The Chalky Sea

by Clare Flynn

Daphne tutted and shook her head. ‘She’s a dear little girl but she comes from another world. And I hate to say this but breeding will out. No matter how well you bring her up, her origins will tell in the end.’ She lowered her voice as though afraid of being overheard. ‘I never said it when the poor Simmonds woman was alive, but I always thought her rather…common. Not her fault. She couldn’t help being working class, any more than the child can. And after all she was your cook not your friend. But honestly, Gwen, even the name Brenda screams commonness. If you do persist in this hare-brained idea you must at least consider changing it.’

  Gwen was speechless.

  Ignoring the look of dismay on Gwen’s face, Daphne pressed on. ‘I know you feel some kind of obligation to Mrs Simmonds, and of course it was a terrible thing for the poor woman and her daughter to be killed, but you mustn’t let that affect your judgement. Having a child is a lifelong commitment. The little girl will be better off in an orphanage where perhaps one day a family of similar background might adopt her. Perhaps someone who lost a child in the war.’ She stretched out a hand and patted Gwen’s sleeve. ‘Do see sense, darling. It’s not as if Mrs Simmonds were family. Better to get the child into a children’s home sooner rather than later, before she becomes attached. After all, she’ll be in good company – so many children have lost parents in this filthy war – and so many children have coped marvellously being evacuated. She’ll have forgotten you in a week or so.’

  Gwen stared at her in disbelief.

  Daphne however was unstoppable. ‘Please see sense, Gwen. Everything will seem different when Roger's home and the war is over.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Gwen. ‘No idea you were such an unmitigated snob. A stuck-up, self-serving, shallow individual without an ounce of compassion. Well, I know now. My friend, Pauline Simmonds, had more kindness and understanding in her little finger… and she was much better company.’

  ‘Really!’ The indignation in Daphne’s voice was matched by the redness of her face and her puffed up cheeks. She jumped to her feet. ‘You’ve lost your mind, Gwen. I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.’

  ‘You’d better go – before I say something else.’

  Daphne picked up her handbag and moved to the door. ‘I can see now why you want to take on that little girl. You have no breeding yourself.’

  ‘If having breeding makes me like you, then I hope I haven’t.’

  But the door had already slammed shut behind Daphne.

  Into battle

  July 1943, Sicily

  Waiting in line on the crowded deck, Jim’s eyes were blinded by the brilliant sunlight. It was weather for bringing in the corn, or sitting in the meadow enjoying a picnic with the sun warming and browning the skin. Instead he was in the Mediterranean, ready to leave his ship and land in Sicily. They were there to fight their way across the island as a precursor to an invasion of mainland Italy. The men stood in crocodile formation, each holding onto the bayonet scabbard of the man in front.

  The signal to disembark was given, and Jim gasped at the shock of cold water up to his armpits. Together they began wading through the sea to the beach, as the enemy bombarded them with shellfire. He was caught up in a haze of smoke and foaming water, the sea churning around him like a boiling cauldron. The man beside him vomited, a mouthful of salt water causing him to succumb to the seasickness that had plagued so many of them on the voyage.

  Jim scrambled out of the shallows, oblivious to the cold of the sea and the fountains of water as shells exploded around him. Adrenaline surged through his body, and he raced up the beach, staggering towards the vineyard where they had been told to seek cover, the sound of machine gun fire blasting his eardrums. Several men fell, his friend Mitch among them, some of them tripping as their feet hit the land and they lost the resistance of the water around them. Jim flung himself onto his stomach and crawled over to his friend. Sniper fire began and he rolled behind a rock, grabbing Mitch by the collar. He hauled him up the beach, bending low, ducking and zigzagging to dodge the gunfire. The sun was scorching hot and the air was dense with smoke and the stench of shellfire.

  The vineyard afforded little cover, the young vines low from the ground. Jim dragged Mitch under the shade of an olive tree and examined his friend. Mitch’s shirt was soaked in blood; he was unconscious, but still breathing. Jim unbuttoned the neck of his battledress but before he could ascertain the nature of the injuries, his sergeant signalled to him to move on up the vineyard to join the rest of the platoon, ready to advance with tanks towards an Italian-controlled airstrip.

  ‘Shift your arse, Armstrong,’ yelled the sergeant.

  Jim had no choice. He looked back and saw the company medic had already reached Mitch and was treating him on the ground.

  The Italians appeared to have little stomach for battle and as more Canadians swarmed onto the shore, the gunfire lessened and Jim and his colleagues were able to move toward the airfield with little opposition from the disheartened Italian troops. Within a matter of hours they had captured their target, along with over four hundred Italian prisoners. Fifteen Canadians were wounded and seven dead. One of the dead was Mitch Johnson.

  The death of his friend touched Jim deeply. He felt hollowed out, empty and saddened by the waste of such a young life. Mitch was only twenty-one. But there was no time to dwell on loss. He had a job to do.

  The early success against the Italians at the coast was no indication of what lay ahead for the Canucks. The warm Sicilian sun gave way to cold cloudless nights. As they advanced further into the island, the fighting got tougher. They were now facing the Germans who controlled the interior of the island and had no wish to relinquish their territory.

  Their first, real, protracted fighting took place on a hill, above a village occupied by the enemy. Working their way down the scrubby hillside in the early morning light, looking out for snipers and dodging sporadic mortar fire, Jim was paired up with two other guys, a private and a lance corporal. Their orders were to make their way as close to the perimeter of the village as possible and report back on what they saw. As they came within sight of the first houses, the scream of machine gun fire shattered the quiet dawn and Jim reeled in horror as the lance corporal was ripped open by a sustained burst from the automatic gun. Jim and the other soldier turned back to help the man but he was already dead, his stomach a gaping hole with his guts pouring out.

  Jim had never thought about the smell of battle. He had only imagined noise, colour, shapes and movement. It hadn’t occurred to him that there would be a smell from a man mown down in combat. It was the same throat-closing, sickening stench that he had experienced on a visit to the abattoir. Bile rose in his throat and he gagged. He turned to speak to the other lad, a fellow named Billy Baker from Winnipeg, but before he could get his words out, Billy took a shot in the arm from a sniper. The impact of the bullet spun him around and Jim watched, helpless, as a second bullet ripped into his stomach. Jim dropped to the ground and crawled over to Billy, who was lying where he had fallen behind a thorn bush. The scrub gave them both cover so Jim crouched beside the man, pulled open his battle dress jacket and began to swab at the blood with a piece of cloth from his pack.

  The man reached a hand out and grabbed Jim’s wrist. ‘No. I’m finished.’

  Jim eased his hand away. ‘No, you’re not, buddy. I’m going to make you comfortable and then crawl back up the hill to get help.’

  Another rattle of machine gun fire peppered the hillside above where they were lying.

  Billy’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘Too late. I’m done for.’ The man’s eyes were heavy, his lids drooping. He reached a hand up and held onto Jim’s. ‘Say a prayer for me, will’ya?’ Then with a gurgling noise, a dribble of blood bubbled up through his lips and ran down his chin and the life went out of his eyes.

  Jim closed the lids over the blank staring eyes. There was no sign of anyone else from his platoon. He stayed under the thorn bushes all through the day, lying besid
e the dead bodies of his comrades under the blazing Sicilian sun. Every time he tried to emerge from the cover of the scrub, German gunfire pushed him back. He could not see anyone else in the platoon, but he knew they were there somewhere on the hillside as he could hear occasional bursts of gunfire. The sun beat down and the flies gathered and settled on the bodies of the dead men as their blood dried in the heat of the day. There was no way of retreating until the cover of dusk. Jim lay helpless, next to the corpses of his comrades, fighting nausea at the stench of blood and death.

  As night fell he heard a distant throbbing above him and saw aircraft approaching. His heart juddered with fear. The moon was full and the planes were coming in low – the enemy-held village clearly their target. Americans, he realised with relief. As the planes swept down towards the German-held settlement they began to strafe the hillside. Behind him Jim heard a British voice shouting, ‘The sodding Yanks are firing on us. Bloody idiots. Didn’t anyone tell them we were here?’

  To the sound of American bombs exploding, Jim scrambled to his feet and with the rest of his platoon, now visible shadows on the hillside behind him, ran towards the village to finish the job the Americans had started. As he ran, fear and doubt left him, replaced by anger and adrenaline. An image of Joan holding Jimmy in her arms swam in front of his eyes. Nothing’s going to stop me coming back for you, he said to himself and, rifle above his head, he ran down the hillside towards the village.

  Part V

  1945

  We must work to bind up the wounds of a suffering world

  Harry S Truman, 1945

  Aftermath

  June 1945, Eastbourne

  A week after the bells rang out for victory, Gwen took Brenda to the church where the child’s parents had married. They had gone into the town on VE Day, and the little girl had waved her victory flag but after a while had begun to cry, tired and overwhelmed by the crowds and the noisy celebrations. Gwen had also felt constrained in her desire to celebrate the end of the war, by the tragedy that had befallen the Simmonds and the absence of Roger. Jim’s absence too made the VE Day celebrations bitter-sweet. Gwen had no idea if he was alive or dead.

  Today’s visit to the church would be a quieter and more fitting opportunity to give thanks for the end of the long and terrible conflict, show respect for those no longer with them and pray for the safe return of Roger to her and of Jim to his family.

  She helped Brenda light candles for Pauline, Brian and Sally, then remembered old Mr Simmonds, Pauline’s grandfather who had died in that first raid on Whitley Road and Pauline’s elderly grandmother who had passed away not long after Pauline was killed. They lit two more candles and knelt together and prayed for them all.

  ‘My grandparents are in heaven with Mummy and Daddy and Sally. Will you go to heaven and leave me too?’

  Gwen had a lump in her throat. She pulled the little girl to her, holding her tightly. ‘No, my darling. I don’t plan to go to heaven for a long, long time.’

  ‘Good. If you go to heaven I want to go with you.’

  Gwen ran her hands over Brenda’s hair and cupped her chubby chin in her hands. ‘I’m not going anywhere, my love. I’m staying right here with you.’

  Brenda looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘At school I said all my family had died and Miss Collins said that was sad for me.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Gwen. ‘You have me and you do have a grandmother. Now the war’s over you’ll get to meet Grandma Maud.’

  ‘Is she your mummy?’

  ‘No, my mummy’s in heaven too. Grandma Maud is my husband’s mummy.’ As she tried to explain, Gwen wondered why it was all so complicated. She was nervous at the prospect of explaining her new grandmotherly role to Maud and of course introducing Brenda to Roger when he returned. If he returned.

  Gwen had still heard nothing from Roger nor any news about his whereabouts and she was becoming more dispirited every day. Now that the war in Europe was over, there was no reason why he should not be in touch – unless he was somewhere in the Pacific, or languishing in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. She shuddered. Or he was dead. She reached for Brenda's small hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Why are you sad, Mummy?’

  ‘I’m thinking about all the poor people who had a bad time during the war, and who we won’t see again.’

  ‘Don’t be sad. Miss Collins says heaven is lovely. Nicer than here. She says it’s a big sunny garden and everyone is happy. They have sweeties and birthday cake every day.’

  Gwen smiled and stroked Brenda's hair. ‘That sounds nice.’

  ‘Do you think they have lots of toys too?’

  ‘I’m sure they do, my darling.’

  Two months after the end of the war, Gwen still had no news of Roger. Her repeated enquiries to the War Office went unanswered, apart from a slip of paper to advise her that someone was dealing with her enquiry and would be in touch in due course. Fear at what the silence implied, and anger at the cavalier attitude of the military, compelled her to go to see Sandy Pringle. She was nervous about facing Sandy, following her fight with his wife, but she steeled herself. Sandy was Roger’s friend. It was natural that she should turn to him for help. He was the most senior person she knew in the military with all kinds of contacts in the War Office and government. He was well placed to pull strings to try and discover her husband’s whereabouts.

  Either Daphne hadn’t told her husband about their argument or Sandy had more discretion than she had given him credit for, because he made no mention of Daphne nor Gwen’s plan to adopt Brenda. He promised her he would do everything he could to expedite enquiries about Roger.

  Two days later Major Pringle called her. ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Gwen. It’s not good news.’

  Standing beside the telephone table in the hall, her knees buckled and she sunk back into a chair.

  ‘Looks like he was on a special mission behind the lines somewhere in Vichy France, organising a chain of Resistance groups. Nothing’s been heard of him since we took back Paris. The Nazis were crawling all over occupied France rounding people up indiscriminately to try and flush out the Resistance and several operational circles were broken. Everyone assumed Roger had gone dark to protect his network. But it looks like the network was infiltrated and betrayed. Five of his known agents were shot but there was no news about Roger. No easy way to say this but the likelihood is that the damned Boche got him. I think the best you can hope is that he was able to pop a cyanide pill before they tried to make him talk.’

  Gwen slumped forward in the chair, feeling faint. She struggled to breathe.

  ‘Frightfully sorry, old girl. Damned savages. A cursed nation led by a criminal lunatic. Chin up, try to be brave. Shall I ask Daffers to pop over and hold your hand for a while?’

  ‘No!’ she practically yelled down the telephone. ‘Please, no. I want to be alone. Thank you for your help, Sandy.’

  ‘We’ll get the whole truth before long. Special Ops will be debriefing everyone and they’ll unearth the facts in the end. But it takes time and their resources are thin on the ground – there are a lot of Nazis to be brought to justice.’ He paused. ‘The official line on Roger is missing in action, but I don’t want you nursing false hopes. I had some pretty frank discussions up the line, or I wouldn’t be telling you this.’

  ‘Thank you for being so open, Sandy. I appreciate that.’

  When she hung up she put her head in her hands and gave way to the tears that were welling up. Was this divine retribution for her affair with Jim Armstrong? Was God punishing her for her infidelity? For not loving Roger enough? For never showing him what he meant to her?

  But God, if he existed, was indiscriminate in who he punished in this war. This bloody, stinking, rotten war. It was all so damned unfair. How could there be a God if he allowed such horrors to happen? Innocent children blown to smithereens or crushed to death under bombed buildings. Leaving families bereaved and broken. Allowing Hitler to bring down such
evil on the world.

  Fishing in her skirt pocket, she pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Pull yourself together, woman. You owe it to Roger’s memory to be strong. And to be strong for Brenda. An image of Jim swam in front of her eyes and she sobbed again. She was so alone. So lost. So feeble.

  As she sat rocking in the chair in the draughty hall, there was a movement behind her and she felt Brenda’s small hand slip into her own. The little girl said nothing. Moving against Gwen she scrambled into her lap, resting her head against Gwen’s breast.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mummy. Show me where and I kiss it better.’

  Gwen wrapped her arms around the child, holding her tight and drawing strength from Brenda’s trust and vulnerability. In that moment, she made a vow to herself that she would never hesitate to demonstrate the love she felt for Brenda. She wouldn’t let herself become the cold, distant woman her own mother had been. The dried-up, cold, inexpressive person she had been since Alfie’s death, was gone forever, banished by the privations and challenges of war, the friendship of Pauline, the passion of her love affair with Jim and now the unconditional affection of this orphaned child. She wasn’t going to let that person come back.

  ‘You’ve already made it better, Brenda.’ She brushed her tears away with the back of her hand and smiled at the child. ‘You’ve made me so happy, my sweet. I love you very much.’ She bent her head and kissed her daughter.

  Later that day, Gwen decided to take advantage of the summer sunshine to take Brenda to the beach. In the weeks since the armistice, the town was shaking off the trappings of war and re-modelling itself in its former role as a holiday resort. The barbed wire that had blocked off the beaches was gone, the anti-aircraft guns dismantled and removed, and where uniforms had been everywhere now there were holidaymakers and townspeople, bare-armed and dressed in cotton shirts and dresses and once more children played happily on the town’s beaches. Gwen gathered together buckets, spades and fishing nets and prepared a picnic. The continued rationing meant that it was still a frugal affair, but things were beginning to ease up a little and she was hoping the tea rooms might even have ice cream for her to treat Brenda.