The Glory Girls (27 page)

‘
Vaya usted con Dios
– go with God, my friends,’ said the Spaniard, gripping their hands, each in turn.

As Mary climbed on board the second truck and it took off with a rattling jerk and a dry grating of gears she experienced a terrible sinking in her stomach. Taking the little dog out of the bag, she buried her face in the long, silky fur. Chiffon gave a whimper and nuzzled into her neck.

‘He’ll be all right, Chiffon,’ she whispered, dashing away two tears that had found their way on to her cheeks. ‘He’ll come back to us. He’s got to.’

She looked out at the scenery racing by and her heart cried out: ‘Live, Alex! Please live!’

Alex had not been able to watch Mary walking away from him for more than a minute. When she turned and waved, it was all he could do not to run after her. But his responsibility to his patients and the handful of helpers who had elected to stay behind was too great. Personal feelings had to be put aside. If he was going to survive the next few days he would need all his stamina and all his wits about him. He needed to put Mary out of his mind.

‘Captain Craig, sir,’ Private Jenkins was hurrying towards him, I can’t find that English woman … Miss Beasley. She’s gone.’

‘Gone? She can’t have, Jenkins. There isn’t anywhere to go, for
goodness
sake.’

‘Well, I’ve looked everywhere.’

‘The silly woman didn’t have the strength to walk out, surely!’ Alex looked around him, but the cave they were sheltering in was basic. There were no passages off or nooks or crannies where anyone could hide. ‘Leave it to me, Jenkins. She can’t have gone far.’

Alex stood at the entrance of the cave for a moment, then climbed up to a higher level and surveyed the land all round. At first there seemed to be nothing but boulders and scrub and patches of frozen snow. Then he saw it. The flash of white that wasn’t snow, and it was moving. Anne Beasley had been wearing a heavy white woollen jacket when Gaston had brought her in. It must be her, but what the hell was the woman playing at?

Grabbing the leather flying-jacket that Gaston had provided for him, Alex took off in the direction from where he had seen the movement. It didn’t take him long to reach her. Anne was crawling along on all fours, her battered face rigid with determination. She even tried to fight him off when he grabbed hold of her, but her strength was all spent.

‘Leave me alone,’ she cried in a voice too weak to contain any threat. ‘Let me go. I have to go … have to … to do something …’

‘What have you to do, Anne?’

‘Stop them,’ she said. ‘I have to stop them, tell them … not here … not this way …’

‘You’re talking gibberish, woman,’ Alex said, his patience thin with the urgency of the situation. ‘If you go this way you’ll only run into German lines.’

‘Yes … yes, I know.’

He pulled her to her feet, but she sank against him, then her legs gave
way and she slid to the ground and sat there, looking dazed. The heavy sedation she had been under since her arrival at
La Citadelle
was still making itself felt. Why Grace had seen fit to give her such a hefty dose was beyond him, but as always, he had given the senior nurse the benefit of the doubt. She had worked too long under tremendous strain. Lots of women would have cracked, given the same situation.

‘Come on, let’s get you back to the cave. We stand a chance there, but not out here in the open.’

‘But they’ll think I’m German,’ Anne persisted, her voice strident as she fought off his hands. ‘I can tell them … Oh, I don’t know, but I can give them false information … send them in another direction. You’ll be safe … you and the others. Mary … you’ll tell her … please tell her I’m sorry. I feel like such a traitor. She got into this mess because of me. She can’t die … I won’t let them get her…!’

As Alex hoisted her up into his arms, a droning, like an angry hornet, buzzed in his ears. He struggled on, with Anne’s limp body, slipping and stumbling on the stony ground. They were almost halfway back to the cave when he saw it. A German bomber. And it was heading his way.

‘Dear God!’ he shouted as he started to run drunkenly under the weight of his burden, heading for a rocky outcrop, which was the only place close enough to give them some cover.

The line of rocks seemed to get further and further away from him at every step as the Heinkel approached. His legs felt heavy and paralysed. As the bullets started strafing he fell on top of Anne, and they rolled together down into a narrow gully. He felt the bruising force of rocks and stones pummelling his body and hated to think what they were doing to the already fragile girl.

Wedged in the V of the shallow ravine, icy water running beneath him, penetrating his clothing, Alex opened his eyes and looked to where Anne was lying a few feet away. The force of their fall at the end had separated them. She made no sound and didn’t move. It wasn’t clear whether she was alive or dead, but Alex was powerless to do anything, one way or another. His left foot was firmly wedged between two boulders and from the feel of it, his ankle was broken.

Wincing with pain, he breathed out a curse. However, a broken ankle was the least of his worries. The lone Heinkel had been joined by others. Bombs were falling, shaking the ground like an earthquake. It went on for some minutes, then the noise subsided and there was an eerie silence, broken only by the echoing sound of trickling dust and shattered
fragments
of stone pouring down into the gully. He had no doubt what the
target had been. The old monastery, and probably the cave too, had certainly been reduced to rubble, and the people inside buried in it, patients, nurses – and the courageous Private Jenkins.

Alex wanted to cry out as rage welled up in his throat, his whole being fired with fury against war and warmongers, and even God, for letting it happen. But he had to swallow his anger if he was to get out of this alive.

‘Anne? Anne, can you hear me?’ he called out, keeping his voice just above a whisper.

There was no response. She was, he could see, half-buried beneath rubble, her fair hair no longer glinting in the sun, her skin as pale as death shining through the dust.

He struggled to sit up, every move an agony. Somehow, he had to free his foot. He had to get out of there, get back to the cave. But how? He cast about for something to help him, then got his eye on a stout tree branch that had been blasted from the trunk and was lying a few feet away. It was a long stretch, but he was just near enough to grip the end of it, his fingers curling around the rough bark.

Slowly, he tugged and pulled, ignoring the sharp splinters that
punctured
his skin and drove themselves into his flesh. At last the branch moved and started to slide his way.

Holding it firmly in his two hands, he advanced it towards the
boulders
that were trapping his foot, but it was the wrong shape. Each time he tried to prise one of the boulders free, he ended up jabbing the thing into his injured ankle. It was useless.

‘Damn!’ he swore aloud, thinking that it was a pitiful thing for a man to come this far through a war and end up dying like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare.

Alex lay back, panting, trying to hang on to consciousness. The
situation
called for clear thinking. It was no good waiting meekly for death to come. Somehow, he had to get out of here.

He dug around in his pockets, searching for something, anything, that might help him. There was nothing of any note. A scarf, a pair of gloves, a notebook, a pencil and a small penknife. He had used the knife more than once in emergency to removed shrapnel and bullets from patients in the field when there were no other instruments to hand. Well, perhaps it would serve him well, for if the worst came to the worst, he would have to try and amputate his own foot.

First things first, he thought, gripping the pencil and opening the
notebook
. After some moments of reflection, he began to write:

Alex’s head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. There was more than one pair of feet. He reached for the knife, opening it clumsily and suppressing an intake of breath as the sharp point cut into his palm. Ever nearer the footsteps marched and then, suddenly, two figures were silhouetted black against the sun and Alex looked up into the blinding light.

He knew before he heard their astonished voices that they were German. He knew, also, that they had pistols and were levelling them at his head. Alex made one last frantic effort to free his foot and stand, not wishing to be shot like a mangy dog, scrabbling in the dirt. But his efforts were in vain; the pain too much. The world suddenly tilted on its axis and became a very dark place.

‘… whatever happens, I do love you and will go on loving you through death and beyond …’

Mary read Alex’s words again and again. Her heart was torn apart, but she dared not let the emotion out or it would engulf her and she would be lost for evermore. She had cried bitterly when she first held the scrap of paper in her hands, smoothing out the folds, touching the stains that were undoubtedly Alex’s blood.

‘But where did it come from?’ she demanded of the CO who had handed it to her.

‘It came with some official papers and personal effects of soldiers killed in battle. Someone recognized Captain Craig’s name and it was already known that he was last seen in the Pyrenees. And, of course, he had written your name and address at the top, almost as though he expected it to be delivered to you.’

The woman frowned and patted Mary’s hand with genuine sympathy. Mary was breathing shallowly, holding on to her grief until she could be alone.

‘Oh, Alex!’

‘I assume that the letter has got to its correct destination,’ the CO said gently. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’

‘Gaston Frébus was supposed to be going back for him …’

‘Frébus, you say? Ah, yes. Something came through about him the other day. Apparently, he has had to go underground. His cover was blown. It’s not entirely sure that he is still alive either.’

Mary closed her eyes, her own grief temporarily pushed to one side as she thought of Gaston, and wondered how she was going to break the news to Iris.

‘He was a very brave man,’ she said and the CO nodded, then shuffled papers around her desk, signalling that the interview was over. ‘Do I have a fresh posting?’

The CO nodded again, obviously more comfortable dealing with the business side of things.

‘No more SOE work for you, West. We thought perhaps we could use you as an instructor for the new intake of FANYs. You’ll be an excellent example to the raw recruits.’

Mary nodded numbly. ‘Thank you, Miss Fellows. I’d like that.’

‘Take a few days’ leave, West. Go and see your family, then report back to HQ in London. And West … I’ve put you forward for a medal. Jolly well done.’

Mary looked astounded. She muttered her gratitude. A medal, indeed. She didn’t want a medal. She would trade in all the medals in the world, if only Alex could be with her right now.

A
FTER
the bombs, the silence. It was an eerie sound, that first sound of peace in 1945. Then came the singing in the streets, and the
dancing
. The war was over and people the length and breadth of Great Britain were going crazy. Words could not describe how they felt. War had been a way of life for so long. Now, they had to get used to another, new life, for there was no going back to normal. Not for any of them.

Frances Croft was no exception. The previous World War had ruined her life and she had never recovered from the invisible scars it had left her with. The Second World War had brought her almost to her knees, then a faint glimmer of light had shone through. She wasn’t quite sure when or how it had started.

That day when she was feeling so terribly low, so miserable that she was, indeed, contemplating taking her own life – that was when things began to get a little better. That young doctor. His words, his kindness and understanding, had made a difference. The feeling of being needed, too, helped her back from the dark hole she had fallen into. She had sworn never again to get involved with the FANYs, but they had approached her, begged her to help find girls who would do them proud. She had even taken to wearing the FANY uniform again, pleased that her worth had been recognized, if only in a small way.

She had provided the Corps with girls who were worth their weight in gold. In particular those two she had tutored as children. Anne Beasley and Mary West. What gems they had turned out to be and both of them in line for a medal. As was the unfortunate Donaldson girl. What
bravery
. If she had her way, Frances would award medals to every one of the FANYs. The fact that three of the bravest souls she knew came from this small town alone made her doubly proud, though at the time, she had suffered terrible pangs of guilt and remorse, sending them to a life filled with so much danger.

Frances’s fingertips smoothed over the sheet of paper she was holding. The action caused the tears that had fallen on the paper to smudge the bold black handwriting, but it didn’t matter. They were tears of
happiness
. Nearly a quarter of a century had gone by, but here at last was the letter she had so often dreamed of receiving. Such foolishness, those dreams, she had thought at the time. And yet, as if by magic, the man she had loved all those years ago, was writing to her as if their affair had happened only yesterday. He was in the north of England and wanted to know if he could come and see her.

She read and re-read his words, already knowing them off by heart.

Frances jumped at the sound of sharp rapping on the front door. She got up, quickly mopping her eyes and hurried to see who it was, for she didn’t receive visitors very often.

‘Mary!’ she exclaimed on opening the door and seeing the young woman, resplendant in her FANY uniform, standing there. ‘Why, Mary! How wonderful to see you. Do come in, my dear.’

Mary smiled broadly and stepped inside. Frances showed her into her cosy sitting-room, frowning slightly at the girl’s demeanour. It had always bothered the rather straight-laced Miss Croft that Mary West could always dredge up a smile, no matter what had happened to her. Here she was, having experienced the atrocities of war at first hand, seen close friends injured and killed and, rumour had it, lost the man she loved, and there was still enough joy inside her spilling out like a ray of blessed sunshine.

‘How are you, Miss Croft?’ Mary asked, thrusting a bunch of glowing marigolds into her hands. ‘These are for you. My dad grew them in the allotments to keep insects away from his vegetables.’

‘Oh, how lovely, but to what do I owe this pleasure, Mary? The last time I saw your mother you were still in London.’

Mary nodded. ‘Yes, she said you were in the habit of calling in. That was kind of you. Mam really appreciated your visits.’

‘So … the war’s over, Mary.’ Frances indicated that they should sit down. ‘And thank God for that.’

‘Yes. I came back from London as soon as I could. It’s a madhouse down there, as you can imagine. Anyway, being a Geordie, I wanted to be here for the Victory parade at St James’s Park.’

‘Ah, yes. It will be an emotional occasion.’

‘More than you know, Miss Croft. Anne’s mother has been in touch with me. She has asked for our help. Me and Iris Morrison and … and you, if you’re agreeable.’

‘Our help? In what way?’

And when Mary explained the problem, Frances knew immediately that her days with the FANYs were still not quite at an end. Not yet. There was one very important job she had to see through before she could get on with the rest of her life, wherever that would take her.

It was the 14 May, 1945 and it was a day that would remain embedded in the hearts of the people, not least the people of the north-east. A huge Victory parade was due to take place in the football stadium of Newcastle United. St James’s had never witnessed such a gathering, nor such a
spectacular
performance. The parade was to be made up of elements of the armed forces and civilian organizations, marching to massed bands. The atmosphere for miles around was electric as spectators and participants flocked to the venue.

‘We’ll never make it,’ Iris said as she and Mary sat in the back of Miss Croft’s old black Humber car, heading for Central Station in Newcastle. There was a tight jam of traffic at a standstill on the Tyne Bridge, every vehicle packed with eager or anxious faces, all wanting to be in on the grand finale.

‘We’ve got to make it,’ Mary told her calmly and caught sight of Miss Croft’s worried eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘I promised Anne’s mother that we would do this for her. We started out together, you and Anne and me … and Effie, of course.’

‘Poor Effie!’ Iris let out a heartfelt groan.

‘I’m not going to give up on any of us, do you hear, Iris?’ Mary’s hands were clenched into sweating fists, her nails digging into her palms. ‘Remember what Effie used to call us when we were together? The Glory Girls of Felling.’

‘Oh, goodness, yes, though she sometimes changed it to the Gory Girls to fit the occasion. Oh, don’t remind me. I couldn’t go through all that again.’

Mary fell silent. Like Iris, she wouldn’t want to repeat the last few years, but one thing was sure. During that long expanse of time she had felt more alive than ever before. Every last blood corpuscle had shouted out, every nerve had given its last to do something worthwhile. She wouldn’t say that it had been easy. Sometimes, she had wanted to sink down in the mud and the bloody gore and cry her heart out. She had cried over lost friends. But of all the experiences she had suffered during the entirety of the war, walking over the Pyrenees into Spain, leaving Alex behind had been the hardest to bear.

Mary lowered her head now as tears sprang to her eyes, which they did each time she thought of Alex. She rubbed her cheek against the silky coat of Chiffon, Alex’s little dog, who was sitting on her lap. She had brought the dog back to England with her and they had become
inseparable
companions.

Chiffon stirred, lifted her head and licked at the salty tears that were falling on her from above. The dog had been as restless as Mary during the last few days, the two of them sharing the excitement, the unbearable anticipation of this special day.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mary said, a croak in her voice. ‘This is no time to give way, is it?’

She felt a squeeze from Iris’s hand and knew that Iris was feeling every bit as emotional as she was. There had been no news of Gaston Frébus, and the likelihood of there ever being any was, Iris had long ago accepted, extremely thin. She had been bravely philosophic about it. It was, she had told Mary, the last time they spoke of Gaston, never meant to be. Their worlds were too far apart.

‘This is useless!’ Miss Croft banged her hands on the steering wheel. ‘I’m afraid we’re not going to be in time to meet that train, girls.’

‘Damn!’ Mary looked out of the window and saw how impossible it was to move the car inch by agonizing inch across the bridge. ‘Look, even if we miss the parade, I’m not going to miss that train. Come on, Iris. Get out.’

‘What are you doing?’ Miss Croft asked, her thin eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

‘We’ll run ahead on foot. It’s not that far. Just to the end of the bridge and turn left into Neville Street.’

‘Well,’ Iris groused as she clambered out on to the pavement. ‘At least there aren’t any land-mines to worry about this time. Come on. Race you, Mary!’

Mary started to tell Chiffon to stay behind in the car, but the little dog,
seeing her beloved mistress departing in such a hurry, could not bear to be left behind. She gave her customary, high-pitched yip! and leapt out after Mary, running alongside her and in and out of the legs of other hurrying pedestrians, a doggy smile of excitement on her face and the tip of a tiny pink tongue characteristically curled up over her black button nose.

They made the station just in time to see the King’s Cross train wheeze into its platform with a puff of steam and sulphurous smoke. The
platform
itself was packed with people, most of them families meeting husbands, brothers, sons. Out of every train window, pale-faced, weary servicemen hung out, grinning, waving, shouting. As the train came to rest with a huge breathy sigh, doors opened and the servicemen tumbled out amidst kit bags, crutches and flags.

‘Oh, God, how will we find them in this lot?’ Iris said as the girls fought their way through the milling crowd.

‘That’s not as difficult as you might think, Iris,’ said Mary, pointing. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s Mrs Beasley’s best Sunday hat over there.’

The hat in question was indeed spectacular with its fuchsia silk cabbage roses and purple ostrich feather. And Mrs Beasley was tall, so even in a crowd of men that ridiculous hat could be seen bobbing along from quite a distance.

The departing passengers were thinning out, having been met and fussed over by those waiting on the platform. Mary held her ground, Iris pressed close by her side, neither of them really knowing what to expect. Mrs Beasley had told them that Anne had eventually been released from hospital, where she had been in the psychiatric ward for some time, having been liberated from a prisoner-of-war camp.

Brigadier Beasley had died two years previously, leading his unit into a heavily mined battlefield. Mary often wondered how Anne’s mother had coped until now, but the woman had shown considerable courage and strength. She had, however, pleaded with Mary to meet the train that morning.

‘Anne is very depressed, you see,’ she had told Mary. ‘She thinks
everyone
will see her as a traitor, especially her friends in the FANYs. It will mean so much to her if you are there and … well, you know …’

Mrs Beasley had thrown up her hands, unable to find the words, but Mary had understood. If anything, Anne had suffered more than any of them. She had been hurt physically and mentally. She had lost the man she loved, been marked as a traitor by people who did not understand the truth of the situation. She had been interned and could so easily have lost
her life, but she had survived it all. Most of all, she had risked her own safety to save others, Mary included. The least Mary could do now was to help make things easier for her from now on.

Standing on tiptoe, Mary looked over the heads of the remaining servicemen who straggled behind the main group of passengers. And then she saw her. Anne, with close-cropped hair glinting in the rays of light filtering down from above. Her mother had her clasped firmly to her side, talking to her all the while, urging her on.

‘Here!’ Mary shouted at last, when the two women were near enough. ‘Here we are!’

Mrs Beasley looked enormously relieved, but Anne’s face seemed to grow even paler, if that were possible. Her slow steps faltered and her mouth set itself into a grim, thin line.

‘Oh, you made it,’ Mrs Beasley breathed, her eyes welling up with tears and she sniffed into her hankie. ‘I didn’t think … oh, thank you for coming. Isn’t this wonderful, Anne? Your friends have come to meet you, darling.’

Mary saw Anne’s throat contract as she swallowed hard. She looked painfully thin, like a skeleton covered in faded parchment. The eyes that rose to meet hers were sunken into purplish hollows and seemed
colourless
, without life.

Squaring their shoulders and tugging at the hems of their FANY tunics, Mary and Iris executed a smart salute, their faces cracking into beaming smiles of welcome.

‘It’s so good to see you, Anne,’ Mary said, reaching out and hugging the girl tightly, but there was no noticeable response and when Iris did the same, all there was was a slight frown creasing Anne’s forehead, which still bore a scar from her ordeal in France. It would be a constant reminder to her for the rest of her days.

The small group of women stood there staring at one another, in suspended animation. None of them knew what to say, what to do. In the end, it was Anne herself who made the first move. Her chest heaved and she turned to her mother.

‘Please … I want to go home …’

‘She’s very tired, you see,’ Mrs Beasley said by way of excuse.

‘So are all these other soldiers and airmen and sailors,’ Mary said, trying to keep a level tone in her voice and she saw Anne flinch, saw the girl’s jaw set as she clenched her teeth. ‘But they all have one last duty and they’re proud to carry it out … and you will be too, Anne. Come on …’

‘What…?’

‘We’re all taking part in the Victory parade up at St James’s,’ Mary told her. ‘And we’re not doing it without you, because you helped win this damned war, Anne Beasley, as much as any one of us. And if Effie were here, she would probably tell you … in her words … that we’re
bliddy
proud of you, girl.’