The FitzOsbornes at War (46 page)

After Kick left, Veronica shook her head. ‘If that’s what going to school and college does to one’s brain,’ she said, ‘then I’m glad I’m uneducated. How
can
such an intelligent girl take those superstitions seriously?’

‘It isn’t only Kick,’ I said. ‘Millions of people believe it.’

‘Millions of people used to believe the world was flat. That doesn’t make it true. And even if something
did
create the universe, I very much doubt that that Creator would care, millions of years later, about one particular human being deciding to mate with another, let alone about who gets to splash some water on their infant offspring.’

I cannot argue with this logic, but the fact is, people often behave illogically. Personally, I think Kick’s more concerned about her family’s reaction than God’s, especially as Joe’s planning to go into politics after the war, and she doesn’t want to do anything that might damage her brother’s appeal to Catholic voters. But honestly, what did her parents
imagine
they were doing, bringing a girl as lively and charming as Kick over here for the Season, buying her lots of beautiful ball gowns and introducing her to dozens of eligible British lords? What other result could they have expected?

Oh, well, it will all get sorted out in the end, one way or another, but what a mess, and
poor
Billy and Kick, being made to feel miserable about falling in love! Aren’t there enough
other
things in the world right now to make us feel miserable?

It really is a relief to turn to the uncomplicated good cheer of Henry’s latest letter.

Our boat’s crew got inspected this week, she wrote, by a very old Lord Someone. I led the parade, because I’m the tallest and loudest and the best at drills. I gave such a good salute that he stopped in front of me, so I smiled at him, and he said, ‘Young lady, I hope you won’t smile like that if you encounter the enemy, ha ha,’ and I said, ‘No, sir! If I see any foul Nazis, I will glare at them like THIS,’ and he said, ‘Good God!’ and stepped back and his monocle fell out. Afterwards, our Petty Officer Wren said could I please be a little less egzuberant and I said yes, of course, I would try my best to do that, even tho I’m not completely sure what it
is
, so how can I be less of it?

Oh! Rita just reminded me! Thank you so
much
for the biskits you sent, they arrived a bit crushed but everyone loved them! Also, Aunt C and Barnes just sent me an ENORMOUS bag of toffees that must have used up all their sweets ration for about two months! I am hardly ever hungry here as the helpings at meals are huge, even if the food is a bit boring for vegetarians. But when we have days off, we go into town and have fish and chips, which is my favrite food in the world!

Really, everything is perfect here – the weather, the other girls, the work. Best of all is when a ship comes into the harbour after being at sea for ages, and we take out their letters and parcels, and all the men line the decks and cheer like mad when they see us coming! On the way back yesterday, the sun was making the waves all silver and sparkling, and the breeze was blowing in our faces, and I said to Rita, ‘Aren’t we LUCKY to be doing this job?’ and she agreed. Then she said the only other thing to make it perfect would be if Douglas Fairbanks Jr was visiting the ship and we got to bring him ashore. It might happen, too, because he’s in the US Navy. For me, the thing to make it perfect would be if Carlos could come out on the motor launch with us one day. It is very warm now and hardly ever rough – he could easily stand on the prow, or lie down if his legs got tired. I bet he misses the sea. I didn’t realise how much
I
missed it till I got here. Everything smells so lovely, of salt and tar and wet rope, and at night, I can hear the sloshing sound of the sea and the docks creaking. It’s almost like being at home at Montmaray. Of course, the most important thing about being here is helping defeat the Nazis, but I’m so forchunate I get to do vital war work AND have a really brilliant time sailing about the harbour!

Better go, it’s nearly lights out. Just like boarding school, except here it’s far more useful and fun AND I get to wear trowsers every day!!!

Lots of love,

Henry

25th September, 1943

T
HE LEAVES ARE TURNING BRONZE
and copper, the afternoons are shorter, I’ve tossed another blanket on my bed – and yet, somehow, it feels like Spring. It’s the news from Italy that is making me more hopeful, I think. Mussolini has been overthrown, and the Allies are now fighting their way up through Italy – against the Germans, because the Italians have surrendered. Could the end of the war actually be in sight?

Veronica says the battles are not going nearly as smoothly as the newspapers suggest, but surely it can only be a matter of time before the Germans are forced into retreat? Why would they keep on fighting to defend Italy, when the new Italian Prime Minister has just signed an armistice with us and . . . Oh, the telephone’s ringing.

Good, Veronica’s getting it. Sounds as though it’s Aunt Charlotte. But why would she be telephoning at this hour of the –

27th September, 1943

P
OST
O
FFICE
T
ELEGRAM

T
O:
HRH P
RINCESS
C
HARLOTTE
M
ILFORD
P
ARK
M
ILFORD
D
ORSET

D
EEPLY REGRET TO REPORT DEATH OF YOUR NIECE HENRIETTA C FITZOSBORNE BOATS CREW WREN ON WAR SERVICE LETTER FOLLOWS.

2nd October, 1943

I
F FUNERALS ARE SUPPOSED TO
comfort the living, why do I feel so much worse
now it’s over? Is it because it wasn’t a proper funeral, only a memorial service? That there was no coffin, no procession through the churchyard, no grave? But this, to me, has been the only consolation – that they
didn’t
manage to recover her body. That Henry slipped free, as unconstrained in death as she ever was in life, that she drifted to the bottom of the ocean and is even now making her slow way home, to Montmaray. I picture George and Isabella and all those other Montmaravians buried at sea, waiting to welcome her . . .

But no, it’s impossible to believe she’s gone, especially here at Milford. Everything shouts of her presence. Her bedroom in the attic, which she never
did
tidy up properly before she left to join the Wrens. The tangle of unironed shirts shoved into a drawer, the fishing rod propped against the wall, the row of tattered Biggles books slanting along the window ledge. In the kitchen, there’s a vegetarian cookbook on the shelf beside the stove, and a black ring on the scrubbed pine table where she once set down a sizzling frying pan. Her wellingtons are lined up beside the back door. The henhouse gate is tied shut with one of her hair ribbons.

Then there’s Carlos, curled up in his armchair upon the remnants of her old tartan dressing gown. He insisted on coming to the funeral with us – he always accompanied Henry to church services, and he knew where we were going because Barnes had put on her Sunday hat. The church was packed, but the woman standing in Carlos’s usual spot by the side door obligingly shifted further along the wall to make room for him. Just about everyone from the village and the surrounding farms was present – even the evacuee children staying at the vicarage, who told me that Henry used to take them for pony rides. There were Wrens in navy blue, Jimmy Smith in sapper’s khaki, three prefects from Henry’s last school in their maroon blazers, Aunt Charlotte’s stable girls in Land Army breeches, and the entire Milford Home Guard in full uniform, standing to attention in two lines at the back of the church. Mrs Jones from the vicarage and Jocko’s mother had brought in armfuls of beautiful autumn foliage to fill the vases, and the Reverend Webster Herbert delivered a lovely eulogy. But I couldn’t help imagining Henry fidgeting beside me, growing bored with all the talk, staring out the window in the direction of the river and wondering whether the fish were biting, rooting through her pockets to see if she’d brought any fishing line and wishing there was some Communion bread about that she could pinch for bait. I could almost hear Aunt Charlotte hissing admonishments at her along the pew . . . but there my imaginings died, because in reality, Aunt Charlotte was hunched and silent, aged twenty years in a week. She had managed, with considerable effort, to transform Henry into her beloved Tobias, and now
both
of them had been taken from her. It was an indication of how shattered our aunt was that she hadn’t even noticed Daniel, who sat with his arm round Veronica’s shoulders. Veronica herself had been a pillar of strength for days – making all of the arrangements, even telephoning my office to arrange my leave – but midway through the service, I watched her start to crumble. There was nothing I could do to help her, though. There was nothing I could do about
any
of it.

I think that was why I felt so angry afterwards – I was consumed with impotent fury. Mrs Jones had set out scones and potted meat sandwiches in the vicarage, and people crowded about me in the front parlour, saying the same useless things. ‘Such a dreadful waste . . . so young . . . but so brave . . . at least it was sudden . . . wouldn’t have known a thing . . . and killed in action, the way she’d have wanted to go . . .’

‘She wouldn’t have wanted
any
of this!’ I snapped at the unfortunate village woman who’d contributed that last remark. ‘Henry didn’t want to
die
! She wanted to
live
, she wanted to see the Nazis beaten!’

Then I slammed down my teacup and stormed out. I couldn’t stand to be in the same building as any of those stupid people for another second. One of them had had the utter
gall
to tell me she understood how I felt – just because her uncle had died at Dunkirk! That wasn’t the same at
all
! It had nothing to do with my situation!