In Time of War (Part Six of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  “I didn’t know Mrs Heering’s first husband lost his life here. Tabitha said it is his ghost that walks.”

  Carson didn’t try to conceal his irritation. The worry of the war, his responsibilities as commander of the local Home Guard and the death of Jean Parterre had taken their toll and his temper was short.

  “Ryder Yetman’s was an unfortunate accident. It doesn’t make the place haunted. Ryder was too robust and sensible a man for that sort of nonsense. You can be sure he rests quietly in his grave up at the churchyard in Wenham. You know what servants can be like. They are sometimes very superstitious. I never saw any trace of Ryder Yetman’s ghost, or ever had any indication that the cottage was anything but a good, safe, happy place in which to live.”

  Carson’s tone softened and he looked anxiously at Minnie.

  “There is no need at all to be frightened, my dear, or if you are Lally would be only too glad to have you over at the house.”

  He made an awkward attempt to comfort her by putting a hand on her arm. The truth was that Minnie made him nervous too.

  If she had been a legitimate daughter-in-law he would have known their respective roles. Now these were ill-defined. A proper sense of relationship was lacking. For instance, after the war there was nothing to stop her taking off with his grandson if she wished – without legal bonds, Alexander had no rights. The situation made Carson uncomfortable and he would dearly have loved it to be regularised.

  Minnie, also uneasy with Alexander’s father, appreciated his awkward gesture and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I know it’s silly of me and ... thank you, Sir Carson, for being so kind and understanding. You may think me a foolish woman, prey to unreasonable fears. It is just that ... it is such a long time since we had news of Alexander. I am terribly afraid something might have happened to him.”

  “My dear.” Carson moved closer and gently took her hand. He was by nature an affectionate man but nervous of being too demonstrative with Minnie in case she misunderstood him. “If something had happened to Alexander we should have heard. Make no mistake about that. Bad news travels very fast in wartime. I am sure that Alexander is in the thick of the action somewhere in Europe and that he is in good health and we shall soon be hearing from him again, if not seeing him. Because things are so different from the war in which I fought, I have really little idea of the conditions our men are fighting under. Communications are of the utmost importance so the wires cannot be clogged up with personal messages. Alexander may not yet know of the existence of the baby. He was a little premature, I understand, so he will not be worrying either. In times of war men cannot control their own lives or what they do. They are under orders at all times to obey. Believe me, if I thought anything was amiss I would tell you. But I have faith in Alexander. He is a great airman, a fine man, and I am proud of him.” He shook her hand gently. “Now Minnie, you must be brave too. You are surrounded here by Alexander’s family who love you as one of their own.” He gazed steadily into her eyes. “Promise me no more tears? No more foolish fears?”

  “I promise,” Minnie said summoning a brave smile.

  They went up to see the baby, chatted to Massie and then Minnie walked Carson to the front door. He kissed her tenderly on the cheek as he took his farewell and, with a wave, crossed the yard towards the house to see Lally.

  Minnie watched him until he disappeared and then she turned towards the cottage again, but was reluctant to go in. Instead she walked round to the garden at the back and sat for a while staring at the roof from which Ryder Yetman had fallen, trying hard to imagine that scene over fifty years before when he had been thatching the roof and, for some reason, lost his footing and fell.

  It had broken everyone’s heart. He was such a well-loved and popular man. It had plunged his widow into near poverty and Julius, the man for whom the house had been built, had never wanted to live there.

  Yet Lally had lived here for many, many years and Alexander had spent most of his youth here.

  Of course it was silly servants’ talk to say the place was haunted. Yet, all the same, as she looked at it, even though it was a day of bright sunshine, a shiver ran through her and in her bones she felt it was an unlucky place in which to live.

  Alexander drove wearily through the night. His eyes were red with exhaustion, but this was a state he was quite used to. He didn’t know how long it was since he had had a proper night’s sleep. He was always on the alert for the call that would summon him to another operation in support of the bombers, or to attack the fleeing ranks of the enemy being driven back in Europe, as formerly occupied countries regained their independence.

  He was desperate for news of Minnie and had begged forty-eight hours’ leave which was well overdue anyway. For this reason, in order not to lose precious time, he drove through the night without stopping until he came to Forest House, its turrets just appearing above the trees in the dawn light.

  Forest House. Home. He was a warrior accustomed to concealing emotion but, slowly, his eyes filled with tears and he angrily brushed them away, glad that none of the tough men under his command could see him. But what, in the same circumstances, might they not do after all? They had homes and families too.

  There was something about home, as there was about the first sight of the green countryside of England after the parched, battle-scarred lands of continental Europe that never failed to move him.

  So as not to disturb the people in the house or set the dogs barking Alexander left his car a quarter of a mile away and approached on foot, walking round it by a footpath through the woods to the cottage at the back which lay in semi-darkness.

  Almost fearfully, now that he was here at last, he stood gazing at it. Then he produced his key and quietly let himself in.

  Nothing stirred. Not a murmur. He wondered, for a moment, if anyone was there. Suddenly all the anxiety he’d felt about Minnie and her condition, which he had tried to suppress, surfaced and he raced up the stairs two at a time then stopped abruptly and listened. He heard it again: the cry of a baby. Simultaneously the door of Minnie’s bedroom flew open and Minnie, hair tousled, clutching at her nightgown, stood in the doorway a look of terror on her face which changed rapidly, first to one of incredulity and then of joy when she saw who was standing at the top of the stairs. With a strangled cry she threw herself in his arms.

  “Oh, Alexander I thought I would never see you again. And darling ...” her face shining she stood back from him and looked at him, “we have a baby...”

  “So I heard.” Alexander’s voice choked with emotion.

  “Did you not know? Were you not told?”

  “No.”

  “A boy ...” Minnie pointed to where Massie had suddenly appeared in the doorway of the nursery with the baby in her arms. Slowly Alexander approached her, his hands outstretched. Then he took the infant, whose tears had stopped abruptly at the sight of a stranger, and cuddled him.

  “What’s his name?” he asked looking at Minnie.

  “We waited for you. We call him ‘Baby’.”

  “We’ll have to change that.” Alexander smiled and, for a long time, rested his cheek against his son’s, his heart too full of emotion to speak as he silently gave thanks that his life had been spared to see him.

  Chapter Eleven

  April 1945

  Connie sat with her arms folded, shoulders hunched, smoking furiously, head pressed close to the wireless to catch the voices crackling over the receiver. At times the reception was very poor but she knew that Mussolini was dead, captured while trying to escape and, after a brief trial, he had been shot with his mistress, Clara Petacci, at Dongo not very far away from where she was now.

  She had been hiding for so long, keeping to the shelter of the villa, that she felt no urge to go out and welcome the soldiers of the liberating forces with the rest of the population. Even above the sound of the wireless she could hear the shouting in the streets as wave after wave of excited citizens, young and old, ran pas
t waving the Italian flag high above their heads.

  For a year Connie had remained in Alexander’s villa seeing hardly anybody except the maid, Luisa, who took care of it in Alexander’s absence, and who shopped and cleaned for her. She had been very lucky to have her; otherwise she might be dead. Solely dependent on the loyalty and goodwill of one person Connie had nevertheless feared for her life as she knew that the Fascist forces were concentrated in the north, where Mussolini had been operating his ‘Italian Socialist Republic’ from his hideaway in the mountains.

  Almost Connie’s sole preoccupation since her flight from Venice had been to follow day by day, hour by hour the progress of the war; the slow, agonisingly slow, advance of the Allied forces through Italy. Day after day she had sat close to her wireless, sometimes unable to hear the news because of the static, terrified of discovery by the Germans or the Italian Fascists holed up around the lake of Como. She had nothing else to do. Occasionally she saw a paper brought in by Luisa. There were a few books in the villa, all of which she had read and reread, and some very old pre-war magazines.

  There was no one to write to or, rather, no point in trying because there was no post. She had no idea what had happened or what was happening to her relatives in England, especially her children who were now nearly grown up. She dreaded that her sons might have enlisted in the war.

  It was a lonely existence. In a way not an existence at all: pecking at food, creeping around stealthily outside by night sticking close to the villa walls in order to get some exercise, cut off from human company except that of Luisa. Half the time she wondered if she could be trusted, or if even she might be prepared to betray her for money. In this atmosphere no one could be relied on.

  But Luisa hadn’t. She had remained loyal and now the Germans had signed an unconditional surrender to the Americans at Caserta. The war in Italy was over.

  Was it safe to go out? Connie turned off the wireless and looked longingly towards the door. Maybe soon, but not yet. There were still pockets of the enemy roaming the villages round Como, both sides, Fascists and anti-Fascists, the latter usually communists, were settling old scores. There were many summary executions. The fate of Mussolini, his mistress and his Fascist henchmen had not been unique. Connie thought that probably one side was as bad as another when it came to brutality. Yet the communists had fought on the Allied side and, for the time being anyway, had to be regarded as friends.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and Connie froze. Luisa had a key and no one else ever came to call. She looked round furtively for somewhere to hide. The knock came again. She ran upstairs and squeezed herself into the wardrobe in her bedroom. It was bound to be futile but better than immediately exposing herself to whatever brigand it was – communist or Fascist – who may have got wind of her presence.

  For a long time there was silence and, feeling slightly foolish, she was about to leave her hiding place when she heard footsteps on the marble staircase.

  She froze again, cowering behind the clothes on the rail in front of her. They would be a poor refuge if a real search was made.

  Footsteps sounded in her bedroom. Someone was prowling around. Then they left. She heard them go from one room to another and then, after an eternity, descend the staircase again. There was an exclamation from below, a woman’s voice: Luisa’s.

  “O Santa Madre!” Connie heard her exclaim. “O Signor ... Signor Allessandro!” A torrent of words followed in Italian. Connie heard a man’s voice and she nearly fainted with shock, clawed frantically at the clothes in front of her, and tumbled out of the wardrobe. Delirious with disbelief she ran across the floor into the corridor and leaned over the banister.

  “Alexander!” she shrieked and began tumbling down the stairs. “Oh my God! Alexander!”

  Alexander turned, his expression one of shocked surprise and caught Connie just in time as she tripped down the final steps and fell into his arms.

  Momentarily they looked into each other’s eyes and then they hugged each other for a long time while Luisa dabbed at her eyes.

  “I knew you would come back, signor,” she said in Italian. “I have looked after the Contessa and kept her safe for you.”

  “For how long?” Alexander demanded.

  Connie drew away from him and replied, “I left Venice a year ago. I have been here ever since.”

  “A whole year!” Alexander gasped. “What happened to Paolo? Is he here?”

  “I will tell you everything,” Connie said, still breathless, “but first let’s have a drink. I think there are still a few bottles of wine left in your cellar and we can have a celebration.”

  Luisa made dinner for them: pork loin she had bought in the market, pasta and fresh vegetables and fruit.

  The meal was served on the terrace as the moon came up over the lake and there was a bottle of cool crisp Orvieto to drink. Connie had put on the only decent dress she’d managed to bring in the small suitcase she’d escaped with, though God knows why she’d brought it. Maybe in anticipation of an occasion like this. It was a frothy but rather faded blue organdie muslin over a taffeta sheath with a décolleté neckline and a skirt that swept down to her feet on which were a pair of incongruous bright-gold slippers, scarcely ever worn. The whole outfit smelled of must and mothballs, redolent of a bygone era, of better days.

  It was ages, perhaps years, since Connie had had her hair done. Once upon a time she had been in the vanguard of fashion, shopping at couture houses under the guidance of Francesca Valenti and in the most exclusive boutiques of Paris, London and Rome. Now she no longer cared what she wore, and it was a long time since she had taken a good look at herself in the mirror. Tonight she had made an effort for Alexander.

  Alexander too had made an effort, having changed from the combat uniform in which he’d arrived to a suit, one of many he’d found in his wardrobe. It also smelled of mothballs, had one or two tiny holes where the moths had managed to break through the barrier, and was a little too tight for him now – he hadn’t been here since before the war and he’d put on a few inches round the waist.

  He supposed that, to an observer, they would look rather a sad, comical pair; but there was no one to see them and neither of them cared. They had both survived a war in which millions had died and that was what mattered.

  “On the whole we ate very well during the war,” Connie said enjoying her meal in a way she hadn’t for years. “There was always meat and plenty of fresh vegetables, better here than in Venice.”

  “But much more dangerous for you,” Alexander looked at her with concern, “with the place running with the Fascists.”

  “And the Germans. I never went out except sometimes at night to creep round the block. That’s why I have such a pallor.” Nervously Connie touched her face as if she had suddenly become conscious of the ravages of time. “Luisa looked after me marvellously. I shall have to be sure she is rewarded after I get home and can lay my hands on my money.”

  “I will reward her too.” Alexander gazed around him. “I never expected to find this place so well kept. I thought it would have been occupied and vandalised. I am stationed in Milan and asked for short leave to inspect my property.”

  “It’s a miracle it wasn’t. I think it’s due to some magic worked by Luisa. Nothing was ever said, but I’m sure one of her nephews was with the partisans and they made certain it was left undisturbed. The partisans were just as destructive as the Germans, you know.” Connie lowered her voice and then remembered that, as they were speaking English, Luisa wouldn’t understand.

  “I do know, and now that the war is over there will be all sorts of trouble as they try and take over the reins of government.” Alexander clasped Connie’s hand. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. The family were worried stiff. They will be thrilled to know that you are at least safe. As soon as I get back to my base I’ll send them a wire. And Connie, we’ll have to get you out of here as soon as we can. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Connie
put down her knife and fork, took a sip of wine and folded her hands on the table. Alexander thought how much she had aged; her ash-blonde hair was now partly grey. She was, if he remembered correctly, the same age as his father: fifty-eight. She looked older and so, now, did he. No one was left unaffected by the war.

  “Tell me about everyone ...” Connie sighed deeply.“I don’t know where to begin. My children, of course. Your father. Tell me about everything that has happened to them since the war began and then tell me about yourself, Alexander.”

  They talked far into the night, sitting on the balcony which had so many memories for Alexander of happier times in the past. But this was a time of happiness too, to know that he and Connie had survived at a period when so many had not.

  Connie heard about the death of Jean Parterre with tears in her eyes. About the death of her half-sister Agnes, the disappearance of Bart and Irene, about Minnie and the baby and now the new one she was expecting.

  Connie told him about Venice and the death of Paolo, the threat from his son, and her flight across Italy aided by the partisans.

  When she finished, she rose and walked restlessly across to the balcony, leaned over it and studied the reflection of the moon on the water.

  “Oh, Alexander, I feel so useless. The whole of Europe, nearly the whole world, has been in chaos and it has hardly touched me except that there is not a day when I haven’t been afraid, not a day when I didn’t wonder about my loved ones, about you all, the children especially. They have reached adulthood without me being there. We will be like strangers. It will be a very difficult adjustment.”

  “We all have to adjust,” Alexander said gently in a vain attempt to comfort her. “I’ve had five years of fighting and killing. I have shot down at least nineteen planes, killed nineteen pilots, widowed their wives, orphaned their children. It was a case of kill or be killed, but that is a fact. I have strafed people in the streets with bullets. A lot of my comrades have died. I have become very hard. I will find it strange to go back to a desk job, to lead a life of domesticity. I have seen too many horrible things I shan’t ever forget.”