The Lie

by Linda Sole

  ‘I left school at Christmas last year. My father wanted me to stay at home until I get married, but I would have liked to train as a teacher. I agreed to help out with volunteer work for the Fire Brigade, though. I’m on fire watch five afternoons a week in Cambridge. Two mornings a week I help out at the village school.’

  ‘And is that enough for you, Emily?’

  Emily liked the way he said her name, making it sound special. She liked the way he talked altogether. She considered for a moment before answering.

  ‘Yes and no,’ she said. ‘At the moment the Fire Brigade needs girls like me to man the phones. They can’t get enough of us, and it’s a very important job. My shift is from one o’clock until seven at night, but I often don’t get to my room until gone ten, sometimes much later. Most girls of my age are joining the services or becoming nurses. What I do is less glamorous but very necessary. Sometimes I have to take a mobile unit out if we’re at full stretch. I had to take extra driving lessons and a special test for that. If there has been an explosion or a big fire in the gas mains it can be a bit scary.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine it might,’ he agreed. ‘And it is a necessary job – but what about when this is all over?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I might go to college then. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.’

  ‘I expect you will get married and give up all thought of work.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘But only if I find the right man.’

  ‘So that means you haven’t yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ Simon said, and grinned at her. ‘It means there’s a chance for me . . .’

  The pain in his arm was bloody, a constant reminder of the horrors he was trying hard to forget. Weeks of hellish agony proceeded by days of mental and physical exhaustion, and the terror of knowing they were stranded on that damned beach in France, with little hope of rescue. The fact that so many of them had survived Dunkirk was due in part to the courage of ordinary chaps. Men who had put to sea in frail river craft to help out the big ships, often with nothing but luck and determination to see them through, sometimes succeeding where the larger navy craft failed. At times it seemed to Daniel that he could still smell the stink of oil from the ships that had been sunk during the rescue operation, hear the screams of men wounded or drowning, taste the blood in his mouth . . .

  ‘May I sit there?’ A young woman in a smart navy outfit was looking pointedly at the only spare seat in the carriage. Daniel realized his cap was in her way and mumbled an apology. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced at him as he winced. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. Did I knock your arm?’

  Daniel shook his head and turned away to look out of the window as fields, trees and soot-ridden houses flashed by. She hadn’t touched him. It was merely that every movement was an effort. It was July 1940 now and the memories were still as sharp, still as terrifying. If he’d had any sense he would have stayed in the military hospital for as long as they would have him. Already he was regretting his decision to make this journey, but Emily’s letter had made him uneasy.

  It was too late for him to attend his father’s funeral, of course. Robert Searles had died a month previously, when Daniel was still marooned on that beach. He’d known nothing of it until his sister’s letter had been given to him two days earlier. It had been opened, as all their mail was, and someone had decided to withhold it until he was considered strong enough to be told.

  The shock, just when he’d begun to feel better and think fondly of a home visit, had been almost unbearable, especially as he had believed his father had come to him when he lay hovering between life and death. His eyelashes were moist as he thought about his father on that last day before Daniel had left for his first posting. Robert Searles had been so proud of his third son, the only one to volunteer to fight. Henry and Clay had both chosen to take exemption. They had claimed they were needed on the farm, and since the nation had to be fed, their claims had been accepted.

  ‘I’m proud of you, son,’ Robert had told Daniel, and hugged him with visible emotion. ‘I’ll see you don’t lose by it. When you come back you’ll have land of your own – and that’s a promise.’

  ‘You don’t have to reward me for doing my duty, Father.’

  ‘You would see it that way,’ Robert said. ‘But I’ve been thinking of buying a nice little smallholding that’s going begging, lad. I shall go ahead and put your name on it.’

  Daniel had merely smiled and hugged his father one last time. The end of the war had seemed a long way away. He hadn’t been sure he would survive, wasn’t sure of it now. His arm was healing, his shoulder less painful than it had been. He’d been given three months’ leave to recuperate, but after that they would want him back.

  There had been no point in telling his father at that moment that he didn’t want to follow his brothers on to the land. Robert wouldn’t have understood. Farming was in his blood. He had done well, was a wealthy man, and his two elder sons had never considered doing anything else.

  Daniel had an idea of what he wanted to do with his life, when and if he survived the war and returned in one piece. He closed his eyes, shutting out the waves of grief and pain that washed over him every time he thought of his father. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. His life was the one at risk, not his father’s. It was difficult to understand how it could have happened, but apparently it had been an accident on the farm. Just a deep cut that had turned bad. Robert had refused to see a doctor until it was too late.

  Anger slashed through Daniel. For God’s sake, why hadn’t anyone called the doctor sooner? Why hadn’t someone noticed Father was ill? If he had been there . . . but he’d been stranded in France, expecting to die on that beach.

  Regret tasted as bitter as gall in his mouth. Nothing could turn back time. His father was dead and there was no changing that.

  He opened his eyes as he realized the train had stopped and it was time for him to get out. He had only one small case, the rest of his stuff having been lost in the disastrous landing at Dunkirk, but it didn’t matter. He’d been given as much as he needed for the moment, and there were clothes at home, in his wardrobe, left there by the bright-eyed, eager young man who had thought war was a matter of honour.

  He got out of the train, wincing as the pain started up again. No point in looking for anyone to give him a lift; he hadn’t bothered to tell them he was coming home. It wasn’t that far to Rathmere; he could walk it if he took it easy.

  The road from the station became a hill as he approached the village outskirts, the beautiful old Norman church at the top rising out of a peaceful sunny afternoon, a cloud of pigeons fluttering around the tower. The sky was blue with just a sprinkling of fluffy white curls drifting in the distance, and from someone’s garden came the scent of sweet-smelling flowers. He breathed deeply, glad to be free of the stink of the hospital at last.

  Daniel stopped halfway up the hill to put his case down for a moment. Not much further now, but he was damned near exhausted. His strength wasn’t back to normal yet, and the case seemed extraordinarily heavy, even though there wasn’t much inside.

  As he stopped to pick up the case once more, a young boy went whizzing by on a bicycle, then circled and came back to stare at him uncertainly. Daniel stared back, then started to grin as he recognized his younger brother.

  ‘Is it Connor?’ he asked. ‘You’ve grown, lad!’

  ‘Daniel?’ Connor frowned as he noticed how pale and strained the soldier looked. It wasn’t easy to recognize his brother, but some inner sense had made him circle back, recognizing that the man was in difficulty. ‘Is that case heavy? You can rest it on my bike if you want and I’ll wheel it.’

  Daniel hesitated, then lifted the case to rest over the seat and handlebars. ‘Thanks. I could do with some help.’

  ‘That’s what made me come back,’ Connor said. ‘I thought you might be in trouble. I’m glad you’re home. Emily told me you’d been wounded. I tho
ught that meant you were going to die.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Daniel said, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘The bloody Germans had a good try, mind you.’

  Connor laughed. ‘You sound just like Dad when you swear.’ His grin faded, his eyes becoming dark with grief. Daniel saw that he was struggling against tears. ‘Did they tell you – about Dad?’

  Daniel’s throat tightened, because he was hurting inside, just like Connor. ‘Two days ago. Emily wrote but they didn’t give me the letter because I was too ill for a while and they forgot it – damned idiots are always mislaying things. I came as soon as the doctors would release me.’

  Connor blinked hard, his emotion turning to anger. ‘It happened a month ago. It’s been horrible since. I hate them all – except Emily. She’s all right. She cares but the rest of them are glad.’

  ‘Of course they aren’t,’ Daniel said. ‘How could Henry or Clay – or Frances – be glad he’s dead?’

  ‘Clay and Henry can do what they like on the farm now. Frances is getting married soon – and she never cared anyway. She only married him for his money.’

  ‘She? You mean Margaret . . .’ Daniel frowned. He had not yet met his father’s new wife . . . his widow now. ‘Why don’t you like her?’

  ‘Emily doesn’t, nor does Frances. She’s all right to me, but she doesn’t cry much. Emily cries all the time when she’s alone – but she doesn’t.’

  ‘Not everyone behaves in the same way. I haven’t cried yet. I was too shocked.’

  ‘You will,’ Connor said. ‘I cried at the funeral. They said I was too young to go, but Emily took me. She hates it all as much as I do, but she’s away in Cambridge for most of the week.’

  ‘What do you hate?’

  ‘Clay and Henry are always arguing. Margaret gets angry with them sometimes – and Frances is having a party today. That’s why I came out on my bike. They were all laughing and dancing. It isn’t fair. Not when Dad’s dead.’

  ‘I know it hurts,’ Daniel said. ‘It hurts like hell – but life doesn’t stop because someone dies. We have to cope with our grief and carry on, at least outwardly.’

  ‘But they don’t care.’ Connor pulled a face. ‘When Peter Robinson’s grandfather died, they all cried. No one cares about Dad except Emily and me – and you. You do care, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, very much. I’m sure the others do underneath. Maybe they’re just trying to hide it.’

  ‘You’ll find out,’ Conner said darkly. ‘How long are you home for? Have they given you a discharge?’

  ‘I’ve got three months’ leave, and then I’ve got to go back for a medical review. If my shoulder is better by then I expect they will find me a job. It might not be overseas, though. I could be given a desk job or something in administration.’ He grinned at his brother. ‘That’s a big word for running errands to you and me.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘Not much. On the other hand it wasn’t much fun over there either. War is a rotten business.’

  ‘You were at Dunkirk, weren’t you?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Emily. She said the telegram arrived telling us you had been wounded just after Dad died, and then a letter came from your commanding officer to say you were in hospital. Emily wanted to visit but they said only Dad could go – but he couldn’t, because he was dead . . .’

  Connor’s face screwed up but he held his tears back.

  They had arrived at the house, which fronted quite a long space on the High Street, its six windows fitted with leaded bars and small panes of thick glass; the door oak and impressive with a black iron knocker. At the back the garden sloped down the hill, giving magnificent views over the fens. Connor wheeled his bike around to the kitchen door and deposited Daniel’s case on the step. He turned to look at his brother.

  ‘I should sneak up the back stairs if I were you. You won’t want to see them.’ They could hear the music from where they stood; Vera Lynn was belting out one of the tunes she had made so popular.

  ‘Are you coming in?’

  Connor shook his head. ‘I’m off to see Peter. His father has bought some new calves and I want to see them – talk to you later, then. I’ll come to your room, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Of course it is. Have a good time with your friend.’

  He stood on the back doorstep and watched his brother ride off, whistling. Then he opened the door and went in, feeling a wave of nostalgia wash over him as his eyes moved around the room. At least nothing much had changed here. There was still the huge painted dresser at one end, the long, scrubbed pine table and the elbow chairs by the range. The deep stone sinks looked to be overflowing with dirty plates, cups and glasses. A brandy decanter stood on the table with several glasses. Daniel walked over, his back to the door as he poured himself a generous measure.

  ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ a young woman’s voice demanded from behind him. ‘Who are you – and who told you to help yourself?’

  Daniel turned in surprised, looking at the girl with interest. She wasn’t tall, probably only up to his shoulder, but she was pretty. Her hair was soft and fine, a light brown in colour, and she had what he thought of as hazel eyes. She was wearing a cheap dark blue dress over which she had tied a white apron, and since she was carrying a tray filled with the remains of party food, he imagined she was extra help brought in for the party.

  ‘I was feeling exhausted and fancied a drink,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind.’

  ‘Depends who you are,’ the girl said, eyes narrowing. ‘I suppose it’s all right if you’re one of the guests – but you should be through there, not here. You’ll be in my way.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ll try not to hinder you, though I can’t offer to help. My arm doesn’t work too well at the moment.’

  ‘Been hurt, have you?’ She looked at him intently. ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere, a long time ago, though . . .’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Alice Robinson. My father has a smallholding in the fen, but we live in the High Street now. Connor and Peter are friends.’

  ‘And you’ve just got some new calves, I hear?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Her eyes widened in surprise and then her cheeks turned pink as she understood. ‘You’re Daniel, aren’t you? I remember seeing you at school, but you were a lot older than me, just about to leave when I was in my first year. I’m seventeen. I’m sorry I was rude just now – I didn’t know it was you. No one said anything about you being expected home . . .’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t tell them.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She smiled at him suddenly, and he realized she was lovely; she had the kind of beauty that comes from inside. ‘It’s not a very good day for coming home – they’ve got a party on. Frances has just got engaged.’

  ‘Good for her,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s her birthday too – her twenty-first. I’m afraid I haven’t bought her a present. Do you think she will forgive me?’

  ‘I should think she will be glad to see you back.’ Alice frowned as she saw that he really did look exhausted. ‘Do you want to sit down? I could make you a cup of tea if you like?’

  ‘I’ll sit down if you don’t mind. It was a long walk from the station, and I’m not as strong as I thought. The brandy will do me more good than tea, thanks all the same. Don’t let me stop you working, Alice. Isn’t there anyone else to help with all this?’

  ‘Yes, there’s Millie Salmons. She’s clearing the table in the dining room and will be here in a minute.’

  ‘Good grief, I thought she had retired before I joined up?’

  ‘She had but she came back because all the young girls left when the war started. They all went off to join one of the services or become nurses. I shall have to soon – but I’m not quite old enough yet. So I help out here now and then, do a few jobs on the farm for Dad and help my mother at
home the rest of the time.’

  ‘She’ll miss you when you go away.’

  ‘They need us, either in the factories or the services. Dad doesn’t want me to go into a factory, but I shall have to do something. I might drive people to hospital; they are asking for volunteers and I can drive anything. I started on the farm when I could hardly walk, on Dad’s knee at first. I help out with driving the tractor when he’s busy, and that’s most of the time with the men away.’

  ‘They have a lot of women drivers at the hospital,’ Daniel said. ‘One of them took me to the station, nice girl – but not pretty like you.’

  ‘I’m not pretty,’ Alice said, and blushed. ‘Your sisters are lovely. I’m just ordinary.’

  Daniel thought that Alice would look every bit as pretty as his sisters dressed the way they did in expensive clothes, with their hair done professionally. In fact he thought she was rather special altogether, whatever she wore.

  ‘I don’t think you’re ordinary. I suppose you wouldn’t come out with me one night – to the pictures in Ely? Not for a few days, though. I’ll need to rest but then I’ll be all right.’

  Alice looked at him thoughtfully. He was probably six years older, but that didn’t matter – it was the fact that the Searles were thought of as rich that bothered her.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said slowly.

  ‘I don’t bite and I’m quite nice really,’ Daniel said. ‘I’d like to know you better, Alice.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  Before she could finish what she was saying there was a cry of surprise from the doorway, and turning to look, Daniel saw Frances standing there.

  ‘Daniel! You’re home,’ she said, looking thrilled. ‘Why on earth didn’t you let us know? Someone would have fetched you from the station.’ She came towards him, her face bright with pleasure. ‘It’s so good to see you. We were all so worried about you, but they didn’t want us to visit for a start and then . . .’ Her smile dimmed. ‘Emily said she would write. You do know about . . .?’