Janet Woods

by I'll Get By

  ‘I’ll wait until it’s been boarded. I don’t want strange men clumping about my bedroom when I’m trying to rest. Now, stop being in such a rush and eat your breakfast first.’

  Judith went off to work with a message from Meggie to Nick, advising him she wouldn’t be in for a few days.

  The midwife arrived and helped Esmé wash. She detached the baby from his soiled towel. Both were pronounced healthy, and Johnno now looked clean and deceptively peaceful in his little crib. He slept peacefully, the red pressure patches caused by the trauma of his birth quickly fading.

  Taking advantage of the midwife’s visit, and remembering the telephone box outside the corner shop, she said, ‘I’m going to see if the telephone box is working. If it is I’ll ring the base and leave a message for Leo, as well as giving my mother the news.’

  It seemed as though every man and his dog had the same idea . . . the queue stretched for miles. Meggie abandoned her quest.

  Nick arrived at lunchtime bearing a picnic basket containing egg and bacon tart, smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches, and a bottle of champagne.

  ‘You have a good cook.’

  ‘I have rather. I’ll pass on your thanks.’

  Nick admired the infant and said all the right words over him to his proud mother, to which Johnno smugly belched.

  Esmé shrugged off his bad manners with, ‘I’ve just fed him.’

  ‘You’ve gone all gooey over him,’ Meggie said. ‘I suppose this is all we’re going to hear from you . . . baby talk and nonsense.’

  Nick looked her up and down, and then smiled. ‘Your aunt will be a wonderful mother, I’m sure.’

  ‘I know she will.’ Meggie was flustered by that look. She didn’t exactly look her best in her paisley patterned apron, and the turban protecting her hair. ‘I’ve been cleaning up the glass and dust from the raid.’

  ‘So I see. You look sweet . . . like a proper suburban housewife. Is there anything I can do to help.’

  ‘Scrub a floor, perhaps.’

  His gaze said the idea was totally insane. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Esmé asked him. ‘Could you find a way to contact Leo at the air base? Our phone is out of order.’

  ‘The office phones are still working. I’m going back later. I’ll do it then. If I can’t get hold of him I’ll leave a message. Write down what you want to say.’

  ‘Would you ring my mother as well, just to let her know that both Esmé and the baby are well.’

  ‘Of course I will. He placed a piece of paper on the table. ‘By the way, as of now you’re on a fortnight’s leave. Here’s your pass.’

  Sixteen

  24 August

  A son called Johnno. What a beauty! When they got back to Australia he’d teach the boy how to fly a plane, and they’d go to visit his cousins at Fairfield Station and take him out horse riding. He might even teach him to shear a sheep, if he could remember how himself. Leo felt like thumping on his chest. As soon as he got back from this sortie he intended to try and wrangle a couple of hours off so he could go and see Es and his son.

  His mind wandering, Leo had chased a Messerschmitt halfway across the channel. He came down to earth when a line of tracer bullets from a Dornier nearly cut his wing in half. They missed the fuel tanks by a couple of inches, thank God, but silenced the radio in mid squawk.

  His aircraft shuddered, and then slipped sideways.

  He managed to get out of his straps and pulled the canopy back, and then pushed himself out when the plane began to roll. As he was trying to make sure he was clear of the aircraft he collected a passing blow. Something gave a crack as he pulled the ripcord and the lines tangled and knotted. He swore when the chute only partially opened. The person who’d packed it had been careless. He counted his few blessings. Better than not having a chute at all, he supposed, as he descended a little too rapidly towards the grey, rippling expanse of water, and better than landing on hard ground – though water wasn’t that soft when put to the test, either.

  He was having a quick thought or two on Isaac Newton’s law of gravity when the plane hit the water. It gave a muted whump. A spark ignited the fumes in the almost empty petrol tank, causing it to explode in a large bubble of air.

  Leo landed safely, yelping at the pain in his leg as he hit the resistance the water presented. His parachute billowed. Collapsing on top of him it was caught on the tail of his Spit. Dragged under, he collected a clout on the head, so hard that for a moment dizziness nearly got the better of him.

  Be damned if he was going to die here!

  The insufficient air he had in his lungs was slowly depleted as he was dragged down, struggling with the parachute straps and cords, which were now tangled in knots. The fire hissed out as the sea swallowed the aircraft, taking him with it. Bubbles of escaping air rose to the top.

  Then he was free of the plane. His life jacket carried him to the top. He sucked in a huge breath of cold air tainted with petrol fumes. He tried to swim away from the fuel floating in the water but his leg wouldn’t work properly and he cried out and swore with the pain. The left one was broken. At least it wasn’t the femur.

  Praying nothing would ignite the fumes he discarded his boots with some reluctance as they filled with seawater, swiftly unbuckling the front tag and swearing when he eased the one from his broken leg. It would have made a fine splint without the boot attached. With a small penknife he kept in his pocket he was able to make a hole in the parachute silk and tear off a long piece of the silk. He wrapped it firmly around both legs, using the good one as a splint.

  ‘Some bloody merman I’d make,’ he muttered, splashing around like a stranded fish as he tried to find a direction.

  Blood clouded his vision. He washed it away and used another strip of the silk as a bandage for the gash in his head. He pulled his helmet over it. It would provide some pressure, which would help stop the bleeding. He wasn’t too worried about the cut though. The head always bled like crazy, on account of its many blood vessels.

  It was only twenty miles across the channel. He might be able to swim back to England. He had to get back for Esmé and the baby.

  A son. His boy, Johnno! He couldn’t wait to get home and see him.

  Judging from the position of the sun it was late afternoon. He could see land but couldn’t quite make it out. His ears began to buzz. Elevated blood pressure, probably caused by concussion, he thought. That would cause problems if he wasn’t careful.

  Hampered by his broken leg and the awkward splint, which meant that he couldn’t use his legs, only drag them behind him, he headed for the land. It was hard going. Now and again he turned on his back and floated, resting. He heard planes fly across the sky, hundreds of them. Something big seemed to be happening.

  The second time he woke it was dark, and he was cold and shivering. Hypothermia and shock, he thought . . . a combin-ation that could easily prove to be fatal. He must stop himself from falling asleep.

  There was the smell of tobacco smoke and he heard whispered French nearby. There was a hollow sense of disappointment in him. He thought he’d been heading for England, but the land he’d seen must have been France. His head ached too.

  He could make out the scruffy, peeling hull of a fishing boat and took hold of an anchor rope, knowing he was at the end of his tether, literally as well as metaphorically. When they pulled the anchor up he’d go with it, however bleak the pain. There were faint signs of dawn on the horizon.

  ‘Help,’ he whispered.

  After a moment of silence he heard a cautious, ‘Qui êtes-vous?’

  Leo filtered it through his school French system. ‘I am Anglais pilot – no parler French good comprenez-vous? Fracturé . . . leg. Concussion. Aide s’il vous plaît.’

  Someone whispered in accented English, ‘Can you see us?’

  ‘I’m at your stern holding on to a rope, and need urgent medical attention. I can’t walk and I’m concussed. Where am I? I was trying to swim to England.’
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  ‘France.’

  ‘Would you take me to England?’

  A man gazed down at him, eyes concealed under the peak of his hat. He spread his hands and there was a gleam of a smile. ‘Impossible! You haven’t even seen us . . . comprendre? We’ll get you to shore.’

  Leo did understand. Fifteen minutes later he had a tot of brandy tucked under his belt and was in a dingy. Carried ashore in an aroma of fish and sweat, and in a lot of pain, he was gently deposited on the beach at the high tide mark, with the tide going out. Someone stuck a peppermint in his mouth. To disguise the smell of the brandy, he supposed.

  His shoulder was patted and there was a whispered, ‘Bonne chance mon ami.’

  He heard them scuffing the sand as they left, so it would look as though he’d crawled from the sea. He began to shiver as the mist closed around him and the pain made him seek some respite in sleep.

  He woke to a thick fog and a muted murmur of voices that his knowledge of French soon exhausted.

  Someone put a finger over his lips when he groaned. He was bitterly cold, in pain, and ravenously hungry, in that order. His body was racked with shivers and his head and body bumped on a wooden floor.

  The engine noise said he was in the back of a truck.

  He tried not to yelp when the movement stopped and he was lifted on to a stretcher. He supposed he’d be forced to spend the rest of the war in a prison camp somewhere.

  A man bent over him. He was pale, as though he spent most of his life indoors.

  ‘I need a doctor, my leg is broken,’ Leo said.

  ‘I know.’ The man opened a box and took out a syringe. ‘Morphine . . . I fix.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘No.’ Leo felt a prick in his arm. His tongue dried and he fell asleep. When he woke again his leg was in a plaster cast. It throbbed like hell.

  ‘My brother and I had to pull it back into place. You won’t be doing much for the next six weeks.’

  He felt like vomiting, and his face must have told its own tale because someone thrust a bucket within his reach. He dry retched into it.

  He became aware of a smell in the room and looked around. It was an ordinary room with an operating slab, a sink and several dishes. A suspicion formed in his mind. ‘If you’re not a doctor, what are you?’

  ‘A medical orderly.’

  ‘And where am I?’

  ‘In the morgue. You were pronounced dead by drowning. The death certificate says you are Louis Gaston.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘A cousin. He’s a doctor in the hospital here. You need not know his name.’

  Leo realized he was naked. ‘Where are my clothes?’

  The man smiled. We had to take them off and hide them. They’ll be returned to you later. In the meantime you will be loaned something less noticeable to wear. Try not to worry, mon ami, you are in the hands of the Resistance. We will have you out of here in a day or two.’

  Leo relaxed.

  The telegram boy had handed over the yellow envelope later that afternoon.

  Esmé hadn’t opened it, of course. Leo had promised to telephone her – and he would. Her husband always kept his word.

  She had been seated on the chair next to the telephone for two hours, the baby tucked up next to her in his pram, a shining navy blue conveyance with chromed fittings and frilly furnishings. Leo had brought it home, balanced upside down on top of the car and tied in place with ropes.

  ‘What do you think?’ he’d said, looking slightly anxious. ‘The salesman said that this is the very best money can buy. It has a weatherproof hood and cover, coach springs and a foot pedal brake.’

  Esmé had smiled and said, ‘What’s the engine like, Leo?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘It’s a splendid carriage, Leo. Our baby will look like royalty in it.’

  She wasn’t smiling now. Everything inside her was a tangle of knots, that only one bright thread could unravel, if only she could find it.

  She was thirsty and generally uncomfortable. Her back ached. But by leaving the chair she knew she’d be tempting fate.

  She and Leo had achieved nearly everything they’d set out to do, and together. They married, worked and saved, and produced a beautiful son. It wasn’t fair that he should be raised without Leo as his father.

  It was a shame that the war had intervened in their plans, but that was an interlude. When it was over they intended to go to Australia and she’d give him another child, and they’d live happily ever after in the sunshine.

  If the phone rang and she missed Leo’s call she might never hear from him again. So she sat there and waited for the telephone to ring. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Meggie discovered her aunt there when she came back with the shopping. ‘The queues are getting longer and longer, but I managed to get some pork—’ She scooped in a breath. ‘Something awful has happened, hasn’t it?’

  Her aunt didn’t answer. She gripped the seat on either side of the chair; her face pale and set.

  ‘Aunt Es,’ Meggie said gently, her voice thickening with tears when she saw the yellow envelope in her lap. ‘I think we need to get you to bed.’

  Esmé’s fingers tightened, anchoring her to the chair. ‘I’m waiting for Leo to call. He promised to ring me yesterday.’

  Plucking the envelope from her aunt’s lap she said, ‘You haven’t opened this.’

  ‘I can’t. What if he’s . . . what if he’s not coming back. He said he’d telephone me. I’m waiting for his call.’

  It was likely that he might not be coming back if she’d received a telegram. ‘The telephone is still out of order.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It rang earlier, someone asked for you.’

  Tearing the envelope open Meggie read the message out loud. ‘Regret to inform you that Squadron Leader Leo Thornton did not return from an air operation, and at this time is reported as missing.’

  When Esmé made a little moaning noise, Meggie told her, ‘They go on to say that this doesn’t mean he’s been wounded or killed, and if they get any further information they’ll let you know, to alleviate any anxiety the news may have caused you.’

  The sudden clamour of the telephone made them both jump.

  A smile appearing on her face, her aunt snatched it up. ‘Leo?’

  Her face suddenly crumpled. She dropped the telephone and buried her face in her hands. ‘It’s not him . . . it’s someone called Constance Stone. She rang before.’

  Picking up the receiver Meggie said, ‘Mrs Stone. It’s Margaret Elliot. If it’s not urgent, may I call you back?’ Bad news couldn’t strike twice in one day, surely. ‘Is it . . . Rennie?’

  ‘No, my dear. It’s Foxglove estate business so it can wait. Is everything all right?’

  ‘We’ve had some rather disturbing news. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, probably tomorrow, and if necessary will make an appointment to see you. Thank you for calling.’

  As soon as she’d replaced the receiver Meggie put an arm round her aunt and encouraged her to rise. ‘Come with me, Aunt Es. You’re going back to bed while I cook dinner. I’ll call you if there’s any news.’

  ‘I don’t feel like eating dinner.’

  ‘You must, for the sake of Johnno. We eat little enough as it is on rations. I’ll sleep up here too . . . keep you company, so you won’t feel you’re alone. I have two weeks off so I can look after you. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. And don’t worry about the telephone, I’m here to answer it.’

  ‘Tea . . . the panacea for all evils.’ Esmé got to her feet and gazed into the baby carriage at her son. ‘It would be a shame if he never knew his father.’

  ‘He will know him. Stop thinking the worst. Go on, off you go and get into bed. I’ll bring Johnno up when he wakes for a feed.’

  Meggie gazed at the child. How brand new and dear to them he was, sleeping soundly in all innocence of the devilry going on around them. He didn’t know there was a war on, and he d
idn’t know yet that he’d picked out a wonderful mother for himself. And he’d know his father was a man to be proud of, whatever happened, as Meggie had known her father, because he was part of a family who loved and cared for each other.

  As for Leo, she was sure he’d come home . . . if not today, then another day. And the war would end and they’d all start rebuilding their lives.

  Dashing away her tears she rang her mother, nearly crying again at the sound of her calm voice.

  ‘Meggie, my dear. Is everything all right?’

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Leo is missing in action.’

  ‘Oh . . . how dreadful.’ In the poignant silence Meggie imagined her mother staggering back on to the chair kept by the instrument, her palm pressed against her chest. ‘How’s Esmé taking it?’

  ‘All right I think. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I found her with the telegram unopened in her lap, waiting by the telephone for Leo to call. I’ve just got her up to bed. I don’t know how to handle the situation. It’s so very dangerous in London now. The house up the road was bombed and there are raids day and night. Leo wanted Aunt Es to go and stay with you, but she refused. Now she has the baby to look after, and it would be horrible if anything happened to them – especially since Leo might turn up.’

  ‘She must come to me as soon as she’s over the birth. Denton has some time off coming. He can take the train up to London and persuade her. Better still, I’ll send Chad up. Their twinship has always made them close, so she’ll listen to him.’

  ‘Leo’s car is garaged. Chad could drive that back. There’s probably enough fuel in it, and if not I know someone who can get us some.’

  ‘Black market?’

  ‘It’s a way of life here, Mummy. People aren’t as honest as those in the country . . . probably because there are more of them.’