Women at War

by Jan Casey

  What were they to do now? Go back to those days when they did nothing else but flirt with each other? When they danced and skirted around their feelings? They had been lovely times and she would treasure the memories, but they were ready to move things forward and she couldn’t imagine them living in limbo for long.

  Viola sat on the edge of the bed to pull on badly mended stockings. They were, she decided when she looked closer, the very pair she’d been wearing when Fred proposed. But they weren’t in such a state then. They’d been brand new and had felt silky and lustrous next to her skin. ‘I’m going to take you somewhere very special for your birthday,’ Fred had said. ‘I’ve booked a table for half seven this Friday.’

  She knew he didn’t have a lot of money, so wanted to show how much she appreciated the gesture by looking as pleasing as she could and the stockings, along with an evening bag and new lipstick, had been her purchases for the evening.

  She remembered how handsome Fred looked when he’d turned up in his college tie, his shoes gleaming – she’d felt so proud on his arm. The Bull Hotel was beautiful; the food and wine excellent; the pianist unobtrusive. But she smiled when she thought of how disappointed she’d felt when it seemed as if the Fred she knew had been left behind in his rooms and in his place was a stammering, fidgety, uncomfortable Fred. ‘Are you quite alright?’ she’d asked several times.

  In reply he’d either said, ‘Yes, of course,’ much too quickly or somehow nodded and shook his head at the same time.

  Before dessert was served, Viola had excused herself and when she returned Fred looked so serious and distracted that she’d feared she was going to be cast aside. Fred had reached for her hand and said, ‘Vi.’

  ‘Yes, Fred?’ she’d said, bracing herself for the worst.

  ‘There is only one thing that could make me happier than I am at this moment in time. And that is if you will agree to be my wife.’

  For a moment she had been so stunned that she couldn’t speak.

  ‘Vi?’ Fred had said again. ‘If you need some time…’

  ‘No,’ she’d blurted out. ‘I mean yes. I mean no to the time to think. And yes to be your wife.’ And she’d burst out laughing, all tension magically lifted.

  Laughter was the farthest thing from her mind now as she chose the grey skirt, the grey blouse, the black cardigan, the flat, black lace-ups. She used two combs to scrape back her hair, lank from the rain and wind, behind her ears. There would be no jewellery tonight, she thought, but pulled the cardigan together with a dull chain.

  Through the dining room door, Viola could hear muted discussion but couldn’t make out the gist of the conversation beyond a few scattered words that filtered past the wood and fittings: Germany, the situation, German, the papers, the news, Parliament. She watched herself place her palm on the door handle, but somehow, she could not bring herself to apply pressure and enter the room. There was what seemed to be an inept and artless silence, then one of the boys, probably Robert, said something and the others laughed in an overblown, unnatural way. At that exact minute in time, frozen in inertia, she felt isolated. As if she didn’t know any of the people beyond the door and perhaps never had.

  ‘Ah, Miss Viola.’ Abigail walked towards her, a steaming bowl of something in her hands. ‘You’re here. Shall I serve or wait for Mrs Baxter’s say-so?’

  Still her hand felt immovable. ‘Please wait for Mum,’ Viola said, wary that her thin, tremulous voice might give her away.

  ‘Of course.’ Abigail looked at her more closely. ‘Are you quite well, Miss? The heat is oppressive. Perhaps you would like me to call your mother. Or young Mr Scholz?’

  Viola shook her head and pressed down with determination on the handle. ‘No, thank you, Abigail. I’m fine.’ She smiled to prove the validity of what she’d said and Abigail carried on to the kitchen from where she could enter the dining room behind Mum’s place at the table.

  ‘A-ha.’ Dad rose from his chair as did Fred, who within three strides was by her side offering his arm to support her. ‘Boys.’ Dad looked at Robert and David over the top of his spectacles as they clamoured about and rose to their feet.

  ‘We thought perhaps you’d changed your mind about dinner.’ Dad turned his head and coughed into his hand to cover, Viola thought, his embarrassment at the lack of courtesy she displayed in her careless manner of dress. Fred led her to her chair, next to his, his hand rigid on her forearm again, as if he was trying to contain the vast dimensions of the anger they both felt within his grip. Well, it would take more than that gesture to quash the exasperation that was swelling inside her by the minute. She knew it had nowhere to go other than out into the open. She waited for Dad to comment on her appearance, but in what was an uncharacteristic act of defiance towards his own strict code of etiquette he turned to his wife and said, ‘Edith, shall we start?’

  Fred eased her into her chair whilst Mum looked on. For a beat or two her mother’s eyes were round with incredulity and alarm. ‘Edith.’ Dad peered into his wife’s face. ‘Will you call on Abigail?’

  Mum peeled her eyes from Viola and said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She picked up a tiny brass bell from the sideboard behind her and holding it between a trembling thumb and index finger, tinkled it twice with habitual delicacy.

  Abigail glided in with the lightest of footsteps and the occasional swish of white apron fabric. Backwards and forwards she marched with bowls and platters of food that Viola, in her distraction, could not name and could not imagine tasting. ‘Thank you, Abigail,’ Mum said when the young woman went to dish up onto the plates. ‘We’ll help ourselves. And please thank Cook. It all looks lovely.’

  Mum proceeded to pass the carrots, cabbage, peas and steaming new potatoes to her right and Dad held the serving plate piled with lamb for Fred who helped Viola and then himself. Viola looked down at what was usually her favourite meal and her stomach turned. The slices of meat that were not drowning in a bed of greasy, gelatinous gravy were turned up and greying at the edges. Running through the slabs of meat were strings of white fat that reminded her of the thin spittle that drooled from Pitch’s mouth.

  Viola looked from her plate to Fred and wondered what Mum’s reaction would be if she emptied the contents of her stomach all over it. ‘Here,’ Fred said softly. ‘Allow me.’ He pushed back his chair and walked around the table to hand the platter to Robert.

  Except the occasional ‘thank you’, ‘yes please’ or ‘it smells lovely’, no one spoke until each dish and accompaniment had been around the table and placed to rest on the sideboard.

  ‘I do hope no one minds not having soup?’ Mum asked, looking at each person around the table in turn. ‘I thought it wise to abandon the idea on such a humid day. Robert,’ she addressed her older son, who was always hungry. ‘Do you mind awfully?’

  His mouth full, Robert shook his head. As he swallowed, the protruding Adam’s apple that had lately made an appearance bobbed up and down. ‘No, I don’t mind, Mum,’ he said. ‘As long as there’s seconds and a good lot of pudding.’

  Mum and Dad laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll have plenty,’ Dad said. ‘And if not, you’ll have to raid the orchard before bed. But I don’t think it will come to that as Viola doesn’t appear to be the least bit enthusiastic about her dinner, so you could always have hers. Come now, Viola, you must eat.’

  The wide-eyed look Mum gave Dad implored him to desist. Fred nudged Viola with his foot. The curtains blew out then bulged in through the half-open French doors. The clock in the hall chimed eight and Abigail entered to turn on the sidelights. Rain drummed against the windows.

  But Viola had had enough. ‘Must I, Dad?’

  The boys stopped eating and stared at their sister and parents in turn.

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ Dad’s voice was gentle and kind, not at all what Viola had been expecting and the sudden change made tears throb behind her eyes. ‘You must. I insist.’

  She picked up her cutlery and cut a small potato in half, speared
it to a slice of cabbage and dangled it in mint sauce and gravy. ‘Why must I?’

  Dad sighed. ‘Because, my dear. Because…’

  ‘Because if you don’t, you won’t grow big and strong,’ David said. ‘Like Dad. Or Fred.’

  Viola managed to smile at her little brother, who hated bad feeling and would do anything to please; she was sure he had been a Labrador in another life or would be in the next. He smiled back, revealing teeth still too large for his mouth, his dark, silky hair streaked red from the sun skimming his forehead. Then he reattacked his meal with gusto as if he had put all that was wrong in the world right.

  ‘But I am grown as much as I will ever be, David,’ Viola said, the food on her fork growing cold. ‘In fact,’ she addressed Dad. ‘I am a grown woman and therefore have a right to—’

  ‘Oh, can’t we eat in peace?’ Mum pleaded. ‘We never argue at the table. It plays havoc with the digestion.’

  ‘We never argue full stop,’ said Robert. ‘So why—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Dad, throwing his serviette next to his plate. ‘You must eat to keep up your strength. As must we all.’

  Mum reached for her wine glass; Robert shovelled in the last of what was on his plate.

  ‘Another war will soon be upon us. It is imminent.’

  Viola cried out, ‘But what has that to do with me and Fred and our engagement?’

  ‘Everything,’ Dad said, pushing his plate away and leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid that it has everything to do with it. Besides the fact that he is German…’

  ‘Mr Baxter,’ Fred blurted out, unable – Viola thought – to hold his peace any longer. ‘I must protest. We have been over this many times. I am a British citizen.’

  ‘Yes, Fred and also a German citizen. And—’ Dad turned to Viola ‘—a German citizen who is going to Germany tomorrow when the situation is so highly unstable.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Viola could hear the growing frustration in her voice.

  ‘But I don’t think you know that he is going against the advice of the British government who have announced that they cannot, after today, guarantee safe passage back to England from Germany.’

  All Viola could manage was a feeble and tremulous, ‘Fred? After that news, surely you must reconsider.’

  ‘Viola.’ Fred raised his hands towards the heavens in a gesture of helplessness. ‘You know the dilemma with my sister.’

  Dad interlaced his fingers and turned to Fred. ‘One thing we haven’t addressed, Frederick, is why Annaliese is in Germany at all. Given the volatile crisis between our two countries.’

  Fred’s discomfort was plain for all to see in the dark purple colour on the tips of his ears. He stammered and slipped over his words. ‘I have explained. She is caring for our dear grandmother.’

  ‘But there are other family members you have mentioned?’ Dad said. ‘Aunts, uncles, cousins. Surely…?’

  Fred sighed. ‘We received word that Oma was on her deathbed and Annie insisted on travelling to Ulm for her final moments. She very much loves our Oma.’ His voice caught. ‘We all do, but they have a special bond and Annie was desperate to be at her bedside. I advised her not to go, but I did not forbid it as that is not my way, although in hindsight I wish I had. And nor is it hers to do as she’s told, I’m afraid. My sister is an extremely strong-willed and tenacious young woman.’ He looked around the table, then chuckled without humour. ‘Not unlike Oma who happily pulled through, although I have been made aware that she is fast approaching the end of her time.’

  Fred lifted his cutlery, scrutinised his plate and replaced his knife and fork without eating anything. Under the table, Viola found his sturdy hand and intertwined her fingers with his, seeking the callus that had formed from holding his pen against his middle finger. He made to wipe his sweating palms on his trousers, but she held fast, refusing to allow him to feel embarrassed.

  How hard this must be for him, Viola thought. After she had started to mention Fred in her letters home, Mum had written back that she and Dad wanted to meet him, but every time Viola tried to broach the subject with Fred, a shyness that she wasn’t accustomed to experiencing overcame her. He hadn’t declared himself at that stage, although she thought that was merely a lack of putting words to emotions so she tussled with herself about whether he would think she was presumptuous about his feelings. But during a picnic next to the river in Grantchester, she managed to invite him home and he was delighted. His eyes lit up and his smile was broad. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said. ‘When will this happen? Easter Break or a weekend before then?’

  Viola had laughed more from relief than anything. She curled her toes underneath her and said, ‘You’re very eager.’

  ‘I want to know everything about you.’ He sprawled out with one hand supporting his head and traced the outline of her jaw with a blade of grass.

  She toyed with the ends of his brindle-coloured hair. ‘Well, if you’re game, I suppose there’s no reason not to go this weekend.’

  He smiled and kissed the end of her nose. ‘I’m definitely game,’ he said. Then his face pulled downwards and he sat up, hugging his knees with his arms.

  Viola shivered, wondering if this was when he told her something she didn’t want to hear. ‘What is it, Fred?’ she asked, reaching to stroke his back.

  He turned away from her and gave his full attention to the river, moving in lazy swirls and eddies towards The Orchard. ‘I cannot return the invitation, Vi, as you know.’

  She did know, as he had no parents, no family home, just a younger sister named Annaliese at boarding school and an elderly, eccentric aunt who he had not deemed capable of looking after Annie. Fred could have made the decision for both of them to live in Germany, but he was passionate about England being their home and the country where they would stay. Viola pulled him back to her, cradling his head in her lap, and dared to hope that one day she could provide him with the family ballast he lacked. And Annie would be part of that, too.

  Now he was being asked to talk about his Oma, whose impending death must feel, to him, like another empty hole in the already pitted landscape of what used to be his close family. Viola squeezed his hand again and felt pressure back from him.

  Fred cleared his throat, shuffled in his chair and continued. ‘So, some would argue that I should not have let Annie go, but I did and now I must bring her home. It is my duty and responsibility and I…’ He faltered again and Viola could tell he was playing for time to steady himself. ‘I cannot lose her, too.’

  The boys had stopped eating and were still, probably not wanting to bring attention to themselves and the fact that they were privy to an adult conversation. Mum was florid, her chest rising and falling with each agitated breath. As for Dad, he was leaning forward and taking in every word Fred uttered.

  ‘Thank you, Fred, for clearing the air about that situation,’ Dad said, then carried on without pause. ‘But I am afraid my answer is still no. And whether you both choose to believe me or not, the decision has been made with responsibility and care. And love.’

  Viola had to bite down hard on her lip to stop tears forming; iron flooded her mouth and she wiped the blood away with her tongue.

  No one else said a word and Viola became aware of each person’s oppressed breathing. The air was thick with the smell of lamb fat and cold potatoes in butter. Abigail stepped into the room and began to say something about dessert, but Mum waved her away.

  ‘Well, if Fred really is going away,’ Robert broke the silence, ‘a jolly last meal this has been.’

  With affinity, the wind seemed to be escalating in fury and cruelty. A gust caused the French door to bang outwards and then rebound with a crash. From somewhere deep in the house, Pitch howled and barked then howled again. Mum caught her breath and, drumming her hand on her chest, rushed to secure the lock. ‘Robert, David,’ she said. ‘You can take your dessert in the kitchen with Abigail and Cook.’

  The boys seemed grateful to leave the
dining room and the adults behind. When they reached the door, David turned and said, ‘Vi, does this mean our game of tennis at the Club tomorrow will have to be cancelled?’

  Viola hated to disappoint him, but she couldn’t lie. She had to tell him the truth. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ Her stringy hair slapped her cheeks as she shook her head from side to side. ‘No idea at all what is going on either today or tomorrow or the next.’

  Silence hung over the room like an old, fusty curtain. An image flashed through Viola’s mind of her trying to fight her way out of it, whilst it wound and wrapped itself ever more tightly around her, trapping her arms, her legs, covering her nose and mouth, clogging her lungs. She looked up from the table and noticed, for what seemed to be the first time, the powdery lint that swirled towards the ceiling in chaos and then drifted back down to settle on the sideboard, the carpets, in the chinks and clefts of silly ornaments and fussy serving spoons.

  Viola thought the suffocating taciturnity said more than any amount of noise. Yet she knew that one of them would have to cave in, say something to get the argument going again, as that is what would surely follow.

  She could hear a hammering in her ears and was aware of the blood moving fast through the overloaded rhythms of her heart. The residue of cold, clammy sweat under her arms began to slip and slide as it turned hot and sticky again. Say something, she willed her father, who sat with one arm over the back of his chair, his tie loosened at the neck; a man who thought he had said all he needed to say. Mum had lost what was left of her composure and was checking her earrings, bracelets, necklace with busy fingers as if finding her jewellery in place would give her a sense of comfort and security.