The Glory Girls (29 page)

They pushed through the crowd, Mary waving and trying to attract Miss Croft’s attention. At last the older woman saw them and spoke quickly to her companion. He nodded genially and led Miss Croft forward most carefully, his hand placed protectively at her back.

‘Mary, my dear! And Dr Craig. I’m so glad to see you here today.’ She
turned to the man by her side and her expression softened to one of pure love as she introduced him. ‘This is my good friend, Mr Temple. We haven’t met for many years, but now … today … he has come to see me and …’

‘Mr Temple?’ Alex said, shaking the man’s proffered hand. ‘Mr John Temple?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Have we met before?’

Alex shook his head. ‘No, but I think I saw your name once … forgive me, Miss Croft, but I’m afraid I was guilty of reading one of your private letters … that day I visited you, at the beginning of the war.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes.’ Now it was Miss Croft’s turn to blush and she turned a bashful smile on John Temple. ‘That must have been your goodbye letter to me, John.’

‘You kept it?’

‘Kept it and cried over it … many times.’

John Temple looked uncomfortable for a moment, then he shook his head and patted Miss Croft’s hand, which was resting on his arm.

‘War changes us so much, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘It changes people, and it changes their lives. When I wrote that letter, Fanny, I didn’t know how much things had changed. I found out too late, but I still couldn’t do anything about it.’

‘Anyone who’s been through a war would understand that,’ Alex said.

‘Didn’t you ever get in touch with Miss Croft later?’ Mary asked and saw the older man’s wistful smile.

‘No, my dear, and not a day passed that I didn’t regret my silence, but pride and guilt rule our lives to a great extent. I tried to stay true to my vows, true to my beliefs. However, I do intend to make up for lost time, don’t I, Fanny?’

Frances Croft dimpled and gave a girlish laugh. ‘He’s even more romantic than I took him to be when we met in that horrid old field hospital more than a quarter of a century ago.’

‘And you love every minute of it, or am I very much mistaken?’

Miss Croft shook her head and laughed again, embarrassed, but clearly enjoying the occasion. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you two are … well, you know … going out together?’

Now it was Mary and Alex’s turn to laugh. Mary thought how easy everyone found laughter suddenly, after all the years of hardship and worry and being serious.

‘Alex and I …’ she hesitated and glanced up at Alex as if begging confirmation of what she was about to announce. ‘We’re going to be
married just as soon as it can be arranged, Miss Croft, and we want you to come to the wedding. You will, won’t you? And … and Mr Temple too, of course.’

Frances Croft clasped her hands together under her chin and looked delighted.

‘Oh, Mary, I’m so pleased. You know, I felt so guilty about putting your name forward to the SOE. I tried to get you withdrawn, but … oh, my dear, do forgive me. It must have been horrendous for you.’

Mary shook her head and smiled kindly. ‘No more so than for any of the others,’ she said. ‘I don’t regret any of my time spent over the last five years. I’d like to think that I’ve come out of it a better person. I didn’t do so much, really, but I did my best.’

‘That’s all any of us can do,’ Alex said, the fingers of one hand ruffling her hair as he pressed a kiss on her forehead.

They were standing there, regarding one another when someone hailed them and Mary looked up to see Iris pushing her way through the crowd. She held one arm aloft and a sheet of paper fluttered in her grip.

‘Mary!’ She came to a breathless halt, acknowledging them all with a swift glance before pushing the letter in Mary’s hands. ‘You won’t believe it, but I’ve heard from Gaston!’

‘Gaston! He’s alive?’

‘He was when he wrote this,’ Iris prodded the paper; her eyes welling with tears and she sucked in a sobbing breath of air. ‘Oh, Mary, it is from him, isn’t it?’

The letter was cryptically written in a bold, almost indecipherable hand and it was unsigned, but Mary was more than convinced that Gaston Frébus had written it.

‘Maybe one day I’ll see him again, Mary,’ Iris said. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Anything’s possible, Iris,’ Mary told her. ‘Especially when you’re Gaston Frébus, it seems to me.’

She didn’t like to dampen her friend’s hopes by suggesting that this was perhaps the last they would ever hear of the man known in the High Pyrenees as
Le Loup
. Men like Gaston tended to disappear, leap-frogging
from one identity to another, one life to the next. They thrived on danger. An ordinary life would hold no appeal.

‘Yes, my dear,’ said Miss Croft with a swift glance at her companion. ‘Just look at me. I gave John up many years ago – at the end of the First World War – and here we are planning a new life together. The same could happen for you and your Frenchman. Who knows?’

Yes, Mary thought, a little sadly. Perhaps it was best that Iris did not know the truth, whatever that truth was. Not yet awhile. Perhaps in a year or two, she might not be so vulnerable, not so much in love with her French Resistance fighter. Time might have faded the memory of him. She might meet a nice young man here in her own home town, settle down and be happy.

‘Let’s go, Mary,’ Alex said in her ear, tugging at her arm; she had sensed that he was somewhat twitchy and she thought she knew what the problem was, for her own feelings were running along the same lines.

They said their goodbyes, promising to be in touch and suddenly Mary was being almost dragged along the street. In his impatience, Alex’s limp from the badly broken ankle he had suffered just before he was captured, and which had not healed properly, seemed much less noticeable.

‘Alex, not so fast,’ she complained breathlessly as they left the mêlée and started down an almost deserted lane. ‘Where are we going at such a speed?’

‘It’s no good, Mary,’ Alex gasped, stopping before a garden gate. He opened it and almost pushed Mary up the path to the dull brown painted front door. ‘If I can’t have a few minutes alone with you I’m going to explode.’

There had been no time since his return for them to be completely alone, apart from a stroll through the town, hand in hand and a quick, furtive embrace behind trees and corners, not wishing to share their
feelings
with the curious eyes of the rest of the world.

She heard the jingle of keys and saw that his hand shook slightly as he fitted one in the lock. It turned easily and he pushed open the door.

‘Alex?’

‘Mary, please don’t feel badly about this. It was never really Fiona’s home. She never put her mark on it, like most women would. I swore I would never bring you here, but I can’t stand sharing you with so many people. I hate the darting into doorways so nobody can see us.’

‘What are you trying to tell me, Alex?’ Mary smiled with infinite wisdom, but she wanted to hear him say the words.

‘I want to make love to you, Mary,’ he said quite openly, his eyes fixed
on hers so intensely that she felt hypnotized. But she was not afraid. She would never be afraid of Alex. ‘Do you mind?’

‘What would you do if I said no?’ She was playing cruelly with his emotions, but she needed to spin out this precious moment. She didn’t think for one moment that his dead wife might be haunting the walls of this house, waiting to spoil their new-found happiness. Nothing could ever do that, ever again.

‘I might beat my chest, fall prostrate at your feet and weep more tears than an Indian monsoon,’ Alex said, an amused twitch lifting the corner of his mouth. ‘It would not be a pretty sight, I assure you.’

He was drawing her inside, closing the door behind them, leading her into a plain, almost bare living-room. She took the room in with one swift glance and felt relieved. There was no visible sign of Fiona Craig. Not an ornament, not a photograph nor a relic of any kind of the marriage that should never have been. Either he had removed them, or they had never existed in the first place.

The house was cold and smelled slightly damp, but it hadn’t been lived in for a long time. Mary shivered and Alex took off his jacket and draped it about her shoulders.

‘I’m afraid the gas has been switched off, so we haven’t any light,’ he said, looking bleakly at the two gas-mantels on either side of the
fireplace
. ‘However, there should still be some coal in the cellar. There’s an open grate in the front room. We’ll soon get the place warmed up, unless … is it too soon, Mary? Am I rushing you? You must say.’

She smiled up at him, then reached up and hooked her hands behind his neck, not caring that his jacket slipped to the floor or that she was pimply with the cold. 

‘I don’t think six years is rushing things, Alex,’ she told him. ‘And if you don’t make love to me soon I will die right here in your arms and you’ll never forgive yourself.’

Alex wasted no more time. He made sure, during the blissful hours that followed, that there would be nothing to forgive himself for. And for that short time at least all memories of the war, not to say the whole of the outside world, ceased to exist. There was only the love of two people, who had always been meant for each other, melding together as one.

T
HE
cemetery was surprisingly full on the day in 2007 when Felling buried one of its best-loved inhabitants. Although she had outlived most, if not all, of her friends and contemporaries, there were few people who did not know or have great respect for Mary West Craig.

There were uniformed representatives from the Army and from the FANYs, but one uniformed figure in particular stood out, proud and erect and, everybody thought, might well have been Mary herself stepping out from the past, were it not for the young woman’s bright, Titian-red hair.

‘Nearly over.’ Matt Feathers squeezed her hand as he glanced
surreptitiously
at his watch for the umpteenth time.

Sarah Craig smiled patiently. Matt was a nice young man and she loved him dearly, but she didn’t think he would ever understand her link with the past, and in particular with her grandmother.

‘That wonderful woman is my hero,’ she told him with a shake of her tawny mane. Rain droplets were captured in the natural curls that
glistened
there like diamonds on fire as they were now touched by the sun. ‘I don’t care how long it takes to wave her off to her next big adventure.’

‘What is it with you Craig women?’ Matt frowned at her and she wished he wouldn’t, because he looked far nicer when he smiled. ‘You’re never happy unless you’re dashing off in search of excitement and danger. I mean to say, why can’t you see some glory in settling down to marriage and raising a family? Preferably with me.’

Sarah buried her face in the bunch of handpicked marigolds she was clutching. She had picked them from her father’s garden at the last minute. Matt had wanted to know why she wasn’t spending money on a proper wreath or bouquet, if she thought so much of the old lady. But money didn’t come into it. Marigolds were Mary’s favourite flowers. She had planted them herself all around her own private seat on the terrace of the nursing home where she had spent her last few happy years.

As for marrying Matt, Sarah wasn’t at all sure about that. There was plenty of time and they both had careers to sort out. They had met at medical school. Sarah had quickly swapped people for animals and was now a fully qualified vet looking for her own practice. She had joined the FANYs five years ago, following in the footsteps of Mary, not to mention her own mother.

‘Your grandfather would be so proud of you,’ Mary had told Sarah, then added the words that were so familiar to all the family: ‘Alex was such a brave man. He saved a lot of lives, you know, back in the war. We must never forget him.’

Mary never seemed to see that she had been every bit as courageous as her dear husband, whom she had worshipped with the kind of fierce love that nothing could ever undermine. They had been everybody’s idea of the ideal couple, right up until his death. He had died peacefully,
holding
Mary’s hand, while the family celebrated the birth of the new
millennium
, a contented smile on his still handsome face.

‘I’m not sure that old Mary West Craig approved of me as husband material for her precious granddaughter,’ Matt muttered in Sarah’s ear as mourners lined up to throw their flowers on to the coffin, which had just been lowered into the grave.

Sarah gave a small laugh. ‘Well, you should never have made that remark about the FANY being a girl soldier’s playgroup. Mary was fiercely protective about the Corps and very proud of the part she played during the war. It’s a pity that she’s going to miss the grand centenary proceedings this year, though. I was really looking forward to taking her down to London with me.’

‘You still can, in a way,’ Matt said, digging in his pocket and drawing out a somewhat shabby piece of material.

‘Ssh!’

The hiss came from behind them and Sarah felt her mother’s fingers digging her in the back.

‘Sorry!’ she whispered back, but she couldn’t help feeling that Mary would never have wanted a sombre funeral. In fact, the old lady had taken Sarah to one side not so long ago and told her some remarkable things:
I want singing and dancing when I’m gone, do you hear me, girl? Tell all of them to wear red. I hate black. It’s so funereal
.’

Sarah had passed the word, but of course, everyone had ignored her. Old-fashioned respect and tradition dictated that they wear black and appear mournful. Only Sarah herself broke with tradition. She wore her FANY uniform with a black armband and, underneath it, some sexy red
underwear. Mary West Craig would have appreciated that.

‘What have you got there?’ She turned back to Matt and took the morsel of cloth from his hand. ‘Oh, it’s an old FANY badge. Where on earth did you get that?’

‘When they called me in to see Mary she gave it to me. It was cut from her original uniform. Nothing left of the uniform itself, she told me, but she had saved that and she wanted you to have it. Only, I forgot all about it until now.’

‘Is that what you meant by still being able to take her to London for the centenary?’

‘Yes.’

Sarah drew in a deep breath and blew him a silent kiss as her mother gave her another push from behind and they all advanced until they were standing there in a circle around the grave. All the family together on one rare occasion. And Matt, who was proving to be more sensitive than she had suspected.

‘I think I might marry you after all, Dr Feathers,’ she whispered in his ear, then threw her bouquet of flowers in a golden shower over the coffin, but retaining four of the blooms.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Matt gave a lopsided smile. ‘But I hope you’re not going to continue running off every time the FANYs press the
emergency
button.’

Sarah knew what he meant. During her service in the FANYs she had been posted to every disaster zone imaginable. She had spent some weeks with her unit in Sri Lanka helping to track down missing relatives
following
the tsunami, which struck on Boxing Day 2004. More recently, she had been involved in the London bombings, which had come very close to the work her grandmother had done sixty years ago.

‘That depends on how many children we have.’ She grinned, warming to the thought of settling down to family life.

‘I did actually like the old girl, you know,’ Matt said. ‘If you’re only half the woman she was I’ll never be good enough for you.’

‘Nonsense!’ Sarah choked up as the gravediggers moved into position and began shovelling the loose soil over her beloved grandmother’s coffin. ‘’Bye, Mary. I’ll try to make you proud of me … you and Gramps.’

She kissed her fingers and touched them to the polished granite stone that bore her grandfather’s name, Dr Alexander Craig. Sarah liked to think that the loving couple had been reunited at last and were on the “other side” somewhere, still gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes, still holding hands.

‘She was quite a character, was Mary,’ Matt said.

‘She might have been old and fragile in body at the end, Matt, but she had the brain of a young and vibrant woman,’ Mary said. ‘I think, really, she was more than ready to go, but was holding on. Did I ever tell you, Matt, what her dying words were? She said
I can go happily now,
knowing
that I’ll live on through you, Sarah.
’ Then she turned her head as if someone had just walked into the room, but there was no one there that I could see.
Alex!
she said, and smiled so broadly I thought she might live for ever, but she didn’t. She went …
pouf!
… and was gone in an instant. It wasn’t sad, not really. She must have really been happy with Gramps. They were married for over fifty years, you know.’

Matt put an arm about Sarah’s shoulders and hugged her to him.

‘I hope we can do as well,’ he said.

They were the last mourners left standing at the graveside. Sarah was reluctant to leave. She wished Mary were still there, as she had been all her life, calm, patient, full of wisdom. Sarah had been able to go to her with all her problems and Mary always had a quiet word of advice. She was never negative, always looked on the bright side of things and found good in everything and everybody, no matter what.

She had supported Sarah’s decision to become a FANY, even when the rest of the family had tried to dissuade her. Like Mary, Sarah was blessed with stubborn determination and usually went her own way. She had never regretted the choice.

Just like Mary during the war, she had handed out blankets and spare clothing. She had made numerous cups of tea, driven ambulances and so much more. Sometimes the tasks were arduous, sometimes horrific, yet she always came out a stronger, better person at the end. And she never stopped thanking Mary West Craig for passing on her indomitable genes that made it all possible. How that great old lady would be missed.

‘Excuse me, but are you related to Mary Craig, the old lady they just buried?’

The crunch of gravel on the path and the rather gruff voice had
startled
them. Sarah looked up to see a pocket-sized figure with black,
shoulder
length hair and dark, curious eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mary was my grandmother. Did you know her?’

‘Aye, I did,’ the girl nodded. ‘Well, no, not really, but me mam told me all about her. Her aunty Effie and your grandma were good friends it seems.’

‘Oh, yes, Mary used to talk about Effie. And the others. There was a regular group of them. Here you are. See, they even managed to get
buried side by side. Mary was the last to go.’

‘Gawd, they must have been quite something.’

Next to Mary’s grave was a stone dedicated to one Euphemia Donaldson, aged eighty; next came Iris Coldwell, née Morrison, aged seventy-nine, beloved wife, mother and grandmother. And on the other side of Mary, lay Anne Beasley, aged seventy-three.

‘Aunty Effie lost both her legs in the war, but it didn’t keep her down. She never married, of course. They say her sharp tongue used to keep the men at bay more than those false legs of hers. She used to tell everybody that being a FANY was better than sex any day, but the way she looked I doubt she’d have the choice, God love her. Lord knows, I can’t talk. They say I’m the spittin’ image of her.’

‘They were known as the Glory Girls after the war,’ Sarah muttered and saw the girl’s sharp stare. ‘I bet they could tell some stories between them.’

‘Aye. Gawd, I’d give anything to have been one of them, wouldn’t you? Oh! Bloody hell, sorry, I’ve just seen the uniform. So, you
are
one of them, eh?’

Sarah laughed lightly. The girl was rough around the edges, but there was something very likeable about her.

‘Yes, I am, and you could be too, if you’re interested.’

‘Nah! They wouldn’t want the likes of me in that posh set-up.’

‘What makes me think that your Aunty Effie would want to hear you talk like that?’

The girl frowned and knelt by her great-aunt’s grave. She pulled up a few weeds and stuck a bunch of daffodils in an old cracked earthenware vase.

‘Is it difficult to get in?’ she asked, keeping her head lowered and doing her best to disguise the interest in her voice. ‘I mean, it’s got to be better than what I do, laying out folks for a living.’

‘You’re an undertaker?’

‘Aye. Just like me aunty Effie was all those years ago. It’s the family business, you see, but I’d give me eye-teeth to get out and see a bit of life, instead of spending me days keeping dead bodies company.’

Matt was again consulting his watch and itching to get away. Sarah smiled and nodded to him, signalling that she was coming, but first she delved into her bag and produced a business card.

‘Here, take this. I’ll be going back to London soon to help with the centenary plans, but if you’re interested in joining the FANYs, give me a ring or come and see me.’

‘Aye, well … mebbe.’

‘By the way, what’s your name?’

The question produced what was probably a rare smile on the serious face of Euphemia Donaldson’s great-niece.

‘Oh, I got the works when I was born, I did, seeing as how aunty Effie was still alive and kicking. Go on, guess.’ She looked at Sarah from beneath dark, heavy brows; Sarah shook her head and the girl took a deep breath before reciting: ‘Mary Effie Iris Anne Donaldson, that’s what. Only people call me Nora.’

‘Well … er … Nora . .’ Sarah said, wondering why ‘Nora’. ‘That’s quite a name, and one to be proud of.’

‘Aye, it is an’ all. Thanks.’

Sarah smiled, nodded, then regarded her watch. She was anxious to get back to her parent’s home where the funeral tea was being held. ‘Well, as I say, get in touch.’

She placed a flower on the graves of Iris, Anne and Effie, and hurried after Matt. Nora Donaldson stood by the graves, watching her go, a strange, excited fluttering inside her. She had been feeling down lately and, when that happened, the only place she liked to be was here,
tending
old Aunty Effie’s grave. It was a coincidence, meeting Mary West’s granddaughter like that. She seemed an all right kind of girl, too.

‘So, Effie, what do ye think, eh? Me, a FANY? What a laugh. Bloody Nora! I wonder if they’ll let me keep me Harley Davidson? I bet you’d have loved a ride on that, eh?’

She stood back from the row of graves, pulled herself up to her full five feet nothing, and gave a smart salute. A slow smile spread across her face as she lowered her arm, then punched the air.

‘
Yes
!’ she shouted, and was sure she heard a satisfying response from the Glory Girls.