Oliver and Gwen were in bed drinking tea brought to them by Lucy when they heard the phone ringing in the hall below. They turned to each other. ‘Who the hell is
that
, at
half-past seven in the morning?’ Mr Arnold grumbled.
Gwen gripped his hand. ‘Let it not be something’s happened to John. Please God, let it not be that.’
Her husband stroked the hand that clutched his. ‘I spoke to him yesterday, I told you. His squadron’s still waiting for orders. John is perfectly fine, darling.’
Downstairs, the phone had stopped ringing and they heard Lucy’s muffled voice. Then her feet were on the stairs and she was tapping at the door. ‘Excuse me, sir, ma’am, but
it’s Mr John. He says sorry to wake you, but the war’s started good and proper.’
Mr Arnold slammed his teacup down on its saucer and kicked the bedclothes aside. ‘I’m coming down!’
He overtook the maid at the foot of the stairs and skidded to the telephone on its little oak table. ‘John! What’s happening?’
‘Armageddon, Dad, the Four Horses of the Apocalypse are riding. The gods of war are—’
‘Stop that! What’s
happening
?’
‘Sorry, Dad – everything that you said would, and then some. The Germans invaded Belgium, Luxembourg and Holland at dawn, and they’ve smashed the French positions too.
They’re moving like a hot knife through butter, apparently.’
‘What? But what about the Maginot Line? The French say their border defences against Germany are impregnable!’
‘Not if you nip around the side, they’re not. That’s exactly what he’s done – simply bypassed the whole issue. He’s streaming into the countryside behind the
Maginot Line as we speak. We’ve been completely sucker-punched, Dad. His air force is bombing and strafing anything that moves on the roads, civilian or military. At this rate he’ll be
at the Channel ports in thirty-six hours.’
‘You can’t mean that.’
‘Well, no, perhaps not, but honestly, Dad, this is about as serious as it gets. I could be at a forward base in France by tonight for all I know. Anyway, I don’t think I’ll be
able to phone again for a while, so I just wanted to give you and Mum the news and say – well, bye for now and not to worry. I’ll be fine. We all will. But it’s exciting,
isn’t it?’
Mr Arnold held the receiver in front of him for a moment, and stared at it. Then he returned it to his ear.
‘Yes – yes, I suppose it is, John. Of course it is. And you do what you have to do. Give ’em everything you’ve got and then some, old son. We’ll show the bastards
they can’t get away with this nonsense any longer. We’re right behind you.’
‘Thanks, Dad. Give Mum my love and say that as soon as things calm down, I’ll come over. Tell her and Diana not to fret. Oh, that reminds me – James is seeing to our
flight’s fuelling and can’t get to a phone. He wants you to give Diana his best. Will you do that for him? I rather think something’s afoot there, by the way.’
‘Is there indeed! Yes, I’ll do that for him, and you give him our best in return, our very best. Yes, well . . . I suppose you had better go, John. We’ll see you when –
when we can. Take care, my boy. We love you very much.’
‘I know. Me too. Bye, Dad.’
The line went dead. Mr Arnold sat down in the little wicker chair by the telephone table, and slowly buried his face in his hands.
That was the last the Arnolds heard from their son, or Diana from James, for many weeks. It was hardly surprising. The speed of the collapse across the Channel was astounding.
It was difficult to say which side was more astonished by the rout: the all-conquering Germans or the humiliated British, French, Belgians and Dutch.
Less than a week after John’s snatched phone call, Holland surrendered. France had collapsed into chaos. The Arnolds had no idea where their son might be or what he was doing.
‘No news is good news,’ Mr Arnold repeatedly told his wife. But Gwen impressed him with her calmness and refusal to give in to the monstrous fears that stalked them both.
‘It won’t help John if we fall apart,’ she told him. ‘We have to carry on. I’m working on a painting and I intend to give it to him when he gets back.’
Mr Arnold, for his part, continued to go into the city every day. What else was there to do? One sunny morning as he strode along Holborn’s pavements towards his chambers, a former
associate fell into step beside him.
‘Morning, Arnold. Heard the latest? His tanks have reached Abbeville.’
Mr Arnold stopped in his tracks. ‘
What?
But that’s just a cough and a spit from the Channel!’
‘Tell me something I don’t know – and that’s not the worst of it. It means our forces to the north and south are now completely cut off from each other. All done in
precisely ten days. Extraordinary. Do you know, I believe we might lose this war. It’s most inconvenient; my wife and I were planning to motor to Bordeaux this summer. Oh well,
quel
dommage
and all that. Have you heard from your boy at all?’
Mr Arnold shook his head and began walking again. ‘No. Not a peep.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t worry. I’d be surprised if your John is in
la belle France
at all.’
Mr Arnold halted again. ‘What do you mean?’
The other stared at him. ‘Surely you can see that France is a completely lost cause? She’ll be suing for peace inside a couple of weeks, mark my words. Then we’ll need every
Spitfire and Hurricane we’ve got for ourselves. Next stop Blighty for Herr Hitler. It’ll be the job of boys like yours to keep the buggers out. No point squandering pilots and planes to
buy a few pointless extra days for the Frenchies. Well, this is me. Cheerio. Onward to victory!’ He gave an ironic salute and disappeared into his office doorway.
As soon as he was behind his desk, Oliver telephoned Gwen at the Dower House.
‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘although John must be flying missions over France, he may still be based here as insurance against invasion. Williamson’s a canny fellow and
he’s usually got an ear to the ground. He has contacts in the War Ministry, I know that for a fact.’
After a moment, Gwen spoke. ‘But Oliver, if France falls, doesn’t that mean we’ll have lost? Would there be any point in fighting on? Risking the lives of boys like
John?’
Now
that
, thought Mr Arnold as he rang off, is the burning question of the hour.
Barely a week after the shock of Abbeville, the little French seaside town of Dunkirk dominated every conversation and front page. For ten consecutive mornings the Arnolds
– Oliver and Gwen in the Dower House, and Diana in Girton – huddled by their radios listening to the unfolding story of a cobbled-together evacuation. Shot-down RAF pilots were reported
to be among the exhausted men being brought off the beaches, and Mr Arnold began slipping into the nearest cinema during his lunch-hour to watch the news-reels. He thought he might catch a glimpse
of his boy standing in one of the long lines of haggard men waiting patiently for a boat to ferry them to safety.
Meanwhile, Diana was suffering agonies of uncertainty. She hadn’t seen or spoken to James since he’d kissed her goodbye at the kerbside that April morning. Her father had passed on
James’s message to her the day the squadron flew their Spitfires to war, and that had been the last she’d heard of him.
She was desperately worried about her brother too, but she felt increasingly guilty that her thoughts were more focused on the man she was now certain would be her lover – if he ever came
back to her.
‘I’m going quietly mad here, Sal,’ she told her friend. ‘One minute I’m sick with worry for the two of them, the next I feel awful because I realise I’ve been
thinking more about
him
than my brother – and then there are times when I feel absurdly happy because I realise I’m in love, for the first time in my life. And then I come full
circle again and can’t get the thought out of my head that he’s been killed.’ She dropped her head in despair.
‘I know, Di, I know,’ Sally soothed, stroking Diana’s hair. ‘Shhh . . . it’s the same for everyone with someone in this fight. You just have to be strong and
patient. As your father keeps telling you, so long as your family doesn’t receive some sort of horrible telegram or phone call from the RAF, you can keep hoping that—’
Diana jerked her head away. ‘Yes, but that only goes for my brother, doesn’t it? No one’s going to tell me if a James Blackwell has been shot down over France or been injured
or captured. It’s not as if I’m his wife or anything. No one at the RAF knows I exist. Every morning I comb through the newspapers’ lists of men killed or missing in action.
It’s the only way I’ll find out if something dreadful has happened. The other day there
was
a Blackwell on the list and I nearly fainted until I saw he wasn’t a James.
It’s horrible, Sal, just
horrible !
’
Her friend stood up. ‘All right, my dear, get your hat and coat.’
‘What? Why? Where are we going?’
‘To the Fox and Hounds for a
very
stiff drink.’
The last of the men to be rescued from Dunkirk had arrived in England forty-eight hours before. The first week of June was coming to a close and there was still no word from
either John or James.
The Arnolds sat with their daughter in the gardens of the Dower House on a fine, warm evening. The longest day was barely a fortnight away and even now, at eight o’clock, the late-evening
sunshine had residual strength. Rabbits were out in force below the ha-ha, and the sparrows in the thick ivy that covered the rear of the house were settling into their bedtime chatter.
The three of them were drinking wine from crystal glasses that Lucy had brought to them on a tray.
‘Wedding presents from your grandparents,’ Mr Arnold informed his daughter, waving his glass in the air. ‘Once there were six; these are the sad survivors. Do you remember the
day you broke all the others?’
Diana winced. ‘Of course. I was three, wasn’t I?’
‘You were four. You watched your brother playing with his wooden skittle set and he wouldn’t let you join in, so you –’
‘– so I went and got your cricket ball,’ Diana continued the well-worn refrain, ‘took as many glasses as I could carry from the sideboard and put them together in the
drive, where I –’
‘– scored a full house with the first roll of the ball. I can still hear the exquisite tinkling noise now, and your screams of delight.’
Gwen laughed. ‘John was always frightfully mean with his toys, wasn’t he? The two of you never really hit it off until he went away to prep.’
Diana shrugged. ‘I was an extremely irritating little sister. I never gave him a moment’s peace. It was only after he’d gone to boarding school that I realised how much I loved
him.’
She put her glass down on the white-painted wrought-iron garden table and looked up at her parents.
‘Look, we haven’t really discussed it since I came home from Girton. But what do you think has happened to the two of them? Honestly? I’m worn out with worry and I don’t
think I have another tear to shed.’
Her father put down his own glass. ‘I was intending to talk about it over dinner. But OK, here’s what I think.’ He considered them both. ‘I’m optimistic. Truly, I
am. The papers have been pretty short on detail, but it’s clear our fighter squadrons have been operating over France until very recently, covering the evacuation. I keep saying it, but no
news really
is
good news. That was true in the last lot and it’s just as true now.
‘But here’s the thing.’ He leaned forward. ‘Williamson came to see me this afternoon at the office. All very hush-hush, cloak and dagger. He told me in strictest
confidence that the new Prime Minister was informed in no uncertain terms by the RAF that it’s time to stop fannying around in France and keep every last plane and pilot back here at home.
Williamson says he doesn’t believe a single Spitfire squadron was ever even based across the Channel. Apparently Churchill refused to allow it, in spite of tremendous pressure from the
French.’
He looked at his wife and daughter. ‘I know it’s all been absolutely awful, but I think we’re due for some good news about our John,’ he nodded towards Diana, ‘and
your James, my dear, very soon. Let’s drink to it, anyway, shall we?’
The three of them touched glasses.
‘
To good news
.’
Next morning, Lucy entered the garden room to open the curtains, but to her surprise they’d already been drawn. The armchair that faced out on to the lawns had its back
to her, but she could see a curl of cigarette smoke curling slowly into the air above it.
‘Oh! Good morning, sir. I didn’t realise you were up. Would you like some tea?’
‘Yes, please, Lucy. I’ve been sitting here since six, waiting for everyone to wake up.’
John stood up and stretched, turning to face the astonished maid.
‘Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?’
Diana thundered down the stairs in her pyjamas ten minutes later. ‘Where is he?’
Her mother emerged in her dressing-gown from the breakfast room, beaming. ‘He’s in the garden with your father, darling. He looks very tired but I think—’
Diana careered through the French windows and was running across the dew-drenched lawn towards the two men, who were standing under the great sycamore that stood by the path leading to the
kitchen gardens.
‘John!
John!
’
Her brother spun round and flapped both arms humorously in the air. ‘Hey, sis! It’s all right – we’re both fine. James is fine. I’m fine. We’re both
fine!’
Diana leaped headlong into his embrace, as she used to when he came home from school for the holidays.
‘Here, you’ll have me over!’ he laughed, staggering backwards. ‘My my, the child grows strong. Morning, young miss. I trust you’ve been behaving
yourself?’
‘We’ve been so horribly frightened! It’s all been awful
.
Just
awful
.’ She burst into tears.
John squeezed his sister tight. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice muffled against her cheek. ‘That pretty much sums up what it’s been like at our end too.’