A Woman's War

by S Block

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Welcome to the world of Simon Block

  A letter from the Author

  Recipe

  Tales for Memory Lane

  Memory Lane Club

  Copyright

  For Tara, with great thanks and huge respect.

  Chapter 1

  ‘LADIES, LADIES . . .’ BARKED Frances Barden, silencing the massed ranks of Great Paxford’s WI. It was the evening of 7 November 1940, two days after the deaths of the village GP, Will Campbell, from cancer, and of a Luftwaffe pilot who had escaped from his crashed aircraft only to be shot on local farmland. The hall was abuzz with a curious mix of sorrow for the former and intense, lurid speculation over the latter.

  ‘Settle down, please. Thank you, thank you.’

  The women placed their hands in their laps, fell silent, and looked at their Chair standing before them, with Pat Simms and Sarah Collingborne sitting at the small ‘committee’ table behind her. The rain overhead thrummed hard against the hall’s roof, giving the occasion a slight undertone of menace. Frances took a deep breath, counted to five in her head to ensure she had the members’ absolute attention, and began the address she had been constructing since breakfast.

  ‘Which of us would have imagined fourteen months ago that we would find ourselves acclimatised to being at war for the second time in little over twenty years? And yet month after month we have accommodated the war within our daily lives. Rationing. Air raids. The absence of our men of fighting age. Living in a state of war has become the everyday once more. For our own sanity, we have necessarily become complacent within that state, accepting it as our new norm, behaving as if we had never lived any other way. But then something happens to puncture the complacency, remind us anew that we live in dark and dangerous times.

  ‘I am talking, of course, of the German pilot at large in our community for three days. A deadly stranger in our midst who sent us to our locks and bolts, in case he found his way to our doorsteps. Now we know he has been found and killed we can breathe a sigh of relief, and feel immense gratitude towards the authorities for their great efforts in keeping us safe. But . . . ladies . . . the episode should serve as a reminder to every woman here that there is nothing normal about life during wartime. That everything is abnormal. And we should work for it to be over as soon as humanly possible.’

  Neither Frances nor the women she faced had the slightest idea that the German pilot had in fact been slain by one of their own members, and would have been flabbergasted to learn that Steph Farrow had opened fire on her farm, in self-defence. The desire to believe they were looked after by benign forces of authority fed the natural assumption by everyone in Great Paxford that the pilot had been ruthlessly hunted down by the army.

  ‘Yes, the war takes place overhead nightly,’ Frances continued, ‘but an episode of this nature reminds us that at any moment it can fall from the sky and land at our feet. As a consequence, we must never let our guard down. Vigilance, ladies, at all times, both out and about, and at home. Remind your children daily to stay alert and come to you with anything that strikes them as untoward.’

  The rank and file nodded.

  ‘We are subject to forces beyond our control. Nevertheless, we must do what is within our power to protect ourselves and those we love.’

  On occasions such as this the membership acted as one. As Frances surveyed the gathering, she noticed many had come wearing black as a sign of respect towards Erica and her daughter, Laura, despite the fact neither were present. While Frances hadn’t gone that far herself, she had unconsciously chosen to wear a more muted suit than usual. It was the same dark brown tweed she had worn upon her return to the WI after a period of mourning for her deceased husband, Peter.

  On her way to the meeting, Frances had toyed with the idea of jettisoning her prepared opening remarks for a brief speech about Erica and Laura’s loss. She mentioned it to her sister, Sarah. Wary of Frances’s weakness for getting carried away by her own powers of oratory, Sarah had persuaded her older sister to say little about the Campbells, and allow the members to sit with their own feelings towards the family, and the loss of their beloved GP.

  ‘Everyone knows what’s happened,’ Sarah had said, drawing upon the wisdom she’d developed as a vicar’s wife. Her husband Adam was being held in a German prison camp, and she missed him every hour of every day, though there was nothing she could do but wait for him. ‘They know what they feel about Will’s death. They don’t need you to express your feelings on their behalf.’

  ‘Not even a brief word?’ Frances asked, mildly disappointed to see a moment of ‘profound leadership’ slip from her grasp.

  ‘Adam always placed great value on allowing people to spend time with their own thoughts at moments like this. Guidance can so often come across as needless imposition.’

  Reluctantly heeding Sarah’s advice, Frances looked at the women seated in solemn rows before her, and said nothing about the Campbells beyond a single sentence.

  ‘I should now like to dedicate our rendition of “Jerusalem” to our bereaved, beloved members Erica, Laura and Kate, at this time of immense loss.’

  Many women took out handkerchiefs to gently soak up wet eyes. Frances held herself in check and turned to Alison Scotlock at the piano, and nodded for her to begin.

  Will Campbell had left an indelible impression on the lives of all present. The women sang their hearts out for their irreplaceable doctor. By the final line, not a single cheek was dry, the Chair’s included.

  Frances allowed the final, passionate refrain to drift up into the rafters and seep into the night, then nodded for everyone to sit.

  ‘Thank you, ladies,’ she said appreciatively. ‘Were Erica and Laura here, they would have been extraordinarily moved. As they no doubt will be by your support at Will’s funeral next week at St Mark’s.’

  Sarah shot an alarmed glance at Frances, suspecting she might succumb to the temptation to soliloquise about Will’s death. However, her own recent bereavement enabled Frances to maintain discipline and move directly on to the Chair’s report. She began by congratulating the members on their astonishing efforts with the trekker initiative.

  ‘My dear colleagues, I struggle to see how it could have gone better, I really do. We have fed and sheltered hundreds and hundreds of people from nearby cities. There isn’t a woman present who hasn’t thrown herself into the operation here in the hall or up at St Mark’s. We have been so successful that we have motivated three sister branches in the region to follow our lead and set up their own soup stations and shelters.’

  This news brought forth a delighted round of applause. Fran
ces raised her hands for silence once again.

  ‘However,’ she continued, ‘our work only has value if we continue to offer our own programme for as long as it is needed by those who come.’

  The women nodded in agreement. Except one.

  ‘What if that’s months or even years away?’ called Mrs Talbot, standing in her place at the rear of the hall to ensure her point was heard by everyone.

  ‘Then we shall commit to giving sustenance and shelter for months or years – or until our ability to do so is thoroughly exhausted. Like the men, we will give all we can to get this country through this war.’

  A second round of applause. Mrs Talbot resumed her seat, glowering.

  Of the women present, only Pat failed to focus on Frances’s pep talk about how they would continue to tend to trekker families from nearby cities. Pat’s thoughts were firmly on the previous night, when Marek had slipped into St Mark’s unannounced, and had made himself known to her. In the months since his regiment had been called up, Pat had wondered and worried about him. He could have been anywhere, training for war, or already active on the continent. All she could do was wait for him to get into contact, while doubting he would with each day that passed. During those long weeks, Pat’s life consisted of being simultaneously terrified for her lover and scared of her husband, Bob, whose next outburst of temper she would almost certainly trigger while being unable to predict it.

  Marek’s broad smile in the low light of St Mark’s had been unmistakable, even beneath a flat cap pulled low over his blue eyes. When Pat’s shift finished, she had hurried out into the dark churchyard and carefully picked her way behind St Mark’s, where she saw a tiny orange glow from Marek’s cigarette. She had run to him and they had silently embraced. Marek had kissed her and held her so tightly she’d felt momentarily, beautifully winded. Feeling Marek’s body against her once again, tasting the sweet tobacco on his lips, Pat’s heart had swelled in her chest. She knew they had little time together. Marek couldn’t be seen by anyone from the village who might recognise him in case the sighting somehow worm its way to Bob via Great Paxford’s grapevine. Life with Bob had become even more unbearable since he had found out about Pat’s affair, as he sought ways to punish her for it. But with Marek’s mobilisation from the region, Bob believed their relationship was categorically over. Pat was determined to maintain him in that belief. Marek had asked Pat to meet him for longer the following night, somewhere they wouldn’t be seen. She had suggested they meet after the WI meeting, away from the village, by the canal. No one would see them in the blackout, under the bridge.

  Pat felt as sad about Will’s death as any woman in the hall, if not more so, as they had been neighbours for many years. But the prospect of seeing Marek by the canal in just a few minutes momentarily pushed her grief to one side, filling Pat with rising excitement she was unsure she could contain. Her eyes were glued to the clock above the piano. The meeting seemed to be crawling at a snail’s pace from one interminable item on the agenda to the next.

  When it was finally over, Pat leaned across to her temporary landlady, Joyce, and asked the older woman if she would mind walking back to the house alone as she wanted to go for a short detour to reflect on her memories of Will.

  ‘The news has hit me for six. Will was so much more than our doctor. He was a dear friend.’ She felt a little guilt using Will’s death as her excuse, but in the heat of the moment it seemed the reason least open to further enquiry.

  Another time Pat might well have taken herself off for fifteen or twenty minutes to reflect on what the loss of Will really meant to her. But not tonight. Tonight, Pat needed a reason to make her way back alone, via the canal. Fortune was on Pat’s side. The previous chair of the WI revealed that she planned to stay behind and catch up with friends. She had no issue with Pat leaving without her.

  ‘Haven’t I made my way home by myself for many years?’ Joyce said, smiling.

  A steady stream of women flowed from the hall and melted into the wet night, hurrying home before they got soaked a second time. With hats pulled down and umbrellas put up it was impossible to tell one from another. Each had her eyes on the road ahead, intent on getting indoors and dry as quickly as possible.

  As a consequence, no one noticed Pat’s small figure hugging the shadows before turning left towards the canal instead of right towards Joyce’s house, where she and Bob had been lodging since a stricken Spitfire had crashed into their home. Bob sat in the front parlour checking his watch, drawing slowly on a Woodbine, wondering where on earth she was.

  Chapter 2

  BY THE TIME Pat reached the stone steps leading down to the canal the rain had become so intense she was almost swept down to the towpath, and her clothes were as wet on her as if she and they had just been taken out of the wash-tub. Under any other circumstances this would have left her profoundly self-conscious about her appearance. Tonight, she only cared about snatching what time she could with the man she loved to a dangerous extent. Throughout the WI meeting Pat had tried to brace herself against the possibility that Marek might not make it to their rendezvous for reasons he’d be unable to convey. She’d forced herself into a state of resignation about the possibility that their snatched moment around the back of St Mark’s the previous night was all she would have of him for the foreseeable future. She attempted to console herself that if that were the case, it would be enough. It wouldn’t be.

  Pat almost turned her ankle as she hurried along the towpath but managed to grab the handrail before going over. She cautioned herself against undue haste and hurried for a further two hundred yards until she turned a corner and saw the bridge up ahead. Beneath the bridge, in its gulping black shadow, Pat saw a pinprick orange glow from a cigarette. To Pat’s eyes it may as well have been a bright flare shooting up a hundred feet into the air.

  He’s here!

  Despite the conditions, Pat broke into a run. The sound of her footsteps drew Marek out from under the bridge. Pat rushed into his arms with such force that he had to take a step back to absorb her momentum.

  ‘I convinced myself you’d be unable to come!’ she said, before kissing him.

  ‘If I say I will come, Patricia, I will come.’ He smiled.

  When Bob called Pat by her full name it was an admonition, a presage to disapproval for something she had done or, more usually, had failed to do. With Marek, it was the opposite. He savoured each syllable of her name. One syllable just wasn’t enough to encompass everything he felt about her.

  Out of caution they stepped back under the shelter of the bridge, where they couldn’t be seen even by someone who knew where to look, where Marek took off his thick trench coat and wrapped it round Pat’s soaked shoulders to stop her catching a chill.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ she said. ‘Bob knows I’m at the WI – he’ll wonder where I am if don’t get home within a reasonable time.’

  Marek nodded. ‘We are not meeting for a few snatched moments, but to plan for later, when we will always be together.’

  Pat kissed him.

  ‘I live for that day,’ she said. ‘And you must stay alive for it. I absolutely insist.’

  Though it was almost pitch black beneath the bridge, Pat could make out Marek’s teeth as he laughed.

  ‘Always wanting me to stay alive!’ he laughed. ‘If my CO could hear you, Patricia, he would banish you from my life for the duration of the war.’

  ‘Then I hate your CO,’ she said, and kissed him again.

  ‘You should not. He is a good man. He gives us the very best training, which gives me the very best chance of survival.’

  ‘Then I love your CO,’ Pat said, kissing Marek once more. She needed very little excuse.

  They stood beneath the bridge, and watched the rain fall in thick sheets into the canal, sending its surface dancing as each drop exploded on impact. Each felt the warmth of the other through their wet clothes.

  ‘This is the perfect weather in which to see you,’ Marek said.
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  ‘How?! It’s filthy!’

  ‘Everyone has their eyes to the floor, so I can move freely. Also, if you come to meet me in this, I know you love me.’

  ‘Were you ever in any doubt?’

  Marek shook his head.

  ‘Never. I am soon to be deployed, Patricia, and I could not leave without giving you information of who to contact if you do not hear from me within one year.’

  Marek took his hand from his pocket and offered Pat a folded piece of paper.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Pat said, ‘because nothing is going to happen to you.’

  ‘Let us be realistic, Patricia,’ he pleaded, pressing the paper into her hand. ‘It is war to the death. So. In one year, this is who to contact to find out what has happened to me. Commit these details to memory and destroy the paper.’

  ‘Marek—’

  ‘No. This is important. I do not want you to live your life in hope only. A living death is the worst of all things. Better to know the truth and continue with a broken heart. In time, it can mend. Take it.’

  Pat reluctantly accepted the paper and held it in her hand.

  ‘You must memorise and destroy now.’

  Pat looked at Marek. Even in the almost-dark his eyes blazed with conviction. She took out the paper, read the address, and silently committed it to memory.

  ‘I have it,’ she said.

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘I will forget many things, but I’ll never forget this.’

  Marek took the paper from her hand and held it up. He then lightly touched its corner with the end of his cigarette until a thin wisp of smoke emerged from it, and then a small, uncertain flame. The paper caught and Marek let it fall into the canal, burning itself into oblivion on the journey towards the water.

  ‘Do you ever think what life will be like when this is over?’ Pat asked. ‘I mean . . . for us.’

  ‘Always,’ he replied. ‘You shall leave Bob and we shall live in peace beside the sea. We shall take long walks along the shore. Sit in a garden in the evening, and read and talk—’

  ‘And travel?’ Pat asked, hopefully.