The September Girls (35 page)

‘The Fleet Air Arm,’ Sybil sighed.

‘I’m sure he’ll like it. He seemed anxious to get away.’

‘So long as he doesn’t end up dead.’ Her eyes blazed briefly, then she sighed. ‘I always loved Jonathan more than anyone. He was the only person who didn’t want anything from me.’ She picked up the letter, stared it unseeingly and let it fall back on the desk. ‘I couldn’t stand Anthony, always making fun of me. I was glad when
he
went away.’

Cara didn’t know what to say. She was glad when the telephone rang. Sybil picked up the receiver, listened for a moment then said, ‘I’ll see to it straight away.’ She dialled a number, drumming her fingers impatiently on the desk until the person answered at the other end. ‘Corporal Culpepper? Major Hull wants a driver to take him to Republic Square, Valletta.’ She replaced the receiver without saying goodbye or thank you, looked at Cara, as if surprised to see her there, and asked, ‘Were you here for a reason, Caffrey?’

‘Yes,’ Cara said bluntly. ‘I came to ask permission to get married.’

‘Who to?’ Once again she glanced at the letter, as if she couldn’t get it off her mind.

‘Lance Corporal Christopher Farthing, he’s in the RAF.’ Cara bit her lip, wishing now that the telephone hadn’t rung, as it seemed to have nudged Sybil into being Allardyce again and her usual obnoxious self. It wasn’t solely self-interest, but also a feeling of pity for the girl who seemed so terribly lonely, that made her say, ‘I was going to invite you to the wedding, ma’am. I thought it would be nice to have someone there from home - Mam always called us The September Girls.’

To her relief, Sybil looked pleased. ‘Why, thank you, Caffrey, I’d love to come.’

Cara was leaving Marzipan Hall, feeling exultant, when a staff car drew up and Fielding leapt out. ‘I’ve come for Major Hull. What did Allardyce have to say?’

‘She didn’t say yes or no, but she’s accepted an invitation to the wedding.’

Fielding groaned. ‘You shouldn’t have asked
her
. She’ll put a bad spell on it.’

‘She’s terribly unhappy, I felt sorry for her.’

‘Idiot! You’re too soft-hearted by a heart by a mile, Caffrey.’

‘Not all that soft-hearted, I also thought it might help swing things my way.’

Fielding grinned. ‘All you have to do now is set the date.’

 

It wasn’t until the beginning of July that everyone concerned would have a whole day free at the same time - and Cara and Kit an extra day for a brief honeymoon in Gozo.

‘We’ll stay at the same hotel in the same room,’ Kit said, kissing her tenderly, ‘and we’ll do much better this time. It’s a pity we haven’t had a chance to practise.’ Since they’d met, they’d only seen each other about once a week, twice at the most, when he would come haring along on his bike, usually with Mac. They never had the opportunity to be alone in a place where they could do any more than kiss. It wouldn’t be any different when they were married, but at least Cara would have his ring on her finger and that would be, almost, enough for now. They were only young and there’d be plenty of time to make love in the future: there’d be time for all sorts of things in the future that they couldn’t do now.

Cara invited all the girls who shared the farmhouse, although knew that some would be on duty and unable to come. Corporal Culpepper insisted on giving her away and didn’t demand any other privileges.

The army chaplain had agreed to marry them in the little makeshift chapel behind Marzipan Hall that had once been a stable. It would be a civil ceremony as it was no use asking a priest to officiate at what would be a mixed marriage. Even in Liverpool, such a thing would never have been tolerated.

‘You’d have to agree to become a Catholic and it’d take months and months,’ Cara said, knowing Mam would do her nut at the idea of her only daughter not getting married in a Catholic church. She’d asked Sybil not to tell Eleanor about the wedding: she was bound to tell Mam, and if Mam found out, she’d swim all the way to Malta if she thought she could put a stop to it.

 

Cara and Fielding were in the mess listening to the BBC World Service when it was announced that Germany had invaded France. There was a united groan and Cara’s thoughts immediately went to her brother, Fergus, who’d been in France for months, waiting and no doubt dreading that this very thing would happen. The Netherlands had already surrendered. Would France be able to hold the German Army at bay? If it didn’t, Great Britain would stand alone, with only the English Channel separating it from an enemy that seemed set on conquering the world.

May drifted into June, by which time Belgium had fallen and France seemed on the brink. Thousands of British and French troops had been evacuated to Britain from the French port of Dunkirk, but Cara had absolutely no idea if Fergus was among them. She couldn’t stop worrying about her gentle brother, imagining his mangled body lying in a muddy ditch in a strange country. It made the war feel very close and personal. A few days later, it came even closer.

It was morning, almost seven o’clock, and the girls in the farmhouse were squabbling over the single bathroom, when the air raid warning sounded, as it had done many times before to signal a mock raid. They didn’t go down the cellar as they’d been instructed but, after a slight pause, continued with their squabbling, until someone said, ‘Hush!’

They hushed and, in the ensuing silence, a distant rumbling noise could be heard.

‘Aeroplanes!’ Fielding ran over to a window. ‘I can’t see a thing,’ she cried. ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘I just heard an explosion. There’s another - and another. Oh, my God!’ She turned to face the girls. ‘It’s an air raid, a proper air raid. They’re dropping bombs on Malta.’

The raids continued during the afternoon and early evening, eight altogether, all directed at the area of the dockyards. More than thirty people were killed and many more were injured. Malta had had its baptism of fire and blood - and this was only the beginning.

June 1940

Fergus Caffrey was just an average soldier. He’d never disgraced himself, nor had he shone. Anxious to please, he was nevertheless a mite too clumsy, forever tripping over things. The other men liked him because there was nothing to dislike about someone so inoffensive who could have easily become a target for bullies, except that Fergus was tall, well built, more than averagely good-looking and popular with women.

This had rather surprised Fergus and he’d eventually put it down to the fact the women were French and couldn’t speak English and he was English and couldn’t speak French and it was difficult to be tongue-tied with someone you couldn’t converse with except by signs. And if there was one thing he was good at, it was conversing by signs - he’d had enough practice with Anthony.

Until a few weeks ago, he’d enjoyed his time in France with the British Expeditionary Force. There’d been no sign of the enemy and little to do except make his bed, keep himself and his part of the billet clean, stand to attention when required and carry out the various tasks that were apportioned to him as best as he could without his glasses. As his job as an accounts clerk had been unutterably boring, he didn’t find the various tasks as tedious as the other men. He rather enjoyed repainting doors and window frames white, although they didn’t need it - the only reason was to ‘keep idle hands busy’, according to the corporals and sergeants who nowadays ruled his life.

His wish to fight for his country had paled rather once he’d been taught how it was done - he doubted if he could ever bring himself to thrust his bayonet into the belly of a young soldier no different from himself apart from the fact he happened to be German, but he didn’t regret joining up:
someone
had to do the dirty work necessary to keep his country democratic and free.

Now though, weeks later, Fergus had no idea how he felt about anything. His brain was in a state of total confusion as he trudged along a road somewhere in France, nipping out of the way of cars and horse-drawn carts laden with furniture and bundles of bedding and sometimes small children that occasionally passed him. Those less lucky pushed handcarts stacked with the possessions of a lifetime and the even less lucky carried the stuff in giant suitcases or in awkward bundles on their backs with things like kettles and teddy bears poking out and, in one case, a violin.

These people were refugees fleeing from the advancing German Army and that’s what Fergus had become, a refugee. But, unlike the others, he had no idea where he was going or what part of France he was in. He was just following these wretched people because he didn’t know what else to do. There were a few other troops in the fleeing crowds, in their twos or threes or all alone. Perhaps, like him, the single ones preferred their own company at a time like this.

Every now and then, a German plane would swoop out of the summery blue sky and strafe them. There’d be a concerted dash for the ditches on each side of the road, but not everyone was quick enough to escape and the plane would fly away, its work done, leaving the women to weep, the men to groan and the children to scream when they found their dead, dying or injured loved ones left lying on the bloody road. It reminded Fergus of the game they’d played at school: musical chairs. Everyone had to grab a seat when the music stopped, but there was always someone who wasn’t quick enough and they’d be out. In the end, only the winner would be left and, in the game now being played, there was no doubt who the winner would be and it wasn’t
his
side.

This must be what hell was like - perhaps he’d died along with many of his mates and he was in hell for all eternity, although he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it. He’d missed Mass a few times in France, but that wasn’t a mortal sin, not deserving of such horrendous punishment.

His feet were killing him. There were holes as big as spuds in his socks and his heels were raw and bleeding. There was nothing to stuff in his boots except bits of newspaper that quickly turned to shreds. He had no spare socks. In fact, he had nothing: no rations, no money, no kit of any description. Everything had been lost or left behind, even his rifle - he didn’t know where. His glasses must have fallen from his pocket: he’d used to wear them occasionally to write letters home and no one had ever commented. It was strange, but his sight had actually improved since they’d been lost, as if every part of his body, including his eyes, was alert to the danger he was in.

Fergus felt as if he had just taken part in another game rather more skilled than musical chairs: chess. The four armies - the British, French, Belgium and German - had been the pawns that had been moved aimlessly around by blindfolded men who couldn’t see the board. One minute, Fergus and his comrades had been advancing, then discovered they were retreating. They’d think they were on the winning side when, in reality, they were losing. The tanks promised in support hadn’t put in an appearance: expected and longed-for rations hadn’t turned up. Rumours abounded: that Churchill was in Paris, that the Belgians had surrendered, that the much-vaunted Maginot Line hadn’t stopped the enemy dead in its tracks as anticipated; instead, they’d thoughtlessly marched right round it. Calais and Boulogne had been taken and British troops were to be evacuated from Dunkirk. And it was to Dunkirk that Fergus hoped and prayed he was heading as he limped along a pretty country lane in France in the company of a pitiful collection of ordinary human beings whose worlds had been torn apart.

He passed the body of a very old man sprawled in the ditch, a deep hole in his chest. A small dog lay beside him, very much alive and barking tiredly. The sight left Fergus cold. He’d already seen worse, including good friends blown to pieces in front of his eyes.

‘Gets to you, doesn’t it?’

Fergus didn’t bother to turn and see who had spoken. He was past caring about such niceties as good manners and had lost count of the people who’d tried to speak to him that he’d dismissed with a rude shrug. He shrugged again.

‘Hang on a minute. I just want to take a shot of the old man and his dog.’

He turned then, to see a thin, white-faced lad, no more than sixteen, wearing what looked very much like a school uniform: flannels, navy-blue blazer, white shirt and striped tie, holding a camera aimed at the ditch. There was a click, the lad nodded as if satisfied, wound the reel of film to the next exposure and put the camera in the leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

‘Isn’t that a bit ghoulish?’ Fergus asked, stirred out of his torpor by this strange sight.

‘It isn’t if you’re a professional photographer,’ the lad said airily.

‘You don’t look old enough to be a professional anything. What the hell are you doing here? Are you English, French or what?’

‘I’m English and I’m taking photos for my dad’s newspaper. I came over yesterday with my granddad on his fishing boat.’

‘Came over from where?’ Fergus’s already confused brain couldn’t cope with this perky young individual who looked as if he’d been on his way home from school when transported by magical means to the nightmare that was now France.

‘Folkestone. You’ve no idea what’s happening, have you?’ This was said so patronizingly that Fergus felt like giving the little bugger a clock around the ear.

‘Has anyone?’ he grunted.

‘
I
have,’ the lad said boastfully. ‘My dad’s editor of the local paper, the
Folkestone Courier
, so what with my granddad having a boat, I’ve been more or less in the thick of things. Since last Monday, thousands of British and French troops have been evacuated from Dunkirk. Boats like my granddad’s have come from all over the country to help. I stowed away and nipped off when we got here to take photos and make notes. It’ll be the scoop of a lifetime and Dad’ll be really proud of me.’ For a moment, he looked slightly worried. ‘I expect him and Mum are wondering where I am.’