The FitzOsbornes at War

by Michelle Cooper

  But then I recalled Simon. He’d waited till this morning. He must have checked and double-checked before he’d picked up that telephone. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to tell me. He’d left that to Veronica. Which was exactly how he’d act, if he were convinced it were true . . .

  The Colonel. The thought flashed across my mind, lighting it up with hope. He would be able to discover what had really happened! He was the one I needed! I snatched up my bag, informed an astonished Miss Halliday that I was taking an early luncheon break, then dashed out of the office and down the stairs before she could stop me. I knew where I was headed – that café up the road, the one with the pay telephone. But when I arrived, my heart hammering, my breath coming in painful puffs, I realised I didn’t have any pennies in my purse, only a ten-shilling note. So I sat down at a table and ordered a cup of tea.

  And as I waited for it, my hope flickered and died. For how could the Colonel help with this? He hadn’t been able to do anything for poor Anthony. And if the Colonel did discover something hidden by the RAF – or something unknown even to them, something awful – then how likely was it that he’d tell me the truth?

  No one ever told me anything. Simon hadn’t even trusted me enough to talk to me! Did he think I was too young – too feeble – to be able to cope with the news? Perhaps he was right. At that moment, I was fighting the urge to lay my head on the greasy tabletop and weep. I must have looked as miserable as I felt, because when the waitress set my teacup in front of me, she asked what was wrong.

  ‘My brother’s a fighter pilot,’ I told her. ‘He was shot down over Belgium yesterday, and one of his squadron saw his plane crash into the ground and burst into flames, and no one knows if he was in it, or if he bailed out, or if he survived the landing, or if he’s been taken prisoner. We don’t know anything.’

  Yes, I blurted all that out to a complete stranger. But the poor woman probably gets that sort of thing constantly, in her job. It would have served me right if she’d said, ‘Is that all? I’ve had three in here just this morning, exact same thing. There is a war on, you know.’ She was awfully kind, though.

  ‘It’s the not-knowing that’s the worst, isn’t it?’ she tutted. ‘You drink up your tea, love, and try not to fret. I’ll wager you’ll have news soon enough, and he’ll be all right if he’s a prisoner. My neighbour’s boy’s been over there since Dunkirk, and he’s allowed to send letters home and everything.’

  I wanted to explain that Toby wasn’t like other missing servicemen. He was special. But I just nodded and tried to drink my tea. I suppose everyone thinks their missing boy is special.

  17th May, 1942

  WE HELD A FAMILY COUNCIL yesterday in Aunt Charlotte’s suite at Claridge’s, after Veronica and I had collected Henry from the railway station. I’d been sick with worry over Henry, but she looked almost cheerful. It turned out this was because she’s convinced herself that Toby’s disappearance is all part of some secret intelligence mission.

  ‘I know you’re not allowed to tell us anything,’ she said to the Colonel, who’d generously found time in his busy schedule to meet with us. ‘But it’s so obvious, isn’t it? Toby’s plane wouldn’t crash unless he made it crash. He’s too good at flying. I expect he was chosen for the mission because he speaks French so well.’

  ‘Oh yes, he does, doesn’t he?’ said Aunt Charlotte, a faint light dawning in her reddened eyes. Barnes took the opportunity to prise the sodden handkerchief out of Aunt Charlotte’s fist and replace it with a fresh one. ‘Yes,’ went on Aunt Charlotte, nodding, ‘I remember, the French Master at Eton always spoke very highly of Tobias.’

  None of us had the heart to point out that Toby’s plane had crashed in the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium. By then, we knew that one of the other pilots in his squadron had been confirmed as dead, his Spitfire seen plummeting into the Channel, trailing black smoke. The planes flown by Toby and his second-in-command hadn’t even made it back as far as the sea. Both had smashed into farmland near the coast and exploded on impact. There was some vague talk of a parachute being spotted, but no one knew whose it was. Of course, Henry was certain it was Toby’s.

  ‘I bet he had a huge lot of supplies in his pack when he bailed out,’ she said. ‘Enough to last for ages, until he meets up with the Resistance agents. He’ll be fine, once he makes contact with them.’

  Veronica shot her a look composed of equal parts concern and exasperation, then turned back to the Colonel. ‘Should we contact the Red Cross, do you think?’ she asked him. ‘They visit all the prisoner of war camps, don’t they? Do they keep a register of names?’

  ‘Actually,’ the Colonel said, ‘I’m wondering if it might be a good idea to . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘That is, forgive me, but I think we ought to make an announcement that Toby is dead.’

  ‘What?’ cried Aunt Charlotte, her eyes welling afresh. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Just to deceive the Germans, that’s all,’ the Colonel added hurriedly. ‘We don’t want them realising the head of state of one of the Allied nations might be wandering about Belgium. If we say he’s dead, they won’t be looking for him.’

  Henry gave a firm nod, as though this confirmed all her theories, but Aunt Charlotte kept shaking her head, distress written across her face. I could quite understand how she felt. There was no way Toby would read the announcement or hear of it – even if he were still alive – but to agree to this felt as though we were giving up on him. I glanced at Veronica, who was frowning hard.

  ‘Yes, it would be a sensible move,’ she muttered, although I wasn’t sure whether she was talking to herself or to us. ‘There have been cases of Allied servicemen avoiding capture in France and making it across the Spanish border. Except the Spanish government’s being very difficult at the moment, and Belgium is so far from Spain. I don’t suppose . . .’ She looked up at the Colonel. ‘Could he cross the Channel, do you think? Would there be any fishermen willing to take him across?’

  ‘I think that would be . . . very unlikely,’ the Colonel said. ‘I understand the Germans have destroyed or requisitioned all the boats along the Channel coast in the occupied territories. Which hasn’t endeared them to the locals, of course, so there’s a distinct possibility there’d be villagers around who’d be prepared to help Toby.’

  If he’d survived the crash. If he wasn’t so badly wounded that he was beyond help.

  ‘Look,’ said the Colonel bracingly, ‘if he does get picked up by the authorities and they don’t realise who he is . . . well, so far, they’ve been pretty decent. Look at Douglas Bader – you know, that pilot with the two artificial legs? He got shot down last year, and had to leave one of his legs behind in his plane when he bailed out. But the Germans actually let the RAF drop off a replacement leg for him, at his prisoner of war camp! Jolly nice of them. Of course, they’ve threatened to confiscate both his legs now, because he keeps trying to escape . . .’

  Henry was the only one who laughed.

  I can’t help admiring her steadfast loyalty to Toby. To her, Toby is a god – indomitable, immortal. She simply refuses to contemplate that he might be gone. Perhaps it would be kinder to start preparing her for the very worst . . . and yet, Henry’s belief that Toby is alive and well is not only keeping her going, but just about the only thing sustaining our poor aunt. The only times she showed any signs of animation were when Henry was talking. I watched Aunt Charlotte begin to nod as Henry recalled Toby’s excellent sense of direction and superb map-reading skills; she almost smiled as Henry described how the village girls would be fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of hiding Toby in their barn. It may even be some comfort to our aunt that Henry looks so much like Toby. That same tangle of golden curls, the same mischievous blue eyes, the same wide smile, quirking up at one corner . . .

  Oh, God.

  That waitress was wrong. I would readily endure years and years of the agony of not-knowing, if it means that, at the end of it, I will see my brother again.


  26th May, 1942

  VERONICA AND I VISITED TOBY’S aerodrome on Saturday. I think the RAF would have much preferred to bundle up Toby’s belongings and post them to us, but we insisted on collecting them in person. We’d hoped to meet some of the men who’d flown with him – Veronica thought they might reveal some tiny, seemingly insignificant snippet of information that hadn’t made it into the official report, something that might give us cause for optimism. But she was too eager, too anxious – too intense.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, leaning over the table in the pub, where one of the pilots had brought us for a drink, ‘was this before or after the first Messerschmitt opened fire?’

  I could see the poor boy was regretting having agreed to talk to us. He couldn’t have been any older than I was, and his uniform hung on him awkwardly, as though it’d been thrown together for a much broader man. He was so shy (or perhaps so unused to women) that he could barely look Veronica in the eye.

  ‘I . . . I really couldn’t say,’ he stammered. ‘It was too quick. I don’t even know if it was Toby or . . . or someone else.’

  ‘But you definitely saw a parachute,’ Veronica said.

  ‘I think I did . . .’

  I gave him an encouraging smile and he took a shaky breath.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Actually, it may have been two parachutes.’

  ‘Two? You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Um . . . yes?’ He gazed helplessly about the pub, then plunged his face into his pint of beer.

  Veronica persisted a little longer with her questioning, without success. It was only as we were gathering up our coats, preparing to leave, that he said, ‘Um . . . There is one other thing. One of the boys asked me to . . . to mention it to you.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Veronica, and I held my breath.

  ‘Well . . . it’s about Toby’s car, you see. The Lagonda. Toby sort of said that Wicksy – I mean, Pilot Officer Wickstead – that he could have the car, if Toby ever . . . um, if he didn’t make it back from an op. Not that he wrote it down officially or anything, but –’

  ‘Keep it,’ said Veronica shortly. ‘It’s not as though civilians can get hold of any petrol these days.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good!’ he said, brightening. ‘Thanks! It’s what he would have wanted, you know, and we’ll take good care of it. And, of course, if Toby were to make it back –’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said.

  We watched him tug on his cap and make a rapid escape out the side door, before turning to each other.

  ‘What a complete waste of time,’ Veronica said.

  I had to agree. But after she’d gone up to the bar to ask about the bus schedule, the girl wiping down the tables came over to where I sat.

  ‘You’re Toby’s sister,’ she said, setting down her tower of glasses. ‘I could tell as soon as you walked in. You look just like him.’

  ‘You knew . . . know him?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, all the flyboys come in here,’ she said, ‘and you could always count on Toby being right in the middle of the rowdiest lot! But don’t get me wrong – he was polite, you know? A real gentleman. Not like some of those boys, always trying to sneak a kiss! He was never like that.’

  ‘No,’ I said, smiling despite myself, ‘no, he’s not like that at all.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear,’ she said. ‘You’d think I’d get used to it, wouldn’t you, living next door to the aerodrome? But it’s always sad.’

  ‘He’s not dead,’ I said. ‘Just missing.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘Yes, of course.’ And the look she gave me was so kind that I had to turn away, blinking furiously.

  And it keeps happening. I’ll be doing something completely ordinary – typing a letter at work or queuing outside the grocery shop – when, all of a sudden, I’ll be overwhelmed with anguish. Where is he now? Is he hungry? Is he cold? Does he have somewhere safe to sleep? Is he injured, is he in pain? It’s such agony that I can hardly bear the sight of the people around me, going about their usual lives. How can they be so unfeeling? At my worst moments, I find myself wondering if it would be better if he’d never survived that crash – but then my mind goes blank. I can’t think about how he might have died, I simply can’t.

  The person who best seems to understand how I feel is not Veronica, oddly enough, but Julia. She came round to our flat that first terrible night, and threw her arms around me, and didn’t even attempt to offer any consoling words. She knew there was nothing to say. It’s not that Veronica doesn’t hurt as much as I do – I know she does, perhaps more than I do, if that’s possible. She and Toby were ‘the twins’ for most of their childhood, after all. But right now, Veronica’s and my methods of coping with Toby’s disappearance are so different that we aren’t much comfort to each other. I can hardly manage to get out of bed each morning, whereas she’s throwing herself into learning everything she can about Allied pilots who’ve been shot down over Nazi territory. What percentage of them have been confirmed dead, how many have been taken prisoner, which factors have led to successful escapes . . .

  But no doubt her approach is more sensible than mine. As I write this, she sits across from me, pounding away at my typewriter. When I managed to stir myself out of my apathy to ask what she was doing, she said she was writing to someone she knew at the British Embassy in Madrid, a man who’s been helping escaped Allied servicemen evade the hostile Spanish authorities. Presumably he’s working unofficially, hence the need to correspond with him outside office hours. She also said she’s campaigning to be allowed to take up another temporary post at the Embassy next month.

  Where does she find the energy? It took all my strength just to get dressed this morning. What does it matter any more, whether my stockings match? Who cares if I’ve lost a button from my coat? What’s the point of combing my hair? I haven’t even opened today’s post, even though one of my letters is addressed in Rupert’s handwriting. I’m sure his letter will be thoughtful and sensitive, but I cannot face any kindness right now. In fact, I cannot write another word. I’m going to bed.

  7th June, 1942

  WE’VE HAD NEWS, OF SORTS, from Belgium. The parents of the other missing pilot from Toby’s squadron received a small parcel a few days ago, containing the silver four-leaf clover that had been their son’s lucky charm. Not a terribly potent charm, it turns out. The accompanying letter was from the Belgian Red Cross, and stated that the pilot’s body, still strapped to his open parachute, had been found near a small village not far from the coast. He appeared to have died of head wounds, probably sustained when his plane was hit. A farmer had reached the body before the Luftwaffe police and their search dogs, and he’d managed to retrieve the charm from the pilot’s pocket, along with a recent letter from the pilot’s mother that contained her address. These had been handed on to the local Red Cross, and they’d forwarded the items to England.

  So, at least one family now have a definitive answer. Or have they? The items certainly belonged to the pilot, but had the Red Cross been deceived by the villagers about the manner of the pilot’s death? If so, to what aim? Could the man still be alive? Could he be hiding, or aiding the local Resistance? Or is the whole thing, even the ‘Red Cross’ letter, some sinister trick of the Nazis?

  All these questions are courtesy of Veronica, who appears to have taken leave of her senses. The moment she heard the news, via the Colonel, she dashed off to interrogate the bereaved parents, who have a house just outside London. She even copied out their Red Cross letter, in case it contained some secret message in code. The poor couple must have thought she was mad.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Veronica. ‘When they heard I was from the Foreign Office, they just assumed I was an intelligence agent.’

  She admitted she had not corrected their mistaken assumption. She also conceded that her visit hadn’t actually provided us with any additional information about Toby. Not that this seems to have deterred her in the slightest. She even wrote to Simon, dem
anding all the details he possessed and asking him to investigate further. Simon sent a terse, uninformative response – although that’s quite normal for correspondence between the two of them.

  Henry, of course, remains optimistic. To her, the parcel is conclusive proof that Toby is alive. She says that if he had been killed, his body would have been found near his fellow pilot’s. She’s also heartened by this evidence that the local population is keen to thwart the Nazis, even in small ways. ‘The villagers probably passed Toby on to the Resistance weeks ago,’ she wrote to us – and presumably to Aunt Charlotte, as well. Heaven knows what our poor aunt makes of it all, but she pays more attention to Henry than to anyone else these days, so she’s probably feeling more positive than I am.

  19th June, 1942

  A FEW DAYS AGO, I began writing a frank account of what happened last week. But I was struck by the terrifying thought that someone might read it, so I tore out the pages. I was on the verge of ripping the paper up and setting fire to the scraps – and then I stopped and considered. I don’t regret what happened. It’s true that I’m unlikely to confide in Veronica about it when she returns from Spain – but I’m not ashamed.

  Besides, what is the point of keeping a journal, if one lies to oneself about significant events in one’s life? Especially as there really is very little chance that anyone will be able to decipher this, apart from me.

  So, I will start again – at the beginning this time, rather than at the end, even though that is the bit occupying most of my waking thoughts and quite a few of my dreams.

  Right. Well, Saturday was Julia’s birthday, and Daphne was determined that we should celebrate it with as much lavishness as the war would allow. I’d agreed to go out with them – not because I was feeling at all celebratory, but because I was too listless to argue with her. On Saturday morning, then, I collected my blue evening gown from the cleaners on my way home from the shops. With Veronica away for a few weeks, my shopping list had been shorter than usual, but nevertheless, I was weighed down by a wicker basket, a bulging string bag and a heavy silk gown. I plodded down the narrow path towards our flat, wondering if I’d be able to summon up enough energy to repaint the bathroom before Veronica returned, now that the plasterer had finally fixed all the cracks in the walls . . . Then I glanced up, and my heart seemed to stop.