A Girl in Wartime (9 page)

Turning the key in the front lock, she opened the door to find her mother standing waiting for her as if she'd been standing there for hours. But instead of asking how she'd got on, she held out a sheet of notepaper.

‘Oh, Connie, I'm so glad you're home.' Her voice sounded strained.

‘A letter's come from Bertie. Oh, Connie, he says they're still all right but that they've been sent to the front, still together, though.'

‘The front – where the fighting is?' Connie cried stupidly, her own news forgotten. It was three weeks since their twenty-four-hour embarkation leave.

‘You'd best read it.' Her mother was holding out the single sheet of scruffy notepaper to her, Connie taking it to stare bleakly at her for a second or two before lowering her eyes to read:

Dear Mum, Dad and Con
,

Just writing to say me and Ronnie were conveyed here yesterday. So far all is quiet, well, almost, but I want to tell you we are both doing well. Blokes say it can be like this with nothing really happening apart from an exchange of rifle fire every now and again, so it don't seem so bad. But it's not all that comfortable what with this blooming weather. Ain't stopped raining since we've got here and the trenches have got about a foot of water in them. It don't drain off and some blokes who've been here longer have got what's called trench foot. Hope we don't get it. Makes them really miserable. But the rain just keeps making the walls of the trenches cave in and our job at the moment is to keep shoring them up.

But I don't want you back home to worry. We're all right. By the way, Ronnie sends his love. That's all I can say for now. Write again soon as I can. Thanks for the letter you wrote, only just got it, and the photos of you and Dad. Bit faded but keeps us in touch, a bit of home. That's all for now, run out of paper. Love to all and to Connie as well. Tell her to take care of herself.

Bert & Ron.

P.S. By the way, I've been made up to lance corporal. And Ronnie's bloody jealous, bless his little cotton socks! Love, Albert
.

The letter, dated just over a week ago, revealed how long the post took to reach its destination. Then came the dread thought: how long would it take to be notified of the death or injury of a loved one? Connie dismissed the thought instantly. Her brothers were going to be fine, she had to keep believing that.

Looking up, she saw her mother nibbling at her bottom lip and realised she had been watching her the whole time she'd been reading, as if going over her son's words with her. How many times today, all on her own, had she gone over and over what her son had written?

As she caught her eye it seemed to break the spell. Mum drew in a long, audible breath, and then let it out again in a long, tortured cry. ‘Oh, Connie, I pray they'll both stay safe …' The next instant she reached out and took her in her arms, the two of them weeping silently as they held tightly to each other, each striving to draw comfort from the other.

By the time Dad came home they were composed. ‘Had a letter from the boys today,' Connie's mum said in a controlled tone. ‘Read it yourself. They've been sent to the front, together, just over a week or so ago.'

As Connie watched her parents' faces, saw her mother's mouth crumple, her father's eyes become filled with a haunted gaze as he read, as if he was already being notified of a loss, she let a silent prayer rise up inside her.

Please, God, keep them safe, make this war end soon and bring them home, unhurt, please
.

May 1915

Three weeks she'd been at this job. In that time nothing seemed to have progressed. She was a junior filing clerk in this noisy newsroom: people moving about, typewriters clacking, telephones ringing, voices raised in discussion. But at least she now knew what went into each file, how to find its place in the filing cabinet and retrieve it again when needed.

During her trial period she'd several times been asked to sketch this and that person's likeness so that the results could be studied and discussed. Tests, she supposed, but either she could do it to their satisfaction or she couldn't, and several times she had to stop herself coming out with that very remark, but it was better not to antagonise these people.

It still had not been properly specified what she was doing; all she now seemed to be doing was sitting at a desk filing various bits of correspondence. Either she could do the job she'd been hired to do, or she couldn't, and it was about time they made up their minds about that. She said little of this to her parents, who now saw her in a new light – their youngest daughter in an office earning far more than she'd done sticking boxes together in some factory. Mum was proud of her, Dad too in his way.

‘How'd you get on today, love?' Mum would ask each time she came home from yet another trial day. And what could she say? She herself was not being told anything much beyond that they would study her drawings and let her know the moment they came to a decision.

‘Not bad,' she would lie, with no idea whether she'd done well or not.

Dad hadn't been much help. ‘You want to tell 'em to stick their bloody job up their you-know-what if they're goin' to go on messing you about.' She had ignored that advice. She needed to keep this job.

But in all this time she'd not once been asked to seriously prove her worth outside of the office. There was, it seemed to her, a distinct doubt that she would ever be an asset to the editorial department. Today as she sat idle, her present spate of filing done, she took up a pencil and a sheet of clean cartridge paper and gazed around the department for a likely subject to sketch.

Stephen Clayton was having a word with John Carver, one of the editorial staff, who was seated at his desk a few feet from hers. With her eyes darting between the pair and her sheet of paper, she'd began to sketch, her pencil moving with decisive strokes. It wasn't so much the seated man, but the one standing that interested her. Seldom did she have an opportunity to do a sketch of Stephen Clayton; he was either half-obscured behind the glass of his office or moving at a brisk pace through the editorial department on his way to somewhere or other. But now was her chance to catch his likeness more seriously. She could feel her heart tightening with hidden excitement as she drew his face; she felt almost heady. She needed to be on her guard though in case the two men noticed what she was doing. It was so easy for one of them to look up and catch her.

Her pencil moved swiftly over the white surface of the paper, her eyes glancing up briefly, then looking down, her brows drawn into a frown of concentration. Soon a sketch of Stephen Clayton was forming, conjured up by a strong sense of excitement – a sensation that made her breathing quicken, her senses whirl – a feeling she realised was far stronger than that which she'd been vaguely aware of for a long time. She was in love: secretly she was in love with Mr Stephen Clayton.

But he wasn't in love with her. He couldn't be – he was her better and elder. And even if that weren't the case he was most likely married. He'd never mentioned a wife and, of course, she could never ask him. But one thing she was determined to do was to show him her completed sketch of him and John Carver, provided he stood there long enough for her to finish it. That he was half turned towards her was an asset. His face, seen at a three-quarters angle, was perfect; his expression was faintly animated, though she had no idea what the two were discussing. She had completed the sketch just seconds before he suddenly looked up in her direction.

Seeing her concentrated look, he smiled. Pencil still in hand, it had to be obvious what she had been doing and she felt her cheeks colour. Hastily she dropped the pencil on to her desk, but there was no time to hide the paper. She sat gazing back at him in the way a guilty felon would. But moments later he had said something to John Carver and turned, walking back to his office without another glance at her.

Connie sat gazing down at her sketch. Then she came to a decision. If she didn't do this now, there might never be another opportunity. Quickly she got up from her desk and hurried towards his office, tapping on the slightly ajar door.

‘Come in!' came the light voice.

Peeking around its edge in response to his request, she was met by a huge smile at seeing her that almost stopped her heart.

‘Connie! Everything all right?'

‘Yes,' she managed. ‘I needed to see you.'

It sounded utterly feeble, and unable to find anything more intelligent to say, she thrust the sketch across the desk, feeling oddly desperate. She watched him pick it up.

‘I did this a couple of minutes ago while you were talking to Mr Carver,' she explained hurriedly.

Experiencing a moment of desperation, she decided that if she detected the least sign of interest on his face, she'd pounce with her query, ‘Is that good enough for you to think about trying me out properly on something worthwhile?'

Instead she stood dumbly watching him scrutinise the drawing. He seemed to be taking a long time about it. Finally he looked up. ‘How did you manage to get an expression like this when I was nowhere near you, talking to Carver?'

‘You were only a few feet away,' she said meekly.

She saw him catch the corner of his upper lip between his teeth, like someone coming to a decision. Suddenly he looked up at her and for a brief second she saw a look that would have been perfect for a sketch, but one that made her draw in a silent breath. If she had paper and pencil to hand now, she would have depicted a look that was akin to something far, far deeper than a mere decision. She felt her heart skip a beat but was she wrong? Had she misconstrued his expression? Was she just a silly lovesick girl merely seeing something she wanted to see? But this talent of hers said no. She, who could retain a person's expression in her mind long after she'd seen it, would retain this one for all her years to come.

He felt something for her, she was sure. But was it only her wish for him to be in love with her that had fooled her artist's eye? But no. She was sure that look had been there, perhaps only for a moment, but it had definitely been there.

Even as she debated with herself, he began to speak again. ‘I can't get over the way you do this. It's amazing. Now look, I'm sorry things have been moving so slowly. I do intend for you to do more than just filing. I'm going to tackle the management again, insist you be sent out with one of our junior photographers.' He suddenly sounded so eager, like a small boy contemplating an exciting outing. ‘I'm going to move heaven and earth to get you recognition, Connie, my dear. I'll tell them, let it be a trial run. What can they lose? I really do want you to make sense, more than anything, show them what you're made of. I'll make them see you could be a great asset to the paper.'

Taking a hold of himself he drew a deep breath. When he spoke again he was very much more controlled. ‘I hope, Connie, that you're what this paper's been waiting for, something to draw our readers in. I've a feeling, Connie, that you have the power to attract so many more readers than we now have.'

In their short conversation he had called her Connie three times, and she treasured it as she nodded and withdrew, her heart feeling it was about to fly away like a bird.

It was four more weeks, four more long weeks, and now it was the end of May, a whole month without hearing anything, four weeks that seemed to crawl, a lifetime, as things seem when waited for.

As for what had passed between Stephen Clayton and herself during that fleeting moment … She wondered now whether she'd imagined it; certainly no more had come of it. He now seemed to be avoiding her. She in turn hadn't set foot inside his office, scared to push herself forward again in case she was met with a hostile glare. Clearly he'd thought better of her going out on assignment. Though at times she also wondered if perhaps he'd felt guilty about that shared look; had he decided to distant himself from the temptation of a former factory girl, one who was clearly beneath him?

She should have drawn some comfort in that he was purposely avoiding looking at her, that in itself proving there had been something to that brief moment a month ago, that what had passed between them in his office that day couldn't be denied.

It was Mr Carver who brought the message over to her little filing desk. ‘Mr Clayton told me to tell you that you'll be going out with one of our junior photographers.' She looked up at him, startled, but he had more to say. ‘He says take a notebook with you – says Mr Mathieson has sanctioned it.'

Mr Mathieson was the
London Herald
's chief editor. She wanted to leap up and bound into Stephen's office to thank him, but she curbed the desire, instead keeping her voice calm to ask Mr Carver when.

The reply came swiftly. ‘Now.'

She couldn't wait to get home to tell Mum and Dad about her day. Told to accompany a photographer and an interviewer, she'd been required to hover to one side, sketch pad and pencil in hand, unseen, unnoticed. What she was to do had been left up to her, but she'd faithfully sketched the pride on the face of the interviewed woman whose son had just been awarded the DSO.

It was a start and she felt Stephen Clayton's hand in it. Gratitude flooded out of her. Mum and Dad would be so proud, would tell Albert and Ronnie in their next letter. She'd write too and tell them. And George – he'd be pleased for her. Her sisters would be surprised – they'd always made it clear they thought she'd never be more than a factory worker like them, before finding a nice man and marrying him.

But the thought that Stephen Clayton, editor, had been working for her good made her feel on top of the world. She needed to prove herself to him, increase his esteem of her, and after a while …

She dared think no further than that but her heart pounded at the thought that he'd done this out of something more than just regard for her skill, something she felt sure he was trying to hide from her, though why, she had no idea. It had begun to plague her until she wondered if she was going a little mad – a lovesick seventeen-year-old pining after an older man, her boss. As she went into his office to say a formal thank you for what he'd done for her, it seemed to come out of its own accord after she'd voiced her thanks.