Women at War

by Jan Casey

  When the rooms were empty, Viola stood at the door and impressed on her mind the floor layout, the slant of the sun through the window, the height of the desk chair, the ashtray and paperweight, the bookcases askew on the canted, timeworn floor, the musty smell of her Fred. As if she would ever forget. She sniffed and rubbed the skin under her eyes. Then she closed the door behind her.

  *

  Sometimes she would stop by to have a chat with Pearson. Over a cup of tea, he told her that B12, or Fred’s rooms as Viola always thought of them, were now occupied by a Physics scholar who would, like other science and engineering students, be allowed to gain his degree in two years. After that, the Forces would be waiting to snap up him and his expertise.

  ‘The Arts and Humanities students graduate after one year,’ Pearson said, his voice rising on a note of disbelief. ‘Can you believe it? Things certainly are changing here,’ he said, ‘like they are everywhere.’ And North Court, Viola knew, was now for the exclusive use of men already in the RAF, or Navy or Royal Engineers who were undertaking so-called short courses that the Forces had written specifically to benefit the war effort. Still, Viola thought, it was rather lovely to see the various uniforms out and about and the men seemed to be enjoying themselves, taking advantage of everything on offer – squash, rowing, running, debating, music, rugby. Well, who wouldn’t relish six extra months of fully-endorsed freedom before facing the total barrage of war?

  ‘Did you notice the missing railings out front?’ Pearson asked, taking their cups to the sink.

  Viola nodded. ‘Hard not to,’ she said. ‘Do you know where they’ll end up?’

  ‘No idea,’ Pearson said. ‘There was a backwards and forwards with some Ministry or other. Works and Buildings, I think. The college didn’t want to give them up, but…’ He shrugged.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Viola said, as if trying to comfort a child who had lost a beloved security blanket. ‘But the idea of the vegetable patches instead of flower beds is a good one, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Pearson brightened. ‘Much more productive and there’s nothing like a plateful of fresh sprouts or a good head of cauliflower.’

  Yes, thought Viola, to go nicely with the boiled sheep’s brains or pigs’ trotters or cuttlefish in aspic or whatever delicacy some creative cook comes up with for dinner.

  That was the last time she shared a cup of tea with Pearson, as the following week he told her he had made the decision to retire. ‘Spend more time the grandchildren, Miss,’ he’d said. ‘And tend to my allotment.’

  ‘It sounds blissful,’ Viola said. ‘Good luck.’

  *

  It looked as if a gale had blown through the tiny flat, with Lillian’s belongings strewn everywhere whilst she packed for her big move to London. Every time Viola returned home she had to negotiate piles of books, teaspoons, vases, pictures and cases. And every day Lillian tried another tack to get Viola to agree to move to London with her. Often, she concentrated on painting a picture of how much fun they would have together in the capital. ‘We could share a flat again, Vi. Think how exciting it would be.’

  ‘Yes, it would be,’ Viola conceded. ‘But have you thought about how much more horrific life will be in London? All the bombing and gas mains exploding and crowds of people sheltering in the underground.’

  ‘I have thought about that, Vi.’ Lillian’s shoulders went back and her chin jutted out. ‘But I think it’s worth it in order to do something useful.’

  ‘Are you taking this old thing with you?’ Viola held up Lillian’s worn, brown house cardigan.

  Lillian shook her head. ‘It’s yours. If you want it. But,’ she added, ‘if you come to London with me, we can carry on sharing it.’

  Viola looked at her friend’s hopeful face and sighed. ‘The only decision I’ve made, is that I’m going to take the Christmas break at home to decide.’

  Lillian nodded and they didn’t mention it again after that.

  *

  Christmas came and went. Cook did wonders with rations for dinner and laid out a cold buffet for their Boxing Day supper so she could spend the day with her family. Although Viola knew it wouldn’t be such a lovely occasion for her as her son was away with the army.

  Robert and David talked non-stop about every detail of the war that they followed without fail on the radio and in the newspapers. Dad, of course, joined in and like them, couldn’t wait to hear the next development. Mum listened with great concentration, but insisted they have at least one course every mealtime when they discussed other subjects, saying that constant war talk was not conducive to good digestion. Try as she might, Viola could not get her brothers to discuss tennis or any other sport with the same enthusiasm they had once possessed. They thanked her for the snowy white tennis socks she gave them, but left them hanging over the back of a chair until Abigail took them to their rooms.

  Their annual New Year’s Eve party, for the good and great of the Cotswolds, went ahead but was a more subdued affair than usual. The lively music was replaced by oppressive, indistinguishable background compositions, the sit-down meal by plentiful but plain finger food, and the dancing by mingling. At midnight, the gathered joined hands for a slow, bittersweet ‘Auld Lang Syne’. When the guests left, they wished each other a better New Year.

  Mum had arranged a number of social calls over the festive period and she expected Viola to accompany her or be available to sit with other ladies and gossip about the intricacies of country life and whose son had joined which regiment or what each daughter was doing for her war job.

  On one such occasion, in the company of four women Viola had known for years but couldn’t claim to know, the spotlight turned on her. She could feel Mrs Bishop’s gaze turn from soft to harsh, her voice from sugary to acidic. ‘And how is the war panning out in the refined air of Cambridge?’ she said, tilting her head to one side and arranging her face to look terribly interested.

  Viola placed her half-nibbled fondant fancy on a side plate and cleared the icing from her teeth. Her face was hot and angry from everyone’s fixation on her. ‘Things are much the same as here,’ Viola answered, hoping Mrs Bishop and the others would realise she was alluding to the fact that they didn’t have it too bad, either.

  ‘But…’ Mrs Bishop glanced from one face to another, ensuring she had everyone’s attention. ‘What are you doing, dear, exactly? I mean to support the war effort. Surely you’re not still helping professors and the like with their research in the Languages Library?’

  Viola started to defend herself. ‘Well, what I actually do is—’

  ‘And what about your friend?’ Mrs Carter interrupted.

  ‘Lillian?’

  ‘No, no. Your man-friend. Or is he now your fiancé? I can’t quite remember.’

  ‘German,’ Mrs Slade said, as if her mouth was full of sauerkraut that had been too heavily doused with vinegar. ‘Isn’t he?’

  During the whole of this exchange, Mum had been looking with great interest at the tassels on the curtain ties, the flowers on the piano, the pattern on the rug, the curved legs of the coffee table. When at last she looked up, Viola could see an agitated spot of colour high on each of her cheekbones; her hands playing restlessly with each other. ‘His name—’ Mum forced a smile ‘—is Frederick Albert Scholz, as I believe I’ve mentioned many times. That is the name of Viola’s soon-to-be fiancé who is half-British and half-German.’

  Viola fumbled for Mum’s hot and bothered hand. Pride welled inside her chest for her mother, who could so easily be dismissed as immersing herself in the trifling, domestic side of life, of having no interest in the world beyond her family, her home and the small circle of flower-arranging, coffee-drinking women she moved in. Part of her longed for Mum to continue, the other half willed her to stop before her connection with these women was severed beyond repair. ‘Mum, perhaps we should…’ Viola pressed her mother’s hand towards standing.

  ‘No.’ Mum sounded determined and sure of herself. ‘N
o, I want to tell everyone. All my… friends.’ Mum smiled her most disarming smile and enunciated each word. ‘That Fred is an honourable man. Through no fault of his own and whilst on a mission to protect his grandmother and sister, he has become stranded in Germany.’ Viola looked from one woman to the other, each fidgety and flustered; together they were a herd of animals awaiting their fate in a holding pen. ‘Were he not quite so principled, he would be here now. Doing his bit. As it is, I am in no doubt that he will return as soon as he possibly can to perform his duties and responsibilities.’

  Viola pressed her mother’s hand again. When she’d gained her attention, she could see how this outpouring had exhausted the woman who would rather be in the background, encouraging from the shadows, smoothing over any sense of discord. She thanked her with her eyes, from her heart.

  ‘Now, Vi.’ Mum stood. ‘I think we should take our leave.’

  When Viola helped her mother with her coat, she could feel her shoulders shaking under her hands and her own legs felt wobbly.

  All the women seemed sincere with their goodbyes, except Mrs Bishop whose eye contact was as cold and steely as her handshake.

  The minute they were behind their own front door, Viola took Mum in her arms and whispered thank you. Mum clung to her daughter and sobbed in a way that Viola had never experienced.

  Then there were her own thoughts and memories to deal with. The shadowy visions of Fred that haunted her in Cambridge had followed her home; she saw him in the dining room; in Dad’s study; sitting on the chaise longue waiting for her; standing with his back to the fire in the parlour; bending to stroke Pitch’s silky head; joking with the boys; reading the papers after breakfast. Looking out on the garden caused her enough pain to take her breath away. How different it all was from the lush, verdant scene last summer that she foolishly thought had held the key to her future happiness.

  Now her naïveté made her blush with chagrin, even though she was alone in the sitting room, gazing out on the wintry scene. Absolutely nothing was left of that summer’s day – the bare trees reached up to the ash-coloured sky with branches like beseeching limbs. Any fruit left rotting on the ground had long dissipated into the mud. Not one flower or tennis ball was left to brighten the dull, sleeping scene. In the distance, she could hear the sound of the chainsaws that Dad had ordered landscapers to use during these cold months to thin the trees in the orchard and mend any gaps in the fencing.

  And yet, to some extent, Viola found a glimmer of comfort in what she saw and recognising that, held on to it and encouraged it to flourish. After all, wasn’t it heartening that in spite of everything the war threw at them, here again was winter? Before that, autumn had materialised and in a few months, if they lived to see it, spring would reoccur. The earth would continue to spin, the tides would ebb and flow, stars would emerge and the sun would try, at least, to make an appearance during the day. When Abigail tiptoed in with a tray of tea and left it on the side table for her, she felt somewhat consoled by the thought that there would always be greater forces than human beings at play in the universe.

  But if the garden caused her consternation, her bed held a helter-skelter ride of emotions. She remembered every detail of the one night she and Fred had spent together. His hands on her skin, his flesh under hers. How perfectly they’d fitted together, which was a wonderful affirmation of their relationship. She missed him so much and felt cheated at how they had been forced apart.

  Of course, she reasoned with herself, if he had stayed he would be away with the war by now or interned along with Matteo, so she still would not have him safe in her bed. But at least she would know where he was and how he was, to a certain extent. It was all so awful to dwell on. Lillian’s words whirled in her head. Fred was not in Cambridge. He was not with her in the Cotswolds. He was not away with the forces or in London. By some unfortunate quirk of fate he was marooned in Germany. But he was with her in her heart.

  That thought followed her to bed where she tossed and turned and fretted. The scene with Mrs Bishop and her cronies plagued her, too. What was it Mum had said? That if he were not so morally upstanding, Fred would be here now happily doing his bit. Of course, that phrase was bandied about interminably along with doing something worthwhile, engaging in one’s war work, performing your duty. During that horrible dinner last summer, Fred had faced up to Dad and said as much himself. He’d wished more than anything that he hadn’t had to go to Germany, but that he could have stayed in Britain and lived up to his responsibilities.

  Well, she was here and her knowledge and proficiency were valuable assets that she could use to contribute to the fight against Hitler. Dawn was breaking across a pink-tinged slate sky when at last her arms and legs felt heavy and she began to fall asleep. In the morning, she would tell Mum and Dad she was moving to London to begin her war work. The thought jolted her with the first semblance of excitement she had felt for months.

  6

  June 1941

  It is an understatement to tell this journal that things are not going well in any aspect of our lives. The fact is, life is barely tolerable. Oma has become increasingly unwell. Four times we have had to get Herr Doctor to her and twice he has called for the minister. But each time just as we thought we’d lost her, she rallied. I cannot begin to fathom how strong, physically and mentally, she must be.

  One of us is with her at all times; either me, Fred or one of our uncles or aunts or cousins, when they are on leave from the war. I can see etched on each of their faces the pull we all feel to will Oma to stay with us and the push to let her go from the agony and heartbreak of her sickbed. It’s good that they come; it’s right that they come. And it gives me a chance to get on with other things that I need to do or to have a little bit of respite for myself. But I hate it when they are here in my house, Oma’s house, all puffed up in their vile uniforms. Clumping about in their shiny boots, designed to intimidate. Well, they certainly don’t daunt me. Horst needs to remember that I helped potty-train him, so no amount of boot will make up for the fact that I’ve chased him around this house with nothing on his bottom half.

  Annie refilled her pen and looked out of the window at the rain. She could hear the deep murmur of Fred’s voice from across the hallway as he read aloud to Oma who would be asleep but hopefully comforted by her grandson’s soft mumble. Thank goodness it wasn’t Horst again with his loud, grating honk. Just last week he had come in, a patronising smile on his fresh and inculpable face. Annie had to remind him to take off his ridiculous boots and leave them on the rack by the front door. ‘Do you want to drag all manner of filth into Oma’s bedroom?’ she had said, hands on hips.

  He’d sat down with a heavy sigh and started to tug at the heel of one of the cumbersome things. Annie had chuckled to herself at the sight and imagined all the German officers having the same problem with their footwear during critical moments in the war proceedings. Perhaps their awkward boots would be the secret weapon that allowed the Allies to win. She had loved the thought of that.

  ‘They’re new,’ Horst had offered by way of explanation. Annie stood and watched him strain and yank. His cheeks had grown red, but she’d noticed that he hadn’t lost the sly smirk plastered on his face. With a whoosh, first one boot then the other was heaved off. He’d sighed with relief. ‘Why are you speaking English?’ he’d asked. ‘Please change to German.’

  A visceral chill had travelled up her spine and spread into her arms and legs. No, she’d wanted to say, the half of her that was British wanted to speak English today. And she would have liked to remind Horst that he had begged her to speak English with him in the past as he was desperate to learn the language. But she had pretended to have been muddled by pulling her hand through the ends of her hair and looking confused. She had acquiesced to his request and reverted to the mother tongue, not wanting to draw further unnecessary attention to herself.

  Standing back from the stairs, Annie had made room for him to pass so he could get to Oma’s room. Bu
t he had diverted to the kitchen, touching Oma’s curios and whatnots on the way. Annie had shaken her fist behind his back and felt better for it. ‘I will have coffee first, I think,’ Horst had said, opening cupboards and drawers with a familiarity she found offensive. Of course, he had as much right to be in their grandmother’s house as she did, although that fact had caused her to snub her nose behind him.

  She had grabbed the coffee and set water to boil on the stove. ‘I’ll make it for us,’ she had said. ‘You sit.’

  But he had continued to unlatch doors and stare at the shelves within before closing them and moving on. He had turned over the contents of the cutlery drawer; picked up a jar of pickles from the larder and placed it back in exactly the same position; inspected the matches next to the stove. ‘What are you looking for, Horst?’ Annie had forced herself to laugh, as if he was still the mischievous child and she the older cousin visiting from abroad.

  ‘Something sweet,’ he had said, not taking his eyes off his search. ‘Have you baked today, Annie?’

  ‘Sorry, not today.’ Annie had mimed scrubbing. ‘Wash day.’

  At last he had looked at her and made his way to the table. ‘Any bread?’

  ‘I think I can find a slice for you. But what about Oma?’

  He had shrugged. ‘I will go up in a minute.’ Then he had beamed, showing a mouth full of bright teeth. ‘So, Annie. What do you think of the bombs we dropped on London, huh? A few weeks ago. Parliament was damaged. Most probably beyond repair.’

  She knew it was a mercy that her back was to him or the involuntary flare of her nostrils and the deep pucker of her lips would have given away her outrage. She had been surprised he hadn’t seen the jets of steam spurting from her ears, but then again he was too arrogant to notice. She was aware, as she knew he was, that Westminster Abbey, St Paul’s and The Royal Mint had taken hits too, along with countless numbers of people and their homes, pubs, churches, shops and places of work. Fred had been so grateful that Viola was in Cambridge, which rarely got a mention in the news.