A Family's Duty (18 page)

The children stared. These men seemed too nice to be Jerries.

‘You Mario?’ asked Lily cautiously. Another man strolled up, who seemed to know a little English.

‘Mi chiamo Paolo,’
he said in a friendly way. ‘He tell you his name,
piccolino
. Now you say you name also for us.’

‘Jimmy.’

‘
Ti chiami
Jimmy!’ beamed Stefano.
‘E tua sorella?’
he asked, looking at Lily, who still regarded these blokes with suspicion, but offered her name, ‘Lily.’

‘
Ciao
, Lily! And this little one?’ he asked, looking at Kenny who stared and then burst into tears. Danny joined in. ‘Wanna go ’ome!’ he roared.

Suddenly the man called Stefano swept up both Kenny and Danny in his arms.

‘O carissimi bambini miei, siamo tutti cosi lontani da casa!’

‘Look, ’e’s blubberin’ as well!’ said Jimmy in awe at such behaviour from a grown man. Stefano continued to hug the little boys to his chest, telling them not to cry.

‘Non piangere, bambini, non piangere,’
he said, while tears rolled down his own face.

And it was at this moment that the curate and the schoolteacher came upon the scene. They stood still and watched the dark-eyed Italian embracing the two little boys and speaking to them with emotion.

‘Good heavens, it’s those Italian prisoners of war!’ cried Miss Stevenson. ‘Kenny! Danny! Come to—’

But Alan Kennard gently held her back. ‘Wait! I think he says they’re all exiles, a long way from home. I don’t think the children are in any danger.’

Paolo noticed them, and clearly expected to be reprimanded by this man.

‘Ciao, Signor, Signora,’
he said politely. ‘Have no fear, we are friends.’

‘Si, ma saremo amici, e vero,’
said Stefano, putting the boys down and pointing them towards the English couple.
‘Torna a trovarci domani!’

Alan thanked them in halting Italian, but did not promise that the children would come again. Miss Stevenson thought this was the first time she had seen Danny actually smiling, and forgetting to say ‘Wanna go ’ome!’

Strangers in a strange land, thought Alan Kennard as they walked back to the school.

If the evacuees disappeared again, at least they would know where to find them.

Smithy’s visit to 47 Rectory Road had far-reaching consequences. Tom Munday saw his grandson turn from a bitter, disillusioned young man into one who, with regained self-respect, could see his way through life; in his own words, he rejoined the human race.

But it came at a heavy cost to Grace. Gone was her dream of supporting Jack with the loving care that only a mother can give; she felt herself rejected by him. When he told her that he that he was going back to the RAF, she could not believe it at first; even when she understood that it would not be as a flier but as a member of the vital ground staff that every airfield needs – a competent aeronautical engineer to repair and maintain the aircraft that carried his colleagues and friends into deadly danger; such work had to be of a very high standard, and he had lost two fingers.

‘Their lives will be in his hands, Grace,’ Tom Munday
reminded her, looking to his son-in-law for confirmation, ‘and he won’t be risking his.’

To some extent she was consoled by the change in Jack; from bitter resignation to anticipation towards a useful career. He even offered to accompany the family to church, and the second occasion proved much better than the first. He was less self-conscious, and chatted easily with the organist Philip Saville whose life had been blighted by the Great War, scarcely a quarter of a century ago, but who was now coming out of the reclusive shell with which he had shielded himself.

‘You know, Jack, I’ve listened to you talking about your time in that hospital and the chaps you saw there – and that friend who said we can always look round and see somebody worse off … like these poor little evacuees.’

Even as he spoke, Nick came over, smiling. ‘I say, Uncle Philip, d’ye know what Danny said to me this morning? Oh, sorry—’ He stopped when he realised that the two men were deep in conversation. ‘Good morning, Mr Nuttall.’

‘Hello Nick,’ said Jack. ‘Don’t leave us in suspense, tell us what the little chap said!’

‘He said – excuse the pronunciation –
“Come ti chiami? Mi chiamo Danny!”’

‘Good heavens, did he really?’ said Philip. ‘He must have been talking to the prisoners at Yeomans’ Farm!’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Nick. ‘And then his brother came up and said, “Yeah, that’s German!”’

In the laughter that followed, Jack quite forgot about his face, and smiled at Miss Temple when she came over to ask what was the joke; but before they could reply, Alan Kennard could be heard raising his voice urgently for somebody
to look after the three children while he took his wife to Everham General Hospital. ‘
Now!
’ he begged.

‘Heavens, she’s not due for another month!’ cried the ladies. ‘Won’t the Allinghams take the boys and little Josie until Mr Kennard’s back?’

It seemed that they couldn’t, and there were no offers from the Nuttalls or the Pearsons; then Miss Temple spoke up.

‘
I
can take them. Come on, Philip, let’s go and tell our poor curate that we’ll take the children – after all, I’ve got you and Nick to help me, haven’t I?’

Mrs Kennard gave birth to another little girl, Elizabeth, weighing just over five pounds; she had the help of Miss Temple during the day while Philip was at work and Nick at school. Lady Neville would have sent Sally Tanner to help out, but her time was taken up with Lily and Jimmy, especially during the school summer holiday, and their behaviour was definitely improving. It was an open secret that Sally took them to see the prisoners-of-war at Yeomans’ Farm, approaching the fields from the road to avoid the farmhouse; and, being Sally, she usually found little gifts of buns and biscuits for the children to offer them. In return, Stefano and Paolo carved spoons and simple toys from wood passed on to them from Rob Nuttall’s workroom, at his father-in-law’s suggestion.

The summer passed, and winter threatened to be cold and hard. Shortages of food were bad enough, but shortage of coal was even worse. When Mrs Pam Yeomans gave birth at home to a second boy, Derek, she demanded a fire in her
bedroom, and Mrs Goddard found it very difficult to keep other rooms warm. She and Sidney spent their evenings in the kitchen, which retained some heat from the morning’s cooking in the range oven.

‘That awful Nissen hut must be perishing,’ Rebecca said when November came in with cold winds shaking down the last of the leaves. St Peter’s church was so cold that the congregation wore coats, scarves and gloves; Miss Stevenson was distressed when some of the children arrived at school with hands blue with cold, and chilblains; Lady Neville, who now took charge of the Wednesday afternoon Circle, asked the ladies to step up knitting children’s clothing for their own local little ones.

A grey fog of depression settled over North Camp. The war news continued to be bad, and the Russians seemed to be fighting a losing battle against their German invaders. Air raids over Britain were less, but were just as devastating in their effects; RAF raids over Germany continued to take vengeance on the Luftwaffe for the Blitz, but the great munitions factories of the Ruhr were a long distance from the shores of the Channel, and well protected. And of course there was always the nagging anxiety for the young men in the armed forces: Howard Allingham, Paul Storey and John Richardson in North Africa, Lester Allingham who had returned to the RAF as a bomber pilot, and Robin Seabrook in the navy.

‘It’s going to be a cold Christmas this year, my love,’ said Cedric Neville to Isabel.

‘The Manor will be impossible to heat – winters are cold enough at the best of times, and we’ll have to close some of the rooms and take weekday meals in the kitchen with Sally
and the children – and Rebecca when she’s here, of course.’

‘I’m going to get a lot of people’s backs up,’ she told him thoughtfully. ‘Rebecca says that life on Billy Yeomans’ farm is utter misery in this weather, and I’m going to invite a few of the prisoners to take a meal with us – that’ll please Lily and Jimmy! – and then we can invite others in rotation, say four or five at a time, and see how it goes.’

‘Hm.’ Cedric turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Be careful, Isabel, you’re going to antagonise a lot of people, especially those who have got boys out there fighting.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Boys like my Paul. And if Paul was ever a prisoner in an enemy country, I would bless the woman who gave him food.’

December came in and families prepared for a frugal Christmas and not much hope of better news, though it was said that Soviet forces were driving the German army back from the gates of Moscow as the Russian winter closed in.

‘He’s made the same mistake Napoleon did,’ said Sir Cedric Neville, reading the latest newspaper report on the invasion of Russia. ‘Poor devils, all of them. They’ve got it much worse than we have.’

But then on the seventh of December came unexpected news that reverberated around the world within hours.

‘Quick, switch on your wireless sets!’ neighbours and shopkeepers called to each other. ‘There’s been a huge raid by the Japanese on the American fleet – right out of the blue it was. They flew over and dropped bombs on the ships as they lay at anchor, somewhere called Pearl Harbor. It’s terrible!’

In the Tradesmen’s Arms that evening the regulars gathered
close together over the small fire and gave their various opinions.

‘Who’d have thought it? I never knew there
was
a Japanese air force!’ said one.

‘Well, there most certainly
is
, mate. The little yellow bastards must’ve been planning it for ages, and caught the American Navy on the hop,’ said another, shaking his head.

‘Blimey, I bet old Churchill’s bowled over!’ said Eddie Cooper.

Tom Munday drew on his pipe and gave his own somewhat different opinion.

‘The old man must be chortling to himself on the quiet,’ he said. ‘The Yanks have played low so far, and kept out of it. But now they’ll have to come in, and it’ll change the war.’

The band struck up with ‘Don’t Fence Me In’, a quickstep, and Doreen Nuttall feared that it would be too quick for her uncertain feet; up until now she had managed the waltz, with its
one
, two, three,
one
, two, three time, gazing down at her shoes instead of looking up into her partner’s face – but this smiling GI guided her confidently, drawing her to his right side, then to his left, expertly whirling her round to the music. It was exhilarating, and Doreen blessed her friend Marjorie who had invited her to come to the Saturday evening dances at Everham Town Hall. Her mother had reluctantly consented, on condition that she came home with Marjorie immediately after the last dance, and Dad had seemed not to mind; in fact Rob Nuttall had his doubts about a dance organised by the GIs, the American soldiers who had made such an impact on North Camp with their friendly, outgoing attitude and generosity. They organised
children’s parties at their Everham base camp, introducing the young guests to ice cream and peanuts; children ran after them in the street, begging for candy, bars of chocolate and the mint-flavoured chewing gum they all seemed to carry in their pockets. And there were the Saturday dances, admission free to the girls living in and around Everham, including free American cigarettes; Marjorie showed Doreen the sheer nylon stockings she and other girls had been given by their GI partners.

‘Getting paid for enjoying myself, Doreen! Ask your guy if he’s got any.’

A guy was not an effigy to be burnt on a bonfire on Guy Fawkes’ night, but simply meant a man, like a chap or bloke; and instead of saying a girl was sweet or charming, they called her a swell kid. To Doreen who spent her days serving cloth and sewing materials to the sometimes hard-to-please ladies of North Camp, a Saturday evening dance at Everham Town Hall was an undreamt-of treat, and she eagerly told her parents and grandfather that she’d never had such fun in her life before. Tom Munday listened indulgently, happy to see her smiling again, and her mother cautiously invited her to ask a soldier home to tea on a Sunday afternoon. So far she had been too shy to do so, but her partner on this warm June evening whose name was Gus Rohmer accepted gratefully, and at the end of the dance she and Marjorie and four other girls were driven home in a US army jeep. Doreen briefly forgot the miseries of the black-out, the shortages, the constant anxiety for sons and sweethearts far away fighting for King and country – and suffering such injuries as her brother Jack had sustained. At least
he
was safe now at an air base in Wiltshire, an aeronautical engineer serving the
men of RAF Bomber Command, as well as if he had all ten fingers. His mother wished he could come home more often, but had to accept that he was virtually on call around the clock, using his talents as a non-combatant.

Tom Munday confided in Eddie Cooper that having met Gus Rohmer, he was not worried about Doreen’s excitement over the dances.

‘He’s all right. Comes from Maine, a proper gentleman, good manners, good-humoured, you can tell he comes from a decent background. And it’s nice to see our Doreen having a bit of fun.’

‘Glad somebody’s having fun,’ muttered Eddie. ‘Things aren’t going at all well out there in the desert, by what little we hear.’

It was true. Field Marshal Rommel’s tanks were continuing to drive the allies back, and the Japanese were claiming victory after victory in South Asia, culminating in their capture of Singapore before it had been completely evacuated of British civilians, including women and children.

‘Wouldn’t want anybody o’ mine falling into the hands o’ them little yellow bastards,’ said Eddie, and nobody in the Tradesmen’s Arms disagreed with him.

Rebecca Neville frowned and pushed back the hair from her forehead; she seldom bothered to wear the brown felt cowboy-style hat of her uniform. Hers was the unenviable task of sorting out problems between land girls and farmers, and she was expected to visit every member of the Land Army in her district at least once a month, to check that billets were satisfactory, whether wages were correctly paid, including overtime, how much leave was given, and dealing
with such unforeseen situations as faced her now, a land girl who was found to be three to four months pregnant. She had named the farmer’s son who denied all responsibility and said it must be an Italian prisoner of war. There was no man willing to marry the girl, and Rebecca not only had to arrange for her discharge from the Land Army, but also to visit her parents to see if they were willing to have their daughter home again. This was not part of Rebecca’s official duties, but she felt that she needed to know what would happen to the girl, and to give what help she could.

Barbara’s parents lived in Surbiton. Rebecca braced herself to face them, and rang their doorbell.

They took it badly. The father shook his fist in the air.

‘If I ever lay hands on that farmer’s son, I’ll throttle the bugger, that I will! I’ll go there and confront him, I’ll have it all out in the open, I’ll – I’ll—’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘We don’t know for certain that he is the father,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have to keep calm about this, and try to avoid upsetting Barbara too much while she’s pregnant. After her confinement you can consult a solicitor about the matter.’

‘I’ll see a solicitor straight away, thank you, Madam!’ he shouted. ‘
You’re
supposed to look after these girls, and I’ll make a complaint about you, too. You’ll find yourself in hot water, you will!’

‘You can call me what you like,’ said Rebecca grimly. ‘All I need to know from you is whether you’ll take Barbara to live at home with you, because I’ll have to let her know.’

‘And suppose we won’t?’ he demanded.

‘In that case she’d have to go to a Moral Welfare Home for mothers and babies.’

‘Oh,
no
!’ cried the wife. ‘My poor girl, she can’t go to one o’ them places. I wouldn’t have it!’

‘Very well,’ said Rebecca to the woman, ignoring the man. ‘I’ll go back and tell her that you’ll have her back home with you. She’ll be officially discharged from the Land Army next week. Good afternoon.’

She sighed as she got into the car she had on loan from headquarters. If it was a trial to deal with strangers’ families, it was not much easier to deal with her own. Her mother lived in a constant state of fear for her son Paul, and the news of Rommel’s inexorable advance struck further terror into her heart. Her husband and daughter tried in vain to comfort her, but to no avail. She had actually turned on Cedric and spoken harshly.

‘I lost my husband because of that bloody Great War – and I’m going to lose his son in this one, I know it. Oh, my son, my son Paul, I shall never see him again. Don’t try to talk to me, it doesn’t help.’

Rebecca and the man she called Father looked at each other and shook their heads helplessly. Cedric tried not to feel irritated by Sally Tanner who frowned at them both over Isabel’s bowed head, as if she understood and cared more about his wife than he did.

On the day that Valerie Pearson passed her thirtieth birthday, she scarcely noticed it. She was now Deputy Superintendent of The Limes Nursery, working under Nurse King and deputising for her when she was off duty. She was in charge of four young nursing assistants who worked in shifts, a middle-aged state registered nurse who would have been made deputy if she had worked full-time, a cook who also
took care of the laundering, and Molly the cleaner who was called Mrs Mop after the charwoman in ITMA, the weekly comedy on the wireless that helped to keep the nation’s spirits up.

Most of the children’s mothers worked at the munitions factory that had formerly made furniture and now turned out shells for the army and navy. Those with young children were exempted from night shifts, but the day shifts were long, and The Limes opened at seven in the morning and closed at six o’clock, or until the last weary mother came to collect her tired child. When she was on the early shift, Valerie stayed overnight, in spite of her mother’s protests. She found an ally in Enid Temple, who had learnt from her nephew Philip about the long hours that Valerie worked, and started visiting her mother while Nick was at school.

‘We’re
all
inconvenienced these days, Mrs Pearson,’ she said firmly, ‘and you must feel very proud of Valerie’s vital contribution to the war effort. We must support our country in every way we can, and why don’t you come along with me to the Make Do And Mend Circle at the Rectory on Wednesdays? It would do you good.’

When Mrs Pearson agreed to attend the next Circle, she found that Miss Temple was in charge that week, assisted by Councillor Tomlinson. Lady Neville was not there, and the curate’s wife was having to deal with little Josie and the new baby Elizabeth; Kenny and Danny were at school until four, and would go to see Stefano Ghiberti before coming home. It was known that a few of the Italians had been invited to Hassett Manor for an occasional Sunday dinner, which they much appreciated, and North Camp residents had mellowed into an easy or at least a tolerant attitude towards them.
Stefano told the Nevilles that his father worked in the car industry, and he hoped eventually to follow in his footsteps.

When the Circle broke up and Philip Saville put down the lid of the piano, he quietly asked his aunt why Lady Neville was not there: was she ill?

‘Not well at all, I’m afraid, Philip,’ she answered gravely. ‘Her son Paul is out there with the Eighth Army, and, er – well, enough said.’

When the doorbell rang, Rebecca went to answer, to save Sally from leaving Isabel’s side.

She was faced with Philip Saville. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Neville,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, it’s piano lessons today,’ she remembered, frowning slightly. ‘You’re early, aren’t you? The boys aren’t here yet. Er, come in. I’ll get you to wait in your usual room.’

As she ushered him past the door where her parents and Sally sat, she explained to them briefly, ‘It’s Mr Saville, come to give the boys their lesson. He’ll wait for them.’

Her mother looked up. ‘Philip?’ she called sharply. ‘Come in here, I’d like to see you.’

He was already ahead of Rebecca, holding out his hand to Isabel as if nobody else was present. Cedric stared in surprise.

‘I’m glad to see you, Philip. Sit down.’ She indicated the place beside her on the sofa; Sally sat on the other side. ‘You were in that terrible war, and lost a leg. It changed you, just as my husband was changed by it.’

‘I know,’ he answered quietly, keeping hold of her hand. ‘I remember Mark Storey when he was my father’s curate, and you were Miss Munday. I was at your wedding.’

‘Yes, you were a good-looking young man,’ she said,
actually smiling at the memory. ‘All the young ladies had their eyes on you, and half of North Camp came to see you off at the station when you went away in 1915. Oh, Philip, you and Mark were in that hell together!’ She sobbed afresh, and he put his other hand over hers. Cedric watched in silence; he too had been through the Great War.

‘Yes, Isabel, and I came out of it, and – and he didn’t.’ Philip’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘Oh, yes, he did, Philip, my husband came home, but he was changed. He wasn’t the same man of God, and couldn’t continue as a clergyman, though he’d served as an army chaplain. He was embittered, and openly said there was no God. He didn’t believe, not after he’d knelt beside a young soldier who’d been blinded by a shell fragment, and was crying out to God until he choked on his own blood and died. It changed my Mark; he said he was an atheist after that. He wasn’t the same man – he used to curse and swear, even in front of little Paul, and Becky, because I’d adopted her by then. He was … brutal when we … when we were … he’d been horribly injured and couldn’t … I couldn’t get near to him. He got a post as a teacher of English and Latin at a boys’ preparatory school in Surrey, and a house went with it, so we moved there, and dear Sally got work as a cleaner in the school, and came with us. That was in 1919.’

She paused, and looked across at Sally who nodded to Philip in confirmation, and then continued, ‘Poor Mark – he wasn’t popular with the boys or the staff, and I worried in case he’d be dismissed, but then came the influenza epidemic. It spread to the school, and he fell victim to it, and died after only forty-eight hours. It was a merciful release, Philip, truly a
release
, though I’d prayed so earnestly that I’d be able to lead
him back to the faith that had made him such a wonderful vicar in Bethnal Green. Before he died he was delirious, but said something to me: that he loved me – oh, Mark, my love! – and asked for forgiveness, and I trust that God heard him. I married Cedric, but I wasn’t able to give him children, though Rebecca is a dear daughter to us both.’ Again she paused, and Cedric murmured, ‘Yes, my love, she is.’

‘But my son Paul, oh, my son,
his
son, out there in the desert, oh, Philip!’ Words deserted her, and she laid her head upon Philip’s shoulder and sobbed. He whispered to her and stroked her hair while her husband and daughter looked on, deeply saddened by what they had heard, and Sally had tears in her eyes at the memories she had shared and now relived.

After a few minutes Isabel stopped crying and sat up, freeing herself from Philip’s light embrace. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

‘Thank you, Philip. I think I heard the boys coming in. You must be there for them.’

He rose, and turned to Sir Cedric Neville who held out his hand, which Philip shook, glancing back at Isabel.

‘I’ll be all right now, Philip,’ she said. ‘I must be patient and wait for news, like all the tens of thousands of other mothers who must wait.’

Cedric followed Philip out of the room. ‘Thank you, Saville, you’ve helped her. She needed to remember some things I never knew.’ He smiled, though it had not been easy for him to watch her being comforted by another, a man who had known her as a girl when she and Philip and Mark Storey had been young and full of hope, before the dark shadow of war had blighted their lives.

The departure of the GIs was sudden. Gus Rohmer told Doreen that they did not know their destination for security reasons: if the Germans knew where they were going, they would make due preparation to meet them there. There was a great deal of speculation: many believed that they would join the army in Europe, under General Eisenhower. Others would have welcomed a drafting to the Far East, to join their own countrymen in a desperate attempt to halt the Japanese. Gus was among the first to leave, and kissed Doreen goodbye, hoping that he would see her again ‘when this show’s over’, as he put it. She was in floods of tears, and her friend Marjorie told her to cheer up.