This Monday morning, as on many another, the two girls rode their bicycles along the quiet, winding country road, singing: Wish Me Luck as You Wave me Goodbye. Lou was smiling and singing while tears dripped off the end of her chin. The paint cans containing the white paint they daubed on the trees rattled and clanged on the handlebars, not quite in time.
She broke off, mid-song, to ask Gracie if she’d told her all about her weekend in Southport. Gracie agreed that she had, several times in fact. ‘But don’t let that stop you.’
It didn’t. Within seconds, the tears had been swept away and Lou was happily chattering twenty to the dozen, describing in detail the excitement of her “blissful” weekend. She was still talking as they approached the post box where she meant to pop in her latest letter to Gordon, written only last night, just hours after they’d parted. Beside the post box stood a wooden sentry box, one of several in the locality. Another stood by the barrier close to the hall itself. The soldier inside was usually a veteran from World War I who knew every villager by name. Nevertheless, even to post a letter meant everyone had to identify themselves.
‘Halt, who goes there? Friend or foe.’
‘Friend,’ Gracie automatically responded, struggling not to smile. She rather guessed that the old soldier quite enjoyed it whenever someone happened along, as carrying out sentry duty for hour upon hour in this remote spot, must be exceedingly boring.
‘Advance friend to be recognised.’
Lou instantly halted her tale as Gracie provided the necessary identification. Lou rarely said a word during this ritual, for no matter how many times she came close to the high perimeter fence around the compound she always felt a chill between her shoulder blades. These men were there because they’d been captured while attacking our boys. Every night when she went to bed, Lou silently prayed for Gordon’s safety. It was wonderful that, for once, she knew her prayers had been answered, even if he was leaving for some undisclosed destination within the next few days. As always, she’d made up her mind not to think too closely about this, but simply to pray all the harder.
A detail of prisoners-of-war marched past, boots ringing on the rough stones of the lane as they headed down the road, no doubt on their accustomed exercise drill to the village and back. One of them called something out to the two girls but the guard in charge barked at him in German, probably to order him to behave, or to keep ‘eyes front’.
‘You’re even being propositioned by the enemy now,’ chuckled Gracie, and Lou rolled her eyes in despair.
‘Never!’ The very idea filled her with horror.
The girls wheeled their bicycles on, well away from the high gates of the grey stone mansion where other prisoners would be playing football, strolling on the terrace, digging the garden or taking part in some form of drill.
It didn’t seem right, somehow, that these men, the enemy, should be free to play games while Gordon could, at this very moment, be steaming back into danger. Lou averted her eyes from the marching PoWs and started up her story again. ‘Soon as he left me, he was off for a quick visit to his mam. Don’t worry love, he says, the war’ll be over in no time, everyone says so. This is the last push, then they’ll hang up their hats and surrender. Do you believe that, Gracie? Do you think the war will soon be over?’
Gracie wasn’t properly listening. Her head was filled with the surprising turn her own life had taken this weekend. The trip to the cinema with Adam had been an eye opener in so many ways. She felt as if her depression over the air raid had finally lifted, as if she had found a friend. But was it the kind of friendship that could grow to something more, into something special?
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Sorry. I was miles away, worrying.’
‘Worrying about what?’
The last thing she wanted was to talk about her afternoon with Adam. ‘Oh, I don’t know. The war, I suppose. My parents. People back home. Everything really.’
‘Oh, me too. Isn’t war a sod?’ They got back on their bicycles and continued gloomily on their way.
Parting with Gordon had been like having a limb torn away. They’d stood locked in each other’s arms, weeping, before Gordon had climbed into his train to go in one direction, and Lou had crossed to the other platform to go in the other. It had seemed like the end of the world. Just recalling that moment brought a rush of fresh tears to her eyes and Lou dashed them quickly away, not wishing Gracie to see her weakness. She was turning maudlin and she really mustn’t. Hadn’t she promised him that she would be strong, and brave.
No matter what, they’d both do their bit to the best of their ability. She could still hear his words, so full of courage and conviction. ‘The sooner we beat the bloody Nazis, the sooner you and me can get started on married life proper.’ Lou could hardly wait.
‘I’ve no idea when I’ll see him again. Oh lord, I can’t bear it.’
Gracie reached over and squeezed her hand where it gripped the handlebar of her bicycle, causing a dangerous wobble for them both. ‘Yes you can. You’ll bear it because you must. Anyway, he’ll be back before you know it, and you’re right. The war will be over soon. I’m sure of it. Now we have to find Alf, so look sharp about it. We mustn’t be late.’
Alf was a forester and, since he’d been put in charge, was known as their ganger. He claimed to be long in limb and short on patience. Lou declared him to be also lacking in a sense of humour but, with forty years experience under his belt he didn’t take kindly to being kept waiting, or having his word thwarted. He tolerated girls working beside him with resigned forbearance except that if he asked them to perform some job or other in a certain manner, that was the way it must be done.
‘Morning Alf,’ Lou jauntily remarked, as she sauntered up. He didn’t answer at once, as he was bending over, fiddling with his boot laces and she pinched his rear end, making him jump and swing about, brows beetling furiously.
‘Hey up, you. It’s time you were taught some manners, madam.’
‘Eeh, me Mam’s been saying that for years. Go on, give your face a holiday. Laugh.’
Instead he glowered, as he always did, his moustachioed mouth clamped firmly shut over what remained of his yellowed teeth. He stiffly informed them that a small group of the lower ranking officers were to help with the task of clearing undergrowth today. This was unusual, as few were ever required to take part in physical labour, partly because of the security aspect but also because of the high rank of the prisoners. They considered it beneath their dignity to involve themselves in manual labour and, in line with the Geneva convention, were never asked to do so. It was said that some even objected to the machine guns mounted at strategic points on the surrounding hills, claiming they had given their word not to escape and, as German officers of honour, would keep it.
Gracie smiled and accepted this information with a nod of agreement. Lou, on the other hand, was outraged. ‘How can we be expected to work with PoWs? They’re our enemies. ’
‘Happen they are.’ Alf agreed, an edge to his voice. ‘That’s because there’s a war on and they got caught. So what? They were paid to carry out orders. As are you.’
‘I know that Alf, but...’ Gracie kicked her ankle and Lou yelped.
‘That’s fine,’ Gracie said with a smile. ‘We’ll show them what to do.’
‘How can you be so obliging?’ Lou hissed fiercely under her breath.
‘It isn’t their fault that they got caught up in this war, any more than it is ours. Or your Gordon’s, for that matter.’
‘How dare you compare these German PoWs with my Gordon?’
‘Oh, Lou, put a sock in it,’ and seeing her friend’s eyes again fill with ready tears, softened her tone. ‘Gordon will be fine, I promise you.’
‘I know, I know. I just can’t help comparing ...’
‘Well, don’t.’
There were five of them. Young men little older than themselves. Wearing their regulation uniform they seemed to Lou remarkably well fed
, clean and fit. ‘At least they’re out of it, and can see out the rest of the war in perfect safety, having the time of their lives, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she grumbled.
Before Gracie had time to say anything to this, one of the guards, who must have overheard the comment, stepped closer to mutter, ‘Aye, life of bleedin’ Riley some of ‘em lead, I can tell you. But don’t be fooled by this lot’s air of youthful innocence, take yer eye off ‘em fer a second and they’ll be off like rabbits over the fells.’
Gracie hid a smile and quickly explained, via an interpreter, what would be required of them. The group set to work readily enough, clipping and cutting back the briers and brambles. It seemed strange to be standing so close to someone judged as the enemy. They didn’t seem in the least combative, aggressive or even resentful, but mild and compliant as if relieved to have a proper task to do. Watching them work, she felt a surge of curiosity, almost pity for these young men. What had been their jobs before the war? Teachers, doctors, students perhaps, or even farmers. She didn’t expect, for one minute, that they’d welcomed this war any more than she had. What had they suffered before arriving here in Grizedale? And did they miss their families, their wives and sweethearts?
She found it hard to imagine that any of these young men would want to risk being sent back into the maelstrom of combat. Even the heavy presence of the guards seemed unnecessary.
Two of them in particular, who worked closely together, appeared almost pleasant. One was short and stocky, though quite dapper with close cropped brown hair. His companion was taller, with fair hair brushed straight back from a broad, square face and high forehead. She supposed he was quite good looking in his way with brooding eyes and full lipped mouth, and then blushed - for she’d really meant - for a German. He didn’t seem too well, as he kept pausing to bend over and cough, before valiantly going on with the task. Gracie thought that he shouldn’t have been detailed for an outdoor job if he wasn’t well.
She could also tell that the young German officers were suffering from the hard work, as they kept blowing on their hands.
Gracie had grown used to an aching back and shoulders, but she sympathised. The blisters that had once pitted the soft skin of her own hands had once given her great pain and discomfort. But they’d grown tough and would no doubt remain so, forever scarred by the work she did. She’d toughened up in many ways since joining the WTC. She loved the freedom and fresh air, the comradeship and fun, but best of all she loved the fact that her father wasn’t around to tell her what to do all the time; that her mother wasn’t here to whine about a suitable career for her brilliant daughter. Gracie had no wish to be brilliant. She just wanted to be young and alive, independent and free. She thought freedom must be the most important, most treasured possession in all the world. She gazed thoughtfully at the PoWs, wondering how they could bear to be kept locked up, and if they considered it their duty to try and escape?
The work was monotonous and they were glad enough to stop for a mug of tea at ten o’clock. As they stood drinking it, a fine drizzle started.
‘Great. That’s all we need,’ Lou muttered.
The prisoners hunched up their shoulders against the rain, warming their hands on the tin mugs of tea, it being a typically cool Lakeland day for all it was early June. The tall, fair haired young man began to cough even more. Gracie fumbled in her pocket, then hurried over and handed him a peppermint.
‘Try that. Might help.’ Even as she held out the sweet, the guard snatched it from her grasp.
‘No fraternising,’ he barked.
‘Sorry, I just thought he needed something to help stop the cough.’
She glanced across at the young man where he stood, hunched and miserable, struggling not to relapse into another fit of coughing, and, for a brief second, looked directly into his eyes. It was a moment like no other. His expression did not in any way alter and yet she read so much in that gaze. There was a smile there, and curiosity. But mostly it was one almost of recognition, as if each was saying to the other. Ah, there you are. What took me so long to find you?
Gracie backed away on legs that felt suddenly weak and uncoordinated. The incident had unsettled her. She felt dazed and confused by the look which had passed between them, quite unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. After that it was hard to concentrate on her work. She found herself listening for the slightest sound of his cough. She kept glancing across, watching, waiting, willing him to look in her direction, but he seemed studiously determined to concentrate on his work. At twelve-thirty they stopped for another break and the two girls settled down to eat their packed lunch beneath the shelter of a nearby beech tree: a delicious cheese and potato pasty prepared by Irma. The PoWs sat a short distance away, flanked by two guards. Alf came over and started to tell them about some new Lumber Jills due to be arriving soon.
‘Oh, goody. Time we had a bit more female help round here,’ Lou said, thrilled to hear this bit of news. ‘More use than a chap, any day of the week.’
Alf snorted. ‘Not in my book. Women are nowt but trouble. I wouldn’t let one anywhere near this work, if I had my way.’
‘It’s fortunate that you don’t have your way then, isn’t it?’ Lou responded, giving a cheeky wink when he glowered at her.
Gracie asked when the new girls were expected to arrive.
‘How should I know? Nobody tells me nothing,’ he irritably and quite inaccurately complained, since everyone knew that Alf believed in ‘keeping his ear to the ground’. The newcomers were to be billeted at the village pub. ‘Let’s hope they’re not teetotal. Otherwise they might find that rowdy rabble a bit noisy.’
It was as they were chiding Alf for his rude comments about the regulars at the Eagle’s Head that they suddenly heard a shout go up. Gracie saw that some sort of scuffle had broken out among the prisoners. What exactly was taking place she couldn’t quite make out, but then one of them jumped apart from the rest, holding something in his hand in a threatening manner.
Lou gasped, ‘Crikey, he’s got a stick.’ Alf cursed softly under his breath while they all heard the ominous click of a rifle being cocked.
‘No!’ The agonised cry came from one of the other prisoners. The tall, fair one with the bad cough. The one brandishing the stick was his friend.
Without pausing for thought, Gracie rushed forward and put out a hand, almost as if she might actually grasp the arm of the guard to restrain him, even as he stared along the line of fire. The air rippled with tension and menace; the presence of war suddenly seeming very real and frighteningly close.
The fair haired one said something in rapid German, obviously in defence of his friend. Then two guards appeared out of nowhere and the next instant the stick had been dropped and the troublemaker was being marched off back to camp, hands clasped behind his head. The guard beside her slowly lowered his gun and shouted some order in German at the diminished party, followed by what could only be a string of swear words, before marching them back to camp too. Fortunately for Gracie, he offered no response to her attempted intervention beyond a furious, warning glare of disapproval.
‘By heck,’ Alf said in her ear. ‘That were a daft thing to do.’
‘I suppose it was, but I couldn’t just stand by and see him shot.’
‘Aye, well, he’ll have a few days in the cellars to cool his temper. Like a bloody dungeon it is down there. I went down once when Mr Brocklebank lived here.’ Alf spoke with relish, as if the prospect pleased him. ‘And I’d recommend thee adopts a bit more caution in future, lass. Thee can’t tackle this war single handed. Even a spunky lass like theeself.’
A couple of days later they were again working on clearing undergrowth. It was the same group, save for the miscreant who was presumably still incarcerated in the cellars. When Gracie picked up her coat, which she’d left lying on the grass, she found a note tucked inside. It read: 'Thank you for saving my friend. My name is Karl Meinhadt.’
Gracie stuffed the note quickly into
her pocket. Emotions in a turmoil, she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. For the first time in her life she had attracted attention without actually seeking it. No over-zealous mother, as had been the case with Adam, had instructed this young man to look at her in that searching, openly admiring way. Uncalled for, inappropriate, decidedly questionable if not actually treason, a German PoW had not only noticed her but clearly liked what he saw. He found her attractive, there was no doubt in her mind about that. But he was her enemy. Gracie had a vision of a pair of pale blue eyes that carried a hauntingly benign, oddly familiar, expression. The memory made her shiver, as if with anticipation.
It was several days later and Alf had instructed Gracie and Lou to wait at the end of the lane for the lorry to pick them up, as they’d be working in a more distant part of the forest today. The lorry was late and they sat on the grass verge to wait.
Lou glanced curiously at her friend. ‘You’ve been rather quiet of late.’
‘Have I?’
‘Seems so. Anything wrong?’
‘Why should there be?’
‘Hey, love, this is me you’re talking to, not some blind idiot. Come on. Tell me. What’s up?’
Perhaps it was the sympathy in her voice, or the warmth in her northern tones but suddenly Gracie found she wanted to talk, to share her worries with someone. She began by explaining how she’d enjoyed her trip to the pictures with Adam, but then how he’d tried it on and she’d stopped him. ‘I was sorry about that, because we’d come to be quite good friends. But I wasn’t happy about letting him – you know – fumble under me clothing. Touch me. It didn’t feel right, d’you see? Can you understand that?’
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