Josie Under Fire

by Ann Turnbull

  I arrived at my digs late at night, exhausted. As soon as the landlady realized I was a C.O. she said I’d have to go. It’s her son, she says. He’s due on leave and won’t set foot in the house if I’m there. She let me stay the night, but then I spent a miserable day looking for another place. Several doors slammed on me, but I’m settled here now and it’s not too bad.

  The work’s hard for a desk chap like me! I’d imagined myself felling trees, but we’re planting, mostly, putting in tree stakes, erecting fencing, that sort of thing. Only two of us are C.O.s. Most of the men accept us even if they’re not exactly friendly. A few are hostile. (Malcolm, the other C.O., got beaten up one evening. But I haven’t told Ma that – and don’t you.) I like the fresh air and exercise. I’m building up muscles, and the work is useful and I feel good about growing things, taking care of the land.

  How’s my little sister? I know I made it hard for you back home. I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done. I have hopes that when this war is over we’ll all come together and make a better world…

  Josie folded the letter and put it in her pocket. It had brought Ted close to her and made her feel homesick. More than ever she longed to see him. But not here. Not now.

  Next morning Aunty Grace took the girls shopping. Edith was growing out of all her clothes, and her mother had heard there was to be a sale of fire-damaged cloth at a draper’s in the King’s Road.

  “We’ll go for lunch at The Pheasantry afterwards,” she said, “for a treat.”

  They walked west along the King’s Road. The draper’s had big notices outside advertising the sale, and a large number of women had already gathered. Aunty Grace spent a long time looking at fabrics, some with brown burn marks running right through them, some merely dusty and dirty. She held up a dress length in dark blue wool with an orange fleck in it.

  “That’s horrible!” protested Edith.

  Her mother sighed. “You can’t be too fussy, dear. How about this brown check? It’s scorched, but if Mrs. Jenks can cut it carefully…”

  Mrs. Jenks had been sewing for the Felgates since the children were babies. Even with a war on, it seemed, she was indispensable.

  Aunty Grace continued to rummage. All around, women were buying and chatting. Mostly their talk was about prices, or dressmaking, or the difficulty of managing without their servants, but suddenly Josie heard a buzz of conversation in low, shocked voices from a group of women in a nearby queue.

  “…broken several windows!”

  “And a brick with a message wrapped round it: a swastika and the word ‘Huns’.”

  “How dreadful!”

  “Of course they were German,” an older woman said. “They changed their name…”

  Josie looked at Edith. She had been listening too.

  “It’s Hampton’s,” whispered Josie.

  “But who – the boys?”

  “Yes. That Ray.”

  “And Vic. Ray’s not bright enough on his own.”

  Josie didn’t like to think that Vic would have done such a thing. But it had to be the boys. And she had told them.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. She felt stricken.

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” retorted Edith. “We don’t know who did it, do we? Could have been anyone.” She added, with enthusiasm, “We’ll pass Hampton’s if we go to The Pheasantry.”

  They did. Aunty Grace settled on the brown cloth, and as they left she said, “They’re saying there’s been an attack on Hampton’s! Quite upsetting. Such pleasant people…”

  The shop was a sad sight. Bombing was one thing, Aunty Grace said, but to see deliberate damage like that – well, it undermined the spirit of the Blitz.

  Two windows had been broken and were already boarded up. Inside, furniture had been moved to the back of the shop, but the glass had all been swept up and there was no sign of the brick or the message.

  The shop was open. To Josie’s alarm, her aunt went in, taking the girls with her, and found the proprietor at the back and spoke to him. Josie was terrified that Alice would appear and accuse them, but there was only Mr. Hampton, her father, who spoke with an English accent and seemed, as Aunty Grace had said, a pleasant man.

  “It’s one of those things that happen in wartime,” he said. “Of course my wife was very upset.” He lowered his voice. “We got rid of the message before our children saw it.”

  Lunch at The Pheasantry was bliss. They had ham sandwiches with cress and cucumber, and an iced bun to follow. All the tables were laid with white damask cloths and silver cutlery, and the waitresses wore white aprons – “almost as if this wretched war wasn’t happening,” said Aunty Grace.

  Josie could not get the sight of Hampton’s damaged shopfront out of her mind. Edith was right: none of the girls would have done that; it had to be Vic and his friends. And she’d told them; she’d set all this going, just to show off, just to impress Vic and annoy Edith; and now she couldn’t stop it. She felt horribly guilty; but mixed up with that was fear that what she had done would somehow get back to Aunty Grace; that Alice would tell her parents what the girls had said to her; or that someone would interrogate Vic and he would name her. And if he did, she realized, Miss Rutherford would become involved too.

  She remembered how she had almost told Miss Rutherford about Ted – had felt she might not condemn him, as some people did. And she remembered Miss Rutherford saying, “Come again. Any time.”

  Did she mean it? I need to talk to someone, Josie thought. Aunty Grace was so restrained and polite; it was difficult to talk to her. But talking to Miss Rutherford wouldn’t be easy, either; she’d have to confess what she had done.

  On Easter Day they went to church again. The church was full of joyful music, flowers, and celebration. Mr. and Mrs. Prescott were there, but not Miss Rutherford. “She never goes,” said Aunty Grace, when Josie asked. Later that day, when her aunt was measuring Edith for the new dress, Josie knew she must seize her opportunity. She slipped out the back way into the garden, and rang Miss Rutherford’s bell.

  It was a while before she heard footsteps coming down. The door opened. Miss Rutherford looked more homely today, in a pleated skirt and fair-isle cardigan, and slippers on her feet.

  “Josie!” she said.

  “I need to talk to you.” She must have seemed desperate, for Miss Rutherford said, “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve done something wrong.” And Josie felt tears well up and spill down her cheeks.

  “You’d better come in and tell me about it,” said Miss Rutherford.

  Chapter Eleven

  Photographs

  “I never meant to revive that old story,” said Miss Rutherford.

  Her back was to Josie as she put the kettle on and reached for some cups. There was a used plate and saucepans beside the sink and vegetable peelings in a colander; evidently she had just finished her dinner. She turned round.

  “I shouldn’t have told you – only the wrong name had slipped out. But you should never repeat things that people tell you in confidence.”

  Her voice was stern.

  “I know.” Josie began to sniff again.

  “Do blow your nose,” said Miss Rutherford, making Josie think of the headmistress. She put the cups on a tray, found milk and sugar. “Go and sit on the chaise longue; I know you like that. There’s more to this, isn’t there? Who are these boys? And why did you tell them?”

  Josie began to explain: about the bomb site, about Edith and her friends, about Alice, and Vic (“He’s…different, fun. And he notices you.”) She sniffed again, took off her glasses and cleaned them on her skirt. “It was mean to go after Alice; I know it was. But she’s such a drippy sort of girl, and a tell-tale, and no one likes her. Edith said it didn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters,” said Miss Rutherford. “But you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alice is probably just shy.”

  “She doesn’t seem shy. She seems
stuck-up – stand-offish.”

  “Shy people often do. But even if she was a monster: everyone has the right to be treated fairly. Even – well, even Hitler.”

  Josie looked startled at that.

  “We are fighting this war,” Miss Rutherford said, “so that decency and goodness prevail. To ensure that no one’s rights are taken away; no one is oppressed; no one is bullied or hurt. So even if someone is our enemy we must treat them as we would wish to be treated ourselves.”

  Josie nodded. “But Edith—”

  “Oh! Edith!” Miss Rutherford exclaimed. “Why do you care so much what Edith thinks?”

  “I’m scared of what she might say,” Josie admitted.

  She began to explain about Ted, the tribunal, the war work.

  As she had hoped, Miss Rutherford did not look shocked.

  “I don’t have any friends in Greenwich,” Josie continued. “My best friend, Kathleen, was evacuated, and everyone else turned against me. I got bullied every day: just words, but horrible words… You can’t imagine…”

  “Oh, I think I can,” said Miss Rutherford. “So when you were sent here it was a fresh start? New people who didn’t know?”

  “Yes. Only now…Ted’s got leave and he’s coming to see me. And I want to see him. I really do. But if the others found out – the girls, or Vic…”

  Miss Rutherford got up. “Let me show you some photographs.”

  Josie brightened at once. She liked photographs.

  Miss Rutherford opened a cabinet and brought out a leather-bound album. She sat beside Josie on the chaise longue and opened it across both their laps.

  Josie was startled to see, not family photographs as she’d expected, but pictures of political demonstrations: large groups of women in old-fashioned long dresses and hats, marching, and holding up placards. “VOTES FOR WOMEN!” the placards demanded. “SUFFRAGE FOR ALL”. There were policemen, women chained to railings, women in Trafalgar Square speaking to huge crowds…

  “The suffragettes!” she said. “Is that Mrs. Pankhurst?”

  “Yes. And that’s Sylvia, her daughter; and Christabel… But here, do you see these two young women holding a banner between them?”

  “That’s you!” exclaimed Josie.

  “Yes. And the other one is my friend Violet Cross, who also used to live here. For a year or so, before the last war, we both dedicated our lives to the cause.”

  Josie began to understand. “Did your friends turn against you?”

  “Many of them – yes. And my father was – oh, so upset! And Mother’s friends were shocked. It was very distressing. I made my family suffer.”

  “But you had to.”

  “Yes. It was the right thing to do. I still believe that. And Ted – you mustn’t be ashamed of him. He’s doing the right thing too.”

  “But – you served in the last war. You were a nurse, weren’t you? And now you’re an air-raid warden. Are you a pacifist?”

  “I didn’t say I agreed with your brother. I said he was right to do what he believed in – not simply to go along with the crowd.”

  “You’re saying I should stick up for Alice Hampton.”

  “I think you are saying that.”

  Josie looked down at the photographs. The suffragettes didn’t go along with the crowd. And yet there, on the march, they were a crowd.

  It’s different for me, she thought. I’m on my own.

  But she knew she had to make a stand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Four Eyes

  “What were you doing up there?” demanded Edith. She never liked to feel she was missing out on anything.

  “Talking. And looking at photographs.”

  “Photographs!”

  “Miss Rutherford used to be a suffragette.”

  Edith’s eyes widened. “I never knew that! Was she in prison? Did she go on hunger strike? Or chain herself to railings?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t find out much, then.”

  Josie tried to explain. “I told her about the attack on Hampton’s – what I’d said to Vic. We were talking about defending people, and standing up for what you believe in. I told her about Ted as well.”

  “He’ll be here soon, won’t he?”

  “Wednesday.”

  Edith smiled. “That’ll be fun. Perhaps we’ll go out somewhere. And Mummy’s sure to do something nice for dinner.”

  “Ted’s not fussy,” said Josie. She remembered him, fondly, reading at the dinner table (much to their mother’s annoyance), talking politics, hardly aware of what he was eating.

  She was conscious that they had strayed from the subject of her talk with Miss Rutherford. She tried again: “Edith, we’ve got to stop picking on Alice Hampton. It’s gone too far.”

  Edith looked defensive. “We didn’t throw that brick! It’s nothing to do with us.”

  “All the same – we should leave her alone now.”

  Edith shrugged. “She’s boring, anyway.”

  Perhaps the others will have grown bored with the game, Josie thought. Perhaps I won’t need to stand up for her.

  The next day, Easter Monday, the snow finally came: only a brief flurry, but for a while the sky was full and the pavements sparkled under a fine, fast-melting layer.

  “In the middle of April!” Aunty Grace exclaimed.

  The girls were delighted. They went out into Chelsea Walk and tried sliding on the pavement, but the snow was too wet. They crossed over to the Embankment and saw both sky and water blotted out, the buildings of Battersea hidden and the barrage balloons like strange monsters emerging from mist.

  Josie looked back through the trees at the house and thought how beautiful the scene looked in the softly falling snow. This could be any time, she thought: now, or the future, or a hundred years ago. The house would always be the same.

  But by the afternoon the snow had melted.

  Tuesday was cold and dull. Edith and Josie put their knitting into bags and set off for school. They did not have to wear uniform today. The knitting session was to take place in the hall, and chairs had been placed randomly. Josie had convinced herself that Alice Hampton would not come, but she was disappointed. As the girls began arriving she saw that Alice was there, and so were Clare, Pam and Sylvia.

  Edith went straight to her friends. “Did you hear about Hampton’s shop?” They whispered and glanced at Alice, who noticed, and ignored them.

  Josie kept away from their talk. She was besieged by guilt.

  Miss Hallam called them all to attention, and told them they would spend most of the morning knitting, and then the work would be collected up, stars awarded and photographs taken.

  “Anything you haven’t finished can wait till after the holiday,” she said. “And since this is not a school day you may sit where you like, and talk if you wish. And we shall also have some singing.”

  Clare, Pam and Edith began grabbing chairs. They set five of them in a semi-circle, and Josie and Sylvia joined them. Josie saw Alice casting about, uncertain where to sit, unwilling to ask to join a group. She is shy, Josie thought; she doesn’t know how to make friends. In the end Alice sat on one of the few chairs left, on the fringes of another group, trying to look as if she was part of it.

  They all got out their work, and Mrs. Burton from the WVS started them off singing. They sang Pack up your Troubles; Run, Rabbit, Run; The White Cliffs of Dover; and Jerusalem. Someone suggested Whistle While you Work, and they all sang with loud enthusiasm:

  “Whistle while you work

  Hitler is a twerp

  Goering’s barmy

  So’s his army

  Whistle while you work…”

  When the time was up Josie had finished her balaclava. Edith’s scarf came to a natural end and she cast off. Amid much laughter they each put on their own garments (socks went on hands) and Miss Hallam encouraged them to stand close together while a man from the local paper took several photographs. There was a list of names
on the wall and everyone who had finished a garment was awarded a star.

  At last all the items were put into boxes to be sorted and sent on by the WVS.

  The girls began leaving for home. Josie saw Alice going out of the door and willed her to be quickly on her way.

  Edith was in a huddle with Pam and Clare.

  “We’re going to the bomb site,” she told Josie a few minutes later.

  “The one we went to before?” Josie was alarmed.

  “Yes.”

  “But – we’ve been warned…”

  “The teachers won’t know. It’s the holidays. No one can write or complain until we go back, and that’s ages.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Oh, come on, Josie. My friends want to go. It’ll be something to do.”

  Josie knew they were hoping the boys would be there. She half hoped that, too; but also half feared it, because of what had happened at Hampton’s. But at least, she thought, if we go to the bomb site we won’t be pursuing Alice on her way home.

  The boys were not there. Some younger children were playing in the ruins, but there was no sign of Vic and his friends. The girls played tag, clambering over the rubble, hiding, shrieking when they were caught. But it was not the same without the boys. If the boys had appeared the shrieks would have been designed to attract their attention; the game would gradually have moved closer to them; and in the end it would have been abandoned in favour of chatting, giggling and showing off. There would have been a sparkle in the air.

  But this was just a girls’ game that soon became boring. Josie, with her eyes shut, counted to a hundred, opened them, and saw – walking along the road, head down, satchel across her shoulders – Alice Hampton.

  She knew what would happen now – and felt a surge of irritation against Alice. Why couldn’t the girl have found another way to Belmont Gardens? Perhaps she’d thought her enemies wouldn’t dare go to the bomb site again. Well, they’d catch her now.

  Pam came out of hiding. “Hey! There’s Hauptmann!”

  The others emerged.

  “She’s going to her coaching.”