The Consequences of War

by Betty Burton

  What had been happening was A State of War.

  Now that she knows, Little-Lena is no longer scared. The Prime Minister said, ‘May God bless you all… it is evil things that we shall be fighting.’ Her father had said, ‘Not you won’t be fighting, mate, you’ll be tucked up nice and safe,’ and her mother had said, ‘Oh shut up, Dick, and listen.’ Little-Lena, who had been going to the Church School for five years, knew it was important to get God on your side – and now he was.

  Because of the war the school isn’t going to open. Tomorrow, she will go with the others up to Princes Meadows. They will build a dam to float their raft. The over-tens will swim on the deep side of the footbridge bridge where there is water-weed and nine-holers that try to suck on to your legs. The girls will weave doll’s-house mats out of the reeds; the boys will make bows and arrows and dare one another to take off their bathers and swim up to the girls. And they will make cigarettes from plantain-ribs and dried blackberry leaves, because a lighted cigarette is the only way to get a nine-holer off.

  She skips and hopscotches the paving-stones. It does not seem like Sunday: the abbey bells have not rung, perhaps nobody went to Morning Service. She can see up as far as the railway ticket-office and back as far as Greenaway’s shop, and there is not a single other person in sight.

  The sun shines and sparkles the raindrops on Mr Headley’s roses. There is no school tomorrow. The conkers on the tree in the boys’-school playground are now quite big, but still green. To Little-Lena, it seems almost impossible to imagine that summer will end, that the conker-balls will eventually become spotted and split, that leaves will fall and the days will become dark and foggy.

  Little-Lena goes along the back-way path so that she can lick her finger and dip it into the sugar bag. Perhaps she will see Mrs Kennedy and the wonderful man who had been in her garden.

  1939

  Christmas

  As though some god played an even-handed game with the weather in Britain, the winter of 1939/40 was as long and bitter cold as the previous summer had been long and hot. Well before 24 December dawned, the myth that it would all be over by Christmas was exploded; though it must be said that, except for a silent Abbey bell-tower, a visitor to Markham might believe at first glance that It had never started and that nothing had changed in a hundred years.

  But Georgia Kennedy, hurrying to open up her little office, noticed the changes. For a start, somebody had organized the evacuation of the statue of Lord Palmerston. On the wall of the bank there were large yellow letters, SWS, and an arrow indicating a water supply, and on the front of the Town Hall a finger-pointing notice – Breakfasts and Dinners, 8 A.M. – 3 P.M. – indicating Mrs Farr’s domain and Georgia’s own office. The Town Hall itself had a number of its windows blacked out and boarded up, and its entrance was flanked by piles of sand-bags, protecting the public toilets which doubled as emergency air-raid shelters.

  But the rest remained unchanged and familiar in Markham Square that Christmas Eve. Three cakeshops, each with its speciality – yeast bakery, pâtisserie and iced fancies, Pinnock the glovemaker, W.H. Smith’s, two chemists – Boots and a proper chemists, a greengrocer-cum-fishmonger, the Coach House, Post Office, three banks, Co-op, Woolworth’s, Conservative Club and a shoeshop. A variety of architectural periods squashed together giving a charming, uneven roof-line and interesting façade. On Thursdays the Square still filled with the smells of passing cattle, sheep and farmers and, almost every other weekday, with the aromas from Freddy Hardy’s factory bakehouse.

  Georgia did not notice the town. It was still hardly daylight. She had Hugh’s letter on her mind.

  The office was cold and there was frost on the windows, so she kept on her coat, ankle-boots and fur Cossack hat until she got the little open fire going. Had it not been for its reprieve by the Emergency Committee, as Georgia’s office, the condemned Georgian cottage would have fallen or been pulled down. Now, a few ‘S’ irons on wall-cracks, interior timber shoring and a bit of whitewash were beginning to bring the place back from decay, but there were still no utilities except gas, and the stairs and upper room were still unsafe.

  Although she had been allocated only an ‘issue’ desk, two ‘issue’ chairs, two wooden stationery trays and a filing cabinet, Georgia was trained by her mother in the art of making things look nice. Short curtains with black-out lining, and a couple of matching cushions, two flowery pictures from the walls of her spare bedroom and, upon her desk, a variegated aspidistra in a pretty jardinière.

  Leaving the place to warm up, she took her forms and clipboard and went to see Mrs Farr and her cook’s helps.

  At 7.30, most of the preparations for serving breakfasts were completed, and they were already well on with the midday meal. As she crossed the yard between her office and the kitchens, she heard the women’s voices raised above the clatter of iron pans, kettles, shovelled coal and the odd line or two of a song, and she smelt frying bacon and roasting chicken. Whatever her spirits when she came to work, they were always boosted by the sounds that emanated from the kitchens when she went to consult with Mrs Farr first thing. She was, as usual, greeted by the Helps.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Kennedy.’

  ‘Morning, Miz Kennedy.’

  ‘Hello, Miz Kennedy – you’m bright and early.’

  ‘Likes your hat, must be nice and warm.’

  ‘Too warm.’ She took it off and several women had a try-on of it. The great coal-burning stove of an eight-plate hob and four ovens stood centrally in the room which was wonderfully hot and steamy after the cold morning air. Kept at simmering heat all night for the cooking of steak and kidney, or chuck or marrow-bone and lentil soup, the stove had been opened up by Mrs Farr at 6.30, and was now getting up a glow for bread and pastry-baking.

  On racks above the stove there were trays of crisped-up streaky bacon, some of browned rissoles, others of thick slices of fried bread. The tea-urn steamed and lard sizzled bluely, waiting for the exact moment for eggs to be slipped in just before opening-up time. In the restaurant itself, crockery and cutlery were ready, milk was in cups, piles of bread cut, plates warmed and the serving containers heated. Except for the wafting smells, no one could have imagined from its unlit exterior what industry and life was contained inside the gloomy old Chapel Hall.

  Nor could they have known the bits of joy that bounded in the hearts of the women who worked there. From seven o’clock till four, they scarcely stopped – skinning, peeling, washing, stirring, fetching and carrying and lugging and sweating. As they worked only six and a half hours, the jobs were considered to be part-time yet, to the women, these were jobs, proper jobs, in every sense – because they signed on and off in a Time Book, they had stamp cards, and at the end of every week they received a pay-packet.

  Georgia hung her street-clothes in the lobby with the assortment of macs, woollies, scarves and knitted hats already hanging there. Mrs Farr was, as usual, in the cool pastry-lobby, mixing, kneading and rolling; working alongside Dolly Partridge who was cutting and filling. ‘Hello, Mrs Farr, hello, Dorothy.’

  Mrs Farr and Dolly greeted Georgia without spoiling the rhythm they had worked up.

  In the two months since the Dinner Kitchens had been going, the women, under Mrs Farr, had established a working relationship and routine that was already as smooth and efficient as in any long-established business. It worked as well as it did because the women were determined that it should. They were aware that, although they were employees of the Ministry, the critical eyes of the Council and the Emergency Committee were upon them. Don’t give them a chance to say, What can you expect from a woman, was the motto. Especially for Georgia who, as well as being only a woman, also had the fault of being a young and pretty one, and so by definition frivolous. She intended to be forgiven nothing because she was a redhead with a figure like Lana Turner.

  Trixie, who had left Hardy’s to come and work here, brought Georgia the mug of tea and bacon sandwich which she usually devoured whilst check
ing the stores. This morning being Christmas Eve, there was no urgent vegetable order to be made up, so Georgia perched on a stool and waited for Mrs Farr to tell her what supplies she would need after the holiday.

  ‘Your man got his Christmas leave all right, Mrs Kennedy?’ Dolly Partridge asked.

  ‘Well, no, apparently they don’t get any Christmas leave. But it looks as though he might get a day or two over New Year.’

  Dolly Partridge saw the flush that coloured the young woman’s cheeks, so turned her attention at once to crimping the edges of the great slab-trays of mince-pie. Somebody had said that she was knocking about with some chap, but Dolly couldn’t abide gossip of that sort.

  It was people’s own affair, though it was a shame if a nice girl like Mrs Kennedy got herself in that kind of a mix-up… but there, when you’re young and your man’s gone away… Dolly knew what that felt like, and had more than once wondered what she herself might have done if the chance had presented itself. It never did to judge other people.

  I just hope that Marie won’t get herself into that kind of a mix-up… all Hell would let loose. But then, Marie never seemed to be all that interested – except in Charlie. But Charlie was in the Air Force now, and was on about being sent to Canada for training. Canada! The other side of the world. A postman talking about flying off to Canada as though it was only Andover or somewhere. There was some blimmin funny things going on.

  Somebody said, ‘I thought they all got Christmas leave. Makes you wonder what they can find soldiers to do at Christmas with nothing going on. You’d never think there was a war.’

  ‘Our Charlie’s coming home,’ Dolly said.

  ‘His first leave, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Take him all today to get home. Kettering… or Catterick… one of those places – I always get them mixed up.’

  ‘Just so long as he gets home. I expect Marie’s excited, I must go through and see her before I go back to the office.’

  Mrs Farr, deftly kneading and transforming rough crumbs of paste to smooth, pale yellow pastry, said, ‘I told Marie that it would probably be all right with you if she went off straight after she shuts the till.’ She glanced at Georgia for her approval. Marie, who worked the cash-till, did less hours than the other women and so was able to pick up Bonnie from school.

  ‘It’s all right with me. What about her little girl, Dorothy? The school closes at lunch-time.’

  ‘Our Paula’s going to fetch her.’

  ‘I’ll take over the cash-till and she can go straight after the dinner-time rush,’ Georgia said.

  Mrs Farr and Dolly glanced at one another without giving away their earlier speculation that Georgia might do that. Mrs Farr said, ‘That’s really nice of you, Georgia.’

  ‘I’ve got no reason to rush off. Anyway, I’ve brought in a couple of bottles of sherry; I thought the Ladies would like to have a drink…’

  ‘Why, that’s lovely. I was just about to ask you what you thought – I made us a cake and Dorothy’s done a lovely trifle.’

  The three women, white-haired, pepper-and-salt, redhead, looked pleased with one another.

  ‘Oh lovely!’ said Georgia. ‘The first Annual Christmas Party of the Dinner Kitchen Ladies.’

  ‘Annual?’ said Mrs Farr.

  ‘Well, we could make it annual, whatever happens,’ said Georgia, inwardly flushed with family feelings for this new and unexpectedly nice group she had become part of and who, if it had not been for the war, she would only have passed by in the street.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Dolly gleefully. ‘Fancy having parties at work.’

  * * *

  On Badger Island, Captain Hugh Kennedy was on duty. Wren Officer the Hon. Angela St John was on duty. They were on duty together. The fact that they were on duty and beautifully turned out in no way affected a bit of kissing and fondling – for they were on duty together and entirely isolated from the base camp. Each had been detailed by their separate divisions of XJ-R6 to survey a long hut recently erected by sappers, which would eventually become a hospital unit.

  Although there was as yet no heating except the sun, it was quite warm there, the walls being extremely well-insulated and the windows sealed. Hugh, standing behind Angela as he unbuttoned her jacket, looked out across the brackish grassland and shingle to where the sea broke gently. Winter sun glistened on the wet shingle; competing bands of Black-headed and Great Black-backed gulls swept and glided gracefully; the dried remains of horned poppies and marsh grasses bent before the freezing wind.

  ‘We could spend Christmas out here, Anny, and we could hunt for shark’s teeth on Christmas afternoon.’

  ‘Not the entire Christmas, my darling – one must have a few parties. But I absolutely should love to have a shark’s tooth. What’s Christmas without a party or two and getting nicely squiffy? You know I like parties and squiff.’

  Hugh did know that, having often seen her capacity for alcoholic drinks – Gin and It before, Chablis with, and brandy after dinner. Equally intriguing to him was her capacity for enjoyment of sex, and quite Continental stuff. She was lovely, yet she could be both coarse and mysterious at the same time. It was like having Jean Harlow and Marlene Dietrich combined – except that film-stars were never seen with the slightest hint of body hair – nice women copied Hollywood stars. Anny wasn’t nice in that way, she was wonderful.

  Georgia had always had nicely clean-shaven armpits. And that was how he liked Georgia to be.

  But not Anny. Not the long-legged ice queen whose loins were always afire: she was as blatant as an orchid with her urgent signals. Not bra-less, careless Anny who had, for some unaccountable reason, chosen him for a lover. He was absolutely besotted with her.

  Several times recently, since the subject of Christmas leave became of interest to most of the Badger Island personnel, he had had to push Markham, Station Avenue and Georgia to the back of his mind. He did not want to leave, did not want to go home. He wanted somebody, somewhere in Whitehall, to decide that XJ-R6 was such a secret operation that he would not be allowed off Badger for the duration of the war. He wanted to be ordered to remain on duty – for ever if they liked, so long as exotic Anny playing wicked remained with him.

  His caresses soon led to the release of the pins from her long black hair, and to the unfastening of her Naval buttons and his Army buckles. She retained her non-issue suspender belt, black issue stockings and flat-heeled WRNS shoes. She had a long, lean back which curved as elegantly as her throat. Her hips were narrow and her breasts were small and immature, apparently girlish and safe compared to Georgia’s challenging roundness. She was complex and thrilling in her contrasts.

  Hugh never ceased to marvel at how fragile she looked without the dark serge, the white poplin and the masculine tie. And he had never got over finding himself making love to a girl with an accent like hers. She had been presented at Court, went in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot and scoffed at both events – ‘But darling, they are all grasshopping twerps. Really. And most of them such absolute shits when you get to know them. You are worth ten of them, my darling boy. You are all womanlover. Oh how I should love to do things in your cricket togs, all white and woolly.’

  In the weeks that they had spent together, with few distractions either from duties or other desirable partners, she had taught him the art of holding back and the pleasure of fulfilling a woman. They had become finely tuned to one another. Hugh no longer gave the solo performance that left Georgia frustrated and both of them humiliated but, as he did now in the quarantine hut, clashed great climactic cymbals to Angela’s vibrating, deep chords.

  No wonder he was enchanted.

  He had found a woman who was bold enough to challenge the old man in the dog-collar who had, late in life, somehow begotten a son and then attempted to castrate him with guilt. The don’t touch, don’t look, don’t feel taboos of his youth were negated by Anny… Like this, Hughie? Now here and here… again… more. And he did not care where and how at only twenty-two s
he had learned so much about loving and being loved.

  At last, in a great sigh of satisfaction he had said aloud what he had been saying to himself for weeks. ‘God, Anny, how can I ever go back again?’ They lay on the hard-wearing carpeting covered by his greatcoat.

  ‘Pass the gaspers, Hughie darling.’

  ‘You don’t seem to realize… Georgia and I…’

  ‘I know Hughie, you said. You can’t come off with her and you can with me. It happens to vast armies of married people. It’s called marrying the wrong man – or woman as the case may be. You will probably have to dump her, or both of you will have to come to some kind of sensible arrangement.’

  ‘Anny! It’s a small town, with ordinary people. We’re not like the set you mix with. Nobody ever dumped anybody in Markham. Georgia’s young.’

  ‘Come off it, Hughie, she’s my age, and she’s not made of icing sugar.’

  ‘She comes from a very proper family – so do I for that matter. We are what our parents and our schools made us. Georgia is quite a conventional person – she would never go about like this.’ He kissed her armpit.

  ‘Bullshit, darling, there’s no such creature. When you get your leave, take her out to the woodshed or whatever you might have over there and try out some of your more imaginative Badger techniques… or take her out into sheep-country and try it on the Downs.’