Linda Lucas was in the pub. She knew she shouldn’t be in the pub, that she should be sitting at home by the wireless with Nan, but the crawling fear that something might have happened to Ben, who was almost certainly on the French beaches being shelled, was so bad she could only quieten it with company and alcohol. She’d get hell when she got home, but she didn’t care. Sometimes she thought she’d hit Nan as she went on and on about the boys and how they were running wild – it wasn’t her fault their school had been closed and was only now opening again, and with just half the number of teachers, nor was it her fault, as far as she could see, that bread had gone up again, that sugar was rationed and butter about to be, that England had now lost all her allies and certainly not that Nan’s constipation was worse than she could ever remember (although she probably should have made a bit more effort to get her senna pods from the chemist). But Nan clearly blamed her for the lot.
‘I can’t believe it’s all happening again,’ she would say, glaring at Linda, ‘history repeating itself like this. I’d have thought you’d all have learnt from the last time.’
The variation on this theme was that this war was nothing, nothing at all, they should have seen the last one, that really had been a war, there had been real hardship, and people had practically starved in the streets of London. Linda had tried protesting that surely if they weren’t starving this time it had to be an improvement, but Nan said that wasn’t the point, the point was that Linda and her generation didn’t know what a war was, didn’t know what suffering was. She usually finished by saying darkly that they soon would, which led to a short silence and then back to her repeating, she couldn’t believe it was all happening again. ‘Like a bloody chorus in a bloody song,’ said Linda to her friend Janice in the pub that night. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but if I argue even just a bit, she turns on the waterworks and says I don’t know how much she misses Ben. She misses Ben! What about me, I’d like to know! I tell you what, Jan, I can’t imagine how he managed to turn out the way he did, with her for a mother.’
‘Well, perhaps he’s more like his dad,’ said Janice reasonably.
‘Yeah, he is,’ said Linda, thinking sadly of Ben’s sweet, gentle, clever old father, always reading, coping so nobly with the terrible wife he had so incomprehensibly married, ‘exactly like his dad. And sometimes, I tell you, Jan, I have nightmares that I’m going to turn out exactly like his mum.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Janice, ‘you’re going doolally, Linda. You ought to take that job at the munitions factory, get you out of the house. They’re crying out for people. I’m going to, I’ve decided, I’m going along tomorrow. Maurice isn’t best pleased, but I don’t give a toss, and he’s not here anyway. It’s not bad money, and it’d be fun. My friend Heather loves it, they have a good laugh—’
‘Yeah, well, I might,’ said Linda. ‘Could you ask for me, Jan? Only thing is the boys, who’s going to look after them?’
‘I thought old Ma Lucas said she would.’
‘Yeah, I thought she would, but now she says she won’t. Says it’s not right, women gadding about when they should be at home with their families.’
‘You can do shift work,’ said Janice. ‘What about the night shift? That’d get you right out of the old bag’s way.’
‘I’ll think about it. But she’ll write to Ben and tell him most likely, and he’s not keen, I know. I don’t want him upset…’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ said Janice easily, ‘they’re not here, and we have to make our own decisions. Want another drink, Linda? Hey, look at those two over there. Norwegians, do you think? Or Dutch? There’s quite a lot to be said for this war, at times. Let’s go and find out…’
‘No, I think I’d best get home,’ said Linda with a sigh. ‘God, Jan, if Ben’s on those beaches – well, he is on those beaches, he has to be, they all are. Do you think I’ll ever see him again?’
‘Course you will,’ said Janice. ‘If I know Ben he’ll be well hidden under some tree or other, reading or something –’
Janice’s knowledge of the beaches of Normandy was not extensive.
The worst thing, Grace thought, was the telephone ringing endlessly. Every single time she thought it was either Charles, ringing to say he was safe, or someone from Whitehall ringing to say he wasn’t. It was never either. Her mother phoned almost every hour to find out if she had heard anything, Muriel at least every two, and Clifford each afternoon. In addition, Mrs Boscombe added her own enquiries every time she put any long-distance call through, or delivered a message. Grace kept asking them not to, promising to let them know the moment she heard anything, anything at all, telling them (most untruthfully) that she had been asked to keep her line clear, but they ignored her.
By the morning of 3 June, when the rescue operation was virtually over and 338,000 men had been picked off the beaches and reported safe, when every paper carried headlines about the Dunkirk Miracle, there was still absolutely no news of Charles. Muriel had phoned Grace to tell her Robert was alive, although instead of being allowed home on leave he was being sent back to his depot in Yorkshire: ‘Most unfair, Florence is so upset.’
Even Clarissa phoned: ‘Just a quickie. I know there’s no news, darling, I just wanted to tell you I was thinking of you. All the time.’
Rather to her surprise, Grace found that less irritating than all the other calls.
She knew by now that Charles was dead; it was just a question of getting through the time until the telegram came. She was almost looking forward to it; grief, real grief would be a welcome release from the gnawing, sickening, lonely terror.
She was out in the garden, tying up the great waterfall of tiny pink rambler roses on the paddock fence, when she heard the phone. On and on it went. She looked at her watch; it would undoubtedly be Clifford. It was nearly lunchtime, he always rang then. She tried to ignore it, to tell him by her silence there was no news, but in the end it defeated her by its insistence, and wearily pushing back her hair she went into the house and slowly, reluctantly walked into the hall and picked it up. But it wasn’t Clifford, nor was it Muriel or her mother; it was Mrs Boscombe, her voice loudly, shakily excited.
‘I told him you were there, dear, and I told him I’d tell you. I knew you wouldn’t go out without telling me, you never do.’
‘Mrs Boscombe,’ said Grace, holding the table, trying to steady herself against a swirling sick faintness, ‘tell who, tell me what?’
‘The major, dear, he’s quite safe, he’s back in the country, they’ve sent him down to Sussex, but he’ll be phoning when he gets there, sent his love. Are you all right, dear, you’re not crying, are you?’
‘Oh Mrs Boscombe,’ said Grace, who was indeed crying, and laughing at the same time, ‘I’m fine, absolutely fine. Can you ring my mother and Mrs Bennett and tell them, and say I’ll ring them as soon as I can, and get me the Regent’s Park number straight away, please?’
Charles phoned that night; he sounded almost euphorically cheerful. ‘Bit of a battering, darling, sorry I couldn’t contact you before. We were covering the evacuation, and while most of the battalion went off we got left behind, hitched a lift on a funny little pleasure cruiser and—’
‘Oh Charles,’ said Grace, who was crying again, weak, happy tears of relief, ‘you make it sound like a Sunday outing. Oh, I’ve been so frightened, I knew, I knew you were dead.’
‘Well, if I’d got on the sloop I probably would have been,’ said Charles, sounding more sober. ‘It was bombed mid-Channel. Look, darling, got to go. But I’ve got a forty-eight next weekend. I’ll see you then. I love you.’
‘I love you too, Charles,’ said Grace, ‘terribly, terribly much. I’m longing to see you.’
She had already decided what she was going to do when he came home.
‘You look terrible, darling,’ said Giles. ‘Are you all right?’
He was home for a week, then he had to rejoin his ship.
‘Thanks,’ said Florence.
‘And no, I’m not. God only knows when I’ll see you again.’
She had meant to be brave, not to spoil his leave, not to send him back worried, but she felt so ill, was so constantly sick, so permanently frightened, that she simply couldn’t help herself. She had to tell him.
‘What is it? Is Robert—’
‘No, no, he’s still up in Yorkshire. What on earth can they be doing up there, what use is an army in Yorkshire?’
‘God knows. Training, I suppose. The whole thing’s a shambles half the time, it seems to me. Only of course we’re not supposed to say that.’
‘No,’ said Florence. She looked at him, then down at her stomach. Her flat, almost concave stomach that would quite soon now begin to arch, to burgeon, to round out, that would give her away, that would tell Robert.
‘Darling, what is it? There is something, isn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, ‘yes, there is.’ She looked at Giles, took a deep breath, dreading hearing the words herself. She hadn’t uttered them before. ‘I’m pregnant.’
There was a long silence, then: ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said.
‘Yes, I suppose I could try that excuse,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘Mary’s I mean—’
‘Oh darling. Darling, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.’ He was pale himself, his eyes filled with anxiety and sympathy.
‘Is that all you are?’ said Florence. Her sickness was making her irritable.
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you anything else?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean aren’t you just a bit happy, proud, pleased – all those sort of things that expectant fathers are meant to be?’
‘Oh Florence, of course I am. Of course. Well, I presume I have the absolute right to be – I mean—’
‘Oh yes,’ said Florence, ‘oh Christ, yes. Robert went almost eight weeks before you. That’s what’s so scary, so – well, that’s why I don’t know – don’t know—’ She suddenly started to cry, big noisy tears, clinging to him, shaking. ‘What am I going to do, Giles, what can I do?’
‘Darling, don’t. Don’t panic. We must think this through, care fully. Now listen, Florence, listen to me—’ as her sobs became wails, neared hysteria. ‘There are certain things that are important. I love you. You love me. This is our baby. We always meant to be together. It’s not so terrible – I’ll take care of it, of you, the baby—’
‘Giles,’ said Florence, taking a deep breath, struggling to speak more normally, ‘Giles, there’s a war on. As people are so fond of telling us. You have to go back to your ship. And then to God knows where. You can’t, with the best will in the world, take care of me. It’s impossible. And Robert will come home, and he will know. He’s only in bloody Yorkshire. He’s not going to get killed up there.’
‘Oh you never know,’ said Giles, ‘you never know your luck—’
‘Giles, don’t. That’s terrible.’
‘I bet you’ve thought of it.’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Florence staunchly, suppressing the memory of the long days when she’d sat by the telephone willing it to ring, to tell her that Robert was missing, was dead. ‘I’m not that wicked.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this isn’t getting us anywhere. Have you thought of – well, you know—’
‘Of course I have,’ said Florence, ‘quite a lot. But I don’t have any money. Not that I can get at. And nor have you. And it takes a lot. A lot. Unless it’s going to be a knitting needle—’
‘Darling Florence, don’t, don’t. Promise me you won’t. Promise me you won’t anyway. I don’t know why I even thought of it.’
‘I do,’ she said very soberly, ‘I do. Very well.’
Ben was safe. ‘Not a scratch,’ he had said cheerfully on the phone. ‘Just fine. Home in a couple of weeks.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I don’t know.’
‘Everyone says now there’s going to be an invasion,’ said Linda fearfully. ‘Now that the Germans are just across the Channel.’
‘They may be saying it,’ said Ben firmly, ‘but it won’t happen. England is an island. She’ll defend herself. Don’t you worry, my lovely. I’ll be home soon. Mum all right?’
‘Yes she’s fine,’ said Linda.
‘Good. I love you. Kiss the boys for me.’
‘I love you too, Ben.’
It didn’t seem the moment to tell him about her job.
‘Darling!’ said Charles. ‘Not now surely! Not the middle of the afternoon!’
He looked slightly sheepish, embarrassed even, but he was smiling.
‘Why ever not?’ said Grace.
She smiled at him, hoping she looked as she sounded, a self-confident, sexy woman, dying to get into bed with her husband. Charles smiled back, stood up, held out his hand. ‘What a lucky man I am,’ he said.
This is the third time this weekend, thought Grace, it must surely work. She’d been lucky with her dates, it was just about the middle of her cycle; how awful if he’d come home when she’d had her period. She lay there beneath him, trying terribly hard, concentrating on every tiny flicker of feeling she had. She could feel him pushing deeper and deeper into her, hear him panting, gasping, then sensed him tense, and then, then the marvellous welcome pulsing as he finished. Please God, please please let it work, she thought, let it happen, and as he eased himself off her, kissed her, told her he loved her (he always did that, it was an intrinsic part of the routine, touching, sweet), she curled her body in on itself, pulling her legs up, towards her chest, as she had read somewhere you should, to contain them all, all the millions of sperm, help them on their way.
‘Oh God,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘oh God, I don’t want to have to leave you. You are all right, aren’t you? On your own here. Without Janet and so on.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘absolutely fine. Lonely, of course, but fine. I mean I would like to—’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, darling, I really don’t want you to. Help at the hospital of course, do any voluntary work you like, but I don’t like the idea of my wife in the forces. I can’t help it, I just don’t. I want you here, safe, waiting for me.’
‘I know,’ said Grace, sounding as acquiescent, as soothing as she could, marvelling at a selfishness (so well disguised as the opposite) that could keep her living alone, bored, feeling useless and frustrated.
But she really couldn’t argue with him when he was doing so much, risking his life, enduring such horror. Dunkirk had changed him; he was quieter, less inclined to tell jokes, to shrug everything off. Which was hardly to be wondered at; he had witnessed death, bloodshed, every kind of terror, shelling, drowning, had seen his comrades killed, had been instrumental in himself killing. She had tried to encourage him to talk about it, feeling that she should, that it might help, but he had simply smiled at her rather distantly, said he wanted to forget about it, not relive it, that was the only way to cope, and she had respected that, had not pressed him in any way. But it made her feel even more than usually excluded, set aside, unable properly to share his life.
Charles had expressed his unwillingness for her to have children yet for the same kind of reason that he did not want her playing an active role in the war; had said it all again that very weekend. ‘I want us to be a proper family, darling, quite apart from the dangers of bringing children into the world at the moment, and you having to cope on your own. I just don’t like the idea of our children being born and growing up while I’m not here. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Grace. She hadn’t wanted to argue with him, in case he grew suspicious, started asking her if she had ‘done the necessary’ as he called the use of her cap.
He left early the next morning; Wellings, Clifford’s driver, came to collect him, to drive him to Salisbury.
Grace had said she’d like to go too, to see him off, but he had said she was not to: ‘I want to remember you here, in our home, not on some station pl
atform.’
She waved him off, smiling gaily, went inside the still, empty house and cried for quite a long time; then she dried her eyes determinedly and went to phone her father. She had decided to spend the next few months, while her baby gestated, learning to drive properly.
Chapter 10
July 1940
‘I’m going to join the Wrens,’ said Clarissa, ‘I’ve decided. Here’s Mr Churchill telling us we’ve got to fight them on the beaches and in the streets and so on, and I thought I could do my bit on the top deck. Or whatever it might be called.’
She smiled at Jack: her brightest, most dazzling smile. He smiled back.
‘You wouldn’t mind then? Because I really don’t think I could just sit here worrying about you, not doing anything. I’d go mad.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. I’m a very modern husband, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know.’
They were sitting in the garden of their house in Campden Hill Square; it was an idyllically peaceful evening, with a deep brilliant sky, the air full of birdsong. War seemed impossibly far away.
‘No, I’ll be very proud of you,’ said Jack, taking her hand, ‘and I know you’ll fight them wonderfully and efficiently. Between us we can probably have the war over by Christmas, you on the sea and me in the air.’
‘Absolutely. Probably before that even.’
‘And it’s such a very glamorous uniform. I don’t suppose that’s been a factor at all.’
‘Of course not,’ said Clarissa indignantly, ‘except I certainly wouldn’t even think of joining the WRACS, that awful brown. Oh God, I can’t believe you’re going tomorrow. I can’t bear to think about it even.’
‘Well, let’s not.’
‘Easier said than done. Unless – well, we could just go to bed, couldn’t we?’
‘We certainly could.’
And they went upstairs and spent an hour, an hour and a little more cutting out most wonderfully and effectively the thought of the next day; and indeed the next, and all the other days that they would be apart and in danger.
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