Under a Wartime Sky

by Liz Trenow

  ‘What part of India are you from, young man?’

  ‘I was born in Kerala, sir. My father was a tea planter.’

  ‘Know it well, know it well,’ Churchill said. ‘I spent several years in India in my younger days, you know. Spent a few months on the North West Frontier, although most of my time was in Bombay and Bangalore. Bloody love that country, and especially your people; though I fear for their future, should the Gandhis of this world get their way. D’you play polo, by any chance?’ His mind seemed to move so quickly that it was a struggle to keep up.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been back since I was ten years old, sir,’ Vic replied, deciding not to mention his fear of riding horses. Like elephants, they were just too high above the ground.

  ‘Never mind, never mind. You have other talents. I’m told you’re one of the brightest fellows here.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, there are lots of . . .’

  ‘The work you are all doing here is splendid, splendid. Warms my heart. Feels as though I’ve been shouting into a void all these years, warning about German aggression, but at last I’m among people who’re doing something about it. With the help of your radio waves, I’m confident that we’ll have a fighting chance of beating the bastards.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Keep up the good work. You’ve made me a happier man today.’

  The audience was over. Churchill moved on.

  ‘What was he saying to you?’ Kath asked later, as they sat on the beach below the Cliff Walk.

  ‘He asked if I played polo.’

  ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

  ‘It’s a kind of hockey, played on horseback.’

  She laughed. ‘Sounds crazy. And do you play?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think chess is probably more your kind of game.’

  ‘You think right.’

  ‘D’you mind if I paddle? Standing in the kitchen all day makes my feet ache.’ He watched her wading into the water in her bare feet regardless of the pebbles, marvelling at her boldness and confidence.

  ‘Come on in. It’s lovely,’ she called.

  ‘I bet it’s cold.’

  ‘On a day like this? You’re just a sissy.’

  ‘How did you guess?’ All the same, he found himself taking off his shoes and wading in beside her. She held out her hand, and he took it. The pebbles hurt his feet and the water was shockingly cold, but somehow he didn’t seem to notice. A larger than usual wave caught them by surprise, soaking her skirt and his trouser legs, but they both just laughed. He’d never felt more alive.

  ‘My feet are going blue,’ he said, after a while. He held out a foot to show her, and nearly fell. She held out an arm to steady him, and they found themselves in a near-embrace. ‘This is nice,’ he whispered, although afterwards he couldn’t remember whether he’d actually said it out loud. All too soon she pulled away, leading him out of the water.

  Afterwards they sat on the beach, drying off. She wiggled her toes, he wiggled his in response. ‘I’ve just noticed you’ve got pink soles,’ she said. ‘Like your pink palms.’

  He loved her guileless honesty, the way she said exactly what she was thinking. ‘That’s because the brown rubs off, you know.’

  She gaped at him for a second, and then, ‘Don’t tease. How am I supposed to know?’ She exaggerated her accent, ‘When oi’m just a silly Suffolk lass?’

  ‘You’re so much more than that, Kath.’

  And then, out of the blue, she said, ‘I got that leaflet about the WAAF. From the post office.’

  His heart seemed to contract. ‘And?’

  ‘I’m torn. I want to do something useful, but I don’t want to end up working in catering again, or driving lorries, and it seems you don’t really get a choice. Plus, I’m not sure about leaving home. My brother’s already gone. He joined the RAF, you know?’

  ‘You mentioned it.’

  ‘He’s training to be a pilot. Ma’s worried enough about him. If I went too, she’d be devastated.’

  ‘I’d miss you too.’ It was the truth, although he’d never imagined himself admitting it.

  ‘You’re such a sweet man, Vic. As your reward . . .’ She looked into her bag and produced two slices of chocolate sponge. ‘Sorry it’s not your favourite. There wasn’t any carrot cake left over.’

  He took a bite. ‘Mmm. Delicious.’

  She smiled. ‘You only love me for my cake.’

  ‘Not true,’ he said. ‘I love you for . . .’

  ‘Go on.’ She nudged him with an elbow.

  ‘Everything about you,’ he managed.

  She snuggled her arm into his, resting her head on his collarbone. Their bodies seemed to fit perfectly. Surely this was the sign he’d been waiting for?

  ‘Kath . . .?’ The words stuck in his throat.

  She waited, quietly.

  ‘Would you mind if I kissed you?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ She turned her face to his, and he bent down to hers so that their lips touched, oh so briefly, before a loud holler from the Cliff Walk above made them both jump.

  ‘Go, Romeo, go!’

  ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

  ‘Woo-hoo!’

  ‘Christ, it’s those bloody engineers. I’m so sorry.’

  But Kath didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. She laughed and stood up, shouting at them: ‘Go away, you idiots, we’re busy.’ Then she sat down again, took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips for a long minute. There were more whistles and catcalls, but Vic didn’t care.

  When they’d finished, his head was spinning. It was just a pressing of closed lips, the most innocent kind of kiss imaginable, and yet the feel of that gentle imprint would stay with him for a very long time.

  17

  On the first of September 1939, Mr Brunetti called the kitchen staff to a meeting at the end of the day. His usually animated face was grave.

  ‘You may not have heard the news, but I have to tell you that the Germans have invaded Poland.’

  ‘This is it,’ someone behind Kath whispered. This is what? she wondered.

  ‘If they don’t withdraw, then Chamberlain says we will declare war.’

  She didn’t understand. Why would Britain go to war over Poland? There had been plenty of speculation but somehow no one really believed it would come to this. Brunetti was still speaking.

  ‘This is grave news, of course. But there is an added implication for us in this room.’

  He seemed to pause, as though for dramatic effect, although afterwards Kath realised that he must have been struggling to contain his emotions. ‘Dr Rowe has told me that should we go to war, all of the non-military personnel at the Manor will be evacuated.’

  Oh hell.

  ‘What will happen to us?’ she heard Ma asking.

  ‘Catering will be provided by the RAF.’

  ‘Even for officers?’

  ‘Even for officers.’

  ‘What will happen to us?’ Ma repeated.

  ‘I’m afraid –’ he paused again, his chin working – ‘we are all being made redundant. Me included. With immediate effect.’

  Double hell.

  An audible ‘oooh’ seemed to suck all the air out of the room, and Kath found it hard to breathe. She turned to her mother, dizzy and disorientated. ‘Whatever shall we do?’

  ‘We’ll get by, I suppose,’ her mother whispered, pulling her close. ‘Being out of work is going to be the least of our worries, sweetheart.’

  It was only once they’d left the building, walking in silence with the rest of the kitchen staff down the driveway, that she looked back at the Manor and remembered the other thing Mr Brunetti had said. All non-military personnel will be evacuated. Would that include the scientists? Would it include Vic?

  Despite her earlier misgivings, she’d come to look forward to their walks. She loved his company, his interesting conversation, his knowledge about so many things. He was f
unny, often making her laugh, and so refreshingly different from most other boys, who seemed to feel the need to brag about their achievements. Vic was modest to a fault. Their kisses were sweet but chaste; he didn’t appear to want anything more and, she had to confess, neither did she. There was none of that stomach-turning swoony recklessness she’d felt when kissing Billy.

  She did not consider herself to be in love, although she sensed the possibility of it. But now, there would be no chance. She felt suddenly bereft. It was Friday afternoon and she was not due back at work until Monday, the day after the so-called ultimatum expired, and the country would officially be at war.

  No one had the appetite for Sunday lunch, not after that terrible announcement and the almost immediate sounding of air-raid sirens that had brought everyone out into the streets, anxiously scanning the skies. Pa had built a shelter in the garden, but nobody wanted to sit in its damp darkness. Ma was putting on a brave face, but every now and again would break down in tears.

  ‘Whatever will become of us?’ she wailed. ‘And Mark, out there in his plane? Oh, I wish he’d just come home and get a safe, ordinary job.’

  ‘He may not have the choice, dearest,’ Pa said. ‘They’ll be calling all of us up before long.’

  ‘Not you, too? You’re too old, surely?’

  ‘Depends how desperate they are.’

  And so the conversation went, round and round, until the doorbell rang and Pa went to answer it. Probably Joan, Kath thought.

  ‘There’s a man on the doorstep asking for Kath,’ he called.

  ‘Hello there.’ She looked down at Vic’s suitcase. ‘Are you moving in?’

  Confusion flooded his face. ‘Mr Brunetti gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, shuffling his feet. ‘We’re all being evacuated. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Sorry, I was just being silly,’ she said, blushing. ‘We’ve all been laid off, too. It’s lovely of you to find me. Will you come in?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Sorry, my train goes at three. I’m not sure there’s time.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk to the station with you.’ It was all so sudden. ‘Let me get my jacket.’

  They walked in silence at first. What was there to say? They were not officially girlfriend and boyfriend, and they would probably never see each other again. They rounded the corner, and the station came in sight.

  ‘Do you know . . .’ she said, and at the same time he started: ‘I hope you . . .’

  ‘You first,’ she said, laughing.

  He paused, then, ‘I don’t want to leave you, now we’ve just met.’

  ‘Me neither, but we can write, can’t we?’

  His face brightened. ‘You’d like to? That’d mean a lot.’

  ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ve got your address now, so I’ll write just as soon as I know.’

  The train was steaming up, and the clock above the platform read nearly three o’clock. ‘You’d better get on board.’

  He took her hand, lifting it to his lips like an old-fashioned gentleman.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Kath.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Here, take this.’ She pressed into his hand a small paper bag containing two pieces of the carrot cake she’d baked over the weekend.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  She nodded.

  His face, so serious until now, melted into the sweetest smile. At the other end of the platform, she could see the stationmaster lifting the whistle to his lips.

  Vic climbed on board and leaned out of the window, waving until the train went around the curve and out of sight. It was only then that Kath realised that she was standing in precisely the same place where she’d first met him. She hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.

  October 1939

  Dear Kath,

  I hope you are well and pray you and your family are all safe. Please write soon and reassure me.

  I’ve just written ‘pray’ although of course I don’t ever really do that in the formal sense. Apart from anything else, my mixed background leaves me confused about who to pray to: the single Christian god, or the several dozen of the Hindu type, each of which has several forms? My favourite is the elephant god, Ganesh, who is famous for removing obstacles. Elephants are immensely strong and used for heavy lifting, so that makes sense. He’s also the patron saint of letters, which is slightly odder, since although they are fabled to be wise and have very long memories I’ve never met an elephant who could wield a pen in his trunk, but I shall dedicate this one to him all the same.

  Work is fine but we don’t get out much up here, and anyway there’s not much to get out to. Just the pub inhabited by ancient hobgoblins who speak in an incomprehensible tongue and drink beer so watered down that the description ‘pale ale’ has never been more appropriate. I’ve taken to whisky, following my father’s example.

  In these remote, pale-skinned parts they’ve never seen anyone like me before. The children dare each other to run up and touch me, to see if I’m real, and then dash away giggling. They must think I’m some evil wizard or something. For a while I took to telling them my dark skin gives me special powers and I could make their wishes come true. But that backfired when a little lad made me promise to bring his daddy home safe.

  My special powers are now producing sweets from behind my ears. It’s safer that way, and just as popular. I pity any other brown people arriving here in future – I’m a hard act to follow.

  We are well away from the fray, which leaves me with a conflict of feelings: guilt that I am not doing something more active to fight the Hun, and relief that I don’t have to endure the misery of barracks life, parade grounds and the rest. Can you imagine me, trying to march, when I can barely tell my right from my left? I’d be a disaster as a soldier.

  My only real discomfort in this war is the food here, which is worse than awful. My goodness, how I miss your carrot cake. But more than that, Kath, I miss you, and our conversations. Getting to know you has helped me recover from losing Johnnie, and I’m quite miserable now we’ve been parted.

  Please write back, c/o the post office number at the top of this letter.

  Your friend,

  Vic

  November 1939

  Dear Vic,

  Thank you for your letter. Don’t worry, we are perfectly safe, although the war came pretty close to home when a ship got hit by a mine in Harwich Harbour and more than fifty poor sailors died. Apart from that, nothing exciting is happening here, except for people digging up the parks to plant vegetables. The beaches are off limits, covered with barbed wire and mined, apparently. Pill boxes seem to spring up like mushrooms. They’ve even blown up part of my beloved pier. It’s horrible. I hate this war already.

  We have a young Cockney woman with her two-month-old baby billeted with us after being evacuated from London. She’s perfectly nice but the baby cries all night which is making everyone tired and tetchy! She’s sad, of course, because she misses her family and her husband is away in France. Yesterday when we read the news of the latest defeat she said, ‘I wonder what kind of world I’m bringing this lad into.’ At least we only have ourselves to worry about.

  Ma and I have been job hunting but there’s nothing around so we do our best, cooking for the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service. They’ve even tried to teach me how to knit socks and woollies for ‘our boys’ but I’m hopeless and keep having to unravel everything and start again. Perhaps crochet is the best thing for me, although the very word makes me feel like an ancient maiden aunt.

  Your letter made me laugh. I can just imagine the ‘hobgoblins’ in the pub. The encyclopaedia I looked up in at the library says they’re ‘a mischievous and ugly fairy, sometimes portrayed as small, hairy little men’. Come to think of it, there are plenty of those in the pubs around here, too.

  Fondest regards,

  Kath

  Ever since they’d started corresponding
, she had struggled to find the right words for her sign-off. ‘With regards’ was too cool. ‘With love’ was too warm. ‘Best wishes’ was too distant, and sounded like a birthday card. He had cleverly chosen ‘Your friend, Vic’, which seemed to strike exactly the right note. She plumped for ‘Fondest regards’, which also seemed to work well.

  Apart from that day on the Cliff Walk, neither of them had ever mentioned love, not in any serious way; but she missed him more than she’d ever imagined.

  PART TWO:

  WAR

  18

  May 1940

  It was Dunkirk that really brought home to Kath that they were properly at war.

  Although the wireless news reported on the progress – or lack of it – of the Expeditionary Force, and the number of casualties seemed to be mounting, somehow it all felt very far away. As far as she knew, none of her friends were over there.

  Dunkirk was different. Fishermen left Felixstowe and Harwich in their little boats and returned as heroes, but two of the crews never made it home. They were the first local civilian casualties of the war, and the Ferry Boat Inn flew its flag at half-mast. No matter how the politicians tried to play it, everyone knew it had been a disaster.

  Lately she’d begun to recognise the faces of lads she’d known at school returning to the town, war-weary and aged beyond their years. Ma’s nursing friend said the convalescent hospital was full of them, and some were so badly injured – with missing limbs or facial disfigurements – you knew that their lives would never be the same. It was shocking to see them hanging around in the park, clasping bottles of booze concealed in brown paper bags. Some even resorted to begging, a pitiful sight. At midday, just before opening time, they could be found queuing outside the pubs, eager to spend the proceeds of the townsfolk’s generosity on drinking their memories into oblivion.

  One day, when walking home through the park, she spied a face she recognised, although the thick-rimmed spectacles she remembered had been replaced with sunglasses.