The Way Ahead

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘What’s funny?’ he asked.

  ‘You are,’ she said, ‘your trousers have fallen down, and you look so comical in your shirt, with your trousers collapsing.’ And she laughed again. Then she shrieked. ‘Luke! What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to get hold of your pants,’ said Luke.

  ‘No, no! I’m in uniform! It’s not permitted! Luke!’

  ‘Now who’s laughing?’

  ‘Let go! Luke! Oh, you terrible man, you’re uncivilized!’

  ‘Stop kicking, I’ve let go,’ said Luke.

  ‘Oh. Have you? But look at my skirt.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be there,’ said Luke. ‘Get it off.’

  She sat up on the bed. He was stepping out of his trousers. A little smile showed itself on her flushed face.

  ‘A man in his shirt and socks, oh, that is really comical,’ she said, and laughed again.

  ‘Well, let’s see how comical this is,’ he said, and leaned over.

  ‘Luke! Oh, I’ll divorce you! Luke, let go!’

  Eloise did not know why she loved this rugged, purposeful soldier so much, or why his infamous conduct became exciting instead of abominable.

  Still, she put up a fight for the sake of appearances and for experiencing exhilaration.

  However, since masculine muscle always took unfair advantage over a female, Eloise allowed herself a muffled yell of defeat, then became a happy loser.

  Colonel Lucas permitted himself a reminiscent smile as he marched in the van of his contingent, Tim beside him, a long-established comrade by now, a tough and efficient Commando, a survivor of ferocious raids on the enemy and, to his great credit, the victor in an escape attempt from the Germans in Benghazi. It was damned good to have him as a brother-in-law and as his deputy in what lay ahead of them.

  Tim was thinking of his own wife, Felicity, once an ATS officer attached to 4 Commando at Troon. For her, the war struck its bitterest blow on the night a bomb destroyed her eyesight. But what a woman in the way she’d fought the handicap of blindness, and what a relief it was to know she was living with Rosie. Rosie’s life with her children and Felicity, according to her last letter, was as much fun as she could expect in the absence of Matthew. It was like Rosie, thought Tim, to be able to extract fun from a life in which she not only had a small boy and an infant girl to look after, but a blind sister-in-law as well. In that letter, however, she assured him Felicity was far from helpless.

  Believe me, Tim love, Felicity’s courage and her sense of humour have made her a lovely companion and a boon. She’s overcome the worst of her disadvantages. As you know, we’ve a new lot of chickens, and you should see her take Giles by the hand, lead him out of the kitchen and up to the chicken run. She knows exactly where the run is, she tells me it’s easy, by the number of steps she takes and by judging how close she is to the clucking. She makes distance and hearing her guide. I’m proud of her, and I know it goes without saying that you are too. She’s always at her chirpiest when we’re talking about you. She loves you, you lucky man, so take care always.

  Tim wondered how his wife was after their purposeful get-together last month. She’d written, through Rosie, to tell him she’d enjoyed his letter, but had said nothing about her condition. Well, it was too soon, he supposed. When would she know if she was pregnant or not? And if it turned out she was, a bloke had to ask himself again, exactly how would a blind mother cope with an infant, including changing nappies? She had said she could and would.

  Good luck, Puss. You’re one of life’s great girls.

  He knew what Grandma Finch would say about her.

  ‘Your Felicity, Tim, I never admired anyone more, but she’s an Adams now, of course.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  PILOT OFFICER NICK Harrison awoke to a knock on the bedroom door. His night had been a fractured one, violent dreams of falling and plunging aircraft repeatedly bringing him out of sleep until with dawn approaching he lapsed into deep and welcome slumber.

  Awake now, he stirred himself into awareness of his surroundings, whitewashed walls adorned with religious paintings, mostly of Madonna and Child. A Catholic house. Was it only a little over two weeks ago that he had been with Annabelle? Damn it that on only his second combat mission following his return to Italy, he’d let a Messerschmitt down him. In his time as a fighter pilot, he’d chalked up ten victories, but had been downed three times. One sea landing, one crash-landing and now this.

  Knuckles rapped on his door again, and it opened. His Good Samaritan showed herself, fully dressed in her black headscarf, white blouse and black skirt.

  ‘Ah, I disturbed you?’ she said, her Italian good looks fresh with morning, while he felt bleary and unshaven.

  ‘It’s late?’ he said.

  ‘I knocked an hour ago,’ she said, ‘and saw you were very much asleep. So I left you. You were very tired, yes? Of course. But I have to tell you I must go in a few minutes and begin my day’s work at the school. There is coffee keeping hot for you in the kitchen, and some bread with dried figs. It is not much, and the coffee should be drunk with not too much complaint. You understand, Inglese?’

  ‘I understand that what little you’ve got in the way of food, you’re sharing with me,’ said Nick, and sat up, bare-chested.

  From the doorway, Caterina Angeli observed him, a man of lean muscular physique who belonged to the famed RAF. Even the most arrogant Germans had a respect for the RAF.

  ‘Your leg is not hurting too much this morning?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a lot happier,’ said Nick. She had fetched a doctor to him last night, and the doctor had made an excellent job of stitching the wound, the while prattling cheerfully away in Italian. But he asked no questions, either in Italian or English, and bestowed an encouraging pat on the patient’s shoulder when he left. ‘My leg, in fact, feels as good as new.’

  ‘But not to jump about on it, eh?’ said Caterina. ‘To rest it, I think, would be best. See, you must not go out, anyway, or show yourself, and I will look at the dressing this evening.’

  ‘You can take it from me, I’m happy to wait here until some of our advance units show up,’ said Nick. He was hoping the Allied forces were knocking holes in the stubborn Germans, who were, he knew, contesting the issue grimly in a slow, fighting retreat to the Adolf Hitler line. There was no rout, nothing in the nature of a headlong retreat. The German Army was not like that, and the Waffen-SS divisions were made up of fanatics who never gave an inch.

  ‘I will try to bring you some news,’ said Caterina. ‘We have been robbed of our radios, as well as many other things, but there are still some hidden radios on which friends can listen to Allied broadcasts. Ah, a moment, Inglese.’ She disappeared. She returned with a man’s dressing-gown and placed it over Nick’s bed. ‘There, you can be lazy in that and dress later. Be careful now and do not answer the door if anyone comes.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Nick.

  ‘Once, doors were open, not closed,’ said Caterina.

  ‘I understand that too,’ said Nick. ‘The war’s changing habits and people.’ He thought of the pre-war years in Walworth, where ‘Open Sesame’ in the form of a latchcord was a feature of many homes, and his mother’s only worry was what her erring husband might do next. ‘Have a peaceful day with your pupils, signora.’

  ‘Yes?’ Caterina smiled. ‘I hope so. Ciao, Inglese.’

  ‘Ciao, signora,’ said Nick.

  She left. He heard her ride off on her creaking bicycle, after which there was silence, a silence that was all very well in its way, but told him nothing about what was happening south of the village. There were no sounds of gunfire or air activity, at least none close enough to be heard. He estimated, from the position of the German artillery the Beaufighters had attacked yesterday, that the Allied forces in this region were locked in battle with the retreating enemy some twenty miles south of Asconi. That retreat was governed by the Germans’ determination not to be overrun before they reached their Adolf Hitl
er line, the line intended to prevent the Allies beginning an advance on Rome.

  Nick sank back, lay inert for a while, then slipped from the bed to face a day of waiting inactivity. He went down to fix the catch on the lock of the front door, checked that the back door was bolted, then washed in the bathroom, the water only lukewarm. His chin was bristly. A man’s shaving kit in an old leather case lay on the shelf below the mirror. That, of course, belonged to her late husband. Was there any price to pay for using a dead man’s brush and razor?

  Well, thought Nick, unless I shave I’ll feel rough all day. He picked the brush from the case. The bristles were dry, very dry, a sign that they hadn’t been used for some time. He saw a shaving mug which contained a residue of soft soap that had become discoloured. He wet the brush under the tap, dipped it into the mug, applied it to the soap, created lather and covered his chin. He gave himself a welcome shave. Cleaning his chin, he heard a faint noise. The bathroom overlooked the street. He moved to the little shuttered window and took a cautious look through the slats. A hatless man with black curly hair, and wearing a dark suit, was approaching the house, disappearing from Nick’s sight as he came close. Nick stayed still and listened, waiting for a knock on the front door. Nothing happened. He strained his ears and caught the sounds of the man moving about. The sounds arrived at the back door, and Nick was sure there was a careful turning of the handle and an attempt to enter. The door, however, was bolted. Feet faintly trod hard surface, and after a minute or so Nick, still at the little window, saw the visitor reappear and make his way back down the street.

  If the bloke was a friend or neighbour, thought Nick, he would have known the lady of the house was at the school, and that it was useless to knock. So what had he come for? To do a brief scouting job around the house on behalf of the German authorities?

  What am I, thought Nick, a suspect presence?

  However, the rest of the day was uninterrupted, and he was able to put his feet up and rest his gashed leg.

  The sound of the rusty bicycle heralded the return of Caterina Angeli from the village school. Nick had let the catch down on the front door lock, but he made no attempt to let her in. It would have meant showing himself, even if only for a second or so. The front door was visible to the last house on the other side of the street, although it was some way down. His Good Samaritan’s abode stood very much on its own.

  She came into the house, standing her bike in the little hall, and entered the kitchen, taking her headscarf off as she did so, and fluffing her wealth of hair.

  ‘Come va, Inglese?’ she said with a smile. How’s it going? Nick managed to interpret.

  ‘All quiet,’ he said, ‘except there was a morning visitor.’ He told her about the man, and described him. Caterina’s warm brown eyes sparked.

  ‘A snake,’ she said, ‘a secret fascist. Enrico Bonetti. One of those who still support Mussolini and Hitler. Everyone else is much happier to support the Allies. Someone, perhaps, saw you coming over the fields. Whispers here reach many ears, but because we are now against Germany no-one would betray you, except a man like Enrico Bonetti, and then he would have to be sure and also careful. Other men would strangle him if it was known he betrayed an RAF man to the Germans here. We must do nothing that will give him a chance to know you are in this house.’

  ‘Signora, I think I should go,’ said Nick.

  ‘No, no.’ Caterina was vigorously against that. ‘I will tell some of my friends to watch the snake. My Pietro would never forgive me if I sent you away. I will go now and speak to some of my friends.’

  ‘You’ll tell them I’m here?’ said Nick.

  ‘I will tell them anything but that,’ said Caterina. ‘Inglese, to help you rejoin your comrades will be an honour for me.’

  ‘If it turns unpleasant,’ said Nick, ‘it’ll be a running job for both of us. We’ll take your honour and my safety first instincts with us. After all, we both value your honour and I respect my cowardice.’

  Caterina laughed.

  ‘Ah, you are an amusing man, Inglese,’ she said. ‘Now I will go.’

  Out she went, and her bike jangled and creaked as she rode away.

  When she returned, she informed Nick that certain of her friends would keep a watch on Enrico Bonetti. It would not go on for long, she said, because the news was that the Germans were being pushed back and that the Allies would liberate this region in a day or so.

  ‘That’s the kind of news I like,’ said Nick.

  ‘I shall take you to your comrades when they arrive, and watch them embrace you,’ said Caterina.

  ‘They’re all hairy,’ said Nick, ‘so tell them to leave out any kisses.’

  Caterina laughed again.

  ‘Inglese, I like you,’ she said, ‘so let us drink some wine together, and then I will find some food for both of us.’

  ‘I know beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Nick, ‘but I’ll duck any more figs. I had some for lunch as well as for breakfast.’

  That amused Caterina very much.

  At home, Annabelle came out of her sleep halfway through the night, and found herself wide awake. She slipped from the bed and drew the curtains apart. She looked out at the darkness. The night was wild, she could hear the wind gusting, and the window transmitted a coldness that belonged more to March than May. The weather was suffering fits of temper that were making the month a disappointing one.

  Was it like this in Italy, was the weather there of a kind to keep RAF squadrons grounded? How many more combat missions did Nick have to get through before RAF Command brought him down from the sky?

  In the South of England, the concentrated formations of men and armour awaited the day of assault.

  ‘Hope to Christ it’s not as rough as it bloody well is now.’

  ‘They’ll no’ send us if half of us are going to sink.’

  ‘Listen, Jock, if I get seasick, I won’t care if I sink or not.’

  ‘Aye, ye’re a cheerful laddie, Willy. Have a wee sup.’

  ‘Is that your flask?’

  ‘Aye, and a wee sup, I said, nae more.’

  ‘God bless you, Jock, I’ll buy you a French haggis for Christmas.’

  ‘New Year, Willy, New Year.’

  ‘Your say-so, Jock. Hang on to your kilt.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday, 19 May

  ‘MAISIE?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’ said Mrs Maisie Finch.

  ‘What happened?’ asked her husband, Edwin Finch.

  ‘You’ve been working too hard,’ she said gently. He was seventy, the silver in his hair advancing rapidly. But he was still a man of distinguished looks. A gentleman. He should have retired from his Government job years ago, but once the war began in 1939 he had said, quite firmly, that he would not give up his work until Hitler and his Nazi thugs were destroyed. Chinese Lady often thought the Government ought to enforce his retirement, but she had no idea his actual work was for British Intelligence, and that as a cypher specialist he was second to none. He had spent the whole winter of ’43–44 at Bletchley Park, the nerve centre of cypher intelligence, returning to his department in London at the beginning of April. He was a tired man by then.

  Today, a Government staff car had brought him home in the early afternoon. A doctor was with him. He had collapsed on his way to lunch, from mental and physical exhaustion, the medical man said. He was to rest for a week, in his bed, and was not to get up except for ablutions. Here are some tablets. He is to take three each day at intervals of four hours. His local doctor has been advised, and will call, if necessary. Rest, Mrs Finch, is his primary need. There’s no real ailment apart from exhaustion.

  Chinese Lady was shocked. Edwin was so pale, so weak. The doctor helped to get him to bed. It was now gone four, and she had been sitting with him for nearly two hours, watching him doze, watching him come awake every so often, when he said something, something irrelevant and she spoke reassuringly in return. She had loved her first husband, Daniel
Adams, a corporal in the West Kent Regiment and long since gone from her life. For Edwin, the kindest of men and the most understanding of husbands, she had a deep abiding affection, and it pained her to think he might be failing. She was holding his hand which lay on the bedcover, watching him as his eyes closed again.

  But he said from faraway, ‘The wheels are running down, Maisie.’

  ‘They need a rest, Edwin, that’s all.’ She hoped that really was all. ‘It’s the war, my dear, it’s made your work tiring and nerve-racking for you.’

  A murmur from him, again as if his mind was faraway.

  ‘There’s a hopeful dawn coming, Maisie.’

  ‘Edwin? What hopeful dawn?’

  ‘Did I say something, Maisie?’ His voice was suddenly stronger.

  ‘You said there’s a hopeful dawn coming.’

  ‘Did I?’ He sounded like a man who had committed an indiscretion. He knew what was happening in areas of the South Coast. ‘Let us hope for the hopeful,’ he said, and with that innocuous comment he lapsed back into a doze.

  Chinese Lady, still holding his hand, sat there and reflected on her life with him in peace and war. There was no time when he had not been a quiet strength and an unfailing support to herself and the family, more especially during these years of war. The country and its people had endured a cruel war, the people constantly in mourning for the casualties of sea, land and air battles, and air raids. Edwin, however, had never wavered in his belief that, given time and allies, the Empire would win the last battles of all. And lately he had been a happy and confident man in that respect. He must have been listening a lot to the wireless. Well, their own wireless, which had been a source of aggravation to her for years with its gloom and its unending talk about Hitler, had at last been consistently cheerful about the tide of war turning in favour of the Allies. The Russians, in winning back huge tracts of lost territory, had smashed great holes in German armies, the Americans were winning the war in the Pacific, the British 14th Army in Burma was inflicting on Japanese armies their worst casualties of the war, and the Royal Navy was hunting and destroying German U-boats week after week. Hitler was in his lair, foaming at the mouth. Well, the wireless didn’t actually say that, but some newspapers did, which gave Chinese Lady the satisfaction of a woman who had long thought Hitler the kind of man who ought never to have been born.