by Jan Casey
When Viola heard about the solitary victim of an attack on a house in Barrow Road, she was overcome with sympathy not so much for his death, but for facing that demise in isolation and loneliness. She thought about him and his plight for days after the news, wondering whether he lived alone or if his family happened to be out when the bomb hit, or if they had been at home with him but were lucky enough to be unscathed.
Still, she told herself, whatever conspiracy or under-the-table agreement might have been reached between Britain and Germany, Cambridge was getting off lightly in comparison with other parts of the country. Mum and Dad told her many times over how pleased and relieved they were that she was safely cocooned away from the chaos in London, in particular. She wrote to them that when she cycled along the Cam or walked to the Department of Modern Foreign Languages, she was struck by how the ivory tower of academia seemed to be trying to keep the continuity of its culture and traditions safe and secure, although her guess was as good as anyone else’s about how long that would last. And perhaps that was a good thing, Viola thought, as there would have to be doctors, barristers, engineers, politicians, vets and writers of poetry to ensure the country got back on its feet when the whole thing ended.
‘And also,’ Lillian said to her and George one evening in The Whim, ‘what are we fighting for, if not our traditions and ways of life? And that includes Oxbridge.’
‘Hear, hear,’ George banged the table until his cutlery jumped.
The waitress placed plates of shepherd’s pie in front of Viola and George and a bowl of chicken soup on Lillian’s placemat. Steam from the food wafted up to meet their faces, obscuring George’s eyes behind his spectacles, but none of them rushed to start eating their meal. George sighed. ‘Is it my imagination or have you noticed the portions getting smaller?’
Viola loosened her scarf and tied it around the handles of her bag. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’
‘And,’ said Lillian with a lack of enthusiasm, ‘everything is somehow… I don’t know. Greyer?’ She looked up at her friends for affirmation.
‘That’ll be the rationing kicking in,’ George said, picking up his knife and fork at last and tunnelling into the lumpy mashed swede and potato on top of the greasy mince.
‘Here goes,’ said Lillian, following suit.
Viola laughed. ‘When did we stop saying bon appetit?’
‘When, my dear ladies,’ George said, ‘bon was the first ingredient to be completely rationed from every meal.’
They ate in silence for a few moments. George nodded to a couple of men he recognised; Viola asked the waitress for three more cups of tea. The windows onto Trinity Street were opaque with streaming condensation.
‘Are we going for a pudding or shall we skip it and head straight to the pub?’ Lillian asked.
‘Well, I tried the marrow jam tart yesterday in Halls and it was atrocious,’ George said. ‘The chap I was sitting next to described it as “one of the foulest dishes of food within human history”. We’ll be better off sticking with alcohol.’
Viola rocked back with laughter. ‘And someone I spoke to said their college was serving up a lunch of either kidney omelette or calf’s head vinaigrette.’
‘Vile,’ said Lillian. ‘That beats the egg cutlet I tried to force down my throat the other day.’
‘If you were hungry…’ George sighed. ‘You’d be grateful.’
‘I don’t think we’re quite there yet, George.’
‘At least there’s Formal Hall,’ said Viola. ‘Despite the tapioca pudding it’s still a wonderful occasion.’
George lowered his voice. ‘Apparently, the Ministry of Food is sending directives to the university left, right and centre. They’re controlling the minutiae of the quantity and elements of all our food. But I think the cellars of these colleges are very deep indeed.’ He stopped to look over his shoulder, then carried on. ‘And it will take a lot more than a war to stop the top dogs from adding all the lovely gravy they want to their dogs’ dinners.’ He signalled for the bill and when the waitress brought it to their table, he signed the bottom of the chit and asked her to put it on his tab.
‘Too bad we can’t get to Formal Hall more often, Vi,’ said Lillian.
‘You’re always welcome as my guests,’ George said. ‘But I’m sorry that can’t be more than once a month.’
‘We’re grateful for that, George. Thank you,’ said Viola.
George helped Lillian and then Viola on with their coats, held the door open for them and helped them down the three steps to the narrow pavement.
As soon as they turned left towards The Anchor, Lillian and George started an animated conversation that left Viola behind both in proximity and from the cosiness of their chat. She knew they didn’t mean to exclude her, but it was happening more and more frequently and Viola wondered if something deeper was burgeoning between her two friends. Something even they might not be aware of yet, or perhaps they were and had decided to keep it to themselves for a while, although she and Lillian kept very little from each other.
She trailed behind and looked up at the sky, mist swirling around the bricks of Caius and the Senate House, eerie and looming in the blackout.
Looking back, she wondered if she and Fred had unintentionally left out Lillian or George or any of their friends whilst they were so cosied up with each other. A tinge of shame spiked her when she remembered a concert that she, Fred and Lillian had attended together. During the interval, she and Fred had been so wrapped up with each other, standing close and exchanging news of their day, that neither of them spoke a word to Lillian. When Fred delicately brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, she had caught a glimpse of Lillian, holding her drink and looking lost and awkward. Of course, Viola was stunned into reaching out for her friend and drawing her into the conversation, but she supposed that wasn’t the only time she had been oblivious to others.
But circumstances were different then. None of the others had had their intended lifelong companion ripped from their side, and that was exactly how it felt, as if Fred had been torn from her and the place where they had been joined left raw and weeping. She tried not to be too dependent on her friends for company and diversion, yet she knew she was. And she was also aware that she was not always convivial to be with. Often she was distracted or less confident than she had been on Fred’s arm, which probably gave her crowd too much to worry about on her behalf.
On a laugh, Lillian turned to her and said, ‘Alright, Vi?’
Viola nodded. ‘Just trying to watch my footing on these cobbles. If I twist my ankle, I can say goodbye to beating my brothers at tennis.’
Lillian waited for her to catch up and they threaded their arms together.
At The Anchor, George was holding the door open again like a faithful pup. They found a table and he went to the bar to order their usual.
‘How are the two little herberts?’ Lillian asked.
‘Growing up way too quickly,’ Viola said. ‘But not maturing very much as they can’t wait to jump into uniform and join the scrum. They think they’re missing out.’ She looked up and George was watching them, half sitting on a stool with one foot on the foot rail. Well, she thought he was looking at them, but his eyes were trained on Lillian who smiled when she caught his eye.
‘Lil,’ Viola whispered. ‘Are you and George…?’
Lillian waited without saying a word.
‘You know…’
‘Know what?’ Lillian looked confused, her lovely dark brows forming hoods over her eyes.
‘Well,’ Viola said. ‘Involved with each other? Romantically linked?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Lovers?’
Lillian’s eyes grew wide. ‘Good old George? And me?’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
George set their drinks on the table and chose to sit on the stool closest to Lillian. And when he produced his cigarettes he offered them first to Lillian before turning to Viola. Yes, Viola thought. You and good old Georg
e. We’ll see.
They talked about the terrible bombing in Coventry; Hungary joining the Axis; Matteo; George’s thesis on Shakespeare and War. George asked if by any chance Viola had heard news of Fred. No, Viola had not. And she would of course let them know if and when she did. In fact, they would hear her shouting in the streets, waving the letter above her head so they would know such a wonderful thing had happened.
‘But I write to him all the time,’ she said. ‘Every other day. Share all the news I think I can get away with.’
George nodded. ‘I write to him, too,’ he said. ‘Not as often as you, but once in a while.’
Viola’s tummy took a little tumble. She felt so grateful to George. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That is so kind of you.’
George shrugged as if dismissing his gesture of friendship. ‘Well, the man has to have more than one perspective. You know, another chap’s point of view.’
Viola rubbed the coarse material of George’s sleeve. ‘He will really appreciate that, dear George.’
The door opened on a gust of wind and Amanda appeared, as neat and well-turned-out as ever despite the damp and cold. She gave her umbrella a good shake, then nestled it amongst the others in the stand by the door.
When she saw them, she gestured with her finger to an empty chair, asking through the pantomime if she could join them. They nodded and beckoned her to their table. She sat with a straight back and crossed her legs. ‘I thought I might find you here,’ she said, smiling at each of them. ‘Good to see you.’
‘And you,’ said Viola.
George and Lillian nodded in agreement.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ George said.
‘Thank you, George.’ Amanda shook her head, her sleek auburn hair moving like a rippling wave against her cheek. ‘I’ll get one for all of you in a minute as a goodbye.’
‘A goodbye?’ Lillian parroted. ‘What can you mean?’
Amanda sat back and looked rather smug. ‘Well, it’s taken me a while, but I’ve come to a decision,’ she said, leaning into the table.
Viola pressed her face closer to Amanda’s. ‘Oh, do tell,’ she said.
‘I’ve decided…’ Amanda looked from one to the other of the faces around the table, drawing out her answer for dramatic effect. ‘To decamp to London to do my bit. As a translator and interpreter.’ She sat upright again, her face giving way to a full-blown haughty expression.
Viola slumped back in her chair. She felt she had to concede that Amanda was doing something principled. ‘Well, good on you,’ she said. ‘You’ll be welcomed with open arms, I’m sure. A few others have already gone that way, haven’t they?’
Amanda nodded. ‘Yes, a number from every language base have moved for the same purpose and a friend of mine, who teaches in a private girls’ school, has followed suit. Have you given it any thought?’
The table was quiet. Viola could almost read the others’ thoughts and they were the same as her own. It seemed like the right thing to do, but it was hard to make that final decision.
‘I’ve been considering it,’ said Lillian. ‘Two other French assistants left for London last week. But then that only leaves me and one other.’
‘Vi?’ Amanda turned and faced Viola with unblinking brown eyes, as if she was accusing her of not being patriotic. ‘Anyone as fluent as you in German must be needed by the government.’
Viola fidgeted. She felt a film of sweat blossom on her lip and under her arms. ‘I am thinking about it,’ was all she could muster. But there were so many things to consider, not least of all how hard she would find it to leave behind the place she had met Fred and fell in love with him. His spectral presence on familiar streets and in comforting haunts provided her with warmth and safety. Maybe she would talk to Lillian about all of this at some stage, but she had no intention, here in the pub in front of Amanda who was looking more and more supercilious by the minute, of opening up her feelings for debate.
The ever-chivalrous George, who must have felt her discomfort said, ‘Well, I’m sure the government won’t want me. What good is Shakespeare to them at this point in time? But my thoughts are leaning towards joining up. As an officer, I hope.’
They drank a rather sombre round and said their goodbyes and good lucks to Amanda, then George saw them to the door of their small flat before heading back to his rooms in St John’s.
As soon as they lit a fire and made a cup of tea, Lillian asked Viola what she thought about following Amanda’s lead and giving up Cambridge for war work in London. ‘Have you thought about it, Vi? I certainly have.’
Viola curled up in an armchair and blew on her tea. ‘A bit, but then I dismiss it, telling myself that what we’re doing here is important, too.’
Lillian nodded. ‘I know what you mean, but the same level of importance?’
‘In the long run, yes. In the short term, of course not.’
‘It’s the immediate crisis that matters now, isn’t it?’
Viola had to concede that it was. ‘I also have to consider Mum and Dad, though, and how relieved they are that I’m in a relatively safe place.’
‘Oh, stuff and nonsense.’ Lillian put her cup on the floor and fished a packet of cigarettes from her bag. ‘Your parents would soon get used to the idea and I dare say their pride in you would overrule their anxiety. And who’s to say Cambridge won’t take more bombs tomorrow than London has done since the beginning?’
‘Lil.’ A thought struck Viola and made her sit up straight. ‘Have you made up your mind to go to London? It sounds very much as though you have.’
Lillian took in a lungful of smoke, held it, then blew it slowly towards the ceiling. She shook her head. ‘Not completely, Vi. But I am thinking about it very seriously.’ From the corner of her eye, she looked at Viola. ‘And I think you should, too.’
Viola gave her friend a wan and forced smile. ‘Can I tell you something else, Lil? But please don’t be judgemental about my silliness.’
Lillian chuckled. ‘If we judged each other by how silly we are, we would never have remained such great pals.’
Viola laughed, too, then told Lillian about her reluctance to leave Cambridge because she felt Fred was there with her – waiting for her on every street corner, keeping a seat for her in the pub, asking for her help in the library, striding towards her across the common. Lillian didn’t say she was silly, although she sounded it to herself.
‘I know how much Cambridge means to you,’ Lillian eventually said. ‘With the connection to Fred. But don’t forget that Fred isn’t here in Cambridge. And he won’t be in London.’ She lightly touched the left side of Viola’s chest, causing the little ring to press into Viola’s skin. ‘But he will always be with you right there.’
*
A few days later, Lillian announced that she had made her decision to move to London and George had made his to join up. But Viola continued to ruminate over all the options.
Pearson sent her a sweet note telling her the college had determined that enough time had passed and Fred’s rooms needed to be cleared to make way for another student. Viola had never been to Fred’s room, ridiculous as that seemed, the antiquated laws of the university dictating that women were forbidden to visit men in their private spaces. So many times she and Lillian had fumed about how absurd that was, but not as ludicrous as women not being able to gain a degree. As if they weren’t capable of reading, researching and writing at least as competently as men. So Viola had been left to imagine the rooms as cosy and comforting, packed with books and lamps, papers, teacups, bottles of whisky and packets of biscuits; a college gown and hood hanging on the back of the door.
When Pearson unlocked Fred’s rooms for her and crept back down the staircase to his post, she did see all of those things lying about, if not in the same positions she had imagined. If she had not believed that Fred had every intention of returning to her as soon as possible, the manner in which he’d left his possessions would have reassured her. A book face down
on the bed; laundry in a sack waiting to be collected by the bedder; cufflinks on a shelf; an opened packet of tea, the fragrant leaves spilling out next to a teacup; a ticket for dry cleaning; a straw boater on the floor; sealed post. His latent presence sent a frisson of intimacy and connection through her core.
She spent a lonely afternoon, her eyes cloudy with tears, sifting through his things. Folding and smoothing his clothes into a suitcase, she released the smell of him, which made her sink to her knees and softly call his name. She remembered when he had worn his linen jacket and how it felt under her fingertips when she stroked his arm; the gaberdine trousers she had mended after the right turn-up tore on a bramble during a blackberry forage; the college tie he’d been wearing when he said he wanted to marry her. All the memories crowded in on top of her and she rushed to open the window, gulping in the cold, autumn air.
She hadn’t wanted to disturb his books or his papers, knowing how precious his research was to his PhD. But she read through the top page of the pile on his desk, the ink long dried where the writing stopped halfway down the page. She was so used to proofreading all of Fred’s essays and papers, helping him to edit and order his work, that her hand automatically reached for the fountain pen that lay discarded, as if it thought it would be picked up again after a mere day or two. Little did it know, and nor did she, when either of them would next feel its master’s touch. She boxed the pen, with the other academic papers, but pinned together the draft thesis with a treasury tag and put it in her bag. Books, shirts and tea could be replaced, but Fred would be grateful to her for protecting his doctorate so that he didn’t have to start from scratch when he came home.
