by Jan Casey
Lillian was doing her best to sound practical. ‘But they’ll probably…’ She hesitated as if she wished she could swallow her words.
‘What?’ Viola spat. ‘Die of shame anyway? I have thought of that over and over again.’
‘But the whole point is that they would be none the wiser. No one except me would know.’
‘Oh, just the thought of it makes me cringe.’ Lillian put her arm around Viola’s shuddering shoulders. ‘And then what? What about after the baby’s born?’
‘Adoption can be arranged.’ Lillian’s voice was measured. ‘Or you could decide to keep the baby. Not at all feasible or workable, but an option nevertheless.’
None of those suggestions seemed the least bit helpful and Viola couldn’t imagine herself living through any of them. ‘What would you do, Lil, in my situation?’
‘You must make up your own mind.’ Lillian was adamant. ‘But if I had to make a choice, I would risk the abortion. And soon.’
Think, Vi, Viola commanded herself. But she was too drained, her thoughts too jumbled and she knew she could not, should not make a decision yet.
‘Vi,’ Lillian said. ‘Can you tell me how this happened? I mean, I do know how babies are made. June or Harriet, I could fathom, but you? Of all people. Who’s the father? You’ve never touched another man with the pad of your little finger as far as I’m aware.’
Viola pressed herself closer to her friend and buried her face in her chest. She shook her head and said, ‘I’m a vile person, Lil.’
‘No, you’re not, I won’t have you talking about yourself like that.’
‘I am.’ Viola spat out the words. ‘Do you recall that American, Mike, who I introduced you to once? He met us in the pub, had one drink and left?’
‘Yes,’ Lillian said. ‘I think so. Quite tall. A bit nondescript really. You said he kept asking you to dance whenever you happened to be in the same club.’
‘Yes, him.’ Viola felt the heat of chagrin reddening her face again. ‘I was carrying on with him for a couple of months and I hate myself.’ Viola thumped her chest over and over again. ‘Abhor myself for every single one of those times we met up.’
Lillian tussled with Viola’s fist to stop the beating. ‘You’ll hurt yourself,’ she cried.
‘I’ve earned it and more,’ Viola shouted back.
Lillian lowered her voice. ‘Shh, that’s enough. Let’s both calm down.’
When the atmosphere stilled, Lillian said, ‘And where is this Mike now? Still on the scene?’
‘No, thank goodness. I hope never to see him again.’
‘But do you have contact details for him? He ought to know about this. And pay to help you out of the situation.’
‘No, no, I couldn’t bear it,’ Viola cried out loud. ‘I told him it was over before I found out about the baby and he vanished as swiftly as he appeared. And as for him paying for this, well, I’d rather manage on my own entirely.’
*
Mum and Dad were delighted to see Viola and Lillian when the car that picked them up from Cirencester drew up to the front door. David threw his arms around both of them and did nothing but grin. Robert, too, seemed to be happy but was more reserved and tentative in his approach, which Viola put down to nerves about being the centre of attention.
After the preliminary greetings, Mum didn’t waste a second before she began to bustle; Viola was sure she’d been in the same state of perpetual activity for weeks. ‘Now, you’ll be in your old room, Vi,’ she said. ‘And Lil, you’ll be in the furthest room along the corridor on the right.’ She called for Abigail to show Lillian upstairs. Then she hesitated. ‘Unless you want to share?’ she asked. ‘After all, you live in such close quarters in London that you might be lonely.’
‘Oh yes, please, Mrs Baxter,’ Lillian answered for both of them. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘Right you are, then there’s no need to drag Abigail away from her task. David will carry your bags up for you.’ She headed for the living room. ‘Then, please – can you make yourselves available to help me?’
‘Of course, Mum,’ said Viola, not daring to look Mum in the eye. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’
‘It will be a pleasure,’ Lillian added.
Bouncing ahead of them, David managed to carry two bags in each hand and keep up a steady stream of one-sided conversation. ‘What’s it like in London? I want to come and visit on my own. May I please, Vi? I don’t mind sleeping on the sofa. I really don’t. How long are you staying? All weekend, I hope. We’ll get to have a game of tennis, Vi, I know we will.’ He held the bedroom door open for them, followed them in and placed their bags down on the floor. Then he stood and stared at them in silence until the atmosphere became uncomfortable. After a bit of shuffling, David grabbed Viola’s hand and said, ‘Come on then, let’s go down.’
Viola laughed for the first time in ages. ‘Oh, I see. Well, give us five minutes first.’
‘I’ll wait,’ David said.
‘No.’ Viola shook her head. ‘That’s not very gentlemanly, David.’
‘Isn’t it?’ David sounded genuinely surprised. ‘What should I do then?’
‘Young ladies need a bit of time on their own, especially when they’ve had a long journey.’ Viola softened her voice. ‘So we’ll be down shortly. I promise.’
David nodded and crept to the door, lifting his hand as his only form of goodbye.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Lillian clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle her giggles, then when they were sure he’d disappeared downstairs, she threw herself on the chintz bedspread and laughed out loud. ‘Oh goodness,’ she said. ‘He’s hilariously funny.’
Viola sat beside her. ‘I know, but look how tall he is. I can’t believe it.’
‘Yes, and Robert. He’s certainly changed.’
Viola nodded, hoping again to have some time alone with her brother to learn about his plans.
‘Well, we got through the first hoop,’ Lillian said. ‘It would have been much more difficult if we’d been at opposite ends of the house.’
‘But I don’t know how long I can manage without Mum noticing how nervous I am. I can’t even bring myself to look at her.’
‘You must try to be natural, Vi.’
‘And another hoop has rolled right into place. Somehow or other I have to get out of that game of tennis.’
‘That should be easy,’ Lillian said. ‘It can either be a hangover or the stomach upset from work.’
‘Oh, but David’s face when I have to tell him.’ Lillian winced at the thought. ‘I can’t abide it.’
From outside, the sounds of labourers raising a marquee floated up to them. Pitch barked once for effect and then stopped. Viola could imagine he’d decided it was more congenial to wag his tail and lick the workmen’s hands. The lush scents of fresh earth, herbs, ripe summer vegetables and lavender wafted through the open windows. It was all so peaceful and calm after London. Under a better set of circumstances, Viola would have loved to sit out her confinement here under the caring eyes of Mum and Dad, breathing in the country air. But that could never happen with this pregnancy and probably never would if there were to be subsequent chances; she had burned her bridges with regard to Mum and Dad’s respect and succour.
‘I thought you said your mother was paring down the celebrations because of the war?’ Lillian asked, rolling over onto her side.
‘She is,’ Viola said. ‘This is going to be a small, select, sedate gathering to salute their eldest son.’
‘But it’s not even his coming-of-age,’ Lillian said.
Viola thought for a few minutes before she answered. ‘Perhaps things are too precarious to wait another three years.’
‘Revel whilst you can,’ Lillian said.
‘And look where that got me.’ Viola placed a hand on her stomach.
‘Vi,’ Lillian said, prising Viola’s hand away from her belly. ‘Break that habit now. It’s a dead giveaway.’
All day they were busy. True to their plan, Viola and Lillian dropped hints about the state of health amongst their friends and colleagues, thus excusing Viola every time she had to sit for a little while to recover her breath. Dad and the boys would never have noticed anything untoward and Mum was much too preoccupied to fret about what she probably thought was a gurgle or grumble in Viola’s digestive system. Although once or twice, Viola caught Mum studying her for longer periods of time than were comfortable, and at those points in the proceedings Viola would force herself to her feet in an energetic manner and throw herself into tacking up bunting or folding serviettes or inspecting glassware.
At six, Mum sent everyone upstairs for a rest and to ready themselves. Lillian kicked off her shoes and relaxed on the bed. Viola paced the bedroom floor, deliberating between telling Mum as soon as possible and keeping up the charade. Both girls changed, made up their faces and dressed their hair in oppressive silence. Viola knew that probably the last time she had been jolly and enthusiastic had been when she and Lillian shopped for her engagement dress, but this was an all-time low in her countenance and Lillian must be so fed up with her. Then when they made for the stairs in readiness to greet the guests, Lillian took Viola’s elbow and whispered to her that she was right by her side. Gratitude washed over Viola and she held firmly to Lillian’s hand.
Despite Lillian’s protests to the contrary, the party was a rather flat version of the functions Mum and Dad had hosted during the time between the wars. There were too many families with dead or missing young men and women to gloat inappropriately over the ones that households were trying to hold on to for dear life. But there were uncles and aunts, cousins who were on leave or able to get away from universities or schools, a few of Robert’s close classmates and their parents and various neighbours and friends.
Mrs Bishop clasped Viola’s hand in both of hers and looked straight into her eyes. ‘You look wonderful, Viola dear,’ she said in a syrupy voice laced with distaste. ‘And your dear mother has told me so much about your work in London.’ She lowered her tone and moved in close enough for Viola to smell anchovy on the older woman’s breath; she turned her face as far away as possible whilst still maintaining her manners in case the whiff started her nausea again. ‘Well done, you are serving the war effort and we are all so grateful.’
Viola tried to turn her grimace into a smile, but it was difficult. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bishop,’ she managed. ‘I appreciate the sentiment.’ With a bit of a tug, she withdrew her hand and excused herself on the pretence of helping Mum.
Through clenched jaws, Viola relayed the exchange to her mother. ‘Obnoxious woman,’ Mum said. ‘I rarely speak to her after her appalling verbal attack on you and Fred. Besides, all she knows is that you work in London, nothing at all about what you do.’
The string trio started a rendition of ‘I’ve Got a Gal in Kalamazoo’. ‘Thank goodness,’ Mum said. ‘Something lively at last. Don’t pay any attention to her. She puts two and two together and makes five.’ Her eyes strayed to the diminishing buffet food and she bustled into the kitchen to consult with Cook.
The evening continued in the established eddy of trying to make conversation with complete strangers or people she knew but was not interested in. She and Lillian checked in with each other at regular intervals and Lillian deputised for her when she needed to lie down for ten minutes or so.
Soon after eleven, Viola found herself alone on the terrace. The palest of pink climbing roses bordering the French doors filled the air with a potent, late summer scent. She squinted to see the blackened marquee in the dark, the only light coming from it the amber flicker of cigarettes. Once upon a time, Mum would have festooned the tarpaulin with lanterns and fairy lights, now the only glow was from the moon and stars, paving slabs and statues. Beyond the canvas canopy was the willow and the orchard. It seemed so long ago that she had sat under that tree, confident and sure of the trajectory her future would take, sure of Fred, certain of her father’s answer to Fred asking for her hand, convinced of their life together in Cambridge; that Viola was another person, nothing like the young woman whose future was as dark and shadowy and dubious as the garden in blackout.
She felt a presence come through the door and heard a long, relieved sigh. ‘Robert,’ she said. ‘It’s good to be out of the way for a few minutes, isn’t it? Is Mum looking for me?’
He came and stood close to her. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said.’ I suppose we both need a few minutes of peace.’
‘If we’re lucky,’ Viola said, pointing at two spitfires making their way to the channel.
Robert saluted them and said, ‘Good luck, chaps.’
It’s now or never, Viola thought. I must give it one more try. She threaded her arm through her brother’s. ‘Robert,’ she said.
He turned to her and she caught a faint trace of alcohol wafting around him. Putting his finger to his lips, he said, ‘Shhh.’ Then he took a flask from his pocket and sipped from it. Well, why not? It was his party and he was clearly not enjoying it. Very carefully he replaced the stopper, put it back in his pocket, patted it and gave her a soppy smile.
‘Yes, my lovely big sister,’ he said.
‘Robert, please listen to me.’
‘I’m all ears,’ he said.
‘You must think long and hard before you decide about the RAF…’ He pulled away from her in a huff.
‘No, Robert, please. Listen to me. Just think about it again. Give yourself time to… be young. Two years at Oxford would be wonderful for you and you will still be doing your duty for the Allies, I promise you that.’
Robert’s nostrils flared and he turned from her and looked out over the garden. He was no longer swaying or slurring. ‘Viola, you’re as bad as Dad. I have made up my mind and nothing anyone can say will stop me.’
‘But we need you here in one piece. All of us.’
‘And what about what I need?’ he grumbled. ‘All this fighting for freedom and liberation. What about my freedom to make up my own mind about what I want to do? Are we merely fighting for others’ freedom whilst being controlled and confined by our families?’
‘Don’t dare to be so foolish and idealistic,’ Viola said. ‘Everyone living under Nazi rule would love to be in your position. Besides you’ll have plenty of time for all that. It’s called the rest of your life.’
‘Life is a very tenuous concept at the moment,’ Robert said. ‘One can’t lay claim to any amount of future.’
They stopped and, breathing heavily, looked out on the inky scene. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am,’ Robert said. ‘And you.’
‘I suppose,’ Viola said.
‘Vi,’ Robert said softly. ‘Please try to understand. I need that from you.’
A mass seemed to congest in Viola’s throat and she covered Robert’s hand with her own. ‘I do understand, Robert. I do. But don’t forget us.’
He wrapped his arms around her and whispered, ‘Never. I’ll never forget you, Vi. My dear, beautiful big sister.’
As he ducked back into the party through the French doors, Viola could feel the imprint of his warm fist under her palm. The fragile, flexible bones and sinews interspersed with those that were more dense and solid; the taut, capable flesh; the hot, eager blood coursing through his veins – it all bored deep into her own hand and she hoped the impression would never leave her.
*
In a blur, the tennis match with David went ahead and her little brother won, three sets to two. David was delighted; Viola was exhausted. She treated him to a sandwich lunch in the club and again, he talked non-stop about what he hoped to do for the war effort when the time came, visiting her and Lillian in London, life at his school, rugby, tennis and long-distance running. She smiled and nodded in what she hoped were the right places, but was distracted with recurring thoughts about her own dilemma.
*
On the train back to London, she felt guilty about not giving David her full attention and about h
ow sincere Mum and Dad had been when they said they hoped she felt better soon and that Lillian didn’t catch the dreaded stomach bug. Guilt upon guilt heaped upon the guilt of her betrayal. Lillian was fast asleep, her head lolling and a soft, snuffly snore vibrating from the back of her throat. Viola knew she should make up her mind about whether to keep the baby or not, but there were two opposing forces working on her – the pragmatic and the idealistic. By the time the train reached Paddington, her heart had won the day.
On Monday morning, Viola felt confident enough to manage her morning sickness and went back to work. Within five minutes there was a stack of documents on her desk waiting to be translated. Paper was ready and waiting in both typewriters. Hitler’s voice was droning in her ear and she was aware of snippets of foreign languages from all corners of the office. She knew she would miss this so much.
By Friday evening, she was ready to write to Mum, but her hand shook so violently she had to start four times.
Dearest Mum,
I have some disgraceful news that I must share with you. But before I disclose all, I am begging you not to turn me away and desert me, even though I know I deserve nothing less.
10
January 1943
The first leaflet did a good job of challenging readers to think about how they would feel when the crimes of the Nazi regime were exposed to the world and the citizens of Germany had done nothing to prevent them. People were asked to consider the idea that every nation gets the government it deserves. And from that, they gained members, which Annie, for one, welcomed with some qualms.
Of course, Annie explained to the others, she knew the whole intention of their resistance movement was to amass enough support to make a real and convincing stand against the regime, but she worried that they might attract some people who would betray them or who were spying for the Gestapo or who might become spooked for their own safety and run towards the Nazis instead of away from them. Fred said he had also thought of those consequences, but they were the risks they must take or else the movement would become stagnant and ineffective. So, she decided to take her lead from them.
