A Girl in Wartime (11 page)

It was all gabbled, giving no one a chance to say anything, but now Albert said, very slowly and pointedly, ‘Probably too late by then, George. No doubt we'll be on our way back to Belgium, to the front. You remember that, do you, George – we're fighting them Germans over there?'

It was so obviously pointed that his mother drew in a sharp breath. ‘Bertie!'

But George had already slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Connie felt her heart beginning to beat irregularly as her mind went instantly to Stephen, the way she had first misjudged him, much to her deep embarrassment. But George had no excuse.

George didn't leave the house immediately. It was early summer, eight o'clock, and still light despite being overcast. He'd spent all morning at his chapel and would do for most of this evening. But first he needed to take himself upstairs and tidy away his belongings. Albert and Ronnie would need to use the room and he didn't want any trace of himself to be evident.

Clearing done, he quickly went very quietly down the stairs and let himself out into the street, closing the door gently behind him. For him, not going to war had nothing to do with being too scared. ‘If it felt right, I'd volunteer, instantly,' he told himself. But it didn't feel right.

The words of his minister drummed in his brain as he hurried away from the house.
Though shalt not kill
. Yes, he believed that wholeheartedly and nothing was ever going to change it.

True, he'd recently had his share of white feathers being thrust at him by silly women, but with the teaching he'd received he knew he was strong enough to ignore their condemnation. Let them shower him with white feathers. Christ had been subjected to ridicule, pelted with vile rubbish, made to drag His cross to His place of execution, beaten all the way, but His resolve had remained strong. He was a lesson to others. And so He had died refusing to defend Himself, knowing He was right. And so did he, George Lovell, know he was right to take his stand in turn against evil.

How many times had he heard that old comment: ‘If you saw your wife or daughter being violated by your enemy, or your children with a loaded pistol held to their heads, you'd soon change your mind.'

But they were wrong. Even as he leapt to their defence, his loved ones would be slaughtered, leaving him bereft and a traitor to his beliefs.

This his preacher had told him so many times. And he was right. But it didn't ease the shame he felt at his inability to face his brothers, ready to die for their loved ones, their country. Was he merely a coward after all, using his lay preacher's doctrine like a shield? He had to know; needed reassurance that he was doing the right thing for the right reason.

The first drops of a summer shower began to fall, making him lengthen his stride, setting his face towards the small hall where his mentor, Brother Joseph Wootton-Bennett, preached the word of God to his little congregation, the Followers of Christ.

He just hoped not to meet anyone on the way, especially a woman who, seeing a young, fit-looking man in civilian clothes, might easily get the wrong impression. He'd never had the courage to stand up and declare his beliefs, unlike Brother Joseph, who would have blazed away at any accuser, in his booming voice arguing anyone down with his beliefs, a strong-willed man others could look up to. He admired Wootton-Bennett immensely, at the same time trying not to acknowledge that the man was in his fifties, way above being called to war.

The rain was becoming a steady downpour, hopefully keeping people indoors. He felt grateful for the rain. He was running late and increased his speed, thrusting the episode with his brothers behind him.

Brother Joseph was alone when he got there. He was a smallish, thick-set man, slightly balding, with large ears, snub nose, thin lips and pale grey eyes that would widen alarmingly when he was wrapped in the throes of a fierce sermon. He was sitting at the table from where he preached, reading his Bible and jotting thoughts down in a little notebook. He looked up as George entered.

‘My dear man! Our meeting ended minutes ago. I thought maybe you were unwell, though you seemed well enough at this morning's meeting.'

‘My brothers came home on leave,' George excused himself. ‘I felt I had to stay and talk to them.' It was a small lie – hardly a word said to them, in truth, before slinking away. ‘This is why I'm here now. I need to speak to you.'

‘You are harbouring doubts, having seen your brothers?'

George nodded, already feeling a traitor to this man's teaching. ‘I'm not frightened of being killed or injured,' he burst out in his own defence, ‘it's just that—'

‘You are horrified that you may be robbed of your belief by the words and deeds of others, to whit, your brothers. So you have come here to be given strength to maintain your beliefs. But you already have that strength, my brother, believing in what the Bible tells us of our Saviour.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Then have no fear,' his mentor continued. ‘Read, then read again the teachings of the Commandments that thou shalt not kill. And in Exodus, chapter twenty, verse thirteen of your Bible, it is said “thou shalt not kill”. And in the gospels of St Matthew and of St Luke, our Lord during his Sermon on the mount uttered that very same law. How many more times need it to be said: Thou shalt not kill!' His grey eyes opened wide. ‘May I also remind you, dear man, that St Matthew, chapter five, verse thirty-nine, tells us our Lord said: “Whosoever smite thee on thy cheek, turn to him the other also”. And yet again, St Luke six, verse twenty-nine, Jesus said: “and unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other”. Take heart, my son. Be you strong and believe in what you know is right. Those who doubt your motives, stare them in the face, just as our Lord Christ did before those who mocked him.'

He waited while George took several deep breaths to compose himself, then went on, ‘Good man. Remember the words of the Old Testament and of Our Lord. They'll keep you strong when others mock you, call you coward.' He stepped back. ‘Now off you go and face them all with good heart and strength of will, knowing you are right. God bless you, my dear man.'

With that he shook George by the hand before returning to his Bible and jottings, leaving George to walk from the hall, buoyed up to face whatever might come. No matter what others might say to him, he would never weaken again. A wonderful person was Joseph Wootton-Bennett, and tomorrow morning he would be back here to pray and sing with the others of the congregation.

After George had gone, Connie helped gather up the empty plates, taking them out to the kitchen.

Her mother was filling the washing-up bowl in the sink with boiling water from the kettle, cooling it to hand temperature with cold water from the tap. Connie took up a teacloth to dry the crockery and put it all neatly away as she always did. They'd usually chat as they worked, but this evening she said little, her mind on that kiss from Stephen Clayton.

‘You're quiet tonight, love.' Her mother's voice startled her.

‘Just thinking, Mum.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing much.'

‘Private?' Her mother laughed, but Connie didn't rise to the challenge.

‘I might pop across to Cissie's,' she said, quickly changing the subject. ‘Ask if she'd like to go to the pictures tomorrow night.'

Why had he done that, kissed her on the cheek like that? It wasn't the sort of thing a girl expects from her boss. In that brief peck she had felt the warmth of those lips against her skin, making her whole body tingle.

For him it might not have meant anything at all – a brief display of appreciation of her work, carrying him away for a second. He had probably considered it just a mere gesture. And he had not long been widowed, and was probably still grieving his loss.

But for her it had gone deeper than a mere gesture. She was in love with him. But what would such a man want with a girl like her?

Hurriedly she brushed the silly thoughts from her mind and, hanging the teacloth back on its hook by the door, went from the kitchen to comb her hair, put on a coat, and went back to say a final goodbye to her mother before she went to knock on Cissie's door.

Albert had already gone out, leaving while they were washing up, poking his head around the kitchen door saying apologetically that he was off to surprise his Edie.

‘Don't mind, do you, Mum – you and Dad, I'm only just home, and—'

‘Course we don't mind,' she'd said. ‘You go and surprise her, love.'

His going had apparently given Ronnie food for thought. Ron had got up, stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray and announced he might look some girl up whom he used to know, rather than going to the pub.

As Connie came into the room, she heard her dad say, ‘And don't 'ave no truck with them seein' you're in civvies and coming funny. Tell 'em if they want to see your uniform it's bloody runnin' alive wiv bloody lice from the front line. Tell 'em they can put that in their bloody pipe and smoke it!'

‘I will, Dad, don't you worry,' Ron laughed as he let himself out. The very second he'd gone, Mum picked up the ashtray to empty it, her nose wrinkling. The aroma of pipe smoke was far different, smoother, comforting even, much nicer than what the boys smoked. Connie couldn't help but smile.

Edie's father answered the knock on his street door, amazed on seeing Albert standing there. ‘Good God! Albert! Come in, son! Come in!' Raising his voice, he yelled over his shoulder: ‘Edie, someone for you!' As they stood in the narrow passage, he asked, ‘How come you're home, son?'

‘Four days' leave,' Albert began, but there was no time to say more as Edie appeared in the passage.

Pulling up in shock at seeing him, she galvanised herself into action, almost throwing herself at him, the two clinging to each other, her father retreating, her mother's voice heard calling from the kitchen, ‘Who is it, Edie?'

But the two had no interest in any other than themselves, lips locked in a long, hungry kiss.

‘I had no idea you were coming home, darling,' Edie gasped as finally they broke away, breathless. ‘I thought you were still over there.'

‘Got leave,' he said, grinning. ‘Four days – got to be back on Monday, got to leave here Sunday night to be back on time. You didn't get my letter?'

‘No.'

‘Soon as I was told I was being given leave, I wrote you one to tell you. Didn't want to give you a shock when I turned up.'

‘It's a lovely shock, darling, it really is, the best shock ever.'

But this was no time for talking. Pulling her to him, he kissed her yet again, lingeringly, she hungrily returning his kisses while he murmured against her lips, ‘I love you, my darling.' And she saying, ‘I love you too.'

Having let himself out of the house, Ronnie stood wondering what on earth he should do. He'd so looked forward to going out for the evening, an evening of freedom, not stuck in a trench for forty-eight hours at a time; hemmed in by his comrades in arms while the artillery gave the enemy a good pasting; a constant bombardment that became hardly noticeable after a while; whistles ordering men over the top. Thank God he'd come back each time in one piece after every aborted advance.

Here in the street, all silent and still, the bombardment he'd become used to seemed now to be echoing in his head in the quiet night. There was no one to look up – all his mates were gone, joined up – and this sudden realisation that his evening could be spent alone. There was no one he knew any more.

He'd told Mum and Dad that he was going to look up a girl he knew. Some hope! He could possibly go for a drink in the Salmon and Ball, the big and usually busy pub under the railway arch in Bethnal Green Road. But what was the point of drinking alone, with no friends?

Besides, he wasn't in uniform. That still hung, filthy, in the backyard, Mum having hung it up on a hanger in the hope that the clean air would rid it of infestation. He'd forbidden her to try to wash off the dried mud, and he didn't want her handling it too much with the lice it held. In four or five days' time it would be just as filthy and lousy.

He'd heard of people mistaking any man seen in civvies for a coward, never stopping to find out whether he was home on leave and glad to be out of uniform for a while. All very well wearing one's uniform with pride, as many a serviceman did, but not what he'd come home in. No, not to go to the pub.

But where else? He suddenly thought of a girl he used to know. Dorothy Bacon.

She'd be about eighteen now, a few months younger than him. He used to like her a lot. Maybe he could ask her out if she was still around.

Hoping her family hadn't moved away, he took himself to where she used to live and tentatively knocked on her door. What if they'd moved? But it was she who answered, gazing down at him from the top of the two steps that led up to the house, her expression one of surprise.

‘Ronnie? Is that you? What you doing here? But I thought you'd joined up ages ago.'

‘I did.' He felt just a tiny bit rattled. This blooming business of must be seen in uniform or else. ‘I'm in France, in the thick of it.' Why in God's name did he need to justify himself? ‘I've been given four days' leave. They do that sometimes after you've had a dose of fighting at the front.' Justifying himself again! ‘I've got to go back there. Leaving Sunday night, but while I'm 'ome, I thought I might look you up, see 'ow you are.'

Her face had broken into a smile. Was it relief? ‘Well, you'd best come in. Me parents are down the pub. They always go there on Thursdays.'

Inside, he said, ‘I thought you might like to go dancin' somewhere. It's not late. And it's still a bit light out there.'

She pulled a face. ‘It's not that, Ronnie. It's lovely to see you. But with you not being in uniform …'