by Milly Adams
Within seconds of regaining course it seemed she was at Tern Hill. From there she took the taxi to the airfield near Kidlington. John Folkes met her on his way to his plane, his parachute slung over his shoulder, she with hers. They smiled at each other.
‘Still alive, then?’ he shouted against the rising wind.
‘No, I’m a ghost. Adam’s coming this evening.’
Neither stopped. They just turned, backing as they continued the conversation. ‘One day I’ll meet him, when this is all over.’
Bryony laughed, turning back the way she was going. ‘In a hundred years, then.’
‘Probably.’
She took a Hurricane to a Kent airfield, then a Maggie from there to Scotland. There’d better be a taxi, or she’d hitch a lift somehow. The taxi was a Rapide and Joyce was flying it. Bryony clambered in, lugging her parachute, and taking the front seat. Three others were already seated, reading or sleeping, all men. ‘Don’t spare the horses, Joycey. Adam’s at Portsmouth and on his way to my billet.’ She checked her watch. ‘He’ll be arriving in two hours.’
Joyce just nodded. There was no smile on her face. Bryony stood, and leaned over. ‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Trixie.’
The breath went from Bryony’s body. The two women exchanged a glance but then Joyce fired up the engine. Bryony slumped in her seat, strapping herself in. She leaned forward again as Joyce brought the Rapide round into the wind. ‘Weather?’
‘Mist on the bloody sodding hills.’ Joyce was thundering the Rapide down the runway. Bryony leaned back and closed her eyes. She was so tired. Before they were airborne she was asleep.
She woke, and checked her watch. She’d only ducked out of life for ten minutes. It was what she seemed to do now when people died. She slept, and when she woke her brain had processed the loss. There were so many now, what with the navy, the air force, the ATA, the bombing, that they were like leaves scattered beneath trees in autumn. She stared ahead, feeling the Rapide’s purring, hearing Eddie calling it an infernal drumming, seeing Jersey, her aunt and uncle, then Hannah and her mother and lastly Trixie, her smile, her hangovers. She stopped and slept again.
She cycled to her south-coast billet through the darkness. She didn’t need the slit in the bicycle lamp, it was as though the rackety old bike knew the way, and besides, the stars were sufficient. The door was unlocked. She slipped into the dark hall. It would break the blackout if the light was on. Mrs Windsor would wait until she heard the door shut behind her, and then pop her head out of her sitting room. The girls had the back room.
The door opened. Suzy Windsor said, ‘Your friend is here. He arrived twenty minutes ago. I sent him up. Tonight you will need him.’
Bryony smiled, slipping out of her mac. So Suzy had heard. Suzy said, ‘Trixie was doing what she loves, remember. Her mother might like a letter from her best friend. I will need to send back her ration book. Perhaps you could include it in your letter, rather than me leave it with her stuff? Will you write to Brian, too? She did love him so very much, and he is such a nice lad. They were to be married at Christmas, leave permitting.’
‘Of course.’ Their voices were quite steady but their eyes were not. Bryony said, ‘Her parents’ll come for her stuff, I think. Should I try to be here? It will be hard for you.’
‘Dearest Bee. It will not be the first time. Up you go now. In half an hour there will be a meal on the table for you both.’
Bryony climbed the stairs. Adam waited at the top. He held her and together they walked into the bedroom.
Adam said, ‘Suzy told me. I understand.’ Of course he did, he was on the armed trawlers. John Folkes would, too, everyone who was living now would. He soothed her as she wept for her lovely friend who had a taste for home-made wine. After this evening, she would not cry for Trixie again, but neither would she forget, ever.
After they had eaten they returned to the bedroom, and they lay naked, and talked of life, and love, and marriage, and children. It would all come, probably. But for now, they were together, and love like theirs could not be destroyed as long as one of them lived. It gave them a sort of peace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
April 1942
Wendy, Cissie’s sister, spent Easter at Combe Lodge together with the mothers of Sol, Betty and Frankie. Bryony managed to snatch Saturday with them and found that Eddie had at last moved on to one walking stick and his frustration at being out of the war following his accident had eased, which was a blessing for all concerned. He used his walking stick to poke the children into hysterical giggles until they begged for mercy, and when he stopped they asked for more.
Timmo was down, but staying with Sid, doing a ‘bit of business’, or so Wendy explained in the sitting room, after a lunch of cold chicken. Eddie held Bryony’s gaze, making her keep her mouth shut about the merchantmen being sunk to facilitate that ‘bit of business’.
He should have included Cissie, who said, ‘Adam says black marketeers are bad. The ships are being sunk while they bring in the coal, fuel and food which keeps us fed and warm.’
Wendy stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray she balanced on the arm of her easy chair, as the mothers of the other children shifted uncomfortably. April bustled to the coffee table, and handed around the honey biscuits.
Eddie struggled off the sofa. ‘Come along, let me show you children how to wash up the dishes.’ There were groans from the children, and laughs from the mothers, who sprang into action to join the kitchen ‘party’.
Ten days later, Suzy took a telephone call from April at six in the evening. Bryony had heard the ring, and waited. Not for her, please, not for her. Suzy shouted, ‘It’s April, Bee.’
She was down the stairs almost before her landlady had stopped talking. She knew that behind the bedroom doors of the other girls there would be sighs of relief.
‘Yes?’ Bryony said.
There was no preamble. ‘It’s Wendy, she was killed by a car in the blackout yesterday evening. Her solicitor just telephoned. If you remember, he is one of her “customers” but we needn’t mention that. I think you should come, so that you can tell Cissie.’
‘I’ll be there when I can.’
She put down the receiver, then lifted it again, making calls, finally rousing the squadron leader at the Oxfordshire airfield. He listened. She could picture him nodding. ‘Let me make some calls. I’ll get back to you.’
She replaced the receiver, tore upstairs, and dressed. The telephone rang again. He gave her instructions. She was on her bike, and cycling at a punishing speed within ten minutes, heading for a small RAF aerodrome where the squadron leader had found a transport that was flying to an airfield beyond Exeter. She in turn telephoned April with the details and was told that Eddie would be waiting to drive her to Combe Lodge.
Bryony sat in the rear of the transport aircraft with a few RAF personnel, the drumming precluding conversation but she was glad because – death by car? Was it really? Or was it Timmo? Had she brought this about? She’d threatened him, after all. All the way these thoughts tormented and wriggled, and when they landed she ran to Eddie’s car, wrenched open the door and shrieked, ‘Was it me? Did I kill her?’
Eddie raised an eyebrow as he started the car. ‘Well, hello to you too, Bryony Miller. I’m very well, thank you, and I hope that you are too?’
She stared at him. ‘But I threatened him.’
Eddie nodded, as he drove towards the sentry at the gate. ‘Manners, Bee.’ His voice was sharp. She stared as though she didn’t understand. He slowed and waved a sort of thank-you salute at the sentry. She came to herself, and did the same. Had she thanked the pilot, or even the navigator? She knew she had not, but had headed for the car without a backward glance.
She threw herself back in the seat. ‘How could I be so rude?’
‘Quite, but when you come back for the return flight, you make it up to them.’
He turned on to the Exmouth road as the evening closed down into darkness
, the slits of his headlights piercing the gloom in an inadequate fashion. ‘You can see, can you not, Bee, that it is quite possible that, indeed, poor Wendy was killed in this way. One can barely see a hand in front of one’s face – and imagine the London smog, and fog.’
They didn’t turn down the road leading to Combe Lodge but continued on. She turned to him. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Good old Constable Heath has been making enquiries of his contacts in London, so we are going there first. I can’t be putting up with you tearing yourself apart all evening when we need to have all our thoughts on Cissie.’
They drew up in front of the police house. The blue light was no longer lit because of the blackout, but it still existed, which was more than could be said of the railings, which had stood outside for decades. ‘Have the Scouts been round?’ Bryony murmured.
‘Indeed. April had to beat them away from the saucepans and direct them to the pile of scrap at the back of the hangar. That kept the little devils busy for quite a few days. In fact they had to get the Guides involved, and the girls did it a damn sight quicker, let me tell you.’ He was easing himself out of the car, and the tightening of his voice told the story of his pain.
She waited, knowing better than to offer help. Together they walked along the path and tapped lightly on the door. The police station was also where Constable Heath and his wife, Andrea, lived.
It was she who answered the door. ‘Just come in, it’s not locked. Be a daft thief that stole from a cop shop.’
Constable Heath came to meet them in the reception room of the police house, his braces looped down his thighs, a newspaper in his hand. He beckoned them through into the back room. Andrea had brewed tea. ‘Weak,’ she said. ‘It’s its third brew of the day, but hot and wet.’
They sat. Andrea disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Bad business, sad, a young lass like that. I ’ad a word in Templer’s pearly ear, and he ’ad a word in a few others. Seems kosher. Poor young thing was crossing the road, and bang. ’Appens a lot, they sez, in the blackout. They’d know the truth of it, Bee. Why would a pimp cut his schnoz off to spite his face, if you think about it? Good little earner, his Wendy was, and just think on: even if it weren’t kosher, you gonna be the one to tell our Cissie her sister’s been murdered? Not the thing to go through life picturing, I should say.’
They sipped their tea, which was appalling, but they were so used to it they barely registered the fact.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Constable Heath looked across at them. ‘You going to tell our Cissie tonight, or give her some sleep, and tell ’er at the start of the day?’
They didn’t know, but drove to Combe Lodge ten minutes later, motoring around the back of the house and into the large barn. Bryony walked to the terrace with Eddie limping at her side. She said, ‘I suppose she’s in bed at this hour?’
Eddie nodded, and they stood together. The Anderson shelter was unrecognisable in the darkness, and anyway, it had never been used, except by the children. April had planted snowdrops in the turfs on the roof, and forget-me-nots had seeded themselves just as they had done last year. Catherine and Anne had become box hedge monitors, whilst Bryony weeded the herbs and the herbaceous border every time she was here. Deadheading the roses was anyone and everyone’s task, as long as they replaced the secateurs afterwards. The moment they forgot, they forfeited the privilege. Catherine had snorted, ‘Not sure about privilege – ruddy nuisance, I’d say.’
She hadn’t meant it, for she was religious about returning all and any tools.
Eddie said, ‘Eric and Sylvia are engaged.’
She smiled. ‘Of course they are.’
‘He’s promoted to sergeant in the Home Guard and Sylvia is doing well as a student nurse.’
‘Of course they both are.’
Eddie slipped his arm through hers. ‘And you are alive, and so too Adam, and Combe Lodge survives, and the children within it.’
‘I love Cissie,’ she sighed, leaning against him and pulling her leather jacket around her against the chill of the breeze.
‘We all do. She’s ours, especially now.’
‘Quite. So do we tell her now, or in the morning?’
They still couldn’t decide, but they entered the house through the back door, and then the softly lit kitchen where Rosie barked her joy, her tail wagging itself into a frenzy, sitting in her bed until invited forward. It was only then that Bee crouched and held her. ‘I love you, darling Rosie, my big girl. What shall we do, do you think? Tell her?’
April entered, pale and anxious. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. I don’t know whether we tell her now or in the morning. What would I want? I keep asking myself, but I simply don’t know because I’m not a child.’
Cissie said from the hall doorway, ‘But I am, so who do you need to tell what to?’
She stood there in her pyjamas, coming to Bryony, who scrambled to her feet. ‘What are you doing home, Bee? What’s wrong?’ Rosie licked Cissie’s face. Cissie stroked her. ‘I don’t like you licking my mouth. I’ll get worms.’
‘Then I won’t,’ said Bryony.
Cissie laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Bee. I heard the car, and woke. The others haven’t.’
Bryony lifted the child and held her close, smelling the shampoo in her hair. ‘Has April been rinsing your hair in lavender again? It should make you sleep.’ She carried her to the kitchen table. ‘I’m home because I have something to tell a child, and that child is you. We just didn’t know whether to tell you now, or in the morning, because it is something that will upset you very much, and make you really terribly sad.’
She sat on the kitchen chair, holding Cissie tightly. Cissie wriggled free, and put her hands on either side of Bryony’s face, turning her head so that Bryony looked straight at her. ‘Is it Adam?’
Bryony shook her head. The pressure of Cissie’s hands increased, and her nails dug into Bryony’s face. The child whispered, ‘Is it Wendy?’
Cissie waited, her eyes unwavering. Bryony swallowed. ‘Yes, darling, it’s Wendy. We’ve just heard that she was hit in the blackout by a car, and died. We didn’t know how, or when to tell you.’
The pain of the child’s nails was sharp, but didn’t distract Bryony from seeing the tears pooling in Cissie’s eyes, her lips trembling, her face becoming pale. Without a sound Cissie dropped her hands and leaned into Bryony, who held her as though she would never let her go, and that was because she wouldn’t. This child was theirs, she would grow up within their love. Most of all, she would survive this news.
Cissie said, her voice almost a wail, ‘You didn’t know how to tell me, but you came back so you could. I do love you, Bee. You’re so brave.’
Bryony rested her chin on the child’s head and looked across at April, who was crying. So was Eddie. But she wouldn’t. The tears were streaming down her face but no, she wasn’t crying.
Cissie came into Bee’s bed that night, and slept. In the morning she woke, and remembered, but said, ‘I thought she’d die in the bombing. Then I thought it would be some other way. I don’t have to worry now, because it’s happened and it was sort of clean. I thought it might be Timmo, hurting her so badly she died. Now I know I won’t have to hear this news again.’
The children went to school together, as usual. Betty held Cissie’s hand as they set off down the drive, their socks held up by garters, their satchels slapping against their backs, their gas masks hanging over their shoulders.
At lunchtime Mrs Sanderson, who was still billeting officer, dug her brogues into the gravel of the drive, and powered her way to the door. She had a man in tow. He wore a suit, and carried a mackintosh over his arm. He held a brown briefcase up against his chest, as though to protect himself against the vicissitudes of life, or was it just Mrs Sanderson? April and Bryony watched from the steps leading to the front door of the lodge, where they had been talking to Stubby Baines the milkman about the cow he had doubts about. ‘Poor milker, she be, but
she’s a dear old girl,’ he now said, lifting his hat and scratching his head. His horse chewed the carrot that April had given him, rattling his bit and tossing his head.
Mrs Sanderson mounted the steps as though heading a charge, but then, when didn’t she? Stubby said, ‘Which is more than I can say about this one.’
Mrs Sanderson ignored him, and directed her words at April and Bryony. ‘Celia’s headmistress telephoned me this morning with the news of Wendy Jenkins’s death, so sad. It should, of course, have been you who told me.’ She blasted on. ‘I informed the local authorities, as I must, because Miss Jenkins was Celia’s next of kin, and only living relative. Mr Torrence from the authorities has been to see me.’
Mr Torrence held up his hand. ‘If I may?’
Clearly he might not, because barely drawing breath Mrs Sanderson crossed her arms. ‘He is here, of course, to relieve you of Celia’s presence. She must be taken to a children’s home, where the next stage of her care will be decided.’
Stubby Baines looked from Mrs Sanderson to April and Bryony. He had stopped scratching his head, but his hand remained beneath his hat. His horse had dropped bits of carrot on the steps. Stubby said, ‘Sounds bang out of order to me, you daft old baggage, and yon bloke should be ashamed of hisself, standing there, clutching that damned bag as though it holds the crown jewels.’
The horse neighed and Mrs Sanderson took a step backwards, into Mr Torrence, who yelped as her weight sank on to his foot. It seemed to galvanise him, and he shoved her off with great force. Mrs Sanderson tumbled down the steps. Bryony had sight of pink bloomers meeting brown lisle stockings as Mrs Sanderson sat on the drive, her skirt up round her backside, trying to get her bearings.
The horse nosed her. She shrieked. Mr Torrence shouted, ‘If you wouldn’t mind, all of you.’ It brought silence. Mrs Sanderson got to her knees, and then her feet, as he stepped closer to April and Bryony, saying, ‘I am merely here on a reconnaissance visit. Do not be alarmed. We were indeed alerted to the sad state of affairs, but it is not our intention in any way to hurt the child further.’
