String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  He gave her a quizzical look. ‘He could be anywhere. Even if I let you into the convoy, which I can’t, you wouldn’t be able to catch up. It’s like this all the way to the various ports. All the roads are blocked . . . have been since midnight. You can guess why. Take a good look and go home.’

  The lorries were full of troops who whistled and called out. They were on a high, keeping up their spirits as they rolled towards the Channel crossing and the front line.

  Heedless of the danger of oncoming traffic, Helen reversed back up the road and into the driveway. She had to tell Simon that she had been so wrong and that she loved him. Then she thought: why don’t I try? The convoy is slow, ten miles an hour at the most, with frequent stops. I can do twenty, if I really try. Weeping tears of frustration she reached the house, abandoned Dad’s car and grabbed her bicycle.

  Racing along the narrow walkways, pavements and cycle tracks towards the main highway to Southampton she recalled every cruel remark and shameful phrase she had hurled at Simon in her anger and grief at Miro’s arrest. She made good timing, stopping now and then to call out, ‘Have you seen any sign of the Reconnaissance Division of the 29th Infantry from Mowbray?’

  ‘Up ahead, ma’am,’ they called back. Then one or two would yell, ‘Good luck.’

  An hour later she was feeling exhausted and there was still no sign of them. How could she give up? If she did, Simon would never know how much she loved him and how sorry she was. She tried to smother her regrets as she cycled on for another hour. She knew she could do better. She began to pedal harder, her bike bumping over the rough grassy verges.

  The convoy of troop carriers went on and on. There was no end to it, but she pedalled as hard as she could. The road was uphill and tough going. She should have a rest, she decided. Sometimes one had to give up, if only temporarily. She felt strangely apathetic. She longed to stop and lie uncaring on the grass. But at that moment she reached the crest of the hill and this cheered her. She free-wheeled down the steep slope, making up lost time, faster and faster, while the wind whipped her face and her vision clouded with tears.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ she muttered. ‘I can’t be that far behind.’

  Unaware that she was approaching another T-junction, she braked too late and too hard and skidded head-on into a stationary lorry. The crash somersaulted her into a ditch, but she knew nothing of this.

  The convoy halted. Two medics pulled her out of the ditch and agreed to stay with her until an RAF helicopter arrived to airlift her to hospital.

  Helen regained consciousness at four that afternoon. She tried to move, but it was too much of an effort. Her left arm was attached to a tube that hung from a bottle overhead. Her right shoulder was in plaster. Her body felt heavy, but that was only natural, she thought, since she had just returned to it. Or had she? She might have been dreaming, but it seemed to Helen that she had been elsewhere, although she had remained in this room. All she knew for sure was that her consciousness had surged out of her body; she didn’t need her body after all. She became part of the room, the walls, the insects, everything . . . even the jug of water at the foot of the bed and the tiny spider spinning a web in the corner of the picture rail. She remembered watching herself lying prone on the bed and wondering how she got there. Most of all she remembered the overwhelming love, like a living force, that was everywhere and she had been part of it, too. How strange. Now she was back inside Helen Conroy, which seemed like a prison. Salty tears ran down her cheeks. She heard footsteps and moments later a nurse was bending over her.

  ‘So you’re awake. That’s good. I’ll call the doctor.’

  Helen closed her eyes and dozed until she heard a man’s voice.

  ‘Wake up Mrs Conroy.’ She opened her eyes and saw a man bending over her. His skin was very dark against his white coat.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘You woke and told us when we were resetting your dislocated shoulder.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘I’ve been watching you all from a dizzy height . . . somewhere up there,’ she said.

  He laughed.

  ‘Aren’t you astounded?’

  ‘No. Why should I be? I’m a Hindu. What else did you encounter?’

  ‘Love. A sort of living love . . . like a force and it’s part of everything and I was part of it all. It was beautiful, but it’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Good! That will help you in the months ahead. Don’t let go of the memory.’

  ‘I can’t move my feet.’

  ‘You injured your back. According to the medics you were doing over forty when you smashed into a lorry.’

  ‘Will I be able to walk again?’

  ‘The prognosis amongst the doctors is no. However, I usually put my faith in that force you encountered. In my business I see miracles happening all the time.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Drink this,’ he said, gesturing the nurse to come closer. ‘You need to sleep now.’

  It was an anxious day for Daisy and John. With the roads completely blocked, there was little the police could do to find Helen, although a district police helicopter had searched the roads for a lone cyclist en route to Southampton. The US army had reported a smash between a cyclist and a troop carrier, but they would have to wait until the hospital contacted them before they knew the woman’s name.

  Daisy had slept through the press onslaught, but John explained what had happened, and assured her that Miro was all right. They would have to be strong and ignore the press reports. Later that day the doctor called John to tell him about the accident. ‘The collision caused concussion, a dislocated shoulder, numerous bruises and a fractured spine,’ he said. ‘Mrs Conroy may never walk again. We’ve made her as comfortable as we can, but she will be here for at least two weeks. She’s at Ringwood Hospital in Casualty, but we’ll be moving her to the Fracture Department later today.’

  John kept the bad news about Helen’s spinal injury to himself, but since the roads were still blocked, they were unable to go by car or by train to Ringwood. The two of them coped with the house and the horses. John called all the employment agencies he could think of to search for a housekeeper with some nursing experience. Daisy cooked and moped and tried to look cheerful for Gramps’ sake. By nine p.m. they were sitting side by side listening to the news.

  ‘As dawn broke this morning,’ the announcer began, ‘nine battleships, twenty-three cruisers, one hundred and four destroyers and seventy-one large landing craft of various descriptions, as well as troop transports, mine sweepers and merchantmen – in all, almost five thousand ships of every type – the largest armada ever assembled, stood off the Normandy coast. The entire horizon, between Caen and Vierville-sur-Mer was filled with the invasion armada, rank after relentless rank, ten lanes wide and twenty miles across. The naval bombardment began at 05.50, detonating large German minefields and destroying blockhouses and artillery positions.’

  As the news of the invasion unfolded they were both stunned into silence, imagining the scene, but it was the news of the 29th Infantry that held Daisy‘s special attention and that came towards the end of the bulletin.

  ‘On Omaha beach, the invading GIs encountered the worst conditions of the entire battle,’ the announcer read. ‘High seas swamped many landing craft during the ten-mile run from the mother ships to shore and consequently those survivors who reached the beach were seasick and wobbling. Over half of the dual-drive amphibious tanks capsized, strong winds and currents pushed many of the landing craft away from their targets into areas where their maps were useless and supporting fire from friendly ships was totally lacking. Most of the landing craft that survived were grounded on sandbars fifty to a hundred yards from the surf’s edge. Troops had to wade ashore carrying all their equipment through water that was often neck deep, and many were picked off by enemy machine guns. Only one-third of the attackers reached dry land during the first hour of
the invasion.

  ‘Conditions were near-inferno on Omaha. The beach was a tangle of obstructions: concrete cones, slanted poles, logs with mines lashed to their tips and steel rails welded together and set into the beach at angles designed to stave in the bottoms of landing craft. Even worse, the Germans had guns along a line of cliffs, four miles long and 150 feet in height, running parallel to the length of the landing zone. Enemy mortar and artillery batteries, unscathed by Allied fire, poured destruction upon the attackers. Allied rocket ships responded, but from extreme range and when their missiles fell short they hit the troops on the beach. Despite these setbacks, GI riflemen succeeded in opening six complete gaps. Casualties for the engineering task force ran to 40 percent of the men in the first half-hour of the attack.

  ‘As the invaders reorganized, Allied destroyers moved close to shore. Risking grounding and point-blank fire from the enemy batteries, they raked the cliff with their guns. More and more landing craft pushed their way to the beach, bringing new troops, heavy weapons, radios and ammunition. Inch by inch the invaders moved forward, up through the bluffs and on to the flatland above. By nightfall, two thousand, five hundred men had been lost at Omaha.

  ‘All the Normandy beaches were a shambles of burning and disabled vehicles, but one hundred thousand men were ashore, the first of the millions who would follow, and almost all of the coastal villages located inland were in Allied hands.’

  Daisy prayed that Mike and Simon had survived. She tried to keep calm, for her baby’s sake, but her fears for Mike’s safety drowned every rational thought. She took refuge in hard work.

  Bitter days followed. Helen returned from hospital in a wheelchair. Her legs were numb, but the pain in her back was sometimes agonizing. For Daisy’s sake she tried to be cheerful. Daisy was large for seven months and feeling clumsy and heavy. John closed down the stables and found good homes for the horses, keeping Daunty only to please Daisy. He hired a housekeeper, a Polish refugee, called Ada Govlovsky, who coped magnificently with all the chores, but hardly spoke English. She was a blonde, middle-aged woman of fifty-two, who looked ten years younger than her age. Tall and slender, she had an air of elegance about her. Helen, who had nothing better to do than to sit around watching people, admired her sense of humour and her talent at cooking, but Ada kept to herself and never confided details of her past. She lived in the village and arrived sharp at seven each morning in time to make breakfast. She was always smiling, and as her English quickly improved she became a valuable addition to the family. May became a regular visitor as she tried to cheer Helen. She brought her books and chocolate and news from the factory.

  Six weeks after the invasion, Daisy received a letter from Mike in which he poured out his love and his longing to be with her and urged her to take care of herself. He was trying to get compassionate leave for when the baby was born, but he doubted he would succeed. She must write as soon as she knew the probable date. ‘Simon sends his love to everyone,’ he added in a postscript.

  Another letter came in the same post. It was from Captain Rose. He wrote that the landing on Omaha Beach was a near-disaster which was averted only by the courage of our Allied soldiers and sailors. ‘There were many heroes on Omaha that morning,’ he went on. ‘One of them was Sergeant Mike Lawson, who waded back into the sea time and again to recover vital radios they needed and guide the men through the debris. Later he found a safe route off the beach and returned several times to guide his men and others to the top of the plateau. He has been awarded the Medal of Honour and promoted to the rank of lieutenant. It is an honour to have your husband, Lieutenant Michael Lawson, in my division.’

  Daisy carried her letters around at all times and read the commendation to everyone she met. Helen never grew tired of having it read to her, although she knew it by heart already.

  The time had come to write the letter that Helen had been putting off for so long. She might as well face up to it, she decided.

  My dearest Simon,

  Every night we follow the news and pray for you all. The company’s heroic actions on Omaha beach on D-Day were truly inspiring.

  I am sorry for our last fight, which I have regretted ever since. You were quite right, I was wrong and I should have trusted you and realized that you had worked out a solution for Miro’s dilemma, as you solved all our problems when they occurred.

  You changed our lives, and brought hope and joy and a newfound optimism.

  The truth is I loved you dearly, but that was then, and this is now. I have decided that I do not wish to marry again, nor to leave England, nor even this house. John will need looking after as time goes by. I am busy with the horses and happy with the way things are. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other again or write. So this is goodbye.

  I pray you will keep safe until the end of the war and I wish you all the success in the world to rebuild your career when you reach home. Dearest Simon, my two years spent with you will always be my happiest memories.

  With thanks and my warmest regards,

  Helen

  Helen agonized for days over the ending of her letter. Should she write ‘with love’? If she did would Simon come looking for her? He might, so love was out. ‘Warmest regards’ would do the job adequately.

  She sealed it, addressed the envelope and May took it to the post when she went to the village to buy their groceries.

  ‘He won’t come now, May,’ she told her friend later. ‘He is proud, far too proud to try to force himself upon someone who has thrown him over. I’m determined that he will never see me in a wheelchair. I love him too much to let him be saddled with a crippled wife. This is how it must be.’

  Thirty-Nine

  Once again she had dreamed of him.

  Helen had fought and fought to be free of Simon and his world all through those bitter months following her accident. She had to put her love aside in order to live. And she had done well, if you were to judge her progress by other people’s views. John’s, for instance. He had nurtured her through her bad times, encouraged her to study for a psychology degree, so that eventually she would earn her living as a child psychologist. He converted his former office into an office for her, so she could run an employment exchange for ex-servicemen; it had worked, too. And it was her father who had encouraged her to go for an operation, which, the specialists assured her, had only a twenty percent chance of fusing her spine and restoring feeling to her legs. It had been successful, although the pain had been excessive for months afterwards. She could walk with the aid of a stick and with time, patience and practice she should improve, the doctors told her.

  But deep inside she was losing. What extraordinary trauma bound her to Simon? Through dark days in the wheelchair, and her recovery, and the painful business of learning to walk again, and starting her business, she had consciously put away all thoughts of him. She forced herself to accept that Simon had no place in her life. The GIs were gone, the war was recently over, Britain was learning to stand on her own feet and pay back her debts and so was she.

  Yet, as the months passed, the bond grew stronger. When she looked out of the open door and saw the first spring blossom bursting from the almond tree, she would turn to tell Simon and feel shocked that he was not there. And so it went with all those daily sounds and smells and images. The click of tea spoons and the scent of steaming coffee would bring him into her room carrying two mugs. He would stand there smiling and say, ‘That was good sex.’ But she fought back. She would close her eyes and will his unwanted image to spiral away into outer space. Sometimes this worked well enough to see her through an entire day.

  On the whole she had coped well enough. Miro had managed to get leave and come home at least once every two months, if only for a day, but she had longed to see Daisy again. Mike had left the army right after V.E. day, eighteen months ago, his demobilization hastened by a bullet in the knee. Despite his wounds, he had flown back to England on crutches to collect his wife and son, not forgetting his hors
e, and flown them all back to Denver. Their leaving had been hasty, but they had promised Helen and John to return for a long family reunion when Mike was completely recovered . . . and so they had, arriving two weeks ago for a long stay.

  Tonight was the big family reunion party and tomorrow morning Paul Eric Lawson would be christened at the grand age of two years and three months.

  Helen could see how happy Mike and Daisy were. Mike was a great husband and father and Daisy had never been so contented. It was a shame that Mike’s father had not been able to come, but one of them had to look after the ranch.

  Miro had arrived two days ago, bringing Irwin, his father, with him. Sadly his mother had died in the camp only days before the prisoners were released. Helen’s office had been turned into a bedroom for Irwin, whom she knew well. He had become a good friend, visiting Helen once or twice a day when she was in hospital in London.

  Helen dressed and went downstairs. Daisy was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning as she put the finishing touches to the icing on Paul’s christening cake. She was lavishing as much care on the decorations as she gave to her paintings. Most of the characters from Paul’s books adorned the icing: Mickey Mouse, the Wizard of Oz, Pluto, Bambi and others Helen had never heard of, each one made by her daughter. Helen had not seen a such a magnificent cake since pre-war days. It was only possible because Daisy had brought most of the ingredients with her. Food was still rationed in Britain and the bread looked even dingier. It was not the U-boats, but a lack of foreign cash that was keeping them short of food. Long, hard years lay ahead.

  Suddenly she was glad that Daisy was living in the States. That was one good result of the so-called American Occupation, but there were many others, although it was hard to tell if it were the war, or the American influence that had brought about so much change.

  Stealthily and unseen, the sweet semen of Yankee culture had splattered Britain and their fertile country had stirred, opened its thighs and sighed contentedly.