That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  The water closed over her head. The beating engines in the sky were instantly shut off, replaced by a bubbling rush in her ears and a throbbing pulse in her head. She groped for something she could get a grip on—a limb, a belt, anything—grabbing blindly, and panicking as her hands closed only on water and weed. Her lungs could not bear this. She had to breathe. She needed air. And she needed to know what was happening above the water.

  Another gasp of air, a brief glimpse of nothing clear—low sunlight, weeds, reeds, a face—and her head went under again. Immediately afterwards, a double thud pounded through the chaos. Two shots, one right after another. Even muted and deadened by water as this was, there was no mistaking gunfire. Was it Ernie? Henryk? Peggy had to find out. Most of all she had to breathe. But not yet, for at last she had caught hold of something—some sort of cloth—and she could feel skin and solidity. It had to be Victor, and she was determined not to let him go. There—there was the weight of him—but the collar began to rip from her hands. She felt him falling again, but she knew where he was now. Head and lungs bursting, she managed to work a hand first under one armpit, and then the other, until she had him firmly in her grasp. The water made it easier to support his weight. Finally, some instinct for survival kicked in and he began to respond to her efforts. When Peggy surfaced at last, gulping down air, she came up with Victor heaving and coughing in her arms, vomiting dyke-water, but unmistakably alive. The next thing she registered was Henryk, standing and swaying too far away to touch or to console, and then, a little beyond him, Ernest’s contorted face. The stranger—the spy—was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m sorry,” Ernest gibbered. “So sorry. I really am. An accident … I didn’t mean to … I was …”

  Her brother was staring at a scorched hole in the sleeve of Henryk’s flying suit, but it was the revolver in his hand that transfixed Peggy. She had never seen it before. A day earlier, she would not have believed Henryk capable of using it. But it had clearly been fired, and it had hit its target too. Barely perceptibly, only in one murky spot, the dyke was changing hue, slowly reddening, as if some gigantic watercolor brush had just been dipped in for the hundredth time. The color dissolved itself so quickly Peggy thought she might have imagined it. Moments later, you couldn’t have guessed anything had ever happened. The last ring on the surface expanded into nothingness, and the few remaining bubbles dissolved. Out of sight, deep below the surface, the spy’s body eased into the mud.

  “Oh Ernest,” cried Peggy. “What have you done?”

  But instead of crumpling as Peggy expected, Henryk looked at his damaged sleeve, and raised both hands in the air. It might have been an act of surrender. It was meant as a gesture of reassurance.

  “I’m not hurt. Peggy. Ernest. Truly. I’m not hurt. It’s nothing.”

  Ernest let out a yelp that was also a sob. As if contaminated by the weapon, he hurled Fred’s gun into the water, as far as he could. Henry glanced at the revolver in his own hand—with a baffled grimace, as though he could hardly understand what the gun was doing there, as if he’d never seen it before—and tossed it into the dyke after Ernest’s. Then he looked straight at Peggy.

  It was like trying to hurry in a dream, one of those dreams when you’re wading through invisible resistance, against a current you can’t see, a wind that isn’t there, unable ever to make progress. Peggy and Henryk fought the mud and the water with hands like oars, ploughing towards one another, ignoring the choking splutter that was Victor still clearing his lungs, not caring what Ernest thought or saw. Peggy just wanted to touch Henryk. It seemed forever before Henryk’s cold lips reached her chattering teeth. Their arms went around each other. He felt bulky and unfamiliar. She couldn’t shake off the shivering.

  “You’re really not hurt?” She didn’t dare look at his arm.

  “Hardly at all.”

  “So we’re all alive,” Peggy said, in wonderment. She said it several more times, to be certain it was really true.

  “Yes. We are. Now come … come out of the water,” said Henryk.

  Victor was already wading shakily towards the bank, but Ernest stood stock-still, jaw hanging, staring towards the bombed fields. Peggy and Henryk followed his gaze. From down in the dyke, the burning haystacks were out of sight. But above the reeds, you could see smoke streaming into the sky, a false sunset made by the fires. It wasn’t long before the smell reached them too. The first black embers were carried by the wind into their wet hair as they rushed towards the flames, water sloshing in boots and shoes, their limbs as shaky and unmanageable as a new-born calf’s.

  68

  The kitchen was crowded, busy with shadows and loud with whistling kettles, hissing lamps, and clashing voices. Outside, dogs barked at strangers, people barked at dogs to keep them quiet, and over all this racket a screeching woman Henryk realized could only be Aunt Myra kept calling for towels and clothes and blankets and tea—oh, and a mop, too! Quickly, now! Upstairs a baby had been woken too sharply and was howling in fury. That must be Claudette.

  The world moved more slowly yet also faster than seemed possible. Not one of the sentences Henryk had worked out so carefully in his head as they all trudged back from the scorched fields now seemed fit for purpose. He tried to think rationally of laws and regulations, rights and wrongs. He tried to remember what he knew of courts and inquests and military justice. Instead uncontrollable love and pride lightened his head and made him lose track of all logic: he loved Peggy, she loved him. She was full of courage, and she had made him brave again. His sodden flying suit still lay in the stubble, like a flattened corpse—he had flung it aside at the arrival of the Auxiliary Fire Service and joined in the general cheer. Henryk had the feeling that he had left some part of himself behind with it. The part that disgusted him. The part that didn’t deserve to live.

  Peggy’s cousin, June, seemed to have understood everything the moment she had seen the pair of them at work together, lit up by flames and triumph, beating at the smoldering hay. There had been no time for questions or answers, but when she ushered all four of the dripping spy-catchers towards the warmth of the range, she made sure that Peggy and Henryk were not separated. Both colored under her once-over, but they stood obediently where she had pushed them, just an inch or two apart, clasping hot sweet mugs of tea instead of each other’s hands, steaming and glowing in the fierce heat. They nodded when they needed to, shook their heads if that seemed called for, and as often as they could manage, slid reassuring glances at one other. It could be nothing but the truth now for Peggy and Henryk. They silently agreed on that.

  “You’re quite certain the spy was dead?” asked Fred. “That’s the most important thing now, isn’t it, Mr. Carpenter? And that none of you are hurt.”

  “Yes, dead, very dead, quite definitely,” said Ernest. “Wasn’t he, Peggy?”

  She and Henryk agreed vigorously. Even Victor nodded, although he remained completely silent. Little to sing about now. He shrank gratefully into the role of victim, as if trying it on for size. He’d say nothing at all until his mother arrived.

  “What did I tell you, Mr. Carpenter?”

  Fred looked at the Special Constable with a wistful air of pride, his face so open, so guileless, that Henryk could have been listening in to his thoughts. His nephew and niece had been recast as heroes. What a shine and polish for the family honor! And his own shotgun sacrificed, at least for the time being, for the highest cause. Maybe not responsible for the fatal wound, but, like Ernest, it had clearly played a vital and courageous part in the action. It was settled that no attempt could be made before daylight to retrieve body, transmitter, or weaponry from the silt of the dyke. It was all evidence. It had to be officially recorded. But as far as Fred could see, it was a clear-cut case. Rough justice perhaps for Frank’s killer, but war was war. No time for niceties with the country under threat. The presence of this foreign pilot was confusing—his uniform needed a good clean, and Peggy and Ernest were oddly chummy with him—but all i
n good time, and however strange his accent, he was clearly on the right side.

  Henryk sent a nervous smile towards Mr. Nokes’s furrowed brow.

  “And the wireless transmitter? Damaged beyond repair?” said the Special Constable, licking his pencil. Aunt Myra frowned, but held her tongue. “Unusable?”

  “I smashed it up and Peggy threw it in the dyke,” said Ernest proudly.

  Henryk had rarely seen him so animated. Victor still said nothing, but pulled the blanket more tightly over his hunched shoulders. Henryk found this young man’s shiftiness strangely consoling, even though he didn’t yet know quite what he wanted to hide. Well, that was up to him. Not one of them had exactly “done the right thing.” They were all compromised heroes, each with a secret source of shame that just a little more investigation would soon unmask. Henryk thought of jigsaw puzzles being completed and crosswords filled in. He imagined it as a mathematical exercise. Sums would be done until everything added up right, and every square or hole had been filled. What then?

  Ernest and Victor would surely be forgiven. It was natural, wasn’t it? Lads were impulsive—always had been, always would be. However rash their behavior, their intentions had been good. And patriotic, of course. That was important. But as soon as the nitty-gritty could be established—who had been where when, and why, when it emerged just how long Peggy had sheltered Henryk—the fact remained that whatever he had done since, his original cowardice would be revealed. He was still a deserter. They would soon despise him. All those warm smiles and congratulations would turn to hatred and dismay. Henryk tried to prepare himself.

  And what would happen to Peggy? Not only had she harbored him, or whatever the crime was called—she certainly felt like a harbor to Henryk—but she had dragged her younger brother into the whole messy business too. Girls were always judged more harshly, in Henryk’s experience. His single joy—their love—this wonderful thing they shared—could make everything worse for her now. Yet when he stole a glimpse of Peggy, found a way for his arm to brush unnoticeably against hers, he could regret nothing that had happened since he fell out of the sky. Henryk clung on to the hope that when his own future was decided, and Peggy’s too, in whatever kind of courtroom they ended up explaining themselves in the weeks and months ahead, their rights would somehow cancel out their wrongs. Maybe they had rebalanced the scales of justice after all.

  Mrs. Fisher gathered up all the empty cups in preparation for a second round. She had said nothing to Henryk directly yet. When they were all out in the field, as soon as the burning was under control, she had crushed both her children to breathlessness in her arms and muttered into their hair—“Thank God, thank God, thank God”—looking at him glassily all the while. Almost straight through him.

  She swilled the teapot in case there was anything left worth the pouring, and went to the sink to fill up the kettle. When Henryk moved aside to give her room to set it on the range, he saw her eyes drop. Peggy immediately turned leaden with dread. As Mrs. Fisher absorbed the fact of her husband’s boots and socks, Henryk’s feet shriveled in shame. It was too late now to take them off. He should have left them at the back door. But as soon as she had set down the kettle, Peggy and Ernest’s mother stepped back, looked him squarely in the face, and put out a firm hand to shake his.

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you for saving their lives. Our lives. Now we must all look after you.”

  Henryk’s heels moved instinctively together, and his back straightened for a salute. But Mrs. Fisher was even faster. She stood on tiptoes to plant a quick, shy kiss on his left cheek, and then turned to her daughter to embrace her more firmly.

  “We’ll see you through this, love.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum—” Peggy started to say, but her mother hushed her.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll see you both through. Your father knows all about laws and courts and such like. He’ll know what to do, or he’ll know how to find out. We’ll pay him a visit next week.”

  She had said it out loud. As if there was no secret about it at all.

  “Everything will come out in the wash,” she continued. “I’m sure it will. And speaking of washing, it’s time we got you all out of those wet things. Come upstairs and let’s find something clean and dry for everyone.”

  Aunt Myra rearranged her face and threw herself into action.

  “Oh yes! You’re all going to catch your deaths! You too, dear,” she said, plucking at Henryk’s jacket. “And that’s quite enough of your questions for tonight, Fred. Can’t you see how exhausted these youngsters are? Have some respect, Mr. Carpenter. Put that notebook away now. What on earth can’t wait till morning?”

  Epilogue

  Victory Parade, London, 8th June 1946

  The cheering came in waves, building in intensity as each vehicle passed, sweeping Peggy almost off her feet with its force. She stood on tiptoe, hoping for a better view, and with each new torrent of enthusiasm, she was caught up in the joy of the occasion. And then dropped down again. She wanted her heart to sing in tune with the others’. But with Henryk like a black dog at her shoulder, it was impossible.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she said at last.

  They were too far back in the crowd to see much anyway. You couldn’t possibly work out who anyone was through such a frenzy of flag-waving, and there wasn’t enough room to open the program she clutched in her hand. It was all very exciting—she couldn’t deny that—but in a confusing, complicated way. She was no longer in the mood, and didn’t think Henryk had ever been.

  “I said, let’s go,” she shouted into his ear. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. This drumming filled your head, and took over your mind.

  He raised an eyebrow when she tugged at his arm, but he didn’t object. As they moved away, the people who’d been squeezed against them fell into the space they left behind, like loose earth into a crater. Hopeless to try to talk. It was just a case of holding on to each other and battling through.

  At last they made it to a quieter place, somewhere south of Oxford Street, Peggy guessed. She was beginning to find her way around London—it was nearly six months since she’d begun her work with the Red Cross, pursuing the intricate and too often hopeless task of trying to reunite refugees with lost relatives—but today everything looked different. Peggy wondered if she and Henryk would ever manage to find the others before the fireworks. Or if, by then, he would even want to. Five years and more, a few snatched meetings, and at times she felt she hardly knew him.

  “Cup of tea?” she suggested. “No milk?”

  Henryk smiled as he bowed his assent and offered his arm properly. He had stopped clicking his heels a long time ago, but remained a stickler for courtesy. It still made Peggy glow. Hip to hip, they walked, aware only of each other. They ignored the gaps in the buildings they passed, the rhythm of holes left by uprooted railings, the windows still boarded. Their steps were in time, and whenever Peggy looked up at Henryk’s face, she found his eyes already devouring hers.

  Almost too soon they found a café that was open, and empty too, and the girl who served them very anxious to be gone. She kept looking out of the window, as if she might somehow be able to hear or see something of the action if she got a little bit closer to the glass.

  Henryk was reading the program again. Peggy studied the lion and unicorn design on the cover and knew he’d never find what he was looking for. But she noticed that he was wearing the cufflinks she had sent him at Christmas.

  “Your own clothes at last,” said Peggy. “I thought the day would never come.”

  She regretted her words immediately. Today of all days Henryk should have been in uniform, preparing to fly. Henryk raised his eyes, and reached a hand across to hers. She kissed his fingers.

  “But here it is,” he said.

  She nodded, and coughed. The waitress tore herself away from the window and brought them their tea.

  “Have you heard from your father?” asked Henryk.

  That was easier grou
nd.

  “Oh, he’s much, much better. The Research Institute closed a few months ago but he’s stayed on in Sheffield, and Ernest is trying to help him set up a studio there, with another of the conchies from the Institute, an artist. It wasn’t TB, it turned out. Just effects of Vitamin A deprivation, from the experiments. The ‘shipwreck diet,’ I think they called it … or maybe something else … I’m not quite sure. Anyway, Ernest said he hardly recognized him when he first arrived—he was like an old man. Awful. But his night vision has come back.”

  “And no more itching?”

  “Oh no … the scabies experiments only went on for about a year—human guinea pigs, the doctor called them. Urgghhh! How horrible to get yourself deliberately infected like that, for the sake of science. No wonder Mum didn’t want to see him then. But she’s planning to go up soon. I’m crossing my fingers. You never know.”

  “I think I would rather have been a soldier, fighting, than do what he did.”

  “Did I tell you about the first letter that came from the Institute, and how Mum put it in the bottom of the Rayburn to disinfect it and it went all yellow and crumbled when we read it?”

  Henryk laughed.

  “You did tell me.”

  “Sorry. I can never remember what we’ve actually been able to say to each other and what I’ve just imagined.” Shyness unexpectedly attacking, Peggy lowered her head—but she had to make this confession. “I talk to you all the time, you know. In my head. I can’t help it.”

  “Perhaps soon you won’t have to. We must make plans.”