The FitzOsbornes at War

by Michelle Cooper

  Anyway. She and I have Julia’s house to ourselves at the moment, because Rupert’s away, and Julia’s at the ambulance station (or more likely, driving round in the pitch black over roads littered with rubble, on her way to yet another set of horribly injured Londoners). We’re down in the kitchen now, as most of it’s underground and the window is protected by sandbags. It’s amazing how loud the Hyde Park anti-aircraft battery sounds from here. Julia says that sometimes she finds bits of shrapnel in her garden, depending on which direction they’re firing. I certainly hope they shoot down a couple of bombers tonight. Except then, I suppose the planes would crash on someone’s house, along with all their bombs, which would be even worse than bombs by themselves . . .

  Oh, I don’t know why I pretend I have any control over any of this!

  To distract myself, I was going to copy Henry’s latest letter into my journal, but I don’t feel up to the task of trying to translate all the spelling errors into Kernetin. Her new school hasn’t yet led to any significant improvements in her literacy skills. It’s also far less ‘exclusive’ than her previous school, which greatly distresses Aunt Charlotte (oh, the horror, her niece being educated alongside the daughters of shopkeepers). However, as there weren’t many educational establishments willing to accept Henry as a pupil, we didn’t have much choice – and she does seem to have settled in fairly easily. In fact, she’s the most envied girl in the school at the moment, after Toby made a slight detour on his way back to his aerodrome last week and landed his Spitfire on her school’s hockey field. Two hundred screaming schoolgirls rushed out of class to greet him, and there were several instances of swooning as he climbed out of the cockpit and peeled off his flying helmet. Even the headmistress was observed to become slightly breathless and giggly when he asked her permission to take Henry to the village tea shop (they ended up having tea in her study). Henry devoted five sides of paper to an account of this momentous event – I think it’s the longest letter she’s written in her life. Most of the remaining page was about how it was a good thing she’d resisted when Aunt Charlotte wanted her to go to Canada, because one of the ships transporting the child evacuees has just been torpedoed by the Germans. I read in the newspaper that most of the children drowned. It was absolutely heart-breaking. Those poor, poor parents, believing their children would be better off if they left England – and then hearing that dreadful news.

  It just goes to show that it makes absolutely no difference what one does. Mr Bowker was telling me that his friend had a neighbour whose Anderson shelter in their back garden received a direct hit. Everyone inside the shelter was blown to bits, but the house was barely touched – they’d all have been fine if they’d stayed in their beds. And then, on Sunday, there was that bomb in Stoke Newington, where the upper floors of an apartment building collapsed into the basement – where everyone had gathered because they’d been told it was the safest place – and all the water and sewage and gas pipes broke, and the people who hadn’t already been crushed to death were suffocated or drowned. Then, the very next day, a bomb drilled right through the road into the underground railway station at Balham, which hundreds of people use as a shelter, and a great gush of water flooded the dark tunnel and . . .

  Now Veronica is threatening to confiscate my journal. She says she can tell exactly what I’m writing by the expression on my face, and that if I don’t change the subject to something more optimistic, she’s going to take away my book and put it on the highest shelf of the pantry, out of my reach.

  Optimistic! Of course Veronica is feeling optimistic about life at the moment – she spent the whole afternoon with her boyfriend. Daniel has some hush-hush job in the north of London now, but he had the day off and she met him at the National Gallery at lunchtime. All the paintings have been taken down and stored somewhere away from the bombs, but there are concerts held in the octagonal room each day, and it only costs a shilling, and one can buy sandwiches to eat in the break. Today there was a string quartet playing Mozart, and the first violinist turned out to be a friend of Daniel’s mother. After the concert, Veronica and Daniel wandered up Charing Cross Road, where all the second-hand bookshops are, and he bought her two books, one about prehistoric stone monuments in Cornwall and the other about European diplomacy in the 1920s, both written in the sort of dense, scholarly language that gives normal people a headache (Veronica is already halfway through the Cornish one and says it’s absolutely riveting). Then they visited a professor friend of Daniel’s at the University of London, and after that, it was time to meet up with me for dinner. I had told them not to bother, but I think Veronica felt guilty because it was supposed to be her turn to cook tonight. Or perhaps she didn’t want me going back to the flat by myself, in case there was an early evening air raid. Or else she felt sorry for me, having to type Mr Bowker’s badly punctuated letters all afternoon while she was enjoying herself. Whatever the reason, I almost wish I’d insisted on going home by myself because . . .

  Oh, good, Veronica’s safely engrossed in her book again, so I can fall back into despondency. The thing is, I saw them together. This evening. Walking beside each other, not touching but perfectly in step, their heads level, their gazes intertwined. Veronica was saying something, and Daniel was nodding in time, and it would have been obvious, even to a complete stranger, that here were two people who understood and trusted one another absolutely. They looked as though they’d been married for years, but still found each other fascinating. I stood there, watching them approach me, and felt a tremendous wave of . . . well, it was almost grief that washed over me. For I realised at that moment that I’d lost Veronica, that she belonged to someone else now.

  Of course, I like Daniel very, very much, and I know perfectly well that he doesn’t own Veronica. No one does, she wouldn’t ever allow herself to be owned. And I was already vaguely aware that she and I had been slowly but steadily travelling in different directions ever since we left Montmaray – ever since we were first given the chance to explore life and choose our own directions. Really, all of us – Toby, Simon, even Henry – are drifting apart from one another, which is completely understandable and natural, and would be happening even if we weren’t living through a war. But it’s just that Veronica and I have always been so close . . .

  Oh, I realise she still loves me. It’s not as though I believe that she, or anyone else, has only a finite amount of love to offer, that she’ll somehow use it all up on Daniel. And it’s not as though she’s going to abandon our flat to go and live with him (not in the immediate future, anyway). I knew all that, and yet I still felt absolutely bereft. It was then that I understood that part of my distress was probably plain old jealousy. Veronica had found her soulmate. And I hadn’t, and probably never would.

  I really felt disgusted with myself, then. Why couldn’t I be happy that she was happy, that she’d found someone who was perfect for her? How could I possibly be so selfish? I tend to think of myself as a reasonably good person at heart, but at that moment, I realised I was both deluded and despicable. Anyway, these were the thoughts and feelings rampaging about inside my head when Daniel glanced up and noticed me. The two of them broke into wide smiles, and quickened their pace, and seemed so pleased to see me that I felt even worse. Then Veronica presented me with a book about Shelley that they’d both thought I’d like, which only heaped coals on the fire of my guilt. I developed a raging headache over dinner, from trying so hard to be delighted and sociable – a fitting punishment for my treacherous head. And then, after we’d seen Daniel off on his train, we arrived back at our flat to be informed about the unexploded bomb – more punishment, although it seems very unfair that Veronica and everyone else in my street should suffer for my sins . . .

  Oh, Simon is right! I really am turning morbid. I must make more of an effort to concentrate on life’s blessings. For example, that both Toby and Anthony have been moved away from the coast, to safer, quieter aerodromes, for a much deserved break. And that the British govern
ment has finally agreed to stop interning Enemy Aliens. Admittedly, they haven’t released the people who are already in the camps, but Daniel did sound hopeful that his cousins’ case would be reviewed soon, and at least they haven’t been shoved onto one of those horribly over-crowded ships being sent off on perilous journeys to Canada or Australia. And also . . .

  No, can’t think of anything else that’s remotely positive. Not right now. I’m sure there are lots of good things happening in the world, though. Somewhere.

  24th October, 1940

  ANTHONY IS DEAD.

  I just can’t believe it. Dear, sweet Anthony! He was so proud of being a pilot, so passionate about flying. He was so good at it. How could he have been shot down by some Nazi? It’s unthinkable. Except I can’t stop thinking about it.

  He died a hero, his Squadron Leader insisted, as though that makes it all right. Oh, poor Julia, I can’t even bear to imagine how she must have felt when she read the telegram. Thank goodness Rupert was there when it arrived. He was the one who telephoned us, just before he drove Julia up to Northampton, where Anthony’s parents live. Anthony was their only son, and they can’t even have a proper funeral, because the plane got burnt up and there’s nothing left of him but ashes. Oh, please, please let it be true what the Squadron Leader said, that Anthony didn’t feel a thing, that he really was knocked unconscious long before the plane crashed into the forest and burst into flames. But it must be true, mustn’t it? Because otherwise, he would have bailed out with his parachute. Anthony knew his plane back to front, he would have understood exactly when and where he was hit, and whether he could bring the plane down safely or not, and he definitely knew how to use a parachute. All the pilots do, Toby told me – they’re trained to abandon the plane in an emergency, because pilots are more valuable than machines. That’s the way the RAF thinks. Quicker and cheaper to repair a smashed plane, or even build a new one, than to train a new recruit to the level of an experienced combat pilot. It’s all about efficient use of time and money to them.

  I know pilots are getting killed every single day, because I read the newspapers and listen to the BBC broadcasts. But I’ve always tried to regard the numbers as simply a score in a game. The smaller our number each day, the better. The higher the number for the Germans, the sooner this ghastly contest would be over. It was just too terrifying, with Toby in combat, to picture those numbers as actual human beings, as young men with wives and mothers and sisters. I still can’t face that fact head on – I glance at it sideways, then hurriedly squeeze my eyes shut.

  That’s why I can’t really believe Anthony is dead. Despite the telegram and then the official RAF letter – despite hearing the news from Rupert, one of the most trustworthy people I know – I feel there must be some mistake. Perhaps some other pilot had taken Anthony’s plane up that afternoon, perhaps Anthony had left the aerodrome, forgetting to sign out properly . . . Except no, that wouldn’t work. If he’d had any leave, Julia would have gone up to visit him, or he’d have driven down to London. She’d been complaining that she hadn’t seen him for months . . . No, he’s probably in some hospital with a broken leg. He jumped out with his parachute and landed awkwardly, and there was a mix-up with his identity while he was unconscious. And he’ll be all embarrassed when he wakes up and finds out what’s happened, and Julia will rush off to collect him in her ambulance and bring him home, and she’ll spend the rest of his sick leave fussing over him . . .

  Veronica has just come in and said she’s arranged for flowers to be sent to the chapel. For the memorial service tomorrow. It’s just a small ceremony for his family – his mother couldn’t bear to face a huge crowd.

  Anthony really is dead. I’m never going to see him again. He won’t ever again debate Marxist theory with Veronica, or have long, unintelligible discussions about aeroplane maintenance with Toby, or help Henry fix her roller skates. Anthony’s gone, forever, and he was only twenty-six years old. That’s much, much too young to die.

  It was my twentieth birthday yesterday, but none of us were in any state to celebrate.

  18th November, 1940

  I KNOW I WAS DESPERATE for something to think about (anything other than poor Anthony), but I’d hoped for a pleasant distraction. That’s too much to expect, though, these days. Veronica has just told me she might be going to Spain again. Apparently, Hitler’s been making strenuous efforts to persuade Franco to join the war, and the British are equally determined to keep Spain out of it.

  ‘But I thought Spain was in no position to fight another war,’ I said, trying to start up the sort of complex political discussion that would occupy all my concentration.

  ‘No, they don’t have many resources to spare,’ Veronica acknowledged. ‘But it wouldn’t take much to attack Gibraltar, and Franco could make things very awkward for the Allies in North Africa.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, attempting to make a mental map of all that and failing. ‘But how does the Foreign Office know all this? About those secret meetings of Hitler’s, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, they have plenty of intelligence sources in Spain,’ said Veronica. ‘Although that last meeting wasn’t exactly secret. It was held in Hitler’s railway coach, on the French side of the border, and that idiot Ribbentrop was in charge. He’d arranged for a German military band to be playing at the railway station when Hitler arrived, and the band wandered over the border into Spain wearing their uniforms and caused a diplomatic incident. Anyway, Franco seems noncommittal at the moment – he’s still not sure who’s going to win the war, and he doesn’t want to support the wrong side. So it’s vital that he understands Britain isn’t anywhere near being defeated, and that’s why the Foreign Office is sending more people over to Madrid to help convince him.’

  ‘And you need to be one of them,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I could be very useful over there, I think, but my boss only got away with it last time because that was a crisis requiring urgent action. His boss was furious when he found out. Dreadful enough permitting a female to work in the London office, but to send one abroad . . . Oh, they’ve a dozen arguments against me going to Spain, even temporarily. The Spanish officials wouldn’t take a female interpreter seriously – they’d be offended at the very idea. And the Embassy staff need to go out drinking at nightclubs and on overnight hunting trips in order to gather information, and I couldn’t accompany them without causing a scandal. And being single, I’d be bound to distract the Embassy staff from their duties – or else I’d end up getting seduced by some local Don Juan. Of course, if I were married, they’d tell me I couldn’t possibly leave my husband behind in England, or they’d worry about me getting pregnant and having to resign. And then there’s the usual rubbish about women being too delicate to cope with the heat, or the cold, or the food, or the spartan accommodation. They ought to hear the Ambassador – he never stops whingeing about all of that, and anyway, his wife is in Madrid, and she doesn’t seem to have collapsed in a fit of the vapours just yet.’

  Veronica sighed.

  ‘It is terrible timing, though,’ she said. ‘I hate to think of you alone here at night, with all the bombs. But if poor Julia’s still at her parents’ place and Rupert’s away, you wouldn’t be any better off staying at her house . . .’

  We’ve had air raids almost every night for more than two months. I’m amazed Montmaray House is still standing. Even Kensington Palace took a direct hit last month. And it’s not just London – it’s going on everywhere, from Scotland to Cornwall. All the ports have been attacked, every airfield across the country, any town large enough to contain a factory or a power station or a gasworks (or that’s simply unlucky enough to be located under a flight path). Coventry is a wasteland now, with so many hundreds of unidentifiable bodies that the authorities want to dig a communal grave and hold a mass funeral. The situation is so bleak that I can’t see how the Foreign Office could possibly manage to convince Spain that we’re going to win this war. I said this to Veronica, but she shook her head.<
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  ‘I know it seems dire at the moment,’ she said, ‘but really, the situation is much better than it was even a few months ago. Then, there was a real fear we’d be invaded. But to do that, the Germans needed to knock out the RAF, and they’ve failed dismally at that.’

  ‘Thanks to our fighter pilots,’ I said. ‘Thanks to all those men who . . . who sacrificed themselves.’ I was suddenly close to tears.

  ‘Anthony didn’t die in vain,’ said Veronica fiercely. She reached over and grasped my hand. ‘Sophie, I promise, Germany is going to lose this war.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we’ll win,’ I said, blinking hard. ‘How can we? We’ve already lost so much.’

  ‘We just have to stick it out a bit longer,’ she said. ‘Germany can keep bombing us and trying to cut off our supplies, but sooner or later, America will join in on our side.’

  ‘But what about what Mr Kennedy said?’ I protested. ‘“Democracy is finished in England”, that’s what he said in that newspaper interview. He thinks we’ve already lost!’

  ‘Kennedy!’ said Veronica, with unmitigated scorn. ‘He won’t be Ambassador much longer, I can tell you that. President Roosevelt doesn’t pay any attention to him. Kennedy’s career is finished now. The Americans will help us, it’s just a matter of time. They’ve already introduced conscription over there, you know.’

  So depressing, to think of all those poor American boys being forced to register for military service. As though there aren’t enough people dying already.

  Now I feel even worse than I did before my distraction.

  30th November, 1940

  TODAY HAS BEEN RATHER TUMULTUOUS. Not because of the air raids, but . . . Well, I ought to start at the beginning, I suppose. Veronica is still in Spain, so Toby managed to get a weekend pass and came down to London to visit me.