Women at War

by Jan Casey

  By the time the Barfoots arrived after the morning church service, Viola was ready and excited. ‘Happy Christmas, hen,’ Jeanie warbled.

  ‘Happy Christmas to both of you,’ Viola said, kissing her friends on their cheeks.

  Fin and Jeanie took it in turns to remark on every detail of Viola’s preparations, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased to have such a fuss made in their honour. ‘The smell,’ Jeanie said. ‘Och, no. It cannae be…’ She looked at Fin, her mouth open as if waiting for the first forkful.

  ‘Is it chicken?’ Fin asked. ‘I havenae noticed any missing from the henhouse.’

  Viola ushered them in, took their outdoor clothes, poured whisky for all of them and told her story.

  ‘Well done, Viola,’ Fin said. ‘Very resourceful.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jeanie. ‘And very secretive.’

  Viola had taken beads off an old jumper and sewn them around a plain hairclip, which she wrapped and gave to Jeanie. For Fin, she had scrubbed and polished a round, blue-veined stone and said she thought he could use it as a paperweight or doorstop. He turned it over and over in his hand, admiring the colours and heft. ‘Thank you, Vi, you are resourceful indeed,’ he said.

  ‘I’m going to save my gift to wear on Hogmanay,’ Jeanie said. ‘It will match my dress perfectly. This is for you.’ She held out a tubular-shaped parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  The shape was intriguing as was the light weight. ‘Whatever can this be?’

  ‘Open it and see,’ Jeanie demanded.

  When Viola did so, she saw a piece of thick, rolled artist’s paper. Unfurling it revealed a full-length pen and ink drawing of her pressing Freddie to her face. In the background was the oak tree in full leaf. Watercolours had been used to highlight sections of the picture – pink-washed cheeks and lips, green leaves, a yellow blanket and sapphire sky. Viola gasped and her hand flew to the ring beneath her collar. ‘It’s beautiful. Much more than that,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘We thought it would always remind you of your time in Scotland,’ Jeanie said.

  ‘I will never forget Scotland or either of you.’ Viola threw her arms around Jeanie’s neck, then Fin’s. ‘But who is the artist? You, Jeanie? Or Fin?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Fin. ‘It’s by the equally resourceful Donald.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Viola said. ‘He’s a dark horse.’

  ‘Aye, well. A lot of his paintings are hanging in houses around and about so we thought we’d commission one for you.’

  Viola couldn’t take her eyes off it. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said.

  After dinner, which went down a treat, Fin held Freddie whilst Viola and Jeanie cleared the dishes. ‘Bryce,’ Jeanie said. ‘Such a nice young man. Hardworking and from a good family.’

  ‘Are you trying to set me up, Jeanie?’ Viola asked playfully.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering, hen, I’m just mentioning what a good catch he is.’

  ‘But there’s Fred.’ Viola suddenly felt defensive.

  Jeanie put an arm around her and Viola could smell a light, heathery perfume and alcohol on her breath. ‘I’m sorry, Vi. It’s just that… I’m ever so fond of you and want you to be happy.’

  Viola knew she could never be happy without Fred. If he wouldn’t have her, then she would make a life on her own with Freddie. She looked into Jeanie’s eyes and saw nothing there but good intentions, so hugged her back then stepped around the house closing the blackouts. ‘Who’s for a game of charades?’ she said in a cheery voice, wondering again if she had somehow overstepped the mark with Bryce. But then she pushed the thought to the back of her mind and the evening returned to a jolly celebration.

  *

  The party shouted, ‘Flowers of Edinburgh!’ And when the fiddlers started up Bryce grabbed her hand and in a group of four, Viola soon picked up the repeating steps and for most of the number, held her own. When the reel finished, they stood in a square, gasping, laughing and congratulating themselves on their prowess. The dance had been so energetic and she’d had to concentrate so hard, that it wasn’t until it was over that she wondered if perhaps Bryce was thinking along the same lines as Jeanie.

  ‘Thank you for the scarf, Mrs Baxter,’ he said. ‘It’s a treat to wear in the yard during this weather.’

  He touched her elbow and turned in the direction of the buffet table, but before she could follow his lead she saw that he was distracted by a group of new arrivals. Amongst them was a slender young woman with auburn hair and an uptilted nose; Bryce couldn’t take his eyes off her. Nodding, Viola excused him from his gentlemanly responsibilities and watched him make his way with a jaunty stride straight to the young woman, whose side he didn’t leave for the rest of the evening. Viola allowed her shoulders to drop and she breathed out – no harm done, but she told herself she’d have to be very careful in the future.

  The blackouts were drawn against any enemy operative, but if there was a gap in the material, Viola wondered what a German Messerschmitt crew would make of Hogmanay. She knew from her German exchange trips and conversations with Fred that Germans loved their Karneval and Oktoberfest, too, so perhaps they would peer in through the window and then, out of a deep-rooted sense of shared humanity, let them get on with it.

  All the men wore kilts; the women a sparkly dress or blouse or necklace. Lit candles stood in various holders. There were a few elegant silver sticks that looked as though they might have some value, sentimental or otherwise, metal chamber sticks and old jam jars housing snubs of wax and wonky wicks. There was no room for a sit-down meal, but the buffet table held lamb, of course, corned beef and spam fritters, cauliflower cheese with bacon lardons, shortbread, cheese and potato dumplings, fruit shortcake, potato scones, oat macaroons, apple chutney, root vegetable mash and Viola’s leftover mince pies. Everyone had brought a dish to share and most had donated a bottle of something to drink. This was so very different from the parties that Mum and Dad had hosted, with Mrs Bishop chipping away to excavate information that she could use to humiliate others and people comparing their children’s so-called talents and ambitions and everyone addressing each other with formality. Here, people called each other by their Christian names, slapped one another on the back and linked arms to walk from one end of the room to the other. They enquired about health and happiness, not the accruement of money and rank.

  Then she remembered Mum defending her, Mum visiting her in London and the fun they’d had, Mum dragging herself around mother and baby homes to find one she thought would be best. And Dad. Looking back she felt sure he had not allowed her engagement for the best of reasons, to protect her; she could see that now she had Freddie. Perhaps, she thought, we are all nothing more than the product of our surroundings and the limits of our environment.

  ‘The Hamilton Jig!’ Another cry went up and Viola was plucked from the corner of the room by the vicar. Then it was the Gay Gordons, which had Viola laughing from start to end. When it finished, she found herself clapping for the fiddlers with Fin. ‘Did Jeanie give you the card?’ he said in puffs.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head and wondered who it could be from, she’d had cards and letters from everyone she expected to send Christmas greetings.

  ‘Och, in the excitement Jeanie must have forgotten.’ He steered her towards his wife who was in deep conversation with Mr and Mrs Selkirk.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself, hen?’ Jeanie asked, the embellished clip sparkling in her strawberry-blonde hair.

  ‘Very much, thank you,’ Viola said. ‘It’s all fantastic.’

  ‘Jeanie, did we forget about the card that arrived this morning?’ Fin asked.

  ‘Och, aye. Oh, Vi, I am so sorry. What with one thing and another…’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Viola said.

  ‘It’s behind the clock in the kitchen. You know where that is. Help yourself.’

  Viola found the white envelope sandwiched between a shopping list and a note from Donald
. It had Mum’s writing on it so perhaps it was something extra from David. Tearing open the envelope, she drew out a small card with a picture of a girl in Victorian dress skating on a pond. Inside, Mum had written Season’s Greetings to Vi and Freddie. We are thinking about both of you all the time. X. But Viola didn’t dwell on the lovely sentiment because her eyes darted to the bottom of the page where there was a note from Dad. Seeing the writing was like a jolt and she had to steady herself on a wooden stool. Dear Vi, he had written. Dear! She could not believe her eyes. As Mum says, you are constantly in our thoughts. May the New Year be good to all of us. X.

  Viola put down the card, then picked it up again. She read and reread both messages. How had this come about, she wondered. Even though Dad had fallen back on Mum’s words, probably after ruminating for ages about what to write, he must have had a change of heart. Perhaps the war rumbling on had made him think about what was important to him? Or maybe losing Robert shocked him into thinking he could not waste what he did have – her and Freddie included. She shook her head; it didn’t matter how it had happened, the most important thing was that it had and Dad was handing her an olive branch, which she would accept with both hands and her heart.

  ‘“Auld Lang Syne”, hen,’ Jeanie called into the kitchen. ‘Where are you? You must join in.’ Jeanie stopped short when she saw Viola, so Viola suspected she looked pale. ‘Och, not bad news?’

  ‘No,’ Viola said, standing on shaky legs. ‘Quite the opposite. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’

  ‘Jeanie. Vi,’ Fin was calling from the main room.

  She took Jeanie’s outstretched hand and they joined in the circle as midnight struck. Her voice, when she joined in with the lyrics, was loud and strong and hopeful.

  *

  If the weeks before Christmas had been cold, then the months after were what Viola imagined to be arctic. Walking to the farmhouse every day, Viola compared herself to Roald Amundsen trekking to the South Pole. She smiled when she remembered how pleased Dad had been with a book of the explorer’s expeditions that she had given him for his birthday one year.

  There had been no further communication from Dad, but Mum wrote about him in a softer way, so Viola hoped the Christmas card, which said so much, had been a turning point.

  After consuming the newspapers that Viola occasionally brought in, Fin took to buying a daily copy. Together the three of them read about how the Germans were taking London by surprise again with night after night of bombing; the reports sounded devastating and Viola worried for Lillian. Then they cheered and congratulated themselves when the first daylight bombing raid was carried out on Berlin.

  On a fresh day in April with buttery daffodils dancing in bunches by the sides of the roads, Jeanie and Viola looked over Fin’s shoulder at the headline: USAAF AND RAF JOINT BOMBING OF MUNICH AND SURROUNDS and underneath in smaller type: ALLIES CLAIM HUGE SUCCESS WITH CARPET BOMBING STRATEGY. This time there was no cheering, although Viola knew the Barfoots’ initial reaction would have been to celebrate. She knew Ulm was one of Munich’s surrounds but said there was every possibility that Fred and Annie might not be there now. ‘Besides,’ she said, trying to stabilise her smile, ‘they will want an Allied victory as much as all of us. And they will want it as soon as possible.’

  Jeanie made tea. Fin went out to see to the sheep or a fence or talk to Donald. Viola read through every word of the article and for the rest of the day she could not get out of her mind that fifty per cent of Munich had been destroyed. If Fred and Annie were in that city they had a fifty-fifty chance – their destinies narrowed down to a roll of the dice.

  Mum wrote that she and Lillian would depart from Euston on the fifth of June and arrive, via the overnight sleeper to Edinburgh, on the sixth. As with her and Freddie’s arrival, Fin would pick them up from Ayr and drive them in the rickety car to the farmhouse. For weeks prior, the croft and main house were a hive of activity. Hair was permed, rooms cleaned with vigour, clothes scrutinised and mended, previously unexplored corners dusted, cakes and bread baked, glasses and cups polished, bedding arranged. She sang to Freddie whilst she undertook the chores and in her own way, the little girl joined in.

  Freddie had barged her way through the crawling stage and was now pulling herself up on sturdy legs and following Viola around by holding on first to the couch, then a chair, then a stool or table. Everything had to be moved out of her reach. She had three front teeth and another on the way; her dark hair had turned fair; she could wave and say words that sounded like Mummy and Jeanie. Much to everyone’s amusement, Fin was teaching her to shout, ‘Baa!’ They’d had a small birthday tea in May when Freddie turned a year old, but Viola was planning something more elaborate for when Mum and Lillian were visiting. The baby was adorable, everyone loved her and Viola felt sure her grandma and Auntie Lillian would be besotted, too.

  Viola decided to stay at home the day before Mum’s arrival; she wanted to fuss over details in the croft and make everything perfect. The front door was open to let in the fresh flowery air, so she heard the old car long before it pulled up outside. She picked up Freddie and waved at the two figures in the front seat – neither waved back. Pulling Freddie close, she felt a chill push past the heat on her arms. ‘Is something wrong?’ she said as soon as the car doors opened.

  ‘Hen,’ Jeanie said. ‘There’s a telegram.’

  Viola felt faint and Fin took Freddie from her.

  ‘It’s not trimmed in black this time.’ Jeanie held it out, but drew her arm through Viola’s.

  TRAIN CANCELLED NO REASON GIVEN MUM LILLIAN

  Equal measures of relief and disappointment swamped Viola. But by the time the Barfoots had driven them all down to the farmhouse for the night, the latter emotion won. Viola could not eat or sleep. All she could muster was the energy to care for Freddie.

  The following morning Fin appeared and with a triumphant flourish, opened the paper on the kitchen table. They all stared speechless at the headline and then at each other as the reason for the train cancellation became apparent. And it was being called D-Day.

  16

  October 1944

  So much had been made of that failed attempt on Hitler’s life. The radio and papers were full of nothing else for months, most of which Annie disbelieved as propaganda. The authorities obviously thought they were mushrooms – best kept in the dark and fed manure. What she did regard as true, was that the Resistance had been involved. But they had not been told the names of individuals or groups who might have assisted in the plot so she couldn’t know if any of their old comrades were under suspicion.

  Another aspect she had no doubt about was that as a backlash, the Gestapo arrested seven thousand people and of those, executed almost five thousand. And they boasted about that. She imagined the monsters in uniform walking blindfolded through crowds of people, their arms outstretched, stomping over and mowing down anyone who got in their way. They were eliminating everyone who dared to say, ‘this is not right’ or ‘there is surely a different way’ or ‘let me think about that’. They kept trying to brainwash them with the idea that they were creating a pure, Aryan race.

  Well, Annie for one hated the thought of living in a world where everyone looked the same and agreed with each other. And she knew there were many others like her who craved the opportunity to be challenged in their thinking and learn about others’ ideas, philosophies, cultures and religions that differed from their own but were equally credible. And that was what she wanted for Walti, too. How she abhorred the thought of his little arm saluting Hitler or his chubby legs being taught to goosestep. She could not imagine any set of circumstances in which she would allow that to come about.

  She also believed that Rommel had been involved in the plot and had not died of natural causes – either a heart attack or cerebral embolism from the injuries he suffered when his staff car was strafed some months previously, or so they were told. When he returned to his family home in Ulm after the assassination attempt, the
town was suddenly swarming with SS watching his every move. And he was not posted elsewhere after that; he stayed at home for three months, which was unheard of for the Desert Fox. If he had remained in Hitler’s good books, he would have been buried in Berlin. As it was, he was laid to rest not far from the Minster, with his son saying that was his father’s request. It was, though, a full state funeral and a hero’s burial with a day of mourning. Annie was relieved when the citizens of Ulm were not rounded up, as she thought they might be, and ordered to stand outside the cemetery and look heartbroken. She knew she would not have been able to do that and her protestations could have led to a great deal of trouble.

  There was so much she didn’t believe. They were told day after day that Germany was winning. Annie wasn’t a war historian, but she didn’t think the side close to victory would look as thin and ill and haunted as they did. Their food could not be rationed further, their clothes were in shreds, and often there was no electricity or water, cold or hot. They were scared, but couldn’t muster the energy to display how daunted and dogged they were.

  They were still gathering a few potatoes and carrots from the garden, but it was not enough. So every day either Annie or Frau Wilhelm went out to look for food – sometimes two or three times a day. More often than not it was Annie, because Frau Wilhelm had become too emaciated and Herr Doctor was trying his best to treat patients. Annie had the boldness and determination to find something, anything, to feed Walti whose appetite was insatiable. At a little over a year old, he kept all of them amused with his cheeky grin and endearing ways. Last week he’d knocked over a cup that Herr Doctor had left on a low table and toddled to get the dustpan and brush and tidy it away. ‘Mutti,’ he’d lisped. ‘Walti sweeped.’ They’d all laughed and Herr Doctor threw the little boy up in the air, his hair flopping over his forehead as he landed safely in his Opa’s arms.