The Captain's Daughter (50 page)

Above them, the peaks loomed like a Cyclops’s eye. A diligent muzzle searched out any movement, ready to pounce if they gave themselves away. As they watched the air attack and every explosion of orange flame, there was no feeling for anything but relief that they had been spared. War did this to a man, stripped him of humanity and pity. Monasteries, churches, castles, beautiful hilltop villages crushed by guns, testaments to the glory of God; all must be destroyed if they were ever to chase the enemy back over the Alps.

As the dust, smoke and the mist cleared Roddy could see they’d hit their target and knew they must take advantage of the hill and move forward ready to reclaim the ground they’d already lost. But in the scrum and rocks of the shattered village there might be Allied troops waiting, ready to join forces and seize more positions. If only they could link up and move as one unit.

‘Forward,’ waved their commander. ‘We’ve got a hold up there,’ he yelled as they formed a ragged line, pulling the mules up the craggy path, sure of a welcome from Allied troops.

It was the colonel who took the shot in his chest as he yelled, ‘Hold your bloody fire. We’re Americans!’ The bullets whizzed by as they hit the ground, ambushed, surrounded, outnumbered. Roddy felt sweat on his brow, his hands clammy with fear. So this was it, a futile end on a filthy ledge in a foreign country where he couldn’t even speak the language.

What a bloody mess. They’d led their men right into a trap. Now they were all going to be shot and there was not a thing he could do but pray.

December 1943

Another wartime Christmas was coming, another make-do-and-mend affair. Each year it got harder to raise enthusiasm, except now there was Clare. A child’s excitement lifted the festive season. December was a month of celebration with Clare’s birthday, and then Christmas to follow. Clare was too young to understand much, but nevertheless out came the decorations, tired and torn as they were; the paper chains and tissue bells and all the Christmas tree baubles. They’d hoarded enough dried fruit, sugar and precious lemon peel to attempt a half-decent fruitcake.

All Ella was praying for was good enough weather for Anthony to snatch a few days at home. His leaves had become more haphazard. He’d been transferred to Coastal Command, 144 Squadron in the far north of Scotland. All he told her was that he was now on anti-submarine patrols, preventing attacks on Allied shipping coming from Scotland. His last letter hadn’t sounded promising.

Time was so short together. He’d leap off the train south, race to Red House for a long soak in the bath, a stiff whisky with Selwyn, a long walk, just the two of them, and then early to bed. Sometimes he was so tired he slept most of his leave. She watched him playing with Clare in a detached way as if his mind was still in the air. He’d aged in the last year; the frown lines over his brow were deep furrows and he would drop asleep at any time.

She felt ashamed of how furious, how jealous she’d become. ‘You have your bloody crew day in and out; we barely get to see you. It’s not fair. It’s me you married, not them,’ she screamed one night.

It was hard to swallow the jealousy. She wanted to spend every second with him. It was all she had to get her through the weeks to come. But in some ways she had to admit that his crew were his family now.

He’d survived two tours. It was good there was a ground job coming up but she feared he would turn it down in favour of a third tour. ‘No one survives three tours,’ she cried to him on the phone only last week.

‘There’s always an exception to the rule,’ he’d replied. ‘I’m feeling lucky.’

She dreaded to think what he risked each night flying low over a dark sea, looking for targets, taking photographs, dodging flak or wandering in thick fog with hardly any vision, low on fuel, praying for lights to guide him to land.

‘It’s what I do,’ he argued, ‘all I’ve ever wanted to do since I saw Uncle Gerald’s bi-plane landing in our field and he took me out for a spin. And I’d go to Cobham’s Flying Circus in the summer holidays when I was a boy. I got to fly an Avro 504. I would cycle miles to sit outside the RAF base just to watch the aeroplanes taking off. It gets into your veins.’

But fear stalked her. If he didn’t ring or write for days she couldn’t work, settle, eat or concentrate until the phone rang with news. Now there was so much to do preparing work for school, ordering groceries for Christmas, making the house look festive and tracking down little bits for Clare’s stocking. Ella had ordered a capon from the farm. She loved it when the house was full of guests. Their lodger was a young teacher from school who would be visiting her own family, leaving a bedroom free for when Anthony’s parents came to stay.

Shopping was always a rushed affair, especially with a toddler in tow, and Clare was being tiresome again, stamping her feet whenever they passed the little sweet shop. There were queues at the Maypole grocery store and at the butcher’s round the corner. The bus was late and Ella had to sit with Clare on her knee until they were dropped off at Streethay.

She was hurrying towards the house when she saw a strange car parked in the drive. Anthony had come home without telling her! How wonderful. He’d obviously borrowed someone’s car and petrol coupons to get here quicker, she thought, pushing open the door with excitement. ‘Daddy’s home, darling!’

Selwyn was standing by the telephone. ‘You’re back.’ There was something in the way he was looking at her that made her knees quiver and her heartbeat quicken.

‘What’s up? Who’s our visitor?’ She unstrapped Clare from her pushchair.

‘Ella, they’ve come to see you. I’ve put them in the drawing room. Shall I take Clare?’

She knew that second, from the look on his face, the gentle way he said her name, what was coming. Oh, no! Dear God, no, she prayed as she opened the door and saw familiar blue uniforms rising up at her entrance.

‘He’s missing. There’s always hope.’ That was what they said. Anthony and his crew had been on a routine mission from Wick, looking for enemy shipping. The plane didn’t return but they may have had to make a forced landing in enemy-held territory. They could be prisoners of war. He was only an MIA. There had been no sighting or wreckage, nothing to indicate they had ditched into the sea. She was glad the officers had come and told her in person, softening the blow of a telegram to come. ‘We must pray that it is good news,’ the padre offered.

Ella sat, numbed, unable to take in much of what was said, unable to breathe.
You wouldn’t want me to be hysterical or to break down. You would want me to hold up and be positive for Clare’s sake. She’s too young to understand any of this. Be brave, hundreds of forces wives are going through this. This
was the worst day of her life but how cool and logical she was being, how sensible and correct, setting an example just as an officer’s wife must.

She’d given them tea with shaking hands, acted the hostess, playing her role like an actress in a play. They didn’t linger. They’d seen it hundreds of times before, no doubt.

It was only when they left that she found herself doubled up with agony. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move or cry out, frozen by this awful news. It just couldn’t be true, not for her – for others, perhaps, but not for her. There was a mistake, the telephone would ring in a minute. She’d hear his voice: ‘Darling, I’m fine. It’s just some stupid mess up at HQ. Got the wrong chappie, another Harcourt, poor fellow bought it, not me. I’ll be home soon. Give Clare kisses from Daddy.’

Selwyn appeared and shoved a brandy in her hand. ‘Get that down you. I’ve rung Celeste. She’s coming straight away.’

They would all fuss over her as if she was sick, commandeer Clare to take her out of her hair. She didn’t want Celeste coming, or anyone. She wanted Anthony. He couldn’t be gone, missing, overdue. Any of the words no one dared say: KIA – killed in action – drowned in the sea, blown out of the sky. They were just words. They weren’t real. None of this was real. She would go to bed and wake up tomorrow and this would all be just a bad dream.

But when the morning came there was no phone call, nor on the day after that. Ella began to write a diary, reasoning that if he was a prisoner of war he’d want to know all that he’d missed while he was away. She’d speak to him on the page, make sure he knew all her thoughts. It would keep him alive, knowing every night she would fill in the journal as if they were talking on the telephone. It would make Christmas bearable knowing she could tell him how they’d tried to celebrate the coming of light into this dark, dark world.

Celeste felt hopeless, watching Ella’s grief strip the flesh from her bones and the light from her eyes. She kept busy, so busy, never pausing to take breath, her days filled with teaching, meetings, anything but dwelling on her loss. There was no reaching behind her bright, brittle smile. Hazel kept calling in just to see how her friend was doing but she was hardly ever at home. There was no further news, but as the weeks turned into months it did not augur well for Anthony’s survival.

What was worse was there was no outlet for her grief. The studio was shut up, gathering dust as if, with Anthony’s death, all her creative spirit had withered. She would not even look at her unfinished work. She prepared her college work and nothing else. The rest of her focus was on Clare. No one was allowed to take her out of her sight. Clare was going through a strong-willed stage, raging if she didn’t get her own way but Celeste suspected Ella was in danger of ruining her temperament by giving into her too often. It was only a phase but Celeste felt the child needed discipline, but how best to give advice when it was not sought? She thought of that old saying, ‘A granny should keep her purse open and her mouth shut.’ But you are not her grandmother, just an old aunt, she thought.

One morning Clare was sitting at the breakfast table refusing to eat her boiled egg and soldiers. ‘No want,’ she said, shaking her head.