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

by Sarah Mitchell

  ‘I didn’t refuse to serve! Nobody told me the report was false!’ Martin recalls the nights with his fingers pressed upon his upturned wrist, timing his pulse with the second hand of his watch. The long and lonely walks on the heath to keep his heart beating, his health strong. ‘I only discovered what happened recently.’

  ‘How convenient.’ The doctor stops. Then, steadily, ‘You’d better hope that other people believe you.’

  There’s another, flatter silence before Dr Dandy places his hands palms down on the desk and rocks forwards. ‘Now, what exactly do you want with me?’ All at once his tone is chummier, conciliatory. ‘I’m sure we’ve both got better things to do than rake up the past. Let’s say – for argument’s sake – that I did assist Dr Sands with one or two medical boards when he was too ill to conduct them himself; what’s done is done. You’re hale and hearty and the war is over. Good news all round. No point at all in either of us getting worked up about it now.’

  Martin swallows. What did he want? To confront Dr Dandy and be certain of the truth? And after that, what then? Whatever he expected from the encounter – an apology, a sense of reckoning, of closure – has not materialised in the slightest. If anything, he feels worse than he did previously, for having been duped so easily. Yet, the doctor is right, neither the police nor the Law Society would believe for one moment he could have been so naive, that he wasn’t complicit in saving his own skin. And if the fraud were to come to light, the consequences would be very serious indeed.

  The doctor is regarding him closely. Despite his confident little speech, Martin can tell he is anxious for the encounter to be over. Yet the sense of unfinished business lingers in his nostrils like the stench of garlic or week-old fish.

  Very serious indeed.

  He recalls the argument in the sitting room, the man’s voice shouting at his mother, rising through the floorboards of his bedroom. A low-backed leather chair is positioned in front of the doctor’s desk. With exaggerated care, Martin pulls out the frame and sits down. ‘The question is not what I want, but what you want from my mother? Some weeks before Christmas, you came to our house one night. I overheard you both talking.’

  The doctor sinks back into his own seat.

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘Why should I deny it? Your mother has remained an acquaintance.’

  ‘Whom you visit late in the evening?’

  ‘That is your mother’s affair and has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I assume,’ Martin says bitterly, ‘that you asked her for money? I imagine she paid you very well for the report at the time, but you go back and demand more when it suits you. Or your funds are running low. I suppose you threaten her with the consequences of the lie being discovered.’

  ‘As I said, my business with your mother is nothing to do with you.’

  The doctor drops his gaze and picks up a paperweight. The glass contains a picture of a riverbank, an antique picture with a rowing boat and trailing willow. As the doctor passes the dome from one hand to the other, Martin can feel the solidity of the item, the blemish-free surface gliding over his skin as vividly as if he were holding the object himself.

  ‘From now on I’m making the arrangement my business.’ He stops, waiting until the doctor raises his head. ‘Whatever she’s paid you, that’s enough. If you ask for any more…’

  ‘You’ll do what?’

  ‘I’ll go to the police.’

  The doctor’s eyes glitter. ‘And show them what? Dr Sands’ report? You’ll only implicate yourself. And your mother, of course. I can’t imagine you want that outcome.’

  All at once Martin longs to reach across the desk, grab the paperweight and bury the glass into the shiny bulge of the doctor’s forehead. Instead he says in a level voice, ‘I keep a diary. I’ve done so for a number of years. The entry I wrote for the tenth of August 1941 records that I was seen by a Dr Dandy. I can also establish that Dr Sands had stopped practising by then and I will tell the police the false diagnosis was my idea, the product of my own cowardice, and my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with it. As you said yourself’ – he finishes sourly – ‘who would believe that I didn’t know?’

  He watches Dr Dandy watching him. I mean every word, Martin thinks, I don’t care about the consequences for myself, only for this vile man to be out of our lives for ever.

  It’s the doctor who drops his gaze first. ‘I think you need to leave now.’

  ‘If—’

  ‘I heard you the first time.’

  Martin gets to his feet, a flame of triumph hot in his chest. His hand is on the door when the doctor speaks again.

  ‘Money, is that what she told you?’

  Martin turns around.

  The doctor’s expression is smug. Vindictive and smug. ‘Why do you assume I wanted money? When it was clear your mother would do anything at all to save her boy from the horrors of the front.’

  As Martin stares, the penny drops, and all at once he understands the real purpose of the doctor’s late-night visit. His mother’s reticence, her caginess to expand on what had happened, and the reason why her recent relationship should have provoked such turmoil fall into place with horrible completeness. He thinks of his mother, her kind, handsome face, and his fury at the exploitation is unbearable.

  I am not a violent man, he reminds himself, yet the vinegar of hatred is ballooning on his tongue, the strength of his loathing is swelling in his chest, and already he is walking, striding towards the desk, his fist is coiling into a ball, and before he can hesitate or think or reason his way to stopping, he is plunging his knuckles deep and hard into the doctor’s bloody face.

  * * *

  Halfway home Martin pulls over to the side of the road. He has no memory at all of the first part of his journey. Presumably he must have left the surgery, retraced his steps along the gravel driveway and unlocked the car. At some point he must also have put on his hat and driving gloves, for he is wearing them now. Yet he has no recollection of doing so, nor of how he took his leave from Dr Dandy. He can hear the man’s groan of surprise and picture him doubled over, cupping his nose, while a sticky crimson stream dripped down his chin and puddled onto the desk. After that, nothing – until a few moments ago when he noticed his own hands were shaking and that the unencumbered sky of the countryside had opened out in front of him like the start of a whole new day.

  Reaching into the glovebox he extracts a packet of Churchman’s and a box of matches. Not that he’s a smoker, not really. Or a fighter, come to that. He gets out of the car and takes off his gloves to strike a flame. The knuckles of his right hand are still red and smarting. He must have given the doctor a pretty good whack, yet the only emotion he can sense somewhere beneath the shock is grim and total satisfaction. Drawing on the cigarette, he gazes over the fields. For the first time in weeks the colour green is visible, flickering into view like a piece of jewellery bedazzling a tired old dress. Neon blades of grass crest ripples of retreating snow and mud, while in the late-afternoon sunlight a sparrowhawk dips and dives over the hedges.

  His mother slept with Dr Dandy. That was the unforgettable, unmistakable insinuation of the doctor. Martin makes himself focus on the smoke-tipped wings of the bird to block the possibility of other, far more troubling, images filling his head, and finds his fingers are trembling again. Not, then, shock at himself for striking the vile little man, shock at what his mother was prepared to do to keep him from the front line. The price exacted for his safety could hardly have been higher. He thinks of all the death and suffering: his mother’s grief – Frederick, his father – the loss of the cricket team, the heartbreak of a village, while he was tucked up in his bed each night with only himself to worry about.

  I’d better bloody hope I’m worth it.

  Taking a final drag, he feels the nicotine punch his lungs before pulverising the butt under his heel.

  If that man ever shows his face again, I’ll bloody kill him.

  The sparrow
hawk flies closer, circling, once, twice… Martin waits for the sudden plunge, the sight of something small between its claws. Instead, unexpectedly, the bird banks, lifting away and upwards into a liquid sky. Martin stares until his eyes water, until he can decipher nothing except the canvas of cloud and sinking sun, and then he climbs into the motor and starts the ignition with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. If he gets a good run back, he might still make the second half of the concert.

  * * *

  By the time he reaches the village hall the day has all but disappeared, leaving only a glow of yellowish pink in the western sky. Parking on the edge of the field, Martin exits the car quickly. If Fran is here, then he will try one last time to ask her for another date. Perhaps she really has been too busy to see him? He may have read too much into her demeanour at their lunch; his preoccupation with the wretched army medical might have made him take an unnecessarily bleak view of the situation. He flexes his right hand experimentally. His knuckles are sore, yet the ache feels somehow agreeable, much like a badge of honour from a playground scrap or rugby match. He wonders what Dr Dandy will tell his wife. Presumably the bastard is sufficiently adept at spinning lies that he won’t find it too hard to invent a reason why the man in reception punched him on the nose. Perhaps he will suggest Martin was suffering from a mental disorder. And in a manner of speaking, he would be right.

  As he hurries from the car, music drifts across the grass. A rather melancholic number, by the sound of it, the notes carried with precision by the still night air. Martin slows his pace. It occurs to him he would do better to use the side door, which would allow him to slip into a seat discreetly. Changing direction mid-stride, he heads towards the far side of the building.

  The instant he steps around the corner, he comes to a halt. Through an uncurtained window, the inside of the hall is shining back at him like his own private theatre. Fran is sitting next to June and so close to the wall she would be within touching distance. Her dress is one Martin has never seen before, red with white polka dots, the fabric is fitted over her bust and falls to a skirt that brushes the floorboards. Even if I wasn’t in love with her, he thinks, I would find her the most beautiful girl in the room. Altogether about a dozen rows of chairs are facing the stage, where a drummer, a pianist and a saxophonist are gathered in a semicircle. German prisoners, of course – though, for a split second, it strikes him, they were simply musicians.

  He raises his hand to tap the glass, then hesitates. While most of the audience are twitching fingers or feet in time with the rhythm, Fran is sitting utterly motionless. Exposed by the glare of the ceiling lights, the gleam in her eyes, the flush on her skin, and the upturned arc of her lips radiate complete happiness. Beside her, June’s face is a stony mask. Martin is still pondering the comparison when a flourish of drumsticks brings the music to a finish and a woman wearing a matching twinset stands up to say something about a ten-minute break and cups of tea.

  Martin doesn’t move. He finds his gaze being drawn to the saxophonist, and after a second or two he realises the man is familiar, and shortly after that it dawns on him that this is the prisoner who came to his rescue in the lane. Even while Martin is speculating whether Fran will recognise him too, the German hops down from the stage and begins to walk directly towards her.

  At first, Martin is merely surprised. A moment later his heart is disintegrating. The glow of Fran’s anticipation, the brilliance of her smile, and her utter enthralment as the German approaches are unmistakable, and his scattered thoughts slot together with the suddenness and clarity of the answer to a crossword clue. As a hollow sort of numbness fills his legs, he grasps hold of the window frame. She’s in love with the German, he realises with incredulity. It’s plain for everyone to see. All at once the truth of that conclusion strikes him afresh – and with alarm. An instant later he is hurrying through the side door.

  By the time he reaches them, Thomas is standing a little way distant, as if an invisible line has been drawn across the floor. June is scowling, while Fran’s gaze darts between her sister and the German. As soon as she sees Martin, her face blossoms into a kind of agitated relief. ‘This is Thomas,’ she says quickly. ‘My family invited him to our house at Christmas.’

  Martin can’t tell whether she’s forgotten he has already met the man or the omission is deliberate. In any case he hardly wants to be reminded of the previous encounter himself. Keeping his expression blank, he nods at Thomas. ‘How do you do.’

  As their eyes engage there is a flash of blue.

  He is better looking than me, Martin notes heavily. And a soldier. Whereas I am a man who spent the war behind a desk nursing a heart problem that never existed. The familiarity of his shame is exhausting. Miserable and exhausting. Instinctively, his fist clenches and the prick of bruised skin over his knuckles conjures the image of Dr Dandy holding his nose, the red rain spattering onto the surgery carpet. He breathes out slowly, uncurls his fingers.

  Before he can speak, words bubble from Fran like a shaken bottle of soda. ‘You play the saxophone wonderfully!’ She’s talking to the German, of course. She seems incapable of focusing anywhere else.

  Thomas smiles and inclines his head. ‘Thank you, but I do not play so well. The man who plays the piano, he learned music at Leipzig.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re marvellous—’

  June cuts across her. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  June’s gaze swivels from her sister to the German. And back again.

  ‘The way you stare at him! You’re shameless!’

  Panic arrives on Fran’s face.

  ‘You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you? All your recent excuses about going for walks or collecting something from the camp were just that, excuses. Really you were meeting him! You’ve made it quite obvious tonight. You can’t take your eyes off him!’

  Fran gapes at her helplessly.

  ‘It’s called fraternising, Fran. Fraternising with the enemy. And in case you’ve forgotten the war, about the fathers and sons and husbands and brothers who are dead because of it, in case you’ve forgotten about Robbie, let me remind you: the Germans were our enemies and you’re breaking the law!’

  The hall has fallen very quiet. While nobody is being so obvious as to gawp, there is a hushed attentiveness to the posture of the couples and family groups. Martin wonders what they are thinking. How many of them would agree with June and whether they might have a different opinion if they had seen Thomas defend him in the alley or knew that when the weather was at its worst the coal trains only ran because of the Germans who cleared the snow from the railways. Meanwhile, Fran appears so stricken he can hardly stand to look at her. He gropes for something, anything, to say, and to his surprise the solution presents itself quite easily.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.’

  Around them, interest sharpens.

  Martin clears his throat to speak a little louder. ‘On the occasions you mention, I expect Fran was with me. Perhaps she felt too shy to tell you, but since our trip to the cinema we’ve been stepping out together.’ He adopts a slightly harder tone, the one he sometimes takes with over-bullish clients. ‘I imagine you are aware that Fran and I went to the cinema together a few weeks ago?’

  June doesn’t reply. She seems a little dazed.

  Martin turns away from her and takes a step towards Fran. In a smoother, gentler voice he says, ‘I’m sorry I was late this evening, dear. My appointment in town lasted longer than I was expecting. Shall we go and fetch ourselves some refreshments before the interval finishes?’ Before she can respond, he takes her elbow and steers her towards the trestle table where tea is being poured from an enormous urn into white china cups. For a fleeting moment, he fancies he is outside the hall again, watching someone else escort the woman in the dazzling dress across the room, an impartial observer, a bystander or passer-by, and not someone whose own heart hasn’t just been shattered into fragments.

/>   * * *

  ‘How could I be so careless in front of June?’

  ‘It’s easily done.’ When you’re in love, he wants to add. The exuberance, the happiness is like being drunk, at least the buoyant stage of the first few drinks when you feel invincible and the centre of the world. They are standing on their own now, at the back of the hall. Fran is stirring her tea, her mouth a wretched line, her complexion the same colour as the porcelain. ‘I suppose June was right, that you have been meeting Thomas in secret?’ Despite his effort to sound casual, the desperation in his voice is plain, even to himself.

  Fran glances over her shoulder, but June disappeared in the direction of the lavatory some minutes ago and has not yet returned. ‘He told me he didn’t play very well,’ she whispers, as if she either didn’t hear Martin’s question or the query is too obvious to require an answer. ‘I suppose he wanted to surprise me. He’s very artistic. At Christmas he gave my family the most wonderful picture of the coastline. He drew it himself. I think he must…’ She stops, lays the spoon in the saucer with a clatter and touches his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Martin. I should have told you. I should have tried to explain. You’ve always been so kind. And just now, when June was being so awful…’ She smiles up at him. ‘You were like a knight in shining armour!’

  The pressure of her hand is both exquisite and unbearable. He swallows. ‘In the fairy tales I used to read, the princess wants to marry the knight. Not run off with somebody else.’

  Her gaze plummets. For a long while she stares at her shoes.

  ‘I do like you, Martin. I like you very much indeed. But…’ The sentence dissolves.

  ‘You love him.’ His mouth, his tongue, seem to taste as if he hasn’t brushed his teeth for days.

  ‘I am dreadfully sorry.’

  Martin gazes into the tea he has no wish to drink.

  She lifts her head. ‘It’s like… it’s like I’m staring at the sun. I can’t see anything but him.’