The Promise

by Michelle Vernal

  Constance felt cold despite the heat of the day. She was aware of a mosquito whining past her ear, and then all hell let loose. The awful ack-ack of bullets raining down from the drone above them hitting lord only knew what in the fields either side of the hedgerow. One stray bullet and she would die, Henry would die. She clasped hold of the hand he thrust down to reassure her and told herself that so long as neither of them let go of one another, they’d survive this. Her thoughts tumbled over and over, as the smell of burning hit her nostrils.

  Constance could taste the smoke in the back of her throat now and her body convulsed in terror as she heard a whistling frighteningly close followed by a deafening boom. She squeezed her eyes shut and sent up one final prayer and then just like that, there was silence.

  They stayed where they were until it was clear the danger was over, and the plane had flown on, its bloody job done. Henry got up and pulled her out from under the hedge helping her to her feet before checking her over for injuries. Apart from the scratches which had begun stinging, neither of them was harmed. Henry’s pallor was deathly, Constance saw grabbing onto him and holding him tight. Her legs trembled with the knowledge of how close they’d come to being killed; she’d forgotten for a while on that perfect late spring afternoon that it was always there, beckoning, just around the corner under the guise of war.

  ‘Wait here. I’m going to check the field.’ He disentangled himself and walked a short way up the laneway to where there was a gate and disappeared from her view.

  Constance’s breath came in shallow bursts, while she waited feeling as though the green belt on either side was pressing in on her.

  Henry reappeared, and her breathing steadied at the sight of him. ‘There’s no sign of anyone in the field, but there’s smoke beyond it where the bomb must have hit, and I could hear the sirens coming. I’ll see you home. It was wrong of me to bring you out here. I’ve been putting you in danger with these outings, Connie. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘No,’ Constance said, her forcefulness surprising even her. ‘I don’t want to go home. They’ve gone. It’s over, and we’re alive. I want to feel alive, Henry. Properly alive. Please, let’s carry on to the ruins.’

  Henry looked at her for the longest while before retrieving their bikes.

  The Quarr Abbey ruins were their secret; they’d sat many times, hidden from view, and been sent on their way once too by a strolling monk who’d stumbled across them. As they embraced in the shadows cast by the old stones, Henry kissed Constance with an urgency she hadn’t felt before. She disentangled herself from his arms and took a step back, lifting her dress over her head, so she was standing before him in her slip.

  ‘Ah, God, but you’re beautiful Connie,’ Henry’s voice cracked, as she removed her slip and stepped back into his arms, pressing her naked body against him.

  ‘I won’t be able to stop, Connie,’ he warned his voice was husky.

  ‘I don’t want you to.’

  Chapter 20

  Constance sat in the sitting room with her mum and Ginny who was looking like a barrel fit to burst. It was Arthur Downer’s evening for patrol duty. The two women’s conversation floated over her head as she relived what she and Henry had done at the ruins these last three Sundays. A delicious shiver coursed through her at the memory of how only yesterday she’d lain down on the grass and closing her eyes felt his fingers stroking her bare flesh. He’d been tentative at first, and it had been her that had urged him on wanting more. His mouth grazed her neck, and then travelled further settling over a nipple and sending an exquisite sensation rocketing through her. She’d moaned, and arched her back raising herself to him as she turned her body feeling his hardness pressing against her. He’d paused only to take his own clothes off before she’d given herself completely to him, and for a brief moment in time, they were one.

  ‘Constance!’ Eleanor Downer said impatience in her voice.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy. What did you say?’

  ‘You’re away with the fairies these days my girl. I was just telling Ginny that your Grandma June used to make the most delicious jam roly-poly pudding and that the secret, she always said, was in letting the pudding sit before unwrapping it.’

  ‘Yes that’s what she used to say, and it was gorgeous, Ginny.’ Constance smiled hoping her eyes weren’t too bright or her cheeks flushed. Her mother had eagle eyes at the best of times, and Constance didn’t want her guessing what had transpired at the abbey ruins. She might not be married in the eyes of God but she felt married. She was Henry’s wife in all ways now except for the piece of paper legally saying it was so. Her mother would not understand any of that though.

  All three jumped as the air raid sounded and needles and wool were abandoned as they made their way downstairs. There was a sense of urgency among the trio as they filed outside to the Anderson Shelter. As Constance bent her head and clambered inside the tin hut after Ginny, she wondered as she always did how having nothing but a mound of earth above their heads was supposed to keep them safe.

  Inside the shelter, it was cold, dark and dank. It was a nightmare in itself, but the alternative was worse. Constance clutched her sister-in-law and mum’s hands as they crouched down. She had no right to complain; their present circumstances must have been intolerable for Ginny given the mound protruding from her middle. She knew too that mum would be fretting. She always did when the siren sounded, and daddy was on patrol. ‘Mummy tell us a story about when Teddy was little,’ Constance said to distract her. Ginny liked to hear Teddy spoken of. She said it made her feel he was still there with her. It was therapeutic for them all, Constance thought. There was no sadness in the life lived, only in the life lost.

  Eleanor Downer relayed the story; they’d heard ten times before about Teddy having always tended to independence from the moment he’d grabbed hold of his mummy’s skirt and hauled himself upright. On this particular occasion, he had been returned home, his parents thinking him napping in his cot having been found helping himself to an orange from the greengrocers, at the age of two. A smile played at the corners of Constance’s mouth despite their circumstances as she listened to the familiar tale. The state of limbo waiting for the raining bombs to subside was interminable, and while Eleanor’s voice threatened to give out, her well of stories, however, would never run dry.

  Constance was convinced the Jerrys would not be satisfied until Wight was nothing more than an echo of its former self. It was always the worst bit; she thought shivering, not knowing when the siren sounded to signal it was safe for them to venture outside whether there’d be a home for them to return to. It did stop eventually like it always did, and the weary trio trooped back inside Pier View House and up the stairs to their beds.

  ͠

  In the comforting light of a new day with bricks and mortar cocooning her, Constance looked around their small kitchen perturbed. ‘Where’s daddy?’ It was strange not to see him seated in his usual position at the breakfast table especially after all the activity last night. She knew he’d returned safe and sound from duty in the wee hours because, hearing his familiar tread up the stairs, she’d gotten up to see for herself that he was unscathed. He was weary but not physically wounded, and he brought the news home with him that Darlinghurst House had taken a bad hit. A Nazi Luftwaffe Dornier Do 217 on a mine laying mission, had veered off course and dropped a mine that had torn a hole in the manor’s roof. By some miracle, the fatalities were few, the injured, however, many.

  Constance had felt a chill course through her at this news and had sent up a silent thank you that Henry was no longer recuperating there. She’d left her parents sitting in the kitchen with a pot of tea between them and had taken herself off back to bed to try and glean a few more hours sleep.

  It felt like only minutes had passed since she’d closed her eyes and sent up a prayer for all those suffering before Eleanor Downer was sweeping open her curtains. She was reluctant to get out of bed, wanting nothing more than to burrow under the c
overs and sleep all day long. She knew she wouldn’t be the only one feeling like that this morning after the night they’d all passed. Then, thinking of all those poor men and the nurses at Darlinghurst House she tossed the covers aside and got up.

  The cold water she splashed on her face helped penetrate the brain fog, and she patted her face dry before tidying her hair and finishing her morning ablutions. She checked her appearance to see she looked as wan as she felt but she’d have to do, and so she’d headed for the kitchen. It was Tuesday, which meant it was an egg in a nest day. Father was a man who lived by his routines, and his breakfast would be made with real egg this week thanks to Evelyn having dropped six fresh eggs in on the weekend. It was a rare treat, which was why it didn’t bode well to find he was nowhere in sight now.

  Constance’s stomach churned ominously at the thought of eggs; she couldn’t abide them of late, powdered or fresh. She picked up her bag from where she’d slung it the day before on the back of the door.

  ‘He went back down to Darlinghurst House at first light to help move the patients. They’ve set up temporary accommodation for the poor loves at St Catherine’s Home in Ventnor.’ Her mum abandoned the sink wiping her wet hands on her pinny. She spied Constance’s bag. ‘You’ve not had breakfast my girl, and I’ve not made your sandwiches yet. You can’t go to work on an empty stomach, Connie.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, Mum. I feel a bit peaky, to be honest.’ She should’ve known better than to mention she wasn’t feeling too bright. It was exhaustion that was all from the broken night’s sleep. They were all in the same boat. Eleanor wasn’t letting her off that lightly though.

  ‘You’ve not been right for over a week, Constance. Perhaps you’d be best to stay home today?’

  ‘Stop fussing, Mummy. I’m fine. I’ve just not much of an appetite that’s all. It’s a good thing with what Ginny’s managing to put away! Besides, when I think of those poor men and women at Darlinghurst House,’ she shook her head, ‘well, getting myself off to work is the least I can do.’

  At the thought of what had happened overnight, Eleanor sighed heavily. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m going to finish up here and go down to help your dad. Ginny’s still in bed; poor love is tired out. She’s all baby. The sooner the little mite makes itself known to us all the better. You be sure to put something in that stomach of yours before the mornings out though Connie. We don’t need you fainting on the job.’ She patted her daughter on the cheek. Calling after her as she heard her daughter thundering down the stairs, ‘Remember to eat something!’

  ‘I will!’

  She didn’t. Constance’s queasy stomach intensified throughout the morning, but she kept her fingers and mind occupied with her work and tried to ignore the horrid tang of metal that had settled in her mouth. She swallowed, screwing her face up as she did so. It was as if she could taste last night’s shelling. She was concentrating on keeping the contents of her dinner in her stomach when she started at a tap on her shoulder. It was Myrtle and the expression she wore on her overmade face made Constance’s blood run cold.

  She allowed the older girl to take her arm and escort her to the factory entrance where an aircraftman she recognized as one of Henry’s chums waited. The grip with which he held his hat was white-knuckled. She knew the look on his face; her mind flew back to the awful day the news of Teddy’s death had arrived. She’d seen that same look back then too. He delivered the news as was his duty that Henry had been caught up in the bombing at Darlinghurst House and had not survived. Constance’s knees buckled, and the world went black.

  Her father was fetched to bring her home, and her mother wrung her hands and cried before putting her to bed. Ginny watched on from the sidelines, her bright blue eyes enormous orbs in a pale face. It was she who curled up next to her on the bed and held her through that long night despite her girth.

  Days later when she took herself down to Puckpool Camp seeking answers, this time not caring in the slightest whether she fit in or not, she would find out that Henry had gone to the old manor house to visit a young officer cadet from Vancouver who’d lost his leg and was not recovering emotionally. One of the nurses had sent word to him remembering he too hailed from the same city and it was hoped a visit from someone from the cadet’s hometown might improve his well­being. The young man survived because Henry had thrown himself on top of him protecting him from the falling debris.

  His name was Robbie, and Constance went to see him, the journey to St Catherine’s passing in a fog of detachment from the world around her. The young man reached out and squeezed her hand trying to convey how grateful and how sorry he was for her loss in that simple, human gesture. She’d hoped that going to see him would help. Perhaps she would feel Henry’s death had not been in vain. He had, after all, died a hero’s death, but Constance could find no comfort in the visit—death was death. It meant she would never set her eyes on him again. She would never feel his gentle touch on her or laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe at something he’d said ever again. She’d never more hear him say I love you. She was a widow who’d never been wed.

  Her heart shattered into pieces knowing all this. It was broken into a mosaic so tiny that she knew it would never be put back together again.

  The weeks passed in wave after wave of grief, her exhaustion was all-encompassing, and the nausea had only grown stronger. She blamed having all that sorrow tucked away inside her for her sickness; it had to come out somehow. It was only when her waistband grew tight, despite her lack of appetite, that it dawned on her with an understanding as terrifying as any bomb that could fall that she was pregnant.

  Chapter 21

  Constance waited as she’d been instructed to in the hallway and pulled her cardigan tightly around herself as she listened to poor Ginny’s howls emanating from her room. The guttural agony in her screams was plain to hear. It was like nothing she’d heard before, and she was terrified both for Ginny and herself. She hadn’t come on in three months and had taken to rising before anybody else in the house to hide away in the bathroom each morning. The sickness arrived like clockwork as soon as she swung her legs over the side of her bed and sat up although it had eased a little these last few mornings. It was a reminder of what was happening inside her and listening now to Ginny’s distress it was as though the fug that had clouded her thoughts since Henry’s death cleared. She knew she had to take action and soon.

  Her mum was helping the midwife, and her dad unaware of the drama unfolding in his home, was out on patrol. Ginny’s pains had begun in earnest with no gradual build-up or warning as the three women had tidied away the dinner things earlier that evening. She’d dropped the plate she’d been drying, and as it smashed to the ground, she bent double. Constance’s mother at the sink, her hands emerged in hot water, had remained calm, galvanising Constance, who was frozen to the spot, to go and fetch the midwife while she settled Ginny upstairs.

  Ginny’s panic at the sudden onset of the pain was evident, and Constance was grateful to escape it into the fresh air outside. That the air raid siren remained silent was a blessing, she thought, as she ran through the empty streets, her breath coming in short puffs of white, to the cottage where Bessie Parker lived. Bessie had grabbed the bag she kept at the ready, and called out to her oldest that she was in charge of getting the littlies to bed before setting off. The pace the midwife set was a swift clip, and Constance tired from her run, struggled to keep up. It was a relief when they arrived back at Pier View House, and Bessie disappeared up the stairs, a calm and efficient arrival in a house that felt anything but. Ginny was in safe hands.

  Now as the seconds, minutes and hours ticked by at a slower pace than any had ever passed in the Anderson Shelter, Constance began to pace the hallway. She was like an expectant father, useless and unable to do anything except wear the hall runner with the constant retracing of her steps. She could see Ginny in her mind's eye writhing, and pausing in her pacing she clasped her hands in prayer. She raised her eyes to t
he ceiling willing, God, to let Ginny’s misery to be over, and for the baby’s safe arrival.

  The night was interminable. Her father arrived home and sat next to her on the floor outside the bedroom where she was slumped with her back against the wall, worn out from worry. By the time her mother opened the door, the sun was beginning to peep through the cracks in the curtains at the top of the stairwell. Constance frowned suddenly alert, unaware her father was gripping her hand; she hadn’t heard any lusty cry. Her mum’s face in the dim light of the hallway was ashen. She shook her head, and as she got to her feet, she heard her father’s breath catch and felt him stagger beside her, ignoring the wave of nausea that washed over her she fell into her mother’s arms. Ginny’s baby, a boy whom she’d have called Edward in his father’s memory, was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck; he never drew breath. Tragedy had again come knocking at the Downers door.

  ͠

  A malaise settled over the family at Pier View House; it was such a heavy veil that not even the news of D–Day’s success could lift it. Ginny, once a wife, now a widow, and a woman who should have been diving headfirst into motherhood, no longer knew who or what she was supposed to be. All the while Constance’s secret kept growing stronger and stronger. The days rolled over on top of one another and morale on Wight grew scratchy. The war effort was wearing thin like the elbows of an old jumper, the end always just out of sight, just out of reach. For Constance, her mind was too full of loss and fear for her situation to muster up the energy to care about anything more than just getting through each day.