War's Last Dance Read online

  War’s Last Dance

  Julia Underwood

  © Julia Underwood 2013

  Julia Underwood has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  London, August 1945

  Isabel stood immobile in the middle of the street. A flimsy airmail letter fluttered in her hand. Only the chirrup of the bell on the postman’s bike broke the silence of the airless street. Wheels wobbling, it rounded the corner to disappear into the suburban maze. The perfume of roses, over-ripe vegetation and backyard chickens scented the sultry atmosphere. The dazzling sun baked the dusty gardens, crimping the edges of leaves and petals into crisp frills.

  Isabel’s sandals stuck to the molten tarmac; treacly residue clung to the heels. Her shriek pierced the air. She rushed from the road and in through the gate of her little rented house, hardly aware of what she was doing. It felt as if someone had punched her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

  ‘Penny, Penny! Daddy’s coming home!’ Isabel waved the letter, with the familiar BFPO sign on the envelope, around her head like a flag. Her eyes swam with tears of relief; the pupils wide as a cat's at dusk. Her hand shook as she read the contents again. She tried to absorb the message, to register its meaning, as she stumbled into the house. For once the censor had not defaced the letter with the heavy black lines that gave earlier communications the look of a school essay corrected by a stern teacher. A letter at last! They hadn’t heard from Bill for months, even after the War ended in May amidst universal jubilation.

  Throughout the war news from abroad had arrived belated and haphazard. Anticipated with foreboding or eagerness, it had broken the spirit with despair or filled the recipient with hope. Now, finally, it brought joy; this could mean an end to loneliness, to drudgery and a meaningless grey existence.

  ‘He’ll be back from Italy next week!’

  Isabel slumped onto the shabby sofa, teasing her fingers through her dark curls as she read the letter again. The drab uncut-moquette rubbed like sandpaper against the bare skin of her legs; she wore no stockings during the day. Her head span with giddiness. Could happiness make you giddy?

  She panicked for a moment. Oh God, what will it be like? When you haven’t seen someone for ... two years since his last home leave? He might seem like a stranger. Trepidation and delight tumbled through her head. She drew her knees up and hugged them close to stop her fears from overwhelming her.

  The need for Bill that she had suppressed for so long came flooding back in a great warm tide. A shiver of desire ran through her as she imagined his arms around her, his warm, strong body pressed against hers, his kisses on her face. A soft breeze of a sigh escaped her lips. I can’t believe it! He’ll be home in just a week; the wait will seem like an eternity.

  Penny had followed her mother from the front door, where she had been watching. She advanced shyly, clearly not comprehending. A straight bob framed her heart-shaped face and, as usual, a thumb was stuck in her mouth. She watched Isabel dubiously and came close to her knees.

  ‘We’re to meet him off the train in Town,’ Isabel said, grabbing the perplexed Penny onto her lap and giving her taut little body a huge hug. ‘Oh, darling, isn’t it exciting?’ She rubbed their cheeks together, realising Penny could have no concept of what this news might mean.

  Four-year-old Penny regarded her mother in silence; a worried frown creased her porcelain-smooth brow. Something unusual was happening. Trying to capture Isabel’s mood, she wriggled off her lap.

  ‘Daddy’s coming home!’ she repeated, turning a ragged circle around the settee, waving her arms above her head as she attempted to generate some excitement.

  Fondly Isabel watched the child run off through the open French door into the garden, realising that she couldn’t be expected to join wholeheartedly in her own joy. The poor mite was a baby; she’d never known her father. She must be thinking – who is this Daddy person of whom I have heard so much yet seen so little? Isabel knew she had to reassure the child that her world would be unchanged, but now she would have two parents to dote on her; even to spoil her a little.

  As soon as she had recovered from the surprise, Isabel dashed round to her sister’s house. Doris lived only a couple of streets away with George, her husband, and their two lively boys.

  ‘Doris!’ she called from the path at the side of the house. Not waiting for a reply, she rushed straight into the kitchen through the back door. ‘Bill’s coming home. Next week. The postman just brought the letter.’

  ‘Ah, that’s wonderful! You’ll be wanting some help then, to get ready for him,’ Doris said, observing the grin on her sister’s face and wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. ‘Come and sit down, let’s have a cup of tea and talk about it.’

  Isabel meekly did as she was told and sat at the kitchen table, pushing aside the pastry-making paraphernalia. ‘Do you think Grace will be able to help too?’

  ‘Of course, she’s not too busy at the Post Office at the moment,’ Doris replied, ruthlessly disregarding the fact that the third sister frequently worked double shifts due to the shortage of qualified staff.

  A frantic week of preparations followed the news of Bill’s imminent arrival. The modest little house where she lived with Penny needed a thorough spring clean to satisfy Isabel. She wanted everything to be perfect. She needn’t have worried, her two sisters eagerly mucked in. Their merriment filled the house with laughter. Always a garrulous trio, they accompanied their work with non-stop chatter.

  ‘Let’s get on with it then! There’s no point just sitting around talking about it.’

  ‘No slacking, you. Give it some more elbow grease!’

  ‘I’m so grateful – you’re a couple of godsends!’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Bella! We don’t mind. We’ve got to make the place spotless for Bill. Lots of spit and polish, he’ll be used to that.’ The sisters laughed with a hint of irony, for they viewed with some mirth their elder sister’s view that Bill was a superior being worthy only of the best in all things.

  ‘Stop hanging around like a wet week – go and make another cup of tea, we’re gasping.’

  They cheerfully tied floral pinafores over their frocks, round slim waists; figures kept trim by the deprivations of war. They arranged scarves about their permed curls - Doris’s blonde and Grace’s as ginger as the marigolds in the garden - turban-like with a bow at the front. Behind the semi-detached cottage – two up, two down with a tiny kitchen and inadequate bathroom – stood a pocket-sized garden given over almost entirely to growing vegetables to supplement the rations. The neat
rows of stately leeks, feathery carrot tops, purple beetroot leaves and chubby dowager cabbages elbowing out the rest, represented a tribute to hard work. Established by George and rigorously maintained; everyone shared in the crop. The sisters weeded and hoed and harvested whatever produce was available.

  ‘There’s enough cabbages here for a small army!’ said Doris.

  George normally put his strong back and arms into the gardening. In a restricted occupation, he hadn’t been in the fighting War. He worked as an unpaid air-raid warden and on the railway, Southern Region. ‘Someone’s got to run it,’ he said with a note of pride. But they all knew he still felt a sense of guilt at being relatively safe at home whilst his contemporaries lost their lives all over the world. His guilt was particularly unjustified as he suffered from chronic asthma and would have been rejected for service in any case. He came to help the women with the heavy work whenever he could.

  The girls vigorously polished the windows with vinegar and old Daily Mirrors until they gleamed. They recoated the doorstep with the red tile paint their Dad had found in his shed. They collected as many clothes-ration coupons as could be mustered and piled them on the oilcloth surface of Isabel’s kitchen table.

  'I was saving some coupons for new shoes for Jimmy,' said Doris, ‘He’ll have to wait till next month. His sandals still fit him. You have 'em, love. Go up to town and get something nice. No need to go to Smartwear for this, it’s a special occasion!’

  You could buy an outfit and pay on credit, one and six a week until it was yours, at Smartwear, a clothing store in Watford, near the hospital. This innovative shop supplied many an emergency outfit.

  During the bleakly frugal years of the War their needs had been basic. “Make do and Mend” became their watchword. They seldom used all the clothes coupons issued but shared garments amongst each other and passed the older children’s cast-offs down to the younger ones. Luckily Penny was too young to mind wearing boy’s shorts and sandals. So now they could scrape together surprisingly quickly enough clothes coupons for an outfit and food ration points for a feast for the homecoming. The little buff books with “Ministry of Food” written on the cover were well-thumbed and full of retailer’s stamps where they had been cancelled.

  ‘We’ll make a cake with the sugar and butter from the last Australian food parcel. Is there any dried fruit left?’ Doris asked.

  These welcome gifts from Bill’s relatives in Australia arrived at irregular intervals. After months at sea they often arrived battered and dented and sometimes crushed beyond usefulness. But the family fell on the contents with delight. Packets of dried fruit, tins of butter and boiled sweets for the children - often crystallised through long exposure to the air but delicious nonetheless - all contained in these life-enhancing packages. Tinned hams and tongue, dried egg – riches to those used to a measly ration of one egg per week, and those usually went to the children, and treasure for those preparing a welcome-home banquet.

  A dry August; true to the season. Brilliant sunshine blazed on the little house and raised their spirits. The air and the neglected shrubs buzzed, thick with bees. The fragrance of roses and honeysuckle mingled with the sooty aroma from the nearby railway line and the less pleasant odour of the canal at the end of the garden. George had spotted a rat or two and contemplated getting a dog to keep them at bay. But what would they feed it on? Their own meagre rations wouldn’t stretch to the nourishment of even the smallest dog.

  ‘Well, at least we’ve got a bit of summer for once.’ The sisters basked in the unaccustomed rays when they took a moment to rest.

  Isabel set an old galvanised bathtub on the tiny patch of grass not dug up for vegetables and filled it with water. Penny and Doris’s two boys splashed around in it for hours shrieking with laughter.

  'Mummy! Jimmy's going to put worms down my neck!'

  'She splashed me!' her tormentor justified. Their shouting and squabbling split the viscous air of the heat wave. The children’s skin tanned to a golden brown.

  Grace, a prodigious knitter, constructed a new cardigan for Penny from one of her own, unravelled and knitted up again in an intricate Fair Isle pattern with coloured scraps left in her bulging knitting bag.

  ‘You’re so clever,’ Isabel said, holding it up to the light, ‘you’ve got such patience. I’d never be able to do that. Penny will love it!’ She gently folded it away for Penny to wear when they went to meet Bill.

  Bill sent a parcel for Penny with some special dresses from Italy, where he was serving at the War’s end, beautifully sewn with smocking and frills in delicate fabrics. Florals and gauzes, checks and stripes adorned with intricate embroidery. Penny greeted them with suspicion as she stroked their fragility with careful fingers.

  ‘I won’t have to wear them every day will I, Mummy?

  ‘No, darling, just for best.’

  Elaborately embellished underwear, French knickers, slips, camisoles and nightgowns, light as spider’s webs, accompanied Penny’s frocks. Made by Italian nuns out of parachute silk, Bill explained in his letter. Isabel marvelled at the sheer delicate luxury of them. Twirling in front of her mirror in the diaphanous, cloud-soft fabric she treasured in anticipation the time when she would be able to wear them for him. Touched by his thoughtfulness she still felt a little guilty about possessing such luxury in these days of austerity. So much to treasure. Lovingly she packed everything away in tissue paper to await his return.

  ‘Soon, my love,’ she whispered to herself, ‘you’ll be here again.’

  She gazed out of her bedroom window into the bright summer sky, imagining the joy of their reunion. Surely, before too long, life would be back to normal and they could be happy again.

  Chapter Two

  London, September 1945

  An ancient alleyway two doors away from the house led to the bridge across the fetid canal and to the station. They’d made their way here early, not wishing to be late. From the platform, holding Penny’s hand close beside her, Isabel could see into the back garden of her home. From that angle it appeared eerily alien; a place where a stranger lived. But this had been her home for most of the war. They had been evacuated for a few months in 1941, with Penny still a baby. They’d been billeted in the country somewhere in Yorkshire, but Isabel, a city girl at heart, hated it. Homesickness struck her and she missed her family. Her dour hosts had considered their guest flighty and much too concerned with her appearance even though she made herself useful around the farm; milking and mucking out the cows, and looking after the hens. A minor dispute ended in bitter recriminations and after a mere six weeks in the country Isabel returned to London. She would rather take her chances against the bombs than stay where she was not appreciated.

  ‘A couple of old skinflints,’ she told Doris. ‘Wouldn’t let us have any butter, insisted we used that horrible marge, even though I was milking the bloody cows for them!’

  The housing shortage, due to the bombing, meant that there was little choice of homes for a mother of one. Bill was outraged at the ordinariness of the little house she ended up with; not at all what he was accustomed to.

  ‘I can’t have a wife of mine living in a place like this!’ he’d said when he first saw it, during his brief leave shortly after Penny’s first birthday.

  ‘A wife of mine,’ mimicked Isabel. ‘How many wives have you got? Anyway, don’t be silly; we were lucky to get it. And that was only because George knows someone on the housing committee. I’m very lucky that I didn’t have to go back to live with Mum. It’s perfect for us, near the family. I’ll soon make it nicer. I think we’re lucky, we could have ended up in a Bump-your-Head.’

  Many homeless families were billeted in these pre-fabricated buildings – constructed mainly of asbestos sheeting and corrugated iron, whose curved ceilings seemed so low that they were given this descriptive name. They were only supposed to be a temporary measure until better accommodation became available, but Isabel knew people who had already lived in one for years. Some people
ended up in converted railway carriages, marooned in sidings, like long caravans, and they seemed to enjoy this bizarre way of life.

  ‘You can make them quite cosy,’ someone assured her.

  Isabel and Penny had survived, which was more than could be said of many people. Isabel shuddered at the memory of the relentless bombing, the lives that had been lost. A neighbour, Mrs Stephens, and all four of her children died one night in a devastating, random act of violence that had hardly affected anyone else in the street except for a few broken windows and cracked plaster. It seemed completely arbitrary; it could have been any one of the houses in the road. How sorry they felt for her husband, still serving somewhere on the Eastern Front and not aware of the tragedy.

  For Isabel it was just a matter of waiting; waiting for the War to end and for Bill to come home. At least she had known that he was safe. As an intelligence officer he never served at the front line, in the way of indiscriminate death. She had never been forced to experience that paralyzing fear, like an intractable pain, that she witnessed afflicting other wives terrified that their husbands would never return, that the telegram changing their lives forever would one day be thrust into their hands by the embarrassed telegraph boy.

  She travelled up to Kensington on the train to do her shopping, leaving Penny with Doris for the day. She visited Barkers, the genteel department store patronised by her mother-in-law when she wasn’t in Harrods. Not without a pang of remorse at the expense, four guineas altogether, as well as over two hundred clothes coupons, Isabel bought a suit, in lovely cornflower-blue wool; skirt and jacket and a saucy hat, fine black straw with a pretty curved brim and a red ostrich feather that curved vivaciously over one eyebrow. How lucky to have such a generous family, thought Isabel as she stroked the fabric of the skirt down over her slim hips.

  'Give over, Bella,’ they said before she went, 'we're not going anywhere in particular. No need for us to dress up. You buy yourself something nice. You deserve it. '