by Clare Flynn
He made his way slowly back towards the distant buildings, Swee’Pea trailing behind him. No sign of Walt, but that wasn’t unusual. Probably fishing in the creek along the edge of the farm. Any opportunity to duck work and Walt took it. It annoyed their father but Jim always indulged his younger brother.
There was plenty of time to take a bath before supper. While meals were usually informal in the Armstrong household, he was going to make a special effort tonight as Alice was coming over to join them. He wanted to talk to her again about his dilemma over whether or not to join up – although he guessed what her opinion would be. She’d prick his bubble, remind him that it was someone else’s war, halfway across the world, and that they had plans to marry next summer. He smiled as he pictured her narrowing her eyes and frowning at him in mock disapproval – she was always good at bringing him down to earth. He couldn’t wait for next year to come, when at last he could have her to himself, when at last she would be his completely.
Spruced up, shaved and wearing a clean shirt, Jim sat down at the kitchen table. His father was already seated.
‘Wheat’s ready. I ordered the combine for tomorrow,’ Jim said.
‘Didn’t you say Alice was coming to supper tonight?’ his mother asked, as she carried a pot from the stove. ‘I’ve made butter pies. Not like her to be late.’
Jim shrugged. ‘I expect she got held up at the library. She’ll be here soon.’ He nodded towards another empty chair. ‘Where’s Walt?’
‘Went to check on the cow,’ said Donald. ‘Maybe she’s started. Not due for a few days but you never know. Why don’t you go and see if he needs a hand?’
Helga Armstrong sighed. ‘Dinner will be spoiled if you have to sort that cow out.’
‘Cows don’t care about mealtimes. When a calf’s coming it’s got to come.’ Jim pushed his chair back and got up from the table.
The porch door opened and Walt came into the kitchen. He pulled out his chair and sat down. ‘I’ve a right appetite tonight, Ma,’ he said. ‘What’s for supper?’
‘Nothing for you until you’ve scrubbed yourself up. We’ve company tonight. Alice is joining us.’
Walt sighed, got up and left the room.
His mother called out behind him, ‘And a clean shirt mightn’t hurt if you’ve been messing around those cows.’
A few minutes later the porch door rattled and Alice came into the kitchen. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said, her face flushed and her voice breathless. ‘I got here as fast as I could but that old bike was hard work tonight. Seems the whole town brought their books back today.’ She gave Jim a quick kiss on the cheek and sat down.
Jim waited until everyone was tucking into the peameal pork and baked beans, then said, ‘I saw Petey Howardson this afternoon when I went into town to book the combine. He’s had letters from his boys.’
Walt looked up. ‘And?’
‘They haven’t seen any action yet. Seem to be stuck at training camp. Nine months now. You don’t go to war to spend all your time on exercises.’ Jim shook his head.
‘Better not to go to war at all,’ their father barked.
‘Thank God, is what I say,’ said Helga. ‘I feel for those Howardsons. Three boys and all of them joined up and overseas. I pray their poor mother will get them all back safely when it’s over.’
‘The war to end all wars. What a joke that was. Barely twenty years later and they’re expecting more men to throw their lives away.’ Donald shovelled a spoonful of beans into his mouth.
Alice tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. ‘How are the Howardsons coping without the boys? Must be hard work for Petey.’
‘Mrs Howardson and the two girls are working hard and there are half a dozen kids who come by at the weekends and after school to lend a hand. The school has organised it that the older kids get off an hour early. Petey says they’re coping fine.’
Donald raised his eyes from his dinner. ‘I know where this is heading, son, and that’s an end to it. Easy enough for Petey to get by with women and children – he’s only growing vegetables and keeping cows. And two of those boys of his were worse than useless, specially that no-good Tip. It’s a different matter here. We can’t get by without you two.’
Helga wiped her hands on her apron and stood at the end of the table behind her husband. ‘What happens over in Europe is nothing to do with us, son. You’re not expected to go and fight. You’re needed here. The Prime Minister made it clear that fighting this war was voluntary. If Canadians were really needed they would be conscripted. Those Howardson boys were always work shy. Anything to get off the farm.’
Jim looked across the table at his brother, waiting for him to say something, but Walt stayed silent.
‘Every time I go into town I feel people looking at me. I know what they’re thinking. That I’m chicken. Afraid to defend my country.’ Jim turned towards Alice but she was looking down at her barely touched plate.
‘Defend your country?’ Donald slammed his fist onto the table. ‘No one’s attacking your country. If Hitler invades Canada then you can join up. Until then you’re staying here. No son of mine is going to go through what I went through. Not while I’ve breath in my body.’
Jim looked over at Walt who was frowning and scraping at the surface of the tablecloth, where one of the threads in the cloth was fatter than the others. He ran his fingernail over it repeatedly, as though trying to scratch it down to match the size of the other threads. Why wasn’t he jumping in to support Jim?
‘It’s not about defending our borders – Mr Mackenzie King said it was about defending all that makes life worth living.’ As Jim said the words he felt embarrassed. They sounded hollow coming from him whereas over the radio when the Prime Minister declared the country to be at war they had sounded noble, inspiring, compelling.
Eventually Walt looked up. ‘If Jim wants to go, then maybe he should. I can stay and help Pa with the farm.’
Jim’s mouth fell open. It was not what they’d talked about. How many times had they walked on the banks of the creek discussing joining up together? Walt had, if anything, been the prime mover. Right from last September, when Mackenzie King declared the country was following Britain into war against Germany, he had wanted them both to defy their father and volunteer.
Donald leaned back in his chair. ‘This is the last time I want to hear about this. You’re a grown man, Jim. I can’t stop you, but if you do go, then don’t bother coming back here afterwards. If you think risking your life for strangers is more important than supporting your own family, I’ve raised you wrong.’
Helga put a restraining hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Don.’ She turned to Jim. ‘Don’t you be paying attention to what other people say. Your responsibilities are here. And talking of running off to war when you’ve a wedding to plan – shame on you, Jim Armstrong. Staying right here growing wheat and corn to feed the troops and send to those poor folk in England is what will make the biggest contribution to this war.’ She smoothed down her apron. ‘And I don’t want you over there killing Germans. Remember your own grandmother was German. I was brought up German. Hitler may be a bad man, but all those German soldiers are young men like you and Walt. I don’t want any son of mine killing anyone. That’s the end of it. Now, who wants one of my butter pies? I made them specially for you, Alice.’
‘You’re spoiling me again, Mrs Armstrong,’ said Alice.
‘If I can’t spoil my future daughter-in-law, who can I spoil?’
Alice tucked an escaping strand of hair behind her ear and blushed. Jim looked at her and wondered, as he often did, how he’d managed to persuade the best-looking girl in the district to marry him. Her hair was pale blonde, shot through with the colour of ripe corn when the sunlight was on it. He had to fight the urge to run his hands through it whenever he saw her. When she smiled she lit up the room, her eyes as blue as cornflowers and her lips full, revealing a slight gap between her fr
ont teeth. His heart pounded as he looked at her. It almost killed him not touching her whenever she was close: it was like a child being left alone with a piece of candy and being told he mustn’t eat it. When he looked at her, the thought of joining up was less appealing. How he could he bear to be parted from her?
‘Stop that.’ His mother was addressing his brother. ‘You’ll tear a hole in my best tablecloth.’ She slapped him lightly on the arm.
Walt got up from the table. ‘I’m going to check on that cow again.’
‘You’ll go nowhere. We have a guest. Have you no manners?’ Helga reached out to grab her son’s arm, but he was too quick for her and left the room, the door slamming behind him.
‘What’s got into him?’ Helga shook her head.
‘I’ll go after him,’ said Jim half rising from the table.
‘Leave him be,’ their father growled.
The tension in the room was palpable. After a few minutes Alice looked at Jim, then got up and said it was time she was going.
‘I’ll walk you home.’ Jim was on his feet.
Alice laid a hand on his arm. ‘No, Jim, I came on my bicycle. I’ll be fine. Thank you so much, Mrs Armstrong. It was delicious, especially those butter pies.’ She waved at Donald and went out of the door, Jim following.
On the porch he pulled her towards him. ‘Shall we walk down by the creek for a while? We haven’t had a minute alone.’ He bent to kiss her.
She eased herself away from him before their lips touched. ‘I have a summer cold coming on and I don’t want to give it to you,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel too great so I think I’ll head on home. You go inside. It’s getting chilly.’ Before Jim could respond, she had stepped off the porch and was running towards the fence where her bicycle was leaning. He watched as she mounted the bike and pedalled away down the track.
Jim had no wish to sit in the kitchen with his parents and open the argument again. He wished them goodnight and told them he was going upstairs to read a book. In the room he had shared with Walt since they were small children, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Alice.
She had been in Walt’s class at school. Alice was a little kid with pigtails. He hadn’t noticed her, until one day when he saw her in the school yard surrounded by boys who were trying to persuade her to kiss them for five cents a go. It was then he really saw her. Alice was up against the wall, like a trapped animal. When he approached, her eyes fixed on him, uncertain whether he was about to add to her troubles or be her rescuer. He looked at the gang of boys and saw Walt was one of her persecutors. Jim had gripped his brother by the collar and shoved him away. ‘Leave her alone, you’re a bunch of bullies,’ he’d shouted and was rewarded with a smile from Alice that melted his indifference. She was thirteen and he was fifteen and from that point on she was devoted to him and he would have done anything for her. They started going steady the year Jim left school and had been together ever since, to Walt’s initial disgust and eventual silent resentment.
Jim tried to read his book but tonight he was immune to the call of Jack London. Putting the book aside he got up and went in search of Walt. Maybe that cow was calving.
Swee’Pea followed him as Jim headed into the barn. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark and shivered in the cool interior. There was no sign of Walt. The heavily pregnant cow gave a soft lowing as he approached then went back to munching hay. He ran his hands along her flank. Not ready yet. Maybe not until tomorrow. He was about to go outside and head back to the farmhouse when he heard a soft moaning. He looked about him. Apart from the cow the barn was empty. Another moan, louder this time and the sound of rustling straw. He looked up. It was coming from the hayloft.
Jim’s heart began to thump in his chest with a sudden unaccountable fear. For some reason he didn’t want to find out what was up there but felt compelled. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found hobos sleeping in the hayloft. A flicker of pain touched his right temple. He put his foot on the ladder and began to climb up.
Standing at the top of the steps he didn’t see them at first. It was almost entirely dark up there but the loose roof panel that Donald had been nagging him and Walt to fix, allowed a narrow stream of light to penetrate the gloom at the rear of the loft. Walt, his overalls at half mast, was on top of a girl whose legs were wrapped around his back.
Walt had shown no apparent interest in girls. In fact Jim had begun to wonder if he might be inclined the other way and now here he was, doing the dirty with some loose woman. The sly dog. None of that lengthy courtship, waiting and holding back that he and Alice had undergone – were still undergoing. He’d too much respect for Alice to ever push her to go all the way before they were married, much as it nearly killed him, he wanted her so much. No such discretion for little brother – he’d gone right out there and rolled some girl in the hay. You had to hand it to him. Walt didn’t believe in doing things by halves.
Jim was about to retreat discreetly, a smile on his face. He’d get some mileage out of what he’d seen – enough ammunition to tease Walt all winter – when the girl cried out. ‘Oh God, Walt, what are you doing to me? I don’t think I can take any more!’
At the top of the ladder Jim froze, his hands gripping the wooden struts so tightly his fingers were white.
Then her voice again. ‘I didn’t mean it! Don’t stop! If you do I’ll kill you.’ Another groan.
The pain in his head grew, carving a path through his skull, blinding him. He swayed and clutched the ladder and the barn began to spin around him. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up. It’s not true. How could it be true? Not Alice. Not Walt. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.
Then they were looking at him, their eyes reflecting their horror back at him. Their shame. Guilt. They looked at each other and in that moment Jim knew his whole life was a lost cause. Seeing the look they exchanged was worse than witnessing what their bodies had done. It was a look of complicity, of shared understanding, of love.
He didn’t wait while they scrambled to adjust their clothes. He slid down the wooden ladder, barely touching the rungs and began to run. As the twilight descended the sound of Swee’Pea’s plaintive barking grew quieter as he ran until his lungs were bursting.
The First Bombing
Eastbourne
The phone rang and Gwen went inside to answer it. It was Brenda Robson, the coordinator for the Women’s Voluntary Service.
‘Did you hear the bombs?’ Brenda sounded as though this were an adventure, a jolly jape. ‘Here in Eastbourne. Whitley Road. Ten of them apparently. Can you get there as fast as possible? I’m heading there now. All hands on deck.’
Gwen changed into her WVS uniform and was opening the front door before she remembered she’d left the car in town. Dashing into the garage, she grabbed her bicycle, noticing that Roger had cleaned and polished it and pumped up the tyres before he’d left. So typical of him to think of doing this without even letting her know. She felt a stab of guilt as she wheeled the bike down the path. Her husband was so thoughtful, whereas she rarely did anything out of the ordinary for him. She didn’t deserve a man like him. And now she had no idea when she would see him again. If she would see him again. Maybe he’d never come back from wherever the War Office, or the Foreign Office or the Inter-Services Bureau or whichever mysterious and unidentifiable section of Special Operations, had sent him. Her mouth twitched and the tears threatened again. Come on. Don’t be daft. Get on with it. That’s what we all have to do while this bloody war’s on.
She smelled the bomb damage before she saw it. The stench of burning wood, plaster and brick dust, escaping gas. When she turned into Whitley Road, the fire engines were already there and a crowd had gathered in the street – bombed-out residents, ARP workers, LDVs, ambulance drivers, firefighters. Where there had once been a row of houses, a yawning gap was piled high with debris, nothing left standing but a lone chimney stack. Beside the hole, the next building appeared relatively unscathed, criss-crossed bom
b tape over the still intact upper windows but the lower ones gone. Further down the street a shop had been blasted apart, the roof collapsed, windows blown out and an advertising sign for Senior Service hanging from the crossbar of a lamp post where it had landed. The road was covered in a carpet of rubble and glass. Choking dust filled the air and Gwen struggled to breathe. Nothing had prepared her for this. It was real. It was raw. It was happening here in this sleepy seaside town.
These were homes, not military targets: humble terraced houses where ordinary people had been going about their ordinary lives. What had they done to deserve the firepower of the Luftwaffe?
She looked up the street to where the residents of the ruined houses were huddled under blankets, in shock, and shivering despite the heat of the day. They were clustered together – a motley crew of women, the elderly, and one or two children. One of her fellow WVS workers was busy dispensing tea from a mobile canteen.
She hurried over to the WVS tea van where Brenda Robson thrust a clipboard into her hands. ‘Good girl. You got here quickly. Go and collect people’s names and house numbers and find out who’s missing. And check if they’ve anyone to stay with. The school down the road is the rest centre – they’ll be billeted there until we can find something more suitable.’
Gwen worked her way through the now homeless occupants, astonished at the calm with which people accepted the total destruction of their homes and possessions. She tried to imagine what it would be like if her house and everything she owned were reduced to a heap of smoking rubble. Ashamed at her reluctance to open her doors for the billeting of troops, she moved among the people, noting their details on her clipboard.
Five hours later, exhausted and covered in grime, Gwen headed home on her bicycle. The fractured gas mains in Whitley Road had delayed setting up the rest centre. She had to wait until field stoves for a makeshift kitchen were delivered, to see them through until the mains could be repaired. While most of her WVS colleagues went along with the homeless to the rest centre, Gwen stayed, making endless cups of tea while the fire wardens and stretcher party dug out more wounded from the rubble of their homes. Among the crowd of helpers Gwen recognised the LDV man she had met outside the station on Friday morning. That seemed like weeks ago instead of the day before yesterday. Feeling ashamed of her rudeness at the time, she gave him a huge smile and, ignoring rationing, added an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea. When he muttered his gratitude, she said, ‘You deserve it after all your hard work today.’
