A Wartime Friend

by Lizzie Lane

  Meg heard Lily’s footsteps heading for the toilet. Lily must not see you upset, she said to herself, and made the decision not to tell Lily that Ray was dead – not yet.

  The whole of the next day, the day after that and the rest of the week seemed to pass in a dream. She hoped nobody had seen the boy delivering the telegram and surmised that something was wrong. She couldn’t cope with receiving their sympathy or answering their questions. Not yet. Not until she had pulled herself together and got used to the situation – if she ever did.

  Keeping busy obviously helped. Even so, she found herself staring into space, though she steeled herself to make a meal for Lily. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t burst into tears for a man she’d thought was the love of her life. Had something changed?

  The war, the war, the war. And yet she couldn’t help feeling that was only an excuse.

  The sun was still shining, Lily was still ferociously painting red and black pictures, life in the village was going on regardless.

  Ray’s widowed father had been his usual stiff self when he’d been told the news. It was hard at times to reconcile the two men, though Ray had once told her that he took after his mother. She’d been French and he’d worshipped her.

  ‘Her name was Françoise,’ he’d told her. He’d kept a small photograph of her in his wallet. She’d looked young and pretty, more like a sister than a mother.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she’d said when she’d first given her father-in-law the news, as though it were somehow her fault. He asked her to keep in touch, to let him know if anything materialised. ‘In case he is only missing …’

  Meg pressed her hand over her eyes. ‘Of course,’ she said, but behind the hand tears threatened. ‘He’s dead,’ she wanted to say. ‘They don’t seem to know it but all they are doing is prolonging the agony.’

  Her own mother fell to silence when she told her before offering to come down and stay with her for a while. ‘Though I cannot possibly get there for about two weeks. I’ve become so involved with the WVS and the WI. It’s so hectic in London at present.’

  Meg had already made up her mind that a visit from her mother would not materialise. Her mother would have better things to do – better as in more supportive of the war effort. She wished to do her bit and wished her actions to be observed by her society friends. There was status in being a volunteer, working herself to a standstill without the prospect of remuneration.

  During those early days she continued telephoning the few people she knew had phones, most of them in London. Everyone was sympathetic but busy, surprisingly busy, as though death and being a friend really had little to do with each other.

  ‘There is so much going on and so much to do. Are you coming up to London? We must meet up if you are. So sorry, darling. So very sorry.’

  Looking after Lily was her excuse for not visiting London, though she badly needed a shoulder to cry on. The villagers were still strangers, though they smiled and slowed as they passed as if expecting her to tell them something about her life.

  Persisting in letting relatives and old friends know about Ray helped her cope. Over and over she repeated the same thing. ‘A telegram came. It said he’s missing, presumed dead.’ Sometimes she got it in the wrong order: ‘Dead, presumed missing.’

  She badly needed someone to care, to act as though her loss was the only fatality in this bloody awful war. Her list was small and it was an old friend who didn’t live in London who threw her a lifeline: ‘Come and stay with me, darling.’

  She’d met Diane in London when they were both working as secretaries at a very large law firm. Even though they were from different backgrounds, they clicked immediately. Diane was pretty and laughed a lot.

  ‘I was supposed to “come out”,’ she’d told Meg. ‘You know. The debutante ball and all that.’

  Meg had been highly impressed. ‘But you didn’t go?’

  ‘My darling Meg, do I look the sort of woman likely to fall for a chinless wonder with oodles of money but no charisma?’ Meg had to admit that she didn’t look that sort at all. Her friend was totally bipartisan when it came to men. ‘In time, I intend going back to Cornwall. My folks will be missing me.’

  Though she was now married, Diane still lived in her parents’ stately home in Cornwall. The War Office had requisitioned a major portion of the house. Her sympathy and generosity knew no bounds, though she did feel obliged to apologise for their straitened circumstances.

  ‘We only have the use of the west wing for our own purposes. It’s a little cramped but one has to make sacrifices in the current situation, doesn’t one,’ Diane had explained in her plummy accent.

  From memory, Meg thought the accommodation described by Diane as being allotted to the family was far from cramped. The manor house dated back to the sixteenth century and was surrounded by a large garden with a coastal path beyond the high walls. At this time of year, a turquoise strip of sea could be viewed from most of the upstairs windows. Gulls screamed by day, freewheeling against coastal clouds and summer blue. Owls hooted at night, accompanied by the far-off sound of surf crashing against the rocky coastline.

  ‘And where’s your husband?’ She heard a sudden catch in Diane’s throat. ‘Ian is away at sea. He’s in the Navy.’

  The train journey down was long and arduous. Lily slept most of the way, her hair damp against her forehead. She stirred slightly when Meg stroked her damp locks away from her eyes, catching her breath as though something was preventing her from breathing properly.

  At one point she sat up, eyes staring. ‘Where are we going?’

  Meg was taken by surprise. Lily spoke infrequently and never seemed to know where she was.

  The carriage rattled along as she explained they were off to Cornwall to stay with a friend. ‘You’ll like Cornwall,’ Meg pronounced. Lily still had nightmares about a train journey, though not as many as she used to.

  ‘Bodmin! Bodmin!’ The stationmaster, a white-haired man with an officious air, strode up and down shouting the name of the station over and over again. There were no signs stating they were at their destination.

  Meg shook Lily’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Lily. We’re here.’

  Lily started, her eyes wide with alarm, looking around her as though she didn’t know where she was. Her face paled when she saw she was on a train.

  Meg caressed her face. ‘It’s all right Lily. We’re here at Bodmin. We’re going to have a lovely holiday. You can paddle in the sea and …’

  It broke her heart to see the look of terror on the little girl’s face. Incomprehension she could cope with, but this look went far deeper. The bombing, she thought. It always went back to the bombing.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, taking hold of Lily’s hand. ‘Let’s go and have a lovely time.’

  Diane, a picture in a summery print dress and a straw hat decorated with flowers, collected them from the station. ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ Diane said to her, arms around her shoulders, the long fingers of her right hand clasping a cigarette holder. ‘Poor you. Poor Ray. Poor child too.’

  Meg broke down sobbing on her friend’s shoulder. Lily took no notice whatsoever. Even when Diane, a woman who could charm anyone, did her utmost to engage her, Lily gave no sign she’d heard her.

  ‘Meg,’ Diane said to her later that evening once Lily had been put to bed. ‘Far be it from me to criticise, but don’t you think that child would be better in a special hospital – or something …’

  Meg responded fiercely. ‘Diane, I no longer have Ray in my life. If I didn’t have Lily, I think I would go mad!’

  Diane nodded sagely. ‘Yes. Of course you would.’

  The weather was fine so the next day was spent out in the garden seated beneath a chestnut tree, dappled with sunlight and shade as leaves rustled in the warm breeze. The two women, who met in a time so different to the world as it was now, reminisced about times gone by; both watched Lily as they spoke.

  Lily was standing close to the fence at the f
ar end of the garden, her arms held straight at her side, her whole body completely still as she took in a flock of sheep grazing stoically on the salty grass that gave roast lamb from around there its unique flavour.

  ‘Poor love,’ said Diane.

  ‘I still blame myself. We should have gone to the public shelter.’

  ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

  Meg nodded. ‘Ray and I used to wonder what she’d gone through before he found her.’

  ‘She doesn’t remember any of it?’

  Over a pot of tea, scones, jam and Cornish cream, Diane asked her about Lily’s condition and the chances of a full recovery.

  Meg shrugged. ‘All they say is that it will take time. Nobody tells me how long that’s likely to be. She rarely speaks. In fact, I wonder at times if she knows that I’m there. I’m hoping she might improve once she begins school in September.’

  ‘Let’s hope she does. Other children might very well bring her out of herself.’

  Meg nodded. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’

  ‘And Ray? They have said missing in action. It doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s gone for ever.’

  A cloud suddenly obscured the sunshine and Meg shivered. ‘Missing in action, presumed dead. I’m thinking that if I believe the worst, then the best thing might happen. He might be a prisoner of war.’

  Diane put out her cigarette and patted her hand. ‘Chin up, dear friend.’

  Diane had a way of looking at her at times as though she was cooking up something. Meg eyed her quizzically. ‘I get the feeling you’re planning something.’

  ‘How about we go to the beach this afternoon?’

  Meg wasn’t keen but Diane had been kind. Her response was only slightly non-committal. ‘Do you have one without barbed wire stretched across it?’

  ‘Of course we do. A very small hidden cove that only the locals know about. There should be other children there. You don’t have to. I just thought it might help.’

  They took a picnic with them and chatted excitedly, ensuring Lily was included in the conversation, talking to her as though she was as excited as they were and was answering lucidly. In fact, she made little response, but Meg was determined. She’d even made her wear her swimming costume beneath her candy-striped dress, just in case the gentle lap of waves on the shore enticed her into the water. At least it was something other than drawing those terrible memories in red and black.

  They took deckchairs, bundling them into the boot of Diane’s small Morris along with towels and sun hats, even though the sun wasn’t too strong today and the breeze was likely to lift them skyward.

  The salty smell of the sea rose up to them from the cove below, the secret place only approached by a narrow and very steep pathway of stone and clay and bits of wood forming makeshift steps. Meg gazed at the shimmering water, thinking how beautiful it was and yet how deadly. It was more than likely that Ray’s plane had ditched into the sea. He might very well be buried beneath its crystal surface.

  Lost in her thoughts, it was a few minutes before she realised that Diane was standing at her side.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Diane murmured. ‘As I have already said, they presume Ray to be dead, but it doesn’t mean that he is. You have to believe that.’

  Meg’s response was uncharacteristically abrupt. ‘I’m not a fool living on false hope, Diane. There’s been no word. If he is still alive there would have been. I have to cope with the here and now. I have Lily to think of.’

  Diane watched her old friend take hold of Lily’s hand and begin the descent to the beach. On the surface, Meg appeared to be coping well, but they were old friends. Diane knew that inside, Meg was only barely holding on.

  ‘You’d hardly believe there was a war on,’ Meg remarked once they’d set up the deckchairs and opened the hamper.

  ‘I know,’ said Diane. ‘Not a bit of barbed wire in sight, the reason being that small beaches like this are not thought a feasible option for invading armies that count their numbers in thousands. Instead we are experiencing an invasion of evacuees from London. Just look at them all.’

  Meg heard the raucous voices of East End evacuees, delighted as they ran in and out of the waves or built castles close to the shoreline where the water could fill the moats they’d dug around their creations.

  ‘I should have sent Lily to you,’ she said softly. ‘I was being selfish keeping her in London.’

  Diane squeezed her arm. ‘You couldn’t see into the future. You weren’t to know what would happen.’

  Meg bit her bottom lip. ‘I haven’t told her about Ray. I don’t want to upset her. Perhaps I should, you know, get it over with.’

  Diane sighed. ‘Leave it be for now. You’ll know when the time’s right.’

  Their gaze was suddenly drawn to the slight figure heading for the sea. Lily did not look to left or right as she walked straight through a half-built sandcastle.

  The boy who had built the castle jumped to his feet, bucket in one hand, spade in the other. ‘Hey! Look what you’ve done to my sandcastle! Are you stupid or something?’

  Not content with shouting at her, he ran over and gave her a big push, sending her sprawling into the water. Lily lay there, staring up at him but not crying, not showing any sign that she’d noticed the sandcastle or heard the tousle-haired boy who’d shouted at her.

  Meg had heard and got up so quickly the deckchair collapsed. ‘That little girl is not well and I’ll thank you not to speak to her like that!’

  The boy poked his tongue out when her shadow fell over him. ‘Stupid, stupid. Na-na-ne-na-nah!’

  Meg slapped his face. ‘Call that child stupid again and I’ll pick you up and throw you into the sea! Do you hear me?’

  Surprised and wailing, the boy ran to a plump lady sitting on a rock, her old-fashioned hat shading her face from the sun as she knitted plain and purl on a set of clicking needles, her stockings rolled down around her ankles. On hearing what the young lad had to say, her face crumpled like a deflated beach ball. Holding on to him for assistance, she struggled to her feet.

  By now Meg had gathered the soaking-wet Lily to her breast, anger still written over her face as the big woman with the knitting came striding across, her fat arms swinging at her sides.

  Diane got to her first. Meg couldn’t hear what was said but could guess. Her friend was explaining the reason for both Lily’s and her own behaviour. Even at this distance, Meg could see the woman’s frown and fairly cringed at the sound of a heavy hand smacking the lad’s other cheek.

  ‘I explained everything,’ said Diane, striding back in her forthright manner. She glanced up at the sky. ‘Now come on. We’d better get home before it rains. Have to say, though, Meg, I never knew you had it in you. Slapping that kid like that. You were always so peace-loving. You’re becoming quite grouchy – understandable, of course. Still, you did surprise me.’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ Meg said bitterly.

  In the car on the way back, Diane dared again to broach the subject of the change she’d perceived in Meg’s behaviour. ‘You can’t take it out on the rest of the world, my dear. They were not responsible for what happened.’

  ‘I know that,’ Meg responded sharply. ‘I was responsible. I should have gone to the shelter. That’s why I’m so bloody angry!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ten days later Meg and Lily left Cornwall and made their way back to Upper Standwick. The return journey was just as lengthy and tiring as the one down. First, they’d had to get to Bristol and then a branch-line train to Upper Standwick. Thankfully Lily had no nightmares but looked out of the window the whole way. The only train that would call that day pulled in at Upper Standwick halt and they got off.

  Meg eyed the squat-fronted cottage with some misgiving. Somewhere in the distance came the sound of a tractor and the shouts and laughter of land girls helping to bring in the harvest. When the tractor wasn’t running they sang popular songs at the tops of their voices,
mainly about how much they were missing their sweethearts. The words numbed her heart as the truth hit her. They might get to see their sweethearts once more, but she would not. Ray was gone.

  The cottage threw its shadow over the front garden where bees buzzed among the rampant flower growth, wildflowers growing among knotted rosebushes and sweet scented stock. Despite its chocolate box exterior, Bluebell Cottage was an unknown quantity. It did not feel like coming home. Meg couldn’t imagine it ever feeling like home.

  The sundry brown envelopes waiting on the doormat in the hallway were pounced on, ripped open with enthusiasm and then discarded with dismay. There was no news. Thanks to Diane’s positive input, Meg had entertained the hope that Ray might have been taken prisoner and a letter to that effect would be there when she got back. On the return journey to Bluebell Cottage she dared to dream that Ray would be waiting for her, alive, in the flesh, not dead at all. If he were a prisoner of war he would still be alive. Or perhaps somebody was mistaken and he was merely missing in action. Anything was better than never seeing him again.

  There was nothing here to reassure her.

  The sun outside glared with summer intensity. Lily was in bed with a slight cold and Meg had ordered her to stay there: ‘Here’s some warm milk. Drink it down now.’ The warm milk had done the trick. Lily was sound asleep.

  A cup of tea would be nice, she thought to herself, but might as well do the washing up first. As she did, a knock sounded from the front door. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she opened it to see Mrs Dando who lived in the cottage opposite on the other side of the village green. She was holding the leash of a large Alsatian dog.

  In no mood for neighbourly chats, Meg looked from one to the other and asked what it was she wanted.

  Mrs Dando’s crumpled face lit up. ‘I brought you your dog. The RAF left it with me.’

  Meg frowned. ‘I don’t have a dog.’

  ‘It was your husband’s dog,’ Mrs Dando said brightly. ‘The young RAF man who brought him said he belonged to your husband. I explained you were away and he asked if I could look after the dog until you get back as he was due to go back on ops very shortly.’