Howard came at once, and was led by Mrs Kennard into her husband’s study where Isabel Neville awaited him, clasping her hands tightly together. She motioned him to sit down at the curate’s desk; he looked pale and had lost weight.
‘You’ll have guessed why I’ve asked to speak with you, Mr Allingham,’ she said. ‘Thanks be to God that you’ve returned safely – and have you any news of Lieutenant Storey? Had you seen him at all lately?’
Howard Allingham wished with all his heart that he had positive news for her, but he shook his head. ‘No, Lady Neville, I did not see him, but neither did I see him among the – the dead or badly injured. It was difficult to recognise anybody in the confusion.’
He closed his eyes briefly as he remembered the noise of gunfire, the dead bodies and parts of bodies that had to be trodden underfoot as the surviving men made their way into the water and towards the waiting boats.
‘I’m deeply sorry, Lady Neville, that I have no news for you.’
‘Or of Lieutenant Bannister?’
He shook his head.
‘It must have been hell for you all.’
He shrugged at the memory of the stench of death, the groans of the fallen.
‘Thank you, Mr Allingham,’ she said, rising. ‘Your parents must be rejoicing. Please convey my compliments to them. And now I must return to the ladies. Good afternoon.’
‘Lady Neville.’ He made a brief bow.
Mrs Kennard had told the members of the Ladies’ Knitting Circle to avoid the subject of Operation Dynamo, and to treat Lady Neville with their usual respectful friendliness, not alluding to the war as she gave out the thick grey yarn for them to knit for the forces, and collected the finished items, the gloves, scarves, balaclava helmets and sea-boot stockings for which there was a particular demand, she told them. Philip Saville provided a discreet musical background to their conversations, choosing Brahms’ Lullaby and Solveig’s Song from Peer Gynt; as he played he imagined the notes rising up like prayers for this brave woman who was keeping her emotions under iron self-control.
A telephone rang in Alan Kennard’s study, and the room fell silent as Mrs Kennard rose to answer it. Philip changed his choice of music to the old American song ‘Shenandoah’, playing it quietly and slowly.
The ladies looked up as Mrs Kennard returned from the study, holding the door open.
‘It’s a call for you, Lady Neville. Sir Cedric is asking to speak with you.’ She gestured towards the open door, and Isabel rose with hope and fear in her eyes. The ladies silently awaited for her return, while Philip continued to play ‘Shenandoah’, giving it a special poignancy and tenderness. Mrs Kennard put a finger to her lips, and rose quickly when Isabel Neville came back into the room, white-faced and shaking. They all held their breath.
‘My son’s in hospital at Southampton,’ she whispered. ‘He’s alive and – and coming home!’ She almost fell into Joan Kennard’s arms as the flood tide of repressed emotion broke through her self-control, and she sobbed out her joy, her relief and thankfulness. There were sympathetic tears in the room as Philip continued to play, turning the melancholy old song into a hymn of rejoicing in which some of the ladies spontaneously joined.
‘Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, you rolling river!
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
Away, I’m bound away –
’Cross the wide Missouri!’
Somehow the quaint, unexplained words fitted the occasion, and stayed in every woman’s memory of that summer afternoon.
Rebecca was called to the farm telephone to be told the news.
‘He got left behind with Geoffrey Bannister who walked miles with a machine-gun bullet embedded in his right foot,’ her mother explained in a voice that shook. ‘They finally got picked up two days later by a lifeboat that crossed the Channel and eventually they were taken to Southampton General Hospital. Geoffrey’s foot was septic, and he was feverish and delirious, and Paul waited until his parents arrived, and then telephoned us. Oh, Rebecca, he’s coming home to us! He’s coming home!’
‘Thank God, Mother. And do we know anything more about Geoffrey?’
‘Paul says he’s very ill with blood-poisoning, and may have to lose that foot, so we can only wait and hope. I don’t know if you’ll want to visit him, Becky, or whether—’
‘Thank you, Mother. I’ll visit on Sunday when I get the day off.’
It was potty time, and Valerie braced herself as a row of two- and three-year-olds were seated on the white enamel pots provided for their use after mealtimes. Some sat down obediently, used to toilet training, but others loudly protested and struggled. Nurse King would stand no nonsense, and ordered Miss Pearson to hold down Georgie Tonks firmly until he did his job, as the process was called at The Limes.
‘We need to save nappies, Miss Pearson! And it’s a disgrace that boy isn’t yet trained at three years old!’
Valerie hated potty time, and tried to whisper placating words to the naughty boy, telling him that if he did a wee-wee or poo-poo in the potty, he would be allowed to go outside and play on the lawn of The Limes in the sunshine. Apart from Nurse King who was in charge of staff and children alike, the assistants addressed each other as Miss or Mrs So-and-So, while the children had to say ‘Auntie’ followed by their Christian names. Auntie Valerie was the oldest and the least experienced, relying on Nurse King’s sharp tongue to instruct her, and copying the other assistants.
The Limes had been a large and imposing family residence in the early years of the century, the home of an Everham general practitioner; it had now been taken over by the Red Cross as a centre for the training of Red Cross nursing assistants who learnt First Aid and basic nursing skills in the event of an air raid, when The Limes would become a rest centre for the injured and homeless. At the present time most of the ground floor was being used as a crèche for under-five children whose mothers worked at the munitions factory a mile out of Everham. The children were mainly from the poorer classes, though a few doughty housewives from the residential area worked as factory supervisors, and their children tended to be better fed, better dressed and better behaved than the sometimes malodorous products of the council estate. Valerie Pearson felt as if she had been pushed in at the deep end of child care, and would hardly have survived a week of Nurse King’s tongue and the strict routine of mealtimes, potty times and playtimes if she had not been determined to justify Lady Neville’s efforts on her behalf, and picturing John Richardson’s surprise – and admiration? – when he heard of this change in her life. She’d heard that he had been with the survivors from Dunkirk, but so far he had sent no word to her.
Mary Goddard was surprised to see the curate’s wife on the doorstep, all smiles.
‘Mrs Goddard! It seems a long time since we last met. May I have a word with you? It’s all good news, I promise!’
‘Well, yes, all right – come in, Mrs – er – Kennard.’ Mary stood aside and showed her visitor into the old-fashioned farmhouse parlour, indicating an armchair. She sat herself down on a sagging sofa with antimacassars over the back and arms, hoping that she was not going to be invited to join the Ladies’ Circle.
‘We hear that your Dora has gone to join the ATS, Mrs Goddard,’ said Joan Kennard, privately shocked to see how Mary had aged. ‘Am I allowed to ask where she’s stationed, or is it all hush-hush?’
‘She went to the reception centre at Lynchford for the first two weeks, with a dozen other girls who had to sleep in a long hut with not much hot water for washing,’ Mary said dully. ‘They had to drill and collect their khaki uniforms, and sign for their own knife, fork, spoon and mug to take to the canteen, and wash them up afterwards.’
‘Mercy on us, what a change for those girls,’ marvelled Mrs Kennard. ‘And I expect you miss her very much, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we do, Mrs Kennard,’ said Mary with a sigh. ‘Now she’s been sent to a Maintenance Unit, they call it, near Gloucester, to train i
n electrics and wireless.’
‘Good for her – and isn’t it a miracle that so many of our men were rescued from Dunkirk!’ Joan went on eagerly. ‘Lady Neville’s son Paul finally reached these shores with a badly injured friend, otherwise the news has been better than expected. The rector’s son, Howard Allingham, has made it home, you must tell your Dora; they had many a game of tennis on the North Camp courts this time last year, so she’ll be glad to hear he got away.’
Alan Kennard had instructed his wife to pass on this piece of information, which was the real purpose of her visit. ‘Dora must be missed on the farm, too,’ she added.
‘Yes, but Lady Neville’s daughter has come here as a land girl, and according to Sidney she’s as good as a man – but there’s no pleasing Billy Yeomans.’
Joan Kennard smiled. ‘If I know Rebecca Neville, she can stand up to Billy! Well, I’ll be on my way. Do let Dora know about the boys – and you know you’d be welcome to join our Wednesday afternoon circle at any time.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Kennard. Good of you to call.’
‘Auntie Vally! Auntie Vally!’ howled naughty little Georgie Tonks, running up to Valerie with outstretched arms, wanting to be picked up. Nurse King was not in sight, so Valerie lifted him in her arms and tried to find out what was the matter. Straying into the strictly forbidden territory of the flower garden, he had tripped over an inverted flower pot and fallen headlong into a prickly rose-bush. He knew he would get no sympathy from Nurse King, so turned to Auntie Vally who comforted him as well as she could; she carried him indoors to the washroom and gently dabbed moist cotton-wool over his scratches, smiling and telling him he would soon be better. He calmed down and put his arms around her neck, pressing his dirty face, wet with tears and runny nose, against hers.
‘I loves ’oo, Auntie Vally,’ he told her.
Which made Valerie Pearson wonder what it must feel like to be a mother.
‘Got a late pass tonight, Dora, so let’s get the bus into Gloucester and see Gone With The Wind! They say Clark Gable’s kisses set your knickers on fire!’
‘No fear, Gwen – when I get a midnight pass, I don’t spend it sitting in a cinema swooning over a film star, I go dancing! There’s a dance on at the NAAFI canteen on Friday, and Pip – that’s Sergeant Seagrave who’s giving me driving lessons – has asked if I’ll go with him.’
Gwen sighed. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Dora, you’re a real femme fatale. People would never guess you were a farmer’s daughter up from the country!’
‘That’s ’cause I’ve got a lot to catch up on,’ chuckled her friend. They sat on a wooden bench by the Maintenance Unit at Inchcombe, enjoying a lunch break in the June sunshine. The Royal Engineers occupied the barracks to one side of the MU, and the ATS were lodged in the hutted camp on the other; both male and female staff were employed in the MU workrooms, and Dora was one of six girls training in the Electrical and Wireless Technology section, for which they had to wear thick navy overalls. She found the work challenging but fascinating, and was becoming quite adept at dismantling, cleaning and servicing the generators; her lecture notebooks with their complicated diagrams had actually been remarked on favourably by the Warrant Officer in charge.
‘Look out, there’s our NCO coming this way, we’d better salute,’ warned Gwen, and both girls stood, to receive a sour look from the uniformed lady who did not return the salute.
‘I never know when you should or shouldn’t,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s if they’re in uniform and so are you, salute – but if one or other is in civvies, I suppose it’s salute if in doubt!’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Dora with a rueful grin. ‘What about Shirley Corbett when she stretched herself out on that grassy bank behind the huts, took off her cap, undid her buttons, and dozed off – and woke up with a start to see this WO glaring down at her! Poor old Shirley sat up and saluted, which made things worse, and she ended up on a charge of “wilful neglect toward the King’s uniform” and got six evenings in a row of cookhouse duty, which is no joke – you have to scour those heavy pans with food baked onto them, it’s as hot as hell, and you’re up to your ankles in cockroaches and the pong of the bins of pig swill—’
‘Stop, stop!’ said her friend with a shudder. ‘Whatever would our families say if they could hear all this? My mother would have a fit.’
‘So would mine – whoops, it’s time we got back to our beautiful shed – come on!’
Back at work, Dora smiled to herself. Joining up was the best move she had ever made. The tyranny of Billy Yeomans and the irritation of his wife were forgotten in this new environment of hard but interesting work, the camaraderie of her colleagues, the jokes and the laughter – and the prospect of going to a dance on Friday evening with Pip Seagrave, whose kisses might not be like Clark Gable’s, but at least he was real and not a shadow on a screen.
These thoughts recalled to her mind the letter she had received from Mum yesterday. Rebecca Neville was more than a match for the farmer by the sound of things; and there was the news that most of the North Camp boys had got back safely from Dunkirk, including Howard Allingham. Poor Howard. Ought she to write to him and say she was glad about his escape? In the end she decided not to run the risk of raising his hopes, and simply asked her mother to convey her good wishes.
With the fall of France, Prime Minister Mr Churchill reminded his countrymen that Britain now stood alone against the might of the Third Reich. Families gathered around their wireless sets to hear the man who on his accession to office had promised them nothing but ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat’. Now with an invasion looming, he sternly told them to brace themselves to do their duty. As if his words addressed every listener personally, he promised that the British would defend their island, fighting on the landing-grounds, in the streets, the fields and the hills. ‘We will never surrender,’ he said solemnly.
Listening to this man, Mrs Pearson lost her fear of Lord Haw-Haw. Even now that Valerie worked every day at the Everham crèche, her mother had discovered that she was not old, only in her fifties and able to do the shopping and set a meal on the table each evening when Valerie returned at around six, tired but on the whole satisfied with her day’s work.
One evening when they had just finished supper, they heard a ring at the doorbell, followed by the sound of footsteps going round the house to the open kitchen door. The visitor walked in uninvited and Valerie’s heart missed a beat: he was Corporal John Richardson in his uniform!
‘Ladies!’ He made a low, theatrical bow before them. ‘My belated greetings to you both! My father foolishly omitted to tell me of the change at the shop, and how you’d gone off on your war effort, Miss Pearson. Something about a kids’ nursery, he said.’
Valerie blushed, and her heart beat fast. ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I help to look after young children whose mothers are working at the munitions factory.’
‘And I keep house while she’s away, so that’s my war effort,’ said Mrs Pearson. There was a short pause, and Valerie added shyly, ‘We were very thankful that you got away safely from Dunkirk, John.’
‘Yes, it was fairly horrendous, treading on the bodies of your comrades to get to the boats, so as to be saved for another go at the Jerries,’ he replied with a grim smile meant to impress them. ‘And before I get whisked away again, Valerie, I’ve come to ask if you’d like to see Gone With The Wind at the Everham Embassy. Are you free on Saturday evening?’
‘Oh, er, well, yes, thank you,’ stammered Valerie, unsure whether this was real or a dream. ‘That would be very nice.’ She glanced at her mother who simply shrugged and asked Mr Richardson if he would like a cup of tea. Valerie thankfully got up and went to put the kettle on; it gave her a chance to compose herself and reflect on his sudden interest in her. He had been home for over a week, yet had not contacted her until now. Had he already been to see Rebecca who had refused his invitation? Yet what did it matter, he was asking her now, and she was happy to be his second or eve
n third choice.
Especially as he was soon to return to the front, and might not return …
It had been Lady Neville’s idea that Paul, Geoffrey’s proven friend, should drive Rebecca to Southampton and accompany her to the bedside. She also telephoned the Bannisters at their Shaftesbury home to tell them that Paul and Rebecca were intending to visit that Sunday.
They found Geoffrey in a single private room, having had a below-knee amputation of his right leg two days before; he was conscious but not completely aware of what had happened to him, and had no memory of that last journey from France. John Bannister, MP, and his wife were already there, looking pale and strained.
‘It was too far gone, and they were afraid that gangrene might set in,’ Mr Bannister told them quietly. ‘They say he could go either way now. He’s had a blood transfusion, and that’s a sugar and salt solution now running into a vein in his arm.’ He looked at Rebecca. ‘He’s been saying your name, so he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Neville. I must beg you not to – to disappoint him in any way.’
Rebecca nodded. She knew that she was expected to show only love and hopefulness to this young man whose life hung in the balance – and who, if he lived, would have to face life with only one leg. The war was over for Geoffrey Bannister.
She leant over the bed, her face close to his; his eyes were closed.
‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ she said quietly while his parents and her brother watched. He opened his eyes and saw her.
‘Rebecca.’
‘Yes, I’m Rebecca, and I’ve come to see you, Geoffrey,’ she whispered.
‘Rebecca, my love.’ The words were only just audible. His mother gave a gasp, and put her hand to her face.
‘Rebecca, my love,’ he repeated. ‘I’m ready to die now.’
‘Good God, dearest Geoffrey, my boy, you’re not dying!’ Mrs Bannister cried out, and her husband put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the room, soothing her into quietness, though she continued to weep silently. A nurse appeared with a syringe in a dish, and said she was about to give the patient a pain-relieving injection. He winced briefly as the needle entered his upper arm, and Rebecca held his hand.
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