Sisters at War

by Milly Adams

  She waited outside the house. She hoped it wouldn’t matter to Hans that she was in her work clothes but there was no time to change. It didn’t. He kissed her, as he had kissed her the evening before, and she knew that she could be happy again, and why not. Her life was screaming past, empty and lonely, so – yes, why the hell not?

  Chapter Fifteen

  15 December

  Combe Lodge

  Cissie was waiting with Bryony at the bus stop, wriggling and pacing. ‘What if she’s missed it? What if a bomb got her before she left, what if Timmo wouldn’t let her come after all? Oh, Bee, she’s got to, she said she could stay for a lot of days.’

  ‘Hang on, why ever wouldn’t Timmo let your sister come?’

  Cissie stopped, peering ahead, tapping her foot. ‘Because she’s really really busy with her customers at Christmas, silly.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Bee looked for the bus. What on earth had this child seen? What was Wendy, her sister, thinking of?

  ‘There it is, there, look.’

  The bus trundled into view. There was a toot-tiddly-toot of its horn. ‘It’s Dan!’ shrieked Cissie. ‘That’s so good, cos he’ll ’ave looked after her.’

  The bus pulled up. Wendy teetered off the bus, her peroxided hair up in a pleat, a red hat perched on top, high heels, bare legs red from the cold, tight red shirt beneath a red tartan jacket, and red lipstick. Suddenly Cissie was quiet, as though she felt uncertain. Wendy looked at her, then at Bryony. Dan called, ‘Have a good time, lass, and Merry Christmas.’

  Wendy turned, and waved to him. ‘You look after that wife of yours. Myrtle will like whatever you give her for Christmas, you mark me words.’

  Cissie whispered, ‘She’s like a princess, isn’t she, Bee?’

  Bryony stroked Cissie’s hair, which they’d put in plaits for the occasion. ‘Indeed she is.’ She looked down at her paint- and oil-spotted overalls. Well, she had to leave the house, all the aircraft and the Sunflower as shipshape as possible when she left for the ATA on 3 January. She hadn’t told Cissie she was going yet. Somehow she hadn’t been able to, as the Blitz hung over them all like a cloud.

  Even in Exeter, Exmouth and Teighnmouth bombs had fallen, and people had died, not in any great numbers of course, because they were only lone bombers but nonetheless . . . She’d been travelling on the bus to Exeter to receive some physiotherapy in November, when more bombs had fallen. They were said to be landmines but whatever they were, the shudder, the noise, the fear had been Dunkirk all over again.

  Wendy waved the bus on its way, and only then did she turn again to Cissie. It was as though they were both shy. Bryony stepped forward, taking Wendy’s little case. ‘Wendy, I can’t tell you how pleased we are you could spare the time.’ She stopped. ‘I mean, it’s a long way, sometimes the trains are so slow, but we were worried, Cissie especially, what with the bombs. She so longed to see you, to have you safe for a while, though the bombs have fallen here, so is it safe . . .’ She petered out. ‘I mean, we’re just so glad you’re here.’ She gestured in the direction of Combe Lodge.

  Wendy said, ‘Kind of you to ’ave me, but more kind to ’ave Celia. I mean Cissie. I’m still getting used to the name, but I like it. I just feels dreadful to think she was with that old witch and I didn’t know.’ She squatted down, her high heels digging into the verge. ‘Give us a kiss, darling. I’ve missed you.’

  At that, Cissie flew into her arms, and the shyness was broken as Wendy lifted her, laughing, and kissing her all over her face and hair, then blowing on her neck until Cissie screamed for her to stop. Wendy set her down, and Bryony led the way along the road, finally reaching the drive, as the two sisters chattered and laughed together.

  ‘Here it is,’ Cissie said, pointing to the house at the end of the drive. ‘Oh, I forgot, ’ow’s Mrs Morton and the sweet shop?’

  ‘Oh, poor old dear snuffed it when the bombs hit our area. Did us a good turn, though, because the dump we were kipping in ’as gone too. Collapsed when they cleared the street, taking the rats with it. Timmo found me and another couple of girls a nice flat. Bit more up west, better sort of punt . . .’ She stopped. ‘Better sort of neighbour, I mean. I were sorry ’bout Mrs Morton, nice old trout but with the rationing she weren’t making much anyway.’

  As they walked up the gravel drive, Bryony winced as she saw the stones ripping the heels of Wendy’s shoes. ‘Please, let’s go on the lawn. I’ll try and repair your heels when we get to the house. I’m afraid Cissie will want you to help her stick the paper chains she and the new evacuees cut and painted in the week. Cissie was given the afternoon off school to meet you, and the others will be back at three.’

  The December cold was getting even to her, and she wasn’t the one with bare legs, but instead wore her usual flying boots and a pair of Eddie’s socks. She gestured Cissie and Wendy towards a gap in the flower beds and on to the grass. Wendy had a gravy seam running up each leg. Somehow it endeared Wendy to Bryony more than anything else. This girl was so damn ‘game’.

  April was finishing the baked potatoes, topping them with a little cheese and herbs, and vegetables from the garden. They ate their meal quickly, the talk desultory, and when they finished, Wendy pulled out her cigarettes. ‘Who’s for a fag?’

  Cissie looked down at the table, sliding a glance at Bryony, and then April, flushing. Wendy saw. ‘What’s the matter?’ She was tapping the cigarette on the table and fishing for a match.

  April said firmly, ‘Nothing’s the matter. We’re delighted you are here, so you must just relax and enjoy yourself.’

  Here, in the warmth of the kitchen. Wendy’s heavy make-up was glistening. She wiped her face with her hankerchief, revealing a bruise.

  Cissie said, ‘Has Timmo ’it you again? You must tell ’im to stop.’

  Wendy laughed at her, her hand to her face. ‘’Course not. He don’t hit me. I walked into a door.’ Her hand was trembling. ‘Now, don’t you go worrying yourself, Cissie.’

  Cissie stared at her, then smiled. ‘I ’spect that in a new flat you forget where the doors are. But in a while you’ll be used to it.’

  Wendy smiled, so gently that Bryony had to swallow. ‘I dare say I will,’ Wendy said, leaning back in the chair. April found an ashtray in the bottom of the dresser. She didn’t allow smoking in the house, but Bryony could tell from the grim set of her shoulders that from today, and until Wendy left, that rule would be broken.

  A little after three, the other evacuees came whooping down the drive, to be met by Cissie who dragged them into the kitchen to meet her sister. ‘We started the paper chains,’ Cissie told them.

  Frankie, from London, stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Bet you ain’t left any for us. Miss gave us some glue from the store cupboard.’ He looked cross.

  Betty shouldered him to one side. ‘Open your eyes, you daft dollop. Look at the strips there, all in a pile, so course they haven’t, have they, Sol?’

  The three children and Cissie clambered on to the seats that April, Wendy and Bryony vacated, with April pulling a stool forward for Sol, who was only seven. April waved Wendy and Bryony away. ‘Go and have a look around the gardens, get some fresh air, then pop in on Catherine and Anne while I find a biscuit for this lot.’

  Bryony found Wendy some wellingtons and insisted on socks, and then they were ready.

  Cissie called after them, ‘Tell her about the babies, Bee.’

  As they set off along the path, Bryony explained her and Eric’s role in the birth of Eric junior.

  Wendy laughed. ‘Bet that was enough to put you off for life, weren’t it?’

  Bryony hesitated. ‘It made me think it would have to be someone special, to go through it. What about you?’

  Wendy stopped by the Anderson shelter, and fished out her cigarettes again. ‘What about me, eh? There are ways to stop it, before or after it’s started.’

  She looked inexpressively sad. She waved the packet towards Bryony, who shook her head. ‘No vices
then, Bryony?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Call me Bee, everyone does. Flying’s my vice, and April’s cakes, and I have a temper. I blamed someone for something, shouted at him when he’d done me a favour. He doesn’t telephone much any more. Well, I suppose he can’t, he’s at sea, but even when he’s ashore . . .’

  Wendy held her cigarette between her teeth, and struck a match. She inhaled deeply. ‘Ah, Eric?’

  ‘No, Adam. He’s on the armed trawlers. He phones from time to time, but it’s not the same. He’s cold, sort of careful, too polite.’ She stopped, shrugged. ‘Life’s difficult.’

  Wendy’s laugh was harsh. ‘Bet your bleedin’ life it is.’ She inhaled again, lifting her head and exhaling. In the daylight, under another layer of powder applied when the children had arrived, the bruise could be a trick of the light. She pointed to the turf on top of the Anderson shelter. ‘Good idea, let’s ’ope you don’t ’ave to use it.’ She studied her cigarette, in no hurry to move on.

  ‘Who’s going to look after all them kids when you’ve gone to the – what do you call it?’

  ‘The ATA. I’ll deliver planes from the factories to the maintenance units where they’ll be armed. Then another ferry pilot will fly them to the airfield. Unless we’re taking trainers up to Scotland, of . . .’

  Wendy had crossed her arms, nodding, but Bee knew she was not really listening, because she broke in: ‘So what’ll happen to the kids? Will they go somewhere else, another bloody witch?’ She stared at Bryony, her jaw jutting out. She dropped the stub of her cigarette and ground it into the path.

  Bryony linked her arm in the girl’s. ‘They will stay here with April. I will be back every thirteen days for two days. My uncle Eddie will be back for two days’ leave every thirteen days, and then there’s Eric. He does odd jobs, but is a friend. They’ll be well cared for, trust me. No one is taking them anywhere they don’t want to go.’

  She pointed towards the lawn. ‘Let me show you the herbaceous beds. Did Cissie tell you she helped me deadhead the roses in October, when I was one-handed?’

  Wendy shook her head. ‘Who’s this uncle, then? Is he one of them “uncles” or is he kosher?’ Her voice was intense, her hand gripping Bryony’s arm.

  ‘Oh, he was my dad’s best friend. He and I run the airline together – in peacetime, that is. He and April are a couple. You’ll like him. He’s just gone back so should be home for Christmas. Why not come down again, and meet him?’

  ‘Maybe, it depends. Got a lot of bombs to get through between now and then.’

  Bryony was pointing to the magnolia. ‘This is a picture in the spring. Come then too and let Cissie show it to you.’

  Wendy stopped at the edge of the flower bed, looking at the magnolia tree. ‘Strange, ain’t it, how them come up year after year, no matter what bloody mess we’re making of the world. You forget that in London. Yes, there are parks, but not this.’ She looked along the length of the bed. ‘Cissie helps, does she?’

  ‘Oh yes, and don’t worry, we’re keeping her safe for you, Wendy, never fear. She loves the aircraft too, and is longing for peace so she can come in one with us, and when she is old enough, with your permission, she’d like to learn to fly.’

  Even as she said it, Bryony wondered how she would ever be able to send the child she loved back to a world inhabited by Timmo and punters. What hope would there be for her?

  They began walking again, still arm in arm. Wendy said, ‘You see, Bee, life is difficult, like we said. Mum died. I worked at this and that, but Cissie went hungry and I weren’t there in the day. I met Timmo and he said I could make enough, you know, having punters. I can afford her now, but it ain’t no life for her.’

  They were in the herb garden. The small box hedge was perfectly trimmed, for wielding the shears was good exercise for Bryony’s arm and she wasn’t about to tell anyone how much it still hurt. She nodded to herself. She said, ‘Yes, it is difficult, I really can’t imagine.’

  ‘Oh, you shut your eyes and think of England, that’s what you say, isn’t it?’

  They both laughed, but without amusement. Bryony said, ‘Come here and stay with us. Just leave London. It’s dangerous, you can get work somewhere, or we’ll keep you, and just think how Cissie would love it.’

  ‘Yeah. Be nice, but Timmo wouldn’t ’ave it, you see. He’d come and get me, or hurt Cissie, or something. He’s all right, don’t get me wrong, and he looks after me, don’t let anyone hurt me.’

  ‘Anyone else, you mean.’ Bryony couldn’t hold back the words.

  ‘Look, I made me bed but I want a better world for our Celia. I have been saving, Bryony. Me money’s wiv a solicitor, who’s one of me punters.’ She laughed. ‘Yes, some of ’em are right smarty pants – when they have ’em on, of course.’ The two women laughed, and it was real this time.

  ‘Come on, let’s go through here, and we’ll work our way round to the cottage,’ Bryony said.

  Wendy held her back. ‘No, wait, listen to me, Bee. She’s to have the money if anything happens to me. It’s all legal. I’ll be adding to it.’ She pressed a letter into Bryony’s hand. ‘If I dies . . .’ She trailed off. Then looked at Bryony, her eyes shining. ‘Use the money, keep her straight, give her a chance for a good life.’

  She was gripping Bryony’s hands. ‘You goin’ to promise me?’

  Bryony gripped hers back. ‘Listen, give it up, come here, now. Who knows where the bombs will fall, it could be on us, but they won’t go on for ever, and here won’t be as bad as London, and we’ll all be together.’

  ‘You ain’t listening. I can’t just up and leave, it don’t work like that. I’ll bring trouble to your door if I do.’

  Smoke was rising above the trees. Anne and Catherine had put damp wood on their fire. Cissie and Wendy could have the cottage after the war. Yes, that would be an idea.

  Bryony said, ‘No, no, I’m not having that. I’ll talk to Eric, ask him to make sure his Home Guard mates keep an eye on the place. Police Constable Heath will keep his ear to the ground. You can live here, please. Please.’

  Wendy smiled at her, her eyes tired. She nodded. ‘Keep the letter, I’ll try to find a way. But keep that letter safe, and make me the promise.’

  Bryony did and as they walked towards the cottage she tried to imagine yet again the life this woman lived, this sister who had assumed the responsibility of caring for Cissie. A woman who Bryony knew would not come unless she was totally sure it would not endanger Cissie, who was probably the only person in the world that she loved. Cissie, who had changed her name from Celia to forget who she had been. How that act must have bitten deep, but still Wendy adjusted, and now Celia was Cissie to Wendy, when this remarkable young woman remembered.

  They walked on, Bryony tucking away the letter in her pocket. After they had held the babies, one called Eric, one called Bryony, they returned to the Lodge, and while Wendy rested and the children glued the paper chains, Bryony put the letter in the writing desk. She then shared the conversation with April who said, ‘Something must be done.’

  ‘But what? We don’t understand Wendy’s world, April. We must just try to let her know we are always here, and will do whatever we can. It’s up to her, she’s made that clear.’

  That evening, they all ate around the kitchen table, Eric too. He had been felling a dead tree for logs, and when the children groaned at rabbit again, Eric promised them fish at the weekend. They were talking about the bones when the telephone rang in the hall.

  Eric answered it and called through, ‘Wendy, it’s a man called Timmo for you.’

  She smiled, but Cissie held on to her hand. ‘Don’t go back. That’s what he wants, so don’t.’

  Frankie was staring at her. Bryony said, ‘Remember what I said, Wendy.’

  Wendy disengaged her hand, and stroked Cissie’s cheek. ‘You’re such a worryguts. It’s war, there are things we all got to do. Look at you kids, ’aving to leave your mums and dads. Right little heroes, you are.’
r />   She dropped her napkin on the table. April said, ‘There’s a bedroom next to Bee’s now Cissie is up in the attic rooms with the other children. Timmo can come here. He might like that.’

  Wendy was already in the hall, though, and while the children talked, Eric looked from April to Bryony. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ they said together, straining to hear the conversation. Wendy was saying, ‘He’s a friend of Bee’s, is all.’ Then a pause. ‘What, tomorrow? Yes, I know what will happen. Yes, I’ll be there, ’course I will. Yes, I know.’

  As they heard the click of the receiver being replaced, April launched into a long story about the latest WI meeting while Eric looked confused. As Wendy sat down, Cissie turned to her, shouting, ‘You’re going back. You came all this way, and now you’re going back. You don’t love me.’ She rushed from the room.

  Wendy slumped in her chair, looking helplessly at Bryony, who said, ‘I’ll talk to her. Give me a moment.’

  The children fell silent, looking from one to another, and then Frankie said, ‘What’s got ’er rag?’

  Betty snapped, ‘How do I know?’

  Bryony ran through the hall after Cissie. As she passed the telephone it rang. She snatched it up. If it was Timmo . . .

  ‘Bee, it’s me, Adam, I need to—’

  She said, ‘Not now, Adam. April, it’s Adam.’ She put the receiver down and tore off.

  April shouted, ‘Eric’s taking it, I need to stay with the children. Give him my love, Eric.’

  As Bryony pounded up the stairs she wanted to turn back, or at least call, ‘Mine too,’ But there was no time because she heard Cissie crying – well, more than that, she was sobbing – as she pounded ahead of Bryony up the second flight of stairs. Bryony heard the door to the attic bedroom slam. She tore along the landing, reached the door, knocked and entered.

  Cissie was kicking the chest of drawers, and sobbing. Bryony grabbed her from behind, holding her in a hug. ‘She loves you. That’s why she has to go back. She’s the most wonderful sister in the world, and I just wish I had one like that. She loves you.’