by Janet Tanner
It was a hot day, the sky clear and blue above the thick green hedges, the sort of day when it was almost impossible to realise that a war was going on, but it lent no respite to Barbara’s anxiety. Was Huw flying now? Was he even at this moment engaging his fire with a German fighter? She pictured him in the cockpit of his Spitfire, face drawn with concentration, and her heart contracted. She was unaware of the warm dusty air blowing in at the half-open door of the bus, unaware of its rattling progress. This daily journey had become such a part of her life that it no longer warranted the slightest attention, except that during the early months of the war services had been badly disrupted so that you never knew how long you would have to wait, or indeed how long the journey would take, for if the bus broke down as it often did there was no ‘relief’to come to the rescue. But things were better again now. The bus company seemed to have adjusted to the fact that England was at war and the journey had reverted to being part of the daily pattern.
The bus gathered speed along the straight where Margaret had met with her accident and began the long descent into Hillsbridge. As it rattled downwards the town came into view gradually above the curve of the hillside, first the broad spread of farmland and rich green fields climing up, up, on the other side of the valley till they reached the distant smudge of trees on the horizon with only the sky, azure blue, above; then the first tiers of cottages which spread like grey fingers across the steepening valley bowl; and lastly the town itself, the tangle of soot-blackened buildings, the railway lines, the yard and the tall brick chimney of Middle Pit where most of the Hall family served out their working lives. ‘The Emerald Valley’Amy had once called it in a romantic mood just after her wedding to Ralph, but such a notion had never occurred to Barbara. She neither eulogised it nor blamed it, as some did, for being a blot on the rolling Somerset countryside. It was the place where she had been born and raised, and as much taken for granted as the air she breathed.
Towards the foot of the hill the bus slowed and Maureen raised her eyes from her novelette to see what was causing the delay. Just the train probably. It arrived from Bath at almost the same time as the bus and the girls might have used it had it not been for the fact that the branch line station it ran from was twice as far from their school as was the bus station.
Today the gates were not yet closed. It was not for that that the bus was stopping. But something was going on …
‘Babs – look! Look, they’ve got the flags out!’
For one glorious moment as she emerged from her reverie Barbara thought that the war must be over. Why else would anyone fly flags? Then Maureen went on: ‘It must be for Marcus Spindler, mustn’t it? Gosh, how exciting!’
Barbara wrinkled her nose. ‘Why should it be for Marcus Spindler?’
‘Because he’s a hero!’ Maureen said impatiently. ‘And he’s coming home today. They’ve patched his leg up enough for him to be allowed out of hospital and instead of going on somewhere for convalescence he said he preferred to come home. Mum was talking about it at breakfast.’ She gave her elder sister a critical glance. ‘You don’t listen to a word anyone says to you these days, do you? You’re in a dream all the time.’
Because a number of people were milling about in the road near the level crossing the bus had come to a complete stop and Maureen jumped up, jamming her novelette into the pocket of her blazer and climbing over her sister’s legs to grab her satchel from the rack.
‘Come on, let’s get off here while the bus is stopped and see him arrive!’
Reluctantly, Barbara followed suit. She had no special desire to see Marcus Spindler or anyone else arrive – unless of course it happened to be Huw. But Maureen was already halfway down the aisle, cajoling the conductor to let them off.
‘This isn’t the stop, you know!’ he said, with mock severity, but he was a regular on this route and he liked the two girls. ‘All right, go on then, just this once,’ he said, shaking his head and grinning.
Once in the street the extent of the welcome which had been prepared was more obvious and Barbara and Maureen stopped for a moment, taking it in.
The town silver band, once able to win prizes at competitions from the Albert Hall down but now with its numbers depleted by conscription, was formed up on the platform. At the foot of the station approach a shining Rolls Royce was drawn up and waiting, the chauffeur, peaked cap set squarely on his head, tie knotted firm and tight against his Adam’s apple in spite of the warmth of the afternoon, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the immaculate bonnet whilst keeping one eye on the signal which would announce the imminent arrival of the train. Overhead the bunting fluttered bravely and a large Union Jack had been hung across the parapet of the footbridge which spanned the lines between the two platforms.
Part of one of the platforms had been roped off – to allow Marcus and any other travellers to disembark in comfort, Barbara supposed – a very necessary precaution in view of the size of the crowds. Only the stationmaster, resplendent in his best uniform, and Police Sergeant Button were strutting importantly about in the roped-off section.
‘Where do you think is the best place to watch from?’ Maureen asked. ‘There aren’t as many people this side of the line, are there? And we’d have a really good view of him getting into his car.’
‘But we’d be quite the wrong side when the train arrives,’ Barbara pointed out. ‘We wouldn’t be able to see the band or anything.’
She opened the small wicket gate beside the large crossing gates and they crossed the lines where the sleepers made a flat path and onto the bit of the platform that was not roped off. Then they slipped along at the back of the waiting crowd and climbed up onto the long bench seat outside the waiting room window.
This caused a few murmurs amongst those who had been waiting longer and whose view was more restricted. There were some remarks about ‘people having to sit where your dirty feet are!’, but Barbara and Maureen pretended not to hear and before long several children had been hoisted up onto the seat beside them.
‘It’s like South Compton Fair Day, isn’t it?’ Maureen said, referring to the sideshows and rides which took over the High Street and Square of the neighbouring town every year on the last Friday in April.
Along the line a signal clanked, closer in it was echoed by another. In his signalbox high above the platform Desie Duery hauled on the wheel and the level crossing gates swung laboriously across the road, meeting in the middle with a small satisfying thud. All eyes turned to look along the line, watching for the first sign of the train rounding the bend alongside the sheds, and in the moment’s silence before the band began to play again every ear strained for the unmistakeable sound of wheels on rails and the rhythmic expulsions of steam.
‘Just think if we had come home today on the train instead of the bus we could have pretended all this was for us!’ Maureen giggled.
The engine came into view and the carriages snaking behind it. The conductor raised his baton and the band struck up once more – ‘There’ll Always Be An England’.
As the train eased into the platform people began to cheer and wave Union Jacks so that the girls had to crane to see. A small group of dignitaries made their way out of the waiting room and into the roped-off-section of platform.
‘Oh look – it’s Uncle Eddie Roberts!’ Maureen cried.
‘Pompous ass,’ said Barbara who knew that bad feeling existed between her mother and her uncle. ‘Look at him fancying himself. It ought to be Uncle Harry doing the honours.’
As the train stopped old Reuben Tapper hurried forward as fast as his rheumaticky legs would carry him to open the door. Reuben had worked for the S and D for as long as anyone could remember. If it had not been for the war he would have retired last Christmas or so he told anyone who would listen. As it was with strong young men needed for jobs more vital than railway portering Reuben had managed to put off the day when he would hang up his cap for the last time.
Now he flung the carriage door wide
stepping smartly back and raising his rather claw-like hand into the parody of a salute. The girls nudged one another and giggled, then the laughter died as a young man in the uniform of an army officer emerged.
‘Wow!’ Maureen said softly; it might have been an echo of the thoughts of everyone on the platform.
Tall, fair, he looked a little like a modern day Greek god as he stood framed in the open doorway. His face was slightly shaded by the peak of his cap yet this did not detract in any way from the clarity of his features – the clear strong lines of his jaw, the patrician nose and well-shaped mouth. His shoulders were broad beneath the tailored khaki, his hips athletically slim, and he stood so straight that at first glance the ivory topped cane with which he supported himself was hardly noticeable.
The people on the platform cheered so loudly that they almost drowned the band and he smiled, raising his free hand in a wave. Then as the dignitaries approached he started down the steps to meet them, shifting his wounded leg with a deliberation that brought a lump to the throat. It was almost possible to feel his pain and share in his determination that it should not show. The sun lent an aura to the khaki uniform and turned the fringing of fair hair beneath the cap to molten gold as he took that last deep step to the platform and steadied himself once more to proud erectness.
‘Gosh, isn’t he super?’ Maureen gasped.
Barbara said nothing but in her heart she was forced to agree. Not as super as Huw, of course. But there was something about him which could not be denied, something which made the heart skip a beat and started a wave of emotion – pride and admiration, patriotism and pity.
Hillsbridge’s own golden boy had come home from the war a hero and they had been here to see it.
Through the dark years that lay ahead it was a moment that neither girl would forget.
Chapter Nine
On a Saturday afternoon in August Harry Hall was cutting his front lawn, sweating a little as he pushed the mower over the uneven ground. He had allowed the grass to get much too long – there never seemed to be time for dealing with it and now the dandelions were sprouting up in the carpet of daisies so he had had to make time. Daisies he did not mind, dandelions really did make the lawn look like a wilderness.
Margaret would have done it if he had let her, but he would not. She had still not fully regained her strength and once when she had dragged the mower out and made a start on the lawn she had been so ‘done up’that she had had to leave it and go and sit down and he had expressly forbidden her to do it again.
‘It’s my job. I don’t want you struggling with it,’ he had said. ‘You can do the weeding and those girls can help you. It’s about time they did something about the place. You wait on them as though this was a hotel.’
This afternoon, however, both girls were out. In an effort to give the ‘vackies’something to interest them through the long summer holiday, the schools had set an essay project in conjunction with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds known as the ‘Bird and Tree Scheme’. This gave the city bred children an incentive to explore the countryside and lent a purpose to walks, rambles and nature study. Margaret had encouraged both Elaine and Marie to enter into it and today they had gone out immediately after lunch, armed with notebooks and baskets for collecting specimens of leaves and wild flowers. Harry and Margaret were alone for once with nothing to do but tidy the garden and they had set to work with a will. But Margaret seemed to have something on her mind. As he pushed the mower back and forth Harry noticed her sitting back on her heels deep in thought. And she certainly wouldn’t be wondering which spike of green was going to turn into a flower and which should be pulled up as a weed, he thought – Margaret was a natural where gardening was concerned.
He stopped mowing, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his forehead.
‘Penny for’em.’
‘What?’ She looked up, startled.
‘Your thoughts. From the look on your face they’re worth a good deal more than that, though.’
Margaret straightened her back. Her expression was indeed serious.
‘I’m not sure I’m going to tell you. I haven’t really thought it through yet.’
‘Thought what through?’
She rolled over into a sitting position, looping the skirt of her cotton dress over her knees.
‘All right, I will tell you. It’s nice to be able to talk without Elaine and Marie listening to every word. I’ve been offered a job.’
‘Oh, have you!’ He abandoned the lawn mower and dropped down onto the grass beside her. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Teaching, of course. They’re going to need someone at the Church School from September on. It sounds like the job is mine if I want it.’
‘Do you?’
‘Well yes, I do. I miss the classroom and the Church School would be so convenient – just down the hill.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
She smiled. ‘I knew you’d say that. You are, for one thing. You’re so busy you’re never here. And now that you’re prospective Labour candidate – well, if a campaign got under way you’d need a full-time wife to support you, not a harrassed working woman.’
‘I think it’s highly unlikely there will be a campaign just yet,’ Harry said. ‘Mrs Lincoln is not going to resign until there’s a General Election.’
‘But her health is a bit suspect isn’t it?’ Margaret said. ‘Maybe she will have to go before then.’
Harry stretched his legs.
‘Even if she did it’s doubtful there would be a contest. There’s a party truce on, remember. In the event of a vacancy the nominee of the sitting party would be returned unopposed. Unless the local committee decided to go against the Party Executive and contest anway, as they did in Kettering. I wouldn’t like that. “Unofficial Labour” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. Though I can imagine Eddie Roberts pressing for it for just that reason,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if I went for the job,’ Margaret asked.
‘Not if you think you can cope with it. Not a bit. Though I can think of a job or two I’d rather you were doing. Like being the mother of our child, for instance.’
He saw her face cloud slightly. It still hurt, remembering the baby she had lost, and as yet there was no sign of another on the way. Margaret had tried resolutely to put it from her mind – the more she wanted it the less likely it was to happen, she thought. Perhaps even considering this job was an effort to tempt fate.
The sadness in her eyes and the sweetness of her sunwarmed face stirred him and he reached for her, pushing her back on the newly mown grass.
‘Let’s start again – like now.’
‘Harry!’ She rolled away. ‘The neighbours could see!’
‘Only if they were watching out of their bedroom windows.’
‘Well they might be for all you know! Stop it this minute! Just imagine the newspaper headlines if anyone saw you! “Prospective Labour MP behaves indecently.” I’d die of shame!’
‘How can a man making love to his wife be behaving indecently?’ he teased.
‘It’s where you do it that counts,’ she said severely. ‘In any case we have a great deal more gardening to do. This lawn is a disgrace!’
‘All right, I give in,’ he laughed. ‘You’re a hard woman, Margaret.’
She laughed, then cocked her head to one side, looking up at the sky. ‘What’s that?’
Harry followed her gaze. The sky which a few minutes ago had been clear blue and empty was suddenly full of planes. German fighters zooming in like angry gnats, Spitfires closing in from the opposite direction to head them off, the rays of the sun catching their fuselages and wings and sending off sparkling shards.
‘Oh my God!’ Margaret gasped.
Harry grabbed Margaret’s wrist, dragging her towards the cover of the hedge. If the fighters were coming, the bombers would not be far behind. As they rolled beneath the leafy laurel he heard them – the drone of their
engines making the earth and the air tremble.
‘What are they doing here?’ Margaret squealed. It was the first time that a raid had penetrated this far – they had mostly been confined to the south-east and many of the battles had been fought over the sea.
The guns were firing now; with hands pressed over her ears to shut out the noise she bobbed her head out to see what was happening, then bobbed quickly in again as the spurts of red and orange flashed across the sky like some erratic blow-torch.
Harry was watching over her shoulder.
‘The bombers are turning round. They know they won’t get past those Spits. Pray they don’t start dumping their bombs for a quick getaway. Christ! – that one’s hit!’
Margaret risked another peep and saw the plane angling down with black smoke pouring from it. There was a muffled explosion as it hit the ground somewhere over the crest of the hill and out of sight. Against the blue she saw the billowing white of a parachute. And still the fighters darted and climbed, still the gunfire raked the sky.
‘The children!’ In the midst of the dogfight she remembered Elaine and Marie, somewhere out in the countryside collecting their nature study specimens, and began scrambling to her feet. ‘What about the children?’
Harry grabbed her arm pulling her down again.
‘They’ll be all right. They’ll take cover.’
‘But they’ll be so frightened!’
‘There’s nothing you can do, Marg. You don’t know where they’ve gone. They’ll be all right.’
For seemingly endless minutes the skirmish continued but the Germans were in retreat now and the battle was moving further away. She saw another plane on fire, losing height with smoke streaming from its wing in a black ribbon, but it was too distant to be sure what it was.
‘Is that one of ours or one of theirs?’ she asked. Her voice like the rest of her was trembling.
