Ada lay down her cutlery on the plate with a clang which startled me in my agitation. I dropped my fork, splashing a mess of carrot, potato and swede across the white tablecloth, incurring Mother’s anger. She impatiently asked Ada to tell us whatever news she had of Florrie. With a theatrical sigh, Ada said, ‘She is in trouble,’ emphasising the last two words. Turning to me, she explained that this was why Ethel had been so subdued when she opened the door to us at the Wheeldons – she had been worrying about the matter since Florrie had confided in her.
Mother tutted and immediately said it would be impossible for us to keep her on, in view of Father’s position. I didn’t understand and said we should surely help her if she was in trouble. Mother snapped at me that it would be highly unsuitable, and that a vicar couldn’t be seen to condone ‘immorality.’ Still bewildered, I asked what she meant.
Mother was impatient with my naivety and explained that ‘in trouble’ is a euphemism, that Florrie is expecting a child. She repeated that it would be impossible for us to help her in any way and that we must give her notice immediately. She asked Ada if Mrs Wheeldon had any idea of the identity of the child’s father. Ada, mouth downturned, said that she didn’t, but that Ethel and Florrie had been out dancing with the GIs a lot.
‘Silly girl. A ruined life. And as for the child…’ Mother sighed and shook her head.
There was a ringing in my ears, and I felt the room swim around me as though I were on a roiling ship. I asked to be excused. A great weariness overcame me. When I reached my room, I went over to the window and lifted the blackout blinds a fraction. I looked out over the peaceful garden, wondering if he would fly tonight.
From the kitchen below, I could hear the murmur of Mother and Ada’s voices and knew they would still be discussing poor Florrie’s plight. The faint scraping of knives across plates as they prepared to wash up set my teeth on edge.
Without undressing, I climbed under the blankets. The storm had cleared the air, and the night would not be so hot and uncomfortable as the previous few nights. But I felt cold, cold and very tired. I heard Father come in, his measured tread as he crossed the hall to the kitchen. I knew he would be hoping to find me there so that he could ask me about Ray’s response to St Edith’s Church. The thought of his kindly questions was more than I could bear. There was so much I could not tell him of what had happened that morning.
As I closed my eyes, Mother’s harsh words echoed in my mind, ‘Silly girl. A ruined life. And as for the child…’
I curled up like an infant and hugged myself, trying to shut out her voice. But the words repeated themselves until sleep finally came.
A few moments ago I woke suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed. My heart is still pounding as I write, though I don’t recall any nightmare.
If Mother’s cruel words towards Florrie rang in my ears as I fell asleep, it was Ray’s words which I heard clearly when I woke, ‘Promise me, whatever happens, you will remember how we have loved one another. Promise me you will know that I love you.’ And I said aloud in my silent room as though he were here with me, ‘I promise.’
The planes are roaring overhead. They will be on their way back now.
Please, God, let him have returned.
27 May 1943
I knew immediately from Father’s face. I was sitting in my usual chair in the study leafing through a book. The rain was pounding against the window. I didn’t hear him come in until he was standing in front of me.
If I noticed how he had aged last week, he was an old man today. Stooped, head bowed, moving his forefinger back and forth across his mouth, searching for words.
‘No,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I am so deeply sorry. I have been with the Padre at the air base this morning.’
‘NO!’ I screamed, leaping out of my chair. My book fell to the floor with a crash.
Father started, knocking his leg against the desk, then put his arms around me. Mother ran in from the kitchen. Father sent her back, asking her to make tea, explaining Wing Commander Brooke had been killed.
Once the initial storm of weeping was over, I sank back into the armchair. Father moved round the desk and settled into his own chair. Mother brought in the tea without a word and left immediately. I closed my eyes. Father stirred the tea in the teapot. The clink of teaspoon against china was unbearable in its ordinariness. I placed my hands over my ears and rocked myself like a baby. The tears came again.
When I was calmer, Father pushed the cup towards me, urging me to drink. Obediently I took a few sips. Outside the rain had stopped and the sky was brightening. Seeing it, I had a moment’s hope. I asked if there might be a mistake, but he shook his head.
Father didn’t want to tell me how it had happened but I insisted. Eventually, smoking his pipe, a habit which he usually restricts to the evening, he told me. He said Ray was on a bombing mission to Dresden. The group was ordered to pass over the city again. As the end plane in the group, Ray’s was particularly vulnerable to attack. The pilot of one of the other planes saw it take a hit from enemy fighters and it went down immediately. The pilot saw a fire beneath soon after.
Fire. Ray died in a burning aircraft. Just like his friend John, whom he had told me about during our morning at Coates.
I suddenly remembered how I had woken suddenly a little before four the morning after our outing, how I had heard his voice as clearly as if he had been there with me. ‘Promise me, whatever happens, you will remember how we have loved one another. Promise me you will know that I love you.’
I asked if Father knew when it had happened. He told me it was just before four on Saturday morning.
The time I woke and heard his voice. I could not breathe as I gripped the arms of my chair, desperate to hold on to something solid. I saw how the short fair hairs on my arms had risen. My spine tingled. Was it possible that Ray had communicated with me as he left this life? Rationally I rejected the idea. I must have been dreaming, re-living the events of the day. But surely this was more than coincidence?
Six days ago my world burst with colour. Now all is dull and muted, dark and grey like the sky outside, heavy with unshed rain. I want to believe that he spoke to me as his spirit departed. Are such things possible? Perhaps I will ask Father one day.
It wasn’t a question I could ask him today. As I looked at him sunk back in his chair pulling on his pipe, his face grey and exhausted, watching me with concern, I was reminded how quickly he too had formed a bond with my Canadian airman.
Then Father said something I could never agree with, that he regretted encouraging our friendship. I was quick to reassure him how glad I was to have met him – I nearly added ‘loved him’ – but broke off in time.
We sat in silence for a while and I closed my eyes, the better to see and feel those images seared on my memory, infiltrating my very being. I saw him standing in front of the window in that very room, the sun lighting his blonde hair golden. ‘My angel,’ I thought. His voice, ‘I had to come,’ as his hand crept across the table and enclosed mine at the bazaar. And then, ‘You really are not afraid of storms, are you, Emily?’ as he began to caress me in that tiny church where the shaft of sunlight illuminated the Virgin’s head…
When Father spoke again, I sensed he was weighing his words carefully. He asked if there was anything which had passed between me and Ray which had caused me any concern. I did not hesitate in reassuring him, ‘No.’ All that had passed between Ray and me had been natural and straightforward. The power of our feelings for one another had been a revelation to me, but that was not something I could discuss with Father.
Relief spread across his face, before he winced suddenly, as if in pain. His right hand flew to his chest. I was alarmed, but he reassured me that it was just indigestion.
From the corner of the room the grandmother clock chimed twelve. The ordinariness of the sound pierced me as the clink of the teaspoon on the saucer had. The peculiar calmness of a few moments earlier evapo
rated and fresh tears threatened. I swallowed them, not wanting to worry Father further.
Perhaps he sensed my fragile self-control, because he suggested I might like some quiet time in my room, and that he would arrange for Mother to bring up a sandwich for me. I readily agreed and here I have spent the rest of the day, re-living those precious moments with Ray. I have wept. I have by turns cursed God for snatching my beloved away so soon, and then been thankful that we did know and love one another, even for so short a time.
We spent barely five hours together yet I feel I will never live as fully as I did with him. How is that possible?
How can I live without him?
4 October 1943
I hate Mother. HATE her. And Ada too. They are so cold, so judgemental, lacking all understanding.
I thought Father might understand. I thought he would suggest another plan than this cruel, unnatural one of Mother’s. But he turned grey at my news, pressing his hand to his chest for a moment, just as he did on the morning he told me of Ray’s death. Even in my agitated state, as I appealed to him tearfully to let me stay at home, I had a fleeting concern for him as he sank into his armchair.
Mother seemed not to notice as she insisted that I must go to Norfolk, saying that if it hadn’t been for his encouragement, nothing would have happened.
It was she who guessed, of course. I have spent these months since Ray died going about my daily routine just as I used to, meaningless though it has become. Helping Mother with the endless domestic chores seemed futile, parish meetings useless, social occasions tedious. A month after we received the news of Ray’s death Father proposed we should begin work on the local history book I suggested a year ago. But a project which would have given me pleasure before seems as pointless as everything else now. I had even given up on this diary until today. Now I am driven back to it as an outlet for my distress, fury and despair.
The only place I have found some solace is the kitchen garden. I have tended the vegetables assiduously over the summer months. I was out there pulling up some carrots this afternoon when Mother came out. Her eyes were pebbles, grey as the October sky, as she asked me when I last menstruated. I was startled. Since the monthly bleeding started when I was thirteen and she gave me perfunctory instructions about sanitary napkins, we have never discussed the subject. She places the napkins in my underwear drawer each month without comment.
I had been aware that I hadn’t bled recently but given the matter little thought. It has been exhausting trying to maintain my usual outward demeanour in the midst of my grief for Ray. When I have considered it, I’ve wondered if the shock of his death might have caused the cessation.
I told her I couldn’t remember, pressing my hand to my side as I felt a twinge which has become familiar lately. She asked if it were weeks or months, and I said again I didn’t know, pointing out my cycle has always been irregular.
Feeling the trembling in my lower regions again, I placed my hand there, drawing her gaze. Her voice was ice when she asked if I were aware that I had put on weight recently. I am. I have been surprised how Ray’s death has had no effect on my appetite.
Her eyes narrowed into slits. She enunciated her next words slowly. ‘Has it occurred to you that you might not only be eating for yourself, Emily?’
I felt dizzy as the implication of her words sank in. I leaned on the spade for support, staring at her open-mouthed.
‘I assume the… father’ – she spat the word – ‘would be the Canadian airman, would it?’
I nodded dumbly.
She took a step towards me and raised her right hand, slapping me across my left cheek. ‘You stupid slut!’ she hissed.
I bent my head, nursing my stinging cheek. I was as shocked by her language as by the blow. She has never struck me before. She turned away from me, telling me to get out of her sight so she could think.
Blinded by tears, I ran up here, flinging myself on the unmade bed, burying my head in the pillow.
Some moments later, still tearful but a little calmer, I went across to the window, looking out over the kitchen garden I had tended so carefully. The murmur of Mother’s voice on the telephone floated upwards from the hall.
I felt the fluttering again. Finally I realised what it was: the baby. My baby, Ray’s child, stirring inside me. I laced my hands over my stomach and breathed deeply, looking over the vegetables growing below. They all need lifting soon, before the first frost of autumn.
As my eyes travelled over the produce a sense of wonder overcame me. It came to me that the seed planted by Ray in my womb was just like them, needing care and nurture.
A shaft of sunlight cut through the grey sky, half-blinding me. I shaded my eyes, remembering the sunlight which had illuminated the Madonna in the church after Ray and I came together. Warmth suffused me. For the first time in these dark months I saw a pinprick of hope. For surely this baby was the fruit of love, a gift from God?
I don’t know how long I stood there, cradling my stomach. Presently Mother rapped on the door. My heart sank at the sight of her stony face, and my fragile hope ebbed away as suddenly as it had risen. She didn’t look at me as she told me to go down with her to Father in the study.
She insisted I should be the one to tell Father about the baby. I trembled to think how he might respond. Then I thought that after the initial shock he, more than anyone else, would understand my revelation that my child is a divine gift. New life after death, the triumph of love. This, after all, is the message which he preaches from the pulpit week by week.
But when Father turned grey and sank back into his worn armchair after I told him I was expecting Ray’s child, a cold dread seeped through me. Mother’s voice, as she relayed the arrangements she had made, was as matter of fact as if she were shopping for groceries. She told me I will go to stay with her cousin Winifred and husband on their farm in Norfolk tomorrow. When I am well enough to travel after the birth, I will return home, leaving the child with them. It seems they always wanted a child but Winifred has never conceived.
I was appalled at the prospect of being parted from my baby, but my screaming and shouting had no effect on Mother who didn’t look at me as she urged Father that this was ‘the best possible arrangement.’ He finally capitulated when she berated him for his irresponsibility in leaving Ray and I alone together the day we went to Coates. His head sunk towards his chest, his voice quavery like that of a much older man, he said quietly, ‘I think your mother’s solution is for the best, Emily.’
‘But…’ My voice shook with fresh tears as I looked at his hunched form.
‘There are no “buts”, Emily,’ Mother interposed sharply. She turned towards me, sensing her victory and sent me upstairs immediately to begin packing. She closed the study door and stood in front of it. I knew she was making sure I didn’t return to make a fresh appeal to Father. She said she would arrange for a taxi to take me to the station in the morning, saying Father will be too busy.
As I tearfully pleaded with her, she turned her head away in disgust, speaking of the ‘disgrace’ if the village found out. She urged me to think of Father, if not myself, saying, ‘I know you would not wish to cause him embarrassment, however uncaring you might be about the impact of your downfall on myself and your sister.’
I stared at her as she stood there, ramrod straight, face resolutely turned from me. I hesitated too long before protesting that of course I cared about her and Ada. But it was a lie, and we both knew it. There was nothing more to say so I came up here and started sorting some clothes.
Later I was aware of the front door opening and closing behind Ada, the low hum of her voice and Mother’s in the kitchen. I knew better than to expect any sympathy from my sister.
Half an hour later I heard Ada’s heavy tread on the staircase. I stiffened as she knocked at the door. She came in without waiting for my response, hauling in the battered brown suitcase which we used to take on our family holidays in the summers before the war.
Her grey eyes flicked across my stomach. Instinctively I cradled it. Two bright red spots flared in her cheeks as she asked how I could be so ‘shameless.’ I queried what she meant and she asked how else I would describe my conduct.
I looked at her, my plain sister with all her pettiness and prejudices. I was shocked at the wave of dislike which passed through me. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Ada,’ I said contemptuously.
Her flush darkened. ‘If you mean I don’t understand your immorality, you are quite right.’
‘Immorality? Who are you to judge? We were in love!’ I protested.
‘In love?’ She looked at me down her nose.
My hand itched to slap the sneer from her face. Somehow I managed to control myself. My next words were calculated to wound. ‘Yes. Truly in love. Not like in your silly simpering way with Leonard Wheeldon.’
She stepped back as if I had struck her after all. There was a pause. Then she hissed, ‘You will regret saying that, Emily.’
The door slammed behind her.
I sank onto the bed, gripped by a sudden fear. There is little love lost between Ada and me, but surely she would never deliberately harm me? Then it occurred to me that nothing worse could happen than that I should be separated from my child, as now seems inevitable. Mother was right, of course. Whilst I might not care about my own reputation, I would not want to bring shame on Father.
I did not see him at supper. Mother told me he had dined early as he had a meeting. I suspected she had arranged things this way, wanting to keep us apart before I leave in the morning. Perhaps she is worried that I might persuade him to allow me to bring up the baby here if I have the opportunity, whatever the embarrassment to the family. But witnessing how swiftly he yielded to her suggestion, how frail he seemed at that moment, I don’t think he has the strength to stand up to her. And I do see how difficult his position will be, a vicar whose daughter has a child out of wedlock.
Without Ray, I see no alternative than to submit to Mother’s plan. But how will I bear carrying this baby and then giving him or her up into the care of virtual strangers? We last visited Winifred and Thomas when I was seven years old. I know nothing of them. And how much love will they give to a child who is not their own? The fluttering sensation in my womb starts again, as if the baby senses my anxiety.
After the Funeral Page 23
