The Soldier's Daughter (9 page)

‘I’ve got an awful feelin’ that we’ll be in the line o’ fire soon,’ Mrs Brindley commented as they clustered around the wireless listening to the evening news. ‘So much fer us all hopin’ that the bloody war would soon be over.’

Luckily the children were fast asleep in bed. Briony stared at her neighbour fearfully. It was unlikely that Lois had taken in a word of it, for as usual she was sitting in the chair staring into the fire from glazed eyes. Briony wondered what she would have done without Martha Brindley over the last few months. The kindly woman had been wonderful, coming round each day to get a meal on the go for when Briony got in from work, and often even taking the family’s ration books to the shops to collect their rations for them. It was just as well. Lois was normally too drunk to even know what day it was lately, and Briony was at her wits’ end. They had received one further letter from her father in February, heavily censored, but since then there had been no word from him and now Lois seemed to have given up. Mrs Brindley had heard nothing from her family either and she was worried sick.

Worse was to come. In May, news began to filter through of the British troops trapped on the beaches of Dunkirk. The navy was having trouble rescuing the ones that were still alive because the waters were too shallow for the huge ships to get in close enough to them. Horror stories were reported of the dead and dying which made the British people’s blood run cold. The Allied Forces were being shot down like flies and it was rumoured that the sea had turned red with the blood of so many corpses. But then everyone rallied and soon boats of every shape and size were crossing the Channel, collecting the survivors and delivering them to the ships that lay at anchor in deeper waters, or bringing the men home themselves. Pictures of rescued soldiers appeared in the newspapers accepting cigarettes, tea and sandwiches from the WVS, their faces hollow but visibly thankful to be on home soil again. The injured were whisked away to the nearest military hospitals whilst the men capable of travelling returned to their families for a short, well-earned rest.

‘I just pray our men are amongst that lot somewhere,’ Mrs Brindley muttered fervently, but all they could do was wait for news.

And then sadly for Mrs Brindley, one bright May morning a young lad on a bike delivered a telegram to her door.

Briony was at home as she had been suffering from a raging headache, and when she saw the lad stop outside and prop his bicycle up against the lamp-post, her heart missed a beat. Nowadays every one dreaded the sight of the telegram boy and prayed that he would ride straight by. She saw him approach Mrs Brindley’s front door and flew through the house and across the yard into her neighbour’s kitchen, sensing that her friend would have need of her.

She watched the colour drain from the older woman’s face as she opened the door and took the telegram, before walking back into the kitchen as if in a daze.

‘Here, luvvie,’ she thrust it at Briony. ‘Open it for me, would yer? Me hands have gone all of a shake.’

Briony’s weren’t much better but she quietly did as she was asked and as her eyes scanned the page she experienced a sense of relief that it wasn’t about Ernie, followed by a pang of guilt that she could have felt this.

‘What does it say?’

Briony gulped deep in her throat. She croaked: ‘It says that they regret to inform you that your husband, Clarence Brindley, was killed in action during the Battle of Dunkirk.’

The silence seemed to stretch on for ever with nothing but the ticking of the clock to be heard, and then suddenly Mrs Brindley swayed and Briony leaped forward to steady her and lead her to a chair. The woman sat down heavily as Briony wrung her hands together, at a loss as to what to say. What
could
she say after hearing such devastating news – and how would Mrs Brindley bear it? How could
she
have borne it, if it had been about her father or Ernie?

‘Is . . . is there anything I can get for you?’ she asked, but the woman didn’t seem to hear her. She was staring through the window at a solitary daffodil that had managed to survive in front of the Anderson shelter in the yard. It seemed all wrong somehow to receive such devastating news when the world outside was blooming into life again.

Mrs Brindley turned to stare at her then although her eyes did not seem to be focusing. Briony was wearing a pretty navy-blue dress dotted with tiny forget-me-nots in a lighter blue that had belonged to her mother. It had a flared skirt with a wide belt at the waist, and Mrs Brindley thought it made the colour of her hair look even blacker. Briony was a good-looking girl, there was no doubt about it. And then she shocked Briony when she suddenly rose purposefully from the chair and went to collect her wicker basket and her ration book.

‘I ought to be getting up to the baker’s in Arbury Road otherwise all the bread will be gone again.’

‘B-but you can’t,’ Briony stuttered. ‘You’re in shock, Mrs Brindley. Here, give the ration book to me and I’ll fetch it for you.’

Mrs Brindley looked straight through her as she headed for the door so Briony scampered after her. ‘All right then, if you won’t let me go I’ll come with you.’ She would have liked to pop next door and tell her mother what had happened, but at present she daren’t leave Mrs Brindley alone. Their neighbour was acting very strangely, but then she supposed it was to be expected. It was as if the news she had just received hadn’t sunk in.

All the way up Church Road Briony had to almost run to keep up with the woman, who was striding along as if she were on a mission.

‘Can you just slow down a bit, I’ve got heels on,’ the girl implored, but Martha didn’t seem to hear her. By the time they were at the baker’s Briony was breathless and she stood at the back of the shop as her neighbour joined the queue.

‘Lovely day, ain’t it, Martha,’ the woman in front of her commented and Mrs Brindley nodded in agreement.

‘It is that, Lil. There ain’t nothin’ like the feel of a bit o’ sun on yer back. It does yer the world o’ good after the cold winter.’

The queue shuffled forward as Briony stood there not quite knowing what to do. And then some other women latched on to the back of them and Briony’s ears pricked up as she realised that they were talking about what was happening in Dunkirk.

‘They reckon it’s like a bloodbath,’ commented a plump woman in a scarf that was wrapped turban-style about her head. ‘Our soldiers are bein’ mown down like blades o’ grass, by all accounts. Poor sods.’

Briony held her breath as she watched Mrs Brindley turn to stare at them. ‘My old man’s out there,’ she whispered, and then to everyone’s distress her face crumpled and she looked towards Briony as if she was seeing her for the first time. ‘B-but he ain’t there any more, is he? The telegram said that he . . . he was dead.’ Suddenly she dropped her basket and her gas mask and she was pushing through the throng of women as sympathetic arms stretched out to her. When she finally managed to reach the pavement she gulped at the air as if she were having trouble breathing and Briony wrapped her arms about her as the tears suddenly gushed from her eyes.

‘My poor Clal!’ the distraught woman whimpered. In seconds the woman she had addressed as Lil had joined them, pressing Mrs Brindley’s basket and a loaf of bread towards Briony.

‘Here, let her have my bread and you’d best take her home, duck. It might not be a bad idea to get the doctor to come out to take a look at her. No doubt he’ll be able to give her sommat to calm her down, God bless her.’

‘Thank you. And yes, I’ll do that,’ Briony promised as she turned Mrs Brindley about and began to lead her away. The short walk home seemed to take forever but at last they were back in Martha’s cosy little kitchen.

Briony sat her in a chair before hurrying away to put the kettle on. She’d heard somewhere that hot sweet tea was good for shock, and her neighbour certainly needed it right now, even if it meant using up the whole week’s sugar ration. Once the poor woman was sipping at the hot drink, Briony ran to the telephone box at the end of the road and spoke to the doctor’s receptionist, who assured her that he would call to see Mrs Brindley after afternoon surgery. And then she went back and stayed with her neighbour until it was time to collect the children from school.

‘Mrs Brindley has had a telegram informing her that Mr Brindley has been killed in action,’ she told her mother curtly before setting off, and the news seemed to shock Lois out of her stupor. She had been sitting by the back door enjoying a bit of sunshine with a glass in her hand but she rose immediately.

‘Oh no!’ She looked genuinely distressed. ‘Yes . . . you go and fetch the children, love, and I’ll pop in and stay with her until you get back.’

‘Why has Mum been crying? And why hasn’t Mrs Brindley been round tonight?’ Sarah asked later that evening as Briony was clearing up after dinner. She had taken a meal round to Mrs Brindley but it remained untouched. The sedative that the doctor had given her seemed to have knocked her out for the count, which Briony supposed was no bad thing.

‘I’m afraid she has had some very bad news,’ Briony said. There was no point in trying to keep it from them – the children were bound to hear it from someone – so she gently explained what had happened and hugged Sarah to her as the child’s eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Does that mean that Mr Brindley won’t never come back?’

‘I’m afraid it does, sweetheart.’

‘But it ain’t fair. Mr Brindley was a kind man. He used to give me an’ Alfie pennies for sweets sometimes.’

Briony sighed. ‘I know it isn’t fair, love, but sadly there isn’t much we can do about it apart from be extra kind to Mrs Brindley. She needs us right now.’

‘Well, I shall go round an’ fill her coal scuttle up fer her,’ Alfie said with his chin in the air. ‘An’ I’ll run to the shop fer her if she needs anythin’.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,’ Briony told him, then she hugged him too when he burst into tears.

The next few days were amongst some of the worst that Briony could ever remember as she watched Mrs Brindley suffering. The poor soul was consumed by grief and refused to either eat or drink, and Briony began to get really concerned about her. Much to Mr Trimble’s disapproval she rang in and booked a few days off work, but she didn’t care if he was annoyed. The way she saw it, Mrs Brindley had no one to care for her, and after all the kindly woman had done for their family she felt that she owed her this much at least.

And then, just when Briony began to think that Mrs Brindley was never going to get better, something wonderful happened.

She was dusting the furniture in her neighbour’s already spotless front parlour when an ambulance pulled up right outside.

Hurrying into the back room she told Mrs Brindley, ‘There’s an ambulance outside. You haven’t rung for one, have you?’

‘Why would I do that?’ the woman responded, but all the same she was curious enough to drag herself out of the chair and follow Briony into the parlour where they stood peeping through the white lace curtains.

Two ambulance men emerged from the front of it then hurried around to open the back doors – and then they saw them help someone whose leg was in a huge plaster cast to climb down.

‘Oh my dear God.’ Mrs Brindley’s hand flew to her mouth and for the second time in a week Briony saw every vestige of colour drain from her face. ‘It’s me lad! It’s our Ernie!’ Then she was yanking the front door open, and before Briony knew what was happening, she was out in the street clutching her son so tightly that she almost had him over.

‘Hello, Mam,’ he grinned as he clutched his crutch with one arm and hugged her back with the other.

‘B-but what are yer doin’ here?’ She was torn between pleasure at seeing him and terror at the sight of his leg.

‘Well, if you’ll let me get inside, I’ll tell yer,’ he said teasingly, and only too happy to oblige she stood aside as the ambulance men took an elbow each and steered him into the house. Once they were gone and he was comfortably settled on the sofa with his leg propped up on a stool he winked at Briony and she felt her heart race.

‘I er . . . I’ll go and put the kettle on while you two have a chat,’ Briony mumbled, and as she turned away she could feel her cheeks burning.

‘I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to put up wi’ me for a while till this heals,’ Ernie told his mother, tapping the plaster cast. ‘I’ve been in a hospital in Ramsgate after being rescued from the beaches at Dunkirk, but they’re so desperate for beds they’re sending home the ones who aren’t too badly injured till we’re fit to return to our base.’

Mrs Brindley stared at his leg worriedly but he assured her, ‘It’s just a straightforward break, Mam. I was one of the lucky ones.’ His face became haunted then as he went on, ‘I can’t say the same for some of my mates though. They copped it good and proper, God rest their souls. Our plane was shot down. Thankfully we were flying low or I’d never have survived it. My co-pilot was killed straight out. I got away with this, which is why I ended up on the beach with the Army chaps. They found me in the wreckage of the plane and somehow managed to get me onto the beach.’

‘Oh, son,’ Mrs Brindley said brokenly, feeling his pain. ‘I’m afraid I have some more bad news for you.’

As she began to tell him about the telegram that she had received, Briony quietly left, feeling they deserved some privacy. She would be able to catch up with Ernie later on when he had had time to come to grips with what his mother was telling him. But inside, her heart was singing. Life wasn’t so bad, after all. Admittedly Ernie was injured but at least he was alive, which was a lot more than could be said for many of his comrades. She just wished wholeheartedly that he didn’t have to return to his base. This time, as he had quite rightly said, he had been lucky; he had escaped with his life – but what if he wasn’t so lucky next time?

Just seeing him again had made her break out in goose bumps and shown her how much she had come to care for him. And yet she knew that she must never let him know, for it would break Ruth’s heart. She suddenly realised that she should let Ruth know that he was home; the girl would never forgive her if she didn’t. But first she would allow mother and son to have some time alone together. They needed to talk – and Ernie was bound to be heartbroken when he learned of his father’s death. She wondered if perhaps Mr Brindley had lost his life on the very same beach from which Ernie had been rescued. It would be ironic if he had.