by Helen Bryan
What, Alice wondered, were “feed and hardware”? And how much land would you have to own to give away two hundred acres? Just for a house? What could America be like? “I’m rather hungry,” she said. “I don’t suppose any of the biscuits survived? I forgot to have lunch and I’m a bit light-headed. Usually I’m much calmer.”
“I bet you are. Here, have a cookie. Less see, this plate looks the cleanest…shame it’s too late to invite you to dinner, but the officers’ club is closed by now and probably most of the restaurants. You live near here? I was thinking maybe we could have dinner tomorrow, if you’re not busy, that is,” Joe said. He handed her a plate of biscuits that were somewhat the worse for wear. Alice ate them anyway. They tasted dusty, but she didn’t care: she was famished.
“They do some good steaks at the officers’ club. Where do you live?”
Steaks? Alice almost fainted at the idea. Other than poison mince she hadn’t seen beef in years. “Quite close to here,” she said. “If the house is still standing, I’m billeted with two old ladies, who rather discourage callers.” It occurred to Alice that she was nearly twenty-eight and, aside from her father and boarding school, had spent her whole life living with older women, starting with her mother. She was uncertain what to say next. Should she agree to have dinner with him? He seemed nice enough, but American servicemen were known to worm their way into a girl’s good graces with charm, chocolate, and cigarettes. She didn’t want to give him the wrong impression…but on the other hand, she didn’t want to put him off either.
“They discourage callers,” she said again, without conviction.
Joe chuckled. “That’s OK. I know how old ladies are—real strict sometimes. Lotta old ladies in Goshen. I’ll walk you home anyhow. They can’t object to that when it’s so dangerous out there. Besides,” he said, taking her hand, “I need to know where to pick you up tomorrow so’s we can have that dinner and I can see you in the light before my leave’s over. Check that you’re as pretty as you looked before the lights went out. Daddy says if a girl’s pretty and knows her scriptures that pretty much covers all the bases.”
What on earth was he talking about? What bases? Then Alice caught her breath. Pretty? She hoped her face at least was clean. Never mind the scriptures right now.
“Oh,” she said, flustered. “But I-I really ought to help clear up…” Across the hall Judy and Ellen were sweeping up broken glass and sending her resentful looks.
“Aw, come on. Quick.” He took her hand. “Bet you clear up all the time.” He guided her outside firmly. She didn’t protest: he was right, she did clear up most nights, and it was rather lovely to be rescued from it.
Outside the rockets had destroyed an office building and a clothing shop, while a block of flats nearby was in flames. The fire watch were shouting and the pavements were covered with rubble, bricks, and broken concrete, as well as slippery with water from the fire hoses. Alice tripped and half fell as she picked her way over broken masonry.
“Here, allow me,” Joe said. The next thing she knew he had picked her up and was striding easily through the mess. She put her arms round his neck. What a night! After a minute she said, “You can put me down now, we’re past the worst. This is my square. The old ladies live just there, on that far corner, next to the fish-and-chip shop.”
He set her on her feet, but she was oddly reluctant to let go of him. “Fish and chips—that’s like fried fish and french fries, isn’t it? Will they be open? Everything looks kind of dark.”
“I can smell them.”
“Come on, then. You haven’t eaten tonight, and I can’t have you fainting on me.”
Ten minutes later their hands were full of greasy newspaper and Joe was looking for a place to sit down. “Do you have to go in right away? Or can we sit here on this bench and eat before it gets cold?” he asked. “Will you be chilly?”
“No. I’ll be fine,” said Alice cautiously, listening to check for background noises. Behind the bench the dark square was a mass of trees and shrubbery that usually rustled with courting couples or prostitutes and their clients. Although Joe seemed nice—very nice, in fact—Alice was anxious not to give him “ideas.” Wasn’t she? Suddenly she was unsure. What would she do if he did get ideas?
They fell on their fish and chips. Joe had wanted something called ketchup, whatever that was, but Alice had liberally doused their fish and chips with vinegar and salt instead. “No ketchup,” she said. Afterward she felt much better. Joe put his arm round her again and they sat for a while. Alice was relieved—still no noise from the undergrowth—on account of the rocket, she guessed—and relaxed. She found herself smiling into the darkness. “What is ketchup?”
Joe laughed. “Tomato sauce.” He pronounced it “tomayda.” “I can’t imagine life without ketchup. Everybody in America eats it!” He looked up. “There’s a few stars out—not as many as back home, though. I miss the nighttime noises, the dogs barkin’ and the cattle, owls…crickets. You miss living in the country?”
“I didn’t think I would, but I do. When my mother died I thought I couldn’t wait to get away, find different war work. I was a teacher and wanted to feel more a part of things—do my bit in a more active way. Oh, I don’t know what I wanted.”
“Are you married?” Joe asked bluntly. “Or engaged or just in love with some fellow in the forces?”
“Oh! Well…” Oh, why beat about the bush! thought Alice. “No, I’m not married. I was supposed to be, but the man I was engaged to went to America and came back married to somebody else. A complete surprise and rather dreadful at the time. His mother fixed up my job with the WVS. And here I am.”
“Lucky for me,” said Joe. He tightened his arm round her shoulders. “Means I got to meet you. I wasn’t sure if the reason you didn’t say whether or not you’d have dinner with me tomorrow was because there was someone else. Just so you know right away,” he said, leaning closer, “I’m not married either. But if this war made me realize one thing, it’s that I’d like to be. Every time you go up in that plane you think, maybe this time I won’t make it back. Lot of pilots haven’t. I don’t want to die without having been married or had a chance to leave a child of mine on earth. And where I come from the two go hand in hand. So when I found a long-legged, pretty churchgoin’ gal, I thought to myself, maybe this is the Lord’s way of sayin’ ‘Don’t waste time, Joe, she’s the one…’”
He had turned and his face was very close to hers. Alice wanted to say that this was all a bit quick for her, but something told her to be quiet, shut her eyes, and don’t move. Joe kissed her—in a nice way that left room for her to pull away if she wanted to, yet it was still a kiss that meant business. Alice felt breathless and wondered if he would think she was a shameless hussy because, somehow, she couldn’t stop kissing him back.
Hours later a tired air raid warden coming off duty passed the bench where Alice and Joe were sitting. He saw them nuzzling and laughing, holding hands, comfortable with each other, sweethearts, clearly. He saw the girl yawn and heard her say, “All right, eight tomorrow night. Now I really must go.” But she didn’t move.
The warden turned up his collar against the drizzle and smiled for the first time that day. Good luck to them, he thought, good luck to us all.
Three days later, on Monday, the telephone rang in the Fairfaxes’ hall.
“Evangeline, I can’t talk for long, but guess what? I’m getting married…Thank you. Next weekend…An American airman…Yes, it is rather sudden…from Georgia, I think it’s called. I’m going to live there after the war. Do you know it? You must show me where it is on the map next time we see each other…Very happy indeed…What? What did you say happened? Can’t quite hear you, Evangeline…Burned down last Sunday! Gracecourt? Not another bomb! Oh, his cook’s fault…I bet she went off to her sister’s and forgot things on the stove…Sir Leander dead! Oh, how dreadful, poor old man. And Hugo?…I see. Yes, I shall certainly write to him in hospital. Unbelievable. Be sure to tell Fran
ces, won’t you? I’ve tried and tried to phone but can’t reach her…In London again? You haven’t seen her since the fire?…Well, when you do, tell her she was right about the dressing case, I’m taking it on honeymoon and will think of her being right. Good-bye, Evangeline.”
Alice rang off. More bloody bad news! She squared her shoulders. She couldn’t wait to marry Joe and go to America. Her life was going to start all over again in a brave new world where they would go to the Southern Baptist church, people talked about “tomaydas,” ate ketchup, and drank Coca-Cola. Joe was already asking what kind of a house she’d like and talking about Joe the Fifth. She had an engagement ring with a huge diamond flanked by two smaller ones that Joe had bought for her in Hatton Garden. She thought about her husband-to-be and smiled happily. She was pretty when she smiled.
33.
Crowmarsh Priors,
8 May 1995
There were jealous mutterings at Albion Television when Katie Hamilton-Jones was promoted overnight from lowly researcher to presenter of the Heart of England VE Day Fiftieth Anniversary Special. Unkind comments were made about the fact she was only a recent graduate, the shortness of her skirts, her long blonde hair that she was in the habit of tossing dramatically, her father’s connections at the network, and rumors that she was sleeping with the producer. Ambitious Katie ignored them. She had been elated. But when the big day arrived she was nervously pacing the village green in Crowmarsh Priors and her confidence had evaporated. Her notes were a meaningless blur and her knees were almost shaking with stage fright.
While the crew set up their equipment she took deep breaths and tried to calm down. She walked around, checking angles for the best shots with Production back at the studio. She wanted the older cottages with their low walls and front gardens, the Queen Anne mansion, which had been turned into a convalescent home during the war, set back behind a high brick wall, and across the green, the pretty Georgian terrace and the Norman church. The Gentlemen’s Arms pub with its red, white, and blue-planted hanging baskets and bunting.
Behind her the lane, only one car wide, was just visible, twisting and dipping through the hedgerows. Beyond it the downs swelled, dotted with sheep. With a bit of maneuvering, the cameras could block out the row of ugly 1960s houses behind the pub so that viewers would see the quaint Crowmarsh Priors of fifty years ago.
“Testing, testing. Can you hear me in the studio, Simon?” she asked into her headphones for the umpteenth time.
“Don’t worry, if you get stuck we’ll talk you through it. Be professional. Five, four, three, two, one,” said Simon. “You’re on.”
Oh hell! Deep breath. Big smile. Professional. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this special edition of Heart of England! As the nation pauses in remembrance on the fiftieth anniversary of VE Day, I’m Katie Hamilton-Jones for Albion Television, and we hope you’ll join us as we report live all day from the village of Crowmarsh Priors in Sussex.” She made dramatic sweeping gestures with her hand to indicate the village behind her.
“Stop flapping your arm,” growled Simon and the editor, simultaneously in her earpiece.
Rattled, Katie clutched the microphone with both hands and continued, “If London is the beating heart of Britain, country villages like Crowmarsh Priors are its lifeblood. Today, with the birds singing and sheep grazing on the hills above me, this peaceful village in Sussex looks like a picture postcard, with its village green, its country pub, and its cottages all basking in the early morning sunshine. On September 3, 1939, the inhabitants of countless villages like this throughout England heard the grim news that war had been declared with Germany.
“Today’s special edition of the program pays tribute to the people of Crowmarsh Priors and to villagers in all parts of the country who lived through England’s darkest hour. VE Day marked the end of a terrible time, and this fiftieth anniversary will be solemnly remembered by the people who lived through it. Today we will join the village in a special service of remembrance at the parish church, just one of many services of commemoration across England. Afterward the service will be followed by a fete on the village green and we will be speaking to people who remember when war came to Crowmarsh Priors.”
It was going pretty well, and Katie felt more confident. If she was this good on her feet, perhaps she should have gone to the Bar after all. She tossed her hair back and spoke directly into the camera. She hoped her mother’s friends were watching. “We’ll be speaking to a number of special guests about their memories and experiences, including two elderly gentlemen who will tell us about being in the Home Guard and some of the residents of the Princess Elizabeth Convalescent Home for the War Wounded here in the village, that handsome building over there,” Katie pointed to the Queen Anne house, “that was requisitioned by the War Office when its owner died as a place for wounded servicemen to recuperate.
“But today’s program is mainly about the women. The women who stayed at home are the ones we rarely hear about, those women who kept the home fires burning even while they added the burden of war work to a busy life. They were wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers, who worried about loved ones fighting far away in the armed forces, and at home, they braced themselves against the long-expected German invasion. Those women maintained a stiff upper lip, ‘kept smiling through,’ and otherwise ‘did their bit’ while they raised their families and were the mainstay of their communities. This program pays tribute to those unsung heroines, and our featured guests today are four women who lived right here in Crowmarsh Priors.
“They were four young women, girls, really, who became wartime brides. Their lives were shaped by the conflict, and adversity drew them together. Now they are elderly ladies, but today they are reunited in their wartime home for the first time in over fifty years, to relive their experiences of England’s darkest hour and reflect on the war’s impact on their lives. For many of our older female viewers, this will bring back wartime memories of their own.”
Behind Katie the camera picked up a silver Mercedes turning sharply onto the green and parking at an angle. After a moment a woman got out of the driver’s side and the door slammed shut with a solid thunk. The camera homed in on her: short, tubby, and elderly but splendidly dressed in a purple flowered silk outfit, with a large, glittering diamond spray brooch pinned to her substantial bosom, a many-stranded pearl necklace, mauve court shoes, and matching stockings. She opened the car’s back door and retrieved a picture hat of the same fabric as her dress, a silk handbag, and lavender kid gloves.
The cameraman muttered, “It’s that Lady Moneybags. The one paid for the church getting restored and everything.” Katie squinted at her. The patroness of today’s events, Lady Carpenter, was a dead ringer for the Queen Mother, dressed as if about to launch something. She gushed, “Our first war bride has arrived! That’s Lady Carpenter, Sir Bernard Carpenter’s widow, who has just got out of her car. Lady Carpenter is the youngest of our four war brides, and it’s thanks to her generosity that the historic parish church of St. Gabriel’s has been restored and the celebration is taking place today. She’s here bright and early to make sure everything is in place for this special day, this very, very special day, um…because she was…the special…um…arrangements. Um…” Shit! She was blowing it.
Back in the studio Production was panicking too. Katie was losing it. “Stay calm. Talk about the church, keep the flow smooth,” said Simon firmly in her earpiece.
Fortunately Katie was quick on the uptake and, despite her moment of panic, knew her stuff. “Speaking of Lady Carpenter brings me to the parish church. That’s the Norman church you can see just behind me,” she began as the camera panned to a shot of the church, “the focus of today’s ceremony. Elsie Pigeon was a girl of seventeen when she was married there to Bernard Carpenter in 1942. A few months after their wedding the church was badly damaged by a stray bomb and it has been closed ever since. After Sir Bernard retired from the Treasury he devoted himself to his hobby, wartime history, and on t
he rare occasions when he was interviewed, he reminisced fondly about the time he spent in Crowmarsh Priors when he and his wife were young. After his death, two years ago, Lady Carpenter heard that plans were afoot to demolish the ruined church because of the cost of repairs, and she decided to rebuild it in his memory.
“The church and the village of Crowmarsh Priors have a long and interesting history. Both are closely linked to the de Balfort family. William the Conqueror rewarded his knight Giles de Balfort with a fiefdom near the Sussex coast. Giles built a monastery to pray for William and a fortress to defend him. The fortress and monastery crumbled long ago, but remarkably, the property has remained in the ownership of the de Balforts until now. The last living member of the family still lives near the village and we hope he’ll speak to us today.
“Until it burned down in the last war, the de Balforts’ ancestral home was Gracecourt Hall, dating from the reign of Elizabeth I. The money to build it came from the wool trade, from intermarriage with England’s richest and most powerful families, and, some say, even from the smuggling that flourished on this coast for nearly three centuries. Lady Carpenter furnished us with these photographs taken in Gracecourt’s heyday in the 1930s. I believe they’re on the screen as we speak.
“Like most young aristocrats, the young de Balfort men made the Grand Tour of Europe as part of their education and brought home treasures from their travels. Over the centuries the house acquired a splendid collection of paintings, tapestries, and silver—you can see some of them in the photos. The house was also at the heart of a glittering social scene—think of pheasant shoots and hunters on a frosty morning reining in excited horses, tennis parties, picnics and balls, and grand dinners. There on the screen you can see the croquet lawn and a picnic in progress in the background…there are the tennis courts, a Chinese pavilion for tea parties built just before the war, and here is the water garden, laid out by a famous German landscape architect, which replaced the old-fashioned lake. The water gardens were art deco, very fashionable at the time, an elaborate design of interconnecting rectangular pools. Sadly the house and its treasures were destroyed in a fire before the end of the war.”
