Coming Home (131 page)

‘What I think you have to hang on to,’ said Toddy, ‘is your own future, beyond the end of the war. But I know that's difficult when you're young. It's easy for me to talk. I've lived a good many years, I'm old enough to be your mother. I can look back and measure the shape and the purpose of everything that's happened in my life. And although some of it was pretty miserable, it all makes sense. And, as far as I see it, there's little chance of your being on your own for very long. You'll marry some dear man and have children of your own, and watch them growing up in that house of yours.’

‘Too remote, Toddy. Light-years away. An impossible dream. Right now, choosing hypothetical curtains at Liberty's is about the limit of my imagination.’

‘At least that's a hopeful ploy. Hope is terribly important. Like being constant. Keeping faith. And this hateful war can't go on forever. I don't quite know how or when, but it will end. Someday. Perhaps sooner than any of us imagine.’

‘I suppose so.’ Judith looked about her. The ward was emptying, visitors saying goodbye and taking their leave. ‘I've lost all track of time.’ She remembered Toddy's date at the Officers' Club and was consumed with guilt. ‘You're going to be dreadfully late for your group captain. He's going to think you've stood him up.’

‘Oh, he can wait. But perhaps I should be off. You're all right now?’

‘Yes, I'm fine. You were a saint to listen.’

‘In that case…’ Todd gathered up her basket and stood, then stooped to give Judith a peck on the cheek. ‘Take care. If you want, we'll talk again. Meantime, I'll be back, with some steamy novel or other to help pass the time.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

She went. Down through the ward, and out of the door at the far end. Gone. Judith turned her head on the pillow and looked out at the skyful of stars, and saw the Southern Cross high in the sapphire-blue heavens. She felt enormously tired, curiously. Detached. It occurred to her that perhaps this was how Roman Catholics felt after they had been to confession.

It will end.
Toddy's voice.
Someday. Perhaps sooner than any of us imagine.

Sick-Bay

Trincomalee.

August 16th, 1945.

Darling Biddy,

I don't know why I haven't written for such ages, because for nearly two weeks I've had nothing to do. I've been in Sick-Bay, because I went swimming with Toby Whitaker (Uncle Bob's signal officer in Plymouth before the war) and cut my foot on a horrible bit of glass and so ended up here. Stitches, and the Senior Medical Officer anxious about septicaemia, and then stitches out, and walking with crutches, but now all right, and going back to Quarters this afternoon. Back to work tomorrow.

But this letter isn't about me, and the reason you haven't had one before of course is because I have spent most moments, ever since that first Monday, hanging over the wireless in our ward, and listening to news bulletins. We heard about the bomb being dropped on Hiroshima on the early-afternoon news that day. We were all listening to Glenn Miller, and busy with our various ploys, and we don't usually bother to turn the radio up for the news, but all of a sudden Sister bounced in and turned the wireless up full volume so that we could hear. At first we just thought it was a regular bombing raid by the American forces, but it gradually dawned that it was far more important and horrific than that. They say that a hundred thousand people died instantly, and it wasn't all that huge a city, and the city itself disappeared; obliterated. You will have seen the dreadful pictures in the newspapers and the mushroom-shaped cloud, and the poor survivors, all burnt. In a way it simply doesn't bear thinking about, does it? And the awful thing is that
we
did it, even worse than the bombing of Dresden. And it feels a bit frightening, because all I can think is that now this terrible power is with us, and we're all going to have to live with it for the rest of our lives.

But even so, I'm ashamed to say we all got terribly excited, and felt frightfully frustrated being stuck in Sick-Bay and not out and about, picking up all the news and being part of it all. However, lots of people came and visited, and brought newspapers and things, and bit by bit, the importance of what has happened, and the scale of the destruction of Hiroshima, began to sink in. Then on Thursday we heard the news that Nagasaki had been bombed as well, and after that it seemed obvious that the Japanese couldn't continue much longer. But we had to wait a few more tense days before the news broke that they had, finally, surrendered.

On that morning, all the ships of the Fleet held Thanksgiving services, and across the water you could hear the hymn ‘Eternal Father Strong to Save’ being sung by all the ships' companies, and the Royal Marine Buglers playing the ‘Last Post’ in memory of all the men who had been killed.

It was a tremendously exciting and rather drunken day, as all rules were waived, and there was a party in the VAD's mess, and people were coming and going all day long, and nobody at all seemed to be doing any work. That night, after dark, there were great celebrations, the whole East Indies Fleet lit up with flares and searchlights, fire-hoses, making fountains, rockets exploding, and hooters hooting. On the Quarterdeck of the flagship, the Royal Marine band played — not ceremonial marches but tunes like ‘Little Brown Jug’, and ‘In the Mood’, and ‘I'm Going to Get Lit Up When the Lights Go On in London’.

We all crowded out onto the terrace and watched the fun, the Senior Medical Officer and two other doctors, and Sister and all the patients (some in wheelchairs), and various other hangers-on, and everybody who turned up seemed to have brought a bottle of gin, so it was fairly riotous, and every time a rocket went up, we all yelled and shouted and cheered.

I did too and it was wonderful, but, at the same time, I felt a bit scared as well. Because I know that, sooner or later, somebody will tell me what has become of Mummy and Dad and Jess, and if they have survived these terrible three and a half years.
I've
only survived because I've deliberately not thought about them too much, but now I'm going to have to get my head out of the sand and face up to the truth, whatever it is. As soon as I hear
anything,
I'll send you a cable, and I'll telephone Uncle Bob, provided I can get a line through to the C in C's office in Colombo. Things are bound to be a bit disorganised with so much going on. Toby Whitaker dropped in a couple of days ago, and there is talk of the Fleet beginning to move on to Singapore. Already. Perhaps HMS
Adelaide
will go as well. I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see.

Another person who has been to see me two or three times is Toddy. I've told you about her, I know, in other letters, but in case you've forgotten, she has lived in Ceylon since she was married (widow now) and used to know Mummy and Dad in Colombo in the 1930s. About the only person here who
did
know them, and we talked about them for a long time, the first evening I was in Sick-Bay. It was actually the day before the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, but of course we didn't know this was going to happen, and my foot was hurting and I was feeling a bit depressed. And, to cheer me up, she said, ‘The war will end, someday. Perhaps sooner than any of us will imagine.
’
And the very next day, the bomb happened, and that day was the beginning of the end. Don't you think that was extraordinary?

My love to you and to Phyllis and Anna, and the Carey-Lewises when you see them, and Loveday and Nat, from

Judith

Sooner or later somebody will tell me what has become of Mummy and Dad and Jess.

She waited. Life continued. Day followed day; the customary routine. Travelling by boat each morning to Smeaton's Cove and HMS
Adelaide.
Long, sweltering hours spent typing, filing, correcting Confidential books. Then back to Quarters each evening.

Perhaps now,
she would tell herself.
Perhaps today.

Nothing.

Her anxieties were compounded by the driblets of information that were trickling through from the first of the Japanese prison-camps. A saga of atrocities, slave labour, starvation, and disease. Others spoke of them, but Judith could not.

In the Captain's Office, all who worked there were particularly thoughtful and kind, almost protective, even the Chief Petty Officer Writer, who was renowned for his surly disposition and rough tongue. Judith guessed that Captain Spiros had put the word around, but how he had come to know about her family's circumstances was anybody's guess. She supposed that he must have been told by First Officer, and felt touched that on a senior level, there should be so much concern.

Penny Wailes was a particular comfort. They had always been good friends and worked well together, but all at once there developed a real closeness between them, a tacit understanding without anything very much being said. It was a bit like being at school, and having a sympathetic older sister to keep an eye on you. Together, each evening, they made the return journey, and Penny never left Judith's side until they had passed through the Regulating Office and confirmed that there was still no message. No summons. No news.

And then it happened. At six o'clock on a Tuesday evening. Judith was in her banda. She had been swimming in the cove, had had a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she was combing her wet hair, when one of the Leading Wrens who worked in the Regulating Office came in search of her.

‘Dunbar?’

She turned from the mirror, her comb in her hand. ‘Yes?’

‘Message for you. You've got to go and see First Officer tomorrow morning.’

She heard herself say, quite calmly, ‘I have to go to work.’

‘Message says she's fixed it with Captain Spiros. You can go on board on one of the later boats.’

‘What time does she want to see me?’

‘Ten-thirty.’ The Leading Wren waited for some response. ‘Okay?’ she prompted.

‘Yes. Fine. Thanks.’ Judith turned back to her mirror and went on combing her hair.

The next morning, she blancoed her shoes and her cap, put them out into the sun to dry. She put on clean uniform, white cotton shirt and skirt, still crisp with the creases of the dhobi's iron. A bit like a sailor, going into battle. If a ship went into battle, the entire ship's company put on clean clothes, so that if you got wounded, there was less chance of infection. Her shoes were dry. She laced them up, and put on her hat, and walked out of the banda and into the dazzling sun, down through Quarters, through the gate, down the familiar road that led to NHQ.