Keep the Home Fires Burning Read online

  And then there was Teresa Fenchurch, soon to marry the wing commander from the RAF station at Tabley Wood. A strikingly handsome woman in her late twenties, with brown hair and brown eyes that were constantly alive to everything around her, she smiled encouragingly at Frances, as she might to a child in her classroom who had been doing very well giving a presentation, but who had suddenly lost their nerve.

  Frances gathered herself to continue, but caught sight of Alison Scotlock, hidden away towards the rear of the hall. Frances almost wished Alison hadn’t come to the meeting, their friendship had recently ruptured over the dramatic and ignoble closure of Frances’s factory. An intensely private individual with fair hair and startlingly blue eyes, Alison was a match for anyone behind closed doors, but in public she always avoided confrontation where possible.

  Not wishing to be distracted by Alison, Frances continued, ‘Our village has been the victim of two stray bombs since the start of the war, with no loss of life. Though by God we’ve come close! One might argue that thus far, Great Paxford has got off lucky.’

  Frances paused to allow the suggestion to sink in. The women were nodding in agreement. She could push on with her theme of the branch’s evolution to meet the changing demands war placed on them.

  ‘Be under no illusion, ladies. That luck could run out at any time.’

  The women now looked at Frances with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. They waited to hear what solutions she might offer to the current situation.

  ‘Over the past few months our nation has come closer to invasion than at any time for centuries. But for our stupendously courageous pilots we would almost certainly be living under German occupation, and this meeting would not be taking place. Great Paxford is well and truly in this war now. We see this every day in menfolk who are absent. In rationing. In the blackout. In turning every garden into a vegetable patch. In the way we take gas masks everywhere as a matter of course. The way we regard taking shelter during air raids as a nuisance as much as a necessity. Our resolve as individuals and as members of the Women’s Institute is being – and will be – tested like never before. Many of you remember the Great War. It was a terrible time, wasn’t it?’

  Many in the hall nodded in silence or looked down at their shoes, remembering loved ones lost, recalling the particular horrors of war that none present believed they would see repeated in their lifetimes.

  ‘A terrible, terrible time. In that conflict, the fighting was “over there”. Not now. What has become abundantly clear this time is that our village and every village, town and city of England is being dragged onto Hitler’s battlefield. That is why I am calling on you this evening to look into yourselves and ask what more can you do. So that we may pool our resources like never before, and become far, far greater than the sum of our parts.’

  Frances looked at the women’s faces and suddenly felt entirely at ease. She felt her old confidence and strength grow from their belief in her. Words were flowing easily. She instinctively knew how to pace her speech. How to pitch each word without seeming to strain for effect. Her breathing was calm and relaxed. This is what she did better than anyone in Great Paxford. It was for this quality that these women had almost unanimously voted for her: leadership.

  ‘Some of you might be asking, what can I do when our own army, navy and air force are doing all they can and only just holding the line? Well, when I look around this hall, I see that – as always – we can do rather a lot.’

  The women smiled. Where Joyce used to focus on not overstretching themselves, consolidation, and playing it safe, Frances spoke of going beyond expectations and testing limitations.

  ‘Ladies, my dear, dear friends, if ever there was a time for not playing safe, it is now.’

  Her voice grew in warmth and confidence with every sentence. She raised herself an inch taller and lifted her chin as she continued.

  Miriam Brindsley, approaching the ninth month of pregnancy, had felt her unborn child kick during the early parts of Frances’s address. Whenever she felt a kick Miriam wondered if it was in response to something going on outside. A voice or sound causing a physical spasm of fear, or delight. As Frances the developed theme of her speech, Miriam had little choice but to wonder about the timing of bringing new life into the world.

  Who would do it intentionally? We’ve been extraordinarily lucky with David. Almost lost him to the war, but for the grace of God. But who can say what kind of world will be left for this one to live in if Hitler tries again to invade, and succeeds? Doesn’t bear thinking about. But . . . how can I not?

  She wondered if she was mixing her anxiety about the war with her anxiety about unexpectedly becoming a mother again, seventeen years after her first. She rested her palms protectively over her bump and refocused on Frances on the platform. She remembered Frances had recently taken in a young relative of Peter’s, and took some strength from the deed.

  If Frances can become a mother of sorts in her fifties, why not me again in my late thirties?

  So effective was Frances’s speech that even Erica Campbell was focused on what she was saying. Erica had only come out reluctantly, after her husband, Will, had suffered a racking coughing fit during supper that left him gasping for breath. Despite that, he had insisted she come for an evening of respite from his ‘killjoy’ – her husband’s nickname for the mass of cancer he envisaged skulking in the humid chambers of his lungs.

  Despite that, Erica hadn’t wanted to come. They had lived with his diagnosis for over a year, and he had entered a period of reprieve following radiation treatment in Manchester. He wanted her to have as normal a life as possible under the circumstances. So, despite his coughing fit at supper, Erica had reluctantly left the house, leaving Will in the care of their youngest daughter, Laura.

  None understood Frances’s talk of war and sacrifice better than Erica. Her eldest daughter, Kate, had lost her husband just a month after their wedding, while Laura had become embroiled with a married RAF officer some months after that, enduring public disgrace when his wife had petitioned for divorce. Together with Will’s illness, going to battle on so many fronts had left Erica feeling that she was enduring twice as much war as everyone else. Yet she felt energised by Frances’s speech, leaning forward to catch each word.

  Don’t imagine yourself so special, Erica. Fate hasn’t singled you out.

  ‘While I’ve been away from public life these past few months, I’ve nevertheless given great thought to how our WI might proceed in the days ahead. To begin with, we can do our very best to prepare ourselves as a social organisation to help others in our village who may find themselves in sudden need. I thought we might do that by establishing an emergency committee that is able to mobilise swiftly to tackle immediate crises that befall the unfortunate. I am also aware that many of us have struggled with the WI’s pacifist philosophy – especially those with menfolk fighting, or preparing to fight.’

  Frances knew this was a difficult subject to raise. So many women in the branch wanted to cleave to the WI’s constitutional pacifism at all costs, while others felt it was foolish, if not ideologically myopic, during wartime. But effective leadership meant not backing away from impassioned debate.

  ‘I have often found myself asking, “How can helping on the home front not also be helping our boys on the front line – and consequently, the war effort?” Anything we may do to help our chaps feel better, warmer, more comforted is likely to help them endure the privations of battle – which can only make them more effective soldiers. Of course, whatever we tell ourselves, the reality is that working to keep the home front intact and helping the war effort go hand in hand, even if we and the wider organisation wouldn’t wish it to. We knit gloves for our mariners and submariners. Socks and balaclavas for our soldiers. We send food parcels and write letters to the “friendless soldiers” who have no one else to write to them, keeping up their morale. And for what purpose? So they will fight more effectively for our survival. Of course providing
these small comforts for our boys is helping the war effort. And yet we are told we may raise money for ambulances at home for those injured by war, but not for tanks or planes to help bring hostilities to an end sooner rather than later. It is this aspect of the WI’s pacifism that feels confusing. What seems morally crystal clear in peacetime seems terribly muddled during war. This is what war does. It muddies everything. It will continue to challenge our moral compass the longer it continues. Just as the country cannot become complacent about the prospect of a renewed attempt at a German invasion, we women of the Women’s Institute cannot be complacent about easily giving up long-held beliefs simply because it would be expedient to do so. Wrestling with our consciences is not a sign of weakness. On the contrary, it is a sign that we live in extraordinarily difficult times. To easily succumb to that which simply makes us feel better is the weak path to take. While I’m Chair that is a path this WI will never go down. Instead we will focus on doing all we can to keep life in Great Paxford constant while our men are away at war. We will do whatever’s necessary to maintain the home front, whether it be preserving fruit or fundraising for ambulances.’

  The women broke into a rousing round of applause. This was precisely what they wanted from Frances. They might not all agree with her, but they also knew she wouldn’t ever try to bully them into agreeing with whatever her own view might be.

  Frances waited for them to fall quiet and began to outline suggestions for campaigns and activities she’d been thinking about during her absence. With every suggestion the women’s smiles grew broader and their eyes shone brighter. They began to feel newly empowered, and started to envisage what they might do in the days to come.

  Frances could feel her heart beat faster. Ideas for organising and mobilising the WI in the following weeks flowed from her, and the members were quick to respond with suggestions and amendments of their own. The institute had trundled along under Joyce’s caretaker leadership in a solid but underwhelming manner, and most had forgotten how it felt to be inspired. Frances, too, had forgotten the exhilaration she felt when she saw the galvanising effect her words had on other women – hands shooting up to offer points, women turning to their neighbours to quickly debate an issue. As she’d struggled to bear the weight of Peter’s death and all its ramifications, there had been moments when she believed she might never again leave her house. But here she was, standing before the WI, leading from the front.

  Joyce could feel the excitement ripple through the hall. With a little sadness she recognised that this was something she had never managed to elicit, and wondered if Frances was simply more suited to being Chair than she was.

  Or is it just that she is the right woman for the current time? She certainly has an impressive capacity for coming up with all sorts of initiatives, and that’s what’s needed, most definitely. I entirely concede that. But when the war ends all these programmes and drives might feel exhausting, and Frances too aggressive. In normal times she never stood against me for the Chair, perhaps recognising I was the right woman for then. And might be again. But however you look at it, she does seem to be the right woman for now. I would be terribly daunted by what she is proposing. She seems to come alive with it. And is able to bring the members alive too. An invaluable quality. I shall certainly do my best to support her in whatever way I can.

  When Frances came to the end of her address, Joyce was first to her feet to trigger a standing ovation. The old Joyce would have viewed Frances with envy as the hall resounded with thrilled and thunderous applause. But now she clapped harder than anyone. When Frances turned to Joyce to mouth, ‘Was that all right?’ Joyce smiled and mouthed back, ‘Bravo, Mrs Barden. Bravo . . .’ And wholeheartedly meant it.

  Cometh the hour, cometh the women . . .

  Chapter 2

  Small and still, forty-two but looking eight years older, Pat Simms sat at the table in the smart, floral-print dress made for her by the village seamstress. Pat had pinned up her hair in her customary style for an occasion, and had even applied a little make-up. She looked around the small kitchen where she spent most of her waking hours. The drab walls and floor were spotless, as were the shelves and cupboards. The criss-cross blast tape on the small window above the chipped sink was so neat that it seemed to Pat to be mildly decorative. In this rare moment in which her husband was neither hammering away at his typewriter nor demanding she make him tea or a sandwich while he worked, Pat felt calm. Every plate, bowl, knife, fork, spoon, pan, utensil and cloth lay where Pat had meticulously cleaned and placed them. They had to be. After thirteen years of marriage Bob still carried out spot checks, and would happily make Pat’s life miserable if he found anything he could construe as ‘below an acceptable standard’.

  Knowing there was nothing for Bob to find fault with, Pat relaxed into the moment, the soft scent of her perfume making her think of her lover, Marek, who never forgot to comment how much he liked it when they met in secret. The Czech army captain had knocked into Pat as she’d made her way home from a shift at the telephone exchange. He’d been breaking up a brawl between two of his men and some locals outside Great Paxford’s pub. Pat had fallen, and Marek – Captain Novotny, as he’d introduced himself – was so apologetic that Pat had to ask him to stop. At the time, she hadn’t much noticed him. Owing to Bob’s temper, Pat had learned how to absorb and digest physical pain that resulted from violence, and get on with things. Moments after being knocked to the ground, she had got back on her feet and walked stiffly home.

  It was only when Marek had knocked on the door with wild flowers and a further apology that Pat had really taken his measure. He was tall, like Bob. Slightly more thickset. His features were not unlike Bob’s, but less pointed, his forehead less furrowed, the corners of his eyes more generously scored with laughter lines, his expression open, and curious. Where Bob’s eyes were furious black holes from which no lightness escaped, Marek’s were pale blue, like two drops of recently thawed ice. They observed Pat with wry interest. He smiled as he watched her find a vase, and seemed in no hurry to leave once his flowers were in water. Marek had no idea how panicked Pat was that someone might see a strange man at her front door with a bouquet of flowers, however modest.

  Are you thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about you, my love? When can I see you next? I have to see you. This silence is killing me.

  Pat remembered being attracted to Marek from that first meeting. She had walked him back to the Czech camp at Cholmondeley Castle, showing him a short cut. They talked easily, and by the time they arrived at the camp gate Marek asked if he could see Pat again. She had every reason to say no, but somehow said yes. And as she’d bidden him goodbye Pat had held out her hand for Marek to shake, and he’d gently kissed it. Pat had walked home wondering if she had imagined what had just happened. She’d sat at the kitchen table for the rest of the evening thinking it over, pausing on details, trying to work out if she had dreamt the whole thing. But she could smell Marek’s cologne on her hand and she knew their meeting had been real.

  Their relationship had quickly blossomed after their first walk. Though they’d had to conduct their affair with an even greater degree of secrecy in the weeks following Bob’s return from reporting on the Battle of Dunkirk, knowing Marek was just five miles up the road made life with Bob bearable. Just. They left regular, secret notes for one another in the village churchyard, in which they arranged to meet in remote areas of the surrounding countryside, away from village eyes alert for any ‘dirt’ that could be converted into gossip or scandal. Secrecy, subterfuge and an intense passion for one another became the hallmarks of their association. Pat had felt like a spy operating behind enemy lines. One slip and disaster would result, destroying her reputation. The pressure was constant, but worth every moment.

  ‘Pat?’

  Despite leaning on the walking stick he’d been given by the hospital, Bob stood tall and striking in the dark suit he wore for special occasions – marriages, like Teresa’s today, but a
lso funerals, meetings with his London publisher, or with the editor of the local paper for whom Bob grudgingly reported on local events that he lauded in print and mocked in private. Bob considered the parochial work of a rural reporter beneath a man of his talent, and there was some truth to that. But since he had failed to follow up on the modest success of his first novel they’d needed every penny he could earn even to afford their small house on the outskirts of Great Paxford, which was all but tacked onto the Campbells’ much larger house and surgery. Furnishings and decor were kept to a functional minimum, according to Bob’s taste, which meant no pictures, ornaments or the memorable knick-knacks most people accumulate through life. Pat was allowed one small mirror in the bedroom. When it became cracked during an argument three years ago, Bob refused to replace it. The only books allowed on the few shelves that lined the dark walls were Bob’s. Any books Pat read were collected every second Tuesday of the month from the mobile library, read by her, and then exchanged a month later.

  Bob stood in the doorway staring at Pat, who clearly hadn’t heard him. His hair lay Brylcreemed against his scalp, drawing attention to his gaunt, bony face. He’d trimmed the moustache he’d brought back from Dunkirk into a precise line across his upper lip. Pat thought it made him resemble an older, less striking version of the author George Orwell, who she had once met before her marriage to Bob, when she was a trainee editor at a London publishing house.

  ‘Pat!’

  The sharpness in his voice cut through Pat’s reverie, and she turned in the chair to face him.

  ‘Sorry, Bob. I was thinking about the wedding.’

  Pat had long since learned to dissemble and keep her inner life secret from her husband, and her affair with Marek had forced her to draw on all her powers of duplicity and self-control.

  Bob held out his tie. ‘I can’t do this.’

  Nerves damaged in an artillery blast on the French coast now made fiddly tasks difficult. Pat crossed to him. Avoiding eye contact, she patiently threaded the tie through Bob’s starched collar, her fingers working delicately, careful not to yank either end of the tie or pull its knot too tight. As she worked she felt Bob’s breath on her face – a bitter blend of stale tobacco and coffee that made her gag.