Sisters at War

by Milly Adams

  The squadron leader pulled her up. ‘Pilot Officer John Folkes, who caused this spot of bother, will be spoken to when he returns but he probably heard you and is on his way to Kathmandu. Bad show. Apologies. Pilot Officer Folkes will be at your service: his petrol, his car, whatever you need in recompense. Will you stay for a cuppa?’

  At the back of the crowd she saw Katherine, beckoning. Bryony shook her head, shaking all over, mud soaking through her uniform. ‘I need to make a quick telephone call because my other taxi is waiting.’

  He led her through the dispersing rescue services and pilots into his office, which was warm and dry. She telephoned April, who said, ‘Bee?’ She paused. ‘It’s Eddie, isn’t it? Is he dead, or dying?’ She sounded extraordinarily calm.

  Bryony said, ‘I’ll kill him again if he is. He’s pranged. I was there. He has a hangover, he says, and therefore his head hurts.’ She heard a half sob, and continued. ‘The medic said he was a tough old bugger, and has some breaks, but nothing life threatening. What’s more, he’s promised to retire. Call this number.’ She read it off the telephone, as the squadron leader nodded. ‘There will be a lift from the station available, probably a certain Pilot Officer John Folkes. He will take you to the hospital, the name of which the lad will have discovered by then.’

  Again the squadron leader nodded. She continued, ‘I have to catch my own taxi now, and get back to work, but I will see you at the hospital later this evening. I love you, April. Bring Cissie or she’ll never forgive you. Perhaps Sylvia is off duty and will look after the other three. I have to go, time and tide, the same old thing. Don’t worry.’

  She replaced the receiver, unable to bear April’s crying.

  The squadron leader was scribbling his telephone number on a scrap of paper. ‘Telephone any time for a chastened, bloody lucky taxi driver: this is the best lesson he will ever have. Again, apologies, and fly safe, whoever you are.’

  ‘Bryony Miller,’ she said, shaking his hand then hurrying out of the door.

  The squadron leader called. ‘Yes, fly very safe, Third Officer Miller, my regards go with you, and all the Attagirls like you.’

  That evening, Bryony hitched a lift from Scotland to the Oxfordshire airfield on a Maggie. As they landed she saw that the runway and grass surround had been cleared. John Folkes should have been given a roasting, leaving him red-faced, and with a memory that would haunt him all his life. When she knocked and walked into his office, the squadron leader smiled, his face drawn with tiredness. John Folkes met her outside, at the passenger door of his car, nervous and distraught. He started to apologise. She just shook her head. ‘Mistakes are how we learn. We all make them. Just get me there, please.’ He said nothing more, and dropped her at the hospital.

  Still carrying her parachute she made for the post-operative care ward, where Folkes said Cissie and April would be waiting. She should be tired, but all she felt was a running anxiety. Was Eddie really a tough old bugger? Had he relapsed since her last call, this time from Scotland?

  She was still caked in mud, but as in so many close-knit organisations no one had asked why. They didn’t need to because they had heard over the grapevine and merely got on with the job. It’s what they did, no matter what awfulness occurred in their lives.

  The corridor shone, the nurses’ shoes squeaked, the lights cast a strange, almost green light. Bryony saw April and Cissie sitting on chairs, waiting. She called, ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, and hopefully not likely to be.’

  ‘Then I will find a stake.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ April said.

  Cissie ran full pelt along the corridor and threw herself at Bryony. ‘He’s had an operation and has an arm and leg in plaster. There’s something wrong with his pelpic, or something.’ Her arms came around Bryony, who lifted her up, heavy though she was, so she could keep walking towards April, who remained seated, smiling as she approached.

  April said, ‘Sylvia has moved into Combe Lodge from her digs and is looking after the other children. Catherine, Anne and Eric are in support. We’ve found a boarding house round the corner from the hospital.’

  Bryony sat next to her and settled Cissie on her lap, clasping April’s hand. ‘How’s he really doing?’

  ‘Fine, but he’s too old and too crumpled, the doc says, for this sort of shenanigans. That young pilot who drove us has been in. He left him some roses. He said it was his fault. He told me how. I said that we all make mistakes. He said it was a bloody big one. I said, we all make those too. They’re not allowed roses in post-op, so I’ve got them under my seat. How was your day, Bee?’

  Cissie said, ‘You said all that in one breath.’

  ‘I have big lungs. So, again, how was your day, Bee?’

  Bryony sighed. ‘Oh you know, this and that, and there was some old bugger who cluttered up the runway for a while. No sense of tidiness.’ They laughed quietly together, even Cissie.

  Bryony said, ‘I thought he’d broken his neck like Dad.’

  April waited a moment and then said, ‘If he had, it would have killed him immediately.’

  Bryony nodded.

  April insisted, ‘Do you realise what I’m saying? Your father could not have spoken to Hannah, especially with the additional head injury.’

  Bryony nodded again. ‘I do realise that. I’ve known for a while, perhaps underneath I’ve known it always. But she is what she is, and that’s nothing to do with me. Not any more, though perhaps I helped create her.’

  ‘Or perhaps your mother did?’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done. And it’s now that’s important, for all of us.’

  They stayed there until the nurse came out at four in the morning, and said Eddie was doing better than expected, and within a day or two would be an impossible patient. Perhaps they should go and find their beds. Bryony checked the number the squadron leader had given her. He’d told her to ring any time, and so she did.

  John Folkes arrived to pick them up within half an hour, dropping off April, who clutched the roses, and Cissie. He drove Bryony to Hatfield. They spoke little until they drew up outside Pearl Bates’ Edwardian house. He was out of the car almost before it stopped, sprinting to open her door. She smiled as she got out. ‘John, thank you. You’ve done enough now. The deal is that I just want to hear that you get home to your mum in one piece at the end of this damnable war, do you hear me?’

  John Folkes nodded, saluted. She knew he was watching her as she set off up the path, and tried to stride out, but quite suddenly exhaustion pulled at her and she almost tripped on a non-existent something. He ran after her, and took her arm. ‘Are you flying tomorrow, Miss Miller?’ he asked, as she slid her key into the lock and opened the door.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You lads have got to have replacement aircraft.’

  He saluted again, then paused. She waited, wondering what he wanted to say, but all he did was to wrap her in his arms and hug her. For a moment she rested her head on his broad young shoulder. Then pulled away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and entered.

  He called, ‘Be safe.’

  ‘You too.’ She shut the door, leaning back against it, and didn’t have to try to climb the stairs on her own, because there was a rustling of clothes, the sound of steps on the stairs, and Trixie and Joyce helped her to her bed. She told them Eddie was battered but all right. They said, ‘We’ll wake you, don’t worry.’

  As she fell fully clothed on top of the eiderdown, Trixie said, ‘There’ll be dirt on the counterpane.’ Joyce yawned. ‘We can shake it out of the window in the morning. Pearl won’t mind. I’ll slip a note under her door, she’s worried about Eddie.’

  They covered her with a spare blanket. At last Bryony slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  July 1941

  Hannah stood by the sink at the back of the cottage, staring at the potted geranium on the window sill, gasping, unable to draw a deep breath, hating its acrid scent. The baby kicked and she could still feel H
ans’s hand on her belly even though he’d been posted to France, and beyond, with his unit. She opened the window and threw the pot out on to the patch of neglected garden. Some faded crinkly brown leaves still lay on the cracked white tiles of the window sill. She tried to pick these up, but they disintegrated beneath her fingers.

  Above she heard Cheryl and one of her ‘friends’, a corporal in the replacement infantry unit. It was how Cheryl earned her money now Sigmund was also gone, and it was how she had her fun.

  Hannah moved to the back door to escape the steam of the tea cloths she was boiling. They smelt. She couldn’t bear smells any more. She leaned against the doorpost. The day was merging into evening but there was no change in the heat. Her feet throbbed. The earth was cracked, the flowers and lettuce were wilting even as she looked at them. The tomatoes in pots against the wall were pungent. Once she had liked the scent of tomatoes growing. So had Bee, and her mother. Did they still? She should water them but the smell was too strong.

  She heard the door open, the one that led from the hall into the kitchen. Cheryl called, ‘Nice boy, good payer. How long is your money from Hans going to last?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You should give this sort of work a bit of a go when the baby’s born, which is any minute, isn’t it? When you get back into shape you can get cracking. Bobby will help with customers. You’ll have to do something, what with the bloody old nun saying you were too preggers to work there any more. Who knows if she’ll take you back afterwards: too much of a scandal probably. Good of her to have you there for the birth, though.’

  ‘Hans will send more money. Or come back or send for me. I know he will.’

  Cheryl came over then. Hannah heard and smelt her cheap rose scent that the French merchant ships bought in for Bobby, amongst other black-market stuff. Perhaps they’d bring in bread now that it was also rationed, that thin sort of bread the French ate. Or medicine? The island needed medicine.

  Down at the end of the garden she had planted potatoes. They needed watering. She’d do that tonight in the cool, because potatoes didn’t smell. The French sailors must be glad of that when they shipped the harvest over to France, though her Uncle Thomas and the other farmers were growing much more wheat now, for the islanders. Was he still hiding a pig? She’d never told, just like she hadn’t told about the wine. Or had she? Yes, she remembered that Bobby must have overheard her but that wasn’t her fault.

  Cheryl was so close now the smell was overpowering, roses and sweat, his and hers. She almost retched. Cheryl stood beside her. ‘I’ve got to tell you something, Hannah, and you must be brave. Hans will not be coming back. Bobby told me when he brought the scent that Hans has been killed, in Russia. You remember Bobby telling us that the Nazis had invaded to the east, don’t you? So forget him, he isn’t coming back. There’ll be no more money, so you’ve got to be sensible and make plans. You’re spoilt goods, aren’t you? You have a Boche brat, no one will help, so you got to help yourself.’

  Hannah clutched at the door frame as the heat shimmered and the tomatoes oozed their scent and all the while the smell of sweat and roses beat against her.

  ‘Bobby said he needs another girl.’ Cheryl’s hand was on her shoulder.

  The garden was shimmering, the whole garden was shimmering, the potatoes were lifting and falling. The air was so heavy that though she gasped she couldn’t drag any more into her lungs. She felt Cheryl’s hand fall, heard the scrape of a chair on kitchen tiles behind her, felt the hard edge of the pine seat against her legs. Cheryl dragged her backwards on to the seat. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you, love.’

  In a moment Hannah heard the tap gushing. It sounded cool. The shed was moving, bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller, and in her head was the sound of waves crashing on the shore. She should have gone home. Bee would have looked after her, she would have made all this go away, she would have helped her breathe. There was a glass of cool water in her hand. Cheryl’s hand was around hers, guiding the glass to her mouth. Hannah sipped but only once, because she had to keep breathing, trying to force in air. The baby kicked. It was Hans’s baby. Of course Hans wasn’t dead, how could he be, when they were having a baby? Cheryl was wrong.

  She looked out into the garden again and the vegetables steadied, the shed too. She stayed in the doorway, feeling what slight breeze there was, as the sun dimmed and a semi-darkness fell. The glass of water became warm, the house silent. Cheryl had gone to Bobby’s, laughing, kissing Hannah’s hair. ‘It will be all right, love, trust me, everything will be all right. We’ll have some fun, you’ll see, and at least there are no bombs, and with Bobby and the blokes we won’t go hungry.’

  At midnight, well after curfew, the backache that had been deepening and stretching all evening suddenly ripped and tore at her but then passed. She looked out at the garden, at the shadow of her bicycle in the moonlight. An owl hooted. She must go to Sister Maria, because she was in labour, she knew that, and as another pain came she groaned. It passed. She rose and walked to her bicycle. She pushed it round the cottage and out on to the road. She must remember to cycle on the right now they were part of Hitler’s Reich. Part of Hans’s Reich. She bent over as a pain came, dropping the bike. The wheel whirred as though it too were gasping.

  She would walk. She waited until she could breathe again, until the water which had suddenly poured from her stopped. She walked. She had no shoes. It didn’t matter. At the bridge she stopped as another pain roared. Flowing beneath was the cool river that Bee would follow as she brought the Dragonette to her uncle’s. She placed her hand on the parapet. The lichen was dry and rough and holding the heat from the day. Everywhere held the heat from the day. She groaned and sank to her knees as another, longer pain grew, deepened, and seemed to stretch until she could not bear it any longer, but then it stretched and tore further and she must bear it, because there was nothing else to do. Finally it too faded.

  She struggled to her feet, and staggered on as the pains came, thick and fast. It was by the left-hand bend that she was challenged by a foot patrol. ‘Halt. Curfew.’ A shape loomed out of the gloom towards her. She sank to her knees, knowing that she really could not go another step. She heard boots hammering as the patrol ran towards her, and the shouts. Was it Hans? She felt the hands that lifted her, the clink of metal on rifle, the orders in German. Yes, it was Hans.

  The stars shook as they carried her, then the stars were gone and instead there were overhanging trees. She had given the name of the nursing home. She heard the gravel of the drive beneath their boots. They tugged the bell pull. There was always someone on duty. The door opened. They carried her in, their boots crashing on the tiled hallway. The midwife said, ‘Please, help her to sit on the chair, if you would.’

  They did. Hannah looked down. Blood from her cut feet stained the tiles. She looked for Hans, but he was leaving, clattering down the steps. Another pain swept her. Sister Maria was gliding along the corridor, adjusting her wimple. It was all right, Sister Maria was like Bee. She’d look after her just like her father would have done if he hadn’t died.

  In mid-August Hannah took Elizabeth from Sister Maria’s arms on the steps of the nursing home. ‘Thank you,’ Hannah said. ‘For everything.’

  ‘Are you quite certain that you won’t consider adoption? I know a couple who would be very pleased to give your daughter a home, in spite of her parentage.’

  Hannah looked down at her daughter. Her hair was blonde, or certainly wasn’t dark anyway. Was she like Hans? She wasn’t sure. ‘You told them then, I was a Jerry-bag?’ She heard her voice shake.

  Sister Maria touched the baby’s head. ‘They asked for confirmation of the story they had heard. I think they were scared that he might return for her if they did adopt her.’

  ‘Well, he might.’ Hannah stuck out her chin. ‘He could be alive, armies get things wrong.’

  It was her arm Sister Maria touched now. ‘When your money runs out, you can always work here. I was wr
ong to send you away, but you should have told me Hans had gone, and you had no means of survival.’

  ‘He left money.’

  Sister Maria nodded. ‘Then when that is running low, return to us. We will find you work, and we’ll manage the care of Elizabeth somehow. Miss Webster and Miss Sinclair have missed you. I think we’ll have you in the kitchen, though, as before. You can then pop into the sitting room of the annexe and help with their sketching. Best not to put you in the wards.’ There was a slight hesitation as though she was going to continue. Eventually she said, ‘Keep well, Hannah. Don’t forget that your aunt and uncle are not far from you.’

  Hannah walked down the drive, with Elizabeth wrapped in a ‘granny blanket’ made of knitted squares of wool, a present from Mrs Amos. She called back to Sister Maria. ‘My aunt and uncle haven’t bothered to visit, so why should I put myself out. I know they left flowers, but they’ve got lots at this time of year. It’s not fair, you know, she’s their family.’

  There was no reply from Sister Maria, just the sound of a closing door.

  She walked along the verge, and though Elizabeth was only eight pounds her arms were soon aching and her shoulders strained. Her shoulder bag, which was full of nappies given to her by the nursing home, felt as though it weighed a ton. Her belly ached, her feet too. The cuts on them had not yet healed, and Sister Maria had given her bandages with which to bind them to keep them clean. By the time she reached the cottage Elizabeth was crying and she carried her round the side of the house, into the kitchen. She sat, undid her blouse and fed her, wanting to sleep. Above her she could hear Cheryl, and a man’s voice. Another customer? Then all went quiet.

  Elizabeth started to cry again as Hannah lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back. Above her, a man shouted something. She carried Elizabeth into the garden, but still she cried. She walked to the end by the potatoes, hushing her, praying she’d bring up her wind and settle. She did, and dirtied her nappy. Not another one?