Authors: Doris Davidson
‘I’ve something else to tell you, though.’ Queenie’s eyes were dancing at the prospect of surprising her aunt further. ‘When we were there, we got engaged.
Look.’ She held up her left hand.
Gracie could barely see the row of tiny sapphires through her tears, but she jumped up to hug the girl. ‘Oh, I’m very pleased for you. I know it was hard on you when Neil married
Freda, and I’ve wished you would find somebody else. What’s his name?’
‘Leslie Clark, but he’s always called Les. He’s very nice. He towers above me, though he used to be shorter than I was, and he fought the big boys who tormented me. He was
always a good friend, sticking up for me if anyone picked on me, but I never dreamed . . .’ Lifting her hand, she took another long look at her ring. ‘I’m really and truly happy.
I never knew love could be like this.’
Sniffing surreptitiously, Joe said, ‘I just hope he’s good enough for you. All we want is your happiness. But I’ll have to go now, I’m late as it is.’
Gracie sighed when her husband went out. ‘I suppose you’ll be getting married soon and leaving us for good?’
The girl’s radiance faded a fraction. ‘On Saturday.’
‘This Saturday? But not in Aberdeen?’
‘Oh, Auntie Gracie, I know you’re hurt, but we don’t want to wait any longer and waste our lives and Mr and Mrs Clark insisted that the wedding should be there. I didn’t
write to tell you, because I wanted to see you and tell you properly. I’ll never forget what you and Joe have done for me. I know the sacrifices you had to make to keep me at the varsity . .
.’
‘It wasn’t a sacrifice, don’t ever think that, for I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood.’
Swallowing, Queenie said, ‘I know that and I’d like you to see me being married. Will you come?’
‘I’ll think about it but you haven’t given us much time.’
Joe didn’t need to think about it when he was told later. ‘Of course we’ll go,’ he grinned. ‘Our last chickabiddy? We missed Neil’s wedding so we’re not
missing Queenie’s.’
She flung her arms round his neck. ‘Oh, Uncle Joe. That’s made me feel like a real daughter to you.’
Embarrassed, he mumbled, ‘I’ve always thought of you as a real daughter, lass.’
As her niece turned round to hug her, too, Gracie said, ‘I can’t say I did, not at first, but I have for years now.’
Queenie gave a contented sigh. ‘No other girl could be as lucky as me – I’ve had two sets of loving parents.’
The camp and the market gardens were almost equidistant from the farmhouse where Neil had rented a room, but in opposite directions. Having the old BSA motor cycle, it was much
easier for him to cover the five miles and he knew that Freda did not mind having to use her rather ancient bicycle. She never objected to being on her own when he was on night guard duty, not even
when she sometimes hardly saw him for two or three days at a time. They had been idyllically happy since they moved in eight months ago, although there was still no sign of a baby. The doctor she
had consulted a few weeks earlier had told her that it often took some time to conceive and that she shouldn’t worry. ‘Enjoy your relations with your husband without thinking of a baby,
then you’ll stop being tense.’
It had crossed Neil’s mind that he might be the infertile partner, but he decided to wait a little longer before he suggested this to Freda. There was no point in suffering the degradation
of baring his soul – and his private parts – to a doctor unless it was necessary.
In April, 1944, Neil came home one morning with bad news for his wife. ‘We’re being posted a week on Monday to the south of England somewhere and the rumour’s going that this
is the lead up to the big invasion.’
‘Oh, Neil, no! We’ve been so happy in this room, and I . . .’ Freda stopped, then added, ‘I knew it was too good to last.’
‘Look, darling, the quicker we get stuck into the Jerries, the quicker the war’ll be over. When I come back, I’ll get a job and we’ll have our own house, not just one
room. I knew you’d be upset, but I’ll be on leave all next week, so maybe we can start our family before I go, eh?’
Blushing a little, she said, ‘I’ll ask Dad if I can have a week off.’
‘Smashing! Twenty-four hours a day in bed, for seven days, that should clinch it. That’s if my toggle doesn’t drop off from overwork.’
‘Oh, Neil,’ she laughed, ‘you’re really crude at times. I have to go now, but I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Give me one last kiss . . . to last me till you come back.’
After Freda left, Neil washed up the breakfast dishes and gave a quick dust round before he went to bed, and having been on duty all night, he fell asleep almost at once.
It was only two hours later when Mrs Smith, the landlady, knocked loudly on the door, waiting until he called a sleepy answer before she said, ‘Alf’s here to see you.’
As he put on his trousers, Neil wondered what had brought Alf there when he must have known that he, Neil, would be in bed, but one look at his friend’s face when he went into Mrs
Smith’s living room told him that something was wrong.
Alf rose off the settee and said, gently, ‘It’s bad news, Neil. Freda was knocked off her bike just a matter of yards from the gardens and . . . oh, God, I’m sorry, Neil . . .
she died in the ambulance on the way to hospital.’
‘No! It’s not true!’
‘Her father contacted the camp and asked if I’d come and tell you. He can’t leave his wife, you see.’ Noticing that Neil’s chest was heaving, his face grey, his
eyes glazed, he exclaimed, ‘Here, you’d better sit down.’
For a few moments, Neil sat holding his head in both hands then he muttered, ‘She said it was too good to last.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Freda said it was too good to last when I told her we were being posted. We’ve been so happy since we came here and she said . . .’ His voice broke.
‘Aye.’ Alf gripped his hand. ‘Let it out, Neil. There’s no shame in crying.’
‘I don’t want to cry. Crying won’t bring her back.’ Neil looked up into his friend’s face. ‘I wish I was dead, too.’
‘Don’t say that, man. I know how you must feel, but you’ve got to keep strong. She wouldn’t want you to go to pieces.’
‘No . . . you’re right . . . I’ve got to keep strong. I’m not giving her mother a chance to say I can’t face up to things. I must keep strong. Thank God we’d
a few months away from the old bitch. She used to listen to us through the wall, that’s why Freda would hardly ever let me . . . but since we got away, every day’s been wonderful . . .
every night was heaven, Alf . . . but I must keep strong.’
Alf let him babble on, taking his own way to come to terms with his wife’s death. ‘We were trying for a baby, but no luck . . . no luck . . . no luck, Alf. She was relaxing, though,
and I’m sure she’d have conceived if we’d had more time. If we’d had more time . . . we only had months, not enough time.’
Heaving a great shuddering sigh, he lapsed into silence, and Alf kept gripping his hand. ‘We’ve been pals for a long time, haven’t we, Alf?’ he said in a few moments.
‘Aye, for years.’
‘We’ve had some good times, some laughs, eh, Alf? But that was before I met Freda and my good times were all with her. Oh, God, what am I going to do without her?’
Mrs Smith, having overheard why Alf had come, appeared now with two cups of tea. ‘I’m very sorry, Neil,’ she murmured, ‘and if there’s anything I can do . .
.?’
He made a superhuman effort to speak rationally. ‘Thanks, but there’s nothing anybody can do. Thanks.’ He watched her going out, then turned to Alf. ‘Will you come with
me to the hospital? You can ride pillion.’
‘You’re not in a fit state to be driving that bike on your own. I’ve got a jeep outside, I’ll take you once we’ve drunk our tea.’
‘I couldn’t drink anything.’
‘You need it, man. Come on now, it’ll help you.’
In the jeep, Neil sat with his chin resting on his chest, his back slumped over, and Alf wished that there was something more positive he could do to help. They were directed to the mortuary
when they went into the hospital and when Neil saw Freda’s parents standing in the corridor, he seemed to pull himself together. George Cuthbert – looking far older after the ordeal of
identifying his daughter – put his arm round his son-in-law’s shoulders and led him into the place where Freda was lying.
It was quite a time before they came out again and Neil, having obviously steeled himself to do battle, went straight to Freda’s mother. ‘I know we’ve never seen eye to eye
about things,’ he began, ‘and I’m sorry for some of the things I said to you, but . . .’
‘At times like this,’ she interrupted, holding her hand out to him, ‘all differences are best forgotten. You’ve been a good man to her, Neil, I can’t deny that, and
I’m grateful to you for making her last days happy.’
He had been expecting her to blame him for taking Freda so far away that she needed to cycle to work, to blame him for her daughter’s death, and this was so out of character that he could
say nothing for a moment, the defences he had meant to put forward dried up in his throat. Then, his voice choked with emotion, he murmured, ‘The doctors told me she was two months
pregnant.’ His eyes filling with tears, he burst out, ‘Oh, Christ! Why didn’t she tell me? I’d have made her stop working and . . .’
Priscilla Cuthbert’s face crumpled. ‘She didn’t tell me, either. Oh, my poor boy.’ She pulled him to her and held him closely, repeating, through her tears, ‘My
poor, poor boy,’ and although he knew that her grief was for her daughter, he drew comfort from her embrace as they wept together.
‘A’ Company of the Royal Scots Fusiliers had been ordered to extend the bridgehead made by the Gordon Highlanders to go across the Goch-Wesel railway and the stream
immediately to the south, in order to provide a place for the 46th Brigade of the 15th Scottish Division to re-form the following day. It was a bitterly cold February morning when the
Lieutenant-Colonel concentrated the RSF on the escarpment to the north-east, where all ranks were given a hot meal while he himself reported to the Brigadier for further orders.
Later, after he had made some reconnaissance, the Lieutenant-Colonel returned and took his battalion, with ‘A’ Company leading, to join the 227th Brigade, and at eight o’clock
that evening the RSFs ran across the bridge in the darkness and pushed on a hundred yards to the crossroads beyond, their guns having put up twenty minutes’ preparation. The remaining
companies followed through, but they met with fierce resistance from small arms and mortars and casualties were heavy.
Arriving vehicles met with some success until they reached mines, when two Wasps were quickly knocked out. The Lieutenant-Colonel saw that he would have to wait until morning to extend his
bridgehead, and ordered his companies to dig in where they were. One group of RSFs took advantage of the slight shelter provided by the buildings of an abandoned farm, but morale was low and enemy
shelling became even more violent during the night – some of it short-range shelling by tanks which could be heard moving in the wood close by. Grumbles about the non-arrival of the promised
support grew stronger, and one captain said to his sergeant, ‘Have they forgotten us, or would they have run into trouble themselves?’
McIvor, tall and burly, with almost twenty-five years of service behind him, gave a grunt. ‘I’d say they’ve forgotten aboot us, sir. Them buggers o’ English have naething
atween their lugs.’
The captain let this go. He knew that his men accepted him as ‘one of the lads’ because his grandfather had been a Scot although he himself had been born and brought up in a small
village in Derbyshire. The Lieutenant-Colonel appeared at that moment, as there was a short respite from the bombardment, and after asking the captain if he knew how many had been wounded or
killed, he said, ‘I can’t contact the Brigadier, none of the radios seem to be working, and the despatch riders have been badly injured, so send a man to let him know our
position.’
The captain saluted. ‘Leave it with me, sir.’ Waiting till his superior went out, he turned to McIvor who said, ‘We’d be as weel sendin’ ane o’ them REME lads
that were attached to us when we came ower. They’re no’ muckle use for onything else at the minute.’
‘Good idea. See to it, McIvor.’
The sergeant strode off purposefully to where Neil Ferris and Alf Melville were sitting close together in one of the smaller sheds. ‘Ane o’ youse twa’ll ha’e to go back
to the headquarters wi’ a message.’
Jumping up smartly, Neil said, ‘I’ll go, Sarge.’
Alf pulled him down. ‘No, you silly blighter. You’ve been on a suicide mission since we landed, volunteering for every dangerous job going. It’s my turn this time.’
‘Look Alf, it doesn’t matter to me if I’m alive or dead.’
‘It’ll matter to your mother, though.’
‘What about yours, then?’
McIvor snorted with impatience. ‘We cannae wait till you twa stop this “After you Cecil, after you Claude” business.’ Pointing to Alf, he ordered, ‘You can go, and
mind and gi’e them this note. It’s to let them ken oor exact position.’
Alf gave a triumphant grin as he rose to his feet and made for the area where the vehicles were kept. ‘I’d better take the Norton, Sarge, I know it’s in good running
order.’
‘OK, but mind an’ come back. No sneakin’ awa’.
Neil went to the doorway – the door had gone before they took up residence – and watched Alf wheeling the motor cycle out on to the farm road to kick start it, but just as the engine
roared into life, his eye caught the glint of metal in a patch of bushes. Without stopping to think, he raced forward and flung himself at his friend, knocking both him and the Norton to the
ground. Alf’s leg was pinned under the motor cycle, and Neil felt the bullet searing his shoulder a split second after hearing the crack of the rifle.
Struggling to get up, Alf shouted, ‘What the hell did you do that for, you stupid bugger?’ but Neil muttered, ‘It’s a Jerry sniper. Keep down, he could fire
again.’