The War Before Mine

by Caroline Ross

  After three days there was still no news. Rosie made her way to the Catholic church through a town crowded with shoppers, all of them older and younger than they should be; too many of them women. The place even sounded different because with all the strange accents gone, Cornwall’s soft burr had reasserted its ownership of the place. It murmured about the disappearance of the young men, mulled over where they could have got to, wondered, wondered. Nothing could take Rosie’s mind off it. All the time she felt that sick, breathless feeling, as though she was lined up in a running race, listening for the teacher’s whistle. Only the whistle never went and she was kept there, nauseous, waiting for something to happen at last. That news of him would come home. That he would come home.

  She did not want to see or talk to anyone, least of all the two middle-aged women she found in the vestiary. They sat at a small table, in the middle of which was a pile of long palm leaves. As Father Power had said last Sunday, these were the gift of the honourable Mrs Kindersley, who so kindly gathered them every year from the beautiful palm trees in her lovely garden. Father Power was not present, neither was the gracious Mrs Kindersley; but Mrs Lomax and Mrs Penhaligon said Rosemary was just in time to make them both a nice cup of tea.

  Rosie banged the kettle on the gas, willing them not to start talking about the soldiers because she would not be able to bear it, would have to say something; only to find herself furious when they ignored the subject altogether in favour of their health problems. That lovely Doctor Hurley had told Mrs Penhaligon she must avoid all digging in the garden for fear of a prolapse. Mrs Lomax was in agony with her varicose ulcer. It all came down to men and the misery of childbirth. ‘No man could possibly imagine the suffering us women go through in order to people the world,’ said Mrs Penhaligon.

  Rosie sat down and inflicted a bit of suffering on a palm leaf. They didn’t deserve to be fought for, blethering on about their petty problems. How about the soldiers who might be giving their lives while they sat comfortably and demanded tea?

  ‘Don’t crush it my dear,’ said Mrs L. ‘Bend it gently. Like this.’ The women chattered on. Rosie learned Mrs Penhaligon had given up butter for Lent, ‘not that there was much of it about anyway…’ and Mrs Lomax would do almost anything in return for bit of clotted cream. ‘What have you given up, Rosemary?’ asked Mrs Penhaligon.

  My virginity, thought Rosie. ‘Apples,’ she said.

  A shaft of afternoon sun arrived at the narrow window and turned the pile of leaves golden. There was quiet for a while. Rosie curled a slender palm into a cross, feeling the smooth ribs of it under her thumb. She remembered his terrible journey, how he had fallen three times under the weight of this cross, now so light in her hand.

  ‘You’ve got the hang of it now,’ said Mrs Penhaligon, with a tired smile. Rosie worked on and the task soothed her. For a little space the sick expectation left her and she felt calm in the company of the two women, their brows furrowed in concentration, Mrs Lomax chewing her lower lip.

  They put all the crosses in a basket. Rosie rinsed out the cups and saucers and they walked through the church, bobbing their heads to the altar as they passed. Rosie stopped to drop a coin in the little metal box and light a candle. She whispered words. Outside, the bulky shapes of the two women were framed against a pink evening sky. They looked at her with shy curiosity.

  ‘Do you know any of the young men, my lovely?’ Mrs Lomax asked.

  Rosie shook her head. She liked the women better now, but she could not confide.

  The fisherman was way out beyond the harbour wall the next morning when he saw the boat. He recognised it as one of the launches that had left three days earlier, though it was making oddly slow progress, coming towards the harbour crab-like, almost sideways on. A black man stood at the wheel, and for a ridiculous moment the fisherman pondered the huge distance this small boat had travelled, all the way from Africa, before he saw the face was not black but blackened; and the hair matted with dried blood. The man’s teeth were bared like an animal’s with the strain of keeping the boat on course. Another stupid thought flitted through the fisherman’s head. Al Jolson singing ‘Mammy’.

  The launch moaned in pain as it passed, and a sweet-sour smell hit his nostrils. On deck lay about a dozen men, wounded or dead. One other upright man walked among the bodies, offering water.

  Rosie’s walk to church with her uncle seemed to go on for ever. He asked no direct questions, but kept glancing at her, wanting to know things, as everyone seemed to, the whole congregation turning to stare as they entered. Scarlet-robed at the altar, Father Power sprinkled the palms with holy water. A server waved the censer, releasing its heavy perfume in little clouds.

  Rosie leafed through her mother’s old missal until she found the page for Passion Sunday. Passion meant pain and torture. Her own passion was torture too, but nobody would feel sorry for her, because it was a bad passion, to do with carnal desire, something her mother seemed to tell her was bad right then, sending a message through the thumbed pages of the missal. And Our Lady would not understand, either. Rosie looked at the statue in the grotto and eyes sparkling with tears of grief met her own. Our Lady could understand loss, but not lust. Well, that was too bad.

  Eripe me, Domine, de inimicus meis.

  Deliver me from mine enemies, O Lord.

  Everything. Everything was about him.

  The congregation stirred in their pews. It was time to go up and collect the palms. Rosie slipped into the line, took a cross and looked up at the statue of Christ hanging above the altar. His head was thrown back, his mouth open, his eyes glazed over in agony. But men looked like that when they were in ecstasy too, Rosie thought, remembering Philip’s twisted face above hers, though that was a shameful thing to remember in church where God could see all your thoughts. There’s no saving me, Rosie thought, and I can’t care. I don’t care.

  Father Power was reading from Matthew.

  O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me.

  It made her want to cry. Poor Jesus. So afraid. And the disciples so useless, couldn’t even stay awake to keep him company.

  What, could ye not watch one hour with me? I would have stayed awake, Rosie thought. I would have held his hand. He needed a woman there.

  The sun was shining when they came out of church. Mrs Penhaligon came across to greet Rosie and her uncle, ‘She’s such a good girl, your niece. Don’t get all embarrassed now! Look! She’s blushing! We couldn’t have managed all those palms without her, and wasn’t it a lovely service? And hasn’t God given us a lovely day for it?’

  Since Rosie was almost completely silent, Uncle Stan did his best to respond.

  ‘And I hope you’re doing something nice today, dear?’

  When at last they got away and started down the hill, Uncle Stan spoke. ‘You seem not quite yourself, Rosemary.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘I wondered… Would it be anything to do with the departure of Mr Tucker and Mr Seymour?’

  ‘No,’ said Rosie, and then she remembered Peter weeping, Thou wilt deny me thrice.

  A small boy was racing towards them, shouting something about a boat coming back and that he was off to tell his dad. For a moment Rosie stood, frozen, then she started to run as fast as she could towards the harbour.

  A crowd had already assembled by the mooring place. A policeman cleared a path through the spectators to make way for an ambulance. Rosie wriggled her way through to the front. Several bedraggled and bloodied men were being helped ashore from the listing, shattered launch. The bodies of eight others, their limbs oddly twisted, lay in a line on the deck. The crowd craned its neck for a better look as one man brushed away the offered help and walked unaided towards the ambulance, a dirty bandage around his head. Rosie ran to him. ‘Where are the rest of them?’ she cried, her voice ringing out in the silence.

  The soldier looked confused. Beneath the dirt and blood, his face was white as chalk.

  ‘Philip.
Philip Seymour,’ Rosie said. He frowned, swayed a little on his feet. ‘Not with us,’ he said finally.

  ‘But where… Do you know?’

  The soldier gave a little shrug and shook his head.

  A policeman took hold of her arm, ‘You come with me, Miss. This man needs medical attention.’

  Rosie let herself be escorted away. She felt wobbly, glad of the policeman’s support. ‘You all right, Miss?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Yes thank you.’

  ‘Have a sit down here. Best not to look, really.’

  Rosie sat down on the harbour wall. The soldier’s face, the shattered boat, the line of crumpled bodies assembled in her chest and throat like a solid construction. She had no room to breathe. The policeman put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Put your head between your knees, right down. Now take deep breaths. That’s it.’

  When the policeman finally left her, she felt angry with herself. Stupid girl. What had she expected? That Philip would leap ashore like Errol Flynn, lift her in his arms and carry her off to happy ever after? If one boat could get back, others could too. Philip was on another boat. Just as well, wasn’t it, he had not been on that one? She dismantled the house of fear inside her with determined optimism. Philip was on another boat, or perhaps he was a prisoner. Either way, all she had to do was be patient. And meanwhile, there was Sunday dinner to make. Her uncle would be waiting.

  Collecting his pots from their various locations outside the harbour, the fisherman watched a scene in miniature. He saw people gather, ambulances arrive, figures merge into little clusters by the vehicles. Then the ambulances left, people separated and dispersed. Fifteen minutes later, the only evidence left of the drama was the lopsided launch, moored at the quay. The sun still shone on the Sunday sea. The lobsters crawled in the wicker. There was no sign of any other vessel on the horizon.

  16

  Falmouth, April 1942

  People gorged on the boat’s return as though it were black market chocolate, stuffed their mouths with it, sprayed a sticky mist of it all over Rosie wherever she went. ‘Piled up the bodies in the corridor of the Pendennis Hotel. Didn’t know what else to do with them… Burns, terrible burns. Awful thing, wasn’t it? Those poor young men…’

  The next day an article appeared in The Times, calling the raid ‘The most daring, and in many ways the most important, of combined operational attacks.’ It talked about ‘splendid success’, but then added, ‘The cost has not been light. Many of the commando troops fought until they were either casualties or taken prisoner.’ Rosie read the report over and over again. She cut it out of the paper, and put it in an envelope under her pillow, along with a pressed bluebell and the little frond of seaweed. At night, she took it out again, trying to find in it some clue as to what had happened to Philip, living and reliving the moment ‘that came with the realisation that some of the commando troops on shore could not be evacuated.’

  She waited for the postman, though she knew it illogical to expect a letter. He could hardly send her one from France, could he? But still, when the postboy winked at her and held out an envelope, her heart leapt. It was from Jean.

  Dear Rosie,

  I’m sorry its taken so long to write back, but you know what life is like here. Thank you for the scarf. You were right it does suit my colours, if you have any more nice things I hope you wont forget me. Da met a woman called Ethel a little while ago and they are getting married Saturday. Ethel is some cousin removed of Da and she knows how to sort out kids so I start my aprenticeship on Monday. The mangeress says I will just be shampooing at first but soon she will teach me pincurls and fingerwaves. Have you rolled your hair up at the sides yet? You should. The Alf and Robbie you keep asking after are just as bad as ever. Susies put on a bit of weight but shes not right I told Da but he didn’t take any notice. She likes Ethel a lot more than she likes me so you dont have to worry about her any more.

  Love from your sister

  Jean

  PS this tram driver keeps pestering me to go out with him. He says I look like Veronica Lake.

  Two days after Passion Sunday, Rosie plucked up the courage to start making enquiries. A tall, horsey-looking Wren was at the desk. ‘Philip Seymour? And you are?’

  ‘His girlfriend.’

  ‘I am afraid I can only disclose information to wives, parents or siblings.’

  ‘Have a heart, pet. You can check the lists can’t you?

  ‘Even if I could we are still only just finding out what has happened to everyone. I am afraid I can be of no further help.’ The Wren stared at Rosie for a moment. ‘Perhaps you should consider contacting his family,’ she said, flicking her eyes across to the next enquirer.

  Rosie walked home in a daze of misery and anger. Bitch! Stuck up cow! If I knew where his parents were, I would. If, bloody if.

  By the end of the week, people had tongued the last morsels of chocolate out of their teeth, and finding there was no more likely to arrive, moved on to other tasty possibilities. They talked of the Americans and the rumour they would be in Falmouth within weeks; wondered aloud where the next bombs would drop.

  One week had changed Rosie’s life for ever, yet in her daily routine everything was the same. A pile of Roger’s horrible slimy handkerchiefs waited on the table to be washed; there was shopping and cleaning to do. She spooned salt into a bowl of water and dropped the hankies in, submerging them gingerly with her fingertips. On the table was a copy of the Falmouth Packet, the local paper she’d run out to buy earlier, still hoping for more news. As always, the front page carried a huge advertisement for the local steam laundry, ‘The Art of Washing is now a Science’, it announced in huge writing. I suppose that makes me a scientist, thought Rosie, rinsing her hands under the tap and slapping them dry on her apron. If Hitler was marching up the High Street, you’d never know from the pages of the Packet. She sat down to check through the paper one last time. Nothing. The big story was ‘Baby Drowned in Pail’ and they couldn’t even get that right, calling this a ‘tragic accident’, when it looked to Rosie as if the bairn’s three-year-old sister had taken advantage of mother being out of the room to up-end baby brother in a bucket. Sort of thing Jean would have done to Alf or Robbie if she’d got the chance, just to get more room in the bed. Rosie scrunched up the newspaper and then, remembering her uncle would want to read it, smoothed it out again. She couldn’t stand to be in the house a moment longer. Roger’s snot rags would have to wait.

  Rosie walked towards the harbour, habit directing her eyes to the horizon, but a thick sea mist obscured the view. A tall thickset soldier with black hair glanced at her as she passed, and it took her a moment to realise she recognised him. He had been there that last time, waiting for the launch back to the ship. What had Philip called him? Andrews? Anderson? She ran to catch him, tapping his shoulder, and his body jerked round as though she had struck him. Rosie stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  The taut face relaxed. ‘It’s all right, darlin’. I’m a bit on edge. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Is your name Anderson?’

  ‘Yes. Have we met?’

  ‘You know Philip… You were with him, weren’t you?’

  ‘Seymour, you mean? Ah I remember. Saw you with him before. You’re his bit of stuff.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to him? Do you know where he is?’

  Anderson looked her up and down. ‘Tell you what. I’ll do a bit of asking round and see what I can find out. Can you meet me later? For a drink?’

  Back in the kitchen, Rosie spent the afternoon both longing for the evening and dreading it. I may know something by tonight, she thought, transferring the hankies into a bowl of soapy water and putting it on the stove to boil. It would be better to know, but the idea made her stomach churn. At 6.30, she put on her coat and set off for the Golden Lion.

  Anderson sat waiting for her in the lounge bar, a pint and a whisky chaser on the table. He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Don’t
think we were ever introduced. Name’s Ronnie. You’re looking gorgeous.’

  ‘Rosemary.’

  He bought another scotch for himself and a port for Rosie. She curled her fingers around the cool of the glass, raised it to her lips, but the sweet smell revolted her. Over the top of his pint, Anderson’s eyes slid across to hers. He’d be in Falmouth for a fortnight, he said, until they decided where else to send him. ‘Maybe we can see a bit of each other while I’m here?’

  It wasn’t a warm night, but his face shone with sweat and his dark eyes were very bright. He’d obviously had a bit to drink already. She took a breath, ‘Did you find anything out?’

  ‘There’s only a few of us got back,’ he said. ‘Makes you wonder, why me?’ His big handsome face darkened as he drained the first tumbler of whisky. ‘Seymour was on the same launch. Got hit. Went up like a box of fucking matches.’ He seemed almost to be talking to himself. ‘I saw him. I saw Seymour and Tucker together. Tucker was pulling him on to the dock. By that time it was fucking obvious no one was going home if they went ashore, so I went the other way, didn’t I? Boat was on fire, you see. The drink was on fire too. I jumped away from the fire. Only natural.’

  Anderson emptied whisky down his throat and wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Tucker’s on the list of captured. Seymour isn’t. Missing in action he’s under. Which is what I’d be if I hadn’t been picked up by the launch behind. And that was only because it was so far out the Krauts had lost interest.’

  ‘But Philip could have escaped, couldn’t he?’

  He leaned in towards her, so Rosie felt his warm whisky breath on her cheeks. ‘Could be walking towards the Pyrénées at this very moment, darlin’. Thinking of you. I would be if I was him.’ She felt his hand on her leg. ‘Or, he could be dead. There’s quite a few missing as I know for sure is dead.’ He kept his eyes on hers and she felt the hand shove under the skirt, find the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, pinch it, hard. It couldn’t be, but there was something close to a smile on his face. Pain, physical and mental, made Rosie want to cry out. She pushed the hand back, digging her nails in.