The Canadians

The Canadians

A collection of three epic novels

Clare Flynn

Contents

THE CHALKY SEA

The Alien Corn

The Frozen River

Clare’s Newsletter

Also by Clare Flynn

About the Author

The Chalky Sea. Copyright © 2017 by Clare Flynn

Cranbrook Press, London

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For Jenn, Jane, Joan, Hilary, Bub, Pip and Wendy and our enduring friendship forged in Eastbourne.

Contents

I. 1940

1. Parting

2. The Discovery

3. The First Bombing

4. Drowning his Sorrows

5. Staying Put

6. Joining Up

7. The First Kill

8. Training Camp

9. Raining Bombs

10. Letter from Home

II. 1941

11. A New Job

12. The New Recruit

13. Bombed Out

14. The Stag

15. The New Housekeeper

16. The Tea Party

17. An Unexpected Guest

18. Sunday Roast with the Underwoods

19. Jitterbugging

20. London Town

21. Lost Children

22. The Brawl

III. 1942

23. Transfer to Eastbourne

24. Lodgers

25. Out of a Job

26. The Beach at Holywell

27. Pauline’s Night Out

28. Two whiskies

29. The Cake Queue

30. The Telegram

31. A Letter from Aldershot

32. Sharing a Confidence

33. Dieppe

34. Together

35. The Mine

IV. 1943

36. Back in Aldershot

37. Shopping for Shoes

38. Into battle

V. 1945

39. Aftermath

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Part I

1940

I never 'worry' about action, but only about inaction.

Winston Churchill, 1940

Parting

July 1940, Eastbourne

The sea was pearl grey and sparkled like the scales on a fish. Gwen stood at the window staring at it, as she often did. A few miles away in France, armies of German soldiers were probably staring back across the Channel wondering what lay ahead of them. Since the terrible events of Dunkirk the previous month, Gwen had been oscillating between fear and hopelessness. The German invasion was coming and defeat was an inevitability. Belgium, Holland and France had fallen, crushed under the onward thrust of German panzers, so what chance did Britain have?

She sensed Roger as he came up behind her. He placed his hands on her hips, then she felt the touch of his lips on the back of her neck. She stiffened and took a half step forward.

‘Time to go, old thing,’ he said.

Gwen turned to face him, her mouth forming an artificial smile to reflect her husband’s real one. ‘All set.’ She dangled the car keys in front of him.

Roger reached for her hands, gripping them tightly as she resisted. ‘Look, darling, I want you to promise you’ll go across to Somerset to stay with Mother. I don’t want you staying here. Things are going to get nasty.’

Meeting his eyes she smiled. ‘I’ve told you. The moment the house is empty they’ll requisition it. I don’t want a lot of airmen in hobnail boots scratching the surface off my parquet floors. Half the road has already been taken over by the RAF.’

Roger moved his hands up to her shoulders. ‘Once the war gets going properly – which will be any time now – we’ll have more than scratched floors to worry about. Hitler won’t bother to requisition the place. He’ll just rain bombs down on it.’

‘On Eastbourne? Don’t be silly, Roger. He’s not going to bother with a little seaside town. He’ll want to flatten big cities, docks, factories. I can’t imagine him sitting down with the Luftwaffe and targeting the pier and the Winter Garden.’

Roger let his hands fall. ‘I wish you were right.’

‘Of course I’m right. Don’t you worry.’

‘Gwennie, you know as well as I do that the invasion will happen here or near here. You can’t possibly stay. The whole south coast is pitted with tank traps and covered in barbed wire.’

‘Well that will keep the Germans out,’ she said brightly. ‘I promise you, at the first sign of an invasion, I’ll drop everything and leave. Meanwhile I’ve things to do. There’s the WVS. I can’t let them down. So many have already left the town. Someone has to keep the flag flying. I want to move things into the cellar and the attic, out of harm’s way in case they do requisition the house. As soon as I’ve done that I can go to Somerset.’ She spoke the words and hoped he wouldn’t know she was lying.

Roger sighed but said nothing more.

They passed the ten-minute drive to the station in silence, each conscious that this morning marked an indefinite period apart. It might be months, years even. He might never return but neither wanted to acknowledge the fact. After his escape from Dunkirk Gwen thought they may have used up all their good fortune.

The station concourse was crowded. There were young men setting off to join their regiments for the first time, women and children belatedly evacuating the coast where plans were advanced to counter the German invasion. Not so long ago the traffic had been in the other direction, when the town had opened its doors to give a rather grudging welcome to thousands of evacuees from London. They had all returned home or gone elsewhere as Eastbourne transformed into a frontline town, ready to stand hard against the German invasion that was expected imminently. Now the station, which used to be adorned with colourful hanging baskets, was lined with sandbags. Propaganda posters were plastered over walls that once advertised the attractions of pleasure boats and the programme of entertainment at the Royal Hippodrome and the Devonshire Park Theatre.

A month ago the first sign of German aggression had been witnessed by the town when a merchant ship, laden with food supplies, was bombed off Beachy Head. Gwen had watched the burning vessel from the balcony of her bedroom. It seemed unreal. Like watching a newsreel at the cinema. The war was no longer something happening on the other side of the Channel or flickering in black and white across the big screen.

A small group of uniformed officers were waiting apart from the crowd at the far end of the platform. Roger nodded at them then turned to say goodbye to his wife. He bent his face to kiss her, but she turned her head slightly so his lips met the hard edge of her jawbone rather than her mouth. She gave him another tight smile and said, ‘Buck up, darling. Don’t let’s get all soppy. The war will be over before too long, then things will get back to normal.’

Roger glanced towards the colleagues who were watching curiously. He swallowed and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Look, Gwen, I’m not supposed to say this, but you need to understand. This war isn’t going to end quickly and it’s going to get very ugly. I can’t even tell you where I’m going – I don’t know yet myself, or when I’m going to see you again if I make it out the other end. I might be sent somewhere where I can’t get word to you, but, Gwen, wherever I am, I will try and get in touch. If you don’t hear, it won’t be because I didn’t try. I love you and I’ll miss you every second I’m away.’ He pulled her towards him, crushing her against his chest.

Gwen breathed in the familiar smell of him, felt the rough scratch of his uniform jacket against her cheek. She felt small and fragile when he held her, trapped, captive, like a caged bird. She stood rigid, willing him to release her and for the moments to pass until she could leave him to his colleagues and take herself outside the noisy station and away from him. Away from the possibility that he might see her mask slipping. That he might notice that her lip was trembling, that she was fighting back tears.

At last Roger drew back. He held her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. ‘Gwennie, old thing. I love you so much but I know I’ve been a disappointment to you as a husband. I’m sorry.’

Panic rose in her when she saw his eyes were damp. She reached up and planted a quick kiss, square on his mouth. ‘You are a silly sentimental thing. You know I hate that kind of talk. And it’s not true anyway.’ She tried to make herself say the words he wanted to hear, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, she said, ‘I’ll miss you too, but the time will pass quickly. Now it looks like those chaps over there are waiting for you to join them, so I’ll head off.’ She gave him another tight, hard-lipped smile and turned and half ran out of the station.

There was a Local Defence Volunteer standing guard over her motorcar when she emerged onto Terminus Road. ‘You can’t park a vehicle here, Madam, it’s an exclusion zone.’ He swaggered up to her, shifting his weight so that the rifle casually slung over his shoulder would be evident.

Gwen threw her handbag and gas mask carelessly onto the passenger seat, settled herself into the driver’s, and fired up the engine. The LDV man stepped in front of the car, blocking her path. She engaged the reverse gear, then realised her retreat was blocked by a heap of sandbags. The man banged loudly on the roof of the motorcar.

‘What do you want?’ she said. ‘I’m moving the damned car.’ As she looked him in the face for the first time she thought he looked familiar.

He drew himself up to his full height then bent down and leaned through the open window. ‘I’m only trying to keep everybody safe, Madam. I was about to tell you that you can park across the road there.’

She remembered where she’d seen him before. He was a pump attendant at the petrol station. Always ready with a cheery greeting and an offer to wash her windscreen when she stopped by. Ashamed, Gwen gushed excessive apologies then put her foot down. Damn the bloody war. After a few hundred yards she realised she was crying. She pulled over and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. For God’s sake, Gwen, pull yourself together, woman.

Jerking her handbag open, she took out her compact and powdered her nose. After applying lipstick, she inspected herself in the mirror. No evidence of the tears. She snapped the compact shut, put her hands back on the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths.

Roger’s departure had hit her harder than expected. She would be rattling around that big house on her own, no one to eat with, no one to share a sherry. And no one to share her bed. Not that Roger was unreasonable in that respect. When children had not resulted after several years of marriage, Gwen was grateful that he had not brought the subject up. It was as if he had sensed that it was a topic she wanted to avoid. Too painful to be confronted. Once it was tacitly agreed there wasn’t going to be a baby, Roger didn’t expect her to let him make love to her so much. Maybe once a month, unless he’d had a few drinks – that always made him amorous. Otherwise he left her alone, to her relief. No, she couldn’t complain. She was grateful. Roger was a decent man. Yet that morning he’d said he thought he’d been a disappointment to her.

Gwen couldn’t imagine what he meant by that. Lack of children aside, their marriage was probably no different from the other couples in their circle. They rarely argued. They muddled along fine. She certainly wasn’t disappointed in him. Leaning back in the seat she sighed. Disappointed in life though. In marriage as an institution. In her lot.

Endless dull days when nothing happened. Her world contained by the house. Her purpose to plan meals, brief the cook, oversee the housekeeping. Her recreation the odd round of golf, tennis in summer, the weekly bridge game. She had never got round to telling Roger she didn’t even like playing bridge. What was the point? At least it occupied an evening every week.

She envied Roger. He’d had his legal work with the Foreign Office to occupy his days. He’d travelled a lot with the work, often abroad, and, since the advent of war, he’d been involved in something top secret that meant he spent most of his time in London and closeted away in meetings at destinations to which she was not privy. If she had been frustrated with her lack of purpose before the war, now she felt more so. Roger wanted her to run away and wall herself up in a cottage in Somerset with his mother. There was nothing wrong with Maud. Gwen liked her, but she didn’t want to spend the duration of the war with her, filling her days with knitting squares for refugees and growing vegetables.

The town was deserted. On a whim she parked the car and decided to walk the mile and a half up the steep incline back to her home in the district of Meads. She needed to work off her nervous energy. After a few minutes she removed her jacket. The day was already getting hot despite the still early hour. She wiped her brow. You’re out of condition, woman, she told herself. That’s what comes of a life of idleness.

The following Sunday soon after eleven, Gwen was sitting on the terrace drinking tea. In front of her the sea was the colour of pale peppermint and milky with chalk washed from the cliffs.

She sipped the weak tea and grimaced. It was like dishwater. She would never get used to rationing. She would never get used to the war. At first she had thought, guiltily, that it might at last bring some meaning into her life, give her something to think about, something to distract her from the emptiness inside. She’d joined the WVS and supervised the dispersal of evacuees around the town, mended soldiers’ socks for the war effort, and made endless pots of tea. But it was window-dressing. Inside she believed the war was already lost and the disaster that was Dunkirk had reinforced that. Gwen wasn’t going to let herself be afraid. She had a plan. As soon as the invasion began she was going to down the contents of a bottle of codeine she’d set aside for the purpose and fall into a grateful sleep. Death was not to be feared. She had no idea what life under a Nazi occupation would hold and no wish to find out. If she were honest, she was using the invasion as an excuse.

In the distance, the faint sound of anti-aircraft fire grew louder. The low buzzing thrum of planes – ours or theirs? Was the invasion starting now? As the questions were forming in her head they were interrupted by the boom-boom-boom of a series of rapid explosions.

She spilled her tea on her dress as she jumped to her feet. Behind her the windows were rattling in their frames. The house faced south so she couldn’t see the town, but already a plume of smoke was moving out over the sea. The war had come to Eastbourne. There had been no warning.

The Discovery

July 1940, Ontario, Canada

The sun was sliding low in the sky, a rosy glow spreading over the distant horizon behind acres of ripe wheat. Jim Armstrong rubbed the back of his neck where the sun had caught it. He’d forgotten his hat again. He reached down and grabbed a handful of ears of wheat, rubbing them together in his hand then blowing off the chaff to leave the plump grains. It was ready. The combine would be arriving tomorrow and it would take them a week to harvest the crop if they put their backs into it.

Jim loved this part of the day. Work over. Supper soon to be on the table. A chance to slake his thirst with a cool beer after a long, hot day, and now a leisurely stroll back to the house with the dog by his side, alone with his thoughts. Over the past months since war was declared, the news reports and the recruitment posters all over town had made him ashamed to be still here on the farm. So many of the men he’d grown up with and gone to school with had left for Europe as soon as Prime Minister Mackenzie King announced that Canada was at war.

Europe was thousands of miles away and their war wasn’t his, but he couldn’t help feeling he ought to be playing his part. After all, Canada was part of the British Empire. His father had been involved in the last war and had a boxful of medals to prove it. There was a legacy to live up to. The old man had done his bit and now it should be the turn of Jim and his brother Walt to do theirs. But every time he’d tried to talk to his father, Donald Armstrong changed the subject. He hated any mention of his time in the trenches and always brushed off attempts by his sons to draw him on his wartime experiences. As for Jim’s mother, whenever he or Walt broached the idea of joining up, she burst into tears.

Jim’s dog, Swee’Pea, was sleeping under a tree at the far edge of the field. The dog was getting old and these days seemed to sleep more than he was awake. Jim had rescued him years ago as a puppy, when he found him floating in a sack in the creek, abandoned, presumably the runt of the litter. He’d christened him after Popeye’s foundling baby in the cartoons. Swee’Pea wouldn’t be much longer for this world. Jim couldn’t imagine life without him.

He made his way slowly back towards the distant buildings, Swee’Pea trailing behind him. No sign of Walt, but that wasn’t unusual. Probably fishing in the creek along the edge of the farm. Any opportunity to duck work and Walt took it. It annoyed their father but Jim always indulged his younger brother.

There was plenty of time to take a bath before supper. While meals were usually informal in the Armstrong household, he was going to make a special effort tonight as Alice was coming over to join them. He wanted to talk to her again about his dilemma over whether or not to join up – although he guessed what her opinion would be. She’d prick his bubble, remind him that it was someone else’s war, halfway across the world, and that they had plans to marry next summer. He smiled as he pictured her narrowing her eyes and frowning at him in mock disapproval – she was always good at bringing him down to earth. He couldn’t wait for next year to come, when at last he could have her to himself, when at last she would be his completely.

Spruced up, shaved and wearing a clean shirt, Jim sat down at the kitchen table. His father was already seated.

‘Wheat’s ready. I ordered the combine for tomorrow,’ Jim said.

‘Didn’t you say Alice was coming to supper tonight?’ his mother asked, as she carried a pot from the stove. ‘I’ve made butter pies. Not like her to be late.’

Jim shrugged. ‘I expect she got held up at the library. She’ll be here soon.’ He nodded towards another empty chair. ‘Where’s Walt?’

‘Went to check on the cow,’ said Donald. ‘Maybe she’s started. Not due for a few days but you never know. Why don’t you go and see if he needs a hand?’

Helga Armstrong sighed. ‘Dinner will be spoiled if you have to sort that cow out.’

‘Cows don’t care about mealtimes. When a calf’s coming it’s got to come.’ Jim pushed his chair back and got up from the table.

The porch door opened and Walt came into the kitchen. He pulled out his chair and sat down. ‘I’ve a right appetite tonight, Ma,’ he said. ‘What’s for supper?’

‘Nothing for you until you’ve scrubbed yourself up. We’ve company tonight. Alice is joining us.’

Walt sighed, got up and left the room.

His mother called out behind him, ‘And a clean shirt mightn’t hurt if you’ve been messing around those cows.’

A few minutes later the porch door rattled and Alice came into the kitchen. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said, her face flushed and her voice breathless. ‘I got here as fast as I could but that old bike was hard work tonight. Seems the whole town brought their books back today.’ She gave Jim a quick kiss on the cheek and sat down.

Jim waited until everyone was tucking into the peameal pork and baked beans, then said, ‘I saw Petey Howardson this afternoon when I went into town to book the combine. He’s had letters from his boys.’

Walt looked up. ‘And?’

‘They haven’t seen any action yet. Seem to be stuck at training camp. Nine months now. You don’t go to war to spend all your time on exercises.’ Jim shook his head.

‘Better not to go to war at all,’ their father barked.

‘Thank God, is what I say,’ said Helga. ‘I feel for those Howardsons. Three boys and all of them joined up and overseas. I pray their poor mother will get them all back safely when it’s over.’

‘The war to end all wars. What a joke that was. Barely twenty years later and they’re expecting more men to throw their lives away.’ Donald shovelled a spoonful of beans into his mouth.

Alice tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. ‘How are the Howardsons coping without the boys? Must be hard work for Petey.’

‘Mrs Howardson and the two girls are working hard and there are half a dozen kids who come by at the weekends and after school to lend a hand. The school has organised it that the older kids get off an hour early. Petey says they’re coping fine.’

Donald raised his eyes from his dinner. ‘I know where this is heading, son, and that’s an end to it. Easy enough for Petey to get by with women and children – he’s only growing vegetables and keeping cows. And two of those boys of his were worse than useless, specially that no-good Tip. It’s a different matter here. We can’t get by without you two.’

Helga wiped her hands on her apron and stood at the end of the table behind her husband. ‘What happens over in Europe is nothing to do with us, son. You’re not expected to go and fight. You’re needed here. The Prime Minister made it clear that fighting this war was voluntary. If Canadians were really needed they would be conscripted. Those Howardson boys were always work shy. Anything to get off the farm.’

Jim looked across the table at his brother, waiting for him to say something, but Walt stayed silent.

‘Every time I go into town I feel people looking at me. I know what they’re thinking. That I’m chicken. Afraid to defend my country.’ Jim turned towards Alice but she was looking down at her barely touched plate.

‘Defend your country?’ Donald slammed his fist onto the table. ‘No one’s attacking your country. If Hitler invades Canada then you can join up. Until then you’re staying here. No son of mine is going to go through what I went through. Not while I’ve breath in my body.’

Jim looked over at Walt who was frowning and scraping at the surface of the tablecloth, where one of the threads in the cloth was fatter than the others. He ran his fingernail over it repeatedly, as though trying to scratch it down to match the size of the other threads. Why wasn’t he jumping in to support Jim?

‘It’s not about defending our borders – Mr Mackenzie King said it was about defending all that makes life worth living.’ As Jim said the words he felt embarrassed. They sounded hollow coming from him whereas over the radio when the Prime Minister declared the country to be at war they had sounded noble, inspiring, compelling.

Eventually Walt looked up. ‘If Jim wants to go, then maybe he should. I can stay and help Pa with the farm.’

Jim’s mouth fell open. It was not what they’d talked about. How many times had they walked on the banks of the creek discussing joining up together? Walt had, if anything, been the prime mover. Right from last September, when Mackenzie King declared the country was following Britain into war against Germany, he had wanted them both to defy their father and volunteer.

Donald leaned back in his chair. ‘This is the last time I want to hear about this. You’re a grown man, Jim. I can’t stop you, but if you do go, then don’t bother coming back here afterwards. If you think risking your life for strangers is more important than supporting your own family, I’ve raised you wrong.’

Helga put a restraining hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘That’s enough of that kind of talk, Don.’ She turned to Jim. ‘Don’t you be paying attention to what other people say. Your responsibilities are here. And talking of running off to war when you’ve a wedding to plan – shame on you, Jim Armstrong. Staying right here growing wheat and corn to feed the troops and send to those poor folk in England is what will make the biggest contribution to this war.’ She smoothed down her apron. ‘And I don’t want you over there killing Germans. Remember your own grandmother was German. I was brought up German. Hitler may be a bad man, but all those German soldiers are young men like you and Walt. I don’t want any son of mine killing anyone. That’s the end of it. Now, who wants one of my butter pies? I made them specially for you, Alice.’

‘You’re spoiling me again, Mrs Armstrong,’ said Alice.

‘If I can’t spoil my future daughter-in-law, who can I spoil?’

Alice tucked an escaping strand of hair behind her ear and blushed. Jim looked at her and wondered, as he often did, how he’d managed to persuade the best-looking girl in the district to marry him. Her hair was pale blonde, shot through with the colour of ripe corn when the sunlight was on it. He had to fight the urge to run his hands through it whenever he saw her. When she smiled she lit up the room, her eyes as blue as cornflowers and her lips full, revealing a slight gap between her front teeth. His heart pounded as he looked at her. It almost killed him not touching her whenever she was close: it was like a child being left alone with a piece of candy and being told he mustn’t eat it. When he looked at her, the thought of joining up was less appealing. How could he bear to be parted from her?

‘Stop that.’ His mother was addressing his brother. ‘You’ll tear a hole in my best tablecloth.’ She slapped him lightly on the arm.

Walt got up from the table. ‘I’m going to check on that cow again.’

‘You’ll go nowhere. We have a guest. Have you no manners?’ Helga reached out to grab her son’s arm, but he was too quick for her and left the room, the door slamming behind him.

‘What’s got into him?’ Helga shook her head.

‘I’ll go after him,’ said Jim half rising from the table.

‘Leave him be,’ their father growled.

The tension in the room was palpable. After a few minutes Alice looked at Jim, then got up and said it was time she was going.

‘I’ll walk you home.’ Jim was on his feet.

Alice laid a hand on his arm. ‘No, Jim, I came on my bicycle. I’ll be fine. Thank you so much, Mrs Armstrong. It was delicious, especially those butter pies.’ She waved at Donald and went out of the door, Jim following.

On the porch he pulled her towards him. ‘Shall we walk down by the creek for a while? We haven’t had a minute alone.’ He bent to kiss her.

She eased herself away from him before their lips touched. ‘I have a summer cold coming on and I don’t want to give it to you,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel too great so I think I’ll head on home. You go inside. It’s getting chilly.’ Before Jim could respond, she had stepped off the porch and was running towards the fence where her bicycle was leaning. He watched as she mounted the bike and pedalled away down the track.

Jim had no wish to sit in the kitchen with his parents and open the argument again. He wished them goodnight and told them he was going upstairs to read a book. In the room he had shared with Walt since they were small children, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Alice.

She had been in Walt’s class at school. Alice was a little kid with pigtails. He hadn’t noticed her, until one day when he saw her in the school yard surrounded by boys who were trying to persuade her to kiss them for five cents a go. It was then he really saw her. Alice was up against the wall, like a trapped animal. When he approached, her eyes fixed on him, uncertain whether he was about to add to her troubles or be her rescuer. He looked at the gang of boys and saw Walt was one of her persecutors. Jim had gripped his brother by the collar and shoved him away. ‘Leave her alone, you’re a bunch of bullies,’ he’d shouted and was rewarded with a smile from Alice that melted his indifference. She was thirteen and he was fifteen and from that point on she was devoted to him and he would have done anything for her. They started going steady the year Jim left school and had been together ever since, to Walt’s initial disgust and eventual silent resentment.

Jim tried to read his book but tonight he was immune to the call of Jack London. Putting the book aside he got up and went in search of Walt. Maybe that cow was calving.

Swee’Pea followed him as Jim headed into the barn. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark and shivered in the cool interior. There was no sign of Walt. The heavily pregnant cow gave a soft lowing as he approached then went back to munching hay. He ran his hands along her flank. Not ready yet. Maybe not until tomorrow. He was about to go outside and head back to the farmhouse when he heard a soft moaning. He looked about him. Apart from the cow the barn was empty. Another moan, louder this time and the sound of rustling straw. He looked up. It was coming from the hayloft.

Jim’s heart began to thump in his chest with a sudden unaccountable fear. For some reason he didn’t want to find out what was up there but felt compelled. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d found hobos sleeping in the hayloft. A flicker of pain touched his right temple. He put his foot on the ladder and began to climb up.

Standing at the top of the steps he didn’t see them at first. It was almost entirely dark up there but the loose roof panel that Donald had been nagging him and Walt to fix, allowed a narrow stream of light to penetrate the gloom at the rear of the loft. Walt, his overalls at half mast, was on top of a girl whose legs were wrapped around his back.

Walt had shown no apparent interest in girls. In fact Jim had begun to wonder if he might be inclined the other way and now here he was, doing the dirty with some loose woman. The sly dog. None of that lengthy courtship, waiting and holding back that he and Alice had undergone – were still undergoing. He’d too much respect for Alice to ever push her to go all the way before they were married, much as it nearly killed him, he wanted her so much. No such discretion for little brother – he’d gone right out there and rolled some girl in the hay. You had to hand it to him. Walt didn’t believe in doing things by halves.

Jim was about to retreat discreetly, a smile on his face. He’d get some mileage out of what he’d seen – enough ammunition to tease Walt all winter – when the girl cried out. ‘Oh God, Walt, what are you doing to me? I don’t think I can take any more!’

At the top of the ladder Jim froze, his hands gripping the wooden struts so tightly his fingers were white.

Then her voice again. ‘I didn’t mean it! Don’t stop! If you do I’ll kill you.’ Another groan.

The pain in his head grew, carving a path through his skull, blinding him. He swayed and clutched the ladder and the barn began to spin around him. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up. It’s not true. How could it be true? Not Alice. Not Walt. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.

Then they were looking at him, their eyes reflecting their horror back at him. Their shame. Guilt. They looked at each other and in that moment Jim knew his whole life was a lost cause. Seeing the look they exchanged was worse than witnessing what their bodies had done. It was a look of complicity, of shared understanding, of love.

He didn’t wait while they scrambled to adjust their clothes. He slid down the wooden ladder, barely touching the rungs and began to run. As the twilight descended the sound of Swee’Pea’s plaintive barking grew quieter as he ran until his lungs were bursting.

The First Bombing

Eastbourne

The phone rang and Gwen went inside to answer it. It was Brenda Robson, the coordinator for the Women’s Voluntary Service.

‘Did you hear the bombs?’ Brenda sounded as though this were an adventure, a jolly jape. ‘Here in Eastbourne. Whitley Road. Ten of them apparently. Can you get there as fast as possible? I’m heading there now. All hands on deck.’

Gwen changed into her WVS uniform and was opening the front door before she remembered she’d left the car in town. Dashing into the garage, she grabbed her bicycle, noticing that Roger had cleaned and polished it and pumped up the tyres before he’d left. So typical of him to think of doing this without even letting her know. She felt a stab of guilt as she wheeled the bike down the path. Her husband was so thoughtful, whereas she rarely did anything out of the ordinary for him. She didn’t deserve a man like him. And now she had no idea when she would see him again. If she would see him again. Maybe he’d never come back from wherever the War Office, or the Foreign Office or the Inter-Services Bureau or whichever mysterious and unidentifiable section of Special Operations, had sent him. Her mouth twitched and the tears threatened again. Come on. Don’t be daft. Get on with it. That’s what we all have to do while this bloody war’s on.

She smelled the bomb damage before she saw it. The stench of burning wood, plaster and brick dust, escaping gas. When she turned into Whitley Road, the fire engines were already there and a crowd had gathered in the street – bombed-out residents, ARP workers, LDVs, ambulance drivers, firefighters. Where there had once been a row of houses, a yawning gap was piled high with debris, nothing left standing but a lone chimney stack. Beside the hole, the next building appeared relatively unscathed, criss-crossed bomb tape over the still intact upper windows but the lower ones gone. Further down the street a shop had been blasted apart, the roof collapsed, windows blown out and an advertising sign for Senior Service hanging from the crossbar of a lamp post where it had landed. The road was covered in a carpet of rubble and glass. Choking dust filled the air and Gwen struggled to breathe. Nothing had prepared her for this. It was real. It was raw. It was happening here in this sleepy seaside town.

These were homes, not military targets: humble terraced houses where ordinary people had been going about their ordinary lives. What had they done to deserve the firepower of the Luftwaffe?

She looked up the street to where the residents of the ruined houses were huddled under blankets, in shock, and shivering despite the heat of the day. They were clustered together – a motley crew of women, the elderly, and one or two children. One of her fellow WVS workers was busy dispensing tea from a mobile canteen.

She hurried over to the WVS tea van where Brenda Robson thrust a clipboard into her hands. ‘Good girl. You got here quickly. Go and collect people’s names and house numbers and find out who’s missing. And check if they’ve anyone to stay with. The school down the road is the rest centre – they’ll be billeted there until we can find something more suitable.’

Gwen worked her way through the now homeless occupants, astonished at the calm with which people accepted the total destruction of their homes and possessions. She tried to imagine what it would be like if her house and everything she owned were reduced to a heap of smoking rubble. Ashamed at her reluctance to open her doors for the billeting of troops, she moved among the people, noting their details on her clipboard.

Five hours later, exhausted and covered in grime, Gwen headed home on her bicycle. The fractured gas mains in Whitley Road had delayed setting up the rest centre. She had to wait until field stoves for a makeshift kitchen were delivered, to see them through until the mains could be repaired. While most of her WVS colleagues went along with the homeless to the rest centre, Gwen stayed, making endless cups of tea while the fire wardens and stretcher party dug out more wounded from the rubble of their homes. Among the crowd of helpers Gwen recognised the LDV man she had met outside the station on Friday morning. That seemed like weeks ago instead of the day before yesterday. Feeling ashamed of her rudeness at the time, she gave him a huge smile and, ignoring rationing, added an extra spoonful of sugar to his tea. When he muttered his gratitude, she said, ‘You deserve it after all your hard work today.’

‘We’re all in it together, Madam. Got to get on and do our duty, haven’t we?’

He smiled at her and she realised that something had changed with this war, with this bombing. They were indeed all in it together. Where once she would have handed him a sixpence for wiping her windscreen and never given him a second glance, now she was serving him tea as though they were equals. Funny old world – but Gwen was beginning to think she liked it better.

She poured herself a large whisky as soon as she got inside the house. One dead and twenty injured. Nine houses destroyed, blasted into oblivion, and sixty more damaged. It was a wonder the death toll was so low, it being a Sunday morning and after the church services had finished. Thankfully many families and most children had been evacuated from the town weeks earlier. There had been no advance warning, as the War Office instructions precluded use of sirens for single raiders. What a stupid rule – all it took was one plane.

The stench of charred wood and plaster dust still haunted her. She slugged back her scotch, feeling it burn her throat. Gwen was not used to drinking, but if the war went on at this rate she could get accustomed to it – as long as Roger’s supplies held out. Anything to dull the pain of what she had witnessed. The stoicism of the people of Whitley Road had made her feel selfish and self-centred. So far the war had asked so little of her and had barely touched her. Gwen resolved that all that would change from now on.

Her musings were interrupted by the door opening. Mrs Woods, her cook-housekeeper put her head around. ‘May I have a word, Mrs Collingwood?’ She didn’t wait for Gwen’s answer. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve decided to go and stay with my son and his wife in Hailsham. They’ve been on at me for months. I didn’t want to let you down, Madam, but these bombs dropping has made a difference. I’m not scared, but if I’m going to go I’d rather go with my own kith and kin.’

Gwen’s heart sank.

Mrs Woods avoided Gwen’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry to let you down and leave you here on your own, but Mr Collingwood did say as you were planning to go to stay in Somerset with his mother.’

Gwen stifled her irritation. ‘I’ll be fine, Mrs Woods. When are you planning to leave?’

‘First thing tomorrow if it’s all right with you.’

Damn. How the hell was she going to manage without the woman? Gwen could barely boil an egg. Making tea and toast was the summit of her culinary skill. She forced a smile. ‘I’ll miss having you around, Mrs Woods. And I’ll certainly miss your cooking.’

‘Let’s hope it won’t be for long, Madam.’

Drowning his Sorrows

Ontario

Jim ran until he was too tired to run any more, then, exhausted, he walked the rest of the five miles or so into town and spent the night on a bench in the park waiting for morning. He was in too much turmoil to sleep.

He couldn’t rid himself of the memory of Walt and Alice making love – his brain imprinted with her moaning, their conspiratorial glance burned into his retinas. If he lived to be a hundred he’d never be able to forget this night. His stomach heaved and he dry retched. He was hollowed out, flayed, his nerves exposed and raw. Betrayed by the two people he loved most in the world. The two people he’d believed until tonight loved him best. He’d never been so wretched, so alone, so utterly defeated.

He watched Alice arrive at the library for work and as soon as he saw her walking slowly up the steps he knew he couldn’t face confronting her. What was the point? The look that had passed between her and Walt was enough to know that he would never get her back. Accusing her of betrayal would make her miserable but would make no difference to the final outcome. Wouldn’t it be better for him to fade away?

He clenched his fists. How long had it been going on? How had they managed to keep it from him? If Walt were to come by now he couldn’t answer for the consequences. His own brother. Jim wanted to pulverise him. He let himself picture landing punches on Walt’s face; smashing his fists into that smug expression; feeling the bones crunch as he beat him relentlessly; his brother’s handsome face reduced to blood and pulp.

But the image brought no satisfaction. Why had they betrayed him? He had a right to know. Alice owed him that much.

Decision made, he ran up the steps two at a time and burst into the library. Alice looked up from the pile of books she was sorting and had the grace to appear embarrassed. She whispered something to the woman beside her and, signalling to Jim to follow her, went outside. They walked across to the park in silence and sat down on the bench he’d vacated. They’d sat on this same bench only a week or so ago when Jim had stopped by during her lunch break. How different that day had been. She’d been pleased to see him. Or pretended to be. Waves of nausea rose in his throat. Was she cheating on him then? How long had they been lying to him?

Eventually Alice spoke. ‘It just happened, Jim. I’m sorry. We couldn’t help ourselves. I was going to tell you last night before supper but I was late and there wasn’t time. Then I was going to tell you after supper but–’

‘But you thought you’d go out to the barn instead and make whoopee with Walt.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ She looked up at him with her soulful eyes and his stomach clenched with desire for her. Then he remembered her tanned legs wrapped around his brother’s waist and he turned his head away.

‘No? Looked that way to me.’

‘Walt was angry because I’d promised I’d tell you about us, and when your mother kept on about you and me getting married I could see he was like a pressure cooker about to blow. That’s why I went to the barn. I wanted to calm him down.’

‘And calming him down meant letting him do what we’ve never done.’ Jim slammed his fist into the bench with such force that the painted wood surface cracked. He raised his hand to his mouth and sucked away the blood.

Alice hung her head. ‘I don’t know what to say, Jim. I never meant to hurt you. Neither did Walt. But we couldn’t help it. We couldn’t stop ourselves.’

‘And little brother was happy for you to be the one to tell me what’s been going on? Too gutless to tell me himself. How long have you been sleeping with him? How long?’ He leaned back on the bench, and looked up at the cloudless sky, struggling to contain his emotions.

‘He wanted to tell you – or at least for us to do it together, but I thought it was better coming from me. I was going to break it off with you and we were going to wait a while before telling anyone about us. You know… to make it easier on you.’

‘Easier on me? How the hell would that be easier for me? We’re not at school. It isn’t some teenage crush. We were going to get married next year. You agreed to be my wife. You told me you loved me. We were going to have a family together.’ Jim’s voice trembled with emotion. He jerked forward on the bench, holding his head in his hands.

Alice stretched a hand out and laid it on his arm. He shrugged her off as though she were contaminated.

‘I did love you, Jim. I still do, but it’s not the same as the love I feel for Walt. The feelings for him exploded in me. When it happened we both knew.’

Listening to her was torture but Jim forced himself. It was like lancing a boil. You had to get all the poison out before it could heal. But he doubted he would ever heal.

‘It began three weeks back. I came over to talk wedding plans with your ma and when we were done she asked me to take some lemonade out to you and your pa and Walt. It was a really hot day. Remember?’ She paused, her voice trembling. ‘You and your pa were up in the top field and Walt was cutting hay down by the creek so after I saw you, I went down to him.’

Alice paused, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘He asked me to stay and sit with him while he drank, so I could take the cup and pitcher back. We shared the lemonade and got talking.’

She looked up at Jim, her eyes welling. ‘You know how it was with Walt. He never seemed to like me. I thought he was angry you spent so much time with me instead of with him.’ She looked down, eyes fixed on her knees. ‘And then he leaned over and kissed me. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t think he did either.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m so sorry, Jim. Walt and I knew right away that we had feelings for each other. Perhaps we always had – we’d just hidden them. Tried to pretend they weren’t there. Even to ourselves.’ Her voice broke and she began to cry. ‘It’s all such a mess.’

Jim’s voice was cold and he felt detached from his body, floating above it, looking down on himself, a thing apart. ‘So you’ve been meeting him every night in the barn then? Lying down in the hay and letting him use you like a cheap whore.’ He felt her tense beside him and heard her sob. He went on, his anger relishing her pain. ‘You’d always told me you wanted us to wait until we were married. I respected you.’

She turned to look at him, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘It only happened once before last night. We didn’t plan to do it again until we’d cleared things up with you. But Walt was angry that I hadn’t told you. We started to argue and then we were… well… we kissed and one thing led to another and we couldn’t stop. It was me too. Don’t blame him. It’s… it’s passion… between us. It’s so strong. We can’t help ourselves. Maybe that was the problem, Jim. You had me on a pedestal. Walt treated me like a woman.’

Jim jumped up from the bench. He couldn’t bear to look at her, to hear the unconscious cruelty of her words. Alice reached for his arm but he jerked away and began to run. He didn’t look back. He would never look back.

After drawing his pitifully small savings from the bank, Jim walked into a diner and asked if anyone was heading to Toronto and could give him a ride. He was going to sign up for the army. A smiling waitress offered him coffee on the house and he had three offers of transport. He chose the man who looked least likely to want to talk.

They reached Toronto too late in the evening for Jim to get to the recruiting office. Signing up would have to wait until morning. This was his last night as a free man before the army told him what to do. He couldn’t wait to be in uniform – obeying orders without having to think would be a blessed relief. With a bit of luck he might even get himself killed and he wouldn’t have to worry about what to do when the war was over. One thing was clear. He would never go back to the farm. It would be hard to leave his parents and knew it would be harder still on them but he had no choice.

He made his way to one of the city’s beverage rooms – the only public places where one could drink beer. The interior was shabby and the atmosphere was fuggy and smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Men leaned against the bar and sat around at tables. There were no women – they were not permitted in beer parlours. There was little talking, apart from placing orders at the counter. The place was intentionally uninviting. Jim didn’t care. The miserable surroundings suited his mood.

He paid for his drink and sat down at an empty table, quaffing the beer quickly and returning to the bar for another. He drank, hoping to numb the pain, wipe out the memory of Walt with Alice’s legs wrapped around him and forget that his dream of marrying and having children with her was gone.

He’d lost count of how many beers he’d drunk, when a man approached his table. Tall and wearing a suit that might once have been considered smart, but now looked as though it needed a good brushing, the man nodded and asked if he could join him. Jim shrugged.

While they drank, the stranger, whose name was Miller, regaled Jim with the story of his life, a familiar tale of declining fortunes, characteristic of many men since the Depression.

‘Then they took the house. That was the last straw. She walked out on me. Said she never wanted to see me again. Took my little girl with her and went back to Calgary. What became of standing by your man? What about all those vows she made in church? Might as well have said until death or repossession do us part. I had a good job when we married. Chief teller in a bank. As soon as they foreclosed on the bank and I was thrown on the scrap heap, she didn’t want to know. Ran home to Daddy. Since then I have to get by on whatever casual work I can get.’

‘Why don’t you join up?’ Jim spoke at last, aware that he was slurring his words.

‘Won’t have me. Don’t think I didn’t try. Failed the fitness test.’ Miller paused and looked at Jim. ‘That’s what you’re doing then?’

Jim nodded as he stared into the bottom of his beer glass.

‘Stand me a beer, mate, and then you can tell me your story,’ said Miller.

Jim slid a bill across the table. ‘You line them up then.’

When the man returned, he clinked glasses. ‘So, what brings you here drowning your sorrows, farm boy?’

Jim decided he was beyond caring about his pride. Self-esteem was a thing of the past and he was grateful that someone was prepared to listen, so he told Miller his story. When he finished, he expected jeers, ready to be the butt of the stranger’s jokes.

Instead Miller flung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Tell you what you need, farm boy. You need a woman. Fastest way to forget a woman is in the arms of another one. Drink up and let’s go.’

Before Jim had time to protest, they were outside the beer parlour and moving down the street. He felt unsteady. What was he agreeing to? What had he come to? Then he told himself Miller was right. He needed to forget Alice by replacing the memory of her with that of another woman. He was done with respecting himself.

The brothel was as seedy as the beverage room had been, but this time there were women. In fact that’s all there were – half a dozen of them in varying degrees of undress. Miller was evidently a regular. Several of the girls called to him and one jumped up and grabbed him by the tie, leading him out of the room. He looked over his shoulder and called out to Jim, ‘Enjoy, farm boy! You could be dead before the year’s out.’ Then he was gone.

Jim stood in the middle of the room, uncertain what to do next. An older woman, her face caked in make-up, appeared from behind a curtain.

She winked at Jim and said, ‘Any friend of Mickie Miller is welcome in this house.’

It dawned on him that procuring clients for the brothel was probably a lucrative solution to Miller’s employment problems – or at least a guarantee of preferential rates for himself. The madam snapped her fingers and nodded at one of her girls. ‘Make sure our guest gets everything he needs, Penny.’

A pretty redhead took him by the hand and led him from the room.

Once inside the bedroom, Jim’s head began to spin and his mouth tasted sour after all the beers. Penny ran her hands over his chest and murmured, ‘Cash first, handsome. Two dollars. On the nightstand, please.’

Jim reached into his back pocket and pulled out the bills, dropping them onto the table. His heart pounded against his ribs under the light pressure of her fingers. Then her hand moved lower and cupped him through the fabric of his trousers and he felt himself harden.

‘Mmm, nice,’ she said.

She pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him, her fingers rapidly working at the buttons of his shirt and pants. Miller was right. The best way to forget Alice was in the arms of another woman. All that frustration caused by Alice’s reluctance to do more than the most elementary sexual activity would soon be eased. But don’t think about Alice. Focus on Penny who had now managed to open his shirt and pull off his trousers. He closed his eyes but it made it impossible not to imagine it was Alice touching him instead of the hooker.

He couldn’t go through with it. As the girl’s hands moved to release him from his shorts, an overpowering need to be sick overwhelmed Jim and he pushed her off and flung himself across the small room to a washbasin in the corner where he vomited copiously. He’d drunk more beer tonight than in his whole life and on an empty stomach.

‘What the–’ Penny cried, now sitting on her haunches on the bed. ‘What the hell you think you’re doing, mister? No refunds,’ she added. ‘And it’s extra for messing up the basin.’ She moved behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re a first-timer? Had to drink to get your courage up, did you, mister?’ She handed him a towel. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me. I’ll give you a good time.’ She moved her hand around him and slipped it into the front of his shorts.

Jim pulled away from her and grabbed his pants from the floor beside the bed. He pulled them on and reaching into his pocket, threw another couple of bills on the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Penny. Nothing to do with you. You’re a lovely looking woman.’

Then he was out of the room, running down the stairs, through the back door and onto the street.

He hadn’t held back all those months with Alice to let his first sexual experience be with someone who had to be paid to do it. Making love was meant to be special, not sordid, not a financial transaction, like buying a beer. All of a sudden he was sober. Now he needed to find his way back to the YMCA.

Staying Put

Eastbourne

It was always the same dream: blood diffusing in water. While it was happening Gwen was aware it was a dream – but knowing that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Was there a name for dreams that replayed things that had actually happened? She would have been able to cope with sea monsters, Nazi invasions, running away from an unknown terror. But this?

Was she condemned to revisit this for the rest of her life? The water biting into her ankles like shards of ice cutting her to the bone; running through parched fields weighed down by the sodden leather of her shoes, water sloshing under her soaked socks, knowing as she ran – as she had known then – that it was too late. Nothing to be done. Alfie was dead. Her twin brother was gone and life would never be the same.

She woke,