A Girl in Wartime

by Maggie Ford

  Before she could check herself she had burst out, asking again ‘Why have you never taken me into your bedroom, Stephen?’ She was becoming angry. ‘Is it because you still hold it sacred to the memory of—?’

  She broke off, aware of him regarding her with an expression of sadness. She instantly read in it that she had gone too far; suddenly seeing it through his eyes without it needing to be put it into words. He and his wife had made love in that bed, she might even have passed away in it, a lasting reminder of the woman he’d loved and married, and not even she to whom he could make love on this sofa would ever be allowed near it.

  Even as that thought came, she felt a twinge of rancour that despite making ardent love to her, there was a barrier between them, a barrier she felt she would never be able to tear down. All she could say was, ‘I’m so sorry, Stephen, I wasn’t thinking.’

  He didn’t smile. ‘Taking you to bed, my dear, would be fatal, too easy to lose track of time, to wake up to find it morning, and what would your parents think, you being out all night? What excuse could you give, you who wear my engagement ring on a ribbon, hidden from them?’

  It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone but she could feel the condemnation in that last question, realised how she was hurting him. Tears began to gather in her eyes – tears he had already noticed.

  ‘You have to be honest with them, Connie,’ he said gently. ‘You have to tell them.’

  She knew that now. To be honest with them was to honour him, though the thought of the possible consequences of telling them made her cringe.

  Weeks had passed, and her nineteenth birthday had arrived and still she was hanging back from telling her parents about her and Stephen. He had given up asking her. He knew full well that she hadn’t and it made her feel like a puppy terrified of its owner’s anger; frightened too of his disappointment in her.

  Her birthday fell on a Sunday. This evening he was taking her out to dinner to celebrate, somewhere very special, he’d said.

  At midday she had been obliged to consume a Sunday birthday meal Mum had painstakingly cooked for the whole family and knew by the time she and Stephen had dinner, she’d hardly be able to find room for it.

  Mum’s offering had been a special birthday treat, a chicken she’d managed to get hold of – no one knew how. ‘Your nineteenth birthday, love,’ she’d said proudly, innocent of what had been planned for the evening. She’d have to apologise to Stephen as she pushed away her sumptuous meal, saying she was full to the brim.

  She was meeting him at seven thirty, and had told her mum she was going with friends to a little club they knew to dance to a jazz band. Her mum had said, ‘Well, don’t let anyone lead you astray, love.’ Connie knew her mother still saw her as an innocent, and was mistrustful of the effect this modern jazz music and jazz musicians might have on a young and impressionable girl like her daughter. ‘Don’t to be too late home, love,’ she’d warned gently.

  Connie hadn’t known what Stephen had planned, other than being told to wear her very best clothes and nicest hat as they were going somewhere high class.

  She guessed it was to be somewhere wonderful but in her wildest dreams hadn’t even thought it would be the Ritz, the huge, electric-lit hotel she’d often walked past with friends. She’d never thought that one day she’d be setting foot in its sumptuous surroundings, conducted through the huge glass doors by those imposing, liveried doormen, and actually have a meal there.

  It should have been lovely, drawing up in a proper chauffeur-driven motorcar Stephen had hired instead of a taxi, having a commissionaire open the vehicle door for them and another to open the hotel door to admit them into the most opulent surroundings she had ever seen, so hushed but for distant soothing music that she felt she dared not even speak lest she shiver the expensive atmosphere.

  After handing her coat and hat to the cloakroom lady, she joined Stephen to be led to the sedate dining hall, the diners there looking as if they were worth millions, and she felt dowdy in her best dress. But Stephen threaded her arm firmly through his as they were conducted to their table.

  She was gratified to find that the meal, though top class, was served in small portions so that whatever her lack of hunger compelled her to leave, wouldn’t seem quite so noticeable. She’d expected to be overawed, but Stephen with his confident manner put her wonderfully at ease. Yet there was still that worry threatening to dim the wonderful evening, the delicious food bland in her mouth as she thought of her parents.

  ‘I don’t know how to tell them about us,’ she said as they ate, and had him regard her across the beautifully laid table.

  ‘I think you should let me come with you, you introduce me and let it go on from there.’ He reached out across the table and took her hand in his; it felt so warm and comforting. ‘It’s got to be done sometime, my darling. It’ll not get any easier by delaying it. You never know, your worries might be all for nothing, my love. When we leave here, I suggest we go straight to your parents and tell them.’

  Gently she eased her hand away. ‘I can’t, not yet. They’re already worried about poor Ronnie, and Albert’s still at the front, and there’s Dorothy pining for Ron to be sent home and see his daughter. He only saw her for just over one day after she was born. He’s not seen her since. She’ll be a nearly year old by the time he’s well enough to come home. He’ll have missed all the joy of seeing her growing up. I can’t add to their problems, Stephen. Let’s wait just a little while longer.’

  He released her hand and sat back. ‘Very well, darling,’ he said like a man defeated. ‘As you wish.’

  But she knew her reticence to tell her parents about them was pushing them further apart. What if he were to grow frustrated by her continually deferring the matter and told her that it was all no use, it was all off and to call it a day? She couldn’t have borne that. Yes, she would have to tell them – as soon as she found the courage. But she knew what their reaction would be and that terrified her. Telling them or not telling them, either way she could lose him.

  Christmas bore all the signs of being a really miserable one, not only because it was getting harder to find anything, food prices having gone sky high, but because of the bleak news of stalemate along the whole length of the Western Front, with thousands of men being lost daily. No one at home said much about it, but the tightness of Mum’s lips, the anguished way she would twist her fingers together when she thought no one was watching, and her father’s taut, grim face, told Connie of their fear for Albert’s safety and anguish for Ronnie’s future.

  Dorothy was the one most noticeably affected, yearning for Ron to be finally sent home to spend the rest of his life watching his daughter grow up.

  He was still in France, being treated for shell shock, they’d now been told – mild, they said, as if it were some sort of consolation – and for the ongoing treatment of his stump that wasn’t healing as well as it should. Albert was still in the thick of it and who could say he wouldn’t be killed at any time? How, then, could Connie burden them with news of herself and Stephen?

  As for Christmas presents, it was fine for those with money who could afford any price, but ordinary people could only do their best. Everyone accepted with good grace that a kiss and a thank you for a humble gift was more precious than the gift itself, which was usually given with the comment: ‘When this damned war’s over, we’ll make up for it!’

  Christmas dinner would no doubt be festive, the family coming round with their tiny offerings, everyone trying to put a brave face on it, other than Dorothy, who without her own mother’s shoulder to cry on, was using her future mother-in-law’s instead.

  Connie was already seeing Christmas as holding little promise for her, knowing she couldn’t ask Stephen to be with her. What sort of Christmas would he have, alone in his flat, no family to speak of, colleagues who’d probably have their own families to be with? But worse was the news hanging over her head that she’d have to tell her parents about him eventually.

>   Most of her time was spent going over and over what she would say, but it never seemed to come out right. She should have told them long ago and got it over with. At least she’d know by now where she stood with them.

  She promised herself to tell them next week. Come what may, and have done with it, face whatever disparagement they’d aim at her.

  Then came something that alarmed Connie even more deeply, making her feel certain that Stephen would be leaving her, even though it would not be his decision. She had been at work for a couple of hours when he had entered her department and came over to her desk, gazing at her as he held out an official document. ‘My calling-up papers,’ he explained bleakly.

  It felt as if her heart had stopped. ‘Oh, Stephen, no!’

  ‘I never expected this,’ he was saying as if she had not spoken. ‘Perhaps they won’t accept me. They didn’t last time. The ear trouble, you see, I’d have thought they would have had all that on record. But that’s the military for you.’

  He spoke lightly enough and relief was flooding over her. ‘Then it should be all right,’ she said, ‘once they’ve looked at your old files.’

  When he spoke again it was as if to himself. ‘The last time I tried to volunteer, that was. The time before I met you, at that time I made the mistake of telling the paper, and they were dead against it – said I was too much of an asset to leave them for any reason. I never realised they held me in such high esteem. They’d never admitted that to me before, but then they wouldn’t, would they, in case I got above myself and sought a post with some larger newspaper or asked for a substantial rise in salary.’

  He gave a whimsical smile seeming to be directed at himself.

  Connie detected the irony behind the smile but her own heart was pounding. What if this time they took him? What would she do? The newspapers, even this one, were reporting carnage at a place called the Somme. What if something should happen to him? The idea did not bear thinking about.

  ‘Maybe they’ll reject you again because of your ear trouble,’ she said hopefully. ‘They’ve probably got their paperwork all mixed up.’ After millions of men passing through the recruiting centres, mistakes were bound to happen.

  ‘More likely they need men so badly,’ he said, ‘that they no longer care who they take. Most likely they’d take me, half-deaf and all.’

  ‘They can’t!’ she burst out, but indeed they could. ‘The paper might never find anyone as good as you; maybe they have to take on some elderly duffer who’s past his prime. You’re needed here. So many are being called up, you’ll just be one of thousands. Surely they wouldn’t miss one man.’

  He made no answer and she let her tirade ebb away, her argument futile. But so many men were being lost, the recruitments centres were eager for more human fuel to replace them. But Stephen, a single man admittedly, but one who had been more than once rejected because of partial deafness when he’d gone to volunteer, surely they wouldn’t have changed their minds? Now it was certain they’d take him despite his disability and his newspaper’s need of him. It was out of his hands, out of theirs, out of hers too.

  Her sisters’ husbands were now on the front line and them each with a family and young children. Her sisters were feeling the strain. And even men previously deemed unfit for duty were being considered, or so it was rumoured. What chance did Stephen have?

  The next morning he didn’t come to work. She knew where he had gone. He returned several hours later, first having spent time talking to Mathieson, his chief editor.

  When he returned to his own department, he went straight into his own office without glancing her way. She could see him from where she sat at her desk in the corner but could hardly get up and go barging into his office to find out the results of his time at the recruitment centre. That lunchtime he was out of the office interviewing someone for a story he was writing. She would have to wait until this evening. They’d be going to dinner together after work. He’d tell her then how it had gone. But it didn’t look promising and the rest of the day was agony. Not once did he look in her direction and she was unable to concentrate on a single thing. Thankfully she would not be required to go out with a photographer on an assignment. Although there had been a zeppelin raid over London last night, the paper felt there had been too many depictions on its pages of devastated faces and their readership deserved a break.

  That evening she and Stephen ate dinner in virtual silence. She was glad when they returned to his flat for their usual nightcap and she could tax him in private as to how he had fared.

  After getting out of their outdoor things, she sat herself down on the sofa, but instead of sitting down beside her he remained standing, gazing down at her, his face as grim as it had been all day. She dared not ask how he had got on. Then suddenly it seemed to burst from his lips.

  ‘I’m exempt – I’ve been rejected,’ he said abruptly, but he didn’t smile.

  The terrible thought struck her: had he wanted to go into the forces? Had he been prepared to leave her after all, as easily and lightly as that, and now he was disappointed? She was being unkind thinking such a thing but couldn’t help her thoughts from dwelling on it – she hated herself for even thinking it. But an immense wave of relief had flooded over her all the same, even though he didn’t look at all happy.

  ‘What’s wrong, Stephen?’ she managed to ask. ‘They rejected you. You are exempt. So what’s wrong?’

  ‘I feel somehow ashamed.’

  She frowned. ‘How can you feel ashamed? It’s not your fault. It was their decision.’

  But he shook his head. ‘I feel guilty.’

  Instantly she leapt up, ready to put her arms around him, but he backed swiftly away, leaving her standing there. All she could do was entreat him.

  ‘Why should you feel guilty? My darling, you’re not guilty of anything.’

  ‘I did something shameful,’ he said in a low tone.

  ‘What?’ she entreated, alarmed. ‘What on earth are you talking about, my love?’

  He was nibbling at his lower lip as if unsure that he should tell her whatever it was. Finally he said, ‘I tried to get them to overlook my affliction. I’m so sorry, my darling, but I felt I had to try and do my bit. I honour this country, same as other men, and that was why I volunteered at the beginning of the war. Now, of course, I don’t want to leave you. All the same, I …’

  He let the words die away as she stood wanting so much to hold him to her but frightened to do so in case he retreated even further away from her.

  ‘I know we’d be torn apart,’ he went on in a flat tone. ‘But I felt I had to try and do my best. I went for the usual medical. The medical officer, an officious-looking chap, examined me thoroughly, and naturally in the course of his examination discovered the ruptured eardrum.’ Stephen lifted his head challengingly. ‘It was then I said a really stupid thing. I asked if he could overlook it and give me a clean bill of health. After all, other than that, I was fit and in perfect health. But he looked at me as if I had blasphemed – said haughtily that he was sorry but he was not prepared to allow himself to stoop – stoop, mind you – to passing any man A1 when he knew I was certainly not A1.’

  Stephen turned from her and began pacing the room as he continued talking, seeming to be addressing the floor. ‘He drew himself upright and said very slowly and deliberately, as if talking to some criminal, that he considered himself above such low practice, and should another medical officer examine me at some later date and find that I had been passed as fit by himself when I was obviously not, it would most certainly reflect on him and his integrity as an officer – his words, uttered as if he were God Almighty – and he was not prepared for such to happen, not for anyone. He added that he didn’t know me from Adam so why should I presume he would sink to what I was asking him to do for me, to lie and put his own career in jeopardy for someone he had never before set eyes on in his whole life? I’ve never had anyone address me in that tone, ever – the supercilious bastard! As
if I were some wayward child. Then he officially filled in the medical forms, dismissing me as unfit for military duties.’

  As Stephen’s voice died away, Connie again tried to approach him, devastated for him even though her heart was singing with unbearable relief. But Stephen had more to say, his voice trembling with anger.

  ‘He motioned me with his hand to leave, adding as a parting shot, I suppose, that I had insulted his integrity by even expecting him to bend the rules. I just wanted to crawl away. I’ve never felt that way before.’

  Stephen wasn’t even looking at her; it was as though he were speaking to himself as if trying to smother the embarrassment lurking within him.

  ‘I do recall having heard about a move to recruit those with hearing difficulties but otherwise perfectly fit to fight – that they have a hearing officer who could issue orders – but the War Department threw the idea out as being suicide – the possibility of them walking unknowingly into a trap should their officer be otherwise distracted, to be mowed down by the enemy having not heard its advance. Even so, the way that blasted officer spoke to me made me feel like a worm, and I can still hear his tone, full of contempt at someone stooping to bribery, as he called it. It has left me feeling so bloody ashamed. I know I shouldn’t be, but it’s there.’

  As his voice died away, Connie’s heart went out to him and she whispered, ‘I do know, my darling, I do know. It was so deeply unkind and unwarranted.’

  And this time he didn’t pull away from her as she came and held him close.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  February 1917

  It was the end of February and Ronnie was back in England. He had been admitted to a hospital in the west of London, not so much a hospital as a big house that had been taken over for treating shell-shocked patients. One of the nurses caring for him had sent a letter saying they had high hopes for him, he wasn’t as bad as some and that his wound was clean and healing well. Connie saw her mother breathe a huge sigh of gratitude as she read, even as the tears fell from her face.