A Family's Duty (19 page)

‘It doesn’t have to mean that there’ll be no more Saturday nights at Everham Town Hall, Doreen,’ she said. ‘There’s still a few GIs waiting to be told where they’re going. Come along and enjoy yourself!’

When Doreen went to the next dance a cheerful GI called Chuck, who said he was a ‘buddy’ of Gus’s, came up to ask her for a dance, and had nylon stockings and Hershey chocolate bars to offer in return for a few goodnight kisses. Against her better judgement Doreen left the Town Hall with him, but soon decided that she wouldn’t see him again. She felt that she had betrayed Gus, and was alarmed at the liberties that his buddy took, laughing at her hesitation.

‘This is war, kid, and a guy has right to have a bit of a good time before he goes off to follow the flag.’

So she had let him kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and pulling up her dress.

At Yeomans’ Farm the Italians were resigned to their fate for the duration of the war. Letters from home were scanty, as only a few of them got through. Envelopes marked ‘Sweden’
were usually from home, and the news was uniformly bad. Organisation by both national and local authorities was chaotic, and families left without breadwinners soon fell into poverty, added to which there was the constant fear of invasion. In September came terrible news of a ship carrying eighteen hundred Italian prisoners, torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat, mistaken for a troopship, and there was no information about the names of the lost men.

On her latest visit to Yeomans’ Farm Rebecca found the prisoners in a state of helpless grief and anger. She had by now learnt enough Italian to understand their feelings, though she felt she could do nothing to help. Except that Stefano was pleading with her …

‘Signorina Neville, we have no church, no priest to hear our confessions or give us the Sacrament of the Body and Blood. How far is the Roman Catholic Church?’

Rebecca reproached herself for not attending to this matter earlier. The Reverend Alan Kennard had visited them, but he was no substitute for a Catholic priest, and got the impression that most of these men paid little regard to their religion anyway, but in their present affliction a great cloud of despair seemed to hang over them, and they needed the consolations of their church. A young man who looked scarcely twenty came forward and showed Rebecca a creased snapshot of an equally young woman.

‘Ecco la mia promessa sposa. Si chiami Giovanna.’

‘Your – er, your fiancée?’ Rebecca said with a smile. ‘What a very pretty girl!’

Paolo translated for her, and the young man sadly agreed.
‘Si, e molto bella.’
Tears came to his eyes.
‘Sono triste senza di lei!’

‘Yes, Guiseppe very sad without her, Signorina.’

At that moment Rebecca knew that she
must
find a way to solve this problem; she knew that there was a convent situated on the main London Road out of Everham, at least six miles from North Camp. It would be quite impossible for these men to get there, even if there was transport available, for they were prisoners and therefore enemies of Britain.

‘Leave it with me, Stefano, and I may be able to arrange for a priest to visit you here.’

There were murmurs of appreciation as she left, determined to keep her promise.

The telephone directory yielded two numbers for the Convent of Our Lady of Pity: one for the church and one for the convent school. When Rebecca phoned the latter as soon as she got home, she was answered by the Mother Superior who told her there was no resident priest.

‘Father Flanagan comes to us every day to take Masses in the church and visit the pupils in the classrooms,’ she said. ‘He’s quite elderly and doesn’t drive, so I don’t know if he would be able to come over to – where did you say?’

‘Yeomans’ Farm, er, Mother,’ said Rebecca, uncertain of the correct form of address. ‘It’s at North Camp, about six miles from you, the other side of Everham. The men are living at a prison camp there.’

‘Are you a Catholic?’ asked the nun cautiously, and Rebecca was tempted to ask what that had to do with anything, but she restrained herself, and replied, ‘No, but these men are, and need the Sacraments of the church brought to them.’

‘I’ll pass the message on to Father Flanagan when he comes to celebrate the 10 a.m. Mass tomorrow, then.’

‘May I ask for his telephone number?’ asked Rebecca,
patient but persistent. ‘If necessary I could come over and fetch him in my car.’

‘I don’t think I should disclose Father’s telephone number to a stranger. Did you say these men were prisoners?’

‘Italian prisoners of war
, and I’m surprised they haven’t been contacted by their church,’ replied Rebecca impatiently. ‘Who is the Bishop of your Diocese?’

‘Oh, there’s no need to bother the Bishop,’ came the hasty reply. ‘When Father arrives tomorrow, I’ll ask him to telephone you if you’ll give me your number.’

‘Very well,’ said Rebecca. ‘I shall be here until eleven, and if I haven’t heard from this elderly priest by then, I shall telephone you again, right?’ She felt that she had made her point and intended to pursue it.

The next day the telephone rang well before ten o’clock, and in answer to her cool ‘Hello, Hassett Manor’, a cheerful Irish male voice greeted her.

‘Good morning! Is that Miss Neville I’m hearing?’

‘Yes. Are you Father Flanagan?’

‘At your service, milady! And how sorry I am that your prisoners have been so overlooked. The Home Office doesn’t always bother to keep the church informed of these things. Look, I’ll send Father Orlando over – he’s from Turin, so officially an enemy, but no language barrier. How would that suit you?’

‘How soon?’

‘This afternoon, if that’s convenient. Did you say that this farm is near North Camp?’

‘Oh, yes,
yes
, Father Flanagan!’ Rebecca sighed with relief, picturing the faces of Paolo and his fellow internees when this Italian-speaking priest arrived with the Sacraments.

There was one more hurdle to be overcome. She went to inform Billy Yeomans, and as expected he was uncooperative.

‘Bloody cheek! I won’t open my farm to any holy Joe who hasn’t even bothered to ask my permission. Lazy bastards, any excuse to stop working!’

‘Yet I’m sure you’ll allow this priest to visit these men and bring them the comfort of their church, Yeomans,’ said Rebecca levelly. ‘Better a clergyman than a police inspector coming to investigate black market dealings.’ She turned her back on him and walked away, leaving him to ponder over the choice. Bitch, he thought. She’s got me over a barrel!

The smiling eyes of the prisoners were ample reward for her efforts, especially when Stefano stepped forward, took hold of her hand and kissed it reverently.

‘You are an angel, Signorina Neville.’

‘No angel, Signor Ghiberti, only a friend.’

Three years into the war, there was a change of attitude towards it. At first there had been a sense of excitement and adventure, especially among the young. ‘Ol’ ’Itler’ and his Nazi henchmen were going to be thoroughly walloped and the washing hung out on the Siegfried line, but those illusions had now been shattered; life was grimmer and harsher, food and fuel were becoming scarcer – and yet on the whole the people were defiant, grimly resolved to keep going until the very end.

‘Let ’em bomb us all they like, we’ll bomb ’em back, Tom,’ said Eddie Cooper in the Tradesmen’s Arms, ‘that man won’t ever break us.’

‘Yeah, but it’s our boys, isn’t it,’ returned Tom Munday. ‘What with our ships being sunk by U-boats, and our men sweating it out in the desert, like my grandson Paul, the
Yanks out in the Far East, finding those little yellow bastards more cunning than they thought, and God help the prisoners, having to work for the Japs.’

To which Eddie had no answer, and there was a gloomy grunt of assent from the other regulars. September passed with no news, and then in late October word came through that General Montgomery had scored a triumph: Rommel’s advance had been halted at last. In every home in North Camp people listened daily to their wireless sets, to hear that there had been a terrible battle at a place called El Alamein, and by November Rommel was said to be in full retreat from the Allies, who pursued him with their tanks and army lorries. There was unconcealed excitement in the voices of the newsreaders, and on Sunday the fifteenth of November the church bells rang out all over Great Britain, in celebration of the victory at El Alamein. Isabel Neville held her breath as the Monday went by, and the Tuesday, and then on the Wednesday morning a scribbled envelope marked ‘Cairo’ arrived at Hassett Manor; it was from Paul, a survivor of the battle, sending his love and hoping for a short leave at Christmas or early in the New Year.

Cedric Neville hugged his wife who was sobbing with thankfulness, then opened his arms to include Rebecca and Sally Tanner in a four-way embrace.

‘How shall we celebrate?’ he asked when at last they drew apart.

‘I know what
I
shall do,’ said Isabel, brushing the tears from her cheeks. ‘I shall go to the Ladies’ Make Do and Mend Circle at the Rectory this afternoon, and ask Philip Saville to play “Shenandoah”!’

The news about Paul Storey spread around North Camp in a few hours, but it was soon followed by news of a telegram received at the Rectory. Howard Allingham was among the thirteen and a half thousand men who had fallen at El Alamein. Mr Richardson’s son John was another survivor.

‘Alan, how can I possibly comfort a mother and father who have lost their child?’ Joan Kennard asked her husband, and he could only reply that they must both be there for them.

‘Make them one of your beef casseroles, my love, and a cake – whatever you can rustle up from the rations. I will wait before I speak, and pray with them if I’m allowed.’

When Grace Nuttall realised that Doreen was pregnant, about four months gone, she could not speak or cry; it was as if the calamity had paralysed all sense and feeling. When Jack had been daily risking his life in a Spitfire, firing at Messerschmitts who had fired back until his craft was hit and sent nose-diving into the Thames estuary, causing his face and hands to be hideously burnt, she had suffered daily and nightly anxiety for weeks. When he lay in the Queen Victoria Hospital undergoing several operations and gradually recovering the will to live, her anxiety turned to tentative hope until he was discharged home. His return to the RAF had saddened her, but she had come to accept the permanent change in his life, and that he now seemed to be reasonably content was a cause of thankfulness to her and Rob.

But what had happened to poor, innocent, pliable Doreen was a calamity that Grace tried not to believe at first. But Doreen’s third missed period, combined with her wan appearance and refusal to eat breakfast, forced Grace take her to Dr Stringer’s evening surgery. The junior partner, Dr Lupton, was seeing the patients this evening; he gently questioned tearful Doreen,
and got her to lie down on his couch and put his hands on her tummy, feeling for a healthy swelling above the pubic bone. When he quietly told her mother his diagnosis, Grace had nearly fainted. Doreen’s confession of how she had given in to Gus Rohmer’s so-called ‘buddy’ seemed to exonerate Gus who had left North Camp before what had happened only once with a GI called Chuck who had by now also left.

Her husband and father had talked with Grace, telling her it was not the end of the world, and that many other girls had found themselves in a similar predicament.

‘We’ve got to support our girl all the way through the next five months, and when she’s had it, it can be put up for adoption,’ said Rob, but Grace was unable to discuss the matter. It was not only that Doreen was expecting, but that Grace was being led back into memories suppressed for a quarter of a century; to a room near to Dolly’s Music Hall off Piccadilly; of meetings arranged and money exchanged; of frightened young soldiers on the eve of their departure to the filthy trenches of northern France and Flanders; and of one man in particular, older than the others … she had thought it a nightmare buried in the past, but now the shadows arose and came back to her, whispering, accusing, tormenting. She knew in her heart that Rob was right, a sensible father who had dealt wisely with his injured son; and who now would deal as wisely with their daughter.

‘We’ll have to work out a plan,’ he said. ‘Either she stays at home, or goes to one of those Mother and Baby homes in another part of the country. She’d come back without the baby – that’d be put up for adoption – and then we could all forget about it.’

‘
I
shan’t ever forget it,’ said Grace stonily, for the shadows of the past would never set her free.

It was the last Sunday of November. Paul had written again, and still hoped to get home leave in the New Year. Alan Kennard had taken over all the clerical duties at St Peter’s, and his wife had cooked meals and run errands for the bereaved parents. Alan had prayed with Roland Allingham, but Agnes would not stay in the room. There was no God, she said, and spent hours staring out of a window that looked out over the garden and was safe from prying eyes. Alan Kennard was himself deeply saddened by the death of Howard, a young man who had chosen to confide in him rather than his own father. He wondered how Dora Goddard would take the news; by all accounts she was enjoying life in the ATS in London, where danger was an adventure.

The congregation filed into the pews for Morning Worship. Sir Cedric and Lady Neville were there with Rebecca and Mrs Tanner. There were those who gave thanks for their sons’ preservation and those whose hearts were broken. At almost the last minute the rector arrived without his wife, and joined the choir in procession up the aisle, with Alan at the rear while Philip played a solemn voluntary. Alan smiled reassurance to the rector, and the sympathy of the congregation seemed almost palpable. Isabel Neville caught sight of her sister Grace with Rob, but Doreen and Tom Munday were absent. She made up her mind to go over and speak to them after the service – a gesture prompted by her own happiness.

As the people filed out of the west door, the clouds parted and weak winter sunshine came through, lighting their faces. Isabel whispered to her husband.