A Family's Duty (11 page)

‘I loves ’oo, Auntie Vally,’ he told her.

Which made Valerie Pearson wonder what it must feel like to be a mother.

‘Got a late pass tonight, Dora, so let’s get the bus into Gloucester and see
Gone With The Wind
! They say Clark Gable’s kisses set your knickers on fire!’

‘No fear, Gwen – when I get a midnight pass, I don’t spend it sitting in a cinema swooning over a film star, I go dancing! There’s a dance on at the NAAFI canteen on Friday, and Pip – that’s Sergeant Seagrave who’s giving me driving lessons – has asked if I’ll go with him.’

Gwen sighed. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Dora, you’re a real
femme fatale
. People would never guess you were a farmer’s daughter up from the country!’

‘That’s ’cause I’ve got a lot to catch up on,’ chuckled her friend. They sat on a wooden bench by the Maintenance Unit
at Inchcombe, enjoying a lunch break in the June sunshine. The Royal Engineers occupied the barracks to one side of the MU, and the ATS were lodged in the hutted camp on the other; both male and female staff were employed in the MU workrooms, and Dora was one of six girls training in the Electrical and Wireless Technology section, for which they had to wear thick navy overalls. She found the work challenging but fascinating, and was becoming quite adept at dismantling, cleaning and servicing the generators; her lecture notebooks with their complicated diagrams had actually been remarked on favourably by the Warrant Officer in charge.

‘Look out, there’s our NCO coming this way, we’d better salute,’ warned Gwen, and both girls stood, to receive a sour look from the uniformed lady who did not return the salute.

‘I never know when you should or shouldn’t,’ said Gwen. ‘It’s if they’re in uniform and so are you, salute – but if one or other is in civvies, I suppose it’s salute if in doubt!’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Dora with a rueful grin. ‘What about Shirley Corbett when she stretched herself out on that grassy bank behind the huts, took off her cap, undid her buttons, and dozed off – and woke up with a start to see this WO glaring down at her! Poor old Shirley sat up and saluted, which made things worse, and she ended up on a charge of “wilful neglect toward the King’s uniform” and got six evenings in a row of cookhouse duty, which is no joke – you have to scour those heavy pans with food baked onto them, it’s as hot as hell, and you’re up to your ankles in cockroaches and the pong of the bins of pig swill—’

‘Stop, stop!’ said her friend with a shudder. ‘Whatever would our families say if they could hear all this? My mother would have a fit.’

‘So would mine – whoops, it’s time we got back to our beautiful shed – come on!’

Back at work, Dora smiled to herself. Joining up was the best move she had ever made. The tyranny of Billy Yeomans and the irritation of his wife were forgotten in this new environment of hard but interesting work, the camaraderie of her colleagues, the jokes and the laughter – and the prospect of going to a dance on Friday evening with Pip Seagrave, whose kisses might not be like Clark Gable’s, but at least he was real and not a shadow on a screen.

These thoughts recalled to her mind the letter she had received from Mum yesterday. Rebecca Neville was more than a match for the farmer by the sound of things; and there was the news that most of the North Camp boys had got back safely from Dunkirk, including Howard Allingham. Poor Howard. Ought she to write to him and say she was glad about his escape? In the end she decided not to run the risk of raising his hopes, and simply asked her mother to convey her good wishes.

With the fall of France, Prime Minister Mr Churchill reminded his countrymen that Britain now stood alone against the might of the Third Reich. Families gathered around their wireless sets to hear the man who on his accession to office had promised them nothing but ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat’. Now with an invasion looming, he sternly told them to brace themselves to do their duty. As if his words addressed every listener personally, he promised that the British would defend their island, fighting on the landing-grounds, in the streets, the fields and the hills. ‘We will never surrender,’ he said solemnly.

Listening to this man, Mrs Pearson lost her fear of Lord Haw-Haw. Even now that Valerie worked every day at the Everham crèche, her mother had discovered that she was not old, only in her fifties and able to do the shopping and set a meal on the table each evening when Valerie returned at around six, tired but on the whole satisfied with her day’s work.

One evening when they had just finished supper, they heard a ring at the doorbell, followed by the sound of footsteps going round the house to the open kitchen door. The visitor walked in uninvited and Valerie’s heart missed a beat: he was Corporal John Richardson in his uniform!

‘Ladies!’ He made a low, theatrical bow before them. ‘My belated greetings to you both! My father foolishly omitted to tell me of the change at the shop, and how you’d gone off on your war effort, Miss Pearson. Something about a kids’ nursery, he said.’

Valerie blushed, and her heart beat fast. ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I help to look after young children whose mothers are working at the munitions factory.’

‘And
I
keep house while she’s away, so that’s
my
war effort,’ said Mrs Pearson. There was a short pause, and Valerie added shyly, ‘We were very thankful that you got away safely from Dunkirk, John.’

‘Yes, it was fairly horrendous, treading on the bodies of your comrades to get to the boats, so as to be saved for another go at the Jerries,’ he replied with a grim smile meant to impress them. ‘And before I get whisked away again, Valerie, I’ve come to ask if you’d like to see
Gone With The Wind
at the Everham Embassy. Are you free on Saturday evening?’

‘Oh, er, well, yes, thank you,’ stammered Valerie, unsure
whether this was real or a dream. ‘That would be very nice.’ She glanced at her mother who simply shrugged and asked Mr Richardson if he would like a cup of tea. Valerie thankfully got up and went to put the kettle on; it gave her a chance to compose herself and reflect on his sudden interest in her. He had been home for over a week, yet had not contacted her until now. Had he already been to see Rebecca who had refused his invitation? Yet what did it matter, he was asking
her
now, and she was happy to be his second or even third choice.

Especially as he was soon to return to the front, and might not return …

It had been Lady Neville’s idea that Paul, Geoffrey’s proven friend, should drive Rebecca to Southampton and accompany her to the bedside. She also telephoned the Bannisters at their Shaftesbury home to tell them that Paul and Rebecca were intending to visit that Sunday.

They found Geoffrey in a single private room, having had a below-knee amputation of his right leg two days before; he was conscious but not completely aware of what had happened to him, and had no memory of that last journey from France. John Bannister, MP, and his wife were already there, looking pale and strained.

‘It was too far gone, and they were afraid that gangrene might set in,’ Mr Bannister told them quietly. ‘They say he could go either way now. He’s had a blood transfusion, and that’s a sugar and salt solution now running into a vein in his arm.’ He looked at Rebecca. ‘He’s been saying your name, so he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Neville. I must beg you not to – to disappoint him in any way.’

Rebecca nodded. She knew that she was expected to show only love and hopefulness to this young man whose life hung in the balance – and who, if he lived, would have to face life with only one leg. The war was over for Geoffrey Bannister.

She leant over the bed, her face close to his; his eyes were closed.

‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ she said quietly while his parents and her brother watched. He opened his eyes and saw her.

‘Rebecca.’

‘Yes, I’m Rebecca, and I’ve come to see you, Geoffrey,’ she whispered.

‘Rebecca, my love.’ The words were only just audible. His mother gave a gasp, and put her hand to her face.

‘Rebecca, my love,’ he repeated. ‘I’m ready to die now.’

‘Good God, dearest Geoffrey, my boy, you’re not dying!’ Mrs Bannister cried out, and her husband put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the room, soothing her into quietness, though she continued to weep silently. A nurse appeared with a syringe in a dish, and said she was about to give the patient a pain-relieving injection. He winced briefly as the needle entered his upper arm, and Rebecca held his hand.

‘Rebecca, my love – is it really you?’ he whispered in some agitation. ‘Kiss me.’

She leant over and kissed his cheek and forehead.

‘Kiss me, Rebecca.’

She kissed him lightly on the lips, and he closed his eyes, drifting into sleep as the morphia took effect.

Paul touched her arm. ‘We’d better go now, Becky. He looks more peaceful.’

On that same Sunday afternoon a couple sauntered down to the Blackwater, their arms entwined.

‘I couldn’t go back to the base without seeing you again, Babs,’ he said, kissing her. She gave him a radiant smile. ‘And I wouldn’t have let you go, no matter what Mum and Dad said.’

They stopped to embrace, then continued to walk slowly on until they were hidden behind the alders that grew down to the riverbank. He pulled her down beside him on the dry grass.

‘Let me—’

She made no resistance as he pulled at her summery dress and with increasing urgency thrust a hand up between her thighs.

‘You’re the sweetest girl, Babs, let me make you happy,’ he said thickly, and she shivered in eager response, kissing his mouth and helping him to reveal her naked breasts. He kissed her nipples, first one and then the other, drawing them into his mouth. She gave a sharp gasp at the unfamiliar sensation on her tender flesh, and in the next moment he had climbed on top of her, and she felt his hand seeking an entrance; he did not need to ask her – she quickly removed her underwear and spread her legs for him. He thrust his hard erection inside her, and reached a climax almost immediately; she cried out at the stab of pain, for in spite of her reputation as a flirt, Barbara Seabrook was a virgin.

‘God, I’ve needed that ever since—’ he groaned with satisfaction. ‘By God!’

She lay passively beneath him as his panting subsided, scarcely able to believe what had happened, which was
that Lester Allingham had possessed her, and she had freely consented. Now she was his and he was hers, before he returned to his air base.

Tom Munday and Eddie Cooper avoided each other’s eyes. They were easily the oldest among the men who had turned up on this summer evening at the cricket pavilion for the first meeting of the North Camp Local Defence Volunteers.

Seabrook the butcher had put himself forward as unchallenged leader. ‘We’re here in answer to the Prime Minister’s call to all of us, whatever age or occupation, to be prepared to defend our island,’ he said, to be answered by eager nods. ‘We haven’t got a uniform as yet, but armbands and forage caps will be issued soon. We must each imagine that a German invasion has taken place – and that could happen at any time. With so many of our young men away in the armed forces, it’s up to us, their fathers, to fight here at home.’ He lowered his voice to add, ‘My own son Robin has gone to join the Royal Navy, and it’s up to us old stagers to back our boys up, right?’

He had spoken for them all, and Tom and Eddie exchanged a glance and a nod.

Each volunteer gave his name, address and whatever skills he could contribute. Weapons ranged from rifles of the Great War to pitchforks and pickaxes to face the foe. Any overture on the part of the German invaders to seek their cooperation was to be repulsed, and in true Churchillian style Seabrook thundered that any talk of defeat, any spreading of ‘alarm and despondency’ should be publicly rebuked.

‘We’re sworn to serve our King and country to victory, at the cost of their own lives if need be,’ he told them,
and echoed the Prime Minister’s vow that ‘
We shall never surrender
.’

And if the Local Defence Volunteers were something of a joke among their communities at first – ‘the Long-Toothed Volunteers’ – their numbers increased nationwide, and by the winter of that dangerous year they were properly kitted out with standard issue army uniforms and renamed the Home Guard.

But much was to happen before then.

‘But Mother, how can I go on saying what I don’t mean and don’t feel, just to placate him?’ asked Rebecca. ‘At some time he’ll
have
to be told that I can’t marry him out of pity.’

‘Don’t look too far ahead, Becky,’ answered her mother. ‘The poor boy may not recover, and in his present state he needs to believe that you return his love, so you must pretend, at least for the time being.’

‘But I feel so
guilty
, Mother, seeing how his eyes light up when he opens them and sees me standing there. If only I could help him in some other way!’

Isabel looked thoughtful. ‘Actually, there is one way you
might
help him – take Philip Saville with you when you next visit. His leg was amputated over twenty years ago, and so he knows how Geoffrey feels – and how he too might overcome the loss. The two have met here, when the Perrin boys took Philip down to the stables, and Paul and Geoffrey asked him to take tea with them on the terrace.’

‘Oh, Philip would be much too shy and wouldn’t know what to say – it would be too embarrassing for words, he’d never dream of visiting!’

‘He just might if I were to ask him,’ Isabel said with a little smile, and when Rebecca stared in surprise, added, ‘Leave him to me!’

‘Wasn’t it wonderful?’ enthused Valerie as she and John Richardson were walking home from North Camp station, having caught the last train from Everham. ‘That American Civil War was a long time ago and a long way away, and yet – all those wounded soldiers crying in pain, and the wives and mothers dreading the news of their loved ones – it could be today.’

‘Hardly to be compared with Dunkirk,’ John replied with a short laugh. ‘We were real men under bombardment, not actors as in the film.’

‘Yes, but they were re-enacting what happened
then
, and war is war, wherever it is,’ said Valerie, ‘and anyway, it was a wonderful film.’