by Anne Doughty
‘Conchie?’
‘Conscientious objector. People like Sam and Alex and Matthew’s father. The worst that happens in this war is that our conchies are put in jail if they’re not willing to accept the alternative to military service they’re offered or someone manages to see them as a security risk. Hitler has no such scruples.’
‘Such wickedness, Ma. Sometimes I just can’t grasp the awfulness of everything that’s happening round us.’
Emily smiled as she glanced at the clock. It was nearly lunchtime and she was due to leave for Lenaderg at 1.30 to prepare for an afternoon of games and music.
‘Perhaps it’s as well we can’t grasp everything,’ she said abruptly. ‘Perhaps it’s a necessary defence. Ask Johann to see what Matthew thinks of the idea next time you have the chance. And don’t forget to tell me,’ she said, standing up.
‘Now, do you want to come and meet my new boyfriends as your father calls them or would you like an afternoon of peace and quiet?’
The sad thing was that Emily felt she’d only just got to know Chris’s new young men when it was time for them to go. When they’d first started the various entertainments for these younger troops back in ’42, they’d been staying for nearly four months. Now it was a bare two.
At times, Emily wondered if all the effort was justified for such a short period. The baking and packing that she and her four friends did almost every week, the transporting of the five of them, of the school children and of the young men themselves. Then there was the setting up of halls, community centres and church rooms. That meant more work for caretakers and church ladies and the office staff at the four mills. Not that any of these people ever grudged the time they spent, but one hoped that what they did was worthwhile.
She was ironing shirts and blouses in the kitchen one wet morning late in the month, when she heard a jeep come round the corner of the house and splash through the puddle that always gathered in front of the workshop after heavy rain.
Through the rain-spattered window, she saw a figure jump down and head briskly for the back door. She placed the iron carefully on its asbestos mat and got there in time to open it as he arrived on the doorstep, his jacket inflating as if he’d been blown in by a squall.
‘Morning ma’am,’ he said as he stepped inside, the raindrops trickling down the black waterproof.
‘Captain Hillman, how nice to see you. I wasn’t expecting a visitor on such a morning. Is the hollow by Tullyconnaught flooded?’
‘No, not yet, but I guess it soon will be. The dykes are full. Sheughs, I think you call them.’
‘Do put your jacket over the chair,’ she said, as she turned her iron off. ‘I hope you’ve time for coffee.’
‘I have, ma’am. In fact, I have a permit for coffee,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘My superior officer says I need to talk to you about morale and he assured me I would be offered coffee and cake. He also sends his greetings and is looking forward to his next visit,’ he went on, rather formally.
‘Then do sit down while I make it and we’ll go into the conservatory. It’s pretty gloomy in there this morning, but the armchairs are more comfortable and it doesn’t smell of starch,’ she added, as she indicated a chair at the far side of the kitchen table.
With his long legs she needed to settle him as far away as possible from the sink and work surface while she put up a tray.
‘Am I required to call you Captain Hillman or may I call you Giovanni?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder as she measured coffee.
‘I answer to Chuck, ma’am.’
‘Right, Chuck, then tell me about morale. Are you having problems at the camp?’
‘No ma’am, not so far as I am aware, but it is my business to find out about such things. In fact, I have been giving a lot of thought to the social events laid on in the community for the boys,’ he said flatly. ‘You are aware I’m sure just how tight the training schedule now is,’ he continued, in his usual matter-of-fact tone.
‘Yes, indeed. It must put extra pressure on everyone,’ she agreed, as she cut slices of cake and put the lid firmly back on the tin.
He stood up, opened the door to the conservatory, waited for her to go through and then sat down, the tray on a low table between them.
She looked across at him as she poured his coffee and wondered if he thought the time spent giving piggy-backs to school children would be better redeployed. He might be right.
Meantime, she passed him the cake and saw a slight softening of his rather sad face. She was beginning to think that Chuck was a rather unhappy young man.
‘Did your grandparents emigrate to America?’ she asked, before she had entirely thought about how he might respond.
The amazing change in his face took her aback.
‘Who told you that? How can you possibly know that?’ he demanded.
His reaction expressed fear rather than aggression and she felt sorry now she’d upset him. She thought of Sam Hamilton who always claimed that sometimes one simply spoke when the Spirit moved. But he hadn’t pointed out that, if you did, you had to take the consequences.
‘Well, I’ll explain if you want me to,’ she said soothingly. ‘No one told me. But there were three things that made it seem likely that your family had come from Germany some time back,’ she offered, sipping her coffee and giving him time to recover himself.
‘First, when we met and we talked about your home, you told me you were from Michigan,’ she began. ‘There is a very large German community there and many still speak German. Secondly, you said sheugh,’ she added, smiling. ‘I’ve never heard anyone not from Ulster pronounce that word correctly. My husband Alex can say it, but then he speaks German.’
‘He speaks German?’ he repeated blankly.
‘Yes,’ she explained. ‘He was a farm labourer in the States at a place called German Township before he came to Ireland in the hope of finding his family. He’d been sent to Canada as an orphan, though in fact he wasn’t.’
There was a moment’s silence and Emily offered Chuck another piece of cake. He looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and said Thank You, as if he’d had to make a major decision in accepting it.
‘You said there were three things, ma’am.’
‘Yes, I did. Your name. Hillman. I know a very nice young German boy called Hillman who comes from Hamlin. We haven’t met yet, but he is engaged to my daughter Jane.’
‘But how can that be, ma’am? Is she abroad somewhere?’
‘No, but Johann is a prisoner-of-war in Dungannon. They met when his aircraft crashed into the water supply at Millbrook on her birthday. She was here and went with her father to see what they could do to help him.’
‘So you don’t hate all Germans?’
Emily shook her head slowly.
‘No. We fear for ourselves and our fighting forces,’ she said honestly. ‘Hate what Hitler has done and all the suffering he has caused. But Johann, or your grandparents, or my Pennsylvanian cousins’ German cousins, why should anyone hate them?’
He nodded abruptly and looked at his watch.
‘I’m most grateful to you ma’am.’
He moved forward in his armchair with all the signs of a man poised to leave.
‘What about morale?’ she reminded him. ‘I think perhaps you were going to say that, with the reduced time available, perhaps social activities were not high priority.’
‘No, ma’am, not so. I did think that when I first came to the camp. That was why I decided to produce a questionnaire and do a survey of the boys,’ he said, reaching his hand back into his map pocket and bringing out a notebook.
‘There were a number of questions about first impressions. I’ve copied up some of the replies for you. I think you’ll find them interesting. They were all entirely positive. It was Lieutenant-Colonel Hicks who said I might benefit by discussing the question with you,’ he added, as he handed over the black, waterproof notebook.
‘Thank you,’ she said, somewhat t
aken aback.
‘He was quite right, of course, about talking to you,’ he said, smiling at her for the first time, as he got to his feet and waited for her to lead the way back into the starch-smelling kitchen.
‘No wonder he got promoted,’ he added, as he pulled on his waterproof jacket and zipped it up.
He beamed at her as he raised a hand and stepped out into the pouring rain.
October ended in a blaze of autumn glory. Certainly not as dramatic as Vermont, but even Chris Hicks commented on the crisp mornings and the sunlight falling on the shoals of leaves brought down in their avenue by the first frosts. The hedgerows were bright with jewelled branches of hawthorn and the mountain ash on the eastern boundary of the flower garden was full of feasting birds.
‘Grand mornin’, Mrs Hamilton,’ said Robert Cooper, as he met her coming up from the garden with a handful of dahlias and a few autumn-tinted ferns. ‘I’ve left your letters on the drainin’ board. A whole wee pile left waitin’ for me at the office this mornin’. Someone loves you, as the sayin’ is.’
‘Thank you, Robert, that’ll brighten up my tea-break,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Are you for the quarry?’ she called after him, noting his purposeful stride as he humped his bag more comfortably on his shoulder.
‘Aye, they’re powerful busy these days, but I’ll leave the bike in your gateway if that’s all right. Wi’ them big lorries yer safer on yer feet,’ he said sharply.
‘Of course it’s all right. Any time. We don’t get many bicycle thieves up here.’
She turned back towards the kitchen and eyed the little pile as she ran the tap and put the flowers and ferns she’d picked in a basin to drink before she arranged them in a vase. There were at least half a dozen items of varied sizes, secured with a rubber band.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting with a cup of tea in the conservatory, her family letters by her side, a seed catalogue, the electric bill and a circular abandoned on the kitchen table.
Dear Ma,
You know we always enjoy your letters but I had to write straight away and tell you how much we laughed when we got your last one. We just could not believe that you had read about penicillin in the Impartial Reporter.
When Brian applied to join up and he was reserved, it was because he was working on penicillin, though they didn’t call it that at the time. He had to sign the Official Secrets Act and he was warned of the dire consequences of what would happen if he told ANYONE what he was doing. At first he wouldn’t even tell me!
In the end, I got very cross and asked him if he thought I was a SECURITY RISK!
And then, when he was moved to London, he had to go through the whole security thing again before he was allowed to carry on there. We know that the original idea was that it would not be released for civilian use. Looks like someone changed their mind. But nobody told Brian or any of his colleagues. While down in Fermanagh they know all about it. What it’s called and which hospital has it in stock.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that rural areas are backward! We are amazed and highly delighted that Fermanagh is so well informed.
Please do go on reporting … the story of the fifty smuggled goats was wonderful, but the penicillin story beats all.
We’re both fine and hope you are too … a proper letter soon,
Love from us both,
Cathy
Emily smiled as she tucked the short letter back in its envelope. Such a cheering picture of Cathy and Brian and their life together had emerged in the last weeks. Cathy had never been very forthcoming as a girl and although Emily knew that she loved Brian very much and couldn’t bear their being apart, she’d never before been allowed such an intimate glimpse into their life. The thought of them laughing over her letter was a real joy.
A further delight was a missive from Johnny. She opened it to find a single sheet with a mere two sentences in his generous hand, but inside the folded sheet were three photographs. With flare on the edges and burnt out sky and sea, they were not exactly works of art, but she was grateful to the owner of the Box Brownie who had taken Johnny with his arms round two other airmen, Johnny in uniform and Johnny in swimming trunks, looking brown and flourishing, his blonde hair so bleached by the sun so that it looked almost white.
Dear Ma,
Only a line I’m afraid. Just had some leave and thought you’d like these. Some good chaps in this lot and we have fun although the nearest girl is miles away!
Good news from this part of the world … we hope to make it even better. I’ll write again when we are settled.
Take care of yourselves,
Much love,
Johnny.
She studied the photographs carefully. Alex and Chris were probably right that he was somewhere in North Africa. Possibly in the desert, as that comment about the girls would suggest. But then, she argued with herself, it was all guesswork. That he was well and happy was the one thing she could be sure of from the note and photos.
The third letter was an American Airmail, the handwriting and the return address now familiar and most welcome. Jane Ross wrote regularly and she and Emily were busy sharing the detail of their own lives as well as speculating about the remaining puzzles over what had happened to Alex and Jane as children.
As Emily opened her letter carefully so as not to damage the stamps which she saved for young Jimmy Cook, she noticed it was a good deal thinner than usual. She pulled out the closely written airmail sheet and began to read quickly.
My dear Emily,
I have had some dreadful news and there is no way to tell you other than to be direct. My dear, lovely Lachlan has been terribly injured. He and his troop were part of the landing in Sicily attached to one of the American regiments. They moved forward to bridge a small stream for infantry coming up behind and were mown down by an enemy machine gun position. Only a few of them survived and Lachlan would have died but for a colleague who half carried him back to safety.
He was flown out and was expected to die, but the field hospital patched him up. He is now in Egypt. They were going to amputate his leg, but held back because he had also got malaria and they couldn’t get his temperature down for the op.
He is alive, but that is all I know. He will be flown home when the opportunity arises. What is clear is that he will never walk again unaided.
Though we have known each other for such a short time, more than any one I know, you will understand how I feel. I see him smile, I see him walk and run and dance and I think my heart will break.
But he is alive, Emily. As my dear husband says, we must hold on to that.
I’ll write when I have any more news.
With loving thoughts to you both,
Jane.
Emily wiped her eyes and read the letter through again in case she had missed anything, but she hadn’t. It was one of the commonest stories of the war, the enemy position that no one had identified. Hank and one of Chris’s groups, boys who had played games and given chewing gum to children and smiled and carried her baskets and boxes.
She thought of the morning he had said goodbye to her, when he told her his mother’s name was Jane and she had guessed that Alex had found his sister. She had kissed him and said the kiss was from his mother, to wish him luck.
He was probably lucky to be alive, but at this moment all she could think of was what he had lost. She went into the sitting-room, took out her writing materials and sat down where she was in the dim, cold room and wrote to Jane.
It was only when she came back into the kitchen and propped up the letter by the bread bin to give to Danny, whose day it was to call, that she saw the other items from the post, still lying where she had left them. She picked them up, opened the seed catalogue and leafed through it briefly, glanced down and saw that it had covered a small, dull orange envelope. In plain capitals above their address it said POST OFFICE TELEGRAM. Down one side, in red lettering, block capitals spelt out the one word, PRIORITY.
Sud
denly anxious and barely able to control the shake in her hands, she ripped open the envelope and drew out the single flimsy sheet. Under the time and place of dispatch and the address of the Air Ministry in Oxford Street, London W1, it deeply regretted to inform them that F/O John Hamilton was reported missing while on operations in the Mediterranean and that any further information would be immediately communicated to you pending receipt of official notification.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She rang Millbrook and Alex came at once. He strode into the kitchen and put his arms round her, then stared down in bleak incomprehension at the creased sheet of paper still lying on the kitchen table.
‘Do you think he’s dead, Emily? Do you?’
‘No, I can’t believe he’s dead,’ she replied, ‘but isn’t that how people always react when they hear this news? Isn’t it just a defence?’
‘No, not always. Some people have a sense of life going on. I have,’ he said quietly.
‘Have you really, Alex?’ she asked, tears coming unbidden. ‘I though it was just because I had seen the photos. Look, here they are. He is so very alive, isn’t he?’
He picked up the photographs and studied them intently.
‘Sometimes that matters,’ he said, almost as if he were talking to himself.
It was then they telephoned Chris. He came immediately.
‘That’s not such bad news,’ he said, reading and re-reading the short message. ‘Missing does mean missing. Lots of men go missing. What it means is that they are not where someone expects them to be. Until you get this letter they’ve promised you, you’re entitled to think the best.’
