JUNE 1940
Their faces were drawn and defeated. They looked like they’d seen hell. I couldn’t believe that these were our boys, in shirtsleeves and with no uniforms. Boys is right. That’s what they looked like perched up there on their jeeps and in the back of the trucks. They were starving. Len and I offered some of them tea, but they waved their hands and politely refused. I thought to myself, well, Hitler might as well just come marching through now. We better start learning German. Most of them were too ashamed to even look you in the eye. Our heroes returning from Dunkirk. And yet, all over the papers, they’re still trying to tell us that one Englishman is worth two Germans, four French, twenty Arabs, forty Italians, and any number of Indians. I thought, that fat bastard Churchill will no doubt turn it into some kind of victory. He’ll be on the wireless again tonight, huffing and puffing, and Len will be lapping it all up like a -bloody silly little spaniel. If Churchill tells me one more time that this war is being fought for freedom and true principles of democracy I’ll scream. But, as I looked on at them, I thought to myself that this war can’t go on for much longer if this is the state we’re in. That much was clear for anybody to see. It might as well be the white flag now. We’re going to lose England. We’ve legally placed ourselves, our property and our services at the disposal of His Majesty, and I for one don’t expect to get anything back. And sure enough this evening he was on the wireless, the stuck-up pig. I wanted to turn it off, but Len likes to listen. So I went out for a walk. One of the LDVs flashed a torch in my face and asked me who goes there. I wanted to say to the stupid sod, it’s me, Hitler. I was hoping you wouldn’t catch me because I was planning on invading tonight, starting right here in this village. But now you’ve buggered up my plans, you crafty devil. Oh, it’s just you, Mrs Kitson. I wandered back and sat with Len, who told me that we always start badly. That we English lose every battle but the last. He’d believed the official story behind the looks on those lads’ faces. I was getting good at learning the difference between the official stories and the evidence before my eyes. And even when there was no evidence, I was learning what to disbelieve. And so I sat with Len and began to swear out loud. What’s the matter with you? Nothing, Len. Nothing. I’m just fine.
MARCH 1943
I’ve been wondering about him ever since the dance. I didn’t think he was letting me down by not showing up at the shop. I’m not that presumptuous. After all, we only danced a few times and then I was passed around. It was only fair. There wasn’t enough of us so we had to be shared. It turned into a ‘Ladies, excuse me’ dance, which meant anyone could cut in. At the end of the dance we all left together, so there was no question of anyone walking out with anyone. They brought us our coats, and gave us presents. An orange, a pack of cigarettes, and some candy, as they call it. Chocolate is what we call it, and for most of us it was like being given lumps of gold. The Yanks really have no idea of what it means. I think we were maybe a bit rude, like kids, for once they’d given us the chocolate we all muttered a hasty goodnight. Everyone just wanted to escape with the chocolate in case the Yanks changed their minds. The next morning I woke up and thought about him. I wondered if they’d be having another dance for us, or if they’d decided that one was enough. I decided that all dances should start that way, with me and him gliding across the floor and breaking the atmosphere. That was three weeks ago. I have a feeling that they thought me a bit above myself. But still, I have nice, if awkward, memories. But today everything is fine again, for he came into the shop with a big smile upon his face and a bunch of daffodils. He told me that he didn’t know what we called these things. He’d never seen them before, for they didn’t have them where he came from. But he thought he’d like me to have them. He dresses so smartly, and he doesn’t chew gum when he talks. Not like the officers and the others. I don’t know why they think it’s so clever to do this. It’s vulgar. Anybody could tell them that. His hair is well combed, with a sort of razor parting on the left. It’s short, like thin black wool, but he puts some oil or something on it because it shines in the light. Quite bright, actually. Here, take them. He handed the flowers to me and I thanked him. I looked for a jam jar to put them into and he lit a cigarette. Excuse me, do you mind? he asked. Of course I don’t mind. I don’t say this, but I hope he understands. I just shook my head a few times. I’ll be back in a sec, I said. You don’t mind watching the shop, do you? I went out the back and found ajar. I wondered if I should ask him. I didn’t know why I was even going through this for it seemed obvious to me that if I didn’t ask him then nothing was going to happen. I took a peek back through into the shop and saw him just standing there like a spare part, not knowing what to do. And then I came back in with the daffodils standing proudly in a jar. I just asked him outright. Would you like to go for a walk? He looked confused. As though I was trying to trick him into something. A walk? Or perhaps you’re not allowed to do this. To go off limits, or whatever you call it. Is that it? If so, I’m sorry for asking, but it’s just that I thought a walk would be nice. Still, it doesn’t matter if you’re not able to do it. No, he says. But maybe Sunday. I don’t think we get any recreation again until Sunday. Would that be all right? We get most of the day. I looked at him and realized that Sunday it would have to be. We sometimes go to your pub. It seems a nice place. Most of the guys like the English pub, although your beer still tastes a little strange to us. But you do like it? I asked quickly. Yeah sure, we like it. We drink it. There’s nothing else to drink. He laughed as he said this. I don’t mean to be rude, he assured me. Look. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got duties to take care of. Sunday, I said. Sunday, he said. And that was him gone, leaving me with the daffodils.
JUNE 1940
I can’t figure out if Len is trying to impress me by joining the Local Defence Volunteers (or Look, Duck, Vanish, as people call them – they even call themselves this). Or maybe Dunkirk has secretly shaken him up. An army instructor came to one of their meetings in the pub. Taught them the German for ‘Hands up!’ Showed them how to spot different types of aircraft, how to handle a rifle and bayonet. Last Sunday, he took them out into the woods and they used grass sods as grenades. They’re planning campaigns. Making decisions. Do we march east to protect Sam Smith’s brewery, or north to guard Joshua Tetley’s brewery? But Len is getting bored. He’s younger than most of them. I think it’s making him feel guilty. Reminding him that he should be in the real army. He’ll soon stop going. LDV service is compulsory, but nobody really bothers that much by us. There isn’t really anyone to check up. We’re off the beaten track. They’re more bothered by those dodging proper military service. Len’s black lung is an embarrassment, to him, but it’s a genuine handicap. He’s better than some of his mates, who are skiving off with all kinds of made-up illnesses and ailments. Now they’ve got something to be embarrassed about, not Len.
JUNE 1940
I was serving two Land Army girls. We all heard the shot. I ran straight from the shop up the street, hair flying this way, legs that. I knew she wouldn’t tell him. Straight into the house and there she was, lying on the floor, blood spreading. And Tommy screaming. And that bullying bastard sitting there as bold as brass with the rifle in his hands and tears running down his cheeks. He kept repeating himself. Get the police, I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. Sandra had her eyes open and was staring into mid-air as if nothing was the matter. I’ve just done in my missus. The dirty bitch. As if she couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. The thing I noticed about him, though, was his uniform. It seemed odd that he should be sitting there in his uniform. Back from the war to kill. His wife. I told her to write the bloody letter, but she would have to do it her way, wouldn’t she. And look where it landed her. Somebody must have already called for the coppers, because it didn’t take them long to arrive. When they did, he just got up and went with them. One of the coppers put a blanket over Sandra, like she was asleep. Then he told me that there was no point in my sticking around. I might as well get along, hadn’t I. He offered to escort me (his words) out of the house. Somebody had already taken Tommy.
JUNE 1940
Tonight I saw Len, sitting in the pub with his mate, Terry the Farmer. Len was always lecturing me. You don’t mix with anybody. It’s all right, you know. You can come into the pub for a drink with us. We won’t harm you. How do you expect anyone to get to know you if you won’t show your face out? I’d generally look at him, but say nothing. And off he would go to the pub and leave me sitting by myself, listening to ITMA on the wireless. But tonight I went to the pub. I put on my coat and walked up the road. He was sitting in the corner with the man Sandra’s husband should have shot. Mr bloody Farmer perched there like Lord Muck, everybody knowing it was him who’d done it to her, sipping a pint like nothing was the matter. What’ll you have? asked Len. I’ll be having nothing, I said back to him. Nothing as long as you’re sitting here with this slack bastard. I could see it in Len’s eyes that he was ready to belt me one there and then, in front of everybody. If he wasn’t so vain, he’d have done it. I think you’d better go home, was the best he could come up with. Why? I asked. Because I said you’d better. So I turned and left. I didn’t have any desire to argue with him. And I didn’t want to sit in the same place as him as long as he was with that bastard. So I turned and walked back out and into the night. It was so quiet. It was like the whole world had stopped because of this bloody stupid war. And what about Tommy? I supposed they’d find a good home for him. I walked back to the shop, went upstairs, took off my clothes, and climbed into bed. I didn’t want Len near me. Not now, not ever. And I didn’t want him to see me crying.
JULY 1940
All I could think of this morning was that a whole month has passed since Sandra died. And then the inspector showed up. I was standing in the shop with Len, going through the books for the week, when suddenly we heard a van pull up. Len went to the window and fingered the curtains. Then he turned to me and shouted in a whisper that I’d got to go out the back with the eggs and get rid of them. I didn’t need telling twice. He doesn’t tell me much, doesn’t Len, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I work in the shop with him. I’m married to him. I know his game. I dashed into the back of the shop and started to push everything into a flour sack. Hurry up, you silly cow. Why should I hurry up if this is the best he can call me? I heard the doorbell ring, and then there were voices. Me, I took the sack and went out the back. Then I was away through the woods and down the hill, laughing all the way like a crazy bugger. When I got to the stream, I opened the sack up wide. There was nobody around. I was standing by myself. That bastard Len. I knew it was a crime. It was madness. It was the sort of thing that somebody who was plain bloody daft would do. I knew all of this. But I did it anyway. I just threw everything into the stream. Egg after egg. Let the fish or whatever have them. Len said to get rid, so I was getting rid. I’d just pretend that I didn’t understand what he meant. I thought, it’s a hell of an expensive way to spite somebody, but he bleeding well deserves to be treated with spite. When I’d finished, I sat on the bank and laughed. I didn’t know what the bloody hell I was doing in this place. With him. I couldn’t be any worse off in a factory or in the WAAF. I must have been mad. It was mad. To have come to this place at all. I picked up the empty flour sack. Then I looked at the stream. I threw the sack in after the eggs. I didn’t want any of it. What did I need with an empty sack? I didn’t want any of it. By the time I got back from the stream he was in the pub. It was night. I was asleep when he came in. Or at least I was pretending to be. He asked me, so I told him that I’d done what he wanted me to do. I’d got rid of them. He laughed. Then he reminded me that tea and margarine were now on coupons. Then he went to the bathroom. When he found out that it was the truth that I’d told him, I knew he’d want to take a strap to me. But until then he laughed. I think he liked me for a minute or so. He thought I was funny.
SEPTEMBER 1940
Apparently, London is still getting it bad. It’s their turn every night. I’ve been reading about it. It’s all in the papers. ARPs can get no sleep. They’re working hand in hand with the police force around the clock. UXB means unexploded bomb. They say if a bomb’s got your name on it, you hear a whine, then a silence before the explosion. This is because it’s travelling faster than sound. Those who’ve dug in their shelters stand a better chance. There’s those that will take your bolts, spanners and sheets, and put your Anderson into the ground for you. But it will cost you a few bob. There’s money to be made out of misery. Torches, batteries, firemen’s axes, chemical fire extinguishers, whistles, you name it. You can even buy ARP-approved bomb removers. Top of the line is ‘The Gripper’ – ‘grips bombs from any position only 10/6’. Ifit got a bit lively outside, I’m not sure if I’d want to get into a shelter. They say you’ve to take food, warm clothing and blankets to make yourself as comfortable as possible, and sing songs like ‘Me and My Girl’ and ‘Swanee River’. It doesn’t sound like me. Today Len caught me reading the papers. He asked me why I’m always reading, reading, reading. I didn’t say anything. Then he said we might lose the war. He reckons being up here, we don’t really understand how bad it is. We get a rosier picture. The war’s still a bit of a joke to us. I thought, he’s changed his tune. But I said nothing. The
Star
has started to run a competition called Hitler-Hits. They give you the first line and whoever sends in the best second line gets £10.
If you listen in Hamburg you may hear Lord Haw-Haw say, We’ve killed 10,000 Englishmen – one less than yesterday.
I wish I’d have thought of that one. Today’s first line is a hard one,
On every hand in Germany it’s very plain to see . . .