A Girl in Wartime (35 page)

True, America was making an impact, with their fit young men fresh from good living as opposed to battle-weary Allied troops. When they'd entered the war, hopes had risen and they cheered all the way.

Now, nearly a year later, those hopes were beginning to die, just like those thousands of young American boys as well as Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and others from all parts of the Commonwealth, yet nothing seeming to have been achieved. How much longer? It looked as if her baby could easily be born into a war-torn world, the Allies advancing only to be pushed back, advancing again, again to be pushed back, over and over, more lives lost, endless, senseless slaughter.

And how was Albert? And George? Albert wrote frequently to Edie saying he was fine, fed up but fine, writing the same to his parents and sisters. George wrote not at all. No one knew how he was and Connie knew it hurt her mother. Whether it hurt Dad, the man never let on.

It was late May and Connie thought of Albert stuck in Flanders with no hope of leave for the time being. Literally stuck, according to his last letter to Edie, as most of his time was spent battling mud. It not having stopped raining for months, they were up to their knees in it. He wrote identical letters to his parents, they, as always, worried for him. At home it had also been a wet winter and spring so heaven knew what it was like out there with everything churned up.

Albert added that the trenches were these days tending to cave in from lack of use. Fighting, he wrote, was mostly in the open these days. A sort of tit-for-tat business, the Bosch pushed back a few miles only to gain what ground they'd lost, to be pushed back again and so on and so on. Behind the lines there were observation posts, medical-aid posts, areas of cooking, officers headquarters, repair shops. ‘That's until shells bugger it all up and we have to start repairs all over again. Home from home!' he'd added wryly. ‘I'm in one of the trenches now, helping to board up the sides where they've gone and collapsed. This one's called Piccadilly.'

He wrote the same to Connie and Stephen. On the face of it they were light-hearted letters but reading between the lines made their hearts bleed.

There was nothing from George – it was worrying. ‘But if something bad had happened,' Mum had said more than once, ‘we'd've been informed straight away. They do, don't they?'

George had hardly contacted any of his family, as if, having proved he was no coward, he had washed his hands of them.

She prayed for her brothers, constantly. They all did. Everyone did, for their boys, their husbands, brothers, cousins. Sometimes prayers were not enough. Since Russia's collapse, German forces had been piling in on the Western Front, in places shattering the Allied lines, though the Allies still fought hard to hold on to what they'd won. Even with the weight of the Americans, it was frightening and this spring was not a happy time.

Everywhere she went, she saw drawn faces, creeping fear that Germany with its larger weight of troops could win this war, all those millions of lads and men killed for nothing. If she still had her sketch book she could have done an amazing job recording those bleak, harrowing expressions, but she had thrown her sketch book away. She was – thank God – no longer an employee of the
London Herald
, though Stephen remained a valued asset to them. She had enough of those harrowed expressions in her head from her experience in France to last a lifetime.

It had been hard for Connie to return to her street, to walk past the tenement where Doris had lived – and died – but she had to, otherwise she'd never see her family. In any case, the baby inside her gave her the strength she needed to confront her fears. She knew she'd do anything for the little being she was carrying, and would not deny her son or daughter the chance to know her family. Besides, she reasoned to herself, her child had been conceived the night Doris had died, restoring – in Connie's mind, at least – some balance to the world.

Even Mum had looked very down when Connie had gone there to see her yesterday. ‘Poor Mrs Daly next door,' she said over a cup of tea. ‘She got a telegram yesterday morning telling her that her son's missing, believed killed – ain't that just terrible? It makes me worry for our Bertie. She looked so awful. That young Allen's all she had.'

That was true. The woman's husband had passed away just before the war and she had only one sister living up north.

‘Poor thing,' Mum had gone on, stirring her tea, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘What if that was to 'appen to my Albert? Or our George?'

‘It won't, Mum,' Connie soothed, wishing her mother would stop stirring her tea, a sign of her concern. She felt herself shudder.

It was then she became aware of her mother staring at her – not her face, but her midrift, eventually to lift her eyes to Connie's face.

‘You puttin' on weight, gel?'

The question was loaded with connotation. Connie shrank a little.

‘I … it's probably good living.' She laughed, then ceased. Her mother hadn't laughed. She continued to gaze, narrow-eyed at Connie's middle.

Connie felt herself shrink a little. So far she had told no one other than Stephen, but very soon she would have to tell Mum. Mum was sharp-eyed, and even though at six months she was able to disguise her swelling belly, her mum wouldn't be slow in counting on her fingers. Having had four children herself, she was well aware of the stages and would know that conception had taken place well before her daughter's February wedding.

She sat here at the table, eyeing her mother, not really sure how to begin. She heard her mother say, ‘When's it due, then, love?' in a quiet, even tone.

There was nothing else for it but to say, ‘I'm not sure, really.'

Mum smiled slowly. ‘Yes you are, love. You can count, can't you? At least up to nine!'

Connie took a deep breath, replied slowly. ‘Well, it could be end of August or early September, I'm not sure. I've not been to the doctors yet.'

‘Then you should go, love, just to make sure everything's orright.'

No condemnation; Mum understood. Probably no one else would – would begin to count on their fingers and mutter among themselves. Especially her sisters. Their men fighting in France, and they having to look after their children on their own, they would probably glow at the knowledge of what she'd been up to before marriage. To be honest they still looked sideways at Stephen not being in the forces, partially deaf or not. The added slight would suit them down to the ground, Connie thought with a wry, uncharitable smile.

But Mum would take it in her stride, and only pray her new grandchild would be born safe and sound; when the time came she would be by her side. She deeply blessed her mum for her quiet understanding. And Mum would deal with when and how her dad was told too.

Looking to get her family on her side, she told Ron and Dolly and got both their congratulations and joy for her. She wrote to George, who sent back his usual short remark: ‘Good for you' but did add that he was fine at present, though his job could be a bit horrific. She knew what he meant from her own experience in France. He wrote that he'd been given leave a couple of times but felt it best not to come home and had instead spent it in Paris; that he had met a Parisian girl there, was learning French, and the two of them were corresponding. But he said not to tell Mum and Dad as they'd get all riled up.

She also wrote to Albert, he too congratulating her and wishing he'd be home for when his niece or nephew was born, that by that time the war might be over. On that point he didn't sound that sure. He said things were even worse than at the start of the conflict. Somewhat poignantly, he wrote that he hoped Ronnie was coming along okay, and that he missed him terribly.

Albert had never missed anyone so much in all his life as he missed Ron. In fact, rather than getting used to it, it was getting worse. This morning he'd been holed up in some trench eating bully beef, wishing there was a bit of bread to go with it, but bread wasn't often on the menu these days.

At the moment the shelling was relentless and made him feel as if there'd never been any other life but this. The bombing seemed to have been going on for hours, sometimes his own side, other times the enemy's. When it finally ceased it would usually herald orders to attack, with tanks now as added protection, tanks that could clear barbed wire and formed some sort of cover. But the German had tanks too. The full weight of the whole German army was now concentrated on the Western Front since the collapse of Russia. It often left him wondering what hope there was of ever winning this war, but it didn't do to think like that.

Maybe it was this sense of loneliness, of isolation amid masses. These days most were strangers to him, those he'd known either killed and left behind, wounded and taken away, or captured and taken God knows where. If only he had Ronnie here with him still. But he must not think like that. Ronnie was alive and safe in England. Here, where they had more or less started three, or was it four, years ago – it like a lifetime, in any case – Ronnie could be dead.

Beneath the bombardment, he crouched alongside a host of strangers in a hastily dug trench at the edge of some wood. Here he scribbled off a quick letter to Edie, hurriedly written in pencil on paper torn from his notebook. He wrote that he hoped she was fine and asked how everyone was at home, especially Ronnie, and how was Connie doing, near the end of her time now. He hoped the baby would be born okay. He ended by giving Edie all his love and wishing he was with her.

By the time he'd received Edie's reply saying everyone was well, he and his comrades had been ordered forward.

The next few days were full of advancing, retreating, advancing – almost like a game of push and shove, though here it was no game. Even less so on this particular advance, as leaping into an enemy dugout, his bayonet stabbing blindly at those defending it, he felt a searing pain rip through his shoulder, knocking him backwards.

A German stood over him, his bayonet on its way towards his throat. Instinctively he tried to deflect the thrust, missed, but seconds later the man had collapsed on top of him, bayoneted through the back by someone else, his own blood and that of the German mingling together as the unknown lifesaver leapt on towards yet another target.

Trod on by others piling into the German defence, Albert felt his senses leaving him, his mind telling him that the bayonet thrust had gone on into his lung, leaving him to bleed to death. He saw Edie leaning over him, her face blurred by tears.

Regaining consciousness, he was still aware of the face above him. Edith? Not Edith. Edith was blonde and pretty. This person was dark-haired and not pretty. Nor was it a she. The man wore a medical officer's uniform.

‘Feeling better, soldier?' came the deep voice. Without waiting for a reply, he went on, ‘You're doing fine, man. A pretty deep wound in the shoulder though not that serious. But it'll take you out of the advance for the time being, might even get you a bit of leave.'

And he'd thought he been about to bleed to death from a pierced lung. Who was it who'd saved him by stabbing his attacker? He'd never know. But the man had saved his life and he hoped whoever he was would not lose his.

Connie and her mum were sipping tea in the kitchen, talking about the baby. Just under three weeks off being born, she guessed now. She was feeling ungainly, short of breath, cumbersome and far from pretty, though Stephen seemed to think she was Venus herself. If her calculations were right, it was overdue, but Mum had said the first one nearly always was. So it looked like it might arrive the second week in September, hopefully stopping the looks from her sisters who were already counting up on their fingers and smirking.

Connie was just draining her tea when the back door burst open and a frantic Lillian almost fell into the kitchen, startling the two of them.

Leaping up despite her bulk, Connie caught her as she fell against the kitchen table, almost knocking it sideways, in a flood of tears. She seemed about to collapse, having run all the way from her house, two streets away, apron still on, her hair in curlers, no coat despite a rather cold day.

Mum was up from her chair too. ‘Whatever's the matter, love?'

‘My Jim! They believe he's been killed!'

‘Dear God …'

Lillian was holding out a telegraph, crumpled from her shaking grip. ‘He's dead! I've lost my poor Jim …' Mum guided her to her chair, Lillian breaking down in sobs. Her arms flung across the table, nearly knocking over her mother's cup of half-finished tea, and she let her head fall in her arms.

‘He might only be missin',' Mum was saying, her own voice choked as she leaned over her, trying to cuddle her as the girl sobbed. ‘They'll find 'im. They will, love. Or he might of bin taken prisoner.'

Connie's head was swimming. She was unable to find words to say to her sister. Unable to do anything, Connie ordered herself a taxi to take her home to Victoria Park Road on her mother's advice that she mustn't exert or worry herself with the baby so near. Mum had decided to go back with Lillian to collect little James from the neighbour Lillian had left him with and bring them back here.

That evening, lying in bed, Stephen breathing softly beside her, Connie tried to sleep, but there was no sleep in her. In her mind she was filled with images of a face bandaged where a chin had been blown away, another with a deep hole where a nose should have been, above the bandages, the eyes filled with despair.

She made herself speak to the images in her mind, reassure them it was all right. But it wasn't all right. There were artificial face parts now, made to look like noses or parts of cheeks or parts of chins, but nowhere near the real thing. They would still be disfigured for life. There was little anyone could do. These men were destined to be noticed and then turned hastily away from, eyes averted. Once handsome, light-hearted youths had become things of revulsion or even, God forbid, pity. Pity was far worse than revulsion.