The English Girl: A heartbreaking and beautiful World War 2 historical novel

by Sarah Mitchell

  There was time to notice the shift in his gaze, a slight intensifying of colour, that may have been surprise or even discomfort, before a crescendo of light, rapid footsteps signalled the return of Daisy from the lavatory. Fran felt the tug of paper through her fingers, before Thomas stepped smartly away from her just as the door to the office opened. ‘Thank you, Fräulein.’ He was holding the list aloft, as if to demonstrate the reason for his presence. ‘I will take the information to Officer Williams.’

  After he had gone and Daisy was back in her chair, she straightened a stack of files by rapping the short edge of them sharply against the desk, paused and glanced at Fran. ‘He’s good-looking that one, don’t you think?’

  Keeping her gaze focused downwards, Fran carried on writing out an order for medical supplies. ‘I suppose so.’ Then, with careful nonchalance, ‘If you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘That kind of thing. You mean a German man?’

  Fran shrugged. She was aware that Daisy was now looking at her properly and, despite her efforts, a thin trickle of heat was seeping into her face.

  ‘Well, I think he likes you.’

  Fran swallowed hard, making sure to keep the pen moving. ‘Why on earth would you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Daisy sounded genuinely perplexed. ‘I don’t know why I think it, but I do.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re talking a load of old rubbish.’

  Fran counted three breaths before Daisy picked up her pen and she could let out a long exhalation, releasing the air by degrees so as not to make a noise. Circles of sweat were pooling under her arms, and beneath the heading Medical Supplies for the week beginning 2 December 1946, she found she had written plain absorbent gauze three times over.

  The memory is so consuming that Fran stops listening to the vicar entirely and only becomes aware he must have dropped in something unexpected about the familiar virtues of forgiveness on account of the sudden icy ripple that circumnavigates the church. Gazing around, she sees everyone sitting a little straighter in their pews and focusing on the vicar with unusual interest. Fran plucks at June’s elbow. However, when her sister turns, such an expression of distaste is splashed across her face that Fran decides to forgo an explanation and simply shakes her head.

  ‘I realise that some of you may find it harder to heed my words, than others,’ the vicar continues, ‘but I make this suggestion now that advent has begun, the time when we nurture our own Christmas spirit. As we do, let us not forget the message of our Lord Jesus Christ, who entreated his father to forgive his enemies even as he suffered on the cross. Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. How much easier should it be for us to take the first step in forgiving our enemies, and by so doing take the first step in healing ourselves?’ Before anyone dares to suggest an answer to that question, the organ plunges into the final hymn and pulls the muttering congregation to their feet.

  After the service, parishioners gather in knots outside the church. It doesn’t take Fran long to understand what has happened. ‘Can you believe it?’ June storms, the moment they are through the door. ‘Invite a German prisoner into our home for Christmas! The gall of the man! Tell me how we’re supposed to eat Christmas dinner alongside the murderers of our husbands, sons and brothers? I would choke. We would all of us choke! It’s bad enough seeing them strut about the village, now they’re allowed to take walks, and having to hear their horrible language. But asking us to bring them into our own houses, and at Christmas too! It’s impossible.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s impossible, not now.’ Fran speaks slowly, recalling a piece she heard on the news only days earlier. As well as allowing prisoners the freedom to roam up to five miles from their camps, the government had decided to relax the regulations preventing civilians from fraternising with them. The change wasn’t enormous, but it meant that prisoners could now accept invitations into private homes over the festive period. They were also permitted to send and receive letters from the British public. For a while she had hovered by the wireless, unsure what to make of the announcement that had left her with a vague, rather prickly sensation of both trepidation and anticipation. According to the broadcast, the idea of Christmas visits had come from the clergy, so she supposed it was hardly surprising their vicar wanted to encourage the initiative. Besides, after the awful accident on the beach, some of the villagers might even be sympathetic to the idea.

  ‘I mean impossible for us,’ June continues. ‘For any normal person. How can we welcome these beasts when they have caused such suffering? Especially at Christmas. Christmas is when, is when…’ Without warning the anger evaporates and her voice collapses to a whisper. ‘Is when the missing will be worst of all.’ Twisting away, she draws a sleeve across her eyes.

  Fran lays a hand on her sister’s arm. The graveyard has the same icy dankness as the church, the sky the same grey as the arched stone roof, while under June’s skin she can feel misery pulsing like a second heartbeat. As Fran gazes at the parishioners huddled among the tombstones, the air swollen with their muttered indignation, she’s overwhelmed by the absurdity of her feeling for Thomas with the totality and suddenness of a bucket of water tipped over her head. She’s shivering both with cold and a new sense of hopelessness when there’s a crunch of gravel behind her.

  ‘Fran!’ Daisy’s voice is an unexpected shot of colour. ‘I thought it was you. Mother and I normally go to the church in our village but the vicar’s away, so we came here. I’m rather glad we did! There’s nothing like a bit of controversy to get everyone talking, is there?’

  Fran smiles despite herself. ‘This is my sister, June,’ she offers, but June has disengaged from Fran’s touch and is walking straight-backed towards a group of villagers.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Daisy says. ‘Have I caused offence?’

  ‘She was upset by the vicar’s announcement. She’s… we’re all struggling to cope without our brother, so the idea of German prisoners sharing Christmas with us is unthinkable to her.’

  ‘To her, but not to you?’ Daisy’s eyes are wide and curious.

  ‘I don’t know…’ Fran drops her gaze to a nearby gravestone. Albert Jones 1852–1924. Already the lettering is worn by rain and crumbly yellow moss. She wonders what Albert would have to say about the vicar’s speech, whether he would say that life was too short to waste with hatred and bitterness, or if he would consider it weak and unprincipled to befriend the very people with whom you were so recently at war. And what would his answers have been when he was alive, before he fully understood the truth of his mortality?

  ‘I suppose,’ Fran says slowly, ‘that I don’t consider the German prisoners are to blame for Robbie dying, or even the war, in the same way that June does.’ Or perhaps, it occurs to her, she’s deliberately choosing not to think that way because of Thomas.

  To change the subject, she looks around the churchyard. ‘Where’s your mother? I should like to meet her.’

  ‘Over there.’ Daisy gestures towards a woman wearing a handsome camel-coloured coat who is standing beside the gate that leads onto the lane. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you. I’ve spoken so much about you and already told her you must come for afternoon tea soon. I must warn you though, she’s recently fallen completely in love and hardly speaks about anything else!’

  Fran stares.

  Daisy laughs. ‘It’s perfectly all right. My father died so long ago I can barely remember him. I’ve been dying for Mother to meet someone else, and at long last she has. It’s really quite wonderful to see her so happy.’

  ‘And is she talking to him now?’

  ‘What? Oh no, I don’t think so.’ Daisy peers towards the gate, where a man on the far side of it has just begun to stroll away. Her brow puckers. ‘I’ve no idea who he is.’ Then, raising her arm, ‘Mother! Do come over here and meet my lovely friend Frances.’

  Daisy’s mother glances at the retreating figure before pulling the camel coat about her more tightly and walking towards them. />
  ‘Fran must come to tea, don’t you think?’ Daisy says the moment the introductions have been made.

  ‘Why of course, that would be delightful.’ The reply is distracted.

  ‘What about this afternoon?’

  ‘This afternoon?’ Daisy’s mother looks amazed. She gazes first at Fran and then at Daisy as if she must have missed something. Close up, Fran sees she has the same wide face as her daughter, with hair that must once have been the same ginger-gold but now is faded and flecked with grey threads.

  ‘I’m sure you’re very busy and today would be dreadfully inconvenient,’ Fran says. The suddenness of the invitation has taken her aback and, despite Daisy’s comment about her mother’s new love, all Fran can see is a veil of anxiety.

  ‘No, we’re not busy at all.’ Daisy is insistent. ‘And my brother will be at home this afternoon. I’m certain he would like to make your acquaintance too. Mother’ – she prods the camel coat to get her mother’s attention – ‘it would be all right for Fran to come to tea today, wouldn’t it? About three o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Daisy’s mother still sounds rather unfocused.

  There’s a short pause. Daisy frowns. She peeks at the lane beyond the church that is now beginning to fill with the departing congregation. ‘Mother, who were you talking to at the gate? Who was that man?

  ‘Nobody. Nobody you know. Just a doctor.’

  ‘Was he in church?’

  ‘No, apparently he was visiting a patient and happened to be passing.’ Apparently is slightly weighted, laced with an emphasis that’s almost, but not quite, unnoticeable. Fran is wondering whether Daisy heard the inflection too, when, as if to draw a line, Daisy’s mother gathers herself and beams at Fran with a smile that seems to light up the whole churchyard. ‘Do please come to tea this afternoon. We’d all be very pleased to see you.’

  Chapter Ten

  Daisy’s house is big and square and full of tall sash windows with glossy green ivy curling between the frames. When Fran presses the doorbell, she hears it reverberate through the bowels of the building, and the slap of footsteps on tiles lasts for several seconds before the door swings open. To Fran’s surprise, the person standing before her is neither Daisy nor Daisy’s mother but a housekeeper, complete with a button-up black dress and full-length apron. She takes Fran’s coat, which is damp with the snowflakes that have been falling ever since the church service finished, and gestures at a pair of double doors. ‘Mrs Travis-Jones is waiting in the drawing room.’ As if on cue, a grandfather clock rings in the hour.

  Fran hesitates. Should she go in herself, or wait to be shown in? She’s still hovering as Daisy appears behind her with the rapidity of a gust of wind.

  ‘Poor you, did you get totally drenched? How awful the weather has turned out to be! If I had known before, I should never have suggested you come today.’

  Fran reaches for her hair and touches a veil of ice. The walk from the bus stop was longer than she anticipated. She had been only too aware of the wind seeping between the folds of her coat, of the flakes oozing into her shoes, but until now she hadn’t considered the effect the snow would have on her appearance. ‘Heavens, I must be a frightful mess! Whatever will your mother think?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Daisy contemplates Fran in a way that is half amused and half something Fran can’t quite identify. ‘You look marvellous, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And your cheeks have got a glow that I can only manage by spending hours in front of a mirror with the rouge. Come on!’ Before Fran can respond, Daisy grabs Fran’s wrist and sweeps her through the doors.

  The drawing room is thick with curtains and rugs and the snap of logs burning behind a complicated wrought-iron guard. Fran perches on the edge of the sofa and accepts cucumber and crab-paste sandwiches. Daisy and her mother sustain the conversation by debating a recent talk at the Women’s Institute on the virtues of growing onions, the dreariness of rationing, and Daisy and Fran’s vital work at the camp. Although the discourse is pleasant enough, Fran can’t help but sense there’s a purpose to the occasion and either she has missed it or it has yet to materialise. A rather splendid gramophone is visible on a corner table. Daisy, she remembers, had at one time spoken of teaching her to jitterbug; however the idea of dancing seems to have been forgotten about entirely.

  She’s draining her second helping of tea when a light tapping on the door cuts through Daisy’s account of how she almost muddled an order for semolina with one for powdered milk. At exactly the same instant that Daisy and her mother set down their cups, a young man with a stooped, apologetic frame enters the room.

  Daisy bounces to her feet immediately. ‘Frances, may I present my brother, Martin.’

  Fran finds she is glued to the sofa cushion. Just as Daisy’s smile is beginning to fade and Fran is finally able to move, Martin steps hurriedly forwards. ‘Please don’t get up. Absolutely no need at all.’ Close up, Fran can see the faintest smudges of blue around the bone of his right eye socket and the bulge that spoils the line of his nose. His gaze locks with Fran’s, the entreaty plain.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Martin,’ Fran says carefully. She’s aware of Daisy’s glance flicking back and forth between them as if trying to locate a station on the wireless.

  ‘Martin had an accident a few weeks ago,’ Daisy says, apparently having decided that Fran must be suspicious of Martin’s appearance. ‘He tripped and fell down a flight of steps when he was out walking after dark. You mustn’t think he’s the type to get into fights.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Fran says. Then to Martin, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. I do hope you weren’t badly hurt?’

  ‘Just a few cuts and bruises.’ He finds her eyes again. ‘I was lucky, all things considered. It could have been a lot worse.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Well, then,’ his mother’s voice contains a trace of impatience, ‘now that’s all out of the way, please do eat something, Martin. It’s nearly four o’clock and Irene will need to clear soon. In fact’ – standing up, she glances sideways at her daughter – ‘I may just go and see where Irene is.’

  As soon as her mother has left the room, Daisy pours Fran yet more tea before embarking on a monologue that moves rapidly from Martin’s work – He’s a solicitor, you know. Training practically finished and soon to qualify with the most wonderful firm – toys briefly with the weather – Quite alarming, the gardener insists we’re in for a hellish few months – before alighting on the subject of the cinema. A Girl in a Million was terribly funny and just the thing to brighten up the cold climate. At this point, Daisy leans slightly forwards. ‘Have you seen it yet, Fran?’

  Fran shakes her head.

  All at once Daisy becomes preoccupied with a spot on her skirt, as if worried she might have spilled something. ‘And what about you, Martin?’ she says without looking at him. ‘Joan Greenwood is quite hilarious, and I know how much you adore her!’

  An in-breath of perfect quiet fills the room, a moment in which the aim of the conversation, of the whole invitation in fact, becomes as clear as the crystal rose bowl glinting at Fran from the sideboard. Fran drops her gaze and busies her own hands by dropping a sugar lump into her tea. She daren’t even glance at Martin. It’s bad enough to listen to the embarrassment in his voice as he murmurs that he has been too busy recently to even think of going to the cinema.

  ‘Well fancy that!’ A pause. Then, Daisy says, ‘Please don’t think me rude, Fran. I must disappear for a second or two to see if Mother needs any help.’ A second later the smooth mahogany doors click behind her, leaving Fran and Martin in a pool of stillness.

  Fran stirs her tea, focusing on the swirl of brown liquid that is now both too cold and too sweet to drink. Martin coughs gently. ‘Sorry about that. Believe it or not, Daisy has no idea how dreadfully obvious she can be. I very much hope you’ll take it as a compliment – the rather clumsy attempt at matchmaking, I mean. She’s terribly protective about her older brot
her, although I’m certain that sort of thing is supposed to work the other way around!’

  Fran lifts her head. Martin is propped against the mantelpiece, regarding her with a concerned sort of intensity. From where she’s sitting, his bruising would be invisible to anyone who didn’t know about the incident in the alley. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell her the real reason for your injuries?’

  There’s a beat of silence.

  ‘She would only worry,’ Martin says finally. ‘And my mother would worry even more when I’ve already caused them quite enough heartache. I’m really very grateful you didn’t say anything to give the game away.’

  Abandoning the pretence of the tea, Fran deposits the cup and saucer on the tray. ‘Daisy mentioned you have a problem with your heart. Is that why those men picked on you?’

  This time the silence is longer. Martin gazes at his shoes until the memory of the accusations flung about the dark lane answers Fran’s question. ‘That’s dreadful!’ she bursts out.

  Martin half-shrugs his shoulder.

  ‘They attacked you for being a coward, when you were too ill to fight!’

  ‘It’s not so much an illness,’ Martin murmurs, ‘more of a defect with one of the valves, I believe. I suppose from their perspective it must seem rather convenient, rather wet, and I imagine they’ve seen some pretty awful things. It’s only natural to want to take it out on someone. I can hardly bear to think how easy it’s been for me.’

  Fran stares at him. ‘You sound like you think you deserved – what was it they said? A punch or two!’

  ‘No, no, I wouldn’t go that far.’ Martin jabs the fire with a poker so that sparks cascade from a log. ‘I only mean I understand how they feel. How pathetic I must seem. Look’ – he clunks the fire iron back on its stand and straightens up – ‘let’s change the subject. I know how awfully tactless my sister is, but I haven’t seen that film she mentioned, and a good laugh could be just the thing to raise the spirits. So, if you might be persuaded to take a chance on an evening with a bit of an odd crock like me…’