She wondered what she would most like to be doing if she wasn’t pregnant: joining the Wrens like Clarissa she supposed. She admired Clarissa so much. Underneath all that excessiveness, affectedness, she was brave, kind, determinedly cheerful. Her courage through the Battle of Britain when Jack could have been killed daily, hourly, had been extra-ordinary. Others thought it absurd for Clarissa to be fussing over her clothes, her hair, a party she had to attend, but Florence understood; it was a front, a dressing up of herself, a blithe game so that no one might see the raw, gut-wrenching fear that lay beneath.
Within her, she suddenly felt a strange stirring, a rippling; startled, she waited, wondering what it could be. Wind, she supposed. Heavens above, pregnancy was unromantic. It came again and then again. ‘Oh,’ said Florence aloud, ‘oh my God, it’s the baby,’ and she sat staring at her stomach, awed, touched almost beyond endurance at the thought that within it lay this little creature, made by love, tentatively stretching out its tiny limbs, biding its time most carefully until it was ready to venture forth.
And as she sat there, quite still, waiting for, willing it to start again, she heard a noise: a noise at the bottom of the basement steps. Again it came, and then a shuffling; and as she tried to believe it was a rat, a cat, there was a very faint clearing of a male throat. Fear clutched at Florence, absolute in its intensity; she gripped the arms of her chair, held her breath, sweat pricking in her armpits, bile rising in her throat. Robert! It was Robert. It had all been a trick, a lie, he wasn’t in Gibraltar at all, he had come back to kill her. She stood up very slowly and carefully, picked up the marble rolling pin that was the nearest thing she could see to a weapon and began to move quietly up the steps, to the hall, the hall where there was a telephone. She could phone the police and – only, only of course she had had it cut off. And then she was really frightened; she knew what people meant about their bowels turning to water. She stood there, a hot white terror rushing through her, overtaking her body, holding the rolling pin, staring at the front door huge-eyed, biting her lips so hard she drew blood.
And then there was a gentle, a very gentle knock; she stood silent, waiting, praying for it to be nothing, no one, the wind, a visiting ARP warden, anything, cursing the ill-luck that had sent a cloudy night and no bombing to London.
But it came again, slightly louder. She put her hand over her mouth now, afraid she would scream, and then something came through the letterbox: a piece of paper, a note. How strange, thought Florence, less afraid suddenly, bending down to pick it up, still stealthily silent. It was not a piece of paper at all but a visiting card, and it said – oh God, oh God, thought Florence, weak with relief, with sheer disbelieving happiness – it said: Giles Henry. Pianist.
She flew at the door then, scrabbling at the bolts, the locks, sobbing, laughing with joy, opened it, stood there staring in total disbelief at him, at Giles, her darling, her love.
‘Our embarkation was delayed,’ he said, in between kissing her face, her hands, her hair, ‘for ten days. They gave me twenty-four hours. I tried to phone, but—’
‘I know, I had it cut off,’ she said, taking his hand, pressing it to her mouth, her tears falling on it. ‘I thought you’d gone, I was afraid of Robert ringing—’
‘But he’s gone.’
‘Yes. I told you, to Gibraltar. But – well, never mind. Oh, darling, darling, if you’d been one day later I’d have been gone.’
‘Where to?’
‘To my mother. In deepest Wiltshire.’
‘I’m glad you’re going. And thank God,’ he said, ‘that I came, risked it. I couldn’t be sure, you see, that he wouldn’t be here. But I thought – well, it was unlikely. And I was looking for signs of life before I rang the bell.’
‘I heard you. Nearly brought on a miscarriage,’ said Florence.
‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘the baby, let me, let me see.’
And she pulled up her skirt and they sat on the stairs, gazing in awe and some pride at her now uncompromisingly swollen stomach. ‘He was kicking,’ she said proudly, ‘earlier. It was the most exciting thing I can ever remember.’
Giles put out his hand, tenderly stroked her bulge.
Later, they lay in bed; he was holding her gently, afraid to hurt her, he said, he didn’t want to risk hurting the baby.
‘The baby will be fine,’ said Florence. ‘Listen.’
She reached out to the bedside for a large book. ‘During the second trimester,’ she read aloud, ‘sexual intercourse is permissible, providing care is taken and the mother rests afterwards.’
‘What’s the second trimester?’
‘It’s now. The middle three months.’
‘And what is this book?’
‘It’s called Pregnancy and Childbirth and it’s very comprehensive. I know all about labour and breastfeeding and everything. It’s my nightly reading.’
‘Oh darling. Are you frightened? Of having it?’
‘Terrified,’ said Florence cheerfully, ‘but my mother will probably be there, so I won’t be able to make the least fuss. Any way, I’m not having it yet, and I want to have you.’
She lay, naked, and felt her body, starved of him for months, opening to him. Her pregnancy seemed to have made her tighter, yet more fluid; every moment, every movement of him was newly intense, newly sweet. He entered her slowly, tenderly, asking her again and again if it was all right, not hurting; again and again she told him no, no, it was wonderful, impatient and cautious herself at the same time. She felt herself gathering for him, tautly sweet, felt her juices start to flow, felt the growing, burgeoning, pushing deep within herself, felt the white, blinding lightness going further, deeper, higher, impossibly far, heard a strange shriek that she knew must be herself, and then knew the wonderful un tangling, tumbling release as she fell beneath him into the sweet dark peace.
Later as they lay together, smiling, she felt the baby again, stirring; she put his hand on her stomach, hoping he could feel it too, but the movement was too small, too delicate to detect.
‘He liked that,’ she said, ‘he approved.’
‘You must lie,’ he said, ‘and rest, like the book says. Can I get you some tea? Milk?’
‘I was drinking whisky,’ she said, ‘I’d love some more of that.’
‘I’m not sure you should have it. In your condition.’
‘Boring old prig,’ she said. ‘All right, I’ll have some hot milk. With whisky in it. Would that make you happy?’
‘Happier. Only I couldn’t be happier. I love you, Florence.’
‘I love you, Giles.’
He had to leave early in the morning; she sat on the stairs hugging her knees, watching him put on his coat, his hat, trying to be brave, struggling not to cry, to be a good memory for him, a happy one. He came and sat beside her as he had the night before, holding her, kissing her hair.
‘When this foul thing is over,’ he said, ‘I will come back for you, and we will be married, and everything will be perfect. All we have to do is be patient and endure it till then.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes of course.’
‘Take care of yourself, my darling darling love. And of the baby, our baby. Let me know, somehow, when he is safely here.’
‘I will,’ she said, ‘of course I will.’
‘I have to go,’ he said, and his voice was rough, unwilling. ‘I have to go and I don’t know how I can.’
‘Yes, you can. You must. Don’t miss your train. Just because of me.’
‘Oh Florence,’ he said, ‘Florence, it’s the only reason I can stand all this, just because of you. The fear and the boredom and the loneliness and the futility of it. I would do anything, brave anything, just because of you. I love you. And I will be back for you. I promise you. Somehow, I will come back. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye,’ she said and stood up suddenly, pulling herself out of his arms abruptly, harshly, because otherwise she would have sat there for ever. ‘Go quickly. I love you, Giles. Stay safe.�
��
And the door opened and she shut her eyes, because she could not bear to see him go through it, and put her fingers in her ears so that she could not hear his feet on the steps, and when he had finally vanished into the cold dark morning she went on staring, staring for a long time at the place where he had been, as if some how she could will him back again. Only she couldn’t, and time and distance took him further and further away from her, him and the warmth of him and the tenderness of him and the love of him. And then she was really alone.
‘Mrs Bennett?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Bennett, I have your name down here as a possible billet for evacuees. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, smiling into the phone, feeling foolishly nervous immediately. ‘Yes, that is correct. I can take – well, let me see, easily two. Possibly three. Would that be a help?’
‘A great deal of help. Thank you. I cannot tell you how difficult all this is’ – the voice sounded exasperated, as if the weight of running the entire war was on its owner’s shoulders – ‘so many of these women sent their children down here and then took them back again. Well, naturally people can’t be expected to just drop everything and be prepared to open their homes again.’
‘Well,’ said Grace carefully, ‘there is a war on, I suppose.’
‘There is indeed, Mrs Bennett, only some people don’t seem to grasp the fact.’
Grace thought that if people were sending their children back to the country they probably had grasped the fact, but she didn’t argue.
‘Anyway, I have a trainload of children arriving this afternoon. Just like that, they tell me, as if I had all the time in the world. I mean a little more notice—’
‘Well,’ said Grace, mindful of the news, the ceaseless bombing of the capital, the terror that must fill the streets and houses, ‘I suppose the faster they leave London the better. It does sound appalling.’
‘Well, yes,’ said the woman slightly grudgingly. ‘Perhaps. Now look, can you get into Shaftesbury late this afternoon? It’s the best centre. The children will be in the town hall. You can make your selection.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Grace, ‘that we pick the children ourselves?’
‘Yes of course.’
‘It sounds a bit like a cattle market. Poor little things.’
‘Yes, well, as you said, Mrs Bennett, there is a war on. And the children are fortunate to be coming here.’
They stood there holding hands, watching the people coming in. Not nearly as many as last time, and not so many nice ones either, a couple with really cross faces like the last old bag. They were going to get left behind, David could see; either people wanted big boys to help on the farm, they’d learnt that now, or pretty little girls. That one with the curls, she’d gone already, and that little cow in pink, standing there smirking at everyone, she’d soon be gone too. A large stout woman came up to them and looked at them severely.
‘I can’t take two,’ she said, ‘and they don’t look up to much, but the bigger one could help in the house, I suppose. I’ll have him, he’ll do.’
‘But I want to stay with me brother, miss,’ said David. It was a cry of anguish; Daniel’s hand gripped his tighter. ‘The other lady said I could—’
‘The other lady had no business to say anything of the sort. This isn’t a holiday,’ said the woman in charge bracingly. ‘You’re very lucky to be here at all, safe from the bombs. Now come along, pick up your things, say goodbye to your brother. You’ll be able to see him sometimes, at school and so on.’
‘But –’ The tears began to flow. David gulped, fought them back. How was he going to bear this, without his mother, his home, his friends, or Daniel?
‘Now don’t start crying, for goodness’ sake. Come along, find your things and—’
‘Excuse me!’ Such a nice, kind, anxious voice. David looked up and saw a much younger lady standing in front of him; she was smiling and she had lovely reddish curly hair and a pretty flowery dress. She wasn’t really like his mother, but she reminded him of her.
‘Excuse me. I wonder if it would help if I could take these two? I wanted two, and they could be together.’
‘Well of course it wouldn’t help,’ said the big woman. ‘I’ve already chosen this boy. You’ll have to have two others.’
‘But they’re brothers. They want to stay together. And they’re so tiny—’
‘Look,’ said the big woman, ‘I’ve made my choice and I’m abiding by it. Tiny he is, I’ll give you that, but then he won’t eat much. I was hoping for a proper lad, be a bit of help, but he’s better than nothing. I’ve got to get home, it’ll be dark soon, my husband’s waiting out there with the van—’
David suddenly burst into loud sobs. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt it might help matters. He moved his foot, kicked Daniel sharply on the ankle. Daniel obligingly burst into noisy tears as well.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said the woman, ‘I can’t be doing with this. I’ll take her,’ she decided, indicating a large, pasty-faced girl who was standing in the corner. ‘She doesn’t look like much trouble. Come on. You’re welcome to these two.’
And she was gone. The pretty lady stood smiling in some triumph, looking down at them both. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘David, miss. David Lucas. This is me brother, Daniel.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Six, miss. Daniel’s just turned four.’
‘Well, would you like to come with me, David?’
‘Yes, miss. Can Daniel come too?’
‘Well of course he can. What a question.’
The lady in charge came over. ‘You really can cope with the two can you, Mrs Bennett? Because if not, Mrs Carter can take the younger one.’
‘Of course I can cope with the two. They have to stay together – it’s inhuman to separate them.’
‘Mrs Bennett, there’s a war on. Sacrifices have to be made. Even by children. Anyway, if you can cope – Now here are their ration books, and – what’s your name, David Lucas, have you got your gas mask?’
‘I lost it, miss. On the train, miss.’
‘Oh really! Really! What will you do if there’s a gas raid tonight? Eh?’
‘Don’t know, miss. Die I s’pose, miss.’
He met the pretty lady’s eyes, hoping he had said the right thing; he could have sworn she was winking at him.
She took them both by the hand and led them outside. It was almost dark, but what David could see of the town was very nice, like something in a picture book: curvy streets and lots of old buildings. By the side of the town hall was a steep, steep street, all cobbled, with little cottages beside it.
‘How would you like to have tea?’ said the lady. ‘We could go to that place just over there, look, on the corner. They still have some nice cakes, and there’s supposed to be a ghost.’
‘Yeah!’ said Daniel.
‘Cor,’ said David.
‘Crikey!’ said David as they pulled rather haltingly into the drive. ‘Crikey, it’s a bleedin’ palace.’
Grace laughed. ‘Not really. It’s called the Mill House. Look, there’s the stream.’
‘Yes, miss. What’s it do, miss?’
‘Well, nothing much now,’ said Grace, ‘but it used to drive that wheel, look, which ground corn and then made flour, I think.’
David was silent. Such refinements were rather too much for him.
‘That your dog?’ said Daniel, backing away.
‘Yes, she’s called Charlotte. She’s very friendly. Come and say hallo.’ But he was behind his brother, peering nervously out.
‘Look, Dan, chickens. The other lady had chickens. But we weren’t allowed no eggs.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘She said they weren’t for the likes of us.’
‘Well, you can have eggs here. Where was this other lady?’
‘In another country, miss.’
‘Another countr
y?’
‘Yes. Yorkshire it was called, miss.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace.
They were hungry; she gave them boiled eggs and bread and butter and apples from her own tree. It was so lovely watching someone else eating what she had cooked, she felt a lump in her throat.
‘That was nice,’ said Daniel, smiling at her for the first time. ‘Have you got a rabbit?’
Grace smiled back at him. ‘Not really. But lots come to play. I’m afraid Charlotte chases them.’ He was tiny; it was hard to believe he was four. They were both beautiful, with huge brown eyes and thick silky dark hair, but very thin and pale.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Acton,’ said David briefly.
‘With your parents?’
‘No. Me mum and me nan. Me dad’s gone to fight bleedin’ ’itler.’
‘Good for him. My husband’s doing the same thing. Let’s hope they succeed.’
‘You got any boys, miss?’
‘Boys? Oh, no,’ said Grace, ‘no. Nor girls. But you’ll be my boys, won’t you now? Do you think you’ll like that?’
Later she heard quiet, stifled crying coming from the little room she had put them in. She went in. Daniel was fast asleep, but David was lying, his face in his pillow, his small body heaving with sobs.
Grace went over to the bed, stroked his hair gently; he promptly put his head under the pillow.
‘David! Don’t cry.’
Silence.
‘Do you want to come downstairs with me?’
More silence.
‘Well, if you do, I’ll be in the kitchen. Do you think you can find the kitchen again?’
He didn’t come that night, or the next, but the tears went on. He seemed all right in the day, a little distracted, but quite happy. She thought she would leave them to settle until after the weekend before she sent them to school. They were dear little things, followed her about with Charlotte at their heels; she felt she had three puppies. The dire warnings she had received from everybody seemed quite unnecessary; they said please and thank you, knew what a knife and fork were for, used the lavatory. They made their beds carefully and neatly in the mornings, and seemed to be trying very hard to please. Daniel liked feeding the chickens, and she had told him she was going to get a goat which made him very excited. He seemed more composed, less homesick than David, who was quiet and withdrawn; however hard she tried, he didn’t say very much more than was strictly necessary.
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