Cousins at War

by Doris Davidson

  ‘Might?’ he exploded. ‘I’ll bet my bottom dollar her ear’s pinned to the wall every night.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, though I think you’re exaggerating.’

  Regretting having taken his annoyance out on his wife when her behaviour was a result of the circumstances, Neil said jocularly, ‘Look, sweetheart, the walls of this house are so thick she’d have to bore a hole before she heard anything and I don’t think even Prissie would go as far as that.’

  Instead of taking this as a joke, Freda perversely took it as a slight against her mother and flounced round with her back to him. Bugger her, Neil thought, rage overcoming the last vestige of desire. Bugger her mother. Bugger all women.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  On her first fourteen nights at Padgate, Queenie had stayed in the hut, brooding about Neil. She didn’t want to think of him but she couldn’t get him out of her mind even though she had not seen him since his marriage. It had been a relief to her when, instead of coming home on leave, he took Freda on a belated honeymoon to York, for it meant that she could get away from Aberdeen without having to see him with the girl who was now his wife. At the beginning of the third week of her initial training, she decided that enough was enough. If she was ever to get over him, she would have to try to enjoy herself, to mix with boys. With this in mind, she went to a dance that night with some other WAAFs but, as the evening wore on, she found it became more and more difficult to keep smiling. Making the excuse of having to take an aspirin for a severe headache, she went to the cloakroom.

  On her own, she gave way to the tears which she had been holding back and let her thoughts turn to Neil again. When he asked her out for the first time, she had believed that he had been sent by God to compensate for taking her parents and grandparents away and it had helped her to bear the bitter grief that still attacked her in the night. After he kissed her, she had woven wonderful dreams of the future. She had been so childish, so silly . . . but had she really been silly? Her dreams would have been fulfilled if it hadn’t been for Olive. Neil had loved her, Queenie, until Olive told him a wicked lie about her. That was when he had changed. He would never have looked at another girl before and, even after he admitted to being in love with Freda, he had told her that she would always have a place in his heart. That had given her fresh hope, until the engagement. She had prayed that it wouldn’t last, but his marriage had been the end of all her dreams.

  Drying her eyes, Queenie realised that she couldn’t go on like this, it was utter stupidity, but she couldn’t go back inside the hall. After splashing her face with cold water, she made for the outside door, holding her head down so that no one would see that she had been crying, and cannoned into a young airman. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, without looking up.

  ‘It’s OK. You haven’t done any permanent damage.’

  She did not appreciate the levity. ‘I . . . didn’t see you . . . I was thinking about something.’

  ‘Wait!’ He put out a hand to stop her from walking on. ‘It isn’t Queenie, is it? Queenie Ogilvie?’

  Gasping in astonishment, she lifted her head. ‘Yes, but I don’t think I know . . .’ She broke off, scanning his face in wonder. ‘Les Clark?’

  His face, older now but still familiar, was too much for her, and tears came flooding again. Taken aback, the young man hesitated briefly before drawing the overwrought girl to his chest and letting her sob against him, not knowing why she was crying. Les Clark – who had started on the same day as Queenie at St Mark’s Junior School in South Norwood – had awakened dormant memories she never dared to let loose; memories of her beloved father and mother, of her childhood home where she had been cosseted and cherished, of George and Ivy Lowell, who had doted on their only grandchild and who would have given her the moon if they could. Until she was fifteen, the agonising thought came, she’d been swaddled in love, then everything had been snatched away from her.

  Although they were standing in an area where there was a steady stream of people passing on their way to and from the toilets, Les held her for a long time, ignoring the amused, sympathetic glances, and it was Queenie who drew away when her sobbing quietened and stopped. ‘I’m sorry, it was seeing you again, Les . . .’

  ‘It’s OK.’ He was delighted that she had recognised him and presumed that something had upset her earlier. ‘I never expected to see you,’ he said, heartily, to get her mind off whatever it was.

  ‘I’ve only been here just over a fortnight.’

  ‘I’ve been a week longer. I’m glad I bumped into . . .’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I’m glad you bumped into me. What did you do after you left school? I never saw you around.’

  ‘I was evacuated to Aberdeen in August 1940 but . . . my mum and dad were both killed in an air raid in February 1941.’

  ‘Oh.’ Light was dawning in the boy’s mind now. ‘Seeing me made you homesick for South Norwood, was that it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it was.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your mum and dad – I hadn’t heard about them – but who do you live with now?’

  ‘Dad’s sister and her husband. I stayed on at school until I was seventeen, then I went to university for a while.’ She changed the subject before he could ask why she had left. ‘I don’t remember seeing you at Whitgift. Didn’t you go on to the grammar school?’

  ‘No, I went to Croydon Poly, that was in 1937, so it must be seven years since we last saw each other. Where were you bound for in such a tearing hurry?’

  Queenie shrugged, ‘I was going back to camp. I came with some of the other girls but I wasn’t enjoying myself.’

  ‘My pal found himself a girl and I’m on my own, so I’ll walk back with you if you like. You’d better go in and tell your friends first, in case they wonder where you are.’

  ‘I’m not one of the gang, they won’t miss me. Anyway, I said I’d a headache so they’ll know I’ve gone back.’

  ‘Right, then.’ He tucked her arm under his before leading her outside then remarked, ‘It’s a nice night. Do you feel like having a walk first?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for talking.’

  ‘I know you’re upset about something, and I can guarantee I’m a first-class listener, if you want to tell me. If you don’t, I’m also a first-class talker, and you can listen.’

  ‘Oh, Les.’ Her voice was slightly tremulous. ‘I do need to tell somebody. Maybe I’ll get over it then.’

  ‘OK, tell all to Uncle Les, in strictest confidence.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell, really,’ she began, glad of the swiftly enveloping darkness. ‘Just the usual story of girl loving boy and boy marrying somebody else.’

  ‘Unrequited love?’ he suggested.

  ‘No, he did love me, until . . .’

  ‘Out with it,’ Les ordered, as she broke off uncertainly. ‘It’s far worse to bottle it up. Who was the boy?’

  ‘He was my cousin, Neil.’ Faltering a little at first, but gaining strength as she went on, Queenie told him everything from the time she had been taken to Aberdeen.

  Les proved himself a first-class listener by not saying a word until she came to an end, then he squeezed her arm. ‘Do you feel any better for having told me?’

  ‘Funnily enough, I do. I don’t feel so alone now.’

  ‘Good. Now, do you know what I think? This Olive must have loved Neil as much as you, but being a different type, she was determined to get him whatever happened. Right?’

  ‘Yes, she’d always got what she wanted before.’

  ‘So we can’t really blame her for fighting for him. You, on the other hand, being a decent, well-brought up girl, let things drift on without doing anything about them. Did you ever tell Neil you loved him?’

  ‘I thought he knew.’

  ‘If you had told him, he likely wouldn’t have believed her lies. By my reckoning, and don’t get angry at me for saying this, you were as much to blame for him falling in love with someone else as she was.’

&n
bsp; ‘I never thought about it like that but I suppose so.’

  ‘On the other hand, I feel that he wasn’t much of a man to believe lies without asking you if they were true.’

  ‘Oh, but Neil was . . .’ Queenie stopped, her eyes clouding.

  ‘You see? I’ve made you think. I believe you’ve known that all the time and that’s why you’ve been so upset. He wasn’t worthy of your love, Queenie.’

  They walked some distance in silence then she said, in a small voice, ‘I think you’re right, Les. He did love me for a while, but maybe not deeply enough, otherwise he wouldn’t have turned to Freda so quickly. You’ve made me see things differently, I was too close to it before. Thank God I met you tonight. You were always able to sort out my troubles, even when we were very young.’

  ‘We’d some great times at St Mark’s School, hadn’t we? Do you remember . . .?’

  After discussing their classmates and teachers for a few minutes, Queenie said, ‘I used to be terrified when the big boys teased me, but you always stuck up for me. You punched that Johnny Daker once, because he said I was a cry baby.’

  Les grinned. ‘He punched me back and you wiped the blood from my mouth with your hankie.’

  ‘He knocked out one of your teeth, didn’t he? I’m glad it grew in again. You used to carry my satchel sometimes, too, and I felt good when the other girls were jealous.’

  Looking pleased at that, Les said, ‘I felt good that you liked me best because I always liked you best.’

  ‘We do some silly things when we’re young,’ she sighed.

  ‘Liking each other wasn’t silly and we’re still young.’

  Her heart lifted a little. ‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’

  ‘How about coming out with me tomorrow?’

  ‘All right, but only as a friend.’

  ‘That’s all I want.’

  In bed, Queenie could hardly believe that in the space of less than an hour, her heartache had eased. It had not gone altogether, it probably never would – it had been too deep – but she could think of Neil with only a touch of sadness. He had been a fairweather sweetheart, easily dissuaded at the first sign of a squall, and she would be eternally grateful to Les Clark for making her understand that. It was strange that Les, in a superficial way, reminded her of Neil. He was almost the same build, with the same round face and square jaw, but that was as far as the resemblance went. His hair was bright red, not dark, his blue eyes were lighter and not nearly so serious, his mouth was not sensual like Neil’s . . . but it was still a nice mouth.

  Queenie caught herself at this. She was too vulnerable at the moment, and she shouldn’t have agreed to go out with Les again. They had been bosom pals when they were children but that was a long time ago and, even if he hadn’t changed, or didn’t appear to have changed, she had. But she had made it clear that there could never be more than friendship between them and he had agreed. They would just be a rather lonely boy and girl spending time together, and she would not say anything about him when she wrote to Gracie. Her aunt would likely start hearing wedding bells.

  Olive had told no one her secret. At first, she was unable to believe it herself but there was no doubt now. She was definitely three months pregnant and if ever a well-planned plot had backfired on its perpetrator, hers had. This was how she had meant to ensnare Neil – but only by pretending – if he hadn’t taken the wind out of her sails by marrying Freda. What on earth could she do now? Her mother would be shocked and say that she had brought disgrace on the family, but she would likely support her when it came to the crunch. Her father, on the other hand, would probably lose his head and throw her out . . . not that she could blame him.

  As each day passed, she worried in case her mother noticed anything – she had heard that pregnancy showed in a girl’s face long before it was obvious in the rest of her – but, so far, nothing had been said at home. Polly Frayne had asked her the day before if she was feeling ill, because she was very pale and drawn, but she had offered menstruation as an excuse. When she came to think about it, though, it might be a good idea to tell Polly the truth; she might suggest something. Not that anything she had tried herself had done the trick. She had swallowed spoonful after spoonful of castor oil, despite gagging as it went down, had taken boiling hot baths, had done some strenuous exercises, had even drunk gin, but the foetus was still clinging to her womb like the proverbial ivy to the wall.

  The following morning, Olive found herself sitting next to Polly in the lecture room, and decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Can I have a private word with you later?’

  ‘I’m going to Woollies at lunchtime for some pencils and a bottle of ink, so you could come with me if you like. We can talk on the way.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  That night, Olive gave serious consideration to what Polly had advised her to do. She really could not have this baby and abortion seemed to be the only answer. It was dangerous as well as illegal, but she would have to take the risk and Polly knew a woman who would do it. ‘She’s terminated quite a few that I know of,’ Polly had said, ‘with no ill effects. It would be as well if you stayed away from home for a night to get over it, but you can come to my digs, if you want.’

  Recalling this, Olive came to the most momentous decision of her life. She could never face Neil again, not after she got rid of his child, and especially not if he had his wife with him, so she would have to leave home . . . she would leave Aberdeen altogether. She would have the abortion, stay with Polly for one night, then go to a YWCA somewhere until she made up her mind what to do after that. Volunteering for the forces might be the ideal solution.

  If only Neil knew what she was doing for him, it would be easier to bear, but no matter how much she still loved him, she was determined not to ruin his marriage. If this was the penalty she had to pay for making his life a misery before, she would face up to it, and perhaps, by devoting her life to the service of her country, she could eventually forgive herself for the wicked things she had done. Before she did anything else, however, there was still one thing she had to do for Neil. Sitting down at her desk, she began to write.

  Freda was feeling extremely upset about the previous night’s quarrel. Neil had been totally unreasonable and it had all started because she had refused to let him make love to her without any protection. It had only been her excuse, though, because she was afraid that her mother would hear them, not afraid of falling pregnant. As quarrels do, it had escalated out of all proportion, ending in a shouting match that her parents must have heard.

  As she pulled on the men’s baggy trousers she wore to work in the gardens, she remembered yelling, ‘That’s all you ever married me for! Just to satisfy your cravings for sex.’

  ‘I sometimes wish I’d never married you! I got a lot more satisfaction from the sluts I used to go with.’

  That was what had hurt most. He should be pleased that for at least one night a week, she had tried to forget her fear, but he went off the deep end regularly, and the set-to last night was the worst ever. She couldn’t help being the way she was, and if he would give her more time, she might come to enjoy his nightly advances instead of dreading them.

  Freda was smoothing down her oversized woollen jumper when her mother came in. ‘A letter for Neil from Aberdeen,’ she announced, laying it down on the chest of drawers, ‘but it’s not his mother’s writing.’ Mrs Cuthbert made sure that Neil was not in the room, then added, ‘What were you two arguing about last night? Is he . . . making too many demands on you?’

  Flushing, Freda shook her head. ‘It was nothing like that, and I’d rather not talk about it.’

  Not believing the denial, her mother went on, ‘Your father was the same when we were first married but I soon put him in his place. Just do what I did – refuse him till he stops bothering you.’ Having delivered this advice, she swept out.

  Neil came in a moment later, still as angry as when he went to wash, and Freda eyed him coldly. ‘Mum took through
a letter for you. It’s on the chest of drawers.’

  ‘It’s from Olive,’ he muttered, as he picked it up. ‘She never writes anything worth reading, and I haven’t time now, I’m late as it is.’ Unbuttoning the breast pocket of his tunic, he slipped it inside, and only then did he look at her. ‘We’ll have to do some serious talking tonight, Freda. You can’t go on the way you’re doing.’

  ‘The way I’m doing?’ she gasped. ‘It’s you that’s causing all the trouble.’

  ‘It’s your bloody problem that’s the trouble,’ he snarled, and stalked out.

  She heard him telling her mother that he hadn’t time for any breakfast, then she crossed to the window in the hope that he would wave to her like he usually did. She watched until he went out of sight round the corner of the house and waited for him to wheel out the old BSA motor cycle he had bought for taking him to and from the camp. It was five minutes before he appeared again, and she was sure that he had been reading Olive’s letter in the outhouse he used as a garage. Why couldn’t he have read it in front of her? Olive hadn’t written to him since he was married, so why was she writing now? There surely wasn’t anything between them? But he had said that he had taken her out twice when he was home on his own and he’d meant to see her a third time, and she’d been naive enough to believe him when he swore there was nothing in it.

  Without looking round, Neil leapt on the seat of the BSA, revved the engine and roared away, leaving her seething with what she realised was a black jealousy.

  The soft, warm air against his burning face did not have the usual exhilarating effect on Neil – his mind was on other things. He would have to do something soon . . . but what? He still loved Freda, even after last night’s barney, but they would never be really happy until he got her away from her mother. He sped recklessly along the narrow, winding road, his knees skimming the rough surface as he took the series of sharp corners at full throttle. Coming to the last but one hairpin bend before the camp gates, he was so involved in his thoughts that he did not hear the rumble of the heavy Scammel coming from the other side, and he only avoided it in the nick of time by swerving on to the bank and coming a heavy cropper against a wire fence.