Beneath a Frosty Moon

by Rita Bradshaw

  Rachel stopped what she was doing and came over to Cora, patting her arm as she said, ‘I know this is a day of mixed blessing for you, dear.’

  It was rare for Rachel to use any form of endearment and this, more than her words, touched Cora. She was determined, however, that she wasn’t going to be a wet blanket on the air of excitement that was pervading the house on this special day, VE Day, and so she blinked away the moisture at the back of her eyes and forced a smile. ‘Me and countless others.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true, but each of us has to carry our own burden, lass, and it doesn’t make it any the less heavy by being aware of others doing the same.’

  As Rachel walked over to the range and stirred the porridge, Cora looked out of the kitchen window. It was raining, but that suited her mood. She didn’t want blue skies and bright sunshine, selfish though that was in view of the celebrations planned for the day. And it wasn’t just Jed she was thinking of, who had lost his life in a foreign land so far away from everything he had loved, but the men fighting in the Far East. It didn’t seem right to be rejoicing when British soldiers were still being killed every hour of every day. Rachel had said the Japs were as good as finished, but they weren’t finished, that was the point, however much the newspapers went on about the Allied victories, and all the flag-waving today wouldn’t change that fact for the families here still living in dread of receiving an official telegram. And she couldn’t get it out of her head, no matter how much she told herself it was pointless to think this way now, that if Chamberlain and the rest of his cronies hadn’t imagined that they could meekly pacify Hitler but had called his bluff and shown that Britain was prepared to defend herself in 1938, the war might not have happened anyway.

  But all that was speculation, and however she felt, the rest of the country were apparently going to go all out with parties and teas and what-have-you. Anna and Susan had come home with stories that some of the mothers in the village had gone to great trouble to cut up any pieces of material they had available to make red, white and blue dresses for their offspring, and at the very least the girls were going to have hair bands of the same colours, little lads bow ties, older folk rosettes; and one of Anna’s friends had told her their mother had sewn a coat for their dog from a flag she had bought. It was as though after all the drabness and privation of the last few years, people were determined to go mad. Cora sighed. And she couldn’t blame them. If Jed was alive and well she’d probably be the same. As it was, she would have preferred to just go about her work on the farm quietly and thank God it was all over.

  The four girls came back with a basket of eggs in the next moment, full of chatter and squeals and laughter, and again Cora inwardly sighed. It was going to be a long day.

  At just after two when Wilfred and Horace arrived at the farm as had been arranged the previous Sunday, the weather was proving mercurial. The heavy rain first thing that morning had given way to blue skies and sunshine later, before more clouds and a cold drizzle as Cora had eaten lunch. Now it was merely dull and overcast but Cora, whose emotions had fluctuated wildly all day, felt perfectly in tune with Mother Nature.

  They were riding to the village with Rachel in the horse and cart, Cora sitting beside the farmer’s wife on the plank seat and the others perched in the back of the cart on a number of sacks filled with straw. Maria and Maud and the three younger ones could barely sit still, they were so excited about the street party, chattering away and chirruping like a small flock of sparrows. Cora turned round to Wilfred who was sitting just behind her.

  ‘Are Jed’s parents coming today?’ she asked quietly. She hadn’t been to Appletree Farm for some weeks. Strangely, the closer the end of the war had seemed, the harder it had been to see them on a Sunday afternoon. She couldn’t rationalize why and she didn’t try.

  Wilfred shook his head. ‘They’re staying at the farm. Mr Croft said they’ll have a glass of sherry and listen to Churchill’s broadcast at three.’

  Cora could understand that. She would have liked to sit quietly at home and toast the fallen. It was more appropriate than fun and frivolity and she knew they would be thinking of their three sons. Many times in the night when she couldn’t sleep for thoughts of Jed, she had considered how his mother must feel. She had lost her three precious boys to this war, and yet she made herself get up each morning and get on with the day. Jed’s mother didn’t know it, but she was remarkable, like so many others.

  When they arrived at the village they found the main street had been decorated to within an inch of its life. Tables and benches and chairs lined the road, and large flags, small flags and bunting stored from the Coronation turned the street into a rainbow-like world, along with Christmas decorations and coloured lights. Someone had rigged up a loudspeaker in readiness for the Prime Minister’s broadcast at three, and when it began even the most excited of the children became silent. As Churchill began to speak Cora couldn’t hold back the tears, but then every other woman around her was the same. There was barely a family represented here today who hadn’t lost a loved one.

  The familiar voice began: ‘Yesterday at 2.41 a.m. at General Eisenhower’s headquarters, General Jodl, representative of the German High Command and Admiral Doenitz, designated head of the German state, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea and air forces, in Europe, to the Allied Expeditionary Force and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command. Today, this agreement will be ratified and confirmed at Berlin. Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, Tuesday 8 May, but in the interest of saving lives, the “Cease Fire” began yesterday to be sounded all along the fronts.’

  Next to Cora, Mrs Armstrong, the butcher’s wife, gave a choked gasp, the tears pouring down her face, and her husband put his arm round her. They had lost two boys at Dunkirk but had twenty-two-year-old twins, Toby and Lonnie, still at the front somewhere in Germany, and their mother was terrified one or both of them would be killed in the last hours of the war.

  Apart from stifled weeping there was not a sound to be heard in the village as the Prime Minister continued, ‘I should not forget to mention that our dear Channel Islands, the only part of His Majesty’s Dominions that has been in the hands of the German foe, are also to be freed today. The Germans are still in places resisting the Russian troops, but, should they continue to do so after midnight, they will, of course, deprive themselves of the protection of the laws of war, and will be attacked from all quarters by the Allied troops. It is not surprising that on such long fronts and in the existing disorder of the enemy, the commands of the German High Command should not, in every case, be obeyed immediately.’

  Mrs Armstrong gave a little muffled cry and Cora heard her husband say, ‘They’ll be all right, Beth, they’ll be all right. I know you’re worried but stop torturing yourself, lass. Let the day’s troubles be sufficient unto the day, that’s what the Good Book says. The lads’ll be home before you know it, I feel it in me water.’

  Cora had missed a little of Churchill’s speech but now she concentrated again as the loudspeaker crackled and whined for a moment in the cold north-east wind.

  ‘After years of intense preparation, Germany hurled herself on Poland at the beginning of September, 1939, and, in pursuance of our guarantee to Poland and in agreement with the French Republic, Great Britain, the British Empire and Commonwealth of Nations declared war upon this foul aggression. After gallant France had been struck down we, from this island, and from our United Empire maintained the struggle single-handedly for a whole year until we were joined by the military might of the Soviet Union and later by the overwhelming power and resources of the United States of America.’

  There was a wave of muted muttering at this point; some of the men present making their feelings known, albeit quietly, about the lateness of America’s arrival into the war. They hadn’t seen too many GIs hereabouts but that didn’t stop the menfolk from objecting to the young, dashing strangers who had swarmed into the count
ry and straight into the affections of innumerable British women. The catchphrase of ‘overpaid, oversexed and over here’ was also, according to many women, overdone by their resentful menfolk.

  ‘Finally,’ the Prime Minister went on, ‘almost the whole world was combined against the evil doers who are now prostrate before us. Our gratitude to all our splendid Allies goes forth from all our hearts in this island and throughout the British Empire. We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing, but let us not forget for a moment the toils and efforts that lie ahead. Japan, with all her treachery and greed, remains unsubdued. The injustice she has inflicted on Great Britain and the United States, and other countries, and her detestable cruelties call for justice and retribution. We must now devote all our strength and resources to the completion of our task both at home and abroad.’

  There was a moment’s pause, then, ‘Advance Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!’

  Everyone in the street had hung on to every word Churchill had said and now there were loud cheers and a waving of hats and flags. People were laughing and crying, and the children, released from their enforced solemnity and knowing that the promised high tea with jellies and cakes and sweets was about to begin, went mad with excitement, squealing and dashing about and getting in everyone’s way.

  Cora felt as though she was on the outside looking in as the afternoon progressed, and had she but known it plenty of other women, behind their cheerful expressions, felt the same. But the celebrations were in essence for the bairns, as one housewife murmured to her after the tea had finished and the planned games began.

  ‘Today doesn’t really mark the first day of peace, not the way we knew it before the war anyway,’ the middle-aged woman said sadly. ‘Japan’s still fighting, the wicked so-an’-sos, and we’ve still got all the wartime restrictions after all. Mind, there’s some who are only too pleased to make merry.’ She cast a grim and meaningful glance at her husband who was on his umpteenth glass of beer.

  He ignored her, winking at Cora who was standing with Wilfred, keeping an eye on Horace and the younger two girls who were engaged in a game of musical statues, a piano having been hauled out of someone’s house onto the pavement.

  ‘I keep telling her a glass of something or other would do her the world of good,’ he said in a stage whisper so his wife could hear every word. ‘Got a face like a battered pluck half the time, she has. Here, lad,’ he added, reaching for a jug on the table and filling up Wilfred’s empty glass with foaming beer, ‘get that down you. Nothing like home-brew for putting hair on your chest.’

  Cora looked a trifle anxiously at Wilfred. He’d already had three glasses of beer to her knowledge and it showed. Rachel had warned them on the way that most of the home-made beer and wine that would be on the tables that day was strong enough to knock a mule out.

  ‘Mrs O’Leary’s blackberry wine is the worst,’ she’d murmured so the younger ones didn’t hear. ‘When the vicar went round to discuss their youngest daughter’s wedding last year they had to carry him home to the vicarage and he swore he’d only had two glasses. Mind, knowing the O’Learys, I bet it was pint glasses they gave to the poor man. Took him ages to live it down in spite of him insisting he thought it was blackberry cordial rather than wine. We certainly haven’t had any sermons about the demon drink since which is a blessing. He was hot on that at one time.’

  Wilfred caught Cora’s look and grinned at her. She had had one small glass of wine at the end of Winston Churchill’s speech when one of the local farmers had taken it upon himself to raise a toast to the Prime Minister, the fallen and the brave lads who were still fighting, but since then had drunk only cups of tea. He drank half the glass of beer straight down before he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, ‘I agree with that fella, lass. It’s a day for celebrating and we’ve waited for it long enough.’

  She smiled back but said nothing. He was right, of course he was right, but she just didn’t feel the way he did.

  Although the afternoon was cloudy and overcast the rain held off, and after the games for the children had finished, the red-cheeked buxom matron at the piano struck up song after song for the dancing which went on until twilight. Wilfred had tried to persuade her to dance several times but Cora had refused, using the excuse that she needed to keep an eye on Maria and the others. She was finding she didn’t like the Wilfred who drank. He was over-loud and despite her encouraging him to ask one of the girls waiting for a dance to take the floor, he remained glued to her side. When a couple of the local lads asked her to dance at different times during the evening he was quite rude to them, and although she took him to task and said she was quite capable of refusing their attentions without his help he just laughed and said it didn’t hurt for them to know the score. Quite what the score was she didn’t know, and she wasn’t about to ask Wilfred in his present state of intoxication.

  By the time it was dark enough to light the huge bonfire on the common which had been added to for days, Cora had a thudding headache and was longing for the time when she could collect Maria and the others together and they could go home. Rachel had been sitting with a group of villagers all evening and Cora had noticed that one man, who seemed unattached, had paid her marked attention. Rachel looked flushed and bright-eyed and twice had danced with him; she certainly seemed in no hurry to leave the festivities, and Cora had resigned herself to staying at the celebrations until the bitter end.

  A life-sized image of Hitler, stuffed with straw, had been suspended by the neck in the middle of the main village street on a rope stretched from one bedroom window across to another on the opposite side of the road. Now that the bonfire was going to be lit, it was brought down and the effigy was placed on two planks to be carried to its funeral. The ‘bearers’ led the way to the common at the head of a procession of all the residents of the village and other merrymakers, whereupon ‘Hitler’ was hoisted to the top of the bonfire and the fire was lit. There was much cheering and yelling as the effigy was consumed by the flames, children shrieking with glee without really having the faintest idea of what was going on besides the fact that after five years of blackout, illumination had returned to their world.

  As folk began to dwindle back to the street and the piano for more dancing, Wilfred caught hold of Cora’s arm, his eyes glittering in the glow of the dying bonfire. ‘This is a new beginning for everyone, do you feel that?’ he said thickly, stumbling a little over his words. ‘The past is behind us, we have to look to the future now. Do you see that? Do you?’

  Taken aback by his manner and his grip on her arm but thinking it was the drink talking and aiming to placate him, she murmured, ‘Yes, yes, Wilfred. The war is over for most folk and things will get better now.’

  Pulling her away from the bonfire and into the surrounding shadows, he ignored her attempts to extricate herself. ‘I need to talk to you, to tell you,’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘That’s what I need to do.’

  Cora suddenly had the feeling she didn’t want to hear what he had to tell her. ‘Not now,’ she said quickly. ‘I need to see where Maria and Maud are, and the others. You can’t trust Horace near bonfires, he’s liable to fall in.’

  ‘He’s not a bairn any more, Cora. He’s fourteen, for goodness’ sake.’ The thickness was gone and his tone was sharp, irritable. ‘We’re all a lot older than when we first came here.’

  ‘I know that.’ She jerked her arm free with enough force to make him let go of her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  She watched him draw in a deep breath and his voice was quieter when he said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Look, I don’t want to argue, it’s the last thing I want. Just listen a minute, will you? Properly listen. You never really hear me, Cora.’

  She stared at him. The smell of beer was strong on his breath and he was swaying slightly. She would have liked to walk away but sensed that the mood he was in he was capable of causing a scene. Without enthusiasm, she said coolly, �
��What is it you have to tell me, Wilfred?’

  Wilfred stared back at her, frustration paramount. This isn’t how he wanted it to be. He’d got her back up now, damn it. But he was sick of pussy-footing about. He’d been patient, more patient than most would have been in the same circumstances. He’d listened to her go on about Jed in the first months after he had gone, comforted her when they’d heard Jed was missing presumed dead, and continued to be good old Wilfred, always ready with a shoulder for her to cry on. Soon they’d be returning to Sunderland and he wanted things in place before they left here. Or if not in place as such, he wanted her to start thinking about him as something other than a big brother. He knew it was Dutch courage prompting him to speak tonight, but he also knew that without the alcohol he’d chicken out before he said anything. He had tried before, hadn’t he? And then, always at the last moment, had bitten his tongue for fear of spoiling what they had. But what they had wasn’t enough and it was driving him stark staring mad. Keeping his eyes on her face, he cleared his throat.

  ‘I want to tell you I love you, like a lad loves a lass, I mean, and before you say anything I know you don’t feel the same.’ He held up his hand as she went to speak. She had taken a step backwards away from him, and now he said, ‘Like I said, I know you don’t feel that way about me, not yet, but don’t close your mind to it, that’s all I’m asking.’

  She had known, she’d always known, hadn’t she, deep down somewhere inside where she had buried the knowledge, not wanting to face it? And now he had forced the issue and she didn’t want to hurt him, not Wilfred.

  ‘But you know how I feel about Jed. I’ve never hidden it.’

  Quietly now, even gently, he said, ‘Felt about Jed, Cora. Felt. He’s gone.’