A Gathering Storm

by Rachel Hore

  ‘Well, you’re a one,’ Williams said. She waved an official-looking letter. ‘Who’ve you been making up to, in high places? You’ll get us ordinary folk into trouble.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice hastily reviewed the last couple of days for what she might have done wrong. For one thing she’d forgotten to demobilize the canteen on her return the night before last; she’d been so tired lately, draggingly tired. Perhaps last night’s crew had complained.

  ‘It’s an awful nuisance, you realize. I’ll have to find someone else to do your shifts.’

  ‘Oh, Williams, I’m so sorry about the blasted rotor arm. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  ‘You really don’t understand, do you? It’s nothing you’ve done wrong – well, at least I don’t think it is. Someone’s obviously asked for you. You’re being transferred.’

  ‘Transferred where?’

  Williams passed her the letter. ‘An R. Newton at Senate House wants to see you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He’ll tell you your new duties. Here, read it and wonder.’

  She became a driver for the Ministry of Information, and quickly established that one of her regular passengers would be Michael Wincanton. Being only a Junior Minister he was, she knew, supposed to take whichever driver was available when he needed one, but that didn’t stop him from requesting her.

  ‘You know the way, do you?’ he asked the first time. He’d told her to take him to an address in Knightsbridge.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, ‘though it would be useful if you could point out the building.’

  He settled back in his seat. ‘I expect you were surprised to be transferred. There was a vacancy and I merely suggested your name.’

  ‘I just do what I’m told, sir,’ she said, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible, but he didn’t seem satisfied with this answer.

  ‘Most commendable. Still, people work best when they’re happy.’

  ‘I was very happy driving the canteen,’ she told him, trying to turn off the car heater. It was a lovely spring day and the heater, probably stuck at the ‘on’ position all winter, was suddenly redundant. She couldn’t get the lever to budge. ‘It felt like helping people – you know, ordinary people.’

  ‘Well, this is important war work. Very important.’

  ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t,’ she told him. The truth was that she didn’t like the thought of being under his eye. She felt there was something he wanted of her.

  After driving a canteen through the back streets of the East End in the middle of the night with bombs falling around her, the actual mechanics of this job were easy. Other aspects were not.

  Occasionally she’d be required to report first thing to the house at Queen’s Gate, to take Michael Wincanton to offices in Westminster or Whitehall, where presumably meetings were going on, though naturally he never spoke of what.

  One evening, however, she received a message at the hostel, instructing her to pick him up early the next morning from an address in Cadogan Gardens. ‘Stay in the car,’ she was told. ‘He’ll look out for you and come down.’ She didn’t know who lived there, but when she was searching for the house, she noticed a woman’s pale face watching from a top window. The woman turned as if to speak to someone and moments later the street door opened and Michael emerged. When he thanked her for coming so promptly she replied, ‘I merely follow my orders,’ in her coldest tone, feeling a rush of loyalty for Oenone. He appeared gently amused by this rather than cowed by her disapproval.

  ‘It doesn’t suit you to look sour, you know,’ he said.

  ‘My expression is neither intended to please or displease you,’ she snapped back.

  ‘I would hope that was the case.’ His voice was hard now, and contained a warning. ‘After all, you’re not paid to express your opinion.’ It was the only time he was ever curt to her and she felt her face flame as though he’d struck her.

  Late one evening, soon after this, she was summoned to pick him up from a restaurant in South Kensington in a lull after a raid. The woman was with him. She was expensively dressed and the car filled with her musky fragrance. She spoke only once, ‘Michael, you’ll telephone to me about Friday?’ in a light voice with an upper-class accent, when Beatrice stopped outside the flats in Cadogan Square. She was to take him on to Parliament Square. It was, she supposed, some emergency meeting.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you so late, Beatrice. There were no taxis,’ was his only explanation but she would not speak to him, only nodded.

  Usually when she drove him, he’d sit in the back and look through papers for whatever engagement he was on his way to, and they wouldn’t talk, but sometimes, especially in the evening, they’d converse quite companionably. He had that coaxing way with him; it was difficult not to respond.

  ‘Have you heard from your fiancé lately?’ he asked once, in May when the news in all the papers was the evacuation of the British from Crete. She was so surprised, she almost drove into a truck parked on the road.

  ‘No,’ she said and then twigged. ‘Why, was Guy’s regiment going to Crete? I thought it was Egypt.’

  ‘No good asking me for details,’ was his mysterious answer. ‘It’s not my area,’ but this was enough to brood on. British casualties had been heavy in Crete and it was true, she hadn’t heard from him for some weeks. Since Guy had first embarked, there had been two letters, with some phrases blacked out by the censor’s pen, and three postcards: one a view of Cape Town with Table Mountain rising out of the mist behind, and two sepia scenes of camels in the desert and a souk. They’d been enough to assure her that he was alive and well, and she’d been able to imagine his ship sailing down the west coast of Africa and up the other side to Egypt.

  She’d thought of contacting his parents to ask if they’d heard anything, but she’d never even spoken to them and didn’t know how they’d respond. She assumed that they must know about her – Guy wasn’t a secretive person – but she wasn’t sure what he’d told them about her.

  As for Michael, she couldn’t discern what his ‘area’ was, though she tried to do so from the passengers he brought with him. He seemed to have a wide web of contacts. Once or twice he had Free French officers with him and on one occasion when he was dropped off first and she was by herself with two of them, she was amused by their light-hearted attempts to flirt with her, delighting them by answering in their own language.

  Once, accompanying Michael, was a stocky Scottish soldier in his mid-forties with a moustache and bright eyes that seemed to take in everything. Beatrice’s interest was piqued when they started to discuss none other than Peter Wincanton.

  ‘He’s a sharp boy, that lad of yours, very useful. I must thank you for pushing him my way.’

  ‘Glad he’s of use to you. He’s been something of a square peg up to now.’

  ‘He’s certainly not that with us. Or if he is, well, our department’s the right shape for him. You know the new division. Bunch of square-pegs. We need to be.’

  Michael Wincanton laughed uproariously at that.

  Beatrice wondered what they were talking about. She hadn’t seen Peter Wincanton since he’d taken her to look at paintings at Christmas, 1939. She wondered what his job was, but knew there was no point asking. Her duty was only to drive.

  At the hostel, life was much as before, but without Judy. Mary had been moved to other duties and wrote to say she was being sent abroad. A Yorkshire girl named Christina had taken Judy’s bunk. Everybody talked obsessively about food. The girls fantasized about it. Successful U-boat attacks on convoys in the North Atlantic were having significant effects on supplies. Christina, being a country girl with a healthy appetite, was finding it hard to adapt to margarine, and the tiny portions of fatty roast and watery sausages Matron was able to get out of the meat ration. At least they were all sleeping better. The night air raids had largely abated now, though there had been lulls like it before, so no one dared quite relax, and the mobile canteens still did thei
r nightly round of the shelters.

  On evenings off, she went out with some of the other girls, but mindful of her engaged status she avoided the wilder parties. Even with a ring on her finger she could not escape men’s attention. None made much of an impression on her. And recently, there was another reason more important than all the others. Beatrice strongly suspected she might be pregnant.

  Her periods had always been irregular, and when she missed one in March she thought nothing of it. A slight spotting of blood in April reassured her, though the tiredness, and the tingling in her breasts was disturbing. Guy had assured her that he’d dealt with that side of things, that there was nothing to worry about, and she continued to believe this. June came and she carried on as normal, though the waistband of her skirt began to dig in and her jacket felt tight.

  One evening, when she was changing, Christina was lounging on her bunk, turning the pages of a magazine and watching her in a way that was a tad too curious.

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling, love?’ the girl said, not unkindly. ‘You look like my married sister does when she’s starting a bairn.’

  The Army doctor, perhaps unused to women patients, was neither gentle nor a gentleman. He probed her most private places with unnecessary roughness, so she felt invaded, and though she’d turned the stone of her engagement ring inwards to make him believe she was married, he saw through the ruse easily and spoke to her without meeting her eye. The baby was probably due in November, he said as he washed his hands. She looked healthy enough to him, but should come again in a few weeks’ time. Meanwhile, she might like to be thinking how on earth she’d support a child in wartime unless her fiancé was able to make an honest woman of her. Good morning – next, please!

  The receptionist was kinder and told her how she should present her medical certificate to claim a green ration book in addition to her ordinary one and explained how she could book into a state maternity home. Beatrice thanked her, thrust the certificate into her bag, and pushed her way out of the waiting room into the sunshine. Her thoughts were so confused, she didn’t know what to do or where to go, and a short while later, she found herself in a little park edged with flowerbeds that someone was still managing to tend amidst the general chaos. She sat down on a rickety bench, stared at a statue of a cherub holding a birdbath, and tried to calm her rising panic.

  Another person was growing inside her. This baby was part of Guy, and, whatever happened, she knew she cared about it passionately. She would write to Guy at once and tell him, and he’d make it all right. There would be explanations to the authorities and to both their parents. Her imagination failed her there, as to what all the parents would say. Anyway, he’d come back as soon as he could and they’d be married and life would blossom. Differently to how she’d imagined – somehow the mental pictures of the country cottage and the children had been set in some golden future after the war, not during it – but she’d raise the child as best she could. She placed one hand on her abdomen, in the place where she imagined the baby was growing, and said a little prayer, a prayer that was half a promise.

  She wrote to Guy that very evening. As she slipped the envelope into the postbox, addressed to that official catch-all address in Whitehall, she wondered again where he could possibly be. Michael Wincanton had hinted Crete, but the British had been heavily defeated there and so she hoped he was wrong. Or maybe he had been, but he’d escaped back to Egypt. If so, she wondered how long the letter would take to reach him there.

  The next thing was the most difficult – to find somewhere of her own to live. She couldn’t imagine how she’d pay for it once the baby came, but she’d think about that later. The hostel, full of prying eyes, simply wouldn’t do any more.

  ‘Angie? It’s Beatrice.’ She had telephoned Angelina at her Wrennerie in Dover, intending to suggest that they meet. It seemed important to tell Angelina face to face about the baby. She wanted her support. But Beatrice and her secret were swept away by the tide of Angelina’s news.

  ‘Bea, darling, I’m so glad you’ve telephoned. I’m so excited I have to tell you straight away. I’m getting married.’

  ‘Married? Who to?’ Part of her still believed that Angie was faithful to Rafe.

  ‘Oh, Bea, don’t be a spoilsport, you know who. It’s Gerald. He’s been pestering me for weeks for an answer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say – that it wouldn’t be tactful, with Rafe being away – but we don’t know when he’s coming back. It might be years.’

  ‘Angie, that’s a horrible thought.’ But Rafe would be hurt, surely. She wondered if Gerald felt guilty about Rafe.

  ‘Well, there it is. And I want you to be my bridesmaid,’ she continued. ‘Mummy is thrilled, of course, though the wedding’s to be in only three weeks. That’s when Gerald can get leave.’

  Beatrice couldn’t imagine Oenone Wincanton being thrilled about anything. When she had last seen Angelina’s mother, in April, she had still been very melancholy over Ed and the fact that the rest of her children were gone in one way or another. However, she imagined Oenone would be pleased. Gerald, if not of high birth, was a sound catch and clearly adored Angie. What’s more, he had got his promotion to Major and if he wasn’t the son of an earl, who really minded these days.

  ‘I’d be delighted to be your bridesmaid,’ she told Angie. She wondered how she’d find a dress that would fit her. ‘But I don’t know whether you’ll want me. I’ve got some news of my own, you see.’

  Chapter 19

  St Florian, 2011

  ‘Angie and Gerald were married one lovely July day in 1941 in the Church of St Margaret, Westminster,’ Beatrice concluded. It was Wednesday afternoon, and she was tired from talking. Pouring the tea Lucy had just made, she added, ‘Very exclusive. You need special connections to be married there. I think with Angie it was her godmother, Lady Hamilton. Or perhaps Angie’s father had pulled strings. I forget which, but I was the bridesmaid. Angie didn’t mind about the baby.’

  She sipped her tea.

  Lucy, who had been sitting quietly for a while, said carefully, ‘Why would she have minded? I’m sorry, but I’m finding some of all this quite hard. You don’t always make Granny sound a very nice person.’

  ‘She wasn’t sometimes, Lucy. But nor was I. I look back on myself then and think how naive I was. Everything was black and white to me, and that must have been very annoying to someone like Angie. I loved Rafe and saw him as mine in a curious kind of way. But I realized in time that Rafe was his own person; he owed me nothing, he was free to fall in love with whom he liked. And Angie clearly found him very charming – which he was; the most dear and charming man you could ask for.’

  ‘Do you think she was in love with him when she said she’d marry him?’

  Beatrice thought for a moment. ‘I think she might have been in her own way but it wasn’t a lasting thing, rather something delightful and of the moment. And then she met Gerald and he really was the man for her. The bomb blast – it changed her, made her grow up a little, and Gerald was part of her doing that. Being very steady and dependable, he enabled her to settle down.’

  ‘Do you think he made up for her father being so distant?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘I feel quite sorry for her. And for you, of course. You were both so young.’

  ‘We were, and having to deal with the most horrific things. However, when it came to relationships we were so awfully innocent.’ Beatrice’s expression hardened. ‘But feel sorry for Angie? I find that very difficult.’

  The old lady levered herself out of her chair and went to look out of the window. ‘It might rain later,’ she murmured, ‘and Mrs P.’s left the towels on the line. I don’t suppose you’d mind . . . ? It’s the reaching up I can’t do.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind,’ Lucy said, jumping up. ‘I’ll get them in and then leave you for today. I’m sure I’ve tired you enough.’

  ‘I’ve e
njoyed talking to you, dear, but I do admit to feeling a little weary,’ Beatrice agreed, sitting down once more. ‘However, you must promise me you’ll come tomorrow.’

  After Lucy had gone, Beatrice sat for a while, remembering that wedding so long ago. It had indeed been a beautiful day. Angelina had worn a rather gorgeous ivory-lace dress of her mother’s, and had borrowed an apricot-coloured tea-gown for Beatrice, which Beatrice had had to let out. Gerald, in uniform, looked very proud and adoring. At the reception, held in a hotel nearby, Beatrice met Rafe and Gerald’s mother, Amanda Armstrong, for the first time and thought her cool and elegant, though perfectly gracious. The poise cracked slightly when Beatrice asked if there was any news of Rafe. There wasn’t, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned him as Rafe’s stiff, soldierly stepfather marched over and steered his wife away. For a while Beatrice stood alone, fighting back tears. Later, she caught Angie’s little bouquet when it was thrown, and stared down at it.

  Gerald and Angie had two days’ honeymoon and after that, Gerald had to return to his regiment. Angie, being married, stood down from the Wrens, and they rented a cottage in the Kent countryside, near London for her and close enough for him to visit once a fortnight or so, which was as much as he could get away.

  As for Beatrice, her life continued as usual, though something odd and disturbing did happen.

  Since the Fall of France, her mother, Delphine, had not been able to communicate with her family in Normandy. In August she suddenly received a message on a small strip of paper from one of her nieces in Etretat, Thérèse. It had been somehow secreted to England and posted anonymously from London. It bore the awful news that Pappi had been killed by German soldiers, apparently over a misunderstanding.

  Delphine sent the message on to Beatrice with a letter of her own, an outpouring of grief.

  Beatrice had to drive one of the French officers that week, and she resolved to share the message with him, to ask him whether it could be true. He was an older man with a sad face, as though he felt the full weight of his nation’s humiliation. There was something about the way he held his hands – broad, countryman’s hands – one clamped over the other on his cane like a shepherd’s over his crook, that made her trust him.