In Love and War

by Liz Trenow

  *

  Even though the train was not due for fifteen minutes, the platform was already packed with people. Everyone seems to be on the move today, Martha thought to herself, anxiously hoping they would be able to secure two seats together, or indeed any seats at all.

  ‘Why don’t you give us a tune while we wait?’ Freddie mimicked playing the harmonica. Otto shook his head, embarrassed.

  ‘He’s been so kind, it’s the least you can do,’ she whispered. After hesitating a moment more Otto took out the little silver instrument, blowing a few slow, tentative notes at first and then stringing them together into something resembling the soldier song Freddie had taught him.

  Freddie began to sing along, Ruby and Alice too: ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile! While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag, smile, boys, that’s the style. What’s the use of worrying, it never was worthwhile. Sooo, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile!’ Before long others on the platform had joined in. As it came to an end, a spontaneous round of applause erupted around them.

  ‘See, music makes everyone happy,’ Freddie said, laughing.

  ‘Where on earth did he learn that?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘We had a little sing-song last night, didn’t we, boy?’ He ruffled Otto’s hair.

  Martha whispered in her son’s ear. ‘Now, say what I taught you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Freddie,’ the boy said, in English.

  ‘You’re welcome, lad. Hope you get lots of fun with it like I did.’

  Frustrated by lack of words, Martha held her hand to her heart. ‘I thank you, all of you, for everything.’

  *

  Thinking about it later, Ruby couldn’t remember what prompted her to put an arm around Martha’s shoulder. The woman stood unyielding at first, surprised and unsure how to react, but after a second or two she leaned in and pulled Otto towards her to join the embrace.

  Ruby felt their warmth, thawing the cold hatred she’d held in her heart for those who caused Bertie’s death. In its place she sensed a growing glimmer of forgiveness. They were, all of them, just ordinary human beings unlucky enough to have been caught up in the bloodiest war in history. Now all they could do, she said to herself, was carry on living, doing their best to make sure those sacrifices were not in vain. Little by little, out of the chaos of contradictory emotions, she was beginning to experience an unfamiliar feeling. One of peace.

  Until now the word ‘peace’ had had little real meaning to her other than the bleak emptiness of loss. She’d gone through the motions of celebration, of course, helping with the street party: sewing yards of bunting, buttering dozens of sandwiches and brewing hundreds of cups of tea. But all she could really remember was how it rained and everyone got soaked while pretending to be cheerful. The only ones enjoying themselves were the children playing tag, organising skipping games, jumping in puddles. If anything, evidence of normal life resuming only served to re-emphasise the pain of her loss.

  The notion of reconciliation was even harder. It meant truly forgiving those who had harmed you and your family, and that had always felt like a step too far. But coming here, meeting Martha, she’d been forced to face it: there could be no peace without forgiveness.

  Alice nudged her and she opened her arms to fold her in. Then she felt Freddie’s hand on her shoulder. For several moments the five of them – two Brits, two Germans and an American – held this unlikely embrace, listening to each other’s breathing and feeling each other’s warmth, saying not a word. No words were needed.

  Only when they heard the train arriving, the stationmaster’s whistle and his shout of ‘All aboard, please’, did they pull apart.

  *

  Freddie insisted on carrying their modest cases on board, shouldering his way through the crowd to secure two seats and swinging the luggage into an overhead rack before making a hasty retreat to the platform as the guard slammed doors and blew his whistle again. Martha pulled down the window with its leather loop and leaned out, waving, hearing their calls of ‘Have a good journey’ and ‘Good luck’ as the train began to move and the station disappeared into a cloud of steam.

  ‘How are you, Liebchen?’ she whispered, slipping into her seat beside Otto.

  ‘I can’t wait to see Heiney, Ma.’

  ‘You did well with the harmonica. Like Freddie said, music makes everyone feel better.’ Otto’s response was a grunt, but she could tell he was proud of himself. ‘We are fortunate to have met such kind people. Do you not think so?’

  ‘When can we have breakfast?’

  ‘Now, if you like.’ She handed him the paper bag and he began immediately to devour a pastry, dropping crumbs down his front and onto the floor. She did not have the heart to tell him off.

  As the train jolted along the much-repaired tracks, the rhythm of the English song echoed in her head and it made her smile all over again. Through the windows on either side the bleak landscape of mud, craters and broken trees rolled past but now, since the rains, everything seemed tinted with a green shimmer of new growth. Nature would soon heal the scars men had brought to this land.

  Martha rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. How her life had changed, in just a few days. She still found it hard to believe that her precious son might be alive, and had to pinch herself each time she thought of it to prove that she was not simply dreaming. She prayed that they would be able to find him and that, with home comforts and family love, they would be able to restore him to health and his old cheerful self. Patting the bag clutched on her lap that still contained Karl’s grandfather’s medal, and the letter they had written to Heiney, she smiled at the prospect of presenting them to him, in person.

  Settling into her seat with Otto’s comforting warmth at her side, Martha made a solemn promise to herself. With no work and dwindling savings the months to come would be hard, she knew, but she would try not to spend those precious dollars, now safely tucked into the inside pocket of her jacket.

  Then, if Alice managed to trace him, they could use the money to visit her brother in America. From what she’d read, there was work for everyone there, plenty of food and housing. Once upon a time she would have scoffed at the notion of leaving Germany, but this journey had opened her eyes to other possibilities. She had the future of her two boys to consider.

  *

  ‘It was an inspiration, giving him that harmonica. Such a kind gesture. It’ll keep him happy for hours,’ Alice said, as they climbed back into the ambulance, the three of them up on the front bench seat.

  ‘Even if it sends his poor mum up the wall,’ Ruby said. They all laughed.

  They left Ypres heading north towards Ostend through the landscape that had become so depressingly familiar: earth, craters, stumps and rusting barbed wire, barren and bleak. And the blackened trees were already showing signs of life: small sprigs clung bravely to shattered branches and, here and there, clumps of yellow dandelions and buttercups, pink ragged robin and bright red poppies brought a splash of colour to the roadside.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ll be sorry to leave this behind, Freddie,’ Alice said.

  He took a few moments to reply and she feared that she’d touched a raw nerve. ‘It’s the right time,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got the two little’uns, you know? It was something Rube said about the importance of family what’s made me realise that’s where I ought to be, where my future is.’

  Family. Future. Alice patted her pocket; the crumpled envelope was still there. This morning, as she put on her jacket, she’d found the telegram. MISSING YOU VERY MUCH STOP I LOVE YOU LLOYD STOP. Remorse washed over her. Lloyd must never discover how utterly she had betrayed him. But she would always know it, of course; what a fool she’d been, how weak, how utterly immoral.

  With a sudden urgency she wanted very much to see him again, to hold him in her arms and reassure him of her love, to thank him for his understanding, his honesty, his generosity and his utter, un
questioning loyalty. In her head she composed her reply: TEN MORE DAYS AND WE WILL BE TOGETHER FOREVER ALL MY LOVE ALICE

  *

  ‘Nearly there, girls,’ Freddie announced, as they entered the outskirts of Ostend.

  Ruby was dreading the moment of parting, when he would leave them at the hotel in Ostend to continue his journey to Calais. He’d become such a good mate; it felt as though they’d known each other for a lifetime. ‘You’ve been a brick,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  ‘Don’t go all sentimental on me now, Rube.’

  ‘Will you stop for a coffee with us?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll head off right away. Not good at goodbyes.’

  ‘You will keep in touch, won’t you? Let me know how you get on with your sister-in-law, and meeting your children again. If she needs any persuasion, I’d be glad to testify to your reformed character.’

  ‘Reformed, eh? Not so sure about that. Chances are they won’t even recognise me.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. They need you, Freddie. You need them. Remember that.’

  ‘Anything to please you, Mrs B.’ He smiled. ‘Now, make yourself useful before we get there, would you, and roll me a few ciggies for the road?’

  *

  Fifteen minutes later Ruby and Alice found themselves standing outside the hotel with their cases, watching the ambulance disappear in a haze of oily smoke.

  ‘I’m going to miss him,’ Ruby mused, as they turned to go inside. ‘He’s been a good friend. As Tubby said, a diamond geezer.’

  On an easel in the lobby was displayed the photograph taken that first day.

  A memento of your pilgrimage. Just 1/-per 8” x 6” print

  Order by 11 o’clock for delivery before departure

  There was Major Wilson at the centre, jovial and determined, surrounded by solemn-faced couples valiantly attempting to raise smiles for the cameraman. Alice was at the side, tall and conspicuous in her bold jacket and hat, in front of her a pale-faced Edith with Joe, piratical with his eye patch and crooked grin. Ruby, shyly hiding behind the others, was barely visible.

  ‘It feels like a lifetime ago,’ Alice said. ‘Not just four days.’

  ‘I hardly recognise myself,’ Ruby replied. ‘I look as though I’m scared of my own shadow.’

  ‘And whatever was I doing wearing that hat to the battlefields?’ Alice said, pointing at herself.

  ‘You were so bold, so confident. I was in awe of you.’

  ‘And such a bonehead, as it turns out,’ Alice said quietly. ‘Too bold for my own good.’

  ‘Ah well, that’s all behind us, now. You found Sam, and his grave. That’s something, isn’t it?’

  ‘And you learned that your Bertie was a hero.’

  ‘And that’s something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.’

  *

  It was a curious feeling, returning to that huge, gloomy room with its enormous double bed, dark furniture and tapestries of medieval knights and dragons. Was it only five days ago they had arrived? So much had happened since then it really felt, as Alice said, like a lifetime ago. Out of it all she had emerged a new, surprisingly confident version of herself, who had promised to honour Bertie’s memory by helping those who had survived forge new lives for themselves. She liked this new Ruby, felt proud of her, hoped she would stick around.

  Although she had not found a grave she felt sure that one day Bertie’s body – or at least some indicator of his identity – would be discovered and when that happened he would surely receive the dignified burial that he deserved. But having a grave to visit had, in the end, turned out not to be the most significant thing. Far more vital was the sense of his presence that she’d rediscovered and the forgiveness she had allowed herself.

  Ruby opened her case, took out her diary and turned to where she had slipped the pressed flowers from Tyne Cot between its pages. Memories flooded back sharp as cut glass: the dusty paths, the sea of crosses lit with bright sunlight.

  Dear Bertie, she wrote. Last night, Joe Catchpole told me how you risked your own life to save his, dragging him back to safety even though he was desperately wounded. You probably never knew that he survived. But he is alive, and he is a lovely man.

  Hearing this has made me so proud of you, Bertie Barton. More than words can say. I love you, and will love you forever, my dearest one.

  The writing swam in front of her weary eyes and she put the diary down.

  Outside, blinking in the sunshine, she walked the few yards down to the promenade with its curve of damaged hotels like jagged teeth against the blue of the sea and the sky. The air was so crisp and clear that if she peered long enough at the horizon she might even be able to see the white cliffs of Dover.

  Now, to her surprise, Ruby discovered that she was actually looking forward to going home. Somehow, she was beginning to make sense of it all.

  Praise for Liz Trenow

  ‘What a delicious read The Silk Weaver is. I was enchanted by this novel set in eighteenth-century Spitalfields; meticulously researched, richly detailed, the brilliantly structured story shimmered as the threads of silk wound through its pages. I devoured it in two days and was gripped from start to finish. The characters shine too and Anna is an absolute triumph. A fabulous book’

  DINAH JEFFERIES

  ‘I absolutely love the details about silk weaving . . . Liz Trenow conjures up atmosphere concisely and brilliantly, with not a spare word to be found. I felt enriched when I reached the end of this gem of a novel, and can’t wait to read her next one’

  GILL PAUL

  ‘Push back the gorgeous brocade curtains of The Silk Weaver’s period detail and romance and you find a window on eighteenth-century London that, with its prejudice and divisions, is surprisingly pertinent today’

  KATE RIORDAN

  ‘I absolutely loved The Silk Weaver. Liz writes beautifully, and I adored the characters of Anna and Henri – their love was so delicately and believably evoked. The background motifs of the silks and the floral designs, and the political/social context which made their relationship so difficult is also brilliantly done. I really couldn’t wait to get back to it each evening’

  TRACY REES

  ‘Extraordinary, fascinating . . . deeply rooted in history’

  Midweek, BBC Radio 4

  ‘An assured debut with a page-turning conclusion’

  Daily Express

  ‘Liz Trenow sews together the strands of past and present as delicately as the exquisite stitching on the quilt which forms the centrepiece of the story’

  LUCINDA RILEY

  ‘Totally fascinating . . . a book to savour’

  KATE FURNIVALL

  ‘A novel about the human spirit – Liz Trenow paints with able prose a picture of the prejudices that bind us and the love that sets us free . . . Splendid’

  PAM JENOFF

  ‘An intriguing patchwork of past and present, upstairs and downstairs, hope and despair’

  DAISY GOODWIN

  IN LOVE AND WAR

  Liz Trenow is a former journalist who spent fifteen years working for regional and national newspapers, and BBC radio and television news, before turning her hand to fiction. In Love and War is her fifth novel. She lives in East Anglia with her artist husband, and they have two grown-up daughters and two beautiful grandchildren.

  Find out more at www.liztrenow.com,

  join her on Facebook.com/liztrenow

  or Twitter @LizTrenow.

  Also by Liz Trenow

  The Last Telegram

  The Forgotten Seamstress

  The Poppy Factory

  The Silk Weaver

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book would not have seen the light of day without the clear-eyed advice of my editors at Pan Macmillan, Catherine Richards and Caroline Hogg, and my agent Caroline Hardman of Hardman & Swainson.

  Bereavement and reconciliation are tough subjects to tackle and each day o
f writing reminded me to be grateful that we live in times of relative peace and that family and friends are not expected to risk their lives defending us. Thank you to you all, David, Becky and Polly Trenow, and my friends, for your unfailing encouragement and support.

  Last but not least, my thanks go to John Hamill, our own battlefields tour guide, who helped us understand the full scale and complexity of the tragedy that unfolded in Flanders a hundred years ago.

  If you want to find out more about how I wrote In Love and War, please visit www.liztrenow.com. You can also follow me on Facebook.com/­liztrenow and on Twitter @LizTrenow.

  First published 2018 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2018 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-2507-3

  Copyright © Liz Trenow 2018

  The right of Liz Trenow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.