A Girl in Wartime (19 page)

‘I'd like to opt for the Royal Army Medical Corps, if that's possible.'

‘Hmm!' said the man, rubbing his chin as though this request were a dilemma for him. Then, taking a deep breath, he nodded. ‘I don't see why not. Very well, I'll see what I can do, make sure you hear within a short while.'

As George half turned to leave, the officer stopped him, saying, ‘I'd advise you to say little about this to your fellow inmates. For reasons you might well understand, being staunch conscientious objectors, they might not see things in quite the same way as yourself. You are dismissed!'

His words were so filled with sarcasm that it left George feeling a little sick as he took himself out of the room to those waiting to conduct him back to prison and more work mending roads; for how long he had no idea.

He hoped it would be sooner rather than later, for the pure reason that he had little stomach for facing his fellow prisoners, their conviction to keep their faith as strong as ever. He felt even more like a traitor as he was taken back to prison.

September 1916

Connie stood in the kitchen, reading the letter her mother had handed her. ‘It's from George.'

Sitting at the kitchen table as she suckled her six-month-old Violet, Dorothy gazed up at the two of them. ‘Hope I get a letter from my Ron soon,' she said quietly. ‘Last one I got was all of two weeks ago. Ain't seen any of the growing up of our little Violet. She won't know him time he comes home.'

‘Maybe he has no time to write,' Mum said, a tense look on her round face. ‘I just hope him and my Albert are all right, way things are right now.'

Albert's last letter had mentioned being transferred to somewhere in France called the Somme. Now the papers were full of reports of fierce fighting there, huge casualties, fearsome onslaughts. If her boys were in the thick of it, it didn't bear thinking about. She turned back to Connie, changing the subject.

‘I don't know what your dad's going to say when he comes home tonight and reads that letter from George.
If
he reads it. I just hope he don't go off the deep end, that's all.'

She'd read this one through the once and in silence, and she was right – Dad would probably not be pleased, might even sling it aside unread. But for Connie, this single page of cramped writing sent a wave of disbelief through her.

I expect this will shock you all a bit, but earlier this year something happened that made me think and has been nagging at me ever since. I don't want to go into it but I now realise that one can automatically retaliate without thinking when one is threatened, no matter what I previously believed. Maybe some can still turn the other cheek, but I didn't, and I now see that blind fury can leap up and take anyone off guard. That's what happened to me and I've now come to see that I've no right to preach pacifism after what I did on the spur of the moment without thinking. But I feel I need to make amends, so I've signed the military oath, not to fight, because I still don't think I could deal with that, but I've been accepted for the Royal Army Medical Corps. They say I could most probably end up in France, collecting the wounded and getting them to safety behind the lines. I reckon I'll be a bit close to the fighting but I won't be taking part in it. I could never do that, not even now. But doing this will help me conquer this guilt I keep feeling over what I did. I just felt I needed to tell you and Dad. That's all. Hope you're well. Love, George.

When her father came home, Connie expected him to toss the letter to one side, maybe even tear it up and fling it into the empty grate.

‘It's from George, Dad. It's very important – you need to read it.'

The urgency in her tone arrested him on the verge of screwing up the single sheet. And now she watched as he smoothed it out and unfolded it.

Her mother was keeping out of the way, busying herself with dishing up her husband's dinner to put on the kitchen table for him, the back parlour for Sunday meals only. But he always went in there for his pipe and a quick smoke while he waited for his dinner to warm up. She was no doubt waiting for his bellow to reach her ears.

Connie watched as he began to read as if against his will, and saw his expression begin to change to one of disbelief. Yet there was no pride in his face, not the pride he'd exhibit when he read letters from his other two sons – brave sons in France, still in the thick of the fighting.

He was silent as he refolded the letter and quietly placed it back on the mantelpiece as if that was the only place for it. What his thoughts were, Connie could only guess. Surely from that anger and humiliation he'd felt over George's refusal to follow his brothers into battle, which he'd seen as sheer cowardice, there had to be some sense of relief that he could hold his head up again. But all she heard him growl as he stalked from the room to his meal was, ‘Army medical corps, eh? Well, we'll see,' addressing no one in particular.

Left with her own thoughts, she found herself wondering how her brother would fare. But she knew he would fare very well now he was free of the rubbish that idiot Wootton-whatever-his-name-was, had put into his head. Men like that shouldn't be allowed, came the thought as she followed her father into the kitchen, from where the appetising aroma of stew was emanating. Maybe everyone was entitled to his own beliefs, so long as they didn't inflict them upon others.

But there were other thoughts on her mind. Half an hour from now, Stephen would be waiting with a taxi at the end of her road to take her to the theatre. She could hardly wait to finish her meal and be out of the house, and in the privacy of the taxi have him put his arm around her, bring her close while she savoured the warmth of his love for her.

Connie saw Stephen every day at work, but Friday evening and weekends were theirs alone. Whether it was having dinner together or seeing a show or even wandering together in one of London's many parks in the late summer sunshine, she dared to dream that one day she and Stephen would be married.

But there always lurked a feeling that it was all too good to be true. She'd still not told Mum and Dad about him. They'd have a fit. Mum was always voicing a hope that one day soon her youngest daughter would meet a nice young man and stop gadding about with all those friends she had made at work, as Connie had led her to believe.

The feeling was heightened by Stephen himself, his unexplained reluctance to take their love any further than a brief kiss goodnight, his arm around her in a taxi, or the occasional present that she kept hidden away from her parents. She tried to repress any memories of that strange evening in his flat, the way he had behaved.

She'd been in his flat several times since, but it was always the same, Stephen holding himself back from her as though fearing to openly declare his feelings. And those photographs, despite her reaction that first time, they were still there. She wanted to bring herself to remark on them but somehow never could. So many times she wanted to ask him point blank just how serious he was he about her, wanted to refuse any more invites back here until he promised to declare that he loved no one but her. Sometimes his attitude towards her struck her as more friendship than love, yet each time she found herself unable to refuse to come here after an evening out.

This evening, though, on his large comfortable settee, his arm around her, holding her closer than usual, their drinks on the coffee table before them being left where they were, untouched, her worries were too hard to ignore.

He'd put a record on the gramophone, soft music adding to the tranquillity of the room. She loved the sensation that the feel of his arm about her brought, though often interrupted by the gramophone running down, making the music slow to a tuneless drone, compelling him to leave her to wind the handle, and shattering any romance there might have been.

While he'd been winding up the gramophone she had been gazing across the room to the photos on the bureau and this time, as he returned to put his arm about her again, she drew away from him.

‘What the matter, my love?' he said, a bewildered expression on his face.

She was about to say, ‘Nothing's the matter.' Instead it seemed as if someone else was speaking for her. ‘How long have we been coming here, Stephen?'

He was gazing at her as if not quite knowing why she was asking.

‘How long?' she demanded again, trying not to let her tone sound brittle.

He thought for a moment, still frowning, perplexed, she imagined. ‘A few months, I suppose.'

‘You suppose,' she bit back. ‘I thought you'd have known exactly how long.'

He was looking at her as if with no idea what she was talking about. Then he frowned, irritation beginning to seep into his expression. ‘Do you?'

‘Yes. Nearly seven months.'

‘So why the question?' He was smiling now. But her lips remained tight.

‘The question is, Stephen, how long is this to go on, you bringing me here, the two of us sitting together, you starting to get passionate then all of a sudden drawing away. What is wrong with you, with all this?' She swept out an arm to encompass the room, her voice rising, careless of what she was saying. ‘I never go any further than this room. I follow you into the kitchen – how marvellous! But your bedroom door remains out of bounds. After seven months, Stephen …' She broke off, casting a glance around the room. ‘And another thing: these photographs!' She wanted to add
of your wife
but instead she railed, ‘If you really loved me, Stephen, I would have seen your bedroom by now, after all this time us being together.' Now she could say it. ‘And you would have put all these photos away, if you really loved me. So what is wrong with you, with us?'

Each photo showed such an amazingly lovely woman that it made her feel dowdy by comparison. A young woman smiling confidently – one a holiday snap, another a studio portrait, another on the small corner table of her and Stephen, his arm about her shoulders, his other hand holding hers, they smiling into the camera – a happily married couple taunting her, the woman staring at Connie accusingly, she felt.

He himself seemed blissfully unaware of his dead wife watching while he sat with his arm around her shoulder as they talked of their evening out, maybe a little about work, or telling her how fond he was of her, how he loved her. But all the time his dead wife would be looking on. It was more than uncomfortable, as if she was watching them disapprovingly.

Until now she'd not had the courage to ask him to remove the photos. How could she? It was his home. But one question persisted: was he still in love with his wife, if only with her memory, and where did that leave her?

Suddenly it was as if someone had thumped her on the back, forcing from her the words that had lain so long unsaid. ‘Stephen, how do you really feel about me?'

For a moment he didn't answer. During her outburst he had leaned a little away from her, just looking at her, and she knew that she had messed everything up. Now he would say it was time he was seeing her home and she would get up, unable to answer, and allow him to help her on with her coat. She would adjust her hat over her short hair and have him lead her to the door, hail a passing taxi and take her home in silence. Maybe he'd peck her cheek as he left her, saying he'd see her on Monday morning at work. Instead he sat simply looking at her, his face a mask. She had to say something.

‘How can you ask me back here, Stephen, and tell me you love me, yet you keep your wife's photos on show?' she said in a small voice. It sounded such a stupid question, like a plea uttered by a child. Yet she couldn't help herself, her mind reeling, her words tumbling out. ‘Don't you know how that makes me feel? It feels as if she is still alive and I'm … just your bit of skirt. I feel—'

She wanted to say cheap but broke off, her heart thumping like mad, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. She watched as he got slowly to his feet, ready to coldly offer to take her home, she knew it. Instead he stood looking down at her. ‘I'm so sorry,' he said quietly.

She was about to say in the coldest voice she could muster, ‘I'm sorry too,' but he'd already turned away, going towards the sideboard.

She watched him pick up the two photos, very gently, one after the other, and lay them face down, just as gently, reverently, then go over to the small corner table and do the same to the photo there, again so gently and so reverently that a sudden sadness for him caught in her throat.

Coming back to her, he stood gazing down at her. ‘Why are you crying, Connie?' he said as if he could hardly believe it. ‘I'm sorry. I'm so used to them being there, I've never given it a thought.'

That didn't seem right. Of course he knew they were there. But he had moved closer to her, was reaching out, leaning towards her and, taking her by her arms, lifting her gently up from the sofa.

‘Please don't cry, darling. It's in the past. I've done my grieving. And I love you now. Maybe I don't demonstrate it as much as I might, but you're still so young and I'm that much older than you and—'

‘Eight years!' she blurted out, her tears drying, her eyes challenging.

‘Nine,' he corrected gently. ‘In December I'll be nineteen,' she countered stubbornly. ‘That makes eight! Why should age make any difference? And I love you, Stephen.'

He looked at her for what seemed like ages while she returned his gaze, fearing to drop hers. It was then he said, very tenderly, lovingly, ‘What do you know about love, Connie? I mean, about making love?'

She gazed up at him, shaken by his question. ‘I …' she began, not knowing what to say to that.

But he answered for her. ‘I imagine that, like all young women, even in their late teens, you are still an innocent. You feel love but you don't
know
love – don't know what it's about. No man has ever touched you
in that way
, if you know what I mean. I have never touched you – for that very reason. But to be perfectly truthful, my love, I long to—'