A Girl in Wartime (15 page)

Going home in the taxi, she half expected him to take her hand as he'd done in the theatre but he sat very still beside her, not touching her at all as he mostly gazed out of the window, she finally doing the same on her side, her mind in turmoil. She had looked forward to this night, expecting a wonderful evening, but it had become a sham. After last week, the way he'd touched her cheek with his lips – was that after all just friendliness? Though to her, the kiss hadn't seemed at all like that. And the words he'd murmured …

When finally he did find something to say, it was simply to mention how important it was for the
London Herald
to keep up the morale of its readership. Then he'd lapse into silence, one that Connie didn't feel she could break.

‘Shame about young Ken Fenton going.' His voice came out of the gloom.

Kenneth Fenton was the young photographer she'd often accompanied, and the two got on well together, much better than the paper's older men, who seemed so often to take exception to a young woman being with them. Ken had finally decided to sign on.

‘We're going to miss him. He was a damned good photographer,' Stephen continued as if they were talking at her desk.

‘Was?' she said tartly. ‘You make it sound as if his life has already been written off.'

‘I didn't mean it that way, Connie,' he said like a small boy who'd been reprimanded. ‘That's what I find so wonderful about you, Connie. You're sensitive, kind; you worry about people.'

Faintly embarrassed, she didn't reply and felt him sit back to resume looking out of his window while she returned to gazing out of hers. They could have been strangers.

Recognising the corner of her street coming up, she sat up ready.

Sensing the movement, he turned to her and leaning forward, tapped on the little window that divided them from the cabbie. ‘Pull up here, please.'

As he did last time he said goodbye some doors from her home. She didn't have a front door key yet, not until that recognised age of twenty-one. He'd taken her arm and it felt so nice as they walked along the street in silence. Then he stopped and took her hand.

‘Connie,' he began, ‘There's something I need to tell you. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I've …' He paused then began again. ‘It's that I've had feelings for you for some time – well, right from when you first came into my office, but I didn't truly heed it then and you were so young. I even rebuked myself for it.' He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I found it nigh on impossible to get over losing my wife. When you came for your interview that day, I was still grieving, after over two years. Then you were shown into my office and something changed. Like a breath of fresh air, though I didn't recognise it at the time, but it felt as if the grief I'd been clinging to seemed to melt away.'

Again he paused. She waited, silently. ‘Since then,' he continued, ‘my feelings for you have mounted but I've found it hard to convey what I feel.'

His voice faded; his hand let go of hers to transfer itself gently to the back of her neck and just as gently eased her face towards his.

She let it happen, felt his lips close very lightly on hers, no sudden passion, just a gentle pressing of his lips against hers and when she didn't pull away, the pressure grew more certain and she knew then that this wasn't something that had suddenly come upon them, that it had been growing over all these months, each unaware of the other's feelings. Now suddenly she wanted to taste the fruit, certain that he did too.

Behind them was an alley: little more than a gap, one of several that occasionally broke the line of tenements in this street, a mere footpath by which homes could be entered by the back door. Just a small movement backwards would take them out of sight of any prying eyes.

She felt her heart begin to pound as together they eased towards the dark, narrow space. A sudden fear caught her: she thought of Dorothy and her predicament, and felt her body tense. He must have felt it too and instantly broke away.

‘Connie, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking.'

His voice faded as they stood apart now. It felt like the aftermath of a dream that had threatened to turn into a nightmare: waking to find only the empty stillness of a deserted room.

‘Forgive me.' His voice had become a whisper. ‘I had no intention …' He broke off then slowly added, ‘I'm deeply sorry.'

‘You mustn't be,' she said quickly, her love for him almost overflowing. ‘But I'm glad—'

‘I'm horrified I've ruined things between us,' he cut in. ‘I want us to be friends – more than friends. I know you're young but it really doesn't seem to matter. I just want to know if you still feel anything for me …'

On impulse she leaned forward and kissed him, cutting off his words. For a moment he stood with his arms at his side; the next moment he was holding her to him, returning her kiss, gentle now, controlled, but it was wonderful.

The next day, Connie stood outside a general store, in Smithfield, watching women coming and going, listening to housewives on meeting each other and pausing for a chat. Their talk was all about how the war was going, but no mention of loved ones in France or fighting in Turkey. No one asked after a neighbour's son or husband, lest they be told of someone lost or injured. They spoke of mundane things: cost of bread, the lightweight Christmas table they would have this year, the mess so-and-so's street was still in after that zeppelin raid a month ago and when the authorities were going to clear it up.

They spoke lightly; they smiled. But behind the gossip, voices were flat, and behind the smiles there was a stubborn refusal to be defeated. Even so, she'd see that expression betraying despondency, despite a refusal to be conquered by it. To her, it revealed the spirit of these people. It broke her heart as she sketched, secretly, her sketchbook hidden by the open book she held in front of her, appearing to be reading.

Back at her desk on Monday, she faithfully copied on to larger sheets of paper what she had quietly sketched: women's heads thrown back in laughter at some joke or other, animated as they exchanged recipes. She'd purposely left out that look she saw in every eye, that expression on every face. It would be up to her chief editor to decide what would go into the next edition. She guessed what he would decide on. This time the underlying despair was for her eyes alone.

First she showed them to Stephen, watching his eyes grow thoughtful as he surveyed them, maybe thinking of his wife or even maybe he saw what she'd tried so hard to keep out. ‘I'm in awe, Connie,' he said. ‘I'll get these up to Mathieson, and if he rejects them, I'll half kill him.' Then in a whisper: ‘Love you, Connie.'

December 1915

‘I don't know what to do.' George gazed appealingly at his pastor for help, for advice, though before the man opened his mouth he knew what that advice would be. ‘It wasn't so bad when it was just a case of being free to volunteer. I felt justified keeping well away from it. But with this rumour of enforced military conscription, I don't know what to do.'

There was a long silence as Joseph Wootton-Bennett regarded him. Finally he said slowly, ‘All you need, my son, is to remain strong. God will guide you. Trust Him.'

‘But I'm beginning to feel isolated, as if I'm the only one.'

‘You are not the only one,' came the reply. ‘Look around you, my boy: everyone in this little community of ours believes that life is sacred, held only in the hands of the Lord until He knows when it is right to gather his creatures into His arms – not for man to decide as and when he feels a need to slaughter another – a man in whom God put as much into making as He did into you. Would you then take His decision into your own hands, even if that man came at you with murder on his mind?'

‘I don't know. I've always followed our faith, but—'

‘But now you are in a quandary. You feel as if God has deserted you. But He hasn't. It is the Devil speaking to you, whispering in your ear so that you think it is your own mind pushing you. Cast aside that evil whisper. Listen instead to the clear voice of God Himself, who is ever beside you.'

‘I do listen, but when I see what's happening all around me, it's hard to—'

‘The Devil flits hither and thither as the whim takes him,' his mentor broke in, ‘leaving you with the agony of indecision. The Devil has no care how you feel beyond rejoicing at what he does. His sole aim is to destroy your faith in God's word. But our Lord is forever by your side and He will never leave you. Listen to His words, George. Listen and take heart.'

‘They're talking of forcing conscientious objectors to fight and sending them to jail – hard labour – if they refuse to drop their beliefs.'

His minister's expression had grown sad. ‘Then you must face that inevitability with a strong resolve, my son, as Jesus did when nailed to the Cross. He is your example. He died for you. In your own small way you owe Him this sacrifice. If you are thrown into prison, made to slave harder than you ever imagined in your life, survive on slops, be deprived of sleep, think of Him – you choose to suffer to preserve His great sacrifice, God's great lesson by sacrificing His Only Son for us all, your friends and your enemies alike.'

He paused to give George an encouraging smile. ‘That thought alone will give you strength to endure, my son. And endure you will, because I know your belief is very strong. So take heart.'

As he listened to that quiet, authoritative yet understanding voice, he began to feel his resolve growing by the second. What a truly marvellous man his minister was; one who would himself endure what he preached – against killing a fellow human, albeit an enemy looking to kill oneself.

Except that he was well above the age of conscription, but George felt certain that if called to fight, the man would resist unto death.

It had been some months since Stephen had taken Connie to dinner and then the theatre. At her door afterwards he had spoken of how he felt about her, raising her hopes.

Since then, there always appeared to be one reason or another to take up his time. Connie had become deeply confused. It was as if he was holding her at arm's length in case she had read more into it than he'd intended.

But he'd opened his heart to her, hadn't he? That night he'd kissed her. Then what he said afterward, and that day, not long afterwards, when he had whispered that he loved her….

So why did he now seem to have stepped back from her? She couldn't bring herself to ask. One kiss, a small indiscretion instantly curbed, a promise to have dinner the following week, which hadn't happened, he having been called away on some private business – what did that constitute?

She had felt let down after he had raised all her hopes. She'd made a fool of herself. She knew she was in love with him, but as time went on she was indeed beginning to feel like a fool.

Whenever he approached her on office business she'd force herself to treat it casually, not looking at him, even if he tended to hover.

True he was busy, they were all busy, the war saw to that. Every day news was gathered on the war's progress. Even though the Western Front appeared to be in the throes of stalemate, neither side seemed to gain or lose ground. People wanted to know, to read every scrap of information that might bring some encouragement to the heart.

But at home more zeppelin raids had meant her being sent out more often for her pencil to depict what she saw. Yesterday was the sixth time she'd been sent out.

‘Mathieson's saying how pleased he is with what you're doing, Connie,' Stephen said, making her jump.

Engrossed in sorting out her filing, still doing that job between times, she'd not heard him approaching her desk.

Recovering her composure, she forced a smile. ‘I didn't hear you come up. You made me jump.'

‘Sorry,' he said quietly. ‘I just needed to tell you what Mathieson told me, that he thinks you're proving an asset to the paper, against all his prior reservations. He says it's beginning to draw readers' attention and he thinks before long they'll be looking for your sketches more and more. It's something totally different and, so he says, brings something more human to the paper than cold photographic images, though we still need them.'

He paused to draw breath, then continued, ‘There's something else I need to tell you … ask you. I'm so sorry about the time that's passed since you and I went to dinner together – it couldn't be helped, but everything's okay now. A bit of private business, and I apologise. But it's all sorted out now and I'd like to ask if you'd care to have dinner with me again this coming Saturday.'

Her first impulse was to voice an offhanded no thank you. Instead she found herself almost leaping at him, mentally, striving to modify this sudden joy she felt. In a steady voice, she said, ‘That would be nice, a nice change.'

‘To humdrum filing,' he laughed.

Despite herself, Connie laughed too. A silly joke, but it bore more joy than he could ever know, in one instant releasing all her doubts. Her heart warmed as he gave her a lovely smile and, turning, went back to his office, not looking back.

Through the glass separating his office from the rest of the area, she saw him sit at his desk to bend his head over whatever he'd been previously working on. He should have looked up at her and smiled, but he didn't.

It felt as if they had been here for ever. All Albert could do was pray that he and Ronnie would come out of it in one piece. Going over the top in the small hours of this morning, a bullet had seared across the flesh of his upper left arm as he ran blindly towards the enemy lines, the darkness split only by the unpredictable and blinding flashes of chaotic shellfire. The bullet had ploughed a deep gash; blood soaked the sleeve of his stained and filthy uniform. Fortunately it had missed the bone, but God, it hurt! A second of numbness then, whoosh, the pain had hit him.