Octavia's War

by Beryl Kingston

  Oh come on! Come on! she thought. Somebody pick it up. There must be someone there. Mrs Dunnaway, if nobody else. But the ringing tone stopped and was replaced by that awful long burring noise that meant the phone had gone dead. She struggled to keep control of herself, pressed button B for the return of her coins and dialled again. And exactly the same thing happened. He’s been killed, she thought. He’s dead and they’ve sent for Mrs Dunnaway to identify his body. It’s like my mother all over again. I can’t bear it.

  She stood in the nasty smelly coffin of a box, breathing in other people’s stale cigarette smoke, trying to think what to do. She was still thinking frantically when a woman in a headscarf came and stood outside the box and looked at her in a nasty pointed way.

  She struggled to open the door, stepped out of the fug, muttered ‘Sorry’ and ran back the way she’d come. What was she going to do? Oh, for heaven’s sake, what was she going to do? He could be dead and she couldn’t think of anything.

  And there was Smithie, wheeling that old bike of hers round the side of the house with its basket heaped with books, just as it always was, dear old Smithie, with her fuzzy hair and her tatty old scarf and those scuffed shoes. She’d know. She ran towards her, calling, ‘Miss Smith! Miss Smith!’

  Octavia propped her bike against the wall. One glance at Lizzie’s face told her this was serious. ‘What is it?’ she said.

  Lizzie was incoherent. ‘There’s been…’ she said, weeping. ‘It’s Pa. He could be… Amber sent me a letter. She said it was…awful. I can’t get through and I’ve tried and tried. What am I going to do?’

  Octavia understood that it was to do with the raid. ‘Come with me,’ she said. And as they walked into the building she went on, speaking calmly, ‘It’s about the raid on London, isn’t it? I’ve been talking to Mr Chivers about it. A very bad one, so he says.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ Lizzie sobbed. ‘I’ve tried to…phone. I couldn’t get… There wasn’t…’

  ‘The telephone exchanges were hit,’ Octavia told her. ‘That’s probably why you couldn’t get through. Don’t worry. We’ll try again from my office.’

  They’d reached the door and there was Miss Henry hard at work at the desk, looking up with her little foxy face all concerned. She stood up at once and put the kettle on when Octavia signalled to her. Then she waited with her arm round Lizzie’s shoulder and cuddled her while Octavia dialled Tommy’s home number.

  Even from the other side of the little room, Lizzie could hear Mrs Dunnaway’s gruff voice, confirming the number. Oh thank God, at least she’s there. And if she’s there she’ll know if there’s anything. Oh please don’t let there be anything.

  ‘It’s Miss Smith, Mrs Dunnaway,’ Octavia said, ‘from Roehampton Secondary School. Is Major Meriton at home?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He hasn’t got back from work yet – if he ever got there. We had a bad raid the night before yesterday you see and everything’s topsy turvy.’

  ‘But he’s well?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s fine. We didn’t have any bombs here, I’m glad to say. He went out this morning to see if he could get into the City – he couldn’t get through yesterday – anyway he hasn’t come back so I presume he did. He should be home by five o’clock. Or six maybe. Depending. Like I said, everything’s topsy-turvy.’

  ‘Perhaps you could ask him to ring me when he gets back,’ Octavia said. ‘He has my home number. It’s not urgent but Lizzie’s been worried about him.’

  The assurance was given at once. ‘Of course.’

  ‘There you are,’ Octavia said to Lizzie. ‘He’s quite all right and he’ll ring you tonight as soon as he gets in. Have your supper and then come over. You’ve got your bike, haven’t you?’

  In fact Tommy did rather better than make a phone call. He turned up on Octavia’s doorstep a mere five minutes after Lizzie had cycled into the drive.

  It was an extraordinary evening. Lizzie was so relieved so see him that she wept and fell into his arms as soon as he entered the hall, and when they were all gathered in a circle round Emmeline’s necessary fire, she sat by his side as if she’d been glued there. Nothing was said about the raid, of course, they were all too deliberately busy talking about other things, like what was happening at school and how late the spring was, and what it was like to live in the country, which was ‘smashing’ according to Maggie and Barbara, and how ridiculously small the rations were. ‘Next time,’ Tommy promised, ‘I shall come bearing gifts.’ They were so easy with one another and so happy to be together that when Octavia produced the last two bottles of her father’s champagne, chill from the cellar, and Emmeline brought out the cake tin to reveal half a fruit cake, no less, the evening became a celebration. Even the three little’uns had a sip of champagne and got giggly, and the cake was devoured to the last crumb. Soon, they were all laughing and remembering old times, which was wonderfully comforting, even though Janet found some of it baffling. Eleven o’clock struck and they were still sitting round the fire and still talking.

  ‘I must be off,’ Tommy said looking at his watch, ‘or I shall never wake up in the morning and Mrs D will have to come upstairs and whack me with the poker.’

  ‘Oh Pa,’ Lizzie said. ‘You’re so funny. And I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Well, I’m not, as you see,’ he said, hugging her. ‘I live a charmed life, don’t I, Tavy.’

  ‘I think he was a cat in a previous existence,’ Octavia said.

  He kissed them all goodbye at the door, little’uns, Janet and all. ‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ he said. ‘We must do it again. My treat though next time, Emmeline.’

  Then he drove Lizzie back to Downview, gave her one last cuddle and went home singing. It was the first time he’d done such a thing since Elizabeth died.

  From then on he visited them every other week and, true to his promise, he always arrived with a hamper. ‘It’s like Christmas,’ Emmeline said when she opened the first one, and he winked at Octavia and grinned at Lizzie and said he was very glad to hear it. But it wasn’t Christmas. It was spring, at last, and the weather was as warm as their mood. Best of all, there had been no air raids since that last awful raid on the City and they were beginning to hope that the Blitz was over.

  Dora said she didn’t know what to do with herself now that everything had gone quiet. ‘I mean,’ she said when she phoned Emmeline, ‘there’s nothing going on in the office. Who wants to buy a house in London these days? Even if we had any to sell. I wonder he doesn’t close down and have done with it.’

  ‘How about coming down here for a few days?’ Emmeline suggested. ‘Would he let you? We haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘What would I do about the rations?’

  ‘Get a temporary card,’ Emmeline said. ‘That’s what the servicemen do. But you don’t have to worry. We’ve got our own private source of supply.’

  So the family grew even bigger and the ‘Tommy parties’ even more cheerful. Now it wasn’t just food and drink but dancing to Octavia’s famous gramophone. And when news came through that the Germans had invaded Russia, which meant that they wouldn’t be invading England, they had a Saturday night party that went on into the small hours. So late in fact that Emmeline told Tommy he was to sleep on the sofa instead of driving back in the blackout, and made him up a bed there and then to settle the matter.

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ she said, as she and Octavia left him alone in the dishevelled drawing room. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Octavia walked up the stairs to her room feeling happily exhausted, glad that her family were together again, even if Johnnie hadn’t been able to join them, and pleased that she’d played host to such a very big party and that they’d all had such a good time. Now that she’d stopped dancing she realised that her feet were aching and the first thing she did when she reached her room was to take off her shoes. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her nightdress under the pillow. I shall sleep like a top after all this, she thought. Bu
t she was wrong.

  She lay on her back, watching the pin-point stars and the creamy crescent of the moon in the black square of her window, and gave herself up to her thoughts as she waited to drift off. It was such a joy to dance with Tommy again. She couldn’t tell him so, naturally, that wouldn’t be proper or kind when he’d just lost Elizabeth. But even if she had to keep it secret, it was a joy just the same, to be in his arms again, breathing in the warm familiar smell of him, smiling at him and talking to him, the way she used to do all those years ago when they were young and in love and nothing else mattered. It made her remember so many good things, as if the years hadn’t happened, and it aroused her feelings too, although she certainly couldn’t say anything about that, not to anyone. I did love him, she thought. I ought to have married him. We were good for one another. Memories danced into her mind, swirling and youthful and pleasurable and she surrendered to them, luxuriating in them, warmed and absorbed.

  The moon was still hanging like a milk-white cradle in the square of her window. We change, she thought, but the moon stays the same, always the same and always watching us. The romantic notion rather pleased her. But then her wits returned and she realised that this particular moon had actually changed while she was watching it. When she’d first looked up at it, it had been in the far corner of the window, now it was in the middle. I must have been lying here for hours, she thought, and switched on the bedside light to look at the clock. It was half past four. Good God, she thought. I’ve been awake all night.

  There was no point in lying in bed any longer. She was wide awake and not likely to sleep now. She got up, walked to the window and opened it so that she could lean out. Now she could see that the dawn had begun. The sky beyond the trees was misty pink and the garden shrubs were greening as they emerged from the darkness. It’s going to be a fine day, she thought, and wondered how long it would be before the roses bloomed. The last time she’d looked at them they’d been in bud. Now, of course, they were just black shapes in the flowerbeds. She could only just make out the odd leaf, silhouetted against… Then she froze with a sudden horror. There was somebody walking about in the garden. She could see the dark shape quite clearly. A man, heading for the house.

  A burglar, she thought. Well, I’m not having that, and she put on her dressing gown at once while she thought of something large and heavy to defend herself with. There was a cricket bat in the hallstand. Right. That would do. She went downstairs, as quietly as she could, found the bat, took a deep breath, opened the french windows and strode out onto the lawn. The figure was under the willow tree.

  ‘Stop!’ she called. ‘Stop right there!’ And marched towards him, bat raised.

  ‘It’s a fair cop, guv!’ the figure said, walking towards her with his hands in the air. ‘I give in! Don’t hit me!’

  For a second she wondered why he was talking such nonsense. It was like something out of some stupid murder mystery. Then she saw who it was.

  ‘Tommy, you idiot,’ she said. ‘I thought you were a burglar. What are you doing in the garden?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, old thing,’ he said. ‘Too much to think about.’

  ‘Me too,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve been awake all night.’

  He took her hand, slipped it through the crook of his arm and walked them towards the fruit patch at the end of the garden. Almost at his first step a robin began to sing. ‘Just in time for the dawn chorus,’ he said. And sure enough, as they walked companionably together along the shadowed path, the chorus began, at first chirruping and carolling, and then weaving extraordinary complications as more and more birds joined in.

  They’d reached the fruit patch and the hedge that shielded it from the rest of the garden. They were on their own, hidden and private, in the pearly half light. ‘Do you remember the first time we heard this?’ he asked.

  Oh she did. She did. ‘In your flat,’ she said. ‘That first summer.’

  ‘What times they were,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about them all night. Remembering.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. They had moved from the cheerful language of farce to a sudden intimacy and tenderness that was making it difficult for her to breathe. ‘We were very young,’ she said, feeling she ought to make excuses for them.

  ‘And very happy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled at her, his grey eyes dawn-dark. ‘Are you happy now?’

  She tried to be sensible. ‘At this moment or generally?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I suppose I’m generally fairly happy,’ she told him, avoiding the more personal question. ‘Very happy sometimes. It’s a good life. It depends on what’s happening.’

  He persisted, teasing her. ‘And at this moment?’

  It had to be admitted. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am. Very happy.’ And she offered a deflecting explanation. ‘It was such a good party. I’ve been thinking about it all night.’

  ‘It won’t wash, Tikki-Tavy,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about now. About us. About this moment.’

  That old loving nickname gave her heart a palpable tug. How could she refuse him the answer he wanted, even if it wasn’t sensible to give it? ‘All right then,’ she said, rather grudgingly. ‘I’m happy now.’

  He gave a crow of delight. ‘You didn’t have to tell me,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘It’s written all over your face.’

  She grimaced. He’d always said he could read her face. ‘Then why did you push me?’

  ‘I wanted to hear the words,’ he said. And he put his arms round her, pulled her towards him, cricket bat and all, and kissed her full on the mouth.

  In the reasonable part of her brain she knew she ought to resist, to pull away, to make him stop. But it was such a joy to be kissed by him again, here in the dawn in the quiet of the garden, that she stood where she was, dropped the bat and kissed him back.

  ‘Darling, darling Tavy,’ he said.

  Now and a bit late she tried to put up some opposition. ‘We mustn’t…’ she began.

  He put a gentle finger on her lips, his eyes laughing. ‘We have,’ he said. ‘My dear, dear Tikki-Tavy. We have.’

  ‘My feet are soaking wet,’ she said, trying to disarm him with practicalities. ‘I think we ought to go back to the house.’

  ‘We will go wherever you like,’ he said, picking up the bat. ‘All you have to do is lead the way.’

  Emmeline had woken early that morning too and she and Janet were in the kitchen setting the table for breakfast when Octavia and Tommy came in through the kitchen door.

  ‘Good heavens above,’ she said. ‘Where have you two sprung from? And why have you got that cricket bat? Don’t tell me you’ve been playing cricket because I’ll never believe it.’

  ‘She thought I was a burglar,’ Tommy explained. ‘She was going to hit me with it.’

  ‘Nothing ever surprises me with Tavy,’ Emmeline said. Then she noticed how wet Octavia’s slippers were. ‘Oh Tavy, for heaven’s sake! Look at the state of your slippers. You look as if you’ve been swimming in them. You’d better get upstairs and get dressed. I don’t want you taking cold. I’m afraid I’ve only got corn flakes for breakfast, Tommy, but you’re welcome to what there is.’

  ‘Thanks all the same, Em, but no,’ Tommy said. ‘It’s time I was getting back. I’m expecting a few colleagues this afternoon and I need a change of clothes. Thank you for putting me up – or putting up with me.’

  ‘Next time bring your pyjamas,’ Emmeline said. ‘And your Wellington boots if you’re going to wander about in the garden.’

  That Sunday was the oddest day. The house was still full of people so there was constant talk and lots of games to play with the children and plenty to do, but Octavia couldn’t keep her mind on any of it. Despite admonishing herself most sternly and telling herself that she really must be sensible, her idling mind kept sloping off to relive those few extraordinary moments in the garden. It was barely six months since Elizabeth had been killed and she knew perfec
tly well how much Tommy had loved her. That had been plain to her every time she’d seen them together. Too plain sometimes. They were a strong, loving couple. Elizabeth had understood him and handled him well. And now this. She knew she should have been shocked by the way they’d been behaving out in the garden. And yet she wasn’t. She hadn’t been at the time and she wasn’t then. It was too good to be true, of course, and probably simply a matter of too much partying and too little sleep, coupled with the effect of dawn and birdsong. But it had happened. It couldn’t be denied. It had happened. And if she was honest, which she always tried to be, she had to admit that she was glad of it. But what would happen now? Would he just go home and forget it? Or would something more come of it? And did she want it to? She thought and thought, all day long, returning to her questions like a tongue to an aching tooth, and she was no nearer knowing what she felt or wanted at the end of the day than she’d been at the beginning.

  The next morning there was a letter lying beside her plate addressed in his unmistakable handwriting.

  Dear Tikki-Tavy, he said.

  I have two tickets for a show on Saturday night. They say it’s very good. How about taking time off work for once and coming to see it? I will ring you later and see what you think.

  Give my love to Emmeline and please tell her the party was the highlight of my week.

  Yours,

  Tommy

  She passed it across the table for Emmeline to read. It was innocuous enough for general consumption and she didn’t want to appear secretive about it.

  Emmeline read it with her toast in one hand and the letter in the other. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘You’ll go, won’t you. Bit of time off would do you good.’