Tears of Autumn, The

by Wiltshire, David

  He closed the paper, looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly nine o’clock.

  ‘Maybe our letters aren’t getting through – or theirs to us. The world is very untrusting at the moment.’

  They sat in silence, broken only by the hiss and crackle and pop of the fire. Shadows from the flames flickered on the walls. He stirred.

  ‘I’ll get the Ovaltine. Would you like the wireless on?’

  She nodded, held up her hand for him to touch as he passed.

  ‘Thank you, darling. We’ll get the news.’

  It was cold in the kitchen. He struck a match, lit the gas ring with a ‘plop’, put some water in the kettle from the single tap over the deep white sink with the galvanized bucket beneath, and put it over the flame in preparation for their hot-water bottles. He then filled a saucepan with milk from a bottle in the larder. He took two large cups from the brass hooks where they hung under a wall cupboard and spooned in the Ovaltine, then he went back into the warmth of the sitting-room.

  The BBC announcer was speaking of the Royal Family, who had attended church again that day; the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose had been seen waving from the windows of the royal car.

  Mr Chamberlain had spent a quiet time at Chequers. Heavy snow was forecast in Scotland and the North. With that the melodious tones wished them all a peaceful goodnight.

  Rosemary suddenly realized he was leaning on the back of the sofa, listening.

  ‘Biff – the milk.’

  He heard the hiss of overflowing Jersey on to the flames even as he dodged around the door. The smell of burnt milk filled the kitchen.

  He lifted the saucepan – then dropped it, swearing, back on to the stove, the handle was so hot.

  He turned off the gas, got the dishcloth and began mopping up, aware that Rosemary had appeared in the doorway.

  She clicked her tongue.

  ‘Men. How on earth do you manage to fly an aeroplane?’

  He was just glad she didn’t seem to be angry.

  They attended the New Year’s eve party in the mess, but Rosemary was getting more and more tired and sleepy in the evenings. She rested all afternoon in preparation while Biff worked on the car, cleaning the carburettor and foot-pumping the tyres. His hands were frozen, and by the time he’d finished and gone inside he urgently needed a pee. He opened the back door and trotted up the red-bricked path to the outside lavatory.

  Inside, his fingers were so numb that he fumbled with his fly buttons, unable to undo them. Vigorously rubbing his hands together he blew hard on the knuckles, stamping his feet not only to help his circulation, but to ward off the imminent need for relief. When he eventually managed it he gritted his teeth with the discomfort.

  Rosemary wasn’t showing yet, but in the flowing gown she had chosen you would never have known. Biff thought she was radiant. When they entered the mess several heads turned, and ‘Dicky’ Dickinson took her by the arm.

  ‘Rosemary, you look wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you, Allan,’ she used his real name. ‘You look pretty good too in your mess kit. Very distinguished.’

  He laughed. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

  ‘Just an orange squash please.’ She indicated her tummy. ‘I’ve gone right off anything interesting.’

  More people crowded in, forcing them towards the centre table which was decorated with holly and berries.

  Suddenly Biff realized that the CO was standing there, with his wife.

  ‘Biff, good to see you, and Rosemary; you look absolutely delightful.’

  He turned to his wife and attracted her attention.

  ‘My dear, this is Rosemary Banks – Biff’s wife – do you remember? You met her at that shindig at Frampton Manor.’

  ‘I do indeed.’ The CO’s wife was a tall lady, well-connected it was said. She was rather plain, but her eyes were lively.

  ‘You ride to hounds, I believe?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I’m expecting our first child.’

  ‘My dear, I had no idea.’

  They talked on as the CO faced Biff.

  ‘How are you enjoying the squadron?’

  ‘Very much, sir.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  The CO nodded, took a sip of single malt, seemed to be making up his mind.

  ‘That business of your German friends – all resolved now?’

  ‘Yes sir, we haven’t heard from them at all.’

  The CO nodded.

  ‘Good, good.’ When he realized what he’d said, he carried on hastily: ‘I mean – good thing it’s not worrying you.’

  He looked down, frowning into his drink.

  ‘I was very embarrassed about that visit we had – didn’t like it at all.’

  He took a gulp of the whisky.

  ‘Always been a flying man – the desk side can be a bit of a bind.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  As soon as midnight came, with the sound of Big Ben transmitted over the Tannoys from the BBC broadcast, the mess erupted into deafening cheering and the screeching of party trumpets. Suddenly an ‘old man’ with a long white beard, a scythe, and wearing a tunic with 1938 written on it, ran through the room. He’d got half-way round when he was suddenly divested of his tunic by grasping hands. In his underpants he legged it away down the corridor as ‘the baby New Year’ came through the front door; a very hairy man in a giant napkin made from towels with massive safety pins. On his hairy chest was written 1939. He was grabbed and hoisted on to somebody’s shoulder. Squirting beer from his large feeding-bottle, he was paraded in triumph around the room, ending up in the middle as the crowd sang Auld Lang Syne, roaring up to him before receding and then coming at him again.

  Eventually he too, lost his ‘decency’, only he didn’t have anything on underneath. Women screamed, a door was knocked off its hinges, as, hands clasped firmly over his manhood, ‘1939’ disappeared down the corridor pursued by a man cracking his towel at his naked backside.

  In January Biff had leave, so they went first to his parents, then on to Rosemary’s. Aweek after they got back the first of the new long-nosed Mark IVs was delivered to the squadron, or rather, to the CO.

  The CO spent the afternoon being familiarized with the aircraft, and then showing off his new toy, roaring over the mess and doing climbing turns that demonstrated the increased power and manoeuverability.

  He was a flying man.

  Back on the ground they were all over and in it. When Biff got home, full of excitement, he burst into the cottage.

  ‘Rosemary.’

  There was no reply. He called up the small staircase, though he knew she must have heard him if she was there.

  ‘Darling?’

  Then he realized that she must be in the lavatory. He opened the back door and called out.

  ‘Rosemary.’

  When there was still no reply he walked up the path, knocked on the door. When it remained quiet he tried the latch. The door opened. It was empty.

  He began to worry when there was no sign of her an hour later. He was just deciding to go back to the Mess to see if there had been any telephone messages, when a large black Wolseley 14 drew up at the gate. He recognized the man in the Homburg straight away; it was Dr Monks, their, or rather Rosemary’s, GP.

  He hurried down the path and reached the car as the doctor in his overcoat got out of the door. He was looking very sombre.

  ‘Is everything all right? Is Rosemary with you?’

  Doctor Monks took him by the elbow.

  ‘Let’s go inside, Mr Banks.’

  Heart thumping, Biff led the way into the cottage. The doctor shut the door behind him.

  Biff could wait no longer.

  ‘Is it Rosemary? Has she had an accident?’

  Doctor Monks shook his head.

  ‘No, she will be all right, I’m sure.’

  Biff suddenly realized what was coming.

  ‘It’s the baby?’

  The doctor grim
aced.

  ‘Unfortunately your wife saw some bleeding this morning. She came straight to the surgery. When I examined her I had to break the news that her baby was – I’m very sorry – already dead.’

  Biff was stunned, just stood there.

  ‘Apparently Mrs Banks had felt something wasn’t quite right for some two weeks. She already had an appointment when things took their own course.’

  With some difficulty Biff finally managed to gather himself together.

  ‘Where is she? Is she in danger?’

  Dr Monks tried to reassure him.

  ‘I’ve come to take you to the cottage hospital. She will be all right. Nature is just having its natural way.’

  Biff said: ‘Can you wait while I change out of uniform? I’ll be very quick.’

  The doctor gestured with his hat.

  ‘Of course. And you must pack a small case for your wife – nightdress, underwear, toothbrush, that sort of thing.’

  Biff started to unbutton his jacket as he climbed the stairs. All he could think about was poor Rosemary, and what she was going through.

  And the baby boy, or girl, he would now never know.

  Chapter Ten

  It was dark, but he could see the outline of the bed and then, as he turned over, the lights of his bedside clock. It was 3.22 in the morning. He knew what had awakened him, he needed to go to the lavatory. He slowly swung his legs out of bed, until they rested on the carpet. He waited a few moments before hauling himself shakily to his feet. With one hand always supporting himself, first on the bedside cabinet, then the chest of drawers, he managed to reach the en suite. Biff didn’t switch on the light – from past experience he knew it would make it harder to get back to sleep if he did, it took such a long time these days to pass water.

  He could see the toilet seat in the dim light from the window. Dropping his pyjama pants he lowered himself carefully down.

  When he’d finished he stood up. The dizziness was instant. He’d stumbled several times the last few weeks without any harm; he hadn’t told anybody. But this time his head struck the door post. A blaze of coloured lights filled his vision, then utter complete blackness.

  They were going to the cinema to see an eagerly awaited film. It was several weeks after they had lost their little girl. He waited downstairs whilst she finished fixing her face. If truth were told, he was concerned about Rosemary’s health, she wasn’t her old self. Nothing he could put his finger on really, but – he shook his head at the Royal Doulton spaniel on the mantelpiece – she seemed so remote.

  Rosemary came down the stairs into the room.

  ‘Right, I’m ready.’

  He was relieved to see she was smartly dressed and made up, it made him feel better, at least.

  They splashed out and sat in the circle for the princely sum of one-and-ninepence.

  The first film was a cowboy, with the hero in a tall white Stetson, everybody riding madly around and firing guns, the discharges seeming to go up into the air, though the baddies and Indians fell off their horses just the same. The posse passed an identical cactus several times, he noted.

  In the interval he got themselves tubs of ice cream. When the house lights went down again a bright spotlight picked out a man in a dinner jacket at the keyboard of a large Wurlitzer in the pit. As he played, the whole organ rose steadily up until he was level with the stage.

  Ten minutes of a medley of popular songs followed, then he descended again. At the last moment he turned and waved, the light reflecting on his glasses before it was extinguished.

  Biff lit a couple of Craven As and passed her one, before the curtains clicked and rolled back. The Gaumont British News followed, the strident voice of the commentator excitedly adding details as smoke from their cigarettes joined that of others to curl up into the flickering lights of the projector.

  One item did attract Biff’s attention.

  On 14 February a German battleship, the Bismarck, was launched. The great hull slid into the water of the Elbe at the Blohm & Voss dockyards in Hamburg, dragging huge chains behind it to slow it down. Thousands were watching Herr Hitler launch it, and he wondered if Konrad was there, and perhaps Anna, but he wouldn’t say anything to Rosemary – not in her present depressed frame of mind.

  At last the film they had been waiting to see came on Jezebel, the story of a headstrong young woman of the old South, played by Bette Davis.

  The music swelled.

  He reached out his hand and found hers. She didn’t take it away, but there was no great response either. Biff’s heart sank.

  That night he got into bed beside her. Before he could do or say anything she kissed him on the cheek and abruptly turned over, saying: ‘Good night. Got an early start in the morning.’

  With his light out he turned on his side, away from her, staring at the tiny cottage window with its four little panes, and the twinkling stars beyond.

  He knew by the sound of her breathing, even if he couldn’t see her open eyes, that she was not asleep.

  Some days the despair was almost too much to bear. He’d not only lost a child, but a wife as well.

  Fortunately for him, in the following weeks the pace of training increased and the squadron spent many hours perfecting bombing techniques on barges moored in the estuary nearby.

  The arrival of the Mark IV variant in large numbers perked up everybody’s spirits. With its twin 840-horsepower engines it was capable of carrying two 500lb armour-piercing bombs at a speed comparable to that of many fighters. It could range deep into an enemy’s temtory, and a ventral pack of four machineguns, with another gun on the wing, and a semi-retractable dorsal turret, meant it had plenty of firepower.

  The only things that seemed to help Rosemary were horse-riding and tennis. The riding she managed by getting up, very early in the morning, before he did, and then going straight on to work; the tennis she played at weekends. He was aware that she seemed not to want to be with him for any length of time.

  Nearly six months after Munich Nazi troops occupied what remained of Czechoslovakia, and in the mess there was a growing feeling that war with Germany was now almost inevitable. Biff could only think of Konrad and Anna. In his loneliness of the last month or so he’d often thought of that brilliantly happy October, when Rosemary and Anna had laughed so much. Now Rosemary seemed almost a different person.

  One night, after she had gone to bed, he sat before the fire and listened to the BBC. The Prime Minister had written personally to the Poles on 31 March, telling them that if their independence was ever threatened His Majesty’s Government and the French Government would at once lend them all the support in their power.

  So that was that. If Herr Hitler ever invaded Poland, war would follow.

  At least now they knew where they stood.

  On 7 April Mussolini invaded Albania.

  Biff, ten days later, with The Times opened before him, was sitting in a leather easy chair in the mess with a cup of coffee beside him, served by one of the white-coated mess servants. He read that Britain, France, and Russia, of all places, given the antipathy the Government felt towards the Communist state, had signed an anti-Nazi pact.

  His worries over Rosemary and where they were going was, with almost every passing day, being overshadowed by a terrible sense of inevitability, a drift to a nightmare future that would engulf them and their cosy little life, with all its problems. But an awareness of what might be coming didn’t make the prospect seem any the less threatening.

  They managed somehow to get through the next couple of months, but in June, Biff came home early one day to find Rosemary in the garden, using a watering can, and singing gently to herself.

  Hesitantly he said: ‘Hello, darling. Had a good day?’

  She smiled at him, a warmth in her eyes that he hadn’t seen for a very long time.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  Rosemary put the can down carefully, turned, paused, and then gave him a hug. She stood back, looking sad, and anxiou
sly searched his face.

  ‘I know I’ve been away, Biff, but I’m back now, I promise. Can you ever forgive me?’

  He found he could hardly breathe, fearful that he hadn’t heard her properly. Hadn’t understood what seemed to be happening – a miracle.

  He swallowed. ‘There is nothing to forgive, darling.’

  They just stood there, holding on. The coldness and depression had lifted as swiftly as a morning fog in a rising sun.

  Rosemary couldn’t explain it, any more than Biff could believe it. But his heart sang.

  ‘Jeeze, skipper, what’s got into you?’

  The bomber/navigator turned around, looking at him wild-eyed.

  Biff grinned. He’d just brought the Blenheim light bomber in at less than 200 feet, over the sea, over the dunes, and on across the airfield, flying like a demented Biggles. They were on the local air defence exercises and it had become glaringly obvious that despite all their expectations and beliefs the new generation of single-seat interceptor fighters, the Hawker Hurricane, had run rings around them. Biff, still feeling on top of the world, had twisted and dived from cloud to cloud and then gone right down on to the deck to get back to ‘bomb’ his airfield.

  He was one of only five aircraft out of twenty-three to do so.

  Afterwards there was much discussion in the mess and a lot of accusations made against the ‘fighter boys’ for over-exaggeration. Most of the squadron still insisted that the bomber – especially the fast and elusive Blenheim – would always get through. The big test would come in the August national RAF defence exercises: these would confirm it one way or the other. When the final debriefing was done he jumped into his new Singer 9 sports car and headed for home. Tonight they were going to a dinner-dance at the George Hotel in town.

  He reached home, skidding on the gravel and jumping out without opening the little door, to find that Rosemary was upstairs, still in her satin pink petticoat, fixing her earrings.

  He burst into the bedroom, pulling off his already undone tunic and flinging it on to a chair, upon which he promptly sat and started on his shoes.