A Family's Duty (16 page)

‘That
Bismarck’s
supposed to be invincible,’ Eddie Cooper said gloomily in the Trademen’s Arms when the news had come through. ‘It’s heavily armoured, and torpedoes just bounce off the bloody thing.’

‘There isn’t a ship on the ocean that can’t be sunk if it’s blown up,’ replied Tom Munday. ‘And you can bet your life that the navy’ll have one aim and object from now on – to sink the
Bismarck
.’

It was true. Less than a week later the great ‘impregnable’ battleship, relentlessly pursued by the
HMS Ark Royal
and three other battleships of the Royal Navy, and pounded by their armour-piercing shell from their heavy guns, was hopelessly crippled; overnight she was a flaming shambles, and the next morning sunk beneath the waves with all hands on board.

‘Sweet revenge for
HMS Hood
!’ The newsreaders gave out the glad tidings on the wireless, as did the newspaper headlines. It came at a moment when British towns and cities were being bombed by enemy aircraft day and night. In London thousands were killed or injured, and people wept in the streets at the sight of such devastation. Dora Goddard wrote home in jubilation to say that the ATS searchlights had helped to bring down several of the bombers. In the Tradesmen’s Arms the patrons cheered and celebrated the end of the
Bismarck
, though North Camp gave a mixed reception to the other news, the arrival of fifty Italian soldiers taken prisoner in North Africa.

‘While we’re sitting here waiting for old Hitler to come over and invade us, if you ask me we’ve already been invaded,’ was the verdict of one regular in the public bar. ‘Wouldn’t trust any o’ them wops further than I could spit.’

There were noddings and head-shakings. ‘I hear they’re going to live in Nissen huts – not the last word in luxury, but better than the desert,’ said Tom Munday.

‘Poor buggers,’ muttered Eddie Cooper, though whether he was referring to the Italian prisoners of war or to the crew of the
Bismarck
was not quite clear.

‘Wanna go ’ome! Wanna go ’ome! Wanna go ’
ome
!’

‘This is unendurable, and I shall go out of my mind if those children don’t stop this awful noise. My husband can’t write his sermons, and neither of us get any sleep!’

Mrs Allingham certainly looked strained and unwell, thought Joan Kennard. The two little brothers who had been taken in at the Rectory as evacuees had not settled at all well. Both the curate and his wife tried to divert them and gently persuade them to accept their change of circumstances, but the grieving children, Kenny, aged six and Danny, aged four, refused to be comforted.

‘I’ve never seen more sad-looking children,’ Joan told her husband. ‘They won’t eat, they both wet the bed, and Danny has to wear a big terry napkin in the day, that’s why he often smells. He won’t say when he wants to wee-wee, only “Wanna go ’ome”, over and over again. Mrs Allingham
complains, but
they
don’t do a thing for the boys – they’re praised for taking two evacuees, but I have all the care of them, and I don’t get time to spend with Josie, and I’m expecting again, I don’t get time to rest, and I’m
tired
!’

Alan was alerted by the sharpness of her tone, and tried to give the boys more attention, talking to them and taking them out in the sunshine as often as he could. The dreadful truth was that they were homeless and motherless after a bombing raid on London.

‘We have to remember that both the Allinghams’ sons are in the thick of the war, my love. And they’re getting on in years.’

‘But no easier to get on with,’ replied his wife quickly. ‘I’ve asked her to call me Joan, but she says she prefers to keep to titles – so I’ll never call her Agnes. It’s quite ridiculous.’

‘Isabel Neville’s got the same trouble with
her
two. They caused an uproar at
Pinocchio
,’ said Alan with a wry grin. Joan was not amused.

‘At least she can send them to St Peter’s,’ she replied. St Peter’s Church of England Infants’ School took North Camp children from five up to the age of ten, after which they went to the Council School at Everham until they left at fifteen.

‘But why can’t Kenny go to school at St Peter’s?’

‘Not without Danny who’s only four. Just think of the hullaballoo if they were parted!’

‘Oh, don’t upset yourself, my love,’ begged Alan, noticing how distressed she looked. ‘Look, I’ll have a word with Miss Stevenson, and ask her to take Danny as well as Kenny in the circumstances. I know she’ll agree, and it will give you some time to spend with Josie.’

‘At least the Allinghams don’t complain about
her
any
more,’ Mrs Kennard replied. ‘She’s turned into a little angel in their eyes. But when this next one arrives—’

The very next day the two little boys started to attend St Peter’s School where the wail of ‘I wanna go ’ome’ became a joke to the other children. Mr Kennard told Miss Stevenson their sad story, adding that their future probably lay in a children’s home. So she made no complaint, but gave of her time and patience, as Mrs Kennard did. But it was not easy.

That June the ladies’ Wednesday meetings at the Rectory acquired a new name: the Make Do and Mend Circle. The rumours of clothes rationing had become a reality, and in addition to food ration books, there was now a book of sixty clothing coupons issued to each person.

‘We shall have to go through our wardrobes and find whatever clothing we can alter or mend,’ Lady Isabel told the Circle. ‘A mother’s old dresses may be let out or cut down into dresses for her daughter, and men’s trousers used to make shorts for boys. Holes must be darned or patched, seams reinforced, and old knitted jumpers and cardigans unravelled and knitted up again into something new. The Women’s Voluntary Service can now supply standard knitting wool to make men’s, women’s and children’s garments as well as comforts for the Forces – though our men in the desert won’t be wanting woollies.’

So children’s jumpers, cardigans, vests, scarves, gloves and knitted hats were made and proudly passed round at meetings to show what could be done. Very soon after the first clothing coupons were issued a new brand of ladies’ fashion was launched, the ‘Utility’ label on dresses, coats and other garments; it signified quality material with no frills or
flounces, some of them designed by leaders of the fashion industry.

‘Now we can
all
look like models!’ said Isabel to her sceptical hearers.

In the Nuttall household there were more pressing matters than fashion. All was in upheaval, for Jack was being discharged home. He had been transferred from the Queen Victoria Hospital at East Grinstead to convalesce at Marchwood Park in Hampshire where there were workshops and instructors who taught McIndoe’s ex-patients to make items to a very high standard, notably for aircraft navigation. Grace had been impatient for Jack to be sent home, but he had requested extra time at Marchwood Park to learn to use his remaining eight fingers to the best of his ability.

Tom Munday’s heart fluttered with both anticipation and apprehension when the car drew up outside 47 Rectory Road, and his grandson got out. Rob and Grace accompanied Jack, but he refused assistance as he walked up the path ahead of them. Tom stood at the door, a hand on Doreen’s shoulder; he had tried to prepare her for her brother’s changed appearance, and told her to smile as she greeted him – but she clapped a hand to her face and gave a little cry of dismay, while Tom had to hide his own shocked pity behind a smile and a hearty ‘Welcome home, lad!’

Yes, Jack was home again after all these months, back with his family and his own bed in his own room, and his mother was weeping for joy.

‘Home at last, my son, my little boy, you’re out of that
hospital, and I’ll look after you, and I’ll go to church again on Sunday, to give thanks!’

‘That’s right, Grace,’ said his father. ‘We’ll all go.’

While Jack Nuttall tried to adjust himself to his new life as a veteran of the RAF at twenty-one, and Lady Isabel exhorted the women of North Camp to ‘Make Do and Mend’, there came news so unexpected that it was said to have surprised even Prime Minister Churchill. At midsummer Adolf Hitler broke the non-aggression pact he had signed with the Russian leader, Joseph Stalin, and immediately invaded that vast territory. German forces rapidly pushed deeply into Russia, while the German Luftwaffe bombed Moscow.

In the Tradesmen’s Arms various conjectures were put forward as to what had prompted this move, but no satisfactory conclusion was reached.

‘He’s after their coalfields, I reckon,’ said one.

‘And whatever else he can grab after he’s crushed the Russian people,’ said another.

‘’E’s orf ’is chump,’ said a third.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Eddie Cooper. ‘It takes care of
us
. If he’s using his army to invade Russia, he won’t have many left to parachute over the Channel!’

Tom Munday nodded, his thoughts straying sorrowfully to his war-scarred grandson.

‘Yes. Whatever his reason, the Russians are going to get what we were going to get, God help them!’

On this bright Sunday morning in July, Rebecca Neville noted that St Peter’s church was packed. Families who would once have gone cycling, picnicking, playing tennis or cricket – or
just stayed at home gardening – now attended Divine Worship where prayers were said for their men in the armed forces. The Seabrooks were there as well as the regulars like Sir Cedric and Lady Neville, and Mrs Tomlinson with her son; and there were many more children; Rebecca had brought Lily and Jimmy, and Joan Kennard was accompanied by Kenny and Danny as well as little Josie. Miss Temple had brought young Nick, fascinated by the sight of Uncle Philip at the organ. Before the service began, Danny’s wail of ‘Wanna go ’ome!’ assaulted the ears of the worshippers, and Joan wished he could go into the Sunday School in the church hall; however, that might drive away their excellent voluntary teacher, and could not be risked.

There was a slight disturbance at the west door, a murmur of voices as the Nuttall family arrived. Tom Munday entered with his granddaughter Doreen who looked as if she had been crying. He had his arm around her, and whispered, ‘Be proud of your brother, my dear.’

Heads turned to look and smile at the returned hero, but Rebecca noticed the shock on many faces as they saw Jack’s scars: the right eye drawn down at the corner, and without an eyebrow, and the mouth twisted into an unnatural grin. She felt a pang of pity for the young man and his family. My mother, she thought, my half-brother and sister. My grandfather. She glanced down at Lily and Jimmy, and realised that she would have to avoid their seeing the ravaged face – which meant avoiding close contact with him when the service ended.

Philip began to play the first few bars of the voluntary, and the congregation stood. The Reverend Mr Allingham conducted the service, and the Reverend Mr Kennard read
the intercessions, praying for all the men of North Camp serving in the armed forces, and giving thanks for the return of Jack Nuttall.

At the end of the service, as the people filed out into the bright sunshine, Isabel Neville approached the Nuttalls to greet her nephew with a kiss. Rebecca felt that it was important for her to keep Lily and Jimmy away from Jack, in case they made some hurtful remark; but the only regrettable words she heard were from a woman leaving the church: ‘I don’t think it’s right to let such an awful disfigurement be seen in public – I mean, it’s so
grotesque
, enough to terrify a child!’

Rebecca had to control herself and refrain from rebuking the woman aloud, because that would draw attention to Jack’s terrible scarring, which would indeed frighten some children; so while her mother exchanged smiles and greetings with her sister Grace and the family, Rebecca called firmly to her two charges.

‘Come on, Lily, don’t hang about. Come
here
!’ Taking their hands she headed for the Hassett Manor road, for fear of what they might have said about her brother’s – no, her half-brother’s – face.

But Grace Nuttall had seen her hasty retreat.

Fifty Italian prisoners of war had been divided between three farms around North Camp. Billy Yeomans was unimpressed, and said so.

‘They’re no more use than them dopey land girls you sent us two months back,’ he grumbled. ‘Bone idle and cheeky with it, that Paolo and his mates.’ He pronounced the name as Paulo, and although Miss Neville, the regional
representative for the area, was inclined to agree that the Italians were work-shy, she would never admit as much to the surly farmer.

‘They need some time to settle in,’ she said. ‘We must remember they’re strangers in a strange land, and can’t even speak the language.’

‘I’d give ’em language, the lazy bastards,’ he retorted. ‘No wonder they was taken prisoner – they gave ’emselves up just to get out of the war while our poor chaps are slogging it out in the desert. They ought to be locked up in camps with barbed wire all round, instead of laying about in my fields and begging bread and sausages off my Pam – and living in an army camp with every comfort and convenience!’

Rebecca let him rattle on, though she doubted that there would be much comfort or convenience in an unheated Nissen hut when winter came. She told him that he would be sent another two land girls, but on condition that they were billeted in the farmhouse, strictly separate from the prisoners. He turned down the corners of his mouth.

‘Eating us out o’ house and home – makes me wonder if they’re worth the trouble, what with the wife expecting, and an elderly mother to look after. All right, I’ll try another two girls, but they’d better behave ’emselves!’

No mention of Sid and Mary Goddard, Rebecca noticed, the two people who probably worked the hardest at Yeomans’ Farm, indoors and out.

‘Very well,’ she said briskly. ‘Two girls will arrive at the beginning of next week, and I hope they’ll be made welcome.’

She turned away, for she found it difficult to be civil to this man, and briefly called on Mary Goddard who as usual was in the farmhouse kitchen, and as usual looked tired.

‘Thank you, I’m keeping pretty well, Miss Neville – it’s my Sidney who could do with a rest,’ she said. ‘Billy’s all talk, but it’s Sid who does the donkey work, and I keep telling him he should see Dr Stringer.’

Rebecca sympathised, and felt sorry that two new land girls lodging in the house would give Mary yet more work.

‘Make sure they help in the kitchen, and make their own beds, Mary. And I hear that you also have Italian prisoners calling at the back door.’

‘Well, they’re prisoners, aren’t they? And at least they’re cheerful,’ said Mary with a little smile. ‘They’ll do anything my Sidney tells them.’

‘Hm.’ Rebecca heard the unspoken words: that Billy was a harsh boss, and Sidney a kindly one.

Before she left the farm, she walked down to the barley field, now waving tall and golden, almost ready to harvest. She found half a dozen Italians playing cards behind a thick bramble hedge.

‘
Ciao!
Hard at work, I see,’ she said with a frown as they scrambled to their feet.

‘
Bon giorno, Signorina!
’ said the young man called Paolo, whose scanty English made him the unofficial spokesman. ‘Is beautiful day, yes? You come to inspect our hotel, yes? Such facilities!’

Rebecca did not smile. It had been embarrassing when they had first arrived, and she had found herself in unofficial charge of them, Billy Yeomans having refused, saying that he was far too busy.

‘
Mi scusi, signorina, ma dobbiamo stare qui?
’ they had demanded when taken to their quarters. ‘
Quando mangiamo? Dove dormiamo?
’ It had been her reluctant
duty to tell them that this hut was where they would both eat and sleep.

‘Dove il bagno?’
And she had to tell them that there was one bath and one lavatory at the end of the sleeping quarters. When they groaned she replied sternly that they were better off than British soldiers in German prison camps.

‘They
don’t have time to play at cards and write letters when there’s work to be done. Don’t let Mr Yeomans find you here!’