A Family's Duty (8 page)

That was not what the curate’s wife had heard, but she nodded understandingly and said how well the brothers looked in their uniforms.

‘They won’t be short of lady followers, that’s for sure!’ Joan said unwisely, which infuriated Mrs Allingham.

‘What a vulgar expression, Mrs Kennard! I hope that
you never talk like that in front of your daughter. Some of the words your husband uses are highly unsuitable for the pulpit, and you should not copy him, but rather set him an example!’

Acting on her husband’s admonition to treat the Allinghams with compassion at this testing time, Joan simply lowered her head in apology, and thought how Alan would laugh when she told him.

The Pearsons, mother and daughter, had spent a quiet Christmas, enlivened by church in the morning, and the King’s speech on the wireless when, struggling to overcome a lifelong stammer, he had given the nation an inspiring quotation:

‘I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, “Give me a light, that I may tread safely into the unknown.” And he replied, “Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.”’

Mrs Pearson stood for the playing of the National Anthem, and Valerie did likewise.

‘What a great, noble man we have for our King!’ she said. ‘It was surely God’s will that brought him to the throne when his elder brother made such a fool of himself over that American woman.
She
did us a favour!’

Valerie felt so wretched that she looked forward to returning to Thomas and Gibson’s after the holiday. Mr Richardson had informed her that his son was to leave for Everham and from there to Aldershot on Thursday the twenty-eighth of December, and that he would therefore be in late that morning, after seeing off his son at nine-forty.

‘Why don’t you come to the station with me, Miss
Pearson?’ he asked. ‘We could close the shop until midday, and go to that place by the dairy that serves coffee.’

Valerie was flustered. She had bought a pocket-sized, leather-bound New Testament that she was going to ask Mr Richardson to pass on to his son. But this unexpected invitation meant that she could give it to him herself, if …

‘But – but won’t Miss Neville be there to see him off?’

‘No, she’s chucked him over for another soldier,’ he said briefly, giving no indication of whether he was pleased or sorry.

‘Oh – oh, I didn’t know,’ faltered Valerie. This might mean that she
could
say goodbye to John and give him the book.

‘Look, Valerie, this will be a difficult parting,’ said Mr Richardson bluntly. ‘We don’t know when he’ll be coming back, and if you were there it would ease the tension a bit.’

She shook her head. John would not consider her a substitute for Rebecca Neville, and what would she say when she gave him the book? She thanked her employer for his offer, but politely refused it.

‘I’ll be in the shop at nine o’clock as usual, Mr Richardson, and I’ll have a nice cup of tea ready for you when you come in.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish, Valerie. I’ll let you have the keys to open up. Not likely to be many customers. What an end to the year.’

Valerie made no reply. Her spirits had never felt so low.

Thursday dawned, with a dull sky and a dampness in the air that seemed to penetrate through to Valerie’s bones. She let herself into the shop and pushed up the blinds, glancing at the wall clock. Five minutes to nine, and John and his father would be getting ready to leave. She took off her coat, shivering slightly, and opened her handbag where the book lay wrapped in tissue paper.

Nine-fifteen, nine-twenty, no customers. Nine-thirty.

She came to a decision. Throwing on her coat, picking up her handbag and locking the door behind her, she ran along the high street and down to the station approach. The train was in, and a few passengers were getting in or out. The Richardsons, father and son, stood on the narrow platform. The sound of her running footsteps made them look up.

‘Good Lord, it’s Miss Pearson, she’s changed her mind,’ said the father. ‘Come on, my dear, he’s just going!’

‘Wait!’ she panted, running up to them and holding out the book to John. ‘It’s for you, a New Testament to put – to put in the pocket of your uniform.’

He took the book and glanced at his father, then back to her. And then he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, first on one cheek and then the other. It was more like a brother’s kiss than a lover’s, still nevertheless it was a kiss.

‘Thank you, Valerie. I’ll keep it with me.’ He turned to his father, and they shook hands. ‘So this is goodbye, Dad, until we meet again.’

The guard blew the whistle, and a cloud of steam arose. John boarded the train, closed the door and pulled down the sash of the door window, from which he looked out at them. ‘Goodbye, son.’

‘God bless you, John!’ she said, managing a smile. Not until the train pulled out for its return journey on the spur, and disappeared round a corner, did she shed tears, shaking her head in apology to John’s father. He took her arm.

‘Come on, Valerie. No sense in standing around here.’

It was the departure of ‘the boys’ that finally woke North Camp into realisation that Great Britain was truly at war, and her sons facing danger from a powerful enemy. Eddie Cooper’s prediction of a short, sharp struggle, over within a year or less, had given way to Tom Munday’s forecast of a much longer conflict against a nation which for a decade had been building a fleet of ships and aircraft, while training an ever-growing army to serve the Third Reich, the Nazi dictatorship of a man whose very name they hailed when speaking of him – ‘
Heil, Hitler!
’ He had become an icon to the German people, to be followed with unquestioned loyalty, but in Britain he was an irreverent joke, lampooned in songs like ‘We’re Gonna Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line!’ – though in that dark winter he became less comical and more menacing. The British Expeditionary Force was suffering losses; false hopes were turning to fear.

Tom Munday’s grandson Jack Nuttall had eagerly received his call-up papers and gone to train as a fighter pilot in the Royal Air Force, as had Lester Allingham, and the shadow that hung over the Rectory and 47 Rectory Road grew darker. Grace Nuttall seldom smiled – she had little appetite and lost weight; at night her sleep was troubled, and neither her husband or father could give her much comfort, being worried themselves. Doreen was bewildered by the tensions in the air, her mother’s closed face, her father’s gloomy silence. Only her grandfather was willing to listen to her, and encourage her to take pride in her brother’s courage, his determination to go and fight for his country.

‘And Jack
will
come home again when the war’s over, won’t he, Granddad?’

‘Yes, Doreen dear, though it may take a long time,’ he replied carefully, moved by the trust in her eyes, and trying not to show the pity he felt for her. ‘Our Jack’s a brave lad, and we’ll have to say our prayers at night, to ask the Lord to keep him safe and bring him home again. And you’ll have to be
especially
good for your mum and dad while your brother’s away!’

Poor Doreen promised to be kind to her parents, and not to forget to say her prayers.

At the Rectory the Reverend and Mrs Allingham were finding it difficult to comfort each other; her constant anxiety made her irritable, and when he remonstrated with her, she told him to leave her alone, as if he did not share her fears for Howard and Lester. Alan and Joan Kennard tried to be as accommodating as possible, in deference to the older couple’s burden, but Mrs Allingham showed no interest in little Josie,
now toddling towards the rector’s wife with a pretty smile.

‘That child needs to be kept in her place, Mrs Kennard, or she’ll be thinking she can wander upstairs and disturb the rector. Please make sure that she stays with you at all times.’

When Joan tried to show sympathy and offer to do shopping or to run any other errand, she was met with a dismissive frown, and overheard the lady say to her husband, ‘It’s all very well for
her
– she’s got her child safe at home with her.’

Alan met with slightly more encouragement from the rector when he offered to take weekday services and help out with parish visiting.

‘We must just give thanks for our blessings, Joan darling,’ he told his wife with a wry grin, ‘and “count it all joy” as St James advises,’ though even as they both chuckled, they felt guilty because of those very blessings.

Grim news came in of merchant ships being torpedoed by the dreaded German submarines, the U-boats, with loss of crews and cargoes. Adolf Hitler was reported to declare that all shipping was at the mercy of his U-boats, and the losses led inevitably to food shortages. Under the newly formed Ministry of Food, the first rationing began early in the New Year. Lady Neville, now a member of the Women’s Voluntary Service, joined Councillor Mrs Tomlinson and other WVS members at long tables in St Peter’s church hall, to distribute the already printed ration books to every adult and child in North and South Camp and the surrounding rural area. Each had to be signed for, and the weekly allowances of butter, bacon and ham explained; each person would need to be registered with a named butcher and grocer which left
them little choice, the one butcher being Mr Seabrook and the one grocer old Mr Cleveley, assisted by his daughter. Joan Kennard offered to accompany Mrs Allingham to the church hall to collect her two ration books, but was refused.

‘We always get our bacon directly from Yeomans’ Farm,’ the lady said crossly. ‘I have no intention of going to beg from that Seabrook man.’

When Joan gently explained that more foods would soon have to be rationed, items like tea, coffee and sugar, Mrs Allingham replied that she would go into Everham for them.

‘I’m not going to be told which shops I must use,’ she said. ‘And what does your child need with a ration book?’

‘She’s entitled to extra milk,’ replied Joan patiently, ‘and at the Welfare Clinic she gets cod liver oil and orange juice.’

‘That’s more than
I
ever got at that age. There’s too much fuss being made about children at a time like this. What about the elderly?’

Joan pretended not to hear, but that evening the Reverend Allingham got a detailed account of his wife’s grievances.

‘We must look upon these inconveniences as a test of our faith, Agnes,’ he said, but got only a dubious sniff for answer. Mrs Allingham’s faith had been badly shaken when her sons had gone to war, and she lived only for news of them.

On a bleak Wednesday morning in February there had been few customers at Thomas and Gibson’s, and the inactivity had depressed Valerie’s spirits even further, emphasising her feeling of uselessness at this time, and her secret disappointment at having had only one postcard from John Richardson, showing a picture of snow-capped Ben Nevis and saying that army square-bashing was very different
from Page’s department store. His father had received a letter that gave no information about his whereabouts for security reasons, nor what was happening, nor whether or not he was to be posted overseas. He had asked for his kind regards to be passed on to Miss Pearson, and that was all. Valerie imagined him slogging through army manoeuvres and learning about modern warfare, while here
she
was, uselessly stuck in a shop, selling bolts of stout black cloth and sewing cotton for making black-out curtains. But what could she do? She couldn’t type or act as a telephone operator, she couldn’t ride a bicycle, let alone drive a vehicle. It was no wonder that John Richardson preferred the vivacious Rebecca Neville to a timid, mousey creature like herself, she thought, and besides, her mother would never let her go to do war work.

‘You’d better do some shopping when you leave work today, Valerie, before you go to the Ladies’ Hour,’ Mrs Pearson had told her that morning. ‘Buy up what tea and sugar you can from Cleveley’s, because they say they’ll soon be on ration. I shan’t be coming to the Rectory this afternoon, Dr Stringer says I need to rest more.’

Valerie looked forward to Wednesday afternoons, even though the talk was mostly about the war and the news, or lack of it, from the men in the armed services at home and abroad. Mrs Kennard had said they should now call themselves the North Camp Knitting Circle, as the ladies were now all knitting balaclavas, gloves and socks for the forces, using thick grey wool yarn supplied by Lady Neville as one of her many duties in the Women’s Voluntary Service. They all knew that her son was an officer in the army, but she hid her anxiety under a smile, nodding to Mr Saville to
play something bright and cheerful on this dull afternoon. One of the ladies had suggested ‘Whistle While You Work’ from the film about Snow White, and another had asked for ‘There’ll Always Be An England’; Lady Neville said they would sing both, exchanging a smile with Philip Saville who obediently obliged at the piano. He seemed happier these days, as if he actually enjoyed the discomforts of war; Valerie would have liked to ask him if his Aunt Enid listened to that awful Lord Haw-Haw on the wireless, with his Oxford English accent broadcasting from Germany, mocking Mr Chamberlain’s efforts. Mrs Pearson insisted on turning on the wireless when Haw-Haw came on with his ‘Gairmany calling, Gairmany calling,’ followed by his eerie knowledge about which English town hall clock was five minutes slow, and where the air raid shelters were placed in another town, and how ineffectual they would be in a serious air raid.

Mrs Pearson listened to what he had to say, and then loudly contradicted him, point by point, as if he could hear her. If I have to listen to that man one more time, thought Valerie, I shall scream,
‘Turn him off! For God’s sake turn the bugger off!’

And the next thing she knew was that she was lying on the floor with Lady Neville and Mrs Kennard on each side of her, holding her hands and soothing her with ‘Sssh, sssh, dear, sssh, sssh,’ and somebody was handing her a handkerchief.

Heavens, what a disaster, she must have
shouted the words out loud
, and now she could not stop crying.

Lady Neville was helping her to her feet. ‘Come with me, Valerie, come this way,’ she said, and taking her arm she led her out of the room and into Alan Kennard’s study.

‘Sit down, dear, there’s a cup of tea coming for you soon.
Now, would you like to tell me what’s the matter? Are you not well?’

Valerie wiped her eyes and nose. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Neville, I’m not ill—’

‘Please call me Isabel, and tell me what’s the matter, Valerie.’

‘I feel so
useless
, while other people are busy with war work, like yourself, Lady – Isabel,’ she faltered, ‘and my mother listens to that horrible man, and I can’t
bear
it!’ The tears began again, and Isabel took her hand, somewhat alarmed at hearing this.

‘Hush, Valerie, don’t upset yourself.
What
horrible man? You can tell me in strictest confidence, you know.’

‘That Lord Haw-Haw, she always listens to him and answers him back,’ said poor Valerie, thinking what a silly goose she must seem. Isabel laughed with relief.

‘Oh,
him
! That traitor to his country, he’ll come to no good end, and isn’t worth worrying about! I think you’ve got yourself thoroughly run down, my dear, but is there anything else that’s troubling you? Some friendship, perhaps?’

Valerie could not speak of her unrequited love for John Richardson, so shook her head. Isabel Neville felt deeply sorry for the girl, dominated by her mother and with nobody to confide in. She must be handled gently.

‘Listen, my dear, would you like to do some local war work? There are lots of things you can do as a voluntary worker, if only for a few hours a week. Come and see me next Monday morning at St Peter’s church hall, where the Women’s Voluntary Service has its North Camp headquarters. We could talk things over, and find something to suit you. Do you like children? There’s a nursery at Everham for
under-fives
,
poor little mites whose mothers work at the munitions factory. Come and have a talk with me, and we’ll work out a trial plan for you, how many hours you can give and so on. How does that sound to you?’

Valerie gave a watery smile. ‘It’s very kind of you, Lady, er, Isabel, but my mother would never agree to anything like that. She’s elderly, you see, and needs me to do the shopping and everything. Besides, I’ve got my work at Thomas and Gibson’s.’

‘I would like to have a word with Mrs Pearson, and with Mr Richardson. I’m sure he could find a part-time replacement for you – an older woman, perhaps.’ Isabel paused and looked very thoughtful. ‘Because you see, Valerie, you’re quite right – you
are
needed for the war effort, and you’re too valuable to waste your potential as you are doing.’ (And heading towards a nervous breakdown, she added in her head.) ‘I believe it would be good for Mrs Pearson to do the local shopping, and a lot more besides. Leave it to me – don’t say anything to her, and I’ll persuade her. Come on, let’s see you smile again!’

Even after a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Kennard’s fruit cake, Valerie felt unable to face the ladies again, but Isabel Neville did not want her to go home alone.

‘Just wait here until we finish, Valerie, and then somebody will walk with you. I know, I’ll ask Philip to see you home – he’s going your way, and he’d be glad to.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t want to put Mr Saville to any trouble,’ protested Valerie, but she was overruled. Mr Saville readily agreed, because it was Isabel Neville who asked him, and he could refuse her nothing. Even so, he felt sorry for the quiet girl who walked at his side, and having witnessed the scene
at the Rectory, he could not help comparing her life with his; due to different circumstances, they shared the same inner emptiness, he concluded bleakly.

‘Thank God it’s nearly spring again,’ Dora Goddard said to the pigs, her Wellington boots ankle-deep in the pig manure she was raking out of the sties and shovelling onto a wheelbarrow. Her charges were busy at the trough of swill, made up from kitchen waste and cooked mangolds and turnips mixed with oats. The newly delivered sow and her twelve new piglets needed special attention, and were kept in a separate pen where she was fed on offal cooked in milk and water. Dora yawned, having been up for two hours in the night, summoned by Billy who was having trouble with delivering a calf. The cow had lain for several hours, lowing with painful contractions; only the calf’s forelegs were visible, but after some strategic traction, the head at last emerged, followed by the rest of the body.

‘Bugger it!’ said Billy. ‘After all that effort, it’s a bloody bull calf, when we need milkers. Should be ready for slaughtering come September. Anyway, let’s get it sucking.’

‘Can’t the poor old girl have a rest for an hour or two?’ asked Dora, patting the sweating animal, now lying exhausted on her bed of straw in the lantern-lit byre.

‘’Course not, the sooner it sucks the better – it’s just thin, watery stuff at first, but get it sucking, and the proper milk’ll come in. Come on, let’s get cleared up – I need to get back to my bed. Sidney can deliver the next one.’

Dora did not reply, but seethed inwardly. Billy had taken advantage of her as a member of the family, and while her father and mother worked as hard as they had always done,
Billy lorded it over them since his elevation to husband and father, and reminded them of his ownership of the farm and their secondary place in the scheme of things. They got no help from Pam whose time was all taken up with baby Samuel, now a year old and toddling all over the farmhouse.