by Fern Britton
‘I am so sorry, Mum,’ I said.
‘What for? He’s a grown man and he wants to do the things he wants to do.’
‘But you need him here. We all do.’
‘Yes. But does he need us? The truth is that women hold the family together. Men know that.’
‘Is that why Daddy stays in Penang?’
‘Partly.’
‘Don’t you want him home?’ I was anxious to know the answer.
‘I had better find something for supper,’ she replied.
‘Mum.’ I stopped her. ‘If I wrote to him and asked him to come home, you wouldn’t have to work so hard. He could give you the money for food and school clothes and the bills, and we could be a family.’
She looked at me with more love than she had ever shown me.
‘Darling Hannah.’ She rested one hand on my shoulder while the other tenderly stroked my hair. ‘You are growing into a wonderful woman and you have your whole life ahead of you. My life with Daddy was fun, but after a while I missed you and Edward more than I wanted to be with Daddy. And he didn’t mind because he loves Penang. He loves all of you very much and maybe, one day, he’ll come back to walk you down the aisle on your wedding day. How does that sound?’
I knew she was trying to make everything sound normal but I didn’t believe it.
‘If he did, that would be lovely. But Mum, I don’t want you to be doing all this on your own. Maybe, one day, you’ll meet another nice man, a companion, who will take you out on treats?’
She smiled and almost laughed. ‘That’s a sweet thought, but I am happy as I am with my three lovely children, thank you. What I really want is for you all to be happy.’
‘Even if you are unhappy? Even if Edward will go into the RAF and not be a doctor?’
She sighed. ‘Yes. Even if. Because, my darling, if you have a daughter, you will love her as much as I love my daughter and as much as my mum loved hers. Men are wrong in thinking we are the weaker sex. It is they who are weaker. Granny, me and you. We are the strong ones.’
Hannah, Trevay
3 September 1939
Nine months later we declared war on Germany and our – my – quiet life came to a jolting stop. It felt as though a terrible darkness had fallen over us. Two days before, Mr Hitler had invaded Poland. He had already invaded Czechoslovakia and Austria, but our prime minister, Mr Neville Chamberlain, who for years had tried to appease and prevent another war, decided enough was enough. We were at war. The four of us sat in our back room and listened to the news on the radio. Mum grew very stiff and still, her hands trembling as she reached for a cigarette. David found it rather exciting, I think, and began to jump up and down, firing his small toy gun. Edward stood almost to attention, swivelling his glance to Mum first and then to me. I shook my head at him, sending a message of silence. Mum didn’t need to hear his plans to fight.
‘You can turn the radio off now please, Hannah,’ Mum said.
I was nearest to the set so only had to shift an inch or two to reach the knob.
David’s noise was becoming unbearable. ‘Shut up,’ I snapped. ‘And put that bloody gun down.’ He looked at me in shock, his bottom lip quivering. ‘For God’s sake.’ I stood up. ‘Who wants a cup of tea?’
Mum got on with her daily life in the shop, still smiling and chatting to the customers, who were always eager to hear about Edward’s progress. But in her bed in our shared room, I knew she didn’t sleep.
Within a month Edward had joined up and was on a boat to Canada for pilot training. He was nineteen.
Of course we all thought the war would start immediately. A Home Guard troop was created from older fishermen who had fought in the First World War, and younger boys who were too young to enlist as yet. They met at the St Peter’s Church hall and began training with nothing but pitchforks or an occasional homemade wooden rifle. When they marched around the harbour or took shifts in scanning the horizon for Hitler’s invasion, the town either sniggered or applauded them, or both. David started a platoon of his own in the school playground, ordering his chums to march in precision and salute him at the end of each session. Mum encouraged him, knowing he was only eight and, for the foreseeable future, would remain safe.
I was fifteen and itching to do my bit. I knew I had to wait until I was seventeen, and began to almost hope the war would not end before I got a chance. My father had been in the Army so I began to research how I could join too, though I never told Mum.
Every night, Mum and I listened to the wireless news, constantly expecting to hear that German soldiers had landed along the south coast and would soon be at our front doors. But oddly, all was quiet. People began to call it a Phoney War. To believe that Mr Hitler would never be able to reach us.
Edward stayed in Canada for Christmas and New Year, and was not expected back until the spring. He was doing well, he wrote, and hoping to be made a bomber pilot.
I was in the last term at school and about to take my General School Certificate when things changed. In May 1940, Mr Chamberlain stepped down as prime minister and Mr Winston Churchill took over. Mum was pleased. ‘Come the hour, come the man,’ she said, drinking the cup of tea she always made to have while listening to the news.
I began to dread the nightly broadcasts and the man who read them.
‘Good evening, this is the news from the BBC. France has fallen to the German Army. The Battle for France has ended in defeat for the British and their Allies.’
‘Oh dear God, no,’ Mum breathed, and reached for her cigarettes. I watched her and saw the trembling of her hands and the deep lines around her mouth.
I was scared. ‘Mum, the Germans won’t come to England, will they?’
Her quick smile hid her own fears, ‘Of course not, darling. We have the Home Guard and Mr Churchill and very brave soldiers.’
‘But they might not be able to stop them.’
‘I think they will. We shall all have to fight back. Very hard.’
Over the next few days we heard about the rescue of hundreds of thousands of British and Allied forces in France who had been beaten back to a little town called Dunkirk by the German Army. Thousands of boats, large and small, captained by ordinary people, sailed the Channel to rescue them. It was a miracle, and at church on Sunday we all gave thanks.
But now Mr Churchill called on the RAF.
He told us, via the wireless, that although the German Air Force had more pilots than us we still had more planes, including the fast and deadly Spitfires and Hurricanes that would take on the terrifying task of battling for Britain. There was no doubt that German forces were just a few miles over the Channel. If the Channel had been fields instead of deep water, they could have walked the twenty-odd miles over to us and that would have been that. I began to imagine what I would do if they parachuted into Trevay. How would I fight them? I began checking that all our windows and doors were secured day and night, and slept with David’s cricket bat under my bed. I even asked Mum if she thought it would be sensible for David to move into our room and not be on his own in his.
‘No, darling.’ She patted my hand. ‘That’s very good of you, and I do appreciate all your extra security measures around the house, but the house is feeling like a prison, and believe me Hitler is not interested in coming to Cornwall.’
‘Why not?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Because we will never give in, just as Mr Churchill told us.’
In the end, Mr Hitler didn’t invade us because our fighter planes made it so difficult for him. Instead he launched a terrible bombing blitz.
Caroline
Present day
It is my mother’s birthday. I always mark the day, and Christmas and Easter too, by visiting her grave. I usually go early so that I can park on the verge by the churchyard gates without trouble, and also so that I don’t run into the boy who mows the grass.
Or any other visitor.
I prefer to talk to my mother in private.
Today was qu
ite warm so I took my lightweight coat. I had first seen it in the large department store where I take my daughter, Natalie, for lunch when she’s down from London, but I hadn’t been sure about its colour.
She had persuaded me to buy it. ‘Mummy, it’s lovely on you. And that mint green is really flattering.’
I had looked at myself in the long mirror and turned from side to side, hands in pockets then fiddling with the collar.
‘How is it from the back?’ I’d asked.
‘Not pulling anywhere and your waist looks really tiny.’
That had pleased me. ‘Right, I’ll have it. As long as I can change it if it looks different at home.’ The strip lights above me had glowed powder-puff pink. ‘These lights are either too flattering or not flattering enough. I can’t tell.’
I had looked at Natalie’s shabby reflection in the mirror behind me and tried not to sound judgemental. ‘Can I treat you to a new coat?’
She’d smiled. ‘I am perfectly OK with this hoodie, thank you.’
‘But your denims have holes in the knees. That’s got to be draughty? How about a new pair of slacks?’
‘Mother, this isn’t 1952. These are vintage designer jeans with rips that cost me a lot more than your coat will cost you.’
I had said nothing, preferring to look pointedly at her feet.
‘And these boots,’ she’d said, ‘will ensure my feet aren’t deformed by ill-fitting shoes, which is why your generation have bunions and mine doesn’t.’
I had folded my new coat over my arm and sniffed, ‘Well, at least we knew how to look feminine.’
She had thrown her hands up. ‘Mother. There are at least a hundred different genders out there now! Feminine men, masculine women, asexual, bisexual, lesbian—’
I had stopped her. ‘Shh. Keep your voice down. You are in Truro now, not North London.’
Oh God. I had been wondering for some time that she might declare she had a girlfriend.
I had divulged my worries to my friend Annie, one of the church flower ladies, as we washed vases under the outdoor tap in the churchyard. She was a woman whose common sense I then appreciated.
‘Caroline, it’s a phase, that’s all.’ She had put her hand on my shoulder, comfortingly, ‘But you could have a lot of fun buying two wedding dresses. One for Natalie and one for her wife.’ I almost dropped the vase I was holding.
Anyway, today was my new coat’s first outing, and I must say it was very comfortable to wear in the car. I could reverse the car without any restriction at all.
On the seat next to me I had a spring bouquet for Mother. All blooms picked from my own garden. When Tom, Natalie’s father, was ill, he made me promise to look after his lawn and flowerbeds after he’d gone, and I have. This year the tulips are magnificent. Ramrod straight. I have the usual gay red and orange in the back garden, encircling the grass, but last October, in the front just outside the porch, I planted two huge tubs of pale pink and black tulips. The postman has been most admiring of them.
Today I picked only the reds and oranges from the back garden and mixed them with forget-me-nots and three white hyacinths.
They are almost over and browning a little at the edges, but the perfume is still good and Mother would understand.
Her headstone I had made from Cornish Delabole slate. Not a great big showy thing, but small and effective. It had her name ‘Hannah Bolitho’ and her dates carved into it.
Below I’d had inscribed: Loving mother and grandmother. Much missed.
Simple and suitable and, after the cost of the slate, all that was needed.
Mother had been a complicated woman. Mainly, I think, because her own mother, the sainted Granny Clara, had been so ‘bohemian’ herself.
I thought back to my surprise delivery. The Trunk. It was revealing some very interesting answers to the many questions I had pondered growing up. The letter I had found inside the Bible, and a diary lying among the knick-knacks were most illuminating. Well, at least the first half was, I hadn’t finished it yet.
The letter was from Granny Clara to my Grandfather Ernest and it was about my mother and me.
Trevay, 1948
Dear Ernie,
Thank you for your last letter and generous cheque. It was very kind of you and will help Edward and Shirley pay off their last bills for the wedding. It was a very happy day and Shirley is very good for Edward. He adores her.
It was good to hear all your news too. Please send Nizam and his family my very best wishes. I can’t believe he’s fifty! How many years has he been with you now? Almost thirty years I suppose. He’s a better house keeper to you than I ever could have been. I am so glad that we can look back now without pain.
Unfortunately my health is not very good at the moment. Probably just bronchitis. The family cluck around me as if I am a dying duck, which I am not. My doctor is extremely kind and keeping a good eye on me. Thank goodness I was fit for the wedding. Hannah looked so lovely as the bridesmaid. So lovely, that she attracted the attention of one of Edward’s RAF boys. They saw each other a few times and then he did the disappearing act. He rather broke her heart, but he did leave a gift behind. You are a grandfather. I realise this may be a shock to you but you have a beautiful granddaughter called Caroline. She is the baby in the enclosed photo, sitting on Hannah’s knee. Hannah has taken it all in her stride as has the whole family and none of us can remember a time when Caroline was not here.
I think Hannah would like to hear from you. Be kind.
Yours affectionately,
Clara. x
I knew that I had been born out of wedlock. My mother had never kept that from me. But I had always hoped she would tell me who my father was. Now, I don’t think I shall ever know.
So Granny Clara had been supportive to her pregnant, unmarried daughter. And to be fair I did grow up in a very loving home. But I had always yearned to have two parents, a neat bungalow overlooking the harbour and a father to whom I would be Daddy’s Girl.
I longed to be at boarding school and have wonderful adventures like the girls in the Enid Blyton Malory Towers books. The children at my school said horrible things about my mother – and especially about the absence of my father so that in the end I made up all sorts of stories about him. He was a spy and an actor in Hollywood. He drove sports cars and took me to Paris for my birthday. The trouble was I wasn’t very good at remembering my stories, so the lies were always discovered and children who might have been friends drifted away from me.
In the end I said he was dead.
Killed on a space mission.
That shut them up.
My grandmother, who died when I was a baby, drummed into my mother that, ‘To be a good liar, you have to have a good memory.’ She must have had a very good memory, because the diary I found in the trunk was hers and very revealing it was! No wonder she kept it locked! When she left for England and brought Uncle David home with her, she must have left the thing behind. How her heart must have raced when she discovered it wasn’t in her bags. Luckily for her, I think no one even thought twice about opening it, and packed it up never to be looked at until now.
And what a hypocrite!
She didn’t have three children. She had four. Her first born was a boy called Michael, or Mikey as she wrote, the son of Herbert Bolitho who was killed in action in the Great War and who was the older brother of my grandfather Ernest. Now that must have been a huge secret to keep.
I have never lied to my daughter Natalie. And she has never lied to me. Apart from the time Tom and I had our last weekend away together, while he could, and we left her looking after the house.
‘No boys. No booze. No drugs.’ Those were the last words we said to her as we drove off.
You can imagine what happened.
It was the neighbours who told us. I have never been so embarrassed. We grounded her for a month. Since then, good as gold.
I hope she might still be a virgin. She’s only twenty-two and I am sure she would ha
ve told me if anything had happened.
Tom and I were very lucky. She could have gone off the rails at uni, but she found a lovely girl, Lucy, in her first year in halls and they stuck together as housemates until they graduated. They share a flat in Camden Town now with Lucy’s boyfriend, Ryan.
If I were Lucy’s mother, I’d be worried sick. I have spoken to Ryan on the telephone when I ring Natalie and he always sounds as if he is laughing at some private joke.
I am sure Natalie is saving herself for Mr Right.
As I tidied Mother’s grave, I told her all this news. Including the revelation of Granny Clara’s illegitimate son. I wanted her to know that her own weaknesses, inherited from her mother it seemed, were not inherited by her daughter and granddaughter. I wanted her to know this and be proud of us. I placed the flowers under her name and stood up to brush the grass from my knees.
‘See you at Christmas if not before,’ I said, and blew her a kiss as I always did.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty
Hannah, Trevay
1940
Our nightly news bulletin listening was now a litany of how much damage was being wreaked on our great cities. The number of dead, orphaned, widowed and homeless was heartbreaking and Mum and I could only thank God that we were so far away from the horrors of yet another world war.
Edward’s training was almost at an end and he was due home after the summer. His letters were full of the fun and excitement he was having with his fellow students and the great news that he had been accepted to fly heavy bombers.
Mum removed her spectacles and put his letter down. ‘He’ll be flying over Germany.’
‘Good.’ I was very gung-ho in those days. ‘We need to give them some of their own medicine. David will be so excited.’
Mum reached out a hand to my knee and held it tight. ‘No. Don’t tell David. Better not. We don’t want to frighten him.’
‘But he’ll be so proud of his big brother,’ I told her.
