by Posy Lovell
She tossed her hair, spun on her heel and marched off down the road without looking back.
Chapter 12
Bernie was late for work the next day, which didn’t help his nervy, flustered mood.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered as he dashed into the break room to ditch his bag and put on his overalls.
Around him, the gardeners were drifting off to start work. Bernie looked round, but he couldn’t see Louisa, much to his relief. Ivy, though, was tying a scarf round her hair and she gave him a small, cautious smile.
“All right, Bern?” she said.
He nodded. “Not bad.”
“Mac’s not here,” Ivy said. “No one’s sure what’s happening. He can’t have enlisted already, surely? And he’d have made sure everything was fine before he went.”
Bernie glanced over to where Jim was standing with Mac’s battered notebook, trying to decipher his scrawled writing and work out what he had planned for the gardeners to work on that day.
“Definitely doesn’t sound like Mac,” Bernie agreed. “Even if he has enlisted . . .” The word stuck in his throat and he had to swallow a couple of times before he carried on. “Even if he has, they won’t send him off straightaway.”
Ivy looked pale and tired.
“Lord, I hope he’s all right,” she said. “I can’t cope with anything else going wrong. Not with . . .” She trailed off and Bernie looked at his feet, embarrassed. He knew she meant him.
“Ivy,” he began, but as he spoke, Mac arrived in the break room, throwing open the door so violently that it slammed against the wall. His face was like thunder and he glowered at the gathered gardeners.
“Why the bloody hell are you all still in here?” he shouted. “It’s ten past, you should be outside. Go on, go.”
Like obedient mice, the gardeners all scurried away.
“Ivy, can you and Bernie go and check on the allotments and our veg patch first?” Jim said under his breath to them as they passed. “I’m going to stay here and see what’s up with Mac.”
Bernie nodded and Ivy touched Jim gently on the arm. Then, in silence, they both headed out to the Gardens, leaving poor Jim to deal with Mac’s rage.
“Christ,” said Ivy as they wandered over toward the vegetable gardens. “What was all that about? Think he’s scared about going away?”
“Almost certainly,” Bernie agreed. “But this seemed more, don’t you think?”
“More what? Oh, look, those lettuces are doing nicely already. That’s because of all the rain, I reckon.”
Bernie thought for a minute. “Not sure,” he said. “But I’ve seen lads ready to go and they normally go quiet. They’re not angry.” He took a breath. “Not yet.”
There was an awkward pause.
“We need to thin out those carrots,” Ivy said.
Bernie looked at where she was pointing and nodded. “Let’s start there, then. And then I think the spring cabbages could be ready.”
Ivy looked impressed.
“You’ve worked so hard on learning about the plants,” she said. “I hope Mac appreciates your effort.”
Bernie winced. “He did. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll appreciate it.”
Ivy had been crouched over the carrots. Now she looked up.
“Louisa’s been through a lot and that’s made her the way she is,” she said.
For the hundredth time Bernie was taken aback by Ivy’s astute way of seeing the world. One day she would stop surprising him, but it didn’t seem like happening any time soon.
“Her husband sounds like a right bad’un,” Ivy was saying. “He beat her badly, you know?”
Bernie didn’t know the full story, but he’d heard bits and pieces. He nodded. “I know some.”
“When she asked her mum for help, her mum told her she just had to put up with it. But she didn’t. She got herself together and she left him and came to London, all by herself. Do you have any idea how brave that was?”
Feeling as though she was telling him off, Bernie nodded again. “She’s very brave.”
“She is,” Ivy said. “And she’s got a very clear sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.” She took a breath. “Even if she’s not always correct.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Ivy?” Bernie said, anxiety never far from the surface.
“I’m trying to tell you that Louisa is angry about you being a conchie now, but she’s a good person and I don’t think she’ll do anything to hurt you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Feeling a tiny bit better, Bernie got on with thinning the carrots. He hoped Ivy was right. He wanted to stay quietly at Kew, helping the war effort in his own way. If Louisa exposed him, if she told everyone he should have enlisted, then he’d be forced to leave and no doubt marched down to the recruitment office and signed up on the spot. He’d have a rifle in his hand and some burly sergeant major teaching him how to use it to kill in a matter of weeks. He felt sick at the thought.
After about an hour’s hard work in the vegetable patch, a shout from over the path made them both look up.
“Ivy!” Jim was waving.
He jogged over to where they both stood looking expectantly at him.
“Have you been with Mac this whole time?” Ivy asked. “Is he doing all right?”
“Yes, I’ve been with him,” Jim said. He sat down on the grass round the vegetable patch with a thud. “And no, he’s not doing all right.”
Ivy sank down onto the grass, too. Bernie followed.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
“Mac enlisted,” Jim began. “At least, he tried to. They turned him down.”
“What?” Ivy said. “That must be a mistake. Mac’s strong as an ox.”
“He’s deaf.”
Bernie and Ivy stared at Jim.
“Really?” Bernie said. “Are you sure?”
Jim nodded. “He failed the hearing test, so they gave him another one to be sure and he failed that, too.”
“And he didn’t know?”
“He says he’s always had to ask people to speak up, and he often misses part of conversations,” Jim said.
“He’s not ignoring us when he doesn’t answer our questions,” Ivy said, realization dawning on her face. “He’s not being grumpy. He just can’t hear us.”
“Bugger,” said Bernie, feeling genuine sympathy for the man, even though he was relieved it meant Mac wouldn’t be facing the Germans anytime soon.
“Poor sod’s in bits,” said Jim. “I told him I’d spread the word to the gardeners. I reckon he’d appreciate it if no one mentions it for a while.”
“Course.” Ivy and Bernie spoke in unison.
“He said the recruiting officer was ever so nice. Told him he was doing important work here and not to be downhearted. But Mac says he just feels awful about all the lads who’ve gone when he can’t do his bit.”
Bernie shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You don’t have to fight to make a difference,” he said.
Jim gave him a sharp look and Bernie realized Ivy had clearly been discussing his objections to the war with her boyfriend.
“That’s just how he feels,” Jim snapped. He looked at Bernie. “You might want to keep quiet about your pacifism shit,” he said, spitting out the ugly word and making both Bernie and Ivy wince. “Mac won’t want to hear it.”
“Right,” muttered Bernie. Desperate to get away, he turned to Ivy. “I’m going to get going on those cabbages.”
“Great,” she said, giving him a small smile.
He worked on the cabbages until lunchtime and then ate alone. Ivy had gone off somewhere with Jim and there was still no sign of Louisa. Mac was deep in conversation with Dennis and two of the female gardeners outside the break room, and Bernie was g
lad of the opportunity to sneak past him to collect his lunch without having to speak.
The afternoon passed quietly, too. Jim asked Bernie to dig some manure into the beds, which was an unpleasant job, but Bernie didn’t argue. He worked hard, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in his stomach. He was concerned about Mac and so worried about what Louisa might do that he found it hard to think of anything else. He thought perhaps he might feel better if he spoke to her—take a leaf out of her book, in fact, and face his fears. Stand up for himself, instead of running away. And so he decided, uncharacteristically, he would go to Louisa’s flat after work and speak to her, try to make her understand his argument, even if she didn’t completely agree with it.
Feeling more at peace, at six o’clock—later than he normally worked—he put away his fork and spade and went into the break room to take off his manure-stained overalls. As he was unbuttoning them, Mac appeared.
“Bernie,” he said.
“Mac.”
There was a pause and then Mac added: “You’ve heard?”
“I have.” Bernie turned round so he was facing Mac directly. He’d been thinking about his condition as he worked and realized the man often missed conversations if he wasn’t looking at the speaker. Perhaps he’d learned to lip-read without realizing. “Sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted.”
Mac gave Bernie a small smile. “Things rarely do, I find.”
“I agree.”
Bernie took a breath. “I don’t expect you’ll want to hear it, not yet, but I’m pleased you’ll still be here at Kew.”
Mac didn’t speak, simply nodded. He pulled out a chair and sat down, weary. The men looked at each other for a second, then Bernie turned back to his locker and carried on unbuttoning his overalls. He peeled them off and put them in the dirty laundry basket, pulled on his trousers and tucked in his shirt. Then he took his raincoat from the coat stand and went to put that on, too.
But as he put his arm in, a white feather floated out. It must have been stuffed down the sleeve and he’d dislodged it with his fingers. Bernie froze, watching the delicate plume drift down to the floor. Slowly it danced downward, Bernie’s eyes never leaving it until it settled gently on the tiles. Heart pounding, he raised his gaze and saw, to his despair, Mac had seen it, too. Neither of them spoke. Could he brazen this one out? It was possible. Carefully, he put his other arm through the other sleeve. Nothing. But as he pulled his bag from his locker a whole load of feathers tumbled out, each one spinning and twisting in the breeze from the open door as they fell to the ground.
Bernie didn’t move, but he felt Mac’s eyes boring into his back, and as the feathers fell, he forced himself to turn round and face the older man’s stare.
“What is this?” Mac said. He sounded calm, which frightened Bernie more than if he’d been angry. “What does this mean?”
Bernie’s mouth was dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. He cleared his throat.
“Someone,” he began.
“Speak. Up,” Mac said, his calm voice beginning to simmer with rage. “Speak the hell up.”
Bernie tried again.
“Someone thinks I should have enlisted,” he said. The words quivered as he spoke, like the fronds of the feathers floating around him.
“Should you have enlisted?”
Bernie licked his dry lips.
“Yes, sir,” he said. He’d never called Mac “sir” before. “I should have enlisted.”
Mac nodded, as though that was the answer he had been expecting.
“And why haven’t you?”
Memories of the humiliation he’d felt when he’d proposed to Vivienne and she’d laughed began to surface. Bernie felt dizzy. He didn’t speak.
“Why haven’t you enlisted, Yorke?”
“Because I’m a Quaker, sir,” he said. “A pacifist.”
Mac glared at him and he tried again.
“I’m a conscientious objector.”
Mac grimaced. “Get. Out,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Get out of the Gardens,” Mac said. “I never want to see you again.” He nodded and then carried on, as though they were having an amiable conversation. “In fact, if I do catch sight of your sniveling, cowardly face, Yorke, I’ll consider it my contribution to the war effort to smack it so hard your nose comes out the back of your head. Understood?”
Bernie understood, all right. Gibbering apologies and aware there were tears beginning to brim in his eyes, he gathered his bag to his chest and ran away.
He ran all the way to the bus stop, and his heart didn’t stop thumping even when he’d got to Battersea. What a thing to happen. What an awful, dreadful thing.
Still in a state of shock and upset, he reached the front door of his digs. But as he patted his pockets frantically, he realized he’d left his keys in his locker. Mrs. Spencer wouldn’t be impressed, but what could he do? He couldn’t go back and get them. Instead he yanked on the doorbell, hoping she was in and feeling in a kindly mood.
For once, his luck was in. She flung open the door and her stern face softened immediately as she saw him hunched on the doorstep.
“Jesus Christ, what’s happened to you?” she said, bustling him inside and into the lounge. “Come in, come in. You’re in a right old state.”
With her kind words, Bernie fell apart. He started trembling so violently that Mrs. Spencer thought he was ill.
“Are you having an attack?” she said. “Are you going to be sick? Should I fetch a doctor?”
He waved her worries away.
“I just need to sit down,” he croaked. “Could I sit down?”
“Here. Lie down on the sofa. Let’s get your coat off first,” she said. Like a child, Bernie let her peel his mackintosh from his shoulders and then watched in shock as another feather—how could there be so many of them?—appeared. Mrs. Spencer watched it float down to the floor and then reached out a swift hand and caught it.
“Conchie,” she said. Her concerned look had vanished, replaced with disgust.
Bernie threw his head back in despair. There was no point in trying to lie.
“Yes,” he said. “Conchie.”
“Then you’re not welcome in my house,” said Mrs. Spencer. “Pack your bags. You’ve got ten minutes, or I’ll call a policeman.”
Bernie nodded, bewildered by how his life had fallen apart so thoroughly in less than a day. Still, it wasn’t the first time and he was beginning to think it wouldn’t be the last.
Wearily he made his way to the lounge door.
“Ten minutes?” he said. “I’ll be gone in five.”
Chapter 13
Ivy was one of the first at work the next day and the break room was deserted when she went in to drop off her bag. She felt uneasy, uncomfortable, as though everything she’d thought was solid was shifting. She’d not seen Louisa properly since they’d been to the meeting; she was worried about seeing Mac and hadn’t yet decided if she should bring up his hearing problem or leave it unsaid. And Bernie. Well, the knowledge that Louisa felt obliged to act about him being a conscientious objector was hanging over Ivy like a rain cloud. She was still hoping Louisa might see sense and change her mind and let Bernie be.
But as Ivy went to her locker she noticed, on the floor of the room, a small heap of white feathers. Right below Bernie’s cubbyhole.
“Ohhh bugger,” she breathed. “Bugger.”
Quick as a flash, and hoping no one else had spotted them, she got down on her knees and scooped up all the feathers together, bunching them in her hands.
As she stood up again, she realized Mac was there, looking at her. He often came in early and made himself a cup of tea that he drank outside, watching the Gardens wake up. Stupid Ivy not to remember that. She met his stare, still cupping her hands round the feathers.
“Whit
e feathers,” Mac said quietly.
Ivy forced herself to laugh.
“No idea where they’ve come from,” she said casually. “I thought at first a bird had got in here, but I can’t see anything.”
“Don’t, Ivy,” Mac said. “I know.”
Ivy’s stomach dropped into her work boots. “You know?”
“I know Bernie’s a conchie.”
Mac was known to have a bad temper that flared up unpredictably, and often violently. Ivy felt sick now as she looked at him. “Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“What happened? Where is he? Is he all right?”
Mac took a breath. Frantic, Ivy scanned the floor for signs of a fight. Was there any blood?
“I don’t know where he is.”
“What did you do?”
“I threw him out,” Mac said. “I told him I never want to see his face in here again.”
Ivy was dizzy with relief. She steadied herself against the lockers. “But you didn’t hit him? He’s not hurt?”
“No.” Mac almost seemed indignant at the suggestion. “Not hurt.”
He took a step toward her. His eyes were sad, which unsettled Ivy more than him being angry would have.
“I was upset, Ivy, about my hearing. It was bad timing, is all. I was angry at the world and I took it out on Bernie. It was a mistake and I’m sorry.”
Ivy gripped the feathers in her hand a bit tighter, their spines digging into her fingers.
“So he can come back? You can give him his job back?”
He sighed. “No.”
“But if you made a mistake . . . ?”
“I’ve reported him.”
Ivy leaned against the lockers again.
“So that’s it?” she said. “Someone will be knocking on his door and sending him down to the recruitment office any minute?”
Mac looked at the floor. “I suppose so.”
“I need to warn him,” Ivy said in a hurry. “I need to tell him what’s happening and warn him.”
She shoved the feathers at Mac. “Throw these away,” she said. “I’m taking the day off.”
Without waiting to hear if he agreed, she headed back out into the Gardens toward the gate. In the distance she saw Louisa, chatting to one of the other gardeners and briefly she thought about going to confront her. But time was of the essence here. She had no idea how long Bernie would have before he was forced to enlist, and she wanted to get to him first. To say good-bye. She swallowed a sob as she thought about her reading and writing lessons, about Bernie buying her the sketchbook, about everything. But she carried on, almost running to the bus stop to get to Battersea and Bernie’s digs.
