Somewhere Over England (25 page)

Chris turned to her. ‘But it’s easier to hate them all, isn’t it? It makes us the same as everyone else here.’

Helen put her hand on his shoulder. His coat was getting too small. His sleeves were too far up his arms and his wrists would get sore from the cold wind soon. She must find him another.

‘But it’s not always best to take the easiest course, Chris, and we’re not the same, are we, darling? Daddy was born in Germany.’

Helen gripped her son’s shoulder hard because now, in the cold brisk air while the frost lay white on the ploughed fields, she must tell him. She turned him to her, holding his face in her hands.

‘It’s all so difficult, Mum,’ Christoph said. ‘I wish you were here.’

Helen nodded. ‘Yes, Christoph. I wish I was too because we
are going to need one another more than ever now. Darling, listen to me; I have some terrible news.’ She paused. ‘Daddy died before Christmas.’ Her voice was not level, it was full of tears and she stopped for a moment, watching the blankness of her son’s eyes change to shock and then disbelief. He pulled away, snatching at her sleeve, breathing fast.

‘What do you mean, died? What do you mean? How could he? There were no bombs there. I never had to worry about him, only about you. I never worried about him. Never, never.’ He was shouting now, stepping away from her. She moved forward and grasped his shoulders.

‘And why have you had your hair cut? You look silly. You look stupid.’ He was hitting at her arms.

Helen would not let go of him; she hung on, feeling the blows on the splinter cuts but understanding his pain, his rage, because it was the same as hers. Perhaps they also shared the same guilt at resenting Heine’s nationality.

She hung on and hung on until at last he was tired and then she showed him the letter and he knew that his father had been brave and honoured and they clung together and mourned him properly, here, in private, where the wind was now blowing cold and sharp.

They walked and remembered their lives together and Helen told her son of her anger at Heine when stones had been thrown, but she also spoke of her love. She hoped that Chris would talk to her but he didn’t.

She stayed another night because her son needed her and the next and the next because she didn’t care what Mr Leonard said – this was more important – but then she had to return because she must earn her money and there was no work down here, Laura said, shaking her head. The farm had all the workers they needed and there was nothing else.

The night she left Chris did not sleep. He lay looking up at the ceiling, seeing the beams in the glow from the ashes. He was glad his dad was dead. He was glad because now he could tell them at school that his father had been killed by the Nazis and maybe Joe would stop asking questions. So many questions. Would the stones start again if he knew?

He turned on his side, the pillow was wet. He couldn’t stop crying because he wanted his dad. Wanted him to be here, to hold him, to be warm and alive; to hear his voice. He was
brave, so brave, and what would he think of a son who said he was glad he was dead but who loved him so much that it hurt? Chris knew he would not sleep tonight because there was so much else in his head that was wicked and he could not tell his mother because she had the bombs and that was enough.

Winter turned to spring and in the evenings Helen took her turn at fire-watching and in the crypt she arranged further education classes for the regulars. She smiled when the old man offered to teach boxing and listened when he told her he was a southpaw and had fought in all the booths in the country during the depression. She watched as he shadow-boxed and was glad when others did too because his dignity returned during those nights and did not leave him.

The vicar arranged for a piano to be hauled from the church hall to the crypt and one of the young mothers taught Helen the tango and on Ruth’s birthday they had a party and the vicar danced with Helen. The raids grew fewer but every night the crypt was open and the flat was seldom slept in. She wrote to Chris each week and slowly found that she could sleep now, though she still woke in the small hours and wept for Heine and wished that it had all been different. That they had been born in another time when war was not a consideration and they had been free to love.

In March Roosevelt signed the Lend-Lease Agreement with Britain and the crypt had another party and this time they did the hokey-cokey, with Ruth leading them. On 17 March Bevin announced the first steps in a massive mobilisation plan to release men for active service and Helen wondered if any of the farm workers in Greater Mannenham would be called up. She wrote to Laura and asked her to let her know because she knew that Chris would need her. Somehow she just knew.

In April Germany invaded Greece and the bombing of Britain continued in earnest again. Throughout the long nights they listened to the crump of bombs and sometimes Helen led the choir in a sing-song and everyone followed, but not every night because relatives were killed and people needed comfort.

On fire-watch duty Helen watched the flares being dropped and then the showers of incendiary bombs falling and knew that low level bombing runs would follow. Bert, the old boxer, was with her and said, as ack-ack hit one bomber which was
flying in a straight line throughout his run, ‘He was a brave one all right. Poor bugger.’

They both watched as the plane plummeted from the sky, a flaming mass to fall into the furnace of its own making. ‘Poor bugger,’ she echoed.

At the end of April the British were pushed out of Greece and Chris wrote to tell her that the piglets, Heine and Helen, were now his. Laura had given them to him. Laura wrote to her to say that he seemed to be sleeping better and was glad that Helen had left the letter from Willi with him. It was folded in his top bedside drawer and she knew that he read it every night.

On 11 May there was a brilliant bomber’s moon and over 500 German planes dropped hundreds of high explosive bombs and incendiaries within a few hours. It was claimed to be a reprisal raid for the methodical bombing of the residential areas of German towns and Ruth said, ‘The whole bloody world’s gone mad. These are people in planes dropping bombs on other people. They’re all dying. They’re all somebody’s sons and daughters. It’s a crying shame. That ’itler needs to be strung up.’

Helen unpicked the jumper seam and pulled out wool, winding it around her healed hands. The hurricane lamps were dotted all over the crypt now; many had been brought by the people who sat around her and she was comforted by the smell, though the light was weak. As the hours passed she wrote a letter to Chris, telling him what Ruth had said and asking him to write to her because Laura had written that he was sleeping better, but was he really? Remember you can tell me anything, darling, she wrote.

In the morning they trooped up the steps of the crypt and wept at the devastation everywhere. Helen passed through a shattered city on her way to work and arrived three hours late and wanted to slap Mr Leonard because he was on time. Joan did not arrive until the afternoon because their house had been hit, but they had been in the Underground railway shelter.

There were cheers in the crypt on 28 May when the news came in that the
Bismarck
had been sunk the day before and Marian put a big notice on top of an old box.

SCRAP
Jam Jars, Iron, Bottles, Paper, Rubber

Help to build planes and ships to sink the enemy

The next day she and Marian brought aluminium pans from the flat and put them in the box because, as dawn had come, Helen had decided that it was her role to keep the Nazis and the Germans apart in her own mind and in her son’s. The Nazis must indeed be sunk.

In the first week of June an exploding gas main ripped up the pavement outside the flat and they clambered through and into the hallway, but only to pick up the mail because they had to reach their offices. Laura had written to say that there was still no sign of the men leaving the farm but that Chris seemed to be fine and was looking forward to seeing his mother in the summer.

On 22 June the Nazis broke their pact and invaded Russia and that night Helen lay on her camp bed and thought of Heine; heard his voice saying, We’ll be all right as long as Russia joins us.

She rolled over on her side, whispering aloud, ‘Perhaps we’ll make it now, Heine. But we still need America on our side.’

She cried though to think that he would not be here if they did survive and knew her grief, though dulled, still remained but it was mixed with anxiety for her son.

Chris sat on the old mac which Laura had handed him. He looked across at Mary and smiled; the egg sandwiches tasted good. The hens were laying well this week. They must have known it was spring. He looked up at the branches of the elm. He could see the blue sky through the leaf buds. There were bluebells in the copse, not many but enough to colour the ground.

‘What did your mum say?’ Mary asked, pushing a piece of crust into her mouth. ‘Is she coming down yet? Did you say thank you to her for getting me out of old Ma Turnball’s house and into Mrs Simpson’s?’

Chris dug deep into his pocket, pulling out the letter he had received this morning. He read it to Mary.

London
May 1942

Darling Chris,

Well, though the bombs have tailed off I can’t say that it is quiet here in London. As Mr Leonard grumbles, ‘The Yanks are over-paid and over here.’ We seem to have foreign soldiers everywhere now. Not just the Free French, the Poles but all these Americans. It is wonderful to see them. At last the end must be in sight, though of course it won’t be as soon as we would like.

I was so pleased that it is working out better for Mary at Mrs Simpson’s. Laura seemed to think that she was a kind person and believe me, the money I have to pay does not matter at all.

I am almost allowing myself to believe that I will be able to get to Norfolk soon. The Labour Exchange have said that it should be possible to exchange one form of war work for another but I need the permission of my employer and a replacement. They suggest that I apply for work in a sugar beet factory for the winter when even the permanent farm workers are laid off and then start work on Mr Jones’s farm in the spring because I have his offer of a job in writing. If I apply to the Land Army I could be put to work anywhere and I can’t be parted from you for very much longer. I will be able to get over to you every weekend once I start at the factory.

It seems a long time until the winter – another six months – but I have somehow to get Mr Leonard’s agreement and you know how very difficult that will be. I will come though. I promise you that.

The vicar is still staying at the flat and is a constant support to everyone in the area and Marian is well and so too is Rob. He is stationed in Scotland still, in the Stores, and sometimes comes home on leave.

London is no longer the place you knew. In fact, I wonder if you can remember it. There are so many buildings destroyed. A bomb landed on the park and blew up the balloon and the horse-chestnut tree.

Write to me with your news when you can. Are you all right? Really all right?

All my love,
Mummy

Chris put it back in his pocket. She was coming. Not until the winter and then not to the village but he would see her every weekend.

‘I’m glad she’s coming,’ Mary said, reaching forward and taking the last piece of bread. ‘You need your mum. You’ll have to tell her, you know.’

Chris crunched up the greaseproof paper, smaller and smaller but when he threw it to the ground it sprang out into a larger ball. ‘Shut up’, he said. ‘Just shut up. She mustn’t know. No one must know.’

He took a drink of water from the bottle, wiping the top before passing it to Mary. She took it and drank and now there were crumbs in the water but he didn’t want any more anyway.

‘She should know because they’ll get you one day. They won’t be satisfied with a postal order soon, you know.’ She passed the bottle back and he pushed it down into the canvas bag which Laura had packed the picnic in.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Chris said, getting up. ‘Come on, let’s see how they’re getting on.’

He didn’t wait for Mary to catch up but picked up the canvas bag and walked to the edge of the trees, looking out towards the fields which had once grown wheat and barley but which were now churned up as men built huts at one end and hangars at another. The row of elms was still standing, though, hiding the airfield from the village. The runway markers stretched and stretched across three fields and Laura had said that they would never get it back as it used to be once the war was over. Chris looked back into the copse. Mary was coming, bringing the old butterfly net. It was too early but sometimes if the spring was really warm, Laura had said, you could be lucky.

He looked back again to the airfield and then to the village. There was no sign of Joe or the gang on the road. Maybe they wouldn’t be waiting by the crossroads today, but he knew they would. They always were on a Saturday. He felt the postal order in his pocket. They would be there because today was the day he had to give them his pocket money or they would tell the whole village that his dad had been a German.

‘My sister says the Yanks are good fun. They give her stockings and gum. Chewing gum, you know. And comics and cigarettes.’ Mary stood next to him. ‘When they come d’you think they’ll give us gum? I’ve never ’ad it.’

Chris turned towards her. It was only two o’clock. Joe wouldn’t be there until four and maybe today he’d be brave enough to stand up to him. Yes, maybe today he would but now he wanted to see the toad spawn. Yes, that’s what he wanted to do. They walked round the edge of the copse to the pond and there, in long spotted strings were the spawn, stretched out in the water, crossing and recrossing one another.

‘Blimey, I thought they was in one big blob like tapioca,’ Mary said, and Chris laughed.

‘So did I but Laura told me last night.’

They lay on their stomachs, their hands in the cold water. The moss on the stones was close to him, like a miniature forest. His breath blew up puffs of dry earth and there was a smell of spring in the ground. In the summer, Laura had said, fly agaric grew here, the red and white spotted toadstool which was poisonous for humans but which slugs loved.