Women at War

by Jan Casey

  I knew it. You tried so hard to keep it hidden, but you can’t keep anything from me! Besides, it was plastered all over both of your faces.

  Lillian had replied:

  Honestly, Vi, I promise I was not trying to hide anything from you. But I think I was trying to conceal my true feelings from myself. However, now that I’ve let them out into the open, I couldn’t be happier. But my sympathy and understanding of your plight is so much more acute now. I know that to have no knowledge of my Good Old George’s whereabouts or any contact with him would tear me apart. I weep for you.

  That had made her cry. For herself and for the injustice of the situation. She had shared the letter with Jeanie and they had dabbed at their eyes together.

  Mum wrote that David could not wait to join the RAF next year and Viola knew that she would be beside herself with fear and worry about his safety when the time came, as would she. She and David exchanged letters in the same convoluted way Dad had decreed and she was tempted to suggest to Mum that perhaps now David could be told the truth, but she didn’t want to give her parents any more heartbreak to deal with. When she wrote to Mum, she used the opportunity to mention Freddie’s smile, or how she grabbed Viola’s finger and held on as if it was something of great value, her efforts to roll over, the dimples in her knuckles. And Mum acknowledged those anecdotes with exclamations of delight. What a clever girl! You used to do that. I can picture her perfectly. Although it was never mentioned, Viola hoped Mum shared the letters with Dad and that the little stories would begin to soften him.

  In her last letter, Mum mentioned coming to visit during the summer. Viola’s heart thumped, seemed to miss a beat, then thumped again. She longed to have Mum here, to be folded in her lovely, plump arms and be a child again. No date was suggested, but Mum had thought about it in some detail because she wrote that she’d been in touch with Lillian to enquire if they could make the demanding journey together. Mum and Lillian visiting at the same time – it was more that she dared to hope for. She had written back that same day and let Mum know that she would be delighted to see both of them whenever they were ready to travel.

  With Freddie fed and changed, Viola piled on two scarves, the silly brown tam o’shanter, which she hated to admit was very warm and handy to have, woollen mittens, a thick coat, hand knitted knee-high socks over her stockings and a pair of Jeanie’s wellington boots. By the time she dressed Freddie in layer upon layer of cosy bonnets and matinee jackets and covered the pram with every blanket they possessed, it was impossible to make out the baby underneath. She laughed when she thought it could just have easily been a lamb nestled amongst the comfy material.

  Lamb, she thought as she pushed the pram down the potholed track, was a dichotomy for her. The meat here was wonderful, but she had to steel herself to eat it because it reminded her so vividly of Fred and that awful last supper. Fin had said she would grow tired of lamb and his prediction had proved correct, but the guilt that went with that was overwhelming. How Mum and Lillian would have loved a slice of tender, mouth-watering lamb instead of the fatty, tough as old boot leather mutton they had to put up with when they could get it. But here they ate it, in one guise or another, almost every day and even though Jeanie was inventive, the taste had become monotonous and tiresome. She supposed there would be some form of lamb for dinner today and that it would be the highlight of the Hogmanay buffet table. She sighed, not so much at the thought of lamb, but at the impatience she felt with her own grumbling dissatisfaction. How churlish and ungrateful of me, she admonished herself.

  ‘Shoo.’ She gently encouraged a small flock of the creatures out of her way. ‘Go, girls,’ she said a bit louder. ‘Just for a minute so I can get past.’ With a mixture of defiance and ignorance on their faces, the creatures chewed nonchalantly and stared at her. Sighing, she moved back onto one hip and her foot dislodged a stone. That startled one sheep into bolting and the others followed. Remembering Fin’s warning not to spook them, she hoped they hadn’t been too shocked.

  Then she thought of chicken and her mouth watered. She could have, or should have, been worrying about the baby. Or the war. Or Mum, David, Fred and Annie. But of all the things to dwell on, she was stuck in an endless loop of intertwining thoughts about lamb, chicken and Christmas. She would love to invite Fin and Jeanie to the croft for a typical English Christmas dinner and that would involve serving chicken. But she couldn’t ask her hosts for one of their own chickens, which they kept solely for eggs, so on the quiet she would have to find someone she could negotiate with for one of the feathered creatures. And that would be difficult as since Robert’s death, Jeanie insisted on going everywhere with her.

  When she came to a line of Scots pine trees, their dark orange bark and blue-green needles colourful against the white winter scene, she knew she was halfway to the farmhouse. In the distance she could see the slate-coloured bricks that walled the garden from the farm and the chimney puffing out plumes of grey smoke into the leaden sky. The oak tree was stripped bare and stood with its arthritic, snow-heavy branches reaching for any light in the sky. Viola thought she had never seen a more welcoming sight.

  ‘Yoo-hoo, hen,’ Jeanie sang when Viola turned the door handle. Protected as she was under a mountain of bedding, the noise didn’t startle Freddie. ‘Och, you poor thing. It’s such a murky day.’ She dusted her hands on her apron and helped Viola in with the pram. ‘Do you get freezing fog like this in London?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Viola said. ‘But never as cold.’

  ‘Take your things off, hen, and warm yourself by the fire.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeanie. I was is in two minds about whether to come or not.’

  ‘I would have been up that hill after you if you hadnae,’ Jeanie said. ‘Now, I cannae offer you tea as that husband of mine has had the last leaves in the tin. And here’s me, dying for a cup.’

  ‘I could have brought you some of mine, if I’d known,’ Viola said.

  ‘Aye, well, we’d need to sort out carrier pigeons or smoke signals or flag semaphore first.’

  Viola laughed. ‘Actually, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.’

  ‘So, hot milk?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely,’ Viola said. Then an idea occurred to her. ‘Why don’t I walk into Sorn and get us some tea?’ She unclasped her handbag and peered into its depths. ‘I’ve got my ration book with me,’ she said.

  ‘You cannae do that,’ Jeanie said. ‘You’re like a block of ice as it is.’

  ‘I’ve warmed up a bit,’ Viola protested. ‘And I find that walking in the cold air gives me a sense of well-being.’

  Viola could tell that Jeanie was swayed by her longing for a cup of tea, so she seized the advantage. ‘Besides,’ Viola said. ‘It will do me good to go to the shops by myself. It will give everyone the chance to see me as part of the scenery and start to get to know me.’ Without making eye contact with Jeanie, Viola replaced her gloves and wellingtons and kept up a steady flow of chitchat. ‘Anyway, I haven’t taken off my coat yet so I’m ready to go.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Jeanie said. ‘If we wait until after dinner we can walk down together.’

  Viola stopped then and smiled. ‘Please allow me to do this one little thing for you,’ she said. ‘A tiny payment for all your kindness to me.’

  ‘We donnae want anything; we’ve told you that so many times.’ Jeanie smiled in return. ‘But a cup of tea would be so nice.’

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Viola trilled over her shoulder as she headed out before Jeanie thought of another excuse to get her to stay.

  The freezing fog danced in strange shapes over the fields and in front of the sheep’s faces when they breathed out. Viola kept her head down so she could avoid hazards in the snow, but was spurred on by the thought that this might be her only chance to acquire that chicken. But from whom and how could she pay for it?

  A large sheet of paper pinned to a sandwich board outside the newsagent’s shop had come loose on one corner and
was hanging limply in the still, icy air. Stopping, she folded back the edge to read the whole headline: LARGEST RAID ON BERLIN. It was hard to keep up with the news here. She didn’t have a wireless and the Barfoots rarely tuned theirs in. But surely this was good news? The Allies must be making tremendous headway if they had, at this point in the war, the capacity and the manpower to produce such an immense push? Of course her next thoughts were for Fred and Annie but they were in Munich, not Berlin, so she presumed they were safe.

  The realisation that she was kidding herself overwhelmed her in a rush. For a second, the path seemed to ripple under her and she had to lean back against the cold brick of the shop. How could she have any idea where Fred and Annie were or how they were? If alive, they might have moved to Berlin, or one or other of them could be in hospital, or they might be in the forests of Germany or Austria or Switzerland, trying desperately to escape back to England. But the leaflet told her that Fred was alive, at least until recently, and she told herself that she must hold on to that. Feeling for the ring under her layers, she prodded it until the skin on her chest felt tender, then she gathered herself together and went in to buy a copy of the Daily Record to read later.

  At Grannach’s Groceries she joined the queue and waited to be served, wondering all the while about how she could broach the subject of procuring a chicken. ‘Hello, hen,’ Mrs Grannach greeted her. ‘On your own today? Our Jeanie not unwell, I hope.’

  ‘No, Mrs Grannach, Jeanie is perfectly fine, thank you. I’ve volunteered to get tea as we’re all desperate for a cup at the farmhouse.’ She handed over her ration book to be stamped.

  ‘Och, well, it’s tea that’ll win this war,’ Mrs Grannach said, reaching to lift down a canister from the shelf behind her. ‘How’s the wee bairn?’

  Viola smiled. ‘She’s coming on beautifully. Thank you for asking.’ She leaned forward a bit. ‘Mrs Grannach, do you know where I can get a chicken?’ she asked.

  ‘A chicken, hen?’ Mrs Grannach said, unaware of how funny the question sounded. ‘You won’t have enough rations to buy one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, I thought as much. I was going to try to bargain for one. It’s for a surprise Christmas dinner for Jeanie and Fin.’

  ‘What a lovely wee thought. Well, there’s Mr and Mrs Selkirk right on the other side of town; they might be persuaded. Or there’s young Bryce at the motorbike shop.’

  ‘Chickens at the motorbike shop?’ Viola asked.

  ‘Oh, aye. Bryce lives with his parents on the premises and they keep quite a few.’

  Viola thanked Mrs Grannach, apologised to the queue for taking such a long time and stepped out into the whitewashed cold. She thought about her two options and based on proximity, decided to try the motorcycle shop first. Besides, she was fascinated to see such an incongruous set-up as chickens alongside motorcycles. Oil next to corn feed; the twin sounds of clucking hens and revving engines; feathers and tyres lying next to each other.

  She and Jeanie had passed this way on numerous occasions, but because the premises lay back from the road she had never scrutinised them to any degree. As she walked in off the pavement, she could see marked bays on the concreted forecourt and each of them housed one or more militaristic motorcycle in some stage of repair. The building was signposted with boards telling drivers which way was in and which was out, where to go for spare parts and a door that announced itself as ‘Reception’. ‘Cameron Motorcycle Repairs’ was emblazoned in red lettering across the front of the building.

  She had expected to hear machinery and grinding metal and the clanking of tools, or to see men in overalls peering into the depths of engines. But it was eerily quiet and there was not a feathered fowl in sight. Standing still, she listened for the sounds of pecking and clucking and to her amazement, could make out soft chicken noises from around the back. And when the light, misty breeze shifted, the distinct smell of chicken muck wafted towards her.

  She had hoped to ask someone to point out Bryce to her and then to approach him here, but she had no other choice than to go into the reception area as if she was an official visitor. The thought of the superficial reason for her visit made her blush especially when the work being undertaken here was so vital. Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders and tried the door handle. It was then she saw the handwritten sign saying reception was closed for the dinner break and please try later. She checked her watch and hesitated, wondering if she had enough time to make it to the Selkirks’ and back without Jeanie worrying about how long she’d taken to buy tea.

  I’m halfway there, she thought, marching back the way she’d come, so in for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘Hello,’ a voice stopped her. ‘I heard your rattle.’

  Turning, she saw a young man leaning out of the door, wiping around his mouth with a cotton cloth.

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ Viola said, aware of how out of place she must look. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I can come back another time if more convenient.’

  Bryce, or so she presumed, stepped out and shook his head. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘My afters can wait.’

  He was wearing a blue, chambray shirt and unbuttoned grey overalls with the sleeves hanging around his waist, probably to allow him to eat without spreading dirt over his food.

  ‘Bryce Cameron? My name is Viola Baxter.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You’re billeted with the Barfoots.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. How can I help?’ He folded his arms and looked bemused, waiting for her reply.

  He was rather short, but stocky with well-built arms and his blue-black hair was slicked back off his forehead with what Viola thought might be some kind of mechanical grease; his dark, heavy eyebrows looked oiled into place, too. The skin over his cheekbones was taut and his nose was a little bent, as if it had once been broken. His half-smile was generous, so steeling herself, Viola said, ‘I was told… Well, I asked and someone said that… I’m trying to get hold of a…’

  ‘Motorcycle part?’ he offered. ‘This is the place for that. But if you don’t mind me saying you don’t look as if—’

  ‘A chicken.’

  ‘A chicken,’ Bryce repeated. ‘Aye, well. I cannae say that’s an everyday request.’

  Viola didn’t know what else to say, so watched him and waited for a response.

  ‘And that might be a bit more difficult. Can I ask what you want to keep one for? Eggs? The feathers?’

  Viola sighed and blinked her eyes closed against the tension of the conversation. ‘I don’t want to keep a chicken, Mr Cameron,’ she said. ‘I want to cook it and serve it to the Barfoots as a Christmas surprise.’

  Bryce seemed to be at a total loss, but said, ‘Aye, well. We’re having lamb.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s what the Barfoots would be having but I want to thank them for how kind they’ve been to me. With a chicken.’

  Viola could hear a rough, sandpaper scuff as Bryce rubbed his face with his hand. ‘We usually trade our chickens,’ he said.

  Viola made a decision. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Thank you ever so much and I’m dreadfully sorry I bothered you, but I think perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll stick with lamb like everyone else.’ Raising her hand to say goodbye, she turned towards the road.

  ‘Mrs Baxter. Wait.’

  When she looked back, Bryce was hurrying towards her. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ he said. ‘And I think Fin and Jeanie would be delighted with your idea.’

  Viola walked back into the forecourt. ‘It’s just that, I cannot imagine I have enough rations, or money to pay you.’ She raised her hands skyward in a helpless gesture.

  ‘Then never mind. Let’s break the rules for once. We’ve got a few hens, so I’m sure we won’t miss one.’

  It was, of course, the perfect solution but Viola didn’t like to think he was doing her such a huge favour. ‘What can I offer in return?’ she asked, racking her brain. ‘I’m quite good a
t paperwork, or filing? I’d have to bring the baby with me but—’

  ‘I donnae expect anything, Mrs Baxter.’ And he sounded as if he meant it. ‘I’ll deliver the bird on Christmas Eve in time for you to get her ready.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Viola said, then realised she had never done anything more with a chicken than pop it into the oven. ‘But what will I have to do to prepare it?’

  Bryce crossed his arms and gave her the same partially amused smile as Fin when anything was said about a rural way of life. ‘Would you like me to wring its neck, pluck, quarter and hang it for you?’

  Viola felt sheepish but nodded her head. ‘Yes, please,’ she murmured. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  Bryce laughed out loud then extended his hand to shake on the arrangement.

  *

  Jeanie in particular had protested before accepting Viola’s invitation for Christmas Day, then Fin had joined her in saying it was too much trouble, the croft kitchen was too small and they thought she needed rest rather than running around after them. But eventually they caved in and said yes graciously. When Bryce knocked at the door and handed her the fat, succulent chicken, she gave him a hand-knitted scarf wrapped in paper on which she’d drawn sprigs of holly. It was a token gesture that she had deliberated about as she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. His eyes grew large with surprise. ‘There was no need, Mrs Baxter.’

  ‘Well, I am most grateful and wanted to show my appreciation.’ And she hoped that would be that.

  In between feeding and tending to Freddie, Viola spent Christmas Eve preparing. She filled the chicken’s cavity with homemade stuffing then sewed the pitted flaps of skin over the hole; she boiled gizzards for gravy; peeled potatoes that she intended to mash and roast; parboiled parsnips and carrots and fashioned what would pass as a Christmas pudding. With the leftover sultanas and peel she made skew-whiff lattice-topped mince pies. There would be a spoonful of custard each and a shot or two of whisky. When Freddie was in bed for the night, Viola turned her hand to laying the table, cutting out paper crowns and hanging a wreath of pinecones on the door. She was glad to be busy as it kept her from brooding too much about how she longed to be making these preparations for Fred and her family.