Darkest Before Dawn (38 page)

‘Gerron wi' you,' Mr Wilmslow said gruffly, getting to his feet and shooing Evie and the others towards the kitchen door. ‘Go and start your packing.'

Seraphina and Angie went to their room and began slinging their small possessions into their kit bags, but as soon as this was done Angela turned to her sister. ‘Fee, would you think it absolutely awful of me if I went straight back to camp instead of going to the Wirral with you and Mam? You see, Albert had been told that his regiment will almost certainly be sent abroad and – and I'd like to spend some time with him before he goes. I suppose it's awfully selfish, but . . .'

‘You'd better ask Ma rather than me,' Seraphina said, rather stiffly. She thought that, if Angela did go back to camp to be with her chaplain, it would show her, Seraphina, in rather a bad light. She had made Roger's course an excuse to come home instead of going to stay in Lincoln, but the course was now over. However, she knew that if she too said she was not going with them, her mother and Evie would refuse to go to the Wirral, so perhaps it was more selfish to go to Roger than to stay with them.

As though she had spoken the words instead of thinking them, Angie turned to her. ‘I
am
being selfish, aren't I?' she said remorsefully. ‘I'm sure you'd much rather be with Roger than with Ma, no matter how much you love her, but you're not going to let her down. Oh, I won't either. It was mean of me to suggest it. Only – only Albert will be going so far away and – and Roger isn't likely to be stationed abroad, is he?'

Seraphina bit back the sharp retort that Roger was in deadly danger every time he flew a sortie over enemy territory, and said that Angela had every right to want to be with her young man. Then she despatched her to see how Martha took the suggested change of plan and was not surprised when Angela came back, beaming, to say that Martha had completely understood; indeed, had insisted that Angela should go.

So it was only three Todds who arrived at the Noakes's farmhouse, late that afternoon, and settled down to enjoy tea, chunky ham sandwiches, a bowl of hard boiled eggs and several plates of scones and cakes served by a beaming Mrs Noakes, who clucked and fussed over them as she took them to their rooms. ‘You poor dears, you look worn to the bone; what you want is a real good night's sleep,' she said warmly. ‘Why not go for a nice walk along the lanes to give you an appetite for supper? And after that I'll warrant you'll all sleep like newborn babes.'

She was a tall, big-bosomed lady, with abundant white hair, rosy cheeks, and a wide, generous mouth. Seraphina liked her on sight and wished, devoutly, that she could persuade her mother and sister to remain with Mrs Noakes whilst the bombing raids continued. She knew it would be useless to try, however; Martha would never fail in what she thought of as her duty and Evie would never leave Martha.

Still, this was an interlude of peace in wartime and as such they must all make the best of it.

Martha had encouraged Angela to return to Devonshire not only because she was delighted to see how her daughter had blossomed once she was away from home, but also because she knew she must talk to Seraphina and find out what, if anything, was wrong with her beautiful and talented daughter. Ever since Evie had mentioned the matter to her, Martha had been uneasily aware that all was not well with her eldest. The explanation she had given Evie had been as much for her own benefit as for her small daughter's, but, like Evie, she had nourished a secret, nagging worry ever since. Seraphina was very happy as a WAAF and had begun training as an R/T operator, which was responsible and important work, but she did not make time to go and see her husband, and had actually come home to Liverpool for her week's leave when Martha was sure she could have arranged her time off to coincide with her husband's if she had wished to do so. She had told Martha, airily, that Roger, who had been piloting Wellington bombers, was at Church Broughton, along with his crew, doing a course. But Martha guessed that this was just a fortunate coincidence and had nothing to do with the real reason why Seraphina had come home for her week's leave.

Now, however, with Angie off at her camp and Evie so eager to help with the farm work that she would probably spend every day feeding baby lambs, or perched on the back of the fat old pony, Martha thought that at long last she might be able to find out what ailed Seraphina. Of course, she might be wrong; there might be nothing the matter at all. Certainly, it was odd that Seraphina had only met her husband once since their honeymoon, but the exigencies of service life could, Martha supposed, account for that.

‘Have you finished, Mam?' Evie's bright voice, from across the breakfast table, broke into Martha's thoughts. ‘Only I promised Joyce that I'd give a hand with the milking and that I'd collect the eggs, too. I meant to get up real early only it was so quiet and peaceful that I didn't wake at all until I heard the clatter of milk pails out in the yard. So I guess I've missed the milking, but I might still be in time to get the eggs. Joyce is ever so nice – she's fifteen, not all that much older'n me – and she says we can drive into the village in the pony and trap later, to get her mam's messages . . . only she called them errands. So can I get down, Mam?'

Martha laughed at the childish phrase which she had not heard on Evie's lips for some years, but nodded her agreement and saw Evie fly from the room before turning to smile, ruefully, at Seraphina. ‘This is the sort of life Evie should be living,' she observed. ‘Now, what would you like to do this morning, my love? I'm ashamed to admit that, though I slept like a log, I'm still dreadfully tired, but it's a wonderful warm day and I think a nice country walk would be good for both of us.' She patted her stomach. ‘Egg, bacon, fried bread and black pudding is a good deal nicer than a bowl of watery porridge and a slice of leathery toast, but I can't afford to burst out of my grey working skirt, so I think we should try and exercise or we'll go home on Saturday looking like a couple of porkers.'

Seraphina agreed readily and suggested that they should walk to the village. ‘I've got some of my sweet ration left; it would be a nice gesture to buy Mrs Noakes something in the sweetie line for when we leave her on Saturday,' she suggested. ‘I expect Mr Wilmslow told you that I tried to make him let me pay Mrs Noakes for our bed and board, but he wouldn't allow it, so I'd like to buy him something as well – just to show him that we're truly grateful.'

‘That's a lovely idea,' Martha observed. ‘Although I didn't much care for him at first, I've grown accustomed, I suppose, and now I can see his good points. He's not nearly as mean as he was – he pays Mrs Bunwell generously when she works in the shop – and though I won't take money for working in the evenings on all the government bumph that has to be filled in, he tries to make sure I don't lose by it; a bottle of Camp coffee or a couple of tins of baked beans appear on the kitchen table whenever I've nipped out for a few minutes. I wonder what you could buy him? Cigarettes are the obvious thing, I suppose – he never smoked at all before the war, you know, but now he usually buys ten Woodbines a week. I tell you what, if we can't find anything in the village, we'll take a bus to Chester. I don't suppose Evie will want to come, but it would be a nice change to see Chester again.'

Seraphina agreed with this plan and presently the two of them set off, walking slowly along the leafy lane in the direction of the village. After some desultory conversation about the farm and the surrounding countryside, Martha took her courage in both hands and voiced what was on her mind. ‘Fee, my love, I hope you won't be offended, but have you and Roger had some sort of tiff? Only I know you don't see much of him and I'm sure you could have deferred your leave until Roger could have had some time off as well. He's such a delightful young man, I – I can't imagine him deliberately distressing you.'

There was a long silence during which Martha wondered, apprehensively, whether she had overstepped the mark or had simply imagined that there was anything wrong between Roger and her daughter. She glanced at Seraphina's face but the girl looked thoughtful, neither angry nor offended. Martha opened her mouth to apologise, to say that she had not meant to interfere, but before she could say anything Seraphina, who had been staring abstractedly ahead, turned to face her, giving her a small, almost shamefaced smile.

‘Yes, there is something wrong, though I dare say you'll not think it very important,' she said quietly. ‘Roger – Roger doesn't want children.'

Martha gazed at her, perplexed. ‘But isn't that understandable in wartime?' she ventured. ‘You're both in the services, with no home of your own in which to bring up a child. Don't you think that perhaps Roger is just being sensible?'

‘I don't know,' Seraphina said slowly. ‘I did think that at first but now I'm not so sure that Roger will ever want children. There are men like that, Ma; they think of children as a burden, an added responsibility.'

‘And you think Roger's one of those men? I think you're being rather hard on him, my love,' Martha said. ‘When Harry and I first married, we decided we would defer having a family until we could afford to look after them properly, and we were so happy aboard the dear old
Mary Jane
that we didn't miss children for those two years. I think you'll find, Fee, that the majority of women want children and the majority of men go along with the idea without any real enthusiasm. When the children arrive, of course, it's completely different; my goodness, your father worshipped you, thought you were the most marvellous creatures alive, would have done anything for you. So I think you'll find, when the war's over, that Roger will agree to having a family and will love the babies when they arrive as much as Harry loved his little ones.'

There was another long silence, then Seraphina stopped short and gave her mother a hug. ‘You're much wiser than me so I'm sure you're right,' she said humbly. ‘The truth is, Ma, that Roger and I don't know each other very well yet. A simple disagreement gets exaggerated into a quarrel and when you part on a sour note it's – it's impossible to forget the things the other one has said, impossible not to dwell on it when you're lying alone in your bed at night. But I won't do that any more, I promise you, and I'll go and see Roger the very next time I get a chance. I'm sure, when we're together, we'll work it out – because I really do love him, you know.'

‘Yes, and you're used to having your own way,' Martha said, giving her daughter's hand a squeeze. ‘And now let's forget our troubles and enjoy our walk.'

Seraphina returned to her airfield and was in her hut by six o'clock on Saturday evening despite the difficulties of cross-country travel in wartime. Most of the WAAFs were in the hut, tidying up after their day's work, and Seraphina plonked herself down on her bed to unpack her kitbag, stowing her belongings with more haste than care in the locker which separated her bed from Betty's. Betty, combing out her short dark hair so that it framed her rosy face, turned and beamed at her friend. ‘Gosh, it's been a long week,' she observed. ‘We've been really worried because the news coming out of Liverpool has been dreadful. Someone said a hundred and fifty thousand people had been killed and practically every house in the city had been razed to the ground, but rumours spring up like that in wartime. It can't be true – can it? You look fine.'

‘I left the city last Wednesday, but the raids were horrendous, worse than anything I'd ever imagined,' Seraphina admitted. ‘And judging from the local papers, the bombing went on after we left; is probably going on still, for that matter. I wish Ma and Evie would listen to reason . . . but hopefully the worst is over now and they can begin to pick up the remainder of their lives.'

‘Poor them. But how did you enjoy your leave?' Betty asked. ‘Did you go to relatives? Oh – you didn't go to the canal, did you? I believe bombs hit it at some stage.'

‘No, we went to a farm; Ma's employer treated us to three days' bed and board. It was grand,' Seraphina assured her friend. She ran a comb through her thick golden hair, pinned it into a neat coil at the nape of her neck, then checked her appearance in the long mirror which hung beside the door. ‘Mrs Noakes fed us like royalty; a bit different from the cookhouse,' she observed, going through the doorway into the sunshine of early evening. ‘Oh well, all good things come to an end, and anyway I love my work here, so I mustn't complain.'

Later that evening, when most of the girls were in the mess, Seraphina and Betty went for a walk along the perimeter track, enjoying the last sloping rays of the sun and the sweet scents of the long meadow grass which, in two or three weeks, would be cut for hay. They walked in silence for a while, then Betty turned to her friend. ‘Well? You haven't said much about your leave; I bet it was wonderful seeing your family again. Angela was on leave at the same time, wasn't she? Did anyone wonder why you'd not gone to see Roger?' She chuckled. ‘If I'd passed up a chance to be with my old man, my mum would have a thing or two to say, I can tell you.'

Seraphina sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose any mother would want to know what was going on,' she admitted, ‘and my mother is no exception; she asked all right.'

‘And what did you tell her?' Betty asked curiously. ‘It's not an easy thing to discuss with your mum, is it?'

‘I told her the truth,' Seraphina said. ‘I told her that Roger didn't want children.'

‘And that was
all
you told her?' Betty asked incredulously. ‘It wasn't exactly the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, was it? But I'm sure you and Roger will work it out once you're seeing a bit more of each other, and maybe knowing what had happened – or rather, what had
not
happened – would only upset your mum, and embarrass her, of course.'