A Family's Duty

by Maggie Bennett

‘Caspita! Che belleza!’ he murmured.

  ‘Adoro queste donne inglesi – sono cosi fiere, non trovi?’ another man said.

  She could not hear the words they exchanged, but guessed they were far from respectful, and did not turn back. They were, after all, no responsibility of hers.

  Life had been bad enough in Ward Three for Jack Nuttall, but as the weeks and months had gone by, surrounded by his fellow patients in ‘McIndoe’s Army’ as they called themselves, and braced by Smithy’s unsentimental philosophy, he had not fallen into the pit of despair, but had survived. His face and hands had healed, and his sight was now adequate, if not as good as it had been before the incident that had changed his life.

  But now, returned to his home and family, a Battle of Britain hero at twenty-one, his hope seemed lost and his courage had deserted him. It was worse than anything he had experienced at the Queen Victoria Hospital, where the people of East Grinstead were accustomed to seeing damaged faces, and where he could go down to the pub with a couple of other chaps from Ward Three, to be greeted by the barman as regulars, like the patrons who invited them to join a card game or help solve a crossword puzzle – or just talk about anything and everything – the war, their families, pets, memories of schooldays – just to be treated as fellow human beings. In North Camp it was so different. People stared or looked away hastily, a young child out with its mother screamed in terror, and a woman fainted. He was a freak, a Frankenstein’s monster to be feared by the ignorant and pitied by the more intelligent, and he did not know which was worse.

  He had to be firm, even stern with his mother who wanted to take him out with her, show him off to friends and neighbours, restored to his loved ones. She seemed unable to see the extent of her beloved son’s scars, though the rest of his family had to make an effort to see beyond them. Doreen would sit and talk to him for a while, but then would burst into tears and rush from the room. His grandfather forced a smile and tried to talk on everyday matters, but Jack could see that it was an effort, and could not avoid the deep pity in Tom’s eyes.

  Inevitably there was a violent altercation, like the erupting of a volcano.

  ‘It’s no good, Mum, I shan’t ever set foot in that bloody church again!’ he shouted at poor Grace Nuttall who had now set foot in St Peter’s for the first time in months.

  ‘But they’ll get used to it, dear, I know they will,’ she pleaded. ‘Just wait and see.’

  ‘Damn and blast their eyes, Mum, I couldn’t give a fuck whether they get used to me or not! Can’t you understand, I don’t want to see them, the bastards!’

  Grace winced at hearing these words from her good son. ‘But Jack, my love, my own dearest boy—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, woman. I wish I was back at East Grinstead.’

  She was shocked beyond tears, and his father intervened.

  ‘Tell you what, Jack, let’s go into the workshop, take a look at some o’ the jobs I’ve been doing lately,’ he said. ‘Repair jobs, mostly, but I’ve been amusing myself with a bit o’ carving. Come on, just you and me, eh?’

  And it was in the carpenter’s workshop that Jack poured out his misery, and Rob listened. Both men gave way to tears, but, as Rob said, that didn’t matter, there were only the two of them to see. Jack’s nostalgia for Ward Three struck his father as crucial, and an idea came to him.

  ‘How about asking this Smithy bloke to come and stay here for a weekend? He did you good at the Queen Victoria, and maybe he could do the same here.’

  Jack raised his head, and wiped a tear from his cheek. He looked at his father with incredulity mixed with longing.

  ‘I reckon he’s about the only person who could, Dad, if anybody can. But d’you think he’d come?’

  ‘Well, he’s been – er – damaged himself, isn’t he? And believe me, son, I’d make it worth his while!’

  For the faint light of hope that he now saw in Jack’s face, Rob Nuttall would have been willing to hand over every penny he possessed to this Smithy bloke, just to come to see his son.

  ‘We’ll write and ask him, get a letter posted off today,’ he promised, and as the tension in the atmosphere subsided, he showed Jack the woodcarvings he had been making in recent weeks when there had been few demands on his carpentry skills: doll’s house furniture, tables and chairs, a bed and a tiny rocking cradle.

  ‘All from wood left over from repair jobs, Jack. Like to try your hand at it? Doreen takes them to Thomas and Gibson’s, and Mr Richardson lets her sell them to customers. Maybe you’d like to try it, eh?’

  As a qualified aeronautical engineer, Jack was not drawn to toy-making, being far more interested in the request made to Smithy, so was much relieved when a prompt reply arrived. Smithy agreed at once to come to North Camp for the following weekend, and said he needed no other payment than a donation to Ward Three at the Queen Victoria Hospital.

  The news quickly spread around North Camp, and within twenty-four hours everybody knew that the rector’s son Lester was home on sick leave from the RAF. Various rumours followed, one that he had a fractured spine, another that he only had cuts and bruises. His parents were very protective of him, and he was not seen out of doors, even in July.

  Sharing the Rectory, Alan and Joan Kennard soon discovered that Lester had a fractured pelvis, but no spinal injury. He had to lie flat on a bed or settee, waited on hand and foot by his mother. When she came downstairs to tell Mrs Kennard that the children’s noise was preventing her son from resting as he should, Joan’s reaction was not entirely sympathetic. With barely two months to go before her confinement, she was in sole charge of Kenny and Danny who went unwillingly to St Peter’s school, and Josie played alone in the garden, watched by her mother from the kitchen window.

  ‘I can’t keep such young children quiet for a whole day and night,’ she said. ‘I suggest you keep the door to Lester’s room shut, and find something else for him to think about.’

  Affronted at such rudeness, Mrs Allingham stalked off, but it soon became clear that young Lester’s physical condition was matched by his mental attitude. He was restless, impatient and demanding; his mother was sent out to buy grapes and figs, only obtainable on the black market at a huge cost, and the rector quietly asked his curate to shop for Turkish cigars, whisky, two bottles of red wine and soda water. Alan Kennard agreed, while making it very clear to the wine merchant that these goods were for the Allinghams, not the Kennards.

  When Lester fretfully asked for former North Camp friends to be invited to visit him, he was disappointed when they all seemed to be in the services. He then asked after Barbara Seabrook, and his mother reluctantly told him that she worked in her father’s shop, whereupon he immediately asked her to go and invite Barbara to tea at the Rectory. Mrs Allingham was most unwilling, having always considered the girl common – a butcher’s daughter who had shamelessly pursued her son.

  ‘Once that young Miss gets over the threshold, she’ll lead him astray in every way,’ she told her husband. ‘Most unsuitable for Lester, especially in his present weak state.’

  ‘Mm,’ replied the rector. ‘I wonder what happened to that glamorous WAAF he brought home last time. No sign of her.’

  But Lester was insistent on seeing the girl he’d seduced so easily, and demanded to be helped downstairs where he could lie on a settee padded with cushions. Alan Kennard was willing to assist him down the stairs, but refused to go on such a personal errand for him, which meant that Agnes Allingham, much against her better judgement, had to walk to the Seabrooks’ shop, and inform Mrs Seabrook that Flight Lieutenant Allingham wished for her daughter to join him at tea. This interview took place in the Seabrooks’ parlour, and when Barbara was sent for, she came straight from the shop, still wearing her striped apron as she told Mrs Allingham that she sent her best wishes to Mr Lester for a speedy recovery, but had no wish to see him again. Mrs Seabrook was surprised at this answer, though not truly sorry, and after Mrs Allingham had indignantly left, she asked her daughter the reason
for the snub. The girl’s face was flushed, and she had tears in her eyes, but she silently shook her head. Suddenly her mother remembered that night last September when she had found her daughter collapsed in the lavatory, and without any further words she guessed the reason for it, and wondered why she had been so blind. Barbara had not confided in her at the time or since, and she decided that she would say nothing now.

  But it was not easy for Agnes Allingham to convey such a humiliating message to her son.

  Miss Stevenson was having a hard time trying to control herself. Teaching at St Peter’s Infant School had become a daily challenge to keep order among the evacuees. She kept telling herself that they were to be pitied, but she found it increasingly difficult to keep her temper, especially with Lily and Jimmy. Their impudence and foul language was being picked up by the other children, and Danny’s constant wail of ‘Wanna go ’ome!’ tried her patience. If only he could, she thought, though it must be far worse for poor Mrs Kennard at the Rectory, getting near to her confinement in this hot weather; her ankles were swollen and she seemed to frown more often that she smiled. Reflecting on this, Miss Stevenson told herself she should not complain. But that pair from Hassett Manor would try the patience of a saint …

  ‘Hey, you kids, d’you know why that Mrs Kennard’s swole up like a balloon? She’s got a baby in ’er belly!’

  The other young children were intrigued, not having yet confronted human reproduction.

  ‘An angel will come and hand her the baby,’ said one little girl.

  ‘No, it’s not an angel. Dr Stringer’ll bring it in his black bag,’ said another.

  ‘Gawd, don’t you kids know nothin’? It’s in ’er belly!’ repeated Lily.

  ‘How’ll it get out, then?’

  ‘Same ’ole as it went it, stupid!’ grinned Lily. ‘Mr Kennard put it in there when they was—’

  ‘Be quiet! You will not say another word, you naughty girl!’ cried Miss Stevenson, picturing the irate parents who would come to the school to complain about what their young children were being told. At the end of her patience, and fearing that she might break down and weep in front of them if she had to endure another minute, she dismissed the evacuees a quarter of an hour early. They needed no second bidding, and ran out into the sunshine, shouting, ‘Wanna go ’ome!’ amid shrieks of laughter.

  Miss Stevenson sat at her desk, holding her aching head between her hands; the remaining children watched her in silence. She did not hear the curate’s footsteps approaching.

  ‘Miss Stevenson! Are you all right? Where are the evacuees?’

  She raised her head. ‘Mr Kennard, I’m so sorry, I sent them out early today. I – I couldn’t stand them any longer.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘Oh, poor Miss Stevenson, you should have let me know. You need more help now that the school’s bursting at the seams – but where are Kenny and Danny? I don’t hear the usual howl.’

  ‘They’ve gone home, Mr Kennard, they’ve all gone.’

  ‘But where are they? I haven’t passed them on the road. Which way did they go? There’s no sign of them.’

  Unease turned to fear, and fear to panic. ‘Good heavens, we must go and find them at once,’ said Alan, picturing them lost and in danger of being run over.

  Outside they found Nick Grant, about to go home to Miss Temple. Alan seized him.

  ‘Where have the little ones gone, Nick? For God’s sake, where?’

  ‘They went that way, sir,’ said the boy, the oldest child in the school at ten years. He pointed in the direction of Yeomans’ Farm.

  ‘Nick, stay with these children until their mothers come for them. Come on, Miss Stevenson, they could be playing with farm machinery, for all Billy Yeomans will care. Let’s go down the Manor Road where we can see across the fields.’

  He broke into a run, and she followed him, now thoroughly alarmed and blaming herself for dismissing the children. Alan stopped at a stile in the hedge, and looked across the field of barley. He beckoned the teacher to come to his side and look.

  The children were staring at the shabby-looking men in dusty uniforms. Lily told the other three not to go too close and give themselves away by speaking too soon.

  ‘They might be Jerry spies, so watch out,’ she warned. ‘They’ll try to trap us into giving secrets away.’

  ‘Ain’t got no secrets to give ’em,’ muttered Kenny, wishing they had not followed her from the school.

  ‘Shut up, you,’ said Lily, undecided what to do. Could they trust these blokes?

  ‘Say something to ’em, Jimmy, see what they say.’

  ‘Arse ’oles!’ he obliged, and the children gasped.

  ‘That’s torn it, yer silly little bugger,’ muttered his sister. ‘Now we’ll get into even more trouble.’

  But the strange men seemed not to have taken offence at Jimmy’s greeting. One of them came towards the children, his sun-browned face smiling, showing white teeth and a dimple in his cheek. They waited to hear what he would say.

  ‘Come ti chiamo, piccolino?’

  The children looked at each other in alarm: so they were Jerries, then, speaking in their own language.

  ‘Mi chiamo Stefano, e questo e il mio amico Mario.’

  ‘Si, mi chiamo Mario,’ said his friend. ‘Sono italiano.’

  The children stared. These men seemed too nice to be Jerries.

  ‘You Mario?’ asked Lily cautiously. Another man strolled up, who seemed to know a little English.

  ‘Mi chiamo Paolo,’ he said in a friendly way. ‘He tell you his name, piccolino. Now you say you name also for us.’

  ‘Jimmy.’

  ‘Ti chiami Jimmy!’ beamed Stefano. ‘E tua sorella?’ he asked, looking at Lily, who still regarded these blokes with suspicion, but offered her name, ‘Lily.’

  ‘Ciao, Lily! And this little one?’ he asked, looking at Kenny who stared and then burst into tears. Danny joined in. ‘Wanna go ’ome!’ he roared.

  Suddenly the man called Stefano swept up both Kenny and Danny in his arms.

  ‘O carissimi bambini miei, siamo tutti cosi lontani da casa!’

  ‘Look, ’e’s blubberin’ as well!’ said Jimmy in awe at such behaviour from a grown man. Stefano continued to hug the little boys to his chest, telling them not to cry.

  ‘Non piangere, bambini, non piangere,’ he said, while tears rolled down his own face.

  And it was at this moment that the curate and the schoolteacher came upon the scene. They stood still and watched the dark-eyed Italian embracing the two little boys and speaking to them with emotion.

  ‘Good heavens, it’s those Italian prisoners of war!’ cried Miss Stevenson. ‘Kenny! Danny! Come to—’

  But Alan Kennard gently held her back. ‘Wait! I think he says they’re all exiles, a long way from home. I don’t think the children are in any danger.’

  Paolo noticed them, and clearly expected to be reprimanded by this man.

  ‘Ciao, Signor, Signora,’ he said politely. ‘Have no fear, we are friends.’

  ‘Si, ma saremo amici, e vero,’ said Stefano, putting the boys down and pointing them towards the English couple. ‘Torna a trovarci domani!’

  Alan thanked them in halting Italian, but did not promise that the children would come again. Miss Stevenson thought this was the first time she had seen Danny actually smiling, and forgetting to say ‘Wanna go ’ome!’

  Strangers in a strange land, thought Alan Kennard as they walked back to the school.

  If the evacuees disappeared again, at least they would know where to find them.

  Smithy’s visit to 47 Rectory Road had far-reaching consequences. Tom Munday saw his grandson turn from a bitter, disillusioned young man into one who, with regained self-respect, could see his way through life; in his own words, he rejoined the human race.

  But it came at a heavy cost to Grace. Gone was her dream of supporting Jack with the loving care that only a mother can give; she felt herself rejected by him. When he told her
that he that he was going back to the RAF, she could not believe it at first; even when she understood that it would not be as a flier but as a member of the vital ground staff that every airfield needs – a competent aeronautical engineer to repair and maintain the aircraft that carried his colleagues and friends into deadly danger; such work had to be of a very high standard, and he had lost two fingers.

  ‘Their lives will be in his hands, Grace,’ Tom Munday reminded her, looking to his son-in-law for confirmation, ‘and he won’t be risking his.’

  To some extent she was consoled by the change in Jack; from bitter resignation to anticipation towards a useful career. He even offered to accompany the family to church, and the second occasion proved much better than the first. He was less self-conscious, and chatted easily with the organist Philip Saville whose life had been blighted by the Great War, scarcely a quarter of a century ago, but who was now coming out of the reclusive shell with which he had shielded himself.

  ‘You know, Jack, I’ve listened to you talking about your time in that hospital and the chaps you saw there – and that friend who said we can always look round and see somebody worse off … like these poor little evacuees.’

  Even as he spoke, Nick came over, smiling. ‘I say, Uncle Philip, d’ye know what Danny said to me this morning? Oh, sorry—’ He stopped when he realised that the two men were deep in conversation. ‘Good morning, Mr Nuttall.’

  ‘Hello Nick,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t leave us in suspense, tell us what the little chap said!’

  ‘He said – excuse the pronunciation – “Come ti chiami? Mi chiamo Danny!”’

  ‘Good heavens, did he really?’ said Philip. ‘He must have been talking to the prisoners at Yeomans’ Farm!’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Nick. ‘And then his brother came up and said, “Yeah, that’s German!”’

  In the laughter that followed, Jack quite forgot about his face, and smiled at Miss Temple when she came over to ask what was the joke; but before they could reply, Alan Kennard could be heard raising his voice urgently for somebody to look after the three children while he took his wife to Everham General Hospital. ‘Now!’ he begged.