Shadow on the Land

by Anne Doughty

  There were so many letters to write. She could not fail to reply to the kind thoughts directed towards her and her family but she found herself struggling, she who loved writing letters, discovered that words were deserting her. And all the while, there was a silence in her head.

  She sat in the conservatory with a rug and a hot water bottle and stared at the light on the geranium leaves. Even in February, there was always a bloom or two, bright red, or pink, or even the unusual purple on the plant that Sarah had once brought from somewhere exotic. But it was the geranium leaves she was aware of, the minuteness of the tiny blonde hairs made visible by the angle of the light.

  How could this fragment of life go on surviving in this world of noise and battle, of falling masonry and crushed bodies, of explosions and anti-aircraft fire, screaming fighter planes and chattering machine guns.

  She scolded herself regularly when she found herself going over and over again what must have happened to the house near Waterloo Station. What did it matter how they died? All that mattered was that they were gone. And whether it was to the Heaven of the would-be comforters, who had arrived with gifts and offered their firm belief, fluent with quotations, or not, what did it matter? All that mattered was that they were gone.

  Gone away. No longer resident at this address. Return to sender.

  She seldom cried. When she did, it was usually set off by some small memory that crept upon her unbidden. She’d take up her knitting, force her mind to concentrate on the detail of a cable or the heel of a sock and it would remind her of teaching Cathy to knit. That small face, so given to sudden smiles, creased in a furious frown as she tried to master the largest and easiest needles Emily possessed.

  She missed out on only one Friday afternoon commitment and when Chris asked if she could face a new instalment of lads arriving in the middle of the month she said, yes. Life had to go on, she insisted, and although Chris had come to see them as soon as he’d heard their news they had hardly seen him since Christmas. It would be good to see him as well.

  ‘This could be the last batch, my friends,’ Chris said soberly, in the few moments they always shared in his office before they went upstairs to the big dining-room where five new lieutenants would wait with Captain Hillman and the five they already knew.

  ‘How so, Chris, or should I just guess?’ asked Alex, as they shook hands warmly.

  ‘The whole world is guessing as far as I can see,’ Chris replied. ‘It has to be soon, but we have to be at full strength. Your man Montgomery showed how necessary that is as far back as Alamein. He was pushed to move sooner and he wouldn’t. Got a lot of stick for it, but he made his point. This is the big one and we daren’t screw up,’ he said emphatically, glancing up at the maps on his wall. ‘My bet is early summer, but that’s hardly more than what the newspapers are saying. It’s obvious in one way it has to be summer. What’s important is the element of surprise. That’s not my department, thank goodness. But we may not have time for much in the way of goodbyes,’ he added, as he drew them towards the door and out into the grand hall with its elegant staircase.

  Emily was happy to see Chris and Alex together. Alex had so little time for friendship beyond his work, while she had a web of friends at the end of her pen, in the shops she visited and the Women’s Institute. She’d got to know so many new people since she’d first tried to do something about a bunch of homesick lads even younger than Johnny.

  The evening went well as it always did. She enjoyed the food, the huge warm fire, the bright lights and the friendly faces, but she felt as she talked to the new Lieutenants that she was acting her part, speaking lines from a well-rehearsed script and seeing each face as one might through a light fog, the outlines clear enough, but the detail obscured.

  Thinking about the evening as she stood over the ironing board next morning, she tried to remember something she’d read recently about fog or mist. Try as she would, it wouldn’t come back.

  It was later, when she sat down to write to Jane that it came to her and she went and found the letter she’d received from Johann some weeks earlier.

  My dear Mrs Hamilton,

  I hope that it is not incorrect that I should write to you at this time when we have not yet met each other.

  Jane has told me about Cathy and Brian and although she says you are a very wise and sensible lady, I felt that I should write and tell you that I would have been even unhappier after the loss of my mother if it had not been for the assistance of my friend Matthew.

  I had no knowledge at all of what happens to us when we are hurt by loss. I was so overwhelmed by the pain, I felt I could not go on living with it. Had it not been for my love for Jane and hers for me, it would not have seemed worthwhile to struggle on, in captivity, among strangers, with such a burden on my head.

  You, I know, have a dear husband and a loving family, but even with this comfort you have, I now understand and have experienced other sufferings which may be common to all.

  Tears and grief are often spoken about and are understood by many, but Matthew has also spoken about the mist that can enfold particular individuals so that they see things less sharply. It may be that this is a defence against the pain. This we do not know. But what we do know is that there is nothing of harm in this dimming of vision. It will pass, often quite suddenly, he says.

  For me, it was a moment when I found a piece of wood in the fallen tree we were cutting into blocks for fuel. It was a piece of beech with dark markings, ‘pleated,’ a new word for me in English. I looked at it and saw something I could carve, a shape that would lend itself to a small figure.

  I knew in that moment that something had been healed, and it was. After that it did become easier.

  I write because I should like to offer some help or perhaps comfort in return for all your kindness to me, your acceptance, your concern, your kind gifts.

  Please do not trouble to write in reply. There are many letters for you to write at such a time. You can be sure that I shall request a full account of your well-being from Jane when next she is able to visit me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Johann Hillman.

  March roared in like the proverbial lion but it did bring a rise in temperature, at least by day, the evenings lengthened and there were grey shoots of daffodils even if there were still no blooms by the third week of the month.

  Emily registered all the customary signs of the coming spring, but she knew she was simply doing what she always did when she ordered seeds and planted her crops. There was no pleasure in the work any more than in the everyday tasks which she performed meticulously as if something of great importance depended upon them.

  Sometimes, as she prepared potatoes for planting, cutting them one by one in the correct manner, she thought of Johnny on his floating plane, baling out with a small bakelite mug. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the bank account she had opened for Jane and Johann was looking distinctly healthy from last year’s efforts and that this year’s surplus potatoes and the vegetable crop would add yet further deposits.

  She had written to Johann and thanked him for his letter. She had, at last, written to the teachers who had been Cathy’s colleagues and the young men who had written so formally from the laboratory where Brian had been admired and well-liked.

  By the end of the month, when suddenly the wind dropped and the weather settled, as it sometimes did in March, after St Patrick had ‘turned up the sunny side of the stone’, she had written all the letters she needed to write telling more distant friends of their loss, or thanking all those who had written to them both. Now, when she sat in the conservatory in the warm sun, she could write letters again without having to refer to what had happened. It felt rather strange at first, as if it were not quite proper to talk about books to Brendan, or share her sister’s treasures from County Fermanagh with her other correspondents and her new contacts like Carrie Hicks in Vermont and the Campbells in Manchester.

  If Matthew’s mist was lift
ing, she certainly didn’t feel it, but then she wasn’t even thinking about it when something happened that did take it away.

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ she said, as she took her baskets and bag from the young man who had just held open the door of the jeep. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ she asked, as he hopped up into the driving seat.

  He beamed at her.

  ‘Yeah, great ma’am, great. It was fun,’ he added, as he bent forward to the ignition.

  ‘Hold on, Alan, what about Mrs Cook?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. She said to tell you she was getting a lift with Ross to see her sister. She said she’d get the bus back home tonight.’

  ‘Oh, of course. She told me she could always get a lift after a picnic because Ross has to take my friend Dolly to Dromore and that’s where her sister lives,’ she explained, settling back in her seat, as he set off up the steep slope at Millbrook, somewhat later than the other vehicles who were distributing children and colleagues after a ‘March hare’ picnic.

  ‘How are you settling in Alan? Are you very homesick?’ she asked after they’d turned onto the Banbridge Road.

  ‘Well ma’am, it was bad at first,’ he confessed. ‘I’d never been away from home till I went to College last Fall. But there are some great guys here. And we have to win this war. We just have to,’ he declared, with a firmness that surprised her in one so young.

  ‘Yes, we do and the big push is getting nearer, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes. It has to be this year. Hitler’s on the run, but he’s not finished yet. We’ve got to finish him off before he does even more harm,’ he announced, so vigorously that the jeep wobbled on the bumpy road.

  ‘How are all your family? Your brother joined up, didn’t he?’

  He glanced at her very briefly, a smile on his face. He was about to reply when a tractor came racing towards them, an elderly farmer looking wide-eyed, his hair flying, his mouth working.

  Emily grabbed the door frame to steady herself as the jeep wobbled precariously. They slithered round a sharp corner and with a squeal of brakes just managed to stop behind an Army lorry which had swerved and skidded. It now lay on its side, on their side of the road, straddled across a low wall, its engine running, its wheels spinning in the air, a smell of petrol growing stronger by the moment.

  ‘Oh my Gawd,’ exclaimed Alan. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, but we’ve got to turn that engine off if no one else does,’ she replied, as she kicked off her only remaining pair of high heels and reached into her bag for the flat leather shoes she wore with trousers for playing games.

  They ran round to the front of the lorry and looked up at the driver’s door. It was out of reach, even for a tall young man.

  ‘Alan, bring the jeep round. Park it as close as you can and we’ll try climbing up from the seat,’ she said quickly, measuring the distance.

  She heard a movement from the back of the lorry and hoped that some of the party were jumping down unhurt, but before she could look, she saw the jeep approach and stepped aside, so that Alan could swing it into place.

  ‘Can you do it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He was stepping up into the open window frame of the jeep and struggling with the heavy door above him.

  She stood on the seat behind him and held on to his belt to steady him as he opened the door enough to get his hand in and turn off.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as the throbbing stopped, but the smell of petrol remained.

  ‘Will the door stay open?’

  ‘No, it’s too heavy.’

  ‘Can you wind down the window before you close it again?’

  ‘Shure.’

  He wound down the window and lowered the door back into place. She released her grip on his waist and he stepped back down into the jeep beside her.

  ‘Could you see if the two in the cab were hurt?’

  ‘No. They’re right against the far door on top of each other. One might be Hillmann, but I can’t tell.’

  ‘Right,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘Listen hard. Go back to Millbrook. Ask for two First Aiders and the big box and Jimmy Elliot. Bring them back instantly. Tell the Mill Manager, or either of the two grey-haired ladies in the office, that we need the Fire Brigade with indoor extinguishers and a full team. And a carload of First Aiders as well. Ask them to ring the camp, the hospital and the police. Don’t you do it, I need you here. Can you remember all that?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, as she stepped down from the jeep. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can here. Hurry, but be careful,’ she warned. ‘A lot depends on you.’

  He crashed his gears as he reversed, but as she glanced down the empty road after him, she saw he was picking up speed. She turned her attention to the drip of petrol. She’d hoped it would ease when the engine was turned off, but it hadn’t.

  It took her a few moments to rub away the mud and see exactly where it was coming from, the junction of a pipe with the petrol tank itself. She had a sudden vision of the young Dutch boy who had put his finger in the dyke to stop the leak. That wouldn’t be much good with a leaking pipe.

  She took off her pretty floral scarf, wound it as tightly as she could round the source of the drip, tied the ends and moved out from under the vehicle into the hot and dazzling sunshine which had made the day feel like summer.

  She found herself face to face with a bemused young man.

  ‘Gee ma’am, what happened?’ he asked, looking all around him.

  ‘Don’t know yet, Don, but I need help,’ she said briskly. ‘Can you walk fifty yards or so?’

  She wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t concussed, but she’d have to risk it.

  ‘Go that way,’ she said pointing towards the town. ‘Stop all traffic. Let nothing come this way unless it’s the police, or ambulances, and keep them well back from the truck. If it’s locals, tell them they know the diversions. If it’s not, send them back into Banbridge and tell them to ask anyone.’

  He nodded and looked easier.

  ‘Don, are there boxes of ammunition in there?’

  ‘No, ma’am, we send it separately. We just have standard issue,’ he said, indicating the belt he wore.

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s good news.’

  She walked with him to the back of the truck and found three more young men helping a fourth to struggle down.

  The rifles were the biggest problem. And that’s what had caused the injuries. All four of them had cuts on their faces where the collision with the wall and the sudden rotation had thrown them against each other.

  ‘You three, go and sit back there under that tree,’ she said quietly, as she saw blood trickle down their cheeks.

  She pointed to a tree some twenty yards away and was grateful to catch a glimpse of Don firmly established in the middle of the road some distance further on.

  ‘Drink lots of water, but no smoking,’ she went on. ‘Help is on the way. Ross, give Lance your rifle to look after and help me climb up into the truck,’

  ‘Ma’am, you can’t go in there,’ he protested.

  ‘I can if you give me a hand up.’

  But when she managed to use the wall and Ross’s hand to get high enough to see properly, she realised there was nowhere she could stand. Her way was blocked with tangled bodies trying to free themselves from the arms and legs of colleagues and the bench seating from the right-hand side of the vehicle which had sheared away with the force of the impact.

  The wall was only about six feet high, but just as it was an obstacle for her to climb up, so it was a hazard for injured young men to get down, burdened as they were with rifle and ammunition belt.

  She was just about to ask Ross if he had any ideas, when Alan drew up right beside them. To her delight, Jimmy Elliott sat in the front seat and both the senior First Aiders were in the back, the big box between them.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said beaming at them
all. ‘Perfect timing, Alan. We can use the jeep like we did round the front. I’ve sent three young men to sit under a tree,’ she explained to the First Aiders. ‘Head injuries,’ she added briefly, exchanging glances with both women as they got out and humped the heavy box between them.

  ‘Jimmy,’ she said smiling at him, ‘Poor boys, very hurt. Can you carry them down to Mrs McMurray and Mrs Donnelly to make them better.’

  ‘And bandage them?’ he asked eagerly, smiling down at her.

  ‘Yes, bandage them,’ she said encouragingly. ‘But we must get them all safe first, mustn’t we?’

  He nodded vigorously as Alan nudged the jeep right up against the wall and bridged the gap between the lorry and the ground.

  Jimmy was now able to reach over and lift anyone close by. Emily had to smile at the look on Alan’s face as he watched Jimmy carefully step back into the jeep, steady himself and then carry a shaken figure to the ladies who worked under the tree as easily as if it were a young child.

  When space permitted, Emily was able to go in. The least injured, now able to move more freely, she asked to stay and shift to the right so as to keep the vehicle in balance.

  They lay there willingly enough as she, Don and Alan helped move the more seriously injured to where Jimmy could lift them and carry them away.

  It was only when Emily smelt a new and unfamiliar smell that she stepped back down into the jeep and went to see what was happening. To her delight, she saw Robert Anderson emerging from under the lorry. She was about to go and speak to him when she found her way was blocked by a large and familiar figure. It was the officer who had once interviewed her at Rathdrum after the theft of dynamite from the quarry.

  ‘Mrs Hamilton?’ he asked, his face grim as he recognised her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am told that you are in charge of this operation. By what right have you closed the Public Highway?’

  Emily took a deep breath, thought of the young men still trapped in the truck, probably the most seriously injured of all. She looked him straight in the eye.