Women at War

by Jan Casey

  Also by Jan Casey

  The Women of Waterloo Bridge

  WOMEN AT WAR

  Jan Casey

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Jan Casey, 2021

  The moral right of Jan Casey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (E): 9781838930752

  ISBN (PB): 9781800246034

  Cover design © Lisa Brewster

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For my daughter, Kelly and my son, Liam. With all my love.

  Contents

  Welcome

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  July 1939

  Many days have wonderful moments within them. Some are so good they allow us to hold fast to the feelings of well-being they create for longer periods of time; twenty minutes, half an hour, an hour or two. And on a few, which can be counted on one hand, time ticks by in what promises to be a coming together of perfect unison amongst oneself, others, the surroundings, the light and the atmosphere. And then there is the disappointment that inevitably ensues when those promises fail to come to fruition.

  But today would be different. Was different. Nothing could sully or defile the cloudless, crystalline sky, so clear as to be almost translucent. Try as she might, Viola could not blink open her eyes for longer than a second to follow the flight of a collared dove or a blackbird, chaffinch, goldfinch or some other bird that appears on matchless British summer days, like smudges on the palest of blue china.

  The boys were hitting a tennis ball back and forth in a half-hearted, laconic way behind the greenhouse and sheds that stood beyond the small orchard. The dull thump of their plimsolls on the lawn and the ball meeting taut racquet strings came to her in a muted, rhythmic pattern; she was sure she could smell the dust they kicked up. Laughter carried over as they taunted each other with jibes, then one or another shouted a congratulations of ‘Shot!’ followed by twigs snapping as they retrieved the ball and lined themselves up to start all over again.

  There was the cushioned thud of a plump apple falling into the grass; the leaves of a tree quivering as another was plucked by one of her brothers. On their way to inspect the hollyhocks or roses or foxgloves, bees swooped in and out of earshot. As a warning, she flapped her hand when one of them buzzed too close to her face.

  Under the willow, she felt shaded and cool even though the heat found a way through the lustrous branches that swayed almost to the ground. Mum had left an earthenware jug of elderflower cordial and three glasses on the table. Viola filled one and sipped the sweet juice that always reminded her of summer as it ran down the back of her throat, leaving her tongue tingling.

  Pitch lay beside her, his eyes closed, his coat sweltering when she parted it with her fingers. She poured cordial into his bowl and pushed it under his nose where he lapped it without moving his head an inch. ‘Lazy Pitch,’ she murmured, laughing out loud at the irony. ‘Lazy Vi, too,’ she said. But the day, she decided, was made to be lackadaisical.

  She flopped back against the canvas deckchair and thought about Fred speaking to her father in his study at this very moment. This perfect moment. On this perfect day. She smiled when she imagined him, tall and determined with eyes as blue and pellucid as the sky, striding across the lawn to her any minute now, telling her it was all settled.

  Fred. Who would have thought she would find herself in this position with Her Fred as she now called him? She hadn’t. Not when the other girls working in the university library started to giggle and nudge her when he came in yet again asking for her, and only her, to assist him in finding more and more obscure books to help with research for his thesis. Not when he happened to be propped against a tree next to the side entrance of the grey building when she finished her shift, frowning into a book on his open lap – a book he fumbled with and let fall the minute she appeared. And not when he turned up in the pub with his friend, George, asking if they could sit with her and her crowd although they were surrounded by a number of empty tables. She smiled to herself.

  He made her laugh on those occasions, but he was also a thoughtful and rational conversationalist – everyone listened when he spoke. On one particular day, he didn’t come to the library to look for her over the heads of those in front of him in the queue and she felt deflated. Another time, she caught herself turning towards the door of the pub every time it was pushed open and realised that her heart dropped when a shorter, darker-haired man with less of a well-built presence appeared.

  But still she dismissed that she felt anything for him until he asked her to meet him one evening. It was early autumn, so she decided to wear a light jacket and she remembered now how giddy and girlish she felt when deciding which brooch to pin on it – like an agitated bottle of champagne that was ready to pop. She thought she’d be nervous alone with him in the pub, in the Arts Cinema, on the walk home. Instead she felt the fizz of anticipation and a deep comfort, both at the same time. When they said goodnight, she knew they would see each other again as he had wrapped his college scarf around her neck against the first frost. Disappointment had overwhelmed her when he hadn’t kissed her goodbye, but he soon made up for it. That thought caused as much heat to rise from her skin as did the blazing day.

  Sunshine and contentment allowed the book she was holding to slip from her fingers to her lap to the ground where it lay, cover up, next to the sluggish dog. She gave up the battle with her weighted eyelids and succumbed to sleep.

  *

  Gooseflesh spotted her arms when she woke. The boys had retreated to the house and her book was wet and sticky from the cordial that Pitch must have upended when he refused to be left behind. Gusts of warm, damp wind ruffled the branches of the willow and tossed the hollyhocks from side to side as if they were lost at sea.

  The air had become heavy and burdensome and it felt as if she alone were holding up the sky with her head and shoulders. Fred was standing next to her, his jaw set stiff and tense. She looked down at his hand on her shoulder, moulded into a rocky fist, and wondered at how swiftly a day such as this could deteriorate. Because she knew with certainty that it had.

  ‘Fred, whatever has happened?’ Viola asked, rising to face him. ‘What did Dad say?’

  Fred placed both his hands on her shoulders and eased her back down into the deckchair, the b
right yellow and blue stripes mocking her with their frivolous reminder of a seaside holiday. She sat and looked up at him, her mouth agape and heart pounding.

  ‘Fred,’ she demanded again.

  He pulled his hands through his dappled brown hair. ‘He said no.’

  ‘But I… I can’t… How could he? Fred, why would he?’

  Fred sat on the grass next to her, his shoulders sagging in his summer-weight jacket. He plucked up handfuls of grass and weeds and earth and slung them towards the root of the tree. ‘He’s taking care of you,’ he managed at last, each syllable delivered in a concise, controlled way.

  Viola stared at him. Fred kept his eyes down. ‘If, Frederick Albert Scholz, this is your idea of a joke it’s not at all funny. Not at all.’ A drop of tepid rain glanced across her cheek as she waited. ‘Fred,’ she hissed. ‘Please tell me you’re winding me up.’

  ‘Viola Victoria Baxter,’ Fred said, lifting his head to look at her. ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘But… But…’ Viola rose and pushed away Fred’s hand. She felt for the collar of her blouse and pulled and scrunched at the soft material. The garden seemed to tip on its side and blur around the edges. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing stable under her feet. Everything that existed in concrete terms was bound up in Fred.

  ‘Viola, sit down.’ There was an edge of alarm in Fred’s voice.

  ‘The countless times he’s made you welcome here.’ She began to pace in circles. ‘Both he and Mum. What did they think was happening between us? How could they think we were not leading up to this? This… hope for a future together.’ Her head was spinning and she clutched at it to steady the turmoil that made her want to be sick.

  Fred grabbed her and held her against him. Viola could feel the shallowness of his breathing, the banging of his heart, the tick, tick, tick of his quick pulse. She put her arms under his jacket and his shirt was slick with sweat. ‘I cannot tell you now.’

  Viola pulled back and scoured the lines around his eyes, the trimmed beard, the streak of sunburn on his straight nose. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘After dinner,’ he said. ‘When there is more time I will tell all that was said.’

  As if she’d been waiting, Mum appeared on the terrace. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘Just enough time to freshen up.’

  Viola could not believe what she was hearing. Her eyes, she knew, pleaded with Fred for an explanation, but he placed a hand under her elbow and steered her towards the house. She could feel that every step he took was charged with bridled anger and she was frightened for him. And for herself.

  As they stepped into the house, she looked back over her shoulder into the garden. What remained of her perfect day was nothing more than a spurious shambolic mess. Roses and hydrangeas bounced down towards the dry earth as they were bombarded by fat raindrops; apples lay rotting on the patchy, brown grass; a ruined book; an abandoned jug of sugary water; a muddy tennis ball under a fuchsia bush. If indeed the perfection she had perceived, or conjured up, had existed at all, she knew it had disappeared and would never be restored.

  2

  The powdery blue silk stared at her from its padded hanger at the front of the wardrobe. She and Lillian had taken hours to find it, traipsing up and down Oxford and Regent Streets arm in arm, weighing up the pros and cons of silk versus taffeta, short sleeves rather than three-quarters, a full or fitted skirt. Lilac or grey. Burgundy or blue.

  It had been a lovely day. Viola thought back to meeting her friend at Paddington and how they’d thrown their arms around each other after they’d alighted from their respective trains, happy to be together again after five weeks apart.

  ‘So,’ Lillian said, ‘the time has come, has it? Fred is going to ask your father for your hand. How quaint of him.’

  Viola elbowed her friend. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like a man to be as courtly and well-mannered on your behalf.’

  Lillian put her hand on her heart and said, ‘I would not like a man to be as courtly and well-mannered on my behalf.’ She pursed her red lips and raised her dark, sculpted eyebrows. ‘And neither did you until Fred came along and flexed his muscles at you.’

  ‘I know.’ Viola sighed. ‘But the courtliness is something that goes with everything else about him and that everything else is just right for me. Perfect, in fact. And I don’t think he in any way takes away from my independence. Or wanting to be independent as much as possible.’ She peered at Lillian for her approval and understood that the gesture was none too independent either. ‘Do you? Or are you telling me now that you aren’t accepting of him?’

  Lillian smiled widely, wrinkling her nose in the charismatic manner that won over everyone she met. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘You know that. He’s a fine young man and I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Now, what’s first: the shops or tea or a drink?’

  They discovered the perfect dress in Selfridges. Lillian said the cornflower colour would contrast splendidly with Viola’s dark green eyes and also be a good match for Fred’s pair of icy blues. Viola was taller than average and the way the fabric draped accentuated her long slender arms and legs. ‘I especially like the belt,’ Viola said, studying herself in the full-length mirror. ‘It gives me more of a waist.’

  Lillian laughed. ‘You’ll be pleased with your slim figure when you get older. I’m going to look lumpy and bumpy like my mum when I get to her age.’

  ‘Yes, but now when it matters you go in and out in all the right places. I look like one of my brothers. And what twenty-four-year-old woman wants to look like a thirteen-year-old boy?’

  ‘Well, that’s what you get for running around playing tennis with them all the time.’

  The assistant drew back the curtain and looked Viola up and down and up again. Then she nodded. Behind her back Lillian crossed her eyes and did the same. Viola had to stifle a guffaw.

  ‘You look stunning, my dear,’ the assistant said. ‘Is this for a special occasion?’

  ‘My engagement.’

  ‘Your fiancé is a very lucky man,’ she said, the bun at the back of her head bobbing.

  Lillian stuck her fingers in her mouth and feigned being sick.

  ‘Don’t you agree?’ The assistant turned just as Lillian ceased her theatrics.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Lillian snapped to attention. ‘They make a lovely couple.’

  The dress would be wrapped and delivered to Cirencester. They spent the rest of their time browsing the jewellery counters in a number of stores, scrutinising shoes, stockings and undergarments. When they parted after dinner and a couple of drinks, with promises to write until they saw each other again when the new term started in Cambridge, Lillian leaned in close to Viola’s ear and said, ‘Although it really is a load of old tosh, I do think I could get used to a man being courtly and well-mannered on my behalf. At least I’d like to give it a go.’

  Viola laughed out loud then kissed Lillian on her cheek. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, meine Liebe,’ she recited her customary goodbye.

  As she sprinted for her train, Lillian chanted her usual ‘Au revoir, mon amour,’ over her shoulder.

  Viola watched Lillian rush towards her platform, her sturdy legs in their seamed stockings moving in between wandering passengers with confidence. They blew one last kiss towards each other, waved with curled fingers and then Lillian was gone.

  *

  Now Viola balled the silk in her hands and threw it into the dark, dusty depths of her wardrobe. An immediate rush of guilt made her scramble for the creased garment and press it to her chest. She started to cry, not soft, feeling sorry for herself tears, but a hot, angry flood that she had to use all her willpower to subdue.

  With the same self-control, she stopped her tears and stood, putting the dress back on its plush hanger. It was beautiful. Sniffing, she wiped her nose on the handkerchief she kept up her sleeve. She could feel the muscles of her face harden one by one. With resolve, she smoothed the fabric as best she could with
her damp hands. She would need to wear it when her engagement went ahead. Her engagement to Fred.

  Viola heard Mum’s refined, measured footsteps making their way across the landing to the stairs, followed by the light scuffle of her brothers. ‘Boys,’ Mum scolded. ‘How many times must I tell you? No playing on or near the stairs.’

  ‘But he pushed me,’ Robert said.

  ‘Only because he shoved me first,’ fired David.

  ‘Neither of you should be pushing.’ Viola could picture Dad hurrying to catch up, his hands going through the motions of knotting his tie. ‘And don’t give Mum your cheek.’

  Their chattering faded and she recognised the sharp click of Fred’s steps as he trailed behind the rest of her family, not wanting – she imagined – to put himself in the awkward position of having to make small talk with them. She listened as he slowed down near her door and knew that, if he knocked, she would not dare allow herself to answer only to be told again she would have to wait until after dinner for an explanation. Fred, too, must have understood the futility of their meeting at this stage as his footsteps resonated momentarily then became muffled before the landing was silent again.

  Viola flicked through her wardrobe for an alternative ensemble, but nothing seemed appropriate. All the items she should wear were too dressy, too full of carelessness and fun; they all spoke of celebration or at least happy, optimistic times. She crossed her arms and determined that she would not be made to reflect what she most certainly did not feel. At the back of the rail, where they had been since the end of term, hung the two outfits she alternated for work: a knee-length, box-pleated tartan skirt and another of grey serge that she mixed and matched with either a cream or grey blouse topped with a bottle green or black cardigan.

  They were drab and serviceable and looked like they meant business in the library where she dragged out books from long-forgotten shelves and put them back in place when students had finished their research. It was a standing joke between her and Fred that he could ever have found her attractive when he first saw her behind the desk and asked her to retrieve a manuscript about Medieval German literature for his doctorate paper. He liked to tease her that he had found it difficult to see beyond the high necklines, the buttons, the thick material, but his eyes and in time, his hands and mouth, told her a different story.