A Girl in Wartime

by Maggie Ford

  In it she’d expressed how much she’d loved being with him, that she hoped it would go on for ever and ever; had been thinking of him every minute of every hour of every day. He’d written as often as he could, scrawling notes to her between going over the top or helping clear the trench of cigarette ends, matches and other debris soldiers dropped at their feet while cooped up in a man-made, narrow, twisting ditch that went on for ever, hundreds of men to each section.

  In obedience to the shrill whistles ordering them all over the top into that nightmare of insanity, he’d find himself repeating her name: Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy … as bullets flew, praying none would find him and end his hopes of ever seeing her again. Each man had his prayer; his was to see her again. But now he had her letter saying she that she was pregnant, that it was his. That leave, it could only be his.

  His eyes slowly closed, that thought of her filling him with love, that she was his and he was hers, that she would wait for him and that she was having his baby. She’d written that after her own mother had thrown her out as a strumpet, Mum had taken her in. To Ronnie, it felt as if they were already married. As soon as he was given leave, they would make it official.

  Chapter Fourteen

  August 1915

  It had been three weeks since the zeppelin raid, and the results of the paper’s chief editor’s opinion of her sketches had reaped benefits – Connie had found herself sent out three times this week.

  Today Stephen had handed to her a small pile of her sketches, cut from different editions, his handsome face wreathed in smiles as he laid them before her on her desk, standing back to see her reaction.

  ‘Looks like your name will soon get known,’ he whispered, leaning towards her so only she could hear him above the sounds of the office. He was leaning so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘I think our readers will start to look for your sketches,’ he went on, as she felt her own pride well up, knowing that at last she was being looked upon as possessing some degree of usefulness.

  It was all she’d ever wanted – to be a success at something. She might even get a wage rise, and be able to give more to her mother. She’d had a lean time of it of late, with her sons away bringing in no money. And George – no one counted on George any more as he existed on casual work so it wouldn’t clash with his chapel attendances. Refusing to heed the calls for young men to defend their country, he continued to hide behind the shield of that so-called religious belief of his.

  But his time was coming, she thought with a tiny prick of satisfaction. Military conscription had now come into force: single men between eighteen and forty-one who’d not previously volunteered had been ordered to register. But George was still defending his right to have nothing to do with war, fiercely declaring his beliefs and causing the worst family upheaval she could ever remember. Even Albert and Ronnie volunteering hadn’t had the impact this one had. It was Dad who’d put his foot down just three weeks ago.

  ‘Beliefs, be buggered!’ he’d exploded. ‘Too bloody scared to go and fight for his country, he ain’t no son of mine and if he insists on cowering be’ind his bloody silly religion, then he can find somewhere else to live – ’e ain’t living ’ere no more. An ’e ain’t no bloody son of mine!’

  Mum put in that he was their flesh and blood no matter what, but her entreaties hadn’t moved him. Connie had never heard her father speak so strongly but George had moved out without argument. No one asked where he was living, maybe with a like-minded companion, though he’d left a forwarding address if any letters came to him. No one had attempted to contact him. Mum might have but for Dad being so adamant that he was no longer a member of this family.

  ‘We’ve two sons fighting and we can hold our heads up and be proud, and I ain’t ’aving that coward pullin’ this family down and showin’ us up!’

  George’s absence meant that, now with Dorothy staying with them, the house didn’t feel so full. Dorothy was a constant presence, helping out whenever she could, but wary and quiet whenever she was in the same room as Connie’s dad.

  Connie turned her thoughts back to the present. She gazed at the cuttings Stephen Clayton had handed her; she couldn’t wait to show them to her parents. And tonight she would be having dinner with him. It was to have been weeks ago but had been cancelled due to some work that had come up. It was probably only to do with her work, her future here, nothing more. Even so it was exciting to know he was taking such interest in her, if only under orders from his boss. She told herself not to get too carried away by excitement. Strictly work, nothing more.

  It had been about work, though not entirely.

  It was arranged they go to dinner straight from the office. Connie’s main concern had been letting Mum know in case she worried. She had rushed home during her lunch hour to say she was going out straight from work with a couple of friends.

  At home she had quickly changed into a nicer frock, with Mum asking, ‘Somewhere special, then, love?’ to which she’d answered that they were going dancing, a little group of them from work. Mum said protectively, ‘Well, take care of yourself, love, don’t let any boy take you away from your friends. You keep with ’em. Safer like that,’ as if she was still fifteen, not coming up to eighteen. ‘And if there’s a zeppelin raid, you take cover quick smart.’

  ‘I will, Mum,’ she’d said, giving her a kiss on the cheek before rushing off to get back within her hour’s break.

  Now she sat opposite Stephen Clayton in her best frock but feeling it far from suitable as she cast glances around the posh restaurant. Leaving him to choose from the expensive menu, she sat with eyes trained on the spotless white tablecloth, embarrassed with herself.

  ‘You look very nice, Connie,’ he’d said as he helped her off with her coat to hand to the young lady behind the grand-looking cloakroom desk.

  Until then she’d not been able to find much to say to him at all, other than make brief responses when he’d said, ‘I’ve ordered a taxi for us’ and ‘Thank heaven it’s a decent evening, warm for once, and no rain’ and ‘I think you’ll like this restaurant – a favourite of mine.’ Out of the office she was unable to find any suitable reply that wouldn’t make her feel stupid.

  Having him tell her that she looked nice – her in this ordinary frock while all about them were people in what looked like evening attire – had the instant effect of raising her spirits, making her feel more hopeful that this invitation might actually have nothing to do with work after all.

  She’d grown a little more relaxed as he’d advised her on what to order from the menu the waiter handed them.

  As they waited for their meal to arrive he ordered red wine to go with the main meal and a sweeter wine with the second course. He seemed so at ease as he chatted lightly on this and that. She listened, intrigued by the light sound of his voice as he mentioned the way food shortages were affecting restaurants.

  ‘But a good high-class restaurateur usually knows how to come by the odd luxury.’ He gave a chuckle at the word ‘odd’ and she found herself laughing with him.

  In that moment he became suddenly serious, regarding her closely. ‘You know, Connie, you’ve a lovely rippling sort of laugh … and a really wonderful smile.’

  Instantly she felt her cheeks flush, grow warm. Unable to respond, she clutched her wine, unused to it, sipping it a little too fast, feeling it catch in her throat.

  They ate in relative silence. She had not tasted anything like the meal he had ordered for her in her life, yet it was hard to eat for nervousness until she finally pushed it away only half eaten.

  ‘You’ve eaten hardly anything,’ he observed, to which she hurriedly said, ‘That starter filled me up, it was so good.’ He laughed, pushing away his own sweet, unfinished.

  As the waiter removed the plates, Stephen sat back in his chair for a second then leaned towards her.

  ‘Mr Mathieson is finally coming round to my way of thinking – that you’re an asset to the paper and that your sketches h
ave been part of the reason why our circulation is increasing. However, he’s a cautious man, is our chief editor, so – against my advice – rather than making you a fully paid-up member of the editorial department, he wants to continue with the trial period for a little longer.’

  Connie felt her heart sink. So this was purely a business dinner. Mr Clayton had no interest in her other than seeing her as an asset to his paper. A weight settled on her heart but she managed to smile.

  She wanted to hate him but her heart was crying that she loved him, silly fool that she was. And now she would have to sit here, opposite him – pretending to have enjoyed her dinner, sip at the brandy he’d ordered, which bit at her throat, and smile as if no other thought had ever been in her head. She could hardly wait for this evening to be over so she could go home to bed and cry herself to sleep. Stupid!

  She hardly heard Stephen as he spoke of his beloved paper, of the big things he had in mind for her. ‘I intend to have them send you out on lots of assignments,’ he ploughed on, ‘not just the dramatic ones but pleasant ones as well. Once Mathieson gets used to the idea of a woman doing such a job, he’ll let me have full rein on the assignments I give you. I’m sure that this could be a big seller – I can definitely see it lifting off.’

  It was a deep relief to finally leave. He had insisted on seeing her home in the taxi, even getting out to help her down, the touch of his hand sending a stupid thrill through her entire body. She was about to say a stiff goodnight when she realised he was still holding her hand.

  ‘Connie,’ he began as she hesitated. ‘Would you care to have dinner again next Friday?’

  As she hesitated in surprise more than anything else, he hurried on.

  ‘Say no if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. But Connie, there’s something I need to say to you. It’s nothing to do with work, something much more important, personal, to do with you and me.’

  As she made to reply, confused, he held up a hand. ‘Not now. Leave it till next week. I hope to have your answer then. But I hope—’ He broke off suddenly, adding, ‘Let’s leave it till next week. This is the wrong time to say what I need to say, what I need to explain, before you …’

  To her surprise he leaned towards her and taking her lightly by the shoulders, touched her cheek with his lips, only for split second, his breath sweet. Then he hurried back into the taxi, it clattering off leaving her standing alone on the pavement.

  Her parents were still up, and so there was no chance to go to bed in the corner to think on what had transpired moments ago.

  Instead, saying she needed to concentrate on some sketches she’d done for her employers, she made for the front drawing room, which was seldom used except for some special party or visitors.

  In its cold, clammy atmosphere she gave herself up to quiet tears, even now uncertain whether she should believe what Stephen had seemed to be intimating, yet wanting so much to believe that he really must love her.

  Connie sat opposite Stephen in another wonderful restaurant, the low babble of other diners lost in conversation. Their second date – if that’s what it was. Many in uniform, Stephen wore a special armband declaring him exempt from military service.

  The meal was delicious. If her parents could see what had been placed in front of her, they’d have a fit. She’d meant to make the most of it yet found herself able to eat only half again, unused to such fine food. Maybe also because her insides felt all jangled being out with the man who’d occupied her private thoughts these last few months. Yet all they talked about was work.

  With food shortages, even bread had gone up to almost twice its previous price; shops had little to sell; the Government was still threatening military conscription; all sorts had been drafted into the forces, even women to work in munitions factories and on farms helping the war effort.

  She became aware Stephen was talking to her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to start talking shop. I just want to take you out, Connie, somewhere nice. So what about seeing a show? What do you fancy? A play, drama, comedy; vaudeville; plenty of singing and dancing, comedians thrown in, that’d cheer us both up, how about that?’

  He smiled as she shrugged. ‘We’ll do vaudeville, then, shall we?’

  She nodded. She had to admit she enjoyed it. Stephen laughed at the comedian, joining in with the singing of topical songs: ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, ‘Take Me Back To Dear Old Blighty’ and ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’. And he held her hand. He also bought her a small box of chocolates, though how he had managed to find them in these times, she’d no idea, nor did she ask except to thank him and say how nice it was of him.

  Going home in the taxi, she half expected him to take her hand as he’d done in the theatre but he sat very still beside her, not touching her at all as he mostly gazed out of the window, she finally doing the same on her side, her mind in turmoil. She had looked forward to this night, expecting a wonderful evening, but it had become a sham. After last week, the way he’d touched her cheek with his lips – was that after all just friendliness? Though to her, the kiss hadn’t seemed at all like that. And the words he’d murmured …

  When finally he did find something to say, it was simply to mention how important it was for the London Herald to keep up the morale of its readership. Then he’d lapse into silence, one that Connie didn’t feel she could break.

  ‘Shame about young Ken Fenton going.’ His voice came out of the gloom.

  Kenneth Fenton was the young photographer she’d often accompanied, and the two got on well together, much better than the paper’s older men, who seemed so often to take exception to a young woman being with them. Ken had finally decided to sign on.

  ‘We’re going to miss him. He was a damned good photographer,’ Stephen continued as if they were talking at her desk.

  ‘Was?’ she said tartly. ‘You make it sound as if his life has already been written off.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way, Connie,’ he said like a small boy who’d been reprimanded. ‘That’s what I find so wonderful about you, Connie. You’re sensitive, kind; you worry about people.’

  Faintly embarrassed, she didn’t reply and felt him sit back to resume looking out of his window while she returned to gazing out of hers. They could have been strangers.

  Recognising the corner of her street coming up, she sat up ready.

  Sensing the movement, he turned to her and leaning forward, tapped on the little window that divided them from the cabbie. ‘Pull up here, please.’

  As he did last time he said goodbye some doors from her home. She didn’t have a front door key yet, not until that recognised age of twenty-one. He’d taken her arm and it felt so nice as they walked along the street in silence. Then he stopped and took her hand.

  ‘Connie,’ he began, ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve …’ He paused then began again. ‘It’s that I’ve had feelings for you for some time – well, right from when you first came into my office, but I didn’t truly heed it then and you were so young. I even rebuked myself for it.’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I found it nigh on impossible to get over losing my wife. When you came for your interview that day, I was still grieving, after over two years. Then you were shown into my office and something changed. Like a breath of fresh air, though I didn’t recognise it at the time, but it felt as if the grief I’d been clinging to seemed to melt away.’

  Again he paused. She waited, silently. ‘Since then,’ he continued, ‘my feelings for you have mounted but I’ve found it hard to convey what I feel.’

  His voice faded; his hand let go of hers to transfer itself gently to the back of her neck and just as gently eased her face towards his.

  She let it happen, felt his lips close very lightly on hers, no sudden passion, just a gentle pressing of his lips against hers and when she didn’t pull away, the pressure grew more certain and she knew then that this wasn’t something that had suddenly come upon them, that it ha
d been growing over all these months, each unaware of the other’s feelings. Now suddenly she wanted to taste the fruit, certain that he did too.

  Behind them was an alley: little more than a gap, one of several that occasionally broke the line of tenements in this street, a mere footpath by which homes could be entered by the back door. Just a small movement backwards would take them out of sight of any prying eyes.

  She felt her heart begin to pound as together they eased towards the dark, narrow space. A sudden fear caught her: she thought of Dorothy and her predicament, and felt her body tense. He must have felt it too and instantly broke away.

  ‘Connie, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  His voice faded as they stood apart now. It felt like the aftermath of a dream that had threatened to turn into a nightmare: waking to find only the empty stillness of a deserted room.

  ‘Forgive me.’ His voice had become a whisper. ‘I had no intention …’ He broke off then slowly added, ‘I’m deeply sorry.’

  ‘You mustn’t be,’ she said quickly, her love for him almost overflowing. ‘But I’m glad—’

  ‘I’m horrified I’ve ruined things between us,’ he cut in. ‘I want us to be friends – more than friends. I know you’re young but it really doesn’t seem to matter. I just want to know if you still feel anything for me …’

  On impulse she leaned forward and kissed him, cutting off his words. For a moment he stood with his arms at his side; the next moment he was holding her to him, returning her kiss, gentle now, controlled, but it was wonderful.

  The next day, Connie stood outside a general store, in Smithfield, watching women coming and going, listening to housewives on meeting each other and pausing for a chat. Their talk was all about how the war was going, but no mention of loved ones in France or fighting in Turkey. No one asked after a neighbour’s son or husband, lest they be told of someone lost or injured. They spoke of mundane things: cost of bread, the lightweight Christmas table they would have this year, the mess so-and-so’s street was still in after that zeppelin raid a month ago and when the authorities were going to clear it up.