by Jenny Holmes
‘Oh, dearie me!’ came the ironic chorus from all directions.
Brenda offered false comfort. ‘Never mind, you can always get Alfie to track some down.’
Elsie winked at her then offered to lend Doreen some of her shampoo after they came back from work. ‘Here, Bren, give me those dishes. I’ll take them to the kitchen for you.’
‘And last night Donald left the pub early, drat him,’ Doreen went on, giving voice to her major grievance. ‘He said he’d only be gone for a few minutes but I waited a full hour before the penny finally dropped that he wasn’t coming back.’
Brenda sat down beside her. ‘Maybe he was in a bad mood because Les wouldn’t lend him the car?’
‘Oh yes, I saw you two canoodling together. Where did you slope off to after you left?’
‘Nowhere much.’ Brenda shrugged.
‘Don’t give me that. I bet that was the last time you’ll see Les before he sails off into the sunset. You wouldn’t want an audience for your final few minutes together.’
Across the table, Joyce caught the drift of the conversation between Brenda and Doreen. The latter’s world-weary tone bothered her so she moved away to sit with Una and Poppy.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m planning to go over to Dale End after church tomorrow to say goodbye.’ Brenda had noticed Joyce give Doreen the cold shoulder and was about to follow suit until Doreen caught her by the wrist.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t blame you and Les for making the most of your time together. We all have to wring what we can out of these situations. I know I do with Donald.’
Brenda frowned. ‘But Donald isn’t in the same boat as Les, or as most of the men round here. He’s avoided the call-up, hasn’t he?’
‘So far.’ Doreen agreed without letting go of Brenda’s arm. ‘But who knows what’s round the corner? Anyway, I still say we women have to get the most out of our menfolk while we can. Take that whichever way you like.’
‘Ta, I’ll remember that.’ Feeling an uncomfortable twist in her stomach, Brenda made as if to stand up. ‘Would you mind letting go of my arm, Doreen? I’ve got a load of laundry to sort through before I set off for Winsill Edge. Then it’s my morning for egg collecting and doing my best to keep out of old Horace’s toothless clutches.’
Doreen loosened her grasp but she stood up and followed Brenda out of the dining room. She caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I mean it. Make the most of what you’ve got is my motto. Take it from me, these looks won’t last and men are fickle at the best of times. So God knows what happens when we get the odd grey hair and a wrinkle here and there, eh, Brenda?’
Back at the table, Joyce too kept quiet about events of the previous night. But unlike Brenda, her silence came out of deep, settled knowledge that she loved Edgar with all her heart and that he loved her back. She kept this glittering diamond of certainty polished and hidden away until she was ready to share it – perhaps in a quiet moment with Grace as they cycled home from Henry Rowson’s farm out by Kelsey Crag. They were both due to work there this morning, along with Una, who at this moment looked as if she also needed cheering up.
Joyce sat down beside her. ‘Still nothing from Angelo?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him for a whole week.’ Una’s face was a picture of woe: pinched and pale, with dark shadows under her big brown eyes.
‘But you’ve heard from him?’
‘Yes. Neville brought me two notes: one on Monday, then one yesterday afternoon. The doctor says they must wait and see. In the meantime, he’s to stay in bed. Poppy, what’s Neville done to his face, by the way? How did he come by those two shiners?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Poppy gulped down the last of her porridge then made a hasty exit. Her plan for the weekend had changed in light of the previous night’s events at Brigg Farm. Albion Lane would have to wait, she’d decided. She needed to stay at the hostel and give herself time to consider what Neville had revealed.
‘So how is he?’ Joyce asked Una, eager to hear more about Angelo.
‘He’s up and down. The doctor didn’t let him go to work this week because he wanted to keep an eye on him.’
‘There you are, then. Sometimes it takes longer than you think to get over a bad chest, but by the sound of things they’re allowing him to take it easy.’
Una wasn’t so quickly reassured. ‘I’m not sure. Angelo has written me nice letters but he hasn’t asked to meet up. I’m beginning to wonder if—’
‘Listen!’ Joyce patted her hand. ‘He’s probably worried that whatever he’s got is catching, that’s all. He wants to keep his germs to himself.’
‘Perhaps,’ Una faltered. ‘Oh, Joyce, I was so looking forward to him coming back! I thought everything would be exactly the same as before.’
‘I know you did. But nothing ever is, believe me. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing, though. Look at it this way: Angelo being poorly is a kind of test. It means you have to be patient and find a way to stand by him even if you’re not seeing him as often as you did.’
Una seized on the optimistic advice. ‘How do I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe make Angelo something that he’d really like. A card with some pressed flowers and a message saying how much you love him, an embroidered bookmark – something like that.’
‘I will.’ Una’s eyes lit up and she rose from the table with fresh determination. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon, ready to give it to him after church tomorrow.’
‘If he’s there,’ Joyce cautioned.
‘He will be!’ There was no doubt in Una’s mind. ‘Come along, Joyce, we’ll be late for work if we don’t get a move on. And the earlier we finish at Kelsey, the sooner I can get back and make my present for Angelo.’
Sunlight flooded in through the stained-glass window above the altar in St Michael’s Church. The rich reds and blues lit the faces of the congregation: Canadian pilots in full dress uniform, Land Girls in smart civvies, Italians in grey POW garb and assorted farmers in tweeds and flat caps, which they wore for church whatever the weather. Towards the end of the service, Esther Liddell pulled out the stops for ‘Abide with Me’ in the vain hope that volume would mask her lack of skill.
As the organist played the opening notes of the dirge, Brenda leaned sideways to whisper to her neighbour, Squadron Leader Jim Aldridge: ‘The vicar must have been in a gloomy mood when he picked today’s hymns. “The darkness deepens”, and all that.’
‘“Earth’s joys grow dim”.’ Aldridge nodded then added in a stage whisper, ‘So where’s death’s sting, then?’
‘Just what we need, Vicar!’ Brenda faced ahead and mouthed the words of the first two verses. ‘It’s no good,’ she sighed and leaned in again. ‘Call me a terrible sinner, but I don’t feel like singing about death and decay on a glorious day like today.’ Instead, she looked around at her fellow worshippers. She spotted Emily Kellett on the front row, without Joe at her side. Mrs Mostyn was there, of course, next to a tense-looking Grace and Bill. Then there was Ma Craven minus Alfie, who, as far as Brenda knew, hadn’t been seen for a day or two. Turning her head towards the door, she saw Bob Baxendale, whose job as caretaker at the Institute overlapped with his role as church warden. He stood in stiff collar and ill-fitting suit, ready to re-stack the hymnbooks as people filed out. Finally she gave Una a small nudge with her elbow as she spotted Angelo amongst the group of prisoners near the back of the church. ‘Guess who’s here!’ she hissed.
‘I know!’ Una breathed. ‘I spotted him when he arrived.’ She felt in her pocket to make sure that the card she’d made was still there. Talk about being on tenterhooks; she’d hardly been able to breathe throughout the whole service. The vicar’s drone as he delivered what seemed like the longest sermon on record had been a special torment.
‘In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.’ A sigh of relief was almost audible throughout the church, and people muttered a final prayer before filtering out of the pews and down the aisle.
&nb
sp; ‘So how is life treating you, Squadron Leader?’ Brenda engaged in light conversation as they shuffled out of the church.
‘Please – call me Jim.’ He stood aside to let her pass through the door. ‘I’m doing just fine, thanks for asking. How about you?’
‘Fit as a fiddle, ta.’ Brenda looked up to the Canadian commanding officer in more ways than one. He was six inches taller than her, for a start; well set and muscular, his wide shoulders and broad chest enhanced by his slim-fitting uniform. Also, she admired him for his honesty and directness. ‘I take it all’s well on Penny Lane since the POWs moved back to Beckwith Camp?’
‘Some of our guys have had to stay on there so it’s a little too crowded, to tell you the truth.’ Out through the porch and into the glare of the sun, Aldridge appeared happy to stay a while and talk. ‘We’ve kept two of the Nissen huts for our newest trainees while they settle in but that means the Italians have to squeeze in to the remaining eight. They’re none too happy with that situation.’
‘But they’re not in a position to make a fuss, I take it?’ Privately Brenda thought that beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘Right,’ he confirmed with a nod. ‘They should take a look at some of the camps in their own back yard. Our boys in the Trieste and Mantua dulags are lucky to have proper sanitation and one decent meal a day.’ Seeing his men pile into the back of the lorry that had brought them to church, he shook Brenda’s hand and took his leave. ‘It’s been good talking with you, Brenda.’
‘Likewise.’ Firm handshake, a look straight in the eye, leaving with a smile – she appreciated all of that. As she lost sight of Jim Aldridge and made her way across the road to pick up her motor bike then drive over to Dale End, she had to thread her way through the group of POWs assembled in the pub car park, close to their green lorry with a canvas roof that had seen better days.
‘What’s happened to Bachetti?’ a rough-voiced Tommy called from the driver’s cab.
The good-natured soldier called Cyril, armed with a rifle, had begun to usher prisoners into the back. They climbed in slowly, muttering in Italian and deliberately taking their time. ‘He went for a—’ Aware of Brenda’s approach, he corrected himself. ‘Sorry. Bachetti had to answer a call of nature, Corporal!’
The driver grunted. ‘Couldn’t he tie a knot in it till we get back?’
‘Steady on. The bloke’s been poorly. He’ll only be a couple of minutes.’
The sympathetic private, along with a few of the prisoners, had picked up clues that Angelo had an assignation with his pretty Land Girl but he’d decided to turn a blind eye provided he was away no more than five minutes.
‘I’ll spin things out here,’ he’d promised. ‘But don’t take too long about it.’
Brenda lingered to watch the men being loaded into the lorry. ‘Ciao, Lorenzo,’ she called to the last in line.
He turned and flashed her a broad smile.
Summer suited him. His face was deeply tanned and he looked almost absurdly handsome with his thick, slicked-back hair, square jaw and white teeth. The prisoner’s grey uniform with the large white circle on the back did nothing to diminish the effect of a Roman god. Rome was where Lorenzo came from, she remembered, hence his air of worldly sophistication even in these diminished circumstances.
Brenda thought on her feet. She too had guessed where Angelo really was and reckoned that it would work well for Una if she could distract the driver and keep him talking, so she sauntered towards the cab. ‘I didn’t see you in church, Corporal,’ she said with her brightest smile.
‘That’s because I wasn’t there.’ He tapped the steering wheel and glanced down at her.
‘Lucky you. It was the longest blooming sermon ever. I snatched forty winks in the middle of it but it didn’t help. The vicar was still rabbiting on about love thy neighbour when I woke up.’
The corporal took a second look and decided that here was someone he didn’t mind passing the time of day with. He reached into his top pocket, took out a packet of Woodbines and offered one to Brenda. ‘I had a quick kip too,’ he admitted as he held out a light. She tilted her head back and inhaled. The end of the cigarette glowed red. ‘I heard enough in Sunday school about loving my neighbour to last me a lifetime, ta very much.’
‘We don’t have long.’ Una could scarcely believe that Angelo’s arms were around her. She kissed him and breathed him in. They talked in short bursts then kissed again.
‘My Una, I miss you.’
‘And I miss you. So much,’ she said with a deep sigh.
‘I long for you.’
‘Here I am – at last!’ But they had five minutes at the most round the back of the forge, before Cyril came looking. And so much to cram in. ‘Here; I want to give you this.’ She drew out the card with an arrangement of dried wild flowers on the front – golden buttercups, white milkmaids and purple vetch – and a loving message on the inside. ‘Read it later. Keep it safe.’
‘I put it here.’ He nodded then slipped it into his top pocket, which he tapped. ‘Near my heart. Always.’
Her whole body tingled with joy. Angelo loved her as much as ever. How could she have doubted it? ‘Are you better now? You must be, if the doctor let you come to church.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I have no cough.’
‘So when will they let you go back to work?’
‘Soon, I hope.’
And yet … Una shook the nagging fears out of her head. ‘That makes me happy too. We’ll be able to spend whole days together like we used to.’
‘Today the sun shines,’ he assured her, laughing as she stood on tiptoe to plant kisses on his cheeks and forehead. ‘The trees are green. You are with me, my Una.’
Heaven itself couldn’t outdo this. Her heart was full to bursting. ‘I’ll always be with you.’ She ignored the sound of footsteps crossing the pub yard, coming ever closer.
Angelo heard them and held her close. Soon they would be parted, so every moment was precious. ‘Remember this,’ he whispered.
She gazed up at him. Now she heard the footsteps and Cyril’s voice.
‘It’s time to call it a day, Bachetti.’
Una couldn’t bear to let go. It was Angelo who took her hands and gently pushed her away.
‘That’s a good lad.’ The private winked at Una, who blushed and looked as if she was about to cry. ‘My corporal’s on a short fuse this morning; otherwise I’d have let you have a bit longer.’
‘Goodbye, my Una.’ Tapping his pocket then blowing her a last kiss, Angelo allowed himself to be led off by Cyril.
Una moved her lips as if to reply but no sound came out. She stood silently, watching the two men walk away.
Brenda had done her best to keep Corporal Bellyache happy but the scowl had reappeared before they’d finished their cigarettes and he’d barked an order for Private Atkinson to go and fish Bachetti out of the privy. So she’d retreated to the back of the lorry for a quick word with Lorenzo. ‘Tell Angelo that this has made Una’s day – her whole week, as a matter of fact.’
‘He knows this.’ Lorenzo leaned out to see his friend returning, quick march. ‘But I will also tell him.’
‘She’s been worried about him.’ Brenda glanced over her shoulder at the two figures heading towards the lorry and was shocked. ‘I’m not surprised. Angelo looks like death warmed up.’ Compared with Lorenzo and the other prisoners, he was pale and gaunt, his posture stooping as he struggled to keep up with Atkinson. She approached him with a worried look.
He walked past without looking her way, then had second thoughts and called after her. ‘Brenda, you will care for Una?’
‘You bet I will.’ It went without saying. ‘We always keep an eye out for one another.’ She turned and followed slowly, watching Lorenzo and another prisoner haul Angelo up into the lorry.
‘If I go, you will care for her?’ he asked again.
‘Go where?’
‘Please?’
‘I’ve already said
I will.’ Brenda was seriously alarmed. All she could think was that she’d guessed right about Angelo being at death’s door.
‘Lorenzo, what is he talking about? Is he more poorly than he’s letting on?’
‘He is sick.’
Brenda’s eyes widened. ‘How sick?’ she demanded. ‘Why is Angelo talking about leaving? What exactly is the matter with him?’
‘The doctors do not say.’ The reply was guarded as Lorenzo raised a warning finger to his lips. ‘They will do a test. Do not say to Una. He does not want her to know.’
Brenda heard the guard climb into the cab and the slam of his door. The driver started the engine. ‘What kind of test?’ she demanded. His energy spent, Angelo let his friends manhandle him into a comfortable position towards the front of the lorry then slumped sideways against his neighbour.
‘You promise?’ As the lorry crawled out of the yard, Lorenzo leaned forward to hear Brenda’s reply.
She wrenched the words out unwillingly and heard them drowned by the growl of the lorry’s engine. ‘Yes, I promise.’
They were gone and she stood in a plume of blue exhaust smoke, turning to Una as she emerged in tears from behind the smithy and walked blindly across the yard.
‘Don’t cry, love.’ Brenda put an arm around her shoulder and searched for whatever kind words she could find. ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’
Una brushed her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and smiled. ‘I’m not sad,’ she explained. ‘These are happy tears. Angelo loves me and he swears he always will.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brenda knew she was hopeless at saying goodbye. She didn’t know why it was, but she had a history of it. When her older brother, Robert, had emigrated to America five years before, she’d stood behind her parents on a Liverpool dockside, waving him off without enthusiasm, anxious for the ship to set sail and for it all to be over and done with. It had been the same when Nancy Barker, a favourite cousin who had married a southerner, had gone to be a fisherman’s wife on the North Devon coast. Brenda had turned up at Nancy’s leaving do to wish her well but had been sure to make herself scarce before the round of hugs and tears at the end of the evening.
