When the Bough Breaks (23 page)

‘You suggested to Claudia Marley that she should come to Westways. Before I met her I had made up my mind about her, disliking everything I knew. But, you know Den, even though she and I are poles apart, we have struck up a real friendship.'

Then a few days later: ‘High heels don't fit with helping in the garden, so Claudia decided to invest in a pair of wellies. Have you ever seen red wellies? I hadn't. I expect the assistant wouldn't have thought of showing them to folk like me. What a surprising person she is. Looks like a film star and wears gloves to protect her hands, but works as hard as any of us and seems to look on it all as a bit of fun.'

A day or two later: ‘Bruce Meredith, you remember he is headmaster of the school evacuated to the Hall and organizes the teams of sixth-formers to help here at the weekends, he often finds time to drop in now that Claudia is here so much. She must be so used to having men hanging around her and I expect she knows what she's doing when she encourages him. But it worries me; he has a wife who is no wife; poor soul she is out of this world. The weather has been milder this week and Nanny Giles brings her most afternoons. It's so sad, even if she and Bruce are both here at the same time she doesn't realize he is someone special. But she loves Beth and as soon as she sees her she holds out her hand so that Beth can walk her around the place. Like I said, she is out of this world. But she is his wife for all that and I'm afraid Claudia is riding for a fall. She is so lovely, such fun and a really nice person, but I believe deep down she still hankers for her ex-husband.'

Then, about three weeks after Dennis had gone: ‘The bursar from the school has been to see me with a request that we supply them with vegetables. It's a Godsend as it means I shan't have to use petrol taking stuff to Deremouth so often – at least not until the more exotic things (asparagus, etc) come along. Can't spoil schoolboys with luxuries like that.'

If only she could tell him of her misery, of how sometimes as she climbed into bed it would flood over her, misery that even when the war was over and Den home again, nothing could ever be as it had been before they had lost Jess. Instead of their love for her drawing them together, it built a silent barrier between them. How could she tell him of those nights when it seemed nothing could stem her tears, nights when her spirit called out to the little girl and, silently, she beseeched to be given some sign, to hear that merry laugh or the familiar ‘Tell you what, Mum!'. Sometimes nothing happened, the silence mocked her. But other times the voice was as real as if Jess were in the house. Den wouldn't understand; worse, he would worry about her and believe the events of the last months had unhinged her. So anyone reading her letters would find no mention of the little girl who had been their world, and the very omission held them apart.

It was March when his first letter arrived. It told her nothing of his surroundings, nothing of the routine of his days. But it gave her his field address, the means of getting her mail to him. They might have been on separate planets.

In Sedgewood village and in towns and villages across the country people were avoiding saying what was at the back of their minds: things were going badly, there were even whispers that some sort of a truce might be reached. But that could never happen, it
must
never happen! None of that could be put in their letters and the shadow cast by his leave made it impossible to write the sort of letters to each other they could have written before they had been torn apart by tragedy.

When, only weeks after she posted her first long epistle to him, German troops marched into Norway and Denmark, the future was lost in a fog of uncertainty. Something had to be done to set a new course. Everyone knew it, yet no one had any power. Then early in May the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, resigned. But who would fill the void? There were plenty in the country who for years had seen Winston Churchill as a warmonger, but when he was appointed Prime Minister of the new National Government it was as if the country let out a great sigh of relief. Here was a man who would never give in to appeasement, who would stir patriotism in the hearts of the people, who would lead from the front until they achieved victory. On the Continent the situation was going from bad to worse as German troops poured into Belgium and the Netherlands and the Dutch queen with her court took refuge in England. One disaster – or triumph, according to whose banner one waved – followed another as the Germans took Holland and Allied troops were pushed back towards the north coast of France. Was Den one of that bedraggled army? England was never beaten; wasn't that what was taught to every schoolchild?

But there was nothing victorious in the bedraggled British Expeditionary Force as it was forced towards the channel. Although Dennis had been in the same unit as Stanley Stone and Bert Delbridge, in the retreat they had lost contact with each other. In England, with a new government and a new leader, hope stirred. But it couldn't last. The lives of the people were coloured by the bulletins they listened to on the wireless, and surely the colours of such hopelessness must be grey or black. Less than three weeks after the advent of the new prime minister came the event that would live in the nation's memory: the commencement of the evacuation of British troops – and many French too – from France.

‘Can't sort of take it in, can you?' Claudia spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Imagine being chased away with nowhere to go but the sea. They say naval boats are going to get them off, but it's too awful to imagine.'

Kathie shook her head, her mind was in such turmoil she was frightened to think at all. For days the news had been bad but somehow she, like thousands of others, had expected a miracle. In the finality of this latest news her emotions had come back to life, come back to life with force that was almost too much to bear. Den was there, forced towards the sea – but not everyone would be there, there would be those wounded and unable to make the distance, there would be those lying lifeless as their comrades retreated. Den – don't let him be one of those, bring him home, let him know that nothing has changed for him and me. Bring him home.

Coming in with a bowl of eggs Beth was aware of the atmosphere and her excited cry of, ‘We got five today and look at this whopper. Bet it's got two yolks', died on her lips before it was spoken. Very carefully she took her bowl to the kitchen then came back into the warm room (the too-warm room at that time of year as the fire was kept in for the sake of hot water) and picked up her school satchel. This term she had started to have homework and on that evening she was glad of it.

‘Coming near the shore to pick them up, the naval boats will be sitting ducks.' Kathie turned her head away, frightened to trust her voice to say any more.

‘Do you want me to clear off home?' Claudia asked. ‘Yes, of course you do.'

‘No, no, don't go. Please.' Then, seeming to notice Beth for the first time, she said to her, ‘Homework time, love?'

‘Got two sums, adding up ones. Then I've got to read from this piece of paper and answer questions, yes or no sort of answers.'

The normality of her answer was balm to the chaos in Kathie's mind.

‘When you've finished we'll have a game. How about draughts for a change?'

Beth seemed to relax, there was relief in her eyes as she promised she'd hurry.

‘Don't rush so fast you can't add up right,' Claudia laughed. And if the laugh was forced Beth didn't notice, which was probably due to Claudia's years with the repertory company.

‘Not one packet, but two!' Taking her cue from Claudia's assumed cheerfulness, Kathie dug into her shopping basket and pulled out two packets of cigarettes. ‘Only Woodbines so a couple of puffs and they're gone, but they're better than nothing.' Then, pretence slipping: ‘What a crazy upside-down world we live in. You know the one lesson we ought to learn from all this is never to take anything for granted, not a single day. The trouble with happiness is that it turns into habit and then you don't realize it's there.'

‘So we'll take a deep drag on our slim ciggies and appreciate them. But what you say isn't quite true, Kathie. I did appreciate the time I was happy, I was almost drunk with joy.'

‘Do you have any contact with him now? Don't you write about . . .' Kathie hesitated, conscious of Beth. ‘His son?'

‘No. He's been advised of my new address through the solicitor. If he wanted to know about anything he could contact me. But he doesn't. I was just a temporary hiccup, a physical temptation he couldn't resist. I always knew he thought he'd stooped and picked up nothing when he married me, but in the beginning what we had was more important. I told you what I was like carrying the fruits of our lust – because that's what it was. I think I always knew it, but I didn't care. I was even stupid enough to believe we would grow together. Silly, wasn't it? Gosh, you're right about these ciggies, three puffs and they're gone. Shall we check your sums, Beth?'

Watching them Kathie's mind was on the beaches of northern France. Perhaps he was already aboard a ship, perhaps they had started back across the channel, perhaps tomorrow or the next day she would hear his familiar tread. If only the door would open and he'd walk in, she could almost smell that revolting disinfectant of his uniform. But would it be like that now or filthy with mud and dirt, just as he would be dirty, unshaven, dishevelled? Den, she begged, Den come home, let's love each other so that we still share all those wonderful years and the preciousness of Jess. It was easy to forget how through those ‘wonderful years' when month after month had come disappointment, excitement had given way to habit, the colours of life had dimmed. Once Jess arrived they saw each other afresh, their days had found a new meaning.

Later, with Beth in bed and Claudia gone home, she sat by the wireless waiting for the late night news. But it was only a repeat of what she'd listened to earlier. Yet for those soldiers on the beaches each hour must be like a lifetime. Would they be shot at as they were trying to escape? Would they be rounded up and taken as prisoners? Would the boats be bombed? How could she go to her comfortable bed and find relief in sleep when she didn't know where he was, whether he was alive or – no, she wouldn't even think it. He
must
be alive. He
must
come home.

The next day she heard the appeal for people with seaworthy craft to help with the evacuation. How strange it was that fresh hope could come from such a request when really it must mean that without the help of people volunteering to cross the Channel in boats they had simply used around the coasts at weekends the remains of the Expeditionary Force couldn't be repatriated. Or did that fresh hope come from the knowledge that the nation was in this together, that other lives would be risked in the rescue operation, civilian lives? This wasn't a war just for men and women in uniform, it was a fight for every man and woman in the country. They may not all be occupied in making guns or growing food, but they were all united.

It was announced that the Prime Minister was to make a broadcast. Kathie sat alone to listen, her heart swelling with pride. His words turned defeat into victory. As she listened she imagined those small craft, pleasure steamers, fishing boats, motor boats which had never gone more than a couple of miles off shore, plying backwards and forwards as they brought the men home. Yes, it was a victory, a victory for the invincible courage of an island race. Surely that ought to tell the world that no power on earth was strong enough to break their spirit. ‘We will fight them on the beaches . . . We will
never
surrender.' Sitting alone by the wireless, Kathie found the tears running down her face. If the Prime Minister could have looked into that cottage set in its market garden he would surely have been satisfied that his rallying cry had touched the heart and soul of the nation.

On the other side of the Channel, bedraggled soldiers, hungry, footsore, some needing help, were wading the final few yards towards the boats. Dusk was falling, there was something nightmarishly unreal, made worse by the fact that they hadn't slept for what seemed like weeks. Dennis had lost track of Stanley and Bert and it worried him. There was no logic in his feeling responsible for them, but he'd known them since they'd first left school twelve years ago and he had a fatherly feeling for them.

Now he was about to wade into the water and he didn't know whether they'd gone ahead of him, whether they'd been wounded and had to give themselves up, whether – he tried to close his mind to the other alternative. But as he stepped into the water he took one last look at the country he was leaving, and that's when he heard his name being shouted and he recognized Bert Delbridge limping towards him.

‘Thank God,' he greeted him, his voice sounding tight and strained to his own ears. ‘Been looking for you. Where's Stan?'

Bert opened his mouth to reply, but his mud-stained face was working out of control.

‘Copped it . . . couple of miles back. Plane swooped down, fired along the line. Went down like ninepins. Tried to carry him. Couldn't.' Passed caring, Bert's face crumpled as he sobbed.

Dennis held his arm around the shaking shoulders.

‘Bloody war,' he mumbled. ‘Poor young bugger. Come on, lad, be our turn to be picked up in a minute, better get out to the boats.' It took him all his strength of will to force even a hint of confidence in his voice. The two boys (for that's how he still thought of them) had been such a close part of his life, he felt they were almost family. Imagining Stanley lying lifeless as they were rescued he felt physically sick. But how much worse it was for Bert. They had been inseparable since their first day at school, more like brothers than friends. The nightmare of trying to carry the tall figure, realizing he was dead and having to rest him back on the roadside, would surely haunt Bert for the rest of his days. Unable to stop his loud uncontrollable crying, exhausted and trembling, Bert needed Dennis's help as the walked from the shore to the first ripples of water. Being depended on helped Dennis hang on to what courage was left to him. And so they walked into the water, feeling their boots fill, their thick scratchy trousers cling to their legs, then the water was to their waists, their shoulders, until they had to start swimming. The shock of the cold water helped restore Bert. Overhead a plane swooped, just as one had a couple of miles back. Aiming at the men climbing onto the flotilla of small boats, some of the shots went astray.