Sisters at War

by Milly Adams

  A yellow Tiger Moth had appeared, and heedless of possible traffic had begun its take-off. Seamlessly Bryony aborted, easing away, and only when all was clear did she come round again, landing lightly. Immediately she taxied back to the take-off point and began her final circuit, thinking of the child who had run across the Combe Lodge landing strip. They were still searching but it was a mystery. She had even stood outside the school gates but had recognised no one, and the school had no child of that vague description attending. The billeting officer had shaken her head, asking how on earth she could be held to account for every strange child who ran across a field and, instead of fussing other people, Bryony should check her boundary fences.

  Perhaps she was a visitor who had gone home? If not, would she do it again? Well, it didn’t matter for now, because there were to be no more flights, unless Hannah phoned. She heard again Eddie’s orders, but . . .

  She was by now completing her final circuit. All was clear, the wind had freshened, it was drying the skin on her face, and her hands were cold but completely healed. It was amazing how forgiving one’s body was. She thought of the gloves Adam had tossed her; today, she should have worn gauntlets. Slowly, slowly she reduced speed as she approached the runway. She checked all around, and peered down from the cockpit. Steady, steady, there was the fence, level out, back on the control column, and they sank to the earth, feather-light, the grass skimming beneath the wheels, the tail settling.

  Nothing was said as they unstrapped, and undid the voice gadgetry. The First Officer climbed down first, and then Bryony. The mechanic strolled across and chocked the wheels, whistling. He looked at Bryony and winked. She raised an eyebrow. He shrugged, so she was none the wiser. Had she done enough?

  Together they walked back across the grass to the pathway. To the right it led to the administration block, to the left were the main gates. The First Officer stopped, and her smiled reached her eyes. ‘Eddie taught you well, but then you have your father’s genes. I know him by reputation. A great loss. He checked his aircraft, too. It’s a professional practice. Your anticipation is excellent; there could have been a difficulty with the training aircraft taking off. You will hear from us as to whether you have passed but the admission of more women to the ATA is in the lap of the gods, or the higher-ups, but then they think of themselves as gods. We’ll just have to wait and see. It’s going to be a hard road to acceptance but if the Luftwaffe try to tip the scales, as surely they will, it makes perfect sense to hike our numbers. Have a safe journey home.’ She pointed towards the gate.

  The journey back was like the journey out, stop and start, and as they passed along the tracks and through stations, the June evening became night and there were no lights shining, courtesy of England’s blackout blinds.

  An elderly woman in the unlit compartment laid down her knitting for a moment. She smiled at Bryony and said, ‘I suppose one shouldn’t like anything about being at war, but isn’t it wonderful to have such a clear night sky now there is so little ambient light from the streets and houses. Have you noticed, my dear?’

  Bryony had, and replied, ‘I feel sometimes that I could reach up and touch the stars. And I love it, particularly when the moon is full or, even better, when there’s a hunter’s moon.’

  The woman smiled again. ‘Indeed. Soon, of course, we could be bemoaning that very same moon. I remember in the Great War the Zeppelins dropping their bombs “By the light of the silvery moon”.’ She sang the last bit, her voice heavy with irony.

  Bryony caught a bus from the station, though it took a slightly different route and she would have to walk across a few fields to reach the road leading to Combe Lodge. It didn’t matter as long as she got home, because she was so hungry she could eat her fist. Neither did it matter that the slow cook was off-ration rabbit, and absolutely the last on her list of likes. It would, however, be inundated with the onions she had chopped and April was bound to have baked some potatoes.

  Norman, the night-shift bus driver, asked how it had gone in the flying test. ‘I don’t know. It seemed to be all right but they’ll let me know. How’s Tommy now?’ It was all she could do to ask, because Tommy had been at Dunkirk and she still didn’t like to think about it. The dreams were quite enough to be getting on with.

  ‘Back with his unit,’ Norman said. ‘Helps when you’re with people who were there, he says. Prefers it to his mum’s fussing.’ He laughed, but the strain of knowing that his son had been in the front line, and would be again, was showing.

  Bryony walked along the edge of the woods and was glad that she had brought her torch, though the light could only shine through the slit cut in the paper cover. It was, however, enough to stop her putting her foot into a rabbit hole, which she skirted instead. She strode past Mr Simes’s wheat field, hearing the wind rustling the grain heads. The owls were hooting, and she imagined the eyes watching her, not to mention any field mouse foolish enough to show itself.

  The thought of the owls made her remember the Stukas seeking their prey at Dunkirk. Stan Jones was right, it was good to be with people who understood. Sometimes she and Adam would exchange a look when thunder clapped, or a door slammed, and they jumped and paled, or when a night had gone by without sleep. It had brought them closer, she thought, but then when had they not been.

  She sighed, and refused to go over the same old performance of wishing it was a different closeness, and instead concentrated on picking her way over the rutted ground. She reached the gateway, crossed the road, and was in the field adjoining the landing strip. She could skirt the airfield fence and come out on to the driveway. It was then she heard a rustling over to her left. She hesitated, flashing her torch in that direction. Nothing, except the usual shrubs and birch saplings. It was probably a damned fox heading for Combe Lodge’s chickens.

  She began to walk on, but heard the rustling again and thought she caught a movement in the beam, but then it was gone. In its place was the sound of something, or someone, blundering into bushes, and then her torch caught a glimpse, but of what? It wasn’t a fox, it was . . . hang on, it was a figure, surely. She peered again. There – it burst from the bushes, and was running beside the landing strip fence. ‘Hey!’ she called.

  She began running, because she now realised it was a girl. Was it the one who had run in front of the Dragonette? But then she was gone beneath trees, and Bryony heard a crash, and a cry. She slowed. Suddenly Dunkirk was with her again, the darkness, the cry, the crash. Sweat ran, and nausea swept over her. She swallowed, forcing herself to walk on, making herself stay here, in this moment, because Dunkirk was gone, finished. Instead, she was in Devon, on Combe Lodge land. She gripped the torch so hard that her fingers ached. She shouted, her voice shaky but loud, ‘Stop running and stay where you are. This is private land, we own two yards’ depth around the perimeter fence, and we have some talking to do.’

  There was no movement, no sound but an owl’s hoot, then the sound of crying. She drew in a deep breath. Not a bomb, not the filthy seawater, not the horror, but a child’s distress. She said, calmly now, ‘Stay quite still, I’m coming to you.’

  She walked steadily in the direction of the sounds, the torchlight probing all the while. She found the girl and knelt by her side, her torch playing on the girl’s face, the smell of unwashed poverty rising to meet her. ‘I didn’t mean nothing, Miss,’ the girl said, her eyes dull.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘Just me leg, a bit. Not bad. It’s me dress. It’s caught, you see, and if I rip it again, she won’t like it. She won’t, really she won’t.’

  It was so dark amongst the undergrowth that Bryony’s torch took a while to locate the brambles that had captured the skirt. When she did, she laid down the torch, and unsnagged it, thorn by thorn. The girl wriggled free, and rose to her feet. For a moment she stood still, testing her leg, and then, with a swift look at Bryony, she turned and ran. Bryony was ready. She grabbed her, because she had seen the rip that matched a piece of material t
hat had caught on the landing-strip fence on the day of the inbound flight.

  ‘Not so fast. We need to talk, so you’re coming with me.’ As soon as she touched her, the girl sagged and became compliant. They set off together, Bryony holding her arm, ready for further flight, knowing she could tighten her grip at a moment’s notice.

  ‘What are you called, young lady?’

  ‘What’s me name, d’yer mean, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’

  ‘Celia, Miss.’

  They were skirting the landing strip, then they headed down the path towards the back of Combe Lodge. The owls were in full voice, and the cockerel had taken leave of its senses and was crowing. His wives would give him hell for waking them way before the start of the day.

  ‘What did you think I meant when I asked what you were called?’ Bryony asked as they walked along the clinker path by the vegetable patch. Now the clouds had cleared, the moon lit up the profusion of potatoes, onions, leeks, and all good things. In amongst them she had planted marigolds, and a few roses and herbs. She felt it kept the pests away from the veggies.

  ‘She calls me other things,’ the child said. ‘Sometimes I almost forgets me real name.’

  Bryony didn’t want to pursue the conversation in this calm and beautiful place. Now they were walking along the front of the formal garden, or so it had been called in its days of glory, but she was doing her best with the new box hedging around the herbs. It needed cutting. She knew the herbaceous borders needed more work, and she wasn’t keeping up with the deadheading of the roses. She and April had always worked the gardens, but these days it was getting away from them a little, just as this child had got away.

  She said gently, unable to stop herself, ‘What does she call you?’

  ‘Bitch, cow, stupid idiot, things like that, because I’m naughty, you see. I wets me bed and I don’t know what she wants, sometimes. She doesn’t tell me, and so I don’t know, so I do something and I gets it wrong, so I reckon she’s right. I am a cow, or idiot, things like that.’

  ‘Who is this she?’

  The girl stopped, and pointed to the east. ‘The lady the billeting person put me wiv, Mrs Galloway. She’s kind to have me, I knows that cos the billeting lady told me. She said, “These kind people have opened their doors to you children from London, so you must behave.” But you see, I don’t know I’m wetting meself until the morning, and like I said, I don’t know what she’s thinking. I winds ’er up, she says, and she gives me the strap to make me good.’

  They had reached the back door. Was anyone up? It must be about eleven. You couldn’t tell if the light was on with the blackout blinds. She reached for the handle, but now Celia pulled back. ‘You going to take me in there and hit me, Miss? I know I was naughty to be ’ere, but I wanted to see the plane again. It makes me feel sort of free, just watching it up in the air, or coming down. I’m sorry if I got in the way of that other plane.’

  Bryony knelt beside her. ‘No, no one is going to hit you. I just want to get you home safely and stop Mrs Galloway worrying.’

  ‘She never checks. I comes out because I think if I do a tiddle in the woods really late, I won’t do it in the bed.’

  ‘Right.’ Momentarily Bryony was lost for words. ‘I was the one flying that day, and I was just worried, and wanted to find you to see why you were there and if you were all right. Now I know. I think perhaps I need to eat, so why don’t you have some food with me, then I will walk you home. I could explain to Mrs Galloway that you were caught on brambles, and were stuck and couldn’t get home earlier. Is that a good idea?’

  They opened the back door, and entered the dark passageway. They walked into the kitchen, which was bathed in light. Adam, April and Eddie were sitting around the table. April was sewing, Eddie was reading, and Adam was leaning over an old newspaper on which was a knobbly bit of the Sunflower’s engine. He looked up, an oily rag in his hand.

  ‘The pilot returns.’ He stopped. Then continued, ‘Returns with a passenger.’ Celia pressed hard against Bryony’s skirt, trying to hide behind her. Bryony led her to a chair. ‘Sit there, Celia, and we’ll share my meal. I feel quite full and could do with some help if that’s all right with Mrs Cottrall?’

  April dropped her sewing on the table, and was up at the oven before Bryony could discard her gas mask and jacket. In the light, Celia was thin and dirty, her nails encrusted, her hair unwashed. Her arms revealed bruises in the shape of a person’s fingers. Her cheek was swollen with a yellowing bruise. Eddie raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the door into the hall. Adam was already rising. Bryony said, ‘I just need to find my slippers, Celia. Adam and Eddie are coming to help me look. You stay here, and Mrs Cottrall will dish up the stew. I will be back, and soon I will take you to your billet.’

  April said, ‘After eating, you and I have somewhere to go, dearest Bryony. Because, late though it is, we need to investigate things further.’

  Once in the hall, Bryony repeated pretty much verbatim what Celia had said. The men looked grim. ‘We’ll all take her home,’ Adam said, groping in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes. He hardly ever smoked. He offered one to Eddie. ‘I think I will,’ Eddie muttered, ‘if you don’t mind. I’ll bring some back on my next leave.’

  Bryony looked at Adam. ‘She’s the one who ran across the landing strip.’

  After a moment they returned to the kitchen. Bryony and Celia ate their stew, Celia using her fingers. April whispered to Bryony. ‘Thankfully, she let me help wash her hands. She’s very hungry, and malnourished.’ Eddie drew April to the pantry and Bryony saw him talking urgently, then April laid her head on his shoulder, while he held her tightly. Bryony watched Adam as he smiled at the couple, and then return to his gasket. She longed for someone to hold her.

  Celia ran her finger along the bottom of her plate, and licked it.

  April emerged from the pantry. ‘I think we will have some bread and butter now, how about that? You can use it to soak up the last of your gravy.’

  She started to cut a slice of the freshly baked loaf and as she did so, Celia reached out to try and snatch some crumbs. ‘Don’t!’ Bryony shouted. April stopped, mid-slice, The girl flinched, and dropped the crumbs back on the breadboard. ‘Sorry, Miss.’

  Adam looked from Bryony to Celia. Bryony pointed to the knife. ‘I’m sorry to shout, Celia. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. That knife is extremely sharp.’ April resumed cutting. A slice fell to the board. She lifted the knife clear. Bryony took the bread. ‘Here, let me put some on your plate, and then you’re quite safe.’

  Adam smiled at Celia. ‘We call this lady Bee, though her real name is Bryony. You see, bees make really sweet things, like honey. Which means our Bee is really sweet too.’

  Celia looked from Adam to Bryony. ‘She got the thorns out of my skirt, Mister. One pricked her but she never said nothing, so I think she must be.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Adam said, before whispering to Bryony. ‘You can pay me later, and the fact that you have a sting worse than a horsefly’s bite is to be left to another day.’

  She kicked him beneath the table. He dropped the cleaning cloth.

  When they’d all had a cup of tea, weak by this time of night because the leaves had been reused so often, Bryony said she, rather than a posse, would take Celia back. The others should get some sleep. As they were leaving, Eddie asked Celia, ‘Why did you run across the landing strip, and why were you there tonight?’

  Celia pressed against Bryony again, but Eddie squatted down on her level. ‘I’m not cross, just interested,’ he told her.

  ‘I like them planes. It must be nice, up there. Quiet, sort of different. Everything must look so small, and you can go just anywhere, miles and miles and never come back, and you can’t hear the shouting, not up there.’ Her face was animated, her eyes alive for the first time that evening.

  Eddie rose, and very gently he stroked Celia’s hair. After a moment he said into the silence
that had fallen, ‘You are right, it is all of those things, and one day, when you’re older, we will teach you how to fly. How about that?’

  Celia nodded, her face blank, her eyes dead. She didn’t believe a word. April handed Bryony her gas mask, and her own to Celia, though it would be too big, but was better than nothing.

  Adam said to Celia, as Bryony reached for the door, ‘You don’t have to go up in the air to get shouting to stop, you know. People can help that happen.’

  Again there was no reaction.

  Celia led her along the lanes to the next village. April had said before they left that she vaguely recollected a Mrs Galloway but she was not someone who was a member of the WI or the church, or was seen about Exmouth or Combe village very much. April had wanted to come, but Bryony shook her head. ‘It’s late. You need your sleep.’

  Celia led her to a bungalow set apart from all the others on the edge of the woods, the tree branches bowed over the roof. Bryony knocked on the door, easing back off the step. Celia waited, rigid by her side. The door opened, and an elderly woman stood there. ‘What’s she done now?’ Her tone was abrasive.

  Bryony’s was worse as she said, ‘She’s done nothing except have a good meal, which must be the first for many a long day. I am sending the billeting officer, Mrs Sanderson, round tomorrow and there had better not be a finger laid on this child ever again, do you understand? Neither will you call her names. She will be treated with care and consideration from this moment on.’

  Mrs Galloway stood to one side. ‘It’s late, she should be in bed. Nips out, she does. Nothing I can do about it. You should try it if you think you can do better, and the bed-wetting . . . what a stink. These city kids; animals, they are.’