The Consequences of War

by The Consequences of War (retail) (epub)

  ‘Come along, you young things,’ Connie Hardy’s voice. ‘I think it’s time we cleared out of Mrs Farr’s work-place.’

  ‘And you girls take your cigarette smoke with you – it’s out of bounds in my kitchen.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Farr darling,’ Georgia called. ‘Promise not to do it again.’

  * * *

  As the months of the war ground on, the changes taking place in Britain were profound. People were subject to dozens of new laws and controls. Children accepted barbed-wire, tank traps and gun emplacements as part of the environment. Older children began to take for granted that cakeshops displayed empty dishes and sweetshops faded dummies.

  They accepted that the seaside had become a dangerous place but longed for it; they accepted the absence of, yet longed for, coach trips, Sunday School outings, banana custard, oranges at Christmas and Saturday cakes with cherries and icing. Except for a few days a month, they went without pear-drops, chocolate nuts and liquorice boot-laces and forgot that there had once been a time of long pencils in school.

  In the Chapel Kitchens, a ritual morning gathering for cocoa continued even though the constituents of the group changed. Trix went into the ATS and Pammy into the explosives factory that had opened a few miles outside Markham.

  1989

  ‘Do you know, Hildy, I would not live through those middle years of the war again for anything.’

  ‘I also. It is sad, but you read it so well, I like to hear what happened to all these people even though I know the truth. You remember the old Madam, how straight up she used to sit in that chair of hers?’

  ‘The truth of Connie was that she was too fragile a creature for an old bugger like my father.’

  ‘You don’t swear like that when Joshua is here, or I shall tell you sharp.’

  ‘What else? An old shit, as Connie called him? And he was. I believe I must always have known about his affairs, but it is not the kind of thing a girl wants to believe about her father. I once caught a glimpse of him in Winchester, helping a girl into his car… it was the way he did it, his hand accidentally-on-purpose on her backside… but I did not want to know.’

  The old companion nodded.

  ‘Can you imagine how Connie must have felt? Sharing his body with who knows how many women, sharing the same shower where he washed them off… and always having to keep up appearances. But I believe that there was a time when she really loved him in spite of all that.’

  ‘How did Giacopazzi know?’

  ‘Some of it surmise, but she has a finger on the truth. A lot of it from gossip: locals always know what’s going on. Some of it from me: Georgia and I exchanged a lot of confidences, as girls do. But the thing one has to admire is that she observed us… knew us all so well. I suppose she must have been keeping some kind of journal. It is all so right.’ She lapsed into silence, then went on, ‘It was when I taught her to drive that we first became quite friendly, then again after Connie left, but closer. It is apparently the bits about Connie that she wants me to approve.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The facts might not be exact, but it is probably nearer to the truth than any autobiography Connie might have written. Shall I go on reading, or shall we call it a day?’

  ‘Read some more. I have never learned to read English well. I should like to know it all before we leave for London. When we get there… cheee! We shall have no time to read books.’

  1941

  Whenever Nick got time off, he came to Markham. And whenever she protested that really she shouldn’t keep going out with him like this, he persuaded her.

  ‘Admit it, Georgia Honeycombe, we always have a good time when we’re together.’

  ‘But we shouldn’t be together.’

  ‘It’s innocent enough. Bugger it, Georgia, it has to be – you don’t let anything decadent happen.’

  Long ago, when the two of them were about fourteen and had truanted for a week, her mother had foretold: ‘That Nick Crockford takes after his father, he’s got an air of degeneracy about him – if you don’t watch out, Georgia, he’ll get you into something more than just naughtiness.’ The trouble was, it was that air her mother called degeneracy which aroused Georgia. Admitting it to herself, when they were together, she was more careful to keep control, both of herself and the situation. Kept to the straight and narrow by feeling guilty.

  If the nuns oppressed little Catholic girls with threats of Hell and damnation, then Anglican teachers did as good a job on theirs by the use of conscience and guilt – and the Anglicans do not even provide the relief of the confessional and penance.

  But Georgia was first and foremost a woman in full bloom, and only second a product of the C of E school. It was not easy for her during the time when Nick came to Markham and Hugh did not.

  Sometimes he called to take her to the pictures or to a dance in Southampton or Portsmouth, but not in Markham. And she did enjoy his company greatly. They spoke the same language, were never awkward or tongue-tied, could argue fiercely without malice and laugh at small shared jokes. She liked his rambling conversation, ranging from the countryside, about which he would talk with great knowledge, to politics, about which he would talk with great passion, to books and history. She liked his attention to her, listening to her opinions, laughing at her jokes, behaving as though she mattered.

  She liked him, because he was her sort. They knew one another to their depths, so that when she talked to him seriously about how bad she felt about deceiving Hugh, Nick said, ‘All right, I understand. I won’t try anything till you ask me.’ And he meant it. ‘You will ask me. You’ll drop into my hands like a ripe medlar.’ And he was convinced that she would. She never mentioned her suspicion – almost certainty – that Hugh was interested in the Wren officer, Angela, knowing that Nick would have no compunction about using this as a lever to prise her loose from Hugh.

  On that July afternoon, as she entered a final total in a final column, there was a quiet knock at the back door of her office. Suddenly there was Nick’s tall, broad body filling the tiny room.

  ‘Nick! What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s all right, nobody saw me sneak in – I was careful.’

  ‘Fool, I didn’t mean…’

  He sat down upon the only other chair, elbows on knees in the relaxed position that was typical of him. She sensed that he had something on his mind or he would not have come to her office, but all he said was, ‘I’ve got Sunday off, I thought we could take our bikes out in the country.’

  ‘Lovely. I’ll meet you along the road.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You didn’t come just to tell me that.’

  ‘No, you’re right. I wasn’t going to say anything till we’d had our day out. It’s well… I’ve been transferred to a Liverpool brigade.’

  Suddenly she was engulfed in confused emotions. She knew what it was like in Liverpool. As with all the great cities in Britain, Liverpool had been a prime target for the Luftwaffe: people went underground every night, and when they came up next morning there were pretty good odds that their home had been reduced to a hole in the ground. Liverpool was perhaps no more dangerous than Southampton, but it was at the other end of the country. ‘You’re a free agent, Nick.’

  ‘They need firemen there.’

  ‘If you want to go I can’t stop you.’

  ‘It’s not a question of want.’

  ‘And it’s nothing to do with me anyway, is it?’

  ‘What’s up, Georgia? You’re sounding like a niggly wife!’

  ‘How would you know what a wife sounded like? You haven’t seen yours in months.’

  His cheeks became suffused, but his voice remained calm. ‘You know that I haven’t got a wife! Anyway, I thought you’d prefer it if I didn’t see her.’

  She knew that he had stopped going to see Pete, saying that it was confusing to him now that Nancy was set up with another man. But there were times when she knew that he longed to see his little boy. She concentra
ted on making pencil lines between wormholes on her desk top. ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Isn’t it, Georgia, isn’t it?’

  She was silent.

  ‘I said I would leave things until you wanted to change them. You know what I want.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘How can I change them? I’m married to Hugh.’

  ‘So what do we do? Shall I just go to Liverpool and that’s that?’

  Scraping the chair back, she stood up and turned away from him. ‘I don’t know, Nick. I don’t know!’

  At last he had got her to admit that their situation was not static, that they were not just good friends and dancing partners – company for one another, each with their partners gone.

  He rose and came round to her side of the desk. She breathed in the familiar warm scent that was unique to him – harsh red soap, Erasmic shaving soap, and Nick’s own wholesome sweat, skin and hair. The male scent that had enveloped her many times when they had sat close in the pictures, danced, and when he had sometimes suddenly, urgently gathered her to him and kissed her as though it was his last moment upon earth.

  ‘I said I won’t press you again to go to bed with me, Georgia, and I won’t; but I never promised that I wouldn’t tell you that I want to.’ He held her face and ruffled her hair with his fingers. ‘That I desire you, need you.’ When he drew her to him, she did not pull back. ‘I didn’t say that I wouldn’t kiss you. I didn’t say that I wouldn’t tell you that I love you.’ He kissed her, lightly but fully on the mouth. ‘I love you, Georgia Honeycombe.’

  She still had her arms about him when there was a quiet tap on the door. It opened immediately and Eve Hardy’s head appeared. She was at once flustered. ‘Oh! I’m awfully sorry, Georgia. I just wondered if you had… Never mind. I’m sorry.’

  Nick, unperturbed, released Georgia and said, ‘It’s all right, I was just going.’

  ‘No, no. I’m sorry, but I was going to put the van away and I only came to ask if you would like a lift home, Georgia.’

  In a moment, Nick had gone.

  Eve said, ‘How awful of me. I’m frightfully sorry, Georgia. I keep saying I’m sorry, don’t I? That’s because I’m embarrassed.’

  Georgia smiled to cover her own embarrassment. ‘It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be entertaining men in my office, should I?’ Suddenly there was a lump in her throat and so many tears gathered that she could not blink them away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Then gave a laugh. ‘How many times are we going to say sorry to each other?’

  Eve came to Georgia and put arms about her. ‘Would you like to talk about it? I’m a very good listener.’

  Georgia was surprised at the mature tone of Eve Hardy’s voice, which was usually cheerful and too girlish for her age.

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgia. ‘Yes, I should like to.’

  It was necessary for Eve to allow her shy look to roam a little before she let it meet Georgia’s eyes. ‘Maybe you’ll be able to do the same for me some time.’

  In Eve Hardy’s eyes, Georgia saw there was the same anguish and hurt as in her own.

  That was the first of many nights that Eve was to spend in the beautifully done-up spare-room which Georgia had decorated and refurbished herself.

  * * *

  On the Sunday morning, Georgia and Nick met on the road outside the town. It was warm, with breeze enough to make cycling seem the most pleasant pastime in the world. At lunch-time, they sat outside The Cricketers, which had sometimes been their resting place on other occasions like this.

  He carried the shandies from the pub to the meadow where she was sitting beside the stream. They sat quietly, eating cheese biscuits and drinking. He studied her. The overhead July sun made her hair glow like marigolds and illuminated her lithe body in its striped dress. He traced one of the stripes from her shoulder to her waist. Her proportions were so much the reverse of those of Nancy, who had small neat breasts and broad hips.

  How did I ever come to let her get away from me? he thought. Because I was young, and he had a posh accent and manager’s job and his own house. Because Georgia was young and dazzled by his attention and I thought I wasn’t good enough.

  It was only looking at it from the distance of time and maturity that he could see how little it had taken for two country kids like himself and Georgia to be taken in. Hugh Kennedy was nothing, nobody. Captain of Markham cricket team and loud-mouth of the tennis court. Looking at it from here, Nick Crockford knew – I shall make ten of Hugh Kennedy.

  He had recently received a letter from Nancy saying that she was going to get married, and asking him whether he minded if they adopted Pete. For a week he had prevaricated: not that he minded the marriage, but he did not want Peter to have the red-haired signalman’s name. He knew that he was not being fair. To all intents and purposes, the other man was Peter’s father now. He would have all the bother of bringing him up. Again he put it from his mind and turned again to thinking about Hugh Kennedy.

  The trouble was, he had not known at the time that he was worth ten of Hugh Kennedy. Instead he had, unconsciously, made his life as different as he could from Hugh’s by giving up his college place and going on the Council road gang, joining the AFS when Hugh joined the Territorial Army, going about with Nancy Miles because she was faintly sluttish, was good fun, wasn’t afraid of, enjoying sex and didn’t mind that there was no marriage ceremony. He hadn’t bargained for the complication of Pete, yet had found a lot of joy in watching him develop over the months.

  ‘I really love this place, Nick. Look, look, ducklings.’ Neither of them had mentioned the scene of last Friday.

  The heat of midday blended the pungent waterside herbiage, the dank rivery smell and the new-mown grass that lay in swathes about them. They sat on the bank and fed crumbs to the ducks, then lay back under the blue, cloudless sky slowly, unaware that this was all part of allowing themselves to sink deeper and deeper in love. At that time, in that meadow, the world was, for a moment, Eden.

  The past was over as far as he was concerned. He had told her that he loved her – now it was up to her.

  ‘Look, Nick! Up there. Look!’ Georgia pointed immediately above their heads.

  He squinted into the bright summer sky. ‘I see it! Christ, there are dozens – I didn’t hear any air-raid warning.’

  So high that they would have been invisible had it not been for the sun gleaming off their surfaces, a shoal of whitebait in formation, the bombers moved slowly across the sky.

  ‘Dorniers!’

  ‘Junkers.’

  ‘They could be. Listen.’

  Behind them, the bombers trailed the lum-lum beat of precision engineering and drone of propellers.

  ‘Dorniers.’

  Suddenly, silently, all around the bombers appeared white puffs. Like balls of pulled cotton-wool, the shells of distant big guns burst; seconds later, each explosion, as it reached the meadow by the pub, sounded like the soft pop of a baked potato bursting its skin.

  ‘My God, Georgia, if you didn’t know, you’d say that was really beautiful, the way the silver shines against the blue, and the white puffs – there’s something very artistic about it. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘It’s like it is happening somewhere else. They seem so remote… you can’t imagine that there are men there.’

  The guns stopped firing, and the shoal, presumably temporarily out of range, swam steadily on.

  Suddenly there was chaos amongst the shoal of bombers as it was attacked on all sides by fighter planes. Suddenly the silver fish in the blue sky stopped being beautiful. Suddenly the battle stopped being remote.

  Vapour trails began to criss-cross the sky as Spitfires climbed and dived in attack. The sound of machine-gunning sounded like nothing except what it was – aggressive and bloody. Georgia and Nick found themselves standing. Georgia gripped Nick’s hand. A black streamer tinged with red and white appeared and ran down towards earth. ‘They’ve got
one!’

  ‘Two!’ Then a chrysanthemum of fire appeared and was smeared across the sky. Then the whine of the first hit and the explosion of the second reached the meadow by the pub. Within seconds the whine became a scream, followed by a ball of fire at ground level a mile or so distant. Then a series of other explosions as the bombs unloaded from the stricken German planes plunged into the woods and farmlands of rural England. Within seconds ripening fields of corn were afire.

  It was not until someone said, ‘The sods! That field was nearly ready for harvesting’, that Nick and Georgia realized that other people had come out of the pub and that they too were standing along the edge of the stream to get a view of the air-battle. A stick of bombs, probably from a crippled plane lightening its load in an attempt to escape the Spitfires, landed in a field quite close by and something substantial began to burn.

  One of the dinner-time drinkers, a man in working corduroys, shouted, ‘That’s the farmhouse! Come on, I got the tractor.’ Men and youths leaped into the trailer.

  Nick picked up his jacket. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Nick…’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do over there. Wait here if you like.’

  ‘I’m coming too.’ The tractor roared, Nick leaped on the trailer and held out a hand to pull her on.

  They were at the farm within a few minutes, already some land-girls and labourers were dipping pails in the stream and rushing to where the corner of a barn and an outside rick were burning. Somebody shouted excitedly.

  ‘An engine come down on it. It was a burning engine from one of the Jerry planes, and it come down over there.’