Avalanche of Daisies (27 page)

Being back to the old stomach-wrenching fear again after so much joy was very hard to take. But there was a job to do and they got on with it. Brutally.

The first sniper was ridiculously easy to spot. He was up in a tree and they picked him off before he could fire
a shot, watching with gloating satisfaction as he fell. The second only revealed his position when he put
them
under fire and he'd wounded the new recruit before they could flush him out.

After the rattle and terror of their exchange it was suddenly very quiet.

‘Look after Tosher,' the corporal said to Steve. ‘The rest of you follow me. There could be another bugger. Keep yer eyes skinned.'

‘They're in the bleedin' barn,' a weak voice said.

It seemed to be coming from the ditch a few yards ahead of them and it sounded faintly Scottish but they approached it with caution, just the same. The Jerries were up to all sorts of tricks. But no, it was a Scotsman, a great big fellow, patiently lying on his side and pale from loss of blood which was seeping from a wound in his back.

They questioned him quickly and he told them all he knew. ‘Six, with a machine gun and a
panzerfaust
, covering the entrance.' They'd taken him prisoner that morning. Or he thought it was that morning. He was vague about the time. When he'd tried to make a run for it, they'd shot him in the back.

‘Never turn yer back on the bleeders,' he advised, as Steve put a field dressing on his wound. ‘They're nae to be trusted.'

‘I'll remember that,' Steve promised. And did. Long after most of the other events of the day were blurred by fatigue. It seemed typical of the way the Germans were waging this war, setting up concentration camps, shooting people in the back, sending pilotless planes to bomb civilians. Still, he thought, at least we'll soon be dealing with the launch sites, if we keep up this pace.

And, marvellously, they
did
keep it up. By August 15th, they'd reached the river Vie and once across, they had a clear run along the new Route National to another river called the Risle. There they found that all the bridges had been destroyed by the retreating Germans,
which was only to be expected, but the Inniskillings were with them and they discovered a bridge near Montfort and another in a fairly good state at Pont Authou, which was a mile upstream, so by the end of the afternoon, the entire Armoured Brigade was safely across. Then there were only a few miles of rolling countryside between them and the Seine. There were still skirmishes to fight, but there was time to eat and time to sleep. There was even time to write home.

Steve's letters to Barbara were a commentary on the speed of the campaign. By now their progress was so widely reported that he felt he could tell her where he was, if he kept it vaguely general, and what he was doing, if he kept it carefully brief. There were far too many things he couldn't write about, like the bitter street fighting in Lisieux, or the truck that took a direct hit, or the fact that he never passed a day without being afraid, or the fact that he could now kill his enemy without remorse or pity, the way he'd shot that sniper in the tree. I've changed, he thought sadly, as he took up his pen. I'm not the man she married. But he certainly couldn't tell her
that.
All he
could
do was to keep her informed and let her know he was still safe and well. And give her good news whenever he could. As he did that August.

28th August.

We are in the Foret de Bretonne and have reached the Seine. There is a rumour that we have destroyed several of the flying bomb launch sites. Let's hope so. It's too much to hope they'll have stopped but are you noticing a difference?

31st August.

It is pouring with rain but we are still on the move.

7th September.

We have crossed the Belgian frontier and are at rest in a town with a beautiful town hall. Belgian civvies came out in their hundreds to welcome us. The girls were wearing the Belgian national colours, which are red, yellow and black. There was a public lavatory in the square and we all used it. Sheer luxury.

20th September.

Still at rest.

7th October.

In Holland. Very flat polder country. Reminds me of East Anglia. Plenty of food because we have taken a German food depot. You never saw so much meat and butter. No wonder Goering is so fat.

The letters were eagerly awaited in Childeric Road and answered at length. In September Barbara and Betty both wrote to assure him that the buzzbombs were slacking off a bit. They hadn't stopped altogether but at least there were fewer of them. In October Heather wrote to say she was glad they were feeding him properly. But at the end of the month, when he wrote to tell them they were at rest again, he ended his letter with a cheerful PS that unwittingly provoked a storm.

We are billeted with Dutch families, who feed us well and are very good to us. I sleep in a barn with seven others, actually on a bed with a real feather pillow. Positively sybaritic.

The letter arrived on a Thursday morning just after Bob and Barbara had left for work and it put Heather in a bad mood because it was addressed to Barbara and that meant she would have to wait until the evening to know how he was. He did write to her and Bob
occasionally. She had to admit that. But nowhere near often enough. It was usually Barbara who got the letters. And this one would all be read in a rush because it was Thursday and that damned nuisance would be coming. She'd thrown out hint after hint to the stupid girl that going out with another man was no way for her to behave but she hadn't taken the least bit of notice. And now she'd got to wait all day before she could read her own son's letter.

She brooded about it all day, chopping up meat with vicious accuracy, and when she came home and found Barbara sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, it was the first thing she spoke about.

‘You got a letter this morning,' she said. ‘From Steve.' Her voice sounded aggressive but she was too pent up to notice.

‘Yes,' Barbara said easily. ‘I know. It's by the teapot. You can read it if you like.' Actually she'd had two letters that day but she'd only opened Steve's because the other one was from Becky Bosworth and would only be gossip.

Heather took up the letter and read it where she stood. ‘Poor boy!' she said. ‘Look at that! He's grateful to be sleeping in a bed.'

‘I daresay he is,' Barbara said, smiling at the thought of him. ‘He's been out in the fields most nights.'

The smile infuriated Heather. ‘It's nothing to laugh at,' she said hotly.

Her annoyance pleased Barbara. It was a chance to sting her mother-in-law for foolishness. ‘I hain't laughing,' she said. ‘I was smilin'. Thass different.'

Annoyance spilled into hostility. ‘Don't be rude,' Heather said and she spoke as if Barbara were a child.

Now the smile was bold and delighted. ‘That ain't rude. Thass a fact.'

The attack increased. ‘You ought to be sorry he's living in the fields,' Heather said, taking off her coat. ‘Not sitting there gloating.'

‘Gloating? I was
not
gloating.'

‘It's all very well for you, sleeping in a nice warm bed every night, gallivanting about with your fancy man.'

‘Doing what?'

‘You heard me.'

‘I do
not
gallivant. An' he ain't a fancy man. You make it sound disgusting.'

Battle was joined at last. ‘It is disgusting,' Heather said, feeling relieved that it was out in the open. ‘You're a married woman. In case you've forgotten. You got no business going out with other men. You should stay at home like decent women do. Our poor Steve sleeping in the fields and being shot at all the time and you out dancing with every Tom, Dick an' Harry. It is disgusting.'

‘An' I s'pose he'd have a bed provided if I stayed in all the time?' Barbara mocked. ‘The Germans would give in then, would they? I can see it all. Oh, Hitler'll say, we got to stop the war, Barbara's not going out this evening. Get on the blower to ol' Churchill.'

Heather was icy with annoyance. ‘Try not to be stupid,' she said.

‘That ain't stupid,' Barbara told her coolly. ‘Thass logical.'

‘It's stupid. And rude. You've got no respect for your elders, that's your trouble.'

‘An' you're perfect!'

‘At least I don't mess around with other men.'

‘He ain't other men. Thass just squit. I knew him at school. An' if I wants to go out with him, I shall.'

She's gone too far now, Heather thought, and turned for a furious attack. ‘Squit? Squit? What sort a' language is that? You want to watch your tongue.'

Barbara saw that she'd made a mistake but she fought back at once. ‘Thass not “language”. Thass what we say in Norfolk.' And when Heather made a disbelieving grimace. ‘We all say it.'

‘Then perhaps you'd better go back there. Then you can say it all you like. Because I tell you here and now I won't tolerate language like that in
my
house.'

‘Oh I see what this is all about,' Barbara said. ‘You want to get rid of me. Thass what t'is. Don't you think I don' understand you. I may not talk same as you, but I hain't a fool. You've never wanted me here, have you? Never. You never wanted me to marry your son. Thass the truth of it.'

We've gone too far now, Heather thought. But it was too late to retract anything even if she wanted to. And she didn't want to. ‘You're hysterical,' she said. ‘I suggest you go into the bathroom and wash your face and calm down.'

Barbara's temper broke into furious action. She stood up, gathered her letters, glared at her mother-in-law. ‘Thass it!' she cried. ‘I had enough. I'm gettin' out.' And she kicked out of the room, stamped along the corridor and slammed into her bedroom. She'd pack up and go. She wouldn't stay in this rotten house to be insulted, not for another minute.

It wasn't until the bag was packed that she looked at the clock and realised that Victor was due to arrive in less than five minutes. Well all the better, she thought. He can drive me away. And she put her letters in her coat pocket and went down to wait for him on the doorstep. There was just time to open Becky's letter and read it before he arrived.

It was short and rather odd.

‘
I thought you ought to know. Your Ma she say not to tell you. You gone your own way she say. I don't know what your Pa say. He don't speak of it. The boys are very upset.'
Oh God, something awful's happened. ‘
The funeral is on Friday this week.'
But thass tomorrow. Whose funeral? Please God don't let it be Norman. ‘
They brought his body home Saturday
.' Becky, for Christ's sake! Whose body? ‘
I thought you ought to know, being you can't let your own brother go to his
grave an' you not there. I am so sorry to tell you this. All my love, Aunt Becky.'

The shock of the news was so dreadful that it made her shake and she had to lean on the gatepost for support. She could feel the colour draining from her face. He couldn't be dead. Not Norman. He was so strong and such a good swimmer. Everybody said so. They'd made jokes about it. They'd said, even if he was torpedoed he'd get away somehow. He was that sort of feller. He couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible. She must have got it wrong. If she read it again it would turn out to be a mistake. But it was all there in Becky's scratchy writing. Oh Norman, she grieved as the tears rolled out of her eyes, why you? She was bent over the gatepost like an old woman.

Which was how Victor saw her as her came roaring up the road in his black Humber.

‘Ready for the off?' he said cheerfully as he jumped out of the car. Then he saw her face. ‘What's up?'

She handed him the letter, too far into grief to speak, and he read it quickly. ‘Thass terrible,' he said. ‘Will you go?'

She nodded. ‘'Course.'

‘I'll take you there,' he said. He'd just about got enough petrol in the tank. ‘We'll cut the pictures. Your cousins won't mind.' He was supposed to be meeting the Skibbereen at midnight but that wasn't important now. He'd deal with it later. If he drove fast maybe he could be there and back in time.

Barbara felt as if her mind had stopped functioning. She had to pull at it to respond. It was as though the news had knocked her out of character. She was grateful to have decisions made for her. But there were other things to attend to as well. ‘I'll have to change shifts,' she said. ‘I'm supposed to be working tomorrow.'

He was full of tenderness towards her. ‘Get you in
the car,' he said gently. ‘Let me tek that ol' case. Thass right. Now you just leave everythin' to me.'

It was a relief to sit down, a relief that Betty and the littl'uns took the news with such sympathy, a relief that Mr Threlfall was on duty at the depot and said he'd change shifts for her, provided she could take the eight o'clock shift on Saturday morning.

‘Don't you worry about a thing,' he told her. ‘We'll manage. You just cut off home. You got enough on your plate.' If the war had taught him one thing it was how to cope with sudden death. ‘I'm ever so sorry.'

So she and Victor set off for Lynn and into a spectacular sunset. She couldn't speak at all now but he seemed to understand and simply drove on steadily, giving her the occasional smile as she sat slumped and miserable in the passenger seat, watching the sky. The setting sun threw out dazzling shafts of liquid gold from behind a darkening cloud, and as it dropped nearer and nearer to the horizon, the underbelly of the clouds was stained flamingo pink. It was incredibly beautiful and her dear loving brother would never see it again.