to him with tiny squeaks and sighs.

‘I must let Elsie and Lillian know that Ronnie and Bertie are home,' Mum said early Sunday morning. The two boys were in bed still, taking advantage of luxuriating between clean sheets and a soft mattress, with no need to rise too early and no George to get under their skin.

Telling Dad where she was off to, she hurried away immediately after breakfast, first to Elsie's, then on to Lillian's, Connie going with her for want of something better to do.

For Connie, Sundays always seemed to drag, these days. It had become a joy to get back to work, to see Stephen, to catch glimpses of him in his office, to have him come and speak to her.

‘They'd be so upset if we didn't tell them,' Mum was saying as they hurried the few streets to convey the news. ‘There ain't much time. Albert's out with Edie this afternoon and Ronnie said he was seeing someone he'd not met for a long while and they're having dinner out. So it's this morning or nothing. Four days' leave doesn't give anyone time for anything,' Mum gabbled breathlessly as they hurried back home with the girls. ‘So much time already taken up them getting home, and they've got to leave at six to be back by Monday. Today's the only time you'll get to see them. They'll both be out this afternoon cos Albert's taking his Edie out, and Ronnie says he's taking some girl he's met out for Sunday dinner and they 'ave to be back on the ship on time or they'll be in trouble.' Connie saw tears in her mother's eyes as she hurried on explaining.

They hadn't needed to be told twice. Elsie had snatched off her apron as soon as she heard, leaving her husband Harry in charge of little Henry, dragging a comb through her hair, grabbing her front door key and banging the door shut behind her, following Mum out to go round to Lillian's house two streets away to convey the news to her. Lillian handed over baby James to her husband Jim and bustled out behind her sisters and their mother.

Back at home, Connie stood by as her sisters threw themselves at their brothers. It was a strange, unsettling morning, filled with bursts of emotion. She found herself dreading the final farewells: Mum's eyes glistening, trying hard not to shed her tears; Dad clearing his throat and blowing his nose. Even now her sisters were clinging to the two boys as if they would never see them again, giving their emotion full volume.

They were in full flow as Albert made ready to go to meet Edie, the only chance they'd have to be alone to say a private goodbye. Later Edie would go with him to see him off on the train, but those goodbyes, with other servicemen saying farewell to their own families and loved ones, wouldn't be private. They needed their time together now.

Of George, there had been no sign all day. He'd not come home this morning after staying overnight at a friend's house. When he finally appeared just before his brothers were due to leave, his excuse for not returning earlier was that he'd had to stay and help his pastor get ready for the eleven o'clock service and for convenience's sake had accepted his friend's offer of dinner before the afternoon Sunday School. He hoped Mum hadn't minded but Sunday was a busy time. She didn't reply, merely got on with making sandwiches for the other two on their journey. Leaving at six this evening so as to be there the following day, George only had hardly half an hour with them, thus escaping any drawn-out awkwardness.

His mother, her mind more on seeing her gallant sons off, chose not to even acknowledge him. His dad seemed to have forgotten he even existed. Not that George made any effort to address him. On the only occasion he did, he was met with a ‘Humph!' and a dismissive shrug.

Seeing it, Connie could hardly ignore a feeling of contempt coupled with bewilderment. How he could so lightly sidestep his duty when his own brothers were out there fighting and dying for their country … No! Not dying. She felt herself cringe. If that ever happened, she would curse him for the rest of her days, even as she silently and fervently prayed that nothing so awful would happen to them.

As for George, one day she promised herself that she would sketch what she saw on his face, if, unable to help herself she suddenly asked why he'd chosen to detach himself from what was every young man's duty in these desperate times.

In a way, however, he was not getting away with it lightly as far as Mum was concerned. For some time now he'd had the bed he and his brothers had shared all to himself. But that night, after the boys returned to war from leave, Mum had put her foot down.

‘I don't see why he should be comfortable with a room all to himself when Ron and Bertie returned home with lice,' she said to Connie. ‘He can sleep down here and you can use the boys' bedroom upstairs while they're away.'

It was wonderful: a room all to herself, if only temporarily while Ronnie and Albert were away. George, compelled to obey Mum, was getting no more than he deserved.

July 1915

It had been over a month since they had returned home from leave, but Ronnie couldn't get his brother George out of his mind.

He wanted to think of Dorothy, dwell on how they'd made love behind the park shelter, of the long letter he'd written to her and how long before hers to him arrived.

Instead all that kept invading those thoughts was the way his brother George had stood in the doorway back at home, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Sorry, didn't mean to disturb.'

And Albert saying coldly, ‘What makes you think you're disturbing us, George?'

‘Meant to be home earlier but a lot's been going on.' George either hadn't noticed the sarcasm or had chosen to ignore it. ‘It's been a real busy day.'

‘Too busy, George,' Albert had sneered, ‘for a farewell chat to your brothers before they go back to fight for their country?'

George had winced. ‘At least I'm here in time to say cheerio.'

‘In time to save you suffering from a guilty conscience, eh?' Albert had grated.

Ron had felt himself cringe. He too felt nothing but contempt for his eldest brother but would never have shown it like Bert had. But the more he thought of the incident, the angrier he was growing, because the memory kept pushing away thoughts of Dorothy and those last exquisite moments together.

He'd thought of what he was going back to while George stayed at home, protected by the shield of his so-called beliefs. How could a man shrink from being a man yet still endure the scorn of those who had gone to fight? Was that a kind of courage? If so, it wasn't the courage Ron wanted to have.

Lying on an unforgiving army bed next to Albert's in a billet some miles behind the front line, Ron tried not to think of tomorrow. Orders were that their unit wouldn't be going back to Ypres where they'd been supporting the Belgium troops, but would march all the way down to Loos in France to fight alongside the French there. He fervently prayed to survive, to return home to Dorothy, alive, unhurt, pick up where they'd left off. To lose out now horrified him more than the carnage of a front line trench.