by Jane Bailey
I must have looked flustered because Gracie asked me if everything was all right.
‘Those rooks,’ I said, trying to rethread a darning needle with wool that had become too fluffy with handling. ‘A grim time of year for birds.’
‘June? Lovely time I should’ve thought. Wake me up with such a chorus in the morning – oh, I love it best of all in June.’
‘Not so good for fledglings.’
‘Oh? I suppose not. But still, we all have to leave the nest.’ She clicked away with her needles and then looked up almost guiltily. ‘Well, all save me, I suppose. I’m still sitting four square in my folks’ nest, aren’t I?’ Then she gave an apologetic little chuckle. ‘Wouldn’t have minded being shoved out myself, though.’
As if in indignation that Gracie had escaped the natural order of things, the rooks began to croak in unison: loud ‘krohs’ and ‘krahs’ that flooded in through the open orangery windows.
‘You don’t know the half of it with rooks.’ I said. ‘Once they’ve booted them out, they build a little circle of thorns around their nests so that the fledglings can’t come back.’
‘Never! Fancy doing that to your own children. Well, I never!’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘How come you know so much about birds? Did James tell you that?’
The darning needle was becoming sweaty in my fingers.
‘You always did know a lot about birds. Even when you were small. I expect it comes from your time in the woods …’
There it was again, a little flash of something, something darting away from the edge of my memory – almost, almost I had it by the tail, but it had gone.
Maybe Gracie took my frown and my silence to indicate a discomfort with this line of questioning, for she quickly abandoned it.
‘Fancy that, then. One thing encouraging your children to leave the nest, but what sort of parent stops them from coming back ever?’
I began to feel sick and thirsty. ‘I’ll open another window and create a through draught, shall I? It’s so hot in here.’
48
My agitation about Anthony’s discovery of me and George together did nothing but grow. And I was quite right to be worried about it, for the following day my worst fears were realized.
It had promised to be a perfectly normal weekday. For the whole of the previous evening, however, both Douglas and Anthony had been detained at work, and had returned very late indeed, so that Mrs Bubb had had to give them a cold supper well after midnight. This had been the night of 5th June 1944, and it wasn’t until later that we would learn the nature of the secret planning they were engaged in.
At breakfast, Howard asked if Mrs Bubb or I would like a lift to Gloucester in the cart. I certainly could have done with a day out, but Mrs Bubb looked exhausted, and I had heard her complaining earlier that the village shop was right out of Oxo and never had any decent soap, so I insisted she take the opportunity for a day’s shopping. Although, if I’m honest, I also felt a vague uneasiness about spending a long trip sitting beside Howard – whose company I usually enjoyed – so soon after the George incident. I had no reason to think he knew about it, and if I had been wiser I would have told him about it – and about Anthony – right from the start. But as it was I wished Mrs Bubb and Howard a pleasant trip, and they set off shortly after the officers’ MC truck puttered off down the lane.
I stretched my legs out on the chair in the kitchen and yawned. The evacuee children had already set off for school, Andrew was playing with Jill outside on a rug, and would no doubt stay out all day playing in his imaginary worlds, with occasional forays into the kitchen for a drink or a sticking plaster or an additional prop for his game: a wooden spoon, a newspaper, a piece of string, a jam jar or a crayon.
Yesterday’s wind had died down, and I looked forward to a pleasant day. After the chores I would potter: just me and the children, for the first time in ages.
It was in this mellow frame of mind that I unhooked my socks from the line above the range and proceeded to put them on. I was surprised therefore, to hear footsteps on the stairs, and was just rising to go and look in the entrance hall when the kitchen doorknob began to turn. I watched it with a growing sense of nausea.
Anthony stood beaming in the doorway. ‘Did I miss breakfast?’ He yawned emphatically then came in and slumped down on the chair by the range and splayed his legs in a relaxed and proprietorial way, as if he might almost be about to summon breakfast. ‘Bit of a lie-in today, I’m afraid.’
I could feel my heart beating indignantly. ‘But you’ve missed the transport. The truck went ages ago. What are you going to do?’
He scratched his head nonchalantly and said, ‘Oh dear! Looks like it’s just you and me, then. Dearie me.’
He lay back and closed his eyes with a smile. I loathed that smile. It was knowing and mischievous, hardly even pretending to be benign, and there was something abusive in the power it knew it wielded over me.
‘You haven’t heard, then?’ he sighed.
‘What?’
‘You haven’t had the wireless on?’
He looked at his watch.
‘The communiqué from Supreme HQ will be out by now, and at midday Churchill will make an announcement to the House of Commons.’ He patted his hands on the arm of the chair. ‘Yep. Today’s the big day, young Joy.’
I made my way hurriedly towards the back door. Once in the porch, I could slip my Wellingtons on and be out of the house before anything could happen. He wouldn’t dare do anything in front of the children. I prayed they would stay close to the house now. I could hear Jill making ‘deh’ noises not far off, and I willed her to stay put. But before I could exit the door to the porch, Anthony strode over and shut the door behind me. I stood in the kitchen, sandwiched between him and the door, and I could smell his sleepy breath as he towered over me.
‘Oh, don’t be unsociable, Joy. It’s D-Day! There’s no escaping it. This is it!’
‘What do you mean?’
That smile again. ‘This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. This is what me and Dougie have been planning all these months, you see. All this top intelligence work and this is the culmination of it. Allied troops have landed in France – the biggest sea-borne invasion ever. Bet you didn’t think I was doing such important work, did you?’
I looked away from him.
‘Did you?’ He persisted, with a slight edge of aggression this time.
‘I had no idea, no.’ I swallowed hard, and my mouth was becoming very dry. ‘Good. Well, I think I’d better … I have to check on Jill—’
‘Joy, Joy, Joy!’ He shifted his weight a little and I thought he was going to step back, but instead he put his arm around me. ‘I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?’ I tried to wriggle free but the tightening of his grip was so sudden and brutal that I knew struggling would be pointless. ‘I think a man deserves a little “entertainment” when he’s worked so hard for his country, don’t you?’
Up until this point I had tried to deny my worst fears about his intentions, but there could be no doubting them now. If I clouted him it would be excusable, surely? Why didn’t I, then? Why didn’t I?
‘No! Please, don’t! You’ve got me wrong. I’m not like that—’
‘Oh, I think we both know you are, Joy.’ And just in case I hadn’t understood the allusion, he said it again, deep into my ear. ‘I think we both know exactly what you’re like.’
He had pushed his groin right up against me and I thought I could feel everything through the serge trousers. He took advantage of my shock to grab at my breast and knead it roughly before dragging open the neck of my blouse and pushing his fingers on to the nipple and pinching hard.
The worst of it all, as I suddenly seemed to stand outside myself and watch the disaster like a bystander, was that I had this terrible, shadowy sense that I deserved it. I was wretched, and it was clear he knew that I was. ‘You’re a bad girl, Joy, and you know it!’ he panted, as if to verify my sen
se of worthlessness. He took my buttock in his hand and lifted me hard up against him. ‘You’re a bad, bad girl and you love it, don’t you?’
I tried to push him but he squeezed harder on my nipple with each shove, pressed his lips on mine and gave threatening little bites. Even so, it was not any physical handicap, but my utter sense of worthlessness that more than anything prevented me from freeing myself.
He had worked his fingers inside my corduroys when a sudden pounding on the outside back door made him start. He released one hand and stood back from me, opening the kitchen door behind me slightly with his right hand. It was glass-panelled, and opened on to the porch where, as I turned, I saw the back door let the sunlight flood in as a young woman in MTC uniform gingerly opened it.
‘Sir! You’re needed after all, sir. HQ need you straight away!’
He recoiled from me as though he had no idea who I was or what I was doing there, ran his hands through his hair and tilted his head back slightly.
‘I’ll be right there, Cribbs. Wait in the truck.’
‘Sir!’
I took advantage of his disentanglement to dart past him into the sunshine, holding my blouse together at the neck and striding shoeless into the sunlight, where I waited until the truck took him away.
When Howard and Mrs Bubb returned later I had gathered myself. Although people had been celebrating throughout the day, we listened to the wireless together and heard the good news officially for ourselves. The best news of all – brought to us by Douglas – was that he and Anthony were to leave for good the next day, their mission over, and were being posted elsewhere. Once I heard this I really did feel like celebrating, and D-Day has remained for ever in my memory as my own Deliverance Day.
49
I would never have guessed it, but it seemed it was Howard’s idea to celebrate the advance into France with a party in the grounds of Buckleigh House. He let the Women’s Volunteer Service do most of the organizing, and it was to be held towards the end of June.
Although I liked the idea, I found myself becoming quite anxious about it as the day approached. I wasn’t cut out for this lady of Buckleigh House lark. Having to speak to people before I was spoken to wasn’t my thing at all. I felt increasingly uncomfortable about myself. I seemed to lack all social graces and even, at times, simple courtesy. I was clumsy and oafish whenever I was in the village. When I bumped into Miss Wallock I asked after her elder sister, only to find she had been dead two months; and I cooed with delight at Spit Palmer’s tummy, asking about the due date, when she had merely put on a bit of weight after her last baby. Celia would never have been so clumsy. Or if she had, she would have known how to wriggle out of it, or turn it to her advantage. It would all have weighed so lightly on her. Of course they wouldn’t have liked her any more for it, but they would have talked about her a lot less.
Maybe Howard saw my concern, for he said to me on the morning of the party, ‘Do all the organizing you like, but this afternoon I don’t want you to lift a finger. Just stand at the front of the house and relax.’
The rain started, and it didn’t let off until three o’clock. Mrs Bubb ran around like a woman possessed, making last minute notices reading ‘Please Remove Your Shoes’ in case they all came in the house by mistake for the lavatory (which she had clearly labelled in the back porch).
People started to arrive, tiptoeing over the gravel and the sodden grass in their Sunday best. Mrs Emery was the first to appear, and I shook hands with her. She was surprisingly short for a woman who had inspired constant terror, and her husband, whose sleep we had so persistently disturbed, was a quiet red-faced man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He came fully equipped with his Punch and Judy show. Normally terrified of his wife, as the animator of Punch he seemed quite happy to beat the living daylights out of her.
The brass band showed up next, and as soon as they started to play, the sun seemed tempted out of the clouds and everyone walked with a little spring in their step.
Everything was going well until I walked past the tea stands, which ran down the side of the lawn. One woman said, ‘Go and fetch a cloth, would you, love? Only this tea’s spilt all over and the cloth’s sodden.’
I was about to turn and go in search of one, when Mrs Tribbit, the grocer’s wife, piped up, ‘Go on, it’s no good pretending you’re too good to wipe a table, Joy Burrows.’
The other women nudged her as if she might have gone too far, but Mrs Tribbit pursed her lips defiantly. ‘Don’t think I can’t remember the filth that came out of your mouth, my girl. Once a gypsy, always—’
‘Is there a problem?’ It was Howard.
Mrs Tribbit flushed and looked down at the table. ‘I was just saying … We need a cloth.’
‘I see. Well, if you’d like to follow me into the kitchen, I’m sure Mrs Bubb will provide you with one.’ There was not an edge of frostiness in his voice. He smiled warmly, and for Mrs Tribbit there was nothing to do but attempt a smile also, and follow him to the kitchen. I was left with the other woman, who looked away and busied herself pouring tea. I walked awkwardly over to the ‘children’s area’ where Mr Emery was still setting up and Mr Mustoe was pretending to be a clown, squirting himself in the eye and sitting on hooters. The smaller children laughed outrageously, the older children stuffed their faces with sandwiches, and the very young looked utterly bewildered. I stayed there, smiling and clapping, until a suitable time had elapsed for me to pick my way back to the house and hide.
It was easier to make a quick exit towards the Victory Garden. No one was there, and I decided to make my way to the paddock at the end and find some solace sitting against the stone wall, hidden from view.
Just as I reached the raspberry bushes I heard a loud rustle behind the runner beans. I stopped in my tracks and listened. Another rustle. This time the bean poles swayed dangerously from side to side as if someone were uprooting them.
‘Who’s there?’
No answer.
‘Who is it?’
The movement stopped. The party and its noise were way behind me now, and I felt uneasy. Slowly I tiptoed forward, as noiselessly as possible. I peeped around the edge of the runner beans and there, looking very shifty, was a large ewe.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
She shot me one of those ‘I know absolutely nothing I’m only a sheep’ looks and bolted past me with perfect timing, knocking me right off my feet. I followed her through the fruit orchard and up to the five-bar gate at the edge of it.
‘You lost?’ I asked.
She looked at me shiftily again and, having worked out she probably couldn’t leap it, she began trying to dig under the gate. I tried to stop her, but she kept on scuffling with her hooves and her nose, butting the gate manically until her face was streaked in blood.
I sat down beside her and talked to her as gently as I could. I could smell the iron-blood and the oily sweetness of her wool. I rested my face on her side and remembered the coarse softness of a sheep pillow. I had slept with sheep during my escape. I had spent nights under the black sky with them, sandwiched between them for warmth, quietly accepted as a human lamb.
‘That’s my bloody ewe, that is!’
Turning round I saw Farmer Witchall.
‘Sorry! I was just having a shufti round your land – see what you’re growing, and that. But that’s my bloody sheep!’ He walked right up to us and put his hands on his hips when I explained how I’d found her. ‘You know what, don’t you? She’s come five fields to get ’ere. Broken three fences most like, and two walls she’s probably damaged – ’less she jumped ’em. And she’s still got three fields to go!’
‘Go where?’
‘After them bloody lambs, ent she?’ He jabbed a finger at a hill on the horizon. ‘See them? That’s her lambs up there.’
I looked up at the hill. Hundreds of fat lambs were dotted in the distance, all weaned from their mothers that very week. ‘She’ll find ’em an’ all, if you let her.’
He had the ewe by the scruff. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have her in the cart in no time. I was on my way back soon anyway.’
He took her off to the road, and I watched the weary ewe waddle away defeated.
At six o’clock the wretched party was still going on, and Howard came to find me in my room.
‘I’d like you to do something for me,’ he said. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, not sure what to do with his long arms. ‘Would you come with me and do me a huge favour?’
I followed him out to the front of the house, where he spoke in a very low voice to a man in a suit.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ boomed the man. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he said again, waiting for silence. ‘Let us give a very warm thank you to our host and hostess!’
Then Howard did something he had never done before. He took my hand, led me on to the middle of the lawn, and in front of the entire neighbourhood, in front of Mrs Tribbit and Mrs Emery and Miss Wallock and the Women’s Volunteer Service and the Home Guard and my old teachers and the evacuees, he danced with me.
Somewhere off to the side a group of musicians were playing a slow, Celtic waltz, and looking over I could see Miss Wallock with a fiddle under her chin, smiling in our direction.
There was an ancient melancholy in the music that conjured up generations of couples swaying gently together at the end of the day: on quaysides, in pubs, in barns, under the stars. He was no mean dancer, leading me with astonishing prowess about the muddied lawn, but when I looked up at Howard’s face I could see the price it had cost him to appear confident and break his own mould. Droplets of sweat on his brow, and his cheeks rigid with smiling, he was unable to look anywhere but down. I felt his hand on my back and all the tender warmth of him and what he had done. It was the music of lovers, a cunning concoction of joy and lament, and I wanted to cry for him and Gracie and for lovers everywhere kept from loving each other. I wanted to cry for all the love that could have been, for this tall, gangly man who’d loved all through the trenches, and for all the wasted years.
