The FitzOsbornes at War (25 page)

Oh, good, Veronica’s safely engrossed in her book again, so I can fall back into despondency. The thing is, I
saw
them together. This evening. Walking beside each other, not touching but perfectly in step, their heads level, their gazes intertwined. Veronica was saying something, and Daniel was nodding in time, and it would have been obvious, even to a complete stranger, that here were two people who understood and trusted one another absolutely. They looked as though they’d been married for years, but still found each other fascinating. I stood there, watching them approach me, and felt a tremendous wave of . . . well, it was almost
grief
that washed over me. For I realised at that moment that I’d lost Veronica, that she belonged to someone else now.

Of course, I like Daniel very, very much, and I know perfectly well that he doesn’t
own
Veronica. No one does, she wouldn’t ever allow herself to
be
owned. And I was already vaguely aware that she and I had been slowly but steadily travelling in different directions ever since we left Montmaray – ever since we were first given the chance to explore life and
choose
our own directions. Really,
all
of us – Toby, Simon, even Henry – are drifting apart from one another, which is completely understandable and natural, and would be happening even if we weren’t living through a war. But it’s just that Veronica and I have always been so close . . .

Oh, I realise she still loves me. It’s not as though I believe that she, or anyone else, has only a finite amount of love to offer, that she’ll somehow use it all up on Daniel. And it’s not as though she’s going to abandon our flat to go and
live
with him (not in the immediate future, anyway). I knew all that, and yet I still felt absolutely bereft. It was then that I understood that part of my distress was probably plain old
jealousy
. Veronica had found her soulmate. And I hadn’t, and probably never would.

I really felt
disgusted
with myself, then. Why couldn’t I be happy that
she
was happy, that she’d found someone who was perfect for her? How could I possibly be so selfish? I tend to think of myself as a reasonably good person at heart, but at that moment, I realised I was both deluded and despicable. Anyway, these were the thoughts and feelings rampaging about inside my head when Daniel glanced up and noticed me. The two of them broke into wide smiles, and quickened their pace, and seemed so pleased to see me that I felt even worse. Then Veronica presented me with a book about Shelley that they’d both thought I’d like, which only heaped coals on the fire of my guilt. I developed a raging headache over dinner, from trying so hard to be delighted and sociable – a fitting punishment for my treacherous head. And then, after we’d seen Daniel off on his train, we arrived back at our flat to be informed about the unexploded bomb – more punishment, although it seems very unfair that Veronica and everyone else in my street should suffer for my sins . . .

Oh, Simon is right! I really
am
turning morbid. I must make more of an effort to concentrate on life’s blessings. For example, that both Toby and Anthony have been moved away from the coast, to safer, quieter aerodromes, for a much deserved break. And that the British government has finally agreed to stop interning Enemy Aliens. Admittedly, they haven’t released the people who are already
in
the camps, but Daniel did sound hopeful that his cousins’ case would be reviewed soon, and at least they haven’t been shoved onto one of those horribly over-crowded ships being sent off on perilous journeys to Canada or Australia. And also . . .

No, can’t think of anything else that’s remotely positive. Not right now. I’m sure there
are
lots of good things happening in the world, though. Somewhere.

24th October, 1940

A
NTHONY IS DEAD.

I just can’t believe it. Dear, sweet Anthony! He was so proud of being a pilot, so passionate about flying. He was so
good
at it. How
could
he have been shot down by some Nazi? It’s unthinkable. Except I can’t
stop
thinking about it.

He died a hero, his Squadron Leader insisted, as though
that
makes it all right. Oh, poor Julia, I can’t even bear to imagine how she must have felt when she read the telegram. Thank goodness Rupert was there when it arrived. He was the one who telephoned us, just before he drove Julia up to Northampton, where Anthony’s parents live. Anthony was their only son, and they can’t even have a proper funeral, because the plane got burnt up and there’s nothing left of him but ashes. Oh, please,
please
let it be true what the Squadron Leader said, that Anthony didn’t feel a thing, that he really
was
knocked unconscious long before the plane crashed into the forest and burst into flames. But it
must
be true, mustn’t it? Because otherwise, he would have bailed out with his parachute. Anthony knew his plane back to front, he would have understood exactly when and where he was hit, and whether he could bring the plane down safely or not, and he definitely knew how to use a parachute. All the pilots do, Toby told me – they’re trained to abandon the plane in an emergency, because pilots are more valuable than machines. That’s the way the RAF thinks. Quicker and cheaper to repair a smashed plane, or even build a new one, than to train a new recruit to the level of an experienced combat pilot. It’s all about efficient use of time and money to
them
.

I know pilots are getting killed every single day, because I read the newspapers and listen to the BBC broadcasts. But I’ve always tried to regard the numbers as simply a score in a game. The smaller
our
number each day, the better. The higher the number for the Germans, the sooner this ghastly contest would be over. It was just too terrifying, with Toby in combat, to picture those numbers as actual human beings, as young men with wives and mothers and sisters. I still can’t face that fact head on – I glance at it sideways, then hurriedly squeeze my eyes shut.

That’s why I can’t really believe Anthony is dead. Despite the telegram and then the official RAF letter – despite hearing the news from Rupert, one of the most trustworthy people I know – I feel there must be some mistake. Perhaps some other pilot had taken Anthony’s plane up that afternoon, perhaps Anthony had left the aerodrome, forgetting to sign out properly . . . Except no, that wouldn’t work. If he’d had any leave, Julia would have gone up to visit him, or he’d have driven down to London. She’d been complaining that she hadn’t seen him for months . . . No, he’s probably in some hospital with a broken leg. He jumped out with his parachute and landed awkwardly, and there was a mix-up with his identity while he was unconscious. And he’ll be all embarrassed when he wakes up and finds out what’s happened, and Julia will rush off to collect him in her ambulance and bring him home, and she’ll spend the rest of his sick leave fussing over him . . .

Veronica has just come in and said she’s arranged for flowers to be sent to the chapel. For the memorial service tomorrow. It’s just a small ceremony for his family – his mother couldn’t bear to face a huge crowd.

Anthony really
is
dead. I’m never going to see him again. He won’t ever again debate Marxist theory with Veronica, or have long, unintelligible discussions about aeroplane maintenance with Toby, or help Henry fix her roller skates. Anthony’s gone, forever, and he was only twenty-six years old. That’s much, much too young to die.

It was my twentieth birthday yesterday, but none of us were in any state to celebrate.

18th November, 1940

I
KNOW
I
WAS DESPERATE
for something to think about (
anything
other than poor Anthony), but I’d hoped for a
pleasant
distraction. That’s too much to expect, though, these days. Veronica has just told me she might be going to Spain again. Apparently, Hitler’s been making strenuous efforts to persuade Franco to join the war, and the British are equally determined to keep Spain out of it.

‘But I thought Spain was in no position to fight another war,’ I said, trying to start up the sort of complex political discussion that would occupy all my concentration.

‘No, they don’t have many resources to spare,’ Veronica acknowledged. ‘But it wouldn’t take much to attack Gibraltar, and Franco could make things very awkward for the Allies in North Africa.’

‘Right,’ I said, attempting to make a mental map of all that and failing. ‘But how does the Foreign Office know all this? About those secret meetings of Hitler’s, I mean.’

‘Oh, they have plenty of intelligence sources in Spain,’ said Veronica. ‘Although that last meeting wasn’t exactly
secret
. It was held in Hitler’s railway coach, on the French side of the border, and that idiot Ribbentrop was in charge. He’d arranged for a German military band to be playing at the railway station when Hitler arrived, and the band wandered over the border into Spain wearing their uniforms and caused a diplomatic incident. Anyway, Franco seems noncommittal at the moment – he’s still not sure who’s going to win the war, and he doesn’t want to support the wrong side. So it’s vital that he understands Britain isn’t anywhere
near
being defeated, and that’s why the Foreign Office is sending more people over to Madrid to help convince him.’

‘And
you
need to be one of them,’ I said.

‘Well, I
could
be very useful over there, I think, but my boss only got away with it last time because that was a crisis requiring urgent action.
His
boss was furious when he found out. Dreadful enough permitting a female to work in the London office, but to send one
abroad
. . . Oh, they’ve a dozen arguments against me going to Spain, even temporarily. The Spanish officials wouldn’t take a female interpreter seriously – they’d be offended at the very idea. And the Embassy staff need to go out drinking at nightclubs and on overnight hunting trips in order to gather information, and I couldn’t accompany them without causing a scandal. And being single, I’d be
bound
to distract the Embassy staff from their duties – or else I’d end up getting seduced by some local Don Juan. Of course, if I were married, they’d tell me I couldn’t possibly leave my husband behind in England, or they’d worry about me getting pregnant and having to resign. And then there’s the usual rubbish about women being too delicate to cope with the heat, or the cold, or the food, or the spartan accommodation. They ought to hear the Ambassador –
he
never stops whingeing about all of that, and anyway, his wife is in Madrid, and she doesn’t seem to have collapsed in a fit of the vapours just yet.’

Veronica sighed.

‘It
is
terrible timing, though,’ she said. ‘I hate to think of you alone here at night, with all the bombs. But if poor Julia’s still at her parents’ place and Rupert’s away, you wouldn’t be any better off staying at her house . . .’