The Very Thought of You

by Rosie Alison

  “I love you, my darling,” said Roberta, stroking her daughter’s hair.

  Anna looked up at her mother with unblinking eyes.

  In the years to come, she would remember that fragile day, its touchless light, their quiet elations.

  2

  Warsaw, 1st September 1939

  Inside the Warsaw Embassy, Sir Clifford Norton had been up most of the night; now he watched a pale-blue dawn that was serenely oblivious to their troubles. Vaguely, he realized that the last summer of the decade was over.

  All night his staff had been working in shifts, everyone engaged in these final frantic negotiations to stave off war. Typists had been rattling away, telephones ringing, messengers coming and going, even his wife had been there with her small portable typewriter, encoding and deciphering telegrams.

  Danzig, Danzig, Danzig was the word on every letter and report. The Polish port had rapidly grown from a place to a principle, Norton refected, as Hitler demanded its release into the Reich. Now they were facing a diplomatic deadlock, and the embassy was on emergency alert. But at this early hour, some of the staff were still napping on camp beds, and Norton was alone in his office waiting for the next round of telegrams from London.

  Suddenly craving the new day, he pushed his curtains right back until he could feel the arrival of daylight, subtle, spreading, now obscuring his desk light. The brightness cheered him; there was still a time for spurious delight.

  The eerie disquiet of these last summer weeks had been contagious. Warsaw was gripped by a strange Totentanz, the restaurants overflowing with odd gaiety and the hotels thronged with journalists firing off telegrams and spreading rumours. The shops had run out of sugar and candles, and the Poles had been burying their silver and crystal in gardens and parks.

  The telephone on his desk rang, startling him. 5.45 a.m. It was the Consul in Katowice.

  “The Germans are in. Tanks over the border at 5 a.m.”

  The news struck Norton distantly, as if it was a piece of history which might roll past him if he stepped aside. This was the moment they had all been waiting for, yet it had never seemed inevitable.

  Norton had not yet put on his shoes. The floor beneath his feet seemed to push upwards, hard. He felt as if he were living in the third person. He put down the telephone and spurred himself into mechanical action, cabling the news to London, rallying his staff.

  In the embassy, people came and went as if in a dream. Only a few hours ago they were still negotiating the price of peace, they thought, but Hitler had outmanoeuvred them all.

  At 6 a.m. Norton heard an air engine and went out onto the embassy balcony. Straight ahead in the clear sky, he watched a German fighter plane swooping over the Vistula. Sirens wailed, and there was a boom of anti-aircraft guns. Ahat was a shock; the frst air raid in Warsaw so soon. War had reached them already.

  3

  London, 1st September 1939

  Anna lay on her back, suspended in the stillness of sleep. Roberta sat on the bed and smoothed back her daughter’s hair until she opened her eyes.

  They both smiled, then Anna reached out her hand.

  There had been so many things to prepare for the evacuation. They had already picked up the new gas mask, in a box you could carry over your shoulder. The previous evening, Roberta had carefully packed Anna’s case with three changes of clothes and her wash things. And her bathing costume, of course. Her mother also produced a surprise book as a special treat. Into this she had slipped a loving letter and a family photograph.

  Roberta had stowed the food in an extra bag, because she didn’t want Anna to open her case and have everything else fall out. There was a tin of evaporated milk, some corned beef, two apples and a bar of chocolate. There was also a luggage label with Anna’s name and school on it, and her age.

  “A label, round my neck?” asked Anna, surprised. It felt strange, the itchy string against her skin.

  Anna had already decided not to take her teddy with her, in case anyone laughed at him. So she propped Edward on her pillow and kissed him goodbye.

  “I won’t be long,” she promised him.

  Roberta was so anxious as she fed her daughter that she had no chance to feel sentimental. But she was careful to be loving, not impatient, as they put on their coats and left their Fulham house. There was little time for Anna to look back at the green front door and be sad.

  But as they walked together towards the school, both of them began to feel the ache of parting. The coming separation made Roberta breathless – it would be several days before she could know where Anna had been sent. She thought with dread of some dismal, dirty house.

  “You must keep your hands clean,” she said.

  Walking along in the cloudy sunshine, war seemed remote and unimaginable. Roberta wondered how she could be doing this to her beloved daughter. Perhaps war would not touch them. Perhaps it would not happen. Would any German planes really fly as far as London?

  After her husband joined up, her first thought had been to leave the city with Anna. But they had no family outside London, nor the means to move. So, like other reluctant mothers, she had signed up for the evacuation scheme: all the parents at Anna’s school had been urged to take part. At first she had thought she could go with Anna, but was later informed that only nursing mothers would be able to stay with their children. It’ll only be temporary, Roberta told herself.

  Anna, meanwhile, had no such trepidation. She assumed that all the evacuees would be going to the seaside, like a holiday. She had only ever been on a beach once before, at Margate, and she was longing to run through wet sand again. And now she had her own bathing costume, packed and ready.

  She was expecting adventure; she had read so many fairy tales that she longed to set out into the world alone. Like Dick Whittington. The long road, the child with a small case, it seemed only natural.

  Her shoes were polished, her socks were clean. She carried her kit with pride. She did not fear parting, her mother’s face felt closer than her pulse. She could not yet imagine any rift.

  Beneath the red-brick gaze of the old Victorian school they joined an uneasy crowd of mothers, fathers, children, all there to say farewell. Children were crying, some of them howling. Mothers also were weeping. A sudden sadness washed over Roberta, though she and Anna were too resolutely independent to make any public display of sentiment. But still Roberta’s resolve wavered. She sought out a head teacher to ask where the children would be going.

  “Buses will take them to St Pancras station.”

  “Can we go with them there?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he said defensively, “you must say goodbye here.”

  There was a long wait in the school yard, and children sat on the ground, yawning. Roberta and Anna stood together, not saying much, just holding hands. Soon they were organized into class lines, with teachers ticking names on clipboards. Roberta was proud that Anna looked so pretty, so bright and fresh.

  She could always take her back home again.

  Suddenly the buses arrived, coming on from another school in World’s End. Before Roberta had the chance to change her mind and retrieve her child, the crowd’s momentum had swept Anna’s class forwards. Without a backwards glance, Anna hurried to find a seat. She put down her bags and realized that, after so much waiting, she had hardly said goodbye to her mother. She pressed her face to the window.

  There she was below, looking up at her – gleaming brown hair, and a smile meant for her alone, wishing her every joy and all good things.

  “Goodbye, Mummy!” called Anna, through the glass. Suddenly, she began crumpling inside as she fixed her gaze on her mother. She could feel the pull of her mother’s eyes right through her – until she was going, gone, and Anna was away on her journey.

  She sank down in her seat. The bus had a sour smell of stale cigarettes which made her nauseous. She yawned in the heat; there wasn’t much air. She felt odd – excited and suspended in a strange new world, where anything might ha
ppen. She did not miss her mother yet, because she was still so firmly rooted inside her – her face, her voice, her touch.

  But for Roberta the separation was immediate. She walked back home from the school feeling limp, like a wilting plant. The trees she passed looked parched and weary, and the pavement was cracked beneath her feet. The dryness of late summer was all around her, and the streets seemed unnaturally deserted.

  Had she made the right choice?

  4

  Anna’s school bus arrived first at Paddington Station, and sat there dead-engined for an hour. An inconstant sun came and went, making the children fidgety. Some of them disembarked there, but not Anna.

  Her bus pushed on to St Pancras – magical, colourful St Pancras, a riot of exotic brickwork. Anna had never seen this station before. Climbing from the bus, she glanced upwards at red Gothic spires rising to the sky – they looked like the towers of a fairy-tale castle, the first step in a great adventure.

  Inside, the vast vaulted space thrilled her. Steam was rising from the trains, their smokestacks were trailing wisps of white up to colossal arched girders. Beyond the platforms, the sky was framed like a stained-glass cathedral window – an infinite window of bright blue.

  But she was being pushed forwards, and there was little time to stop and look. The station was seething with crosscurrents of children and parents; it was hard not to get caught in the wrong queue. Station announcements and men with loudspeakers only aggravated the chaos. Many children seemed to have brothers or sisters, some of them very young and wanting to go to the lavatory. Anna felt strong in herself, and sorry for those who were looking miserable. She clutched her belongings carefully – the case, the food bag, the gasmask box.

  She longed for the seaside.

  A great clock hung over the sea of bewildered children, ticking away the morning. Gradually, Anna’s excitement began to dwindle, and the magic of the steel cathedral faded as they queued along the platform, waiting for something to happen. They stood, they sat on the ground. The platform was grimy, and there was an acrid smell which burned her nose.

  “Where are we going? Where?” The whisper of unanswered questions swept up and down the lines of children, dozens of young faces screwed into supplicant expressions.

  At last her group was led towards a train. Mrs Martin, her class teacher, ticked her off a list as she clambered on board with her cases.

  She had nobody to say goodbye to, but as the train drew away she joined the throng at the window, and waved at all those mothers and fathers whose faces were fixed on the departing children.

  The train rolled slowly through North London, past dingy backs of houses, small tended gardens, smoking factories. Anna felt as though she were in a film. The train speeded up, more places flashed by, and fields began to roll past her window.

  She remembered her mother’s gift book and unwrapped it: to her joy, she found The Yellow Book of Fairy Tales, with scary drawings of sea serpents and gnarled witches. Her mother’s photograph and letter made her a little tearful, but she was fixed on being as brave as a fairy-tale orphan, setting out to prove her mettle.

  Only she did wish for a brother or sister.

  The train stopped and started. Every now and again, somebody with a clipboard came to check that all was well. The toilet was blocked, and this was causing problems. Anna dreaded smelly lavatories, so she was careful not to drink or eat much.

  At last the train pulled in at a station. Nothing happened for a while, then doors started slamming, and voices shouted down the corridor, “Everybody out!”

  When they reached the platform, Anna saw they were at Leicester. She didn’t know where that was. Some of the children were being led towards the exit; others were directed onto a new train. As the crowds flowed round her, Anna felt suddenly dizzy – should she climb onto the train, or find her new home here? She stalled where she stood and felt sick and faint, facing this invisible crossroads to her future.

  “Is Leicester at the sea?” she asked a woman with a list of names.

  “No dear, nowhere near the sea.”

  That settled it. Anna did not want to stop here. She joined the queue for the new train, even though nobody seemed to know where they were going.

  She made for a window seat.

  “When do we get to the sea?” she asked a patrolling teacher. His eyes were quizzical.

  “You mustn’t be too disappointed if you don’t end up at the seaside,” he said. “Anyway, it’s too cold for bathing at this time of year.” Anna asked no more, but sensed with a sickening heart that she was on the wrong train.

  She began to worry. She watched and watched out of the window, hoping for a glimpse of the sea on every horizon. They seemed to roll through empty countryside for too long. Clutching her food bag and book, she fell asleep. Her legs did not touch the floor but swung from side to side with the train’s motion.

  In the late afternoon, the train slowed and she woke up. They were pulling into a station on a great bend. Anna saw the sign: York.

  “Everybody off!” called the supervisors, hurrying down the corridors. Anna was jolted to her feet and scrambled together her belongings. She stepped off the train and followed the line of children. They marched up many steps and over a long bridge, stretching across the station’s majestic curve. Birds were focking in the great glass roof. Somebody blew a whistle, and they flapped away into the open air, startling the children.

  Were they seagulls? Anna watched them, wishing she knew more about birds.

  Billeting officers were waiting for them, ticking off their names. Only a few children remained from Anna’s school.

  She looked about her at a crowd of unknown faces.

  “Where are we going?” she asked a man with a beard. He stopped and looked down at her small, anxious face. “We’re just taking you all to the billeting hall now. There’ll be tea for you there.” he spoke gently, with an unfamiliar accent. She didn’t dare to ask, this time, if the seaside was close by.

  The children were quickly marched off into hot and dusty buses. Anna looked out at the towering station hotel with its neat banks of flowers. So this is York, she thought.

  Fortunately, it was only a short drive from the city before they reached a school hall. There were a couple of hundred children there, and kindly women greeted them with drinks.

  “Where are we?” asked Anna.

  “You’re in Yorkshire!” replied a stout woman with spidery red veins on her cheeks. Anna didn’t know anything about Yorkshire, except that it was for poor people, factory people. That scared her a little.

  She was placed in a row of chairs and checked for head lice. Once cleared, she was given a bun and a cup of milk. Some of the adults were hurried and a bit snappy, but others looked her in the eye and took the time to smile.

  She ate her bun on one of the benches by the big windows, trying to make sense of the scene before her. She could see that adults were wandering around the hall, watching all the children. They were talking to a man sitting at a big desk, and pointing at different boys and girls. Were they being picked, like vegetables at a market stall? She sat down next to Becky Palmer, one of the few girls from her school who had come this far with her. Becky was soothing her little brother, who had wet himself. Women walked past, looking them up and down.

  Her heart was fluttering: a bit of her wanted to be chosen, but she also dreaded the people she saw. It all seemed so different to the seaside holiday she had dreamt of. She didn’t want to be in Yorkshire with unknown people – she had a picture, suddenly, of factories and smoky faces.

  Anna began to notice that all the women with nice faces were choosing girls – and she was sitting beside a weeping boy who had wet himself. Well, she wasn’t going to leave Becky just because of that. Just then, a purple-faced woman with bristles on her chin walked by and Anna felt relieved that young Ben was still crying.

  Suddenly the doors opened and a dark-haired woman in a smart coat strode into the hall. A younger woma
n hovered at her shoulder, as if attending her. The elegant woman seemed to swing forwards in her high heels, and her light coat swayed as she walked. She made straight for the chief billeting officer, who rose and spoke to her with deference. Anna watched from her bench as this new lady turned and surveyed the hall, leaning back on one leg and subtly rocking her other heel, like a dancer.

  The chief officer stood on a chair and clapped his hands to ask for silence.

  “Mrs Ashton here has thirty places left at Ashton Park, for those aged between seven and thirteen – boys or girls. Any children fitting that description, come over here now please.” Children began to shuffle over, but Anna rose quickly and went to the front of the line.

  She was captivated by this mysterious, beautiful woman – Mrs Ashton. Her hair was glossy and dark, and her clear level eyes travelled around the hall with a glint of amusement.

  My mother would admire this woman because she’s a lady, Anna thought.

  She looked down the line behind her: a straggle of boys and girls, all bewildered by their long day. The billeting officers were hurriedly taking down their names, and issuing them with postcards to send home. Anna watched closely as Mrs Ashton waited there with effortless poise, talking a little to her assistant, and asking a small girl about her journey.

  A billeting officer gave a signal that everything was in order.

  “All set? Come along then,” said Mrs Ashton, striding away on her heels. Anna hurried to keep up, and clambered onto yet another bus, already half-filled with children.

  The bus rolled out of the city through miles of flat wheat-felds, until gradually the ground rose higher and the road began to twist and turn more. At last light, they climbed up a steep bank, where the bus engine struggled round sharp corners.

  Then daylight was extinguished, and they travelled in darkness. There were no street lamps, just the empty road. The bus rumbled on and the children fell asleep in the dark, heads falling on shoulders and laps, cases and gas masks scattered all about the floor.