Motherland

by William Nicholson

  ‘Full pack there,’ says the RAF man. ‘Should be the biggest show of the war.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Mountbatten, cheering up. ‘Control the air and the battle’s half won.’

  Bobby Casa Maury catches Larry’s eye and waves one hand, palm downwards, fingers flicking forwards, in a gesture that means go away. Larry withdraws.

  In the hallway outside a Wren called Joyce Wedderburn sits at a desk with a typewriter and two telephones, guarding entrance to the chief. She gives Larry a friendly smile as he sits himself down on one of the upright chairs that line the long wall.

  ‘Back to waiting?’ she says. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ says Larry. ‘Shouldn’t be long.’

  He finds himself thinking how much better it would be if there were pictures on the walls. So much of wartime consists of sitting, waiting, staring at blank walls. Why not get all the artists painting, and hang all their pictures on all the walls? Even if you don’t like a picture you can stare at it and see everything that’s wrong with it, which passes the time. All it would take would be for someone like Mountbatten to give the order, and all over the country armies of artists would set to work doing watercolours of sunsets, and army canteens and ministry corridors would take on a new eccentric character. Put a picture on a wall and you cut a window into another world.

  From this he falls to thinking of all the paintings he knows which represent actual windows, and the view beyond. Leonardo’s Madonna of the Carnation, which he saw once in Munich, with its view of mountains framed by arched openings. Or Magritte’s strange broken windows, where the fragments of glass carry the same sunset sky as the view beyond, but fractured and displaced. The effect of the frame within the frame is potent, almost magical. What is it about windows? The comfort and safety of the known world set beside the promise and excitement of a world beyond.

  ‘There you go.’

  It’s Rupert Blundell with a big brown envelope. Larry jumps up and takes the packet, pushes it into his satchel.

  ‘Wish the boys luck from us,’ says Blundell.

  5

  A sharp rat-a-tat at the bedroom door summons Kitty and Louisa from a deep sleep. Hurriedly they wake, wash, dress. Downstairs the great hall is abuzz with activity. Colonel Jevons is standing in the Oak Room lobby with a sheet of paper on which are lists of names.

  ‘You’ve just got time for a bite of breakfast,’ he tells Kitty. ‘Have the Brig’s car outside for 0330.’

  She follows the stream of half-asleep men clustering round the tea urn in the dining room. At this hour she can’t eat. The others coming and going round her seem to be taking care to make as little noise as possible. Then she realises they’re all wearing soft-soled boots.

  Her section leader, Sergeant Sissons, is pacing the yard by the garages, using her torch to direct the troop transport trucks.

  ‘Got your orders?’

  ‘All set,’ says Kitty.

  She opens the garage doors and feels her way down the side of the Humber to the driver’s door.

  ‘Early for you, Hum,’ she tells the car. ‘Be a darling and start first time.’

  As she reverses out into the yard she sees the lines of soldiers filing into the transport trucks. They move silently, shadows in the deeper shadow of the night. The headquarters building is alive with purposeful activity, but all of it muffled and cloaked in darkness. She drives slowly out of the yard and round the chapel, finding her way to the front porch by the slot of light from the car’s blackout masks.

  Jevons comes out and sees that she’s in place. Other cars begin to arrive. She no longer feels in the least sleepy. She hears the throb of truck engines in the yard, the crackle of boots on the gravel, the drone of a plane passing overhead. Not yet dawn, but the world is up and about its work.

  A mass of officers now appear from the house. They stand close together, torchlight flickering over papers held open between them. The heavy lorries start rumbling past, away down the drive. Then the doors of the Humber are being opened from the outside and officers are climbing in. Shortly Kitty hears the brigadier’s voice from behind her head.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ says Kitty.

  That causes a soft laugh from the officers. So much secrecy, no one has thought to tell the driver.

  ‘Newhaven,’ says the brigadier. ‘The harbour.’

  Kitty eases the Humber down the drive, following behind a long line of troop transports, their tail lights glowing softly in the night. At the junction with the road she takes her turn, waiting as vehicle after vehicle rolls past. A faint gleam is now appearing in the sky to the east. Behind her the voices of the officers murmur, and papers rustle. She hasn’t been told what’s going on, and knows better than to ask, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess.

  On the dark winding road now, and making for the coast. The light grows brighter on the horizon. The boys in the back of the truck ahead wave at her and grin. One of the officers behind lights up a cigarette, and the tang of smoke fills the car.

  The harbour cranes come into view. The road runs alongside the railway. The column of trucks rolls into the port, and the Humber follows. The great marshalling yard by the quay is full of vehicles and disembarking men. Out on the water, lit now by the dawn, lies an immense fleet of craft of every size. Little boats are buzzing about, carrying men from craft to craft. A crane is hoisting an armoured vehicle onto a deck. The heavy throb of ship’s engines fills the air.

  ‘This’ll do,’ says the brigadier.

  Kitty pulls up and the officers get out. Kitty too gets out, and stands by the car as she’s been taught. No one pays her any attention. The brigadier strides away, trailed by his staff. All round, platoons of men are being marched across the concrete yard to the boarding ramps. They wear helmets and carry guns and kitbags. No one shouts or breaks into song, the way troops on the move usually do. The early morning is filled with a purposeful seriousness.

  Kitty waits and watches, and the sun rises. The scale of the operation slowly becomes visible. There are ships at sea all the way from the pier to the horizon. As each craft fills up with men and vehicles, it churns out of the harbour to join the waiting fleet.

  A train pulls into the quayside and more streams of men get out. Among them Kitty sees a group moving differently to the rest. Instead of forming up in marching order, they slope along in a disorderly straggle, wearing wool hats in place of tin helmets. She hears one of the other drivers murmur, ‘Commandos.’ For the first time it occurs to her that Ed might be part of the operation.

  She leaves her post and goes to one of the muster officers by the ramps.

  ‘Is 40 Commando going?’ she asks.

  ‘Can’t say,’ he replies.

  She tries to find Ed among the faces streaming by, but there are too many and it’s still too dark. She returns to her post.

  The endless flow of tramping men moves onto the boats. After a while Sergeant Sissons comes round, releasing the drivers.

  ‘Return to HQ. Await orders.’

  ‘Will it be long, Sarge?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  One by one the staff cars pull away from the quay. Kitty is reluctant to leave. She’s still there, standing by her car, when the muster officer she approached comes over to her.

  ‘Got a boyfriend in 40 RM, then?’ he says.

  She nods.

  ‘They’ve embarked,’ he says. ‘Don’t say I said so.’

  He leaves her there, looking out to sea at the great fleet.

  Got a boyfriend in 40 RM, then?

  She hardly knows him. They’ve met twice, kissed once. And yet the memory of his pale face is before her, his mouth almost smiling, his blue eyes holding hers, his thoughts unreachable. She realises with a sudden ache that she wants more than anything to see him one more time. There’s something she wants to say to him that he may not know. That she wants him to know.

  We’ve only just begun. Don’t l
eave me yet. I’m waiting for you, here on the harbour side at Newhaven. Where the river meets the sea.

  She gets back into the Humber and starts the engine. The great yard is almost empty now. Day has begun. A ridge of low cloud has gathered to hide the sun. It’s the second day of July, and still this strange summer is keeping everyone guessing.

  The journey back, alone in the car, alone on the road, has none of the electric anticipation of the journey out. The big house and the camp are empty and silent. She returns the car to its garage and crosses the yard to the inner courtyard, entering the house by the servants’ door. The long dining room with its three bay windows and its heavy fake-leather wallpaper has been cleared of all signs of the early breakfast. Hungry now, she seeks out the kitchen.

  Here, sitting at the scrubbed deal table, she finds George Holland. He’s eating a bowl of porridge by himself. From the scullery beyond comes the clatter of washing up.

  ‘Ah, Kitty,’ he says, visibly cheered by her appearance. ‘It’s the strangest thing. I got up this morning and found the house empty.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kitty. ‘There’s a big show on.’

  ‘So when will they be back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The real thing this time, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kitty.

  George eats some more of his porridge.

  ‘I expect you think it’s a bit rich, me sitting here eating while men are risking their lives.’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Kitty.

  ‘It’s different for you,’ he says. ‘You’re a girl. A man should fight.’

  ‘We can’t all be fighting. Someone’s got to keep the country going.’

  ‘I do have various official duties,’ he says, frowning down at his bowl. ‘Local defence, magistrate, that sort of thing. But I can’t fight. Eyesight, you know.’

  ‘I’d better be going,’ says Kitty.

  ‘Don’t go. There’s something I want to say.’

  He takes his bowl and spoon into the scullery and returns empty-handed, nervous, avoiding her eyes.

  ‘Odd to have your own house full of strangers,’ he says. ‘Have you seen the library?’

  ‘It’s the officers’ mess,’ says Kitty.

  He leads her across the hall and into the Oak Room, the lobby to the library. He points to the lettering on the doors.

  ‘Litera scripta manet, verba locuta volant. “The written word remains, the spoken word flies away.” All very true, of course. But even so …’

  His voice tails away. He leads her into the library itself.

  The great arched window at the end floods the long room with light. Down the walls on both sides stand book-stacks numbered with Latin numerals, holding leather-bound volumes with gold titles. The floor is a pattern of inlaid marble, a tangle of leaves and flowers. Clusters of War Office-supply armchairs stand about on this shiny expanse. A table at the far end is crowded with bottles.

  ‘It’s not the way we had it before the war, of course,’ says George, looking round. ‘My father was a great traveller, you know. He collected maps and travel books. I do a bit in that way myself.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful room,’ says Kitty. ‘You must hate having your house messed up like this.’

  ‘No, no. It’s good to see it full of life. Houses need to be lived in.’

  He crosses to the high window and stands looking out at the park and the distant rows of Nissen huts. Kitty understands that he’s leading up to something.

  ‘The world has changed so much, hasn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘War does that,’ says Kitty.

  ‘People come and go. They live and die. You can’t stand on ceremony any more. My father has left me a relatively wealthy man. That must be worth something, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ says Kitty.

  ‘But this eyesight business isn’t so good. Rather clips my wings. Cramps my style. No point in complaining. There are pros and cons to every venture you undertake. Are you a reader?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Kitty. ‘I love reading.’

  ‘I’m not so much of a reader myself. I find it tires me. Anyway, the thing is this. What do you say about it? Is it something you could contemplate? Or do you recoil in horror?’

  Kitty’s about to say he’s not made himself clear, when she stops herself. Of course he’s made himself clear. She’s known from the moment he finished his porridge in the kitchen. He doesn’t deserve to be forced into the humiliation of speaking the plain words.

  ‘Earlier this morning,’ she says, ‘I was at Newhaven watching the men go into the boats. Wherever they’re going, they’re going into danger. And you see, among them is the man I love.’

  Strange to be saying these words to someone she barely knows; words she has not yet said to Ed.

  ‘The man you love,’ says George. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘I shall be there on the quayside when he returns.’

  ‘Quite right. Quite right.’

  He moves away down the long empty room. His arms hang loosely by his sides, as if he’s lost the use of them.

  ‘I should report back to my section leader,’ says Kitty.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He’s standing before the carved stone mantelpiece, gazing at the framed photographs arrayed there.

  ‘My mother,’ he says, indicating one of the photographs. ‘If you go into the chapel, there’s a plaque on the south wall. It says, “In memory of a faithful wife and a loving mother.” I could have said much more, but in the end that seemed to cover it. A faithful wife. A loving mother. What more can a man ask?’

  Kitty leaves him with his photographs and his memories. She wants to be out of this house. It’s too full of sadness.

  She finds Louisa in the Motor Transport Office in A Block.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Kitty. ‘No one’ll miss us.’

  They ride their bikes down the Eastbourne road as the clouds gather and the sky darkens. They’ve just reached the Cricketers in Berwick when the rain starts to fall. There, wet and panting and pink-cheeked, they beg the bar girl for something – anything – to eat, and she brings them cold boiled potatoes. Two farm workers come in to escape the rain and stare at them.

  ‘Don’t know why we bother,’ they grumble to each other. ‘Could have done with this back in April.’

  By silent agreement Kitty and Louisa don’t talk about the great military operation now under way. Kitty tells Louisa about George Holland.

  ‘I knew it,’ says Louisa. ‘I could tell from the way he watched you like a dog waiting for his dinner.’

  ‘Poor George. He always looks so lost.’

  ‘Not all that poor. He’s a millionaire, and a lord. There’s a limit to how sorry you can feel for him.’

  ‘Anyway, I told him my heart was pledged to another.’

  ‘Even though that’s a whopping lie.’

  ‘Actually it isn’t,’ says Kitty. ‘It turns out I’m in love with Ed.’

  ‘Kitty! When did this happen?’

  ‘I don’t quite know. I only realised it this morning, when I was watching the boys going away. I just want him to come home safe.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty.’ Louisa is touched by Kitty’s trembling voice. ‘Have you really fallen in love at last?’

  ‘I think so. I’m not sure.’

  The rain passes, blown away by strong south-westerly winds. They bicycle home down the empty road, side by side, with the wind on their backs.

  ‘So what’s going to happen to poor George?’ says Louisa.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ says Kitty. ‘Some strong-minded female will gobble him up.’

  ‘You make him sound like a canapé.’

  ‘He’s rich and titled. Someone’ll have him.’

  ‘What about poor Stephen?’

  ‘I’ll write to him. Oh, God. Isn’t it all difficult?’

  ‘You know what,’ says Louisa, ‘now that you’re out of the running with George, I might have a
go myself.’

  Kitty wobbles wildly on her bike and regains control.

  ‘Are you serious? You know he’s practically blind?’

  ‘I haven’t had a single proposal, Kitty. My people have no money to speak of. God has billeted me in the house of a young unmarried man with a title and a fortune. It would be ungrateful to the Almighty not to give it a shot.’

  Kitty pedals on without further comment.

  ‘I expect you despise me for seeing things this way,’ Louisa says.

  ‘No, not at all,’ says Kitty. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’d be happy with George?’

  ‘If you loved him you would.’

  ‘If he marries me,’ says Louisa simply, ‘I shall love him.’

  They bicycle down the back lane into the camp. A small crowd has gathered round the front of the NAAFI to share such news as there is. Everyone is asking if this is the start of the second front.

  Kitty sees Larry Cornford come out of the big house onto the west terrace. He gives her a wave, and they meet up in the lime avenue. They too talk about the big show.

  ‘I saw them go,’ says Kitty.

  ‘I don’t like this wind,’ says Larry. ‘They need calm seas for the crossing.’

  ‘Do you know where they’re going?’

  ‘I know,’ says Larry, ‘but I can’t say.’

  ‘Has to be somewhere in France.’

  ‘Nothing we can do now till they come back.’

  Kitty says, ‘I think Ed’s with them.’

  ‘It’s quite likely.’

  ‘Will you promise to come and tell me if you hear anything?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They walk on in silence to the lake. The lake house stands empty before them.

  ‘How are you getting along with Middlemarch?’ says Larry.

  ‘I can’t read,’ says Kitty. ‘I can’t do anything.’

  ‘He’ll come back,’ says Larry.

  ‘You don’t know that. He may not.’

  Larry says nothing to that.

  ‘At least you’ve not gone,’ she says. ‘You, and George.’

  Larry looks away over the wind-ruffled lake.