A Girl in Wartime (30 page)

At last he broke off, bestowing her with a smile. But it was a smile that would haunt her through all her years, his lips revealing his slightly uneven teeth while the eyes remained like those of a reptile, expressionless but for the cold evil that dwelt there. It was an expression that could make any man quake. It made her quake and she knew she'd be accepting the offer, for Stephen's sake. To walk out now would be to ruin his life. She was trapped.

She refused to meet the eyes of her jailer, and said in a small but determined voice, ‘I shall do it for two weeks. I've my wedding to prepare for.'

‘That's fine with me,' he said, sitting back in his chair.

‘Then I shall leave to be married and Mr Clayton will go on working here for as long as he needs to.'

‘Of course,' he replied amiably. ‘And thank you so much, Miss Lovell, for your cooperation. I'm sure you will make a wonderful job of this most important assignment. I assure you, your name will go down in the history of this newspaper. There are war artists out there used by other papers but none with the same talent as you possess with a mere pencil and paper. You could even become famous, your name known around the art world.'

She didn't want to hear all this rubbish. She stood up sharply and said tersely: ‘I leave you to make all the arrangements, Mr Mathieson.'

She left the office knowing that those arrangements had in fact already been executed, he well aware that she would have to accept in the end. In her throat, acid bile had gathered. Later she was sick, quietly, in the Ladies', the bile burning her lips.

Connie knew she would have to come out with it eventually. But saying anything about it to Stephen too soon would have him storming up to Mathieson's office and God knows what would happen then. She could imagine a row, he forbidding her to be sent over there, even if only on the coast of northern France, away from the fighting.

And what if Mathieson told him it was all her idea? She wouldn't put that past him. Surely Stephen would know she'd never suggest such a thing, that all she wanted was to marry him and settle down.

The danger was of him getting hot under the collar and threatening the man. Mathieson in turn could threaten to report him for instigating a row with his superior and have him sacked. Even if he remained calm, the chief editor could lie that he had been rude and disruptive without provocation, resulting in Stephen losing his job. It was best to say nothing until it was too late to alter the arrangement.

But Stephen would have to know eventually even if she waited until her last evening to tell him. What might that do to their marriage plans? Unable to sleep for worrying about it, she knew Mathieson was deadly serious about getting rid of Stephen if she refused to comply. The powers-that-be would agree with their chief editor, viewing it as a wonderful scoop. She felt she had never hated anyone as much as she hated Mathieson, but what could she do? The whole thing was bizarre.

Time was creeping on and still she'd not been able to find the courage to speak of it to Stephen. It was beginning to feel like a ton weight on her shoulders. She told her parents the news on Monday evening, banking on them saying they wouldn't allow their daughter to go anywhere near France. But she made the mistake of saying she'd be miles away from danger and before she could remedy the mistake her mum, at least, was all for her going.

‘Our own daughter picked out to do an important job like that for 'er paper,' her mum said, beaming and proud. ‘Fancy that now. So long as you're not in any danger. And you'll be 'ome in a couple of weeks, you say. Your newspaper must be so proud of you, and so are we.'

‘Sent overseas by your newspaper. Comin' up in the world – bit late, though, you and your Stephen getting married come autumn.' His tone seemed sarcastic, but he went on, ‘Just 'ope they'll give you bigger wages because of it. Your mum could do wiv a bit more 'ousekeepin'.'

‘No, love,' came Mum's reply. ‘You need to put it towards the wedding.'

Connie feelings went out to her. How could she explain about the way Mathieson was blackmailing her?

‘It's valuable experience, at least,' she finished lamely.

Her father looked at her, his eyes narrowing to slits. ‘What valuable experience? You getting' married, ain't you? You won't need to work again, so what're you talkin' about?'

‘I don't know.' Dad was no fool. Had he seen through this odd idea of her employers?

He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Valuable experience, my arse! Going out there to gawp at them what's 'ardly got nothink to live for any more. You've got one 'ere – your own poor bloody brother. What's 'e got to look forward to? I'd say what you're doin' ain't natural. Bloody macabre, I'd say.'

Getting up from the table and reaching for his tobacco pouch he began filling his pipe, tamping it down as he headed to the parlour for a quiet smoke.

‘So when d'you expect to go, love?' Mum asked as she took the dinner she'd been warming in the oven and placed it on the kitchen table for Connie.

‘Wednesday,' Connie said in a small voice as she sat down to eat.

Her father paused in the doorway. ‘Bit quick, ain't it? Tryin' to get as much as they can out of you before you leave fer good.'

Connie ignored the slating remark. She was seeing Stephen tonight. They wouldn't be going out, instead spending the evening in his flat. They'd make love, but for the first time ever she felt no joy in seeing him. She knew what his response would be when she did tell him. He'd say flatly that she wasn't to go. If she inadvertently let it slip before the last moment, he would flatly state that he'd be telling Mathieson he wasn't willing to let his future wife embark on such an assignment. Stephen would then find himself out of a job, with little prospect of employment on any other newspaper, and where would their wedding be then, their new house, his certainty of a job for life?

She had no option but to comply with that slimy creature's wishes. But she wouldn't be in any danger, Connie reasoned, not in a hospital with efficient nursing staff tending those about to be sent home. She could very well be sketching faces full of hope for once.

What if Stephen blamed her for keeping it quiet all this time? She'd have to tell him but maybe it was best to wait until tomorrow night, too late for him to tackle Mathieson.

Tuesday crawled by, and they lay in their lovely double bed this last evening before he took her home. She found she could keep it to herself no longer. It had to be said. Trying to keep her voice even, she began to explain why their chief editor had called her up to his office. Lying side by side, his arm around her after having made love, she'd drawn a deep breath and, as gently as she could, began to explain what Mathieson had wanted of her. Dragging his arm from under her shoulders, almost painfully, he sat bolt upright. ‘And you agreed to go? And you said nothing to me.'

‘Stephen, I'm telling you now,' she began but he cut through her words, his voice harsh.

‘How could you have agreed? You're not going. I'm going up there to sort it out first thing tomorrow morning.'

‘It's tomorrow morning I'm going,' she said in a small voice. ‘It's all arranged.'

‘Arranged – behind my back? You and him—'

‘He said if I didn't comply, you'd be out on your ear, with no references. I'd no option. I love you, darling. I couldn't do that to you.'

She found herself crying, and sought the comfort of his shoulder. But he leapt out of the bed to stand glaring down at her, unconscious of his nakedness. She gazed at him in terror, seeing their marriage plans dissolving into nothing.

‘I couldn't tell you before,' she pleaded. ‘You'd have gone up there and caused a scene. It would have been even worse for you. What could I do, darling? I had to agree to go. It'll only be a couple of weeks.'

‘Damn a couple of weeks!' he burst out. ‘You didn't see fit to tell me.'

‘If I'd told you, you'd have only made things worse by going after him. He blackmailed me into agreeing. What was I to do?'

But he was no longer listening, turning away to clamber into his vest and pants, that in itself announcing in her mind that their relationship was over, despite her pleas. She watched him go over to the dressing table, gaze at his reflection in the mirror for a second, then turn and retrace his steps to stand at the side of the bed, staring down at her. She looked up at him, silently imploring him to see why she had kept her assignment from him.

In a low voice he said, ‘It depends if you
want
to go.'

It sounded as though he really believed it to have been all her idea, the onus on her. It was unfair and her own anger rose.

‘It'd be an experience,' she burst out, stupidly.

‘Experience!' He frowned, his fine blue eyes boring into her. ‘Come November we'd have been married.' His voice shook. ‘You'd have been leaving this job for good and all these assignments you've been sent out on, all behind you. So why would you need more experience?' He sounded just like her father at this point. ‘You'd be my wife. You've just told me he was using me to blackmail you into going. So which is it? That you had no option or that you want the accolade?'

Finally she said in a lame voice, ‘It'll only be for two weeks. I don't want to leave this place under a cloud. I'd rather leave … well, with everyone's good wishes.'

She expected him to bitterly challenge that last statement, say that, for her, she actually wanted to leave in a blaze of glory, but as she gazed at him, he seemed to droop.

‘What time in the morning?' The flatness of his tone shocked her, as if he was talking to a stranger.

‘I'm to be at London Docks by nine. There's a taxi picking me up from home.'

‘Got it all sorted, haven't you?' he muttered. He sounded like a man defeated, which made her heart go out to him.

‘Darling—' she began, but he interrupted her.

‘Even so, I think I'll have a word with our chief editor in the morning – set things straight with him, insist he give those upstairs my opinion on this and—'

‘No, Stephen, don't, please!' she cried out in panic. ‘I'll be back before you know it.'

‘Maybe I won't be here by then,' he said sharply. ‘Better get dressed, Connie. I'll take you home.'

It was as if he was saying his final goodbyes, emphasising it by leaving the room for her to get dressed, find her handbag, comb her hair.

He was waiting for her in the lounge as she appeared, opening the door to the apartment. Without speaking, he took her arm to lead her down to the street. But it was a cold grasp, a grasp that spoke volumes.

They didn't speak in the taxi. She could find nothing more to say. Alighting, he saw her to her door, then without kissing her, turned and walked off, his last words: ‘Take care of yourself.'

Not, ‘I'll be waiting for you to be home again' just ‘Take care of yourself' before walking away.

It was strange being on board a ship. Connie had never been to the seaside in her whole life, not even Southend-on-Sea, the destination of choice for those from the East End wealthy enough to afford a holiday.

Now she would soon be crossing the Channel. She should have felt excited but she didn't. Stephen's attitude last night had torn her apart, but what could she do? She'd told him she was doing this for his sake, but he hadn't seemed to have believed her.

Maybe she would come back with wonderful sketches to be put in the
London Herald
for the gawping eyes of its readers and be lauded by the newspaper, although Mathieson would make sure to reap most of the credit for having thought up this project. By the time she returned, would Stephen have seen the sense of it and propose to her afresh, would they get married, would she be a joyful housewife? Instead of being buoyed up by hope, she gazed over the grey empty sea, adding her poor offering of private tears to its expanse. The sea didn't care – a few tears meant nothing to it.

The ship was filled to overflowing with servicemen on their way to war, some returning after a spell of leave. She was almost the only woman aboard, except for some nurses going over to help the injured and bring them back home. The ship would bring the bodies home too, those that had been found, the rest to lie silently in no-man's-land. She prayed too that Albert and George would never be among them. At least praying helped take her mind off Stephen a little.

She was aware of the mass of servicemen ever moving back and forth behind her, their low-pitched voices filling the air, occasionally deep laughter and every now and again a group bursting into song.

A couple of the nurses came to stand beside her and asked what she was doing on board. They seemed impressed when she told them, but concerned. ‘It'll take you some getting used to, some of the things you'll see,' one remarked. ‘But keep your chin up.'

As the French coast loomed in front of her, for the first time, perhaps due to that nurse's remark, she felt a tremor in her stomach. To combat it she thought back to the passing scenery of the River Thames. She'd never been outside London before but had seen pictures of countryside, but this – the fresh smell of the river, the open air, the river widening, its banks receding to grow indistinct, finally seeming to merge with the horizon, eventually to disappear altogether – was something completely different. There was a different smell, a fresh salty tang that filled the nostrils as if opening up a powerful sense of freedom.

But there was something else she'd became aware of as they moved even further into the Channel: a rocking sensation up, down and sideways, making the stomach churn. She took a deep breath, fought for control, desperate not to be sick in front of strangers and risk them laughing at her.

Someone came up to her, leaned beside her on the rail, wrists crossed casually in front of him; a corporal, laden down with his kit.