by Anne Doughty
Emily smiled, glad to hear him admit his own feelings for their friend and delighted by the unexpected prospect of a night out.
‘Will we take our supper to the fire, Alex?’ she asked, seeing the lines of tiredness in his face. ‘I lit it a wee while ago and it’ll be blazing up nicely by now.’
‘Why not?’ he replied, standing up and struggling out of his dungarees. ‘If we’re dining in style tomorrow night, we can have it in a bowl tonight, can’t we? Easier than a plate on your knee.’
‘What a good idea. I’ll heat a couple of bowls. I never thought of that.’
The phone rang just as she was pouring hot water into what Jane always called the ‘Daddy Bear’ bowls, the biggest ones they had.
‘I’ll answer that,’ he said quickly. ‘You serve up,’ he added, as he disappeared into the dark hallway.
The champ smelt good as she spooned it into the warm bowls. She had to admit to herself it always did. They had their own scallions from the garden and there was always butter to put in the well at the centre, for Mary Cook had bought a device with a rotary beater which was proving most successful at producing small quantities without the use of a churn.
She laid the tray on the kitchen table, went into the larder to pour glasses of milk and came out just as Alex returned.
‘I’m sorry, love. It is bad news this time.’
He waited till she put the two glasses of milk safely down on the table with a shaking hand and then went on.
‘Ritchie was killed this morning. It was his second solo flight and his plane crashed and went on fire …’
It was Alex who put small logs on the dying fire and insisted that she sit there while he reheated their abandoned supper.
‘We’re entitled to cry, Emily,’ he said, his own face pale, his eyes red. ‘But we’ve got to keep going. Both of us. Whatever happens. Now be a good girl and say you will for I can’t do it by myself.’
She nodded, knowing that if she spoke, the softness in his voice would bring the tears pouring down again.
She wiped her eyes again after he’d gone, shutting the door behind him because of the cold air gathered in the unheated hall and stairwell. It felt as if she was living in a small, safe space, warm and comfortable, while all around her there was death and darkness and cold and destruction.
One woman weeping by a bright fire and hundreds of thousands of young men lying dead in Stalingrad, Russian and German locked in a desperate struggle for a city. A crucially important strategic point on the Volga to the German generals, yet a place where people once lived and loved and had a life and were now caught up in a devastating battle. How many millions of women would weep in the cold, chill winter days ahead? How many hearts would break for young men like Ritchie, so full of life and energy.
‘Stop it, Emily,’ she said to herself quickly, as she became aware of small sounds from the kitchen and heard the electric kettle being switched on. ‘You must not let yourself think of them. You must not disable yourself with grief.’
Suddenly and totally unexpectedly, she thought of a May evening. Beyond the window, the water of Millbrook’s reservoir paper calm, two swans and five fluffy cygnets moving across its perfect surface, marking it with smooth grey lines like a pencil marks on a sheet of paper. Chris Hicks was looking down at her, as if he understood something about her she hardly understood herself.
‘Holding the world together for someone, no doubt, as my wife does for me.’
He was right. However good, or clever, or wise, there were things a man had difficulty in doing for himself. But if he had someone to help, someone to hold the world together for him, then his own courage and wisdom would flow and he would return the gift in his own way. Through action, like Chris and Alex, or in other ways she had not thought about. But before they could act, they needed to be given that gift of being held.
She heard the kitchen door close, wiped her eyes again, blew her nose and ran her fingers through her hair. She even managed a small smile as the sitting room door opened and he came back in with a tray.
He had his back to her as he put it down on the low table between them, but when he picked up the coffee pot and moved to set it down on the hearth to keep warm, she saw his face had lost its look of bleak desolation.
‘If you eat up your nice supper, I’ll pour you a cup of Chris’s coffee,’ he said, as he sat down opposite her, a Daddy Bear bowl in one hand, a fork in the other.
‘Thank you for my supper,’ she said, picking up the other bowl which now steamed gently. ‘And especially for coffee,’ she added. ‘And for being honest. You are right. We have to keep going. We just have to. But we don’t have to pretend it’s easy.’
Emily woke early next morning, her eyes flicking open in the completely dark room. She’d hated the darkness when the blackout first went up, for they’d always slept with the curtains drawn back. Even when there was no moon there was usually starlight and however bad the weather, there was always the outline of the window and some pale light reflecting from the mirror of her dressing table, or the pictures on the walls.
In the darkness, she had felt trapped, suffocated. She’d struggled to adjust, but finally, when she could bear it no longer, she’d plugged in a smiling green gnome with a red hat and bright sparks of light for eyes that had once been used for Johnny. After a few weeks, she found she was forgetting to switch on, but she never moved the green gnome from the floor on her side of the bed.
‘Ritchie,’ she whispered, as she turned on her side and stretched cautiously, unwilling to wake Alex a moment earlier than necessary.
No more Ritchie. No more tramping feet on the stairs as he and Johnny went up to Johnny’s bedroom to work on a model aircraft kit they’d bought by saving up their pocket money or their holiday earnings. No more Ritchie eating as if he were half-starved, leaping to his feet with a thank you and an offer to wash up, or to carry the laundry baskets to the clothes line. Never again. Gone. Flown away. Beyond the bright blue sky.
At the thought of Heaven, she shivered. There would be a funeral, a service, a eulogy from the local minister. Yards and yards of pious reassurances that the parting was temporary and it was all part of God’s plan. Would he tell her Stalingrad was part of God’s plan if she asked? No wonder Alex didn’t believe any of it. She wasn’t sure she’d got much belief left either though she noticed that she’d never stopped praying. Not that she ever got down on her knees by her bed like her mother had taught her to, but often enough over the kitchen sink or the ironing board, she caught herself asking for strength, remembering all her family and naming her friends. Even if it was only to say silently to herself, ‘God keep them safe,’ she probably prayed most days.
‘God help his poor parents and all like them,’ she thought, as the strident ring of the alarm clock shattered the silence.
She would have to phone Ritchie’s mother, of course, and perhaps visit her. But it would be proper to phone first to see what the arrangements were. And Johnny would have to be told before anyone else in the family.
She offered Alex the one remaining slice of bacon in the larder with a fried egg and soda bread, but to her surprise he said ‘no, just tea and toast as usual.’ They ate their breakfast in silence, exchanged a few words over ringing Johnny’s Training Camp and the timing of their evening engagement. They parted with a brief hug that had something of desperation about it.
It was only half past seven and still pitch dark as she peered out of the kitchen window to pick up the tiny glow of hooded headlights as he drove out of the garage and headed down the avenue. Tuesday, the 10th of November, 1942, it said on the calendar when she turned away from the window and stared at the pattern of squares outlined in black, the numbers blocked solidly in red.
When she finally gathered herself to make the call to Ritchie’s home, she found herself speaking to a most unfriendly woman who said shortly that her sister couldn’t possibly talk to anyone, the funeral would be private, and besides, she didn’t know
when it would be. Emily offered the usual condolences, got off the line as quickly as possible and found her hands shaking as she put the phone down.
After that, she was even more uneasy about ringing the Training Camp at Greencastle. Their number had been supplied to parents with strict instructions that it was only to be used in emergencies. It was certainly not available for contacting any of their trainees.
‘Greencastle Camp. Please state your business.’
Emily nearly dropped the receiver. The voice, so cold and so distant, sounded positively ethereal. She listened in a kind of trance as the voice, female it seemed, repeated the message exactly as before.
She’d have to do better than this.
‘I’d like to speak to my son’s Commanding Officer,’ she said with a confidence she most certainly did not feel.
‘About what, madam?’
‘About the death of my son’s closest friend in a similar training unit to yours.’
There was a click and silence.
Emily stared into the black mouthpiece and noted the tiny beads of moisture where her warm breath had condensed on the stone-cold plastic. There were radiators in the hall. Hugh Sinton had installed them before the turn of the century when Rathdrum House had been one the first in the district to have central heating. But Hugh had run the radiators from his own gas plant, which burnt coke. There was no coke available for domestic use any more.
She shivered and was about to put the phone down when a voice startled her.
‘Good morning, ma’am. Maybridge here. Can I help you?’
‘Yes … yes, that would be very good of you. My name is Hamilton, my son John is with you.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’m afraid I have bad news for him. His closest friend, Ritchie Johnston, was killed yesterday. His plane crashed on his second solo flight.’
‘I take it you knew this young man, ma’am?’
‘Oh yes. The two were inseparable. He was in and out of our house all the time.’
‘Then may I offer you my sympathy. This is very hard on you, as much as it may be on John.’
Tears sprang to her eyes once again. The accent was upper class and English, yet shot through with a gentle warmth which she found it hard to believe. Johnny and Ritchie would have made fun of it, of course.
‘What ho, Caruthers. I say this is a bad show, old boy.’
‘Damned natives. Can’t trust one of ’em. Must have got into the Clubroom again. Taken the glue, by Jove. Can’t fix the jolly old fuselage if there’s no glue.’
She could hear them and see them. She’d laughed at them and got on with her work. And now an unknown man with a Caruthers accent was saying he was sorry for her distress and meaning it.
‘I wondered about telling my son the news,’ she continued. ‘And there is the question of the funeral.’
‘Yes, I understand and I’m glad you’ve rung me. I shall tell John myself and I will arrange for him to phone you this afternoon between 4 p.m. and 5 p. m.’, he went on briskly. ‘I’m afraid for practical reasons he will only be allowed six minutes. Sadly, we cannot give him leave to attend a funeral other than one involving his immediate family. We are not unsympathetic, but there are questions of morale involved. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes, I do. We all have to keep spirits up. Low moral costs lives just as much as careless talk,’ she said quickly, without considering at all what she had said.
The response was immediate and heartfelt.
‘You are so right, Mrs Hamilton. I wish more parents could understand that.’
There was a sort pause and Emily was wondering if she should say ‘Thank you’ and ring off, when he cleared his throat and spoke again.
‘Mrs Hamilton, I can give you no word of comfort for the death of John’s friend, but I can say to you that your son is one of the best potential pilots we have here. That doesn’t mean he will come home safe at the end of this show, but it does mean his chances are higher. I’ve seldom seen a young man so at home in a plane.’
As Emily and Alex walked up a broad, carpeted stairway and into the Officer’s Mess of Chris’s small training regiment, Emily was sure the room must have been the original dining-room.
They both knew the handsome, linen merchant’s house requisitioned at the beginning of the war, but although neither of them had ever been inside it before, it seemed to them both as if it had remained much as it had always been despite its new inhabitants.
A huge marble fireplace with a most welcoming wood fire was overhung by an enormous portrait of a fierce-looking man with a hooked nose. The furniture was heavy, but much of the light provided came from old oil lamps, carefully converted to electricity. Through misted glass mantles and delicately engraved globes it spread softly on mahogany and rosewood, drawing out its warmth and colour.
‘Now then, Emily and Alex, I want you to meet my new team,’ Chris said, as five young men waiting by the fireplace came to attention, saluted and then, at a single glance from Chris, relaxed and shook hands. ‘They flew in yesterday and we have till the end of the week to prepare for our boys arriving by sea. We’ve been busy,’ he added wryly, with a warm smile.
There was some laughter and Emily guessed that getting the hang of the camp and how it functioned, visiting the assault course and the workshops would have made a pretty busy day for young men just arrived after such a long flight.
‘So this is a Welcome Dinner for them and a Thank You for you two, for all you do to help us, and a chance for you all to meet each other.’
‘Now Lieutenants, a word in your ear,’ he said easily. ‘Your little grey book with instructions for ‘dealing with the natives’ may not prove helpful with our guests tonight. They are rather special. To begin with, they’ve been educating me for some months. I no longer put my foot in it by asking for the washroom when I do not desperately need to wash my hands, but I do have a desperate need. Neither do I ask, as I once did, to see their ‘backyard’ when what I meant was Mrs Hamilton’s garden.’
The young men laughed and Emily observed how easily Chris had made them all feel at home. No wonder top brass, whoever they were, had decided to keep him here at Castlewellan Road Camp and move new parties of engineers through, rather than sending him off with the young men he had already prepared for the front.
Behind them, the dining table was laid for eight, a beautiful candelabra at its centre, but before they made any move towards it, a waiter appeared with a tray of drinks.
Chris beamed as they were handed round.
‘Lady and gentlemen,’ he began, with a little bow to Emily, ‘I have some good news for you. It is no longer classified. A certain gentleman by the name of Eisenhower has landed in North Africa and has taken the surrender of French troops in Casablanca, Oran and Algiers. Operation Torch has got off to a very good start.’
Emily and Alex exchanged glances as they touched their glasses and they drank to the continuing success of the campaign in North Africa.
It was then that Chris made the introductions, beginning with Emily herself.
‘This good lady is Mrs Emily Hamilton,’ he said easily. ‘She is one lady I will take orders from and you will all do the same,’ he added softly. ‘She may not wear stripes, but I assure you she always knows exactly what she is doing.’
Before Emily even had time to blush, he had moved on.
‘My good friend, Alex Hamilton, appears to know everyone in this area, not just the hundreds of people who work in the Bann Valley Mills where he is Technical Director. Thanks to Alex, you may well be given work for your team in one of the mills, but whatever chance you get, in any project outside the camp, ask for his advice. He came here as a stranger, just like you have, but as a result he knows people here better than they know themselves.’
Watching Alex’s face, as he registered what Chris had said, it was all Emily could do to concentrate on the names of the young men who had listened with such close attention. She wasn’t sure she’d
be able to remember all five first time, but what she would not forget was where they came from. Could she ever have imagined that one day she might stand in the same room with dinner guests from Vermont, California, Kansas, Michigan, New York State and Boston.
The meal was superb, the conversation both interesting and relaxed. Emily was intrigued to see that, although Chris was the senior officer and was addressed by them all as Sir, there was no deference. They were completely at ease with him and with each other as they each declared for the benefit of the others what they thought of their own state, or city, or town, or village. Their stories were a delight, both shrewd and humorous. They answered her questions with a directness that surprised her.
She was amused to be called ma’am and eventually asked if that wasn’t what one had called Queen Victoria.
‘Slightly before my time,’ said Chris. ‘Though in the eyes of these youngsters, I probably predate Christopher Columbus.’
‘Perhaps Lewis and Clarke, sir,’ suggested the one from Boston, who struck Emily as having a Canadian accent.
‘Thaaaa-nk you, Hank,’ said Chris, turning to Emily. ‘He’s just paid me a compliment,’ he explained. ‘Lewis and Clarke are a couple of centuries later than Columbus, but still a helluva long time ago,’ he said amid the general laughter.
‘I should also explain, Emily, that this character sitting opposite you may have been named Alexander Lachlan Ross, as I’ve told you, but it appears he answers to Hank the Tank. No doubt there are other such names here present, yet to be declared, but that one got as far as the official record on my desk. Has to be a compliment, Hank,’ said Chris, nodding to him. ‘Pity you have stenters and not tank tracks, Alex,’ Chris added.
Hank blushed slightly and looked pleased. Emily smiled across at him and caught an answering smile in his bright blue eyes. A lightly built man, his blonde hair cropped in a regulation cut, he was the one from Boston, the one who seemed somehow familiar though she couldn’t think why. Maybe it was just the Canadian accent. At least, she thought it was Canadian. It might well be. One thing she had found out this evening about North Americans was that no one ever stayed where they didn’t want to be. They just moved on.
