Читать книгу The War Widows - Leah Fleming - Страница 10

The plane landed with a judder onto the wet tarmac and Ana Papadaki looked out of the window with relief and dismay, her insides fluttering as if a flock of doves were on the wing. This was Manchester, her new home. Soon she would be meeting a new family. She hoped they could read the broken English of her letter well enough to be waiting for her today.

The classes in the transit camp in London were very basic. Speaking was no problem. It was writing that was a strain but she was determined to make herself understood.

Dina, her baby, started to whine and she gave her the strap of her leather handbag to chew on. She was still cutting teeth but her little mouth opened into a howl of protest. There was a dampish patch from her nappy seeping into Ana’s flimsy skirt.

Ana lifted up her child, jiggling her at the window to distract them both from the unexpected delay. There was nothing to see but Nissen huts, brick buildings, grey skies and concrete. She could be anywhere in war-torn Europe. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Such excitement had soared within her when she’d stepped aboard the plane. At last! This was the last lap on their journey towards a new life, a fresh start away from the horrors of the past years.

Dina brought worries as well as hope into her life, but stepping off the plane into the autumn chill, Ana felt as if a damp cloth was slapping her face. So this was Manchester.

The passengers clucked like chickens when the plane landed, jittery women with babies puking on their shoulders, all dying for a pee. Her first thought was, would the soldier’s family recognise her in the crowd? Would he be there to meet them?

She could hardly recall his face. It felt so long since their tender farewell at Piraeus eighteen months ago.

First there was a rush for the toilet. Dina was tugging at her hair. Ana was glad of the Red Cross clothing parcel with its little siren suit and pixie hood: warm clothing for a baby in this dampness.

Her own thin dress felt like underwear, and the oriental mother opposite had only a silky summer dress covering her tiny frame with an ill-fitting suit jacket; probably her very best outfit. How shabby she felt in a headscarf alongside other passengers in fur coats and fancy hats.

Ana held on to the woman’s little toddler in the queue so that the Eastern beauty could relieve herself. Together they had watched all the other mothers jumping into the arms of their sweethearts, one by one, lots of hugs and kisses and children thrown into the air with glee.

Perhaps his family were delayed or the bus was late. Perhaps she had given them the wrong date or the wrong address. She was grasping the well-thumbed envelope for comfort. This was her ticket to a new life, this proof of their correspondence, and the address was the one link with her lover. He must have filled in the forms to sponsor her and their child or she wouldn’t have got this far.

There was a draught on her bare legs, and she wrapped her jacket tightly around her skinny body. Five years of labour and hunger had taken its toll on her frame. She still hadn’t recovered from the camp years of starvation. How she managed to fall for a baby so quickly she would never know; a woman brought back to life by the kindness of one Tommy soldier who wooed and won her in a dance hall in Athens.

He was not like some of the other Tommies, who could only shuffle across the floor, but moved with grace, gathering her up in his arms like a fair Rudolph Valentino. He treated her nursing uniform with respect. She was not some easy whore ready for a quick fumble in return for a bar of soap. He was tender and understanding when she recoiled from his lovemaking at first. There were so many bad memories to expunge of her time in the labour camp.

Now she looked so shabby in her faded frock and felt hat covering her dark copper hair. ‘My ginger Greek with freckles,’ he called her, surprised that not all Grecian women were black-haired and doe-eyed. Her hair was straggling across her cheeks and she could feel tears welling up.

She was not just any Greek woman; she was from Crete, the home of the gods, the most ancient of all the islands, and the most beautiful, in her eyes. It was an island torn apart by war, where the women were descended from Minoan gods, pale and golden, and the men fierce fighters for independence, a proud race. So proud of their women, that someone like her could never return to its shore.

Dina was struggling out of her arms, staring at the other little girl, who was muffled in the same Red Cross cast-offs. The oriental mother smiled and reached for her own child.

What a pity her little one was so plump-faced and plain-pug-nosed, Ana observed. It felt mean to be making a comparison but anyone could see Dina was prettier.

There were just the two of them left now, sitting in the draughty arrivals hall of Ringway Aerodrome like abandoned luggage, watching every movement in the doorway, every coming and going to no avail.

Suddenly Ana shivered and her heart went thump, thump. No one was coming. She would be sent back home, abandoned. Did they not know she could never go back home: an unmarried woman with a child, dishonouring the family name for ever? It was better they thought her dead.

A strict code of honour had been broken. On Crete women like herself were shadows, fit only to live in caves, out of sight. It would kill her mother to bear such disgrace. If there was anything of her village left since the Germans invaded Crete in 1941…But why think on those things? What was done then was done in the name of duty. What she did in Athens was done for love and gratitude. He would not let her down. It tore her heart to be an exile but that life was over. To open such memories was like unlocking her battered case left behind in Canea, her hope chest, smelling of camphor, stuffed with postcards, embroidered linen, lace work, damp and discoloured with age, her frayed dowry never to be redeemed: all those long-faded hopes and dreams like butterflies that have lost their wings.

War washed away all that past life and the age-old customs that went with it. Her only duty now was to survive for her child’s sake. This was the start of a new life together.

But dreams betrayed her each night when the island came alive: a wine-dark sea shimmering at sunset, the green mountains of the Apokoronas, snow-capped, stretching high in the distance, and the soft breezes off the shore stroking her cheeks. She could smell the scents of home: wild thyme, lemons, and watermelons like footballs. She tasted honey and sand on her lips. In the shade of the vines the zizzies screeched.

Suddenly the scene would change to smoke and darkness, the stench of burning rubber and cordite, on that first morning of invasion.

Ana was too busy in the makeshift hospital to watch more parachutes descending into the olive groves around the city of Canea. The daily bombardment crushed the harbour buildings, trapping whole families, men and boys digging them out with their bare hands. Everyone lay in wait for the one doctor while she and the other nurses wiped blood and tried to clean bandages. Her apron was filthy, her copper hair spilling out of her headscarf, but there was no time for neatness.

‘More white devils’ umbrellas from the sky,’ shouted a terrified woman. Their beloved island was being attacked again. Around her were British Tommies prostrate with mortal wounds. The bombs had done their worst and they were soft targets. This was no time for politics. It was enough to know Stelios, her brother, was out there shooting anything that moved. Their stone house had a cool cellar; she hoped Mother, Eleni and Aliki were hiding. How many times had this town suffered the aggressor?

‘Look, Ana…it’s like shooting birds out of the sky…pot shots,’ someone laughed. Parachutes descending like coloured balloons onto the shore, the groves, rooftops. Guns blasting out from Malaxa’s hilltop battery.

For months they’d been waiting, feeling the tension as British troops built defences-tired men evacuated from the mainland, ill equipped, with sallow-cheeked pale faces, who were wondering just why they were there. Her father was fighting with the Fifth Cretan Brigade far away in Northern Greece. With all their crack troops far from home, now the city was left to boys and old men, who must defend their honour or die in the effort. Freedom or Death! This was their slogan.

All morning they brought in wounded men. There were tales of Germans butchered on the roofs even as they fell, but this was the Red Cross and they must accept any wounded, whatever the uniform.

‘That’ll teach them,’ sighed Dr Mandakis, grim-faced as he covered the sheet over yet another enemy soldier, hacked to pieces by the fury of the mob.

Now the wounded were piled alongside each other, enemy, defender, stranger and known faces from the city streets. The medical staff worked by lamplight, stitching, sewing flesh together, mopping brows of amputees, giving sips of precious water to the dying.

I shall recall this day for the rest of my life, thought Ana, seeing sights no decent woman should have to witness, and still they came…

There were rumours, rumours of street-to-street fighting, children carrying scythes and axes going out to meet the foe and showing them no mercy.

If they win, we shall pay for this, Ana sighed, with a chill in her heart. There are too many of them.

Her back ached with weariness. It was looking more like a butcher’s shop than a makeshift hospital. Someone had made a Red Cross flag out of sheets and daubed it with blood to hang over the roof. Perhaps when the bombers returned it might save them.

The young nurses took it in turn to relieve themselves, sip lemon water, bite on the hard dacos bread, anything to stop the hunger.

At dusk, Ana found herself by the temporary mortuary, no longer sickened by the stench of blood and death. It was not a place to linger but it was cool and quiet. She sat down, too tired even to pray. How could things happen on such a beautiful May morning, when all the roses and flowers were still in bloom?

Then she heard a strange moan. Her heart jolted: a groan was coming from under the sheet, then another groan. Someone was alive under that sheet, waiting to be buried alive in a shroud. She thought she was dreaming. Tiredness must be taking its toll. She walked silently towards the sound, stepping over a line of stiff bodies on the floor. There it was again, and she pulled back the sheet.

Under it was a soldier in olive-green fatigues, fair-haired, his blue eyes flecked with navy blue, staring at her in terror.

‘Hilfe…hilfe.’ His eyes cried out to her. Here was the enemy at first hand, a boy no more than her age, lying terrified, at her mercy, mistaken for dead. She saw the deep bruises on his battered cheeks.

In that moment, Ana knew she could silence him for ever, call for one of the guards to finish him off. But she was transfixed, unable to think. The world stood still. She was a Red Cross nurse, dedicated to taking no sides. But he was the enemy, this bronzed, handsome boy. His eyes were pleading for life. This man had a mother and family far from home. He was serving his country, doing his duty, but on her island.

‘Oh no!’ she panicked, pulling the sheet off him. There was a side door where the carts came to collect the bodies. It was dark.

He staggered to his feet, dazed, wobbling.

‘Go!’ She pointed to the door.

‘Danke, Fraulein…Mein Name ist Otto…Wie heissen Sie?’ He towered above her. This boy wanted to know her name?

‘Oxi…no name,’ she croaked in broken English, having no German. ‘Go!’ she ordered, opening the door into the dark narrow street. The boy staggered out into the alley, defenceless but alive, soon swallowed up into the night.

Ana slammed the door, pulled away the sheet and dragged the bodies to fill his gap, appalled at what she had just done. I have betrayed my country, God help me! She crossed herself. No one must ever know of this treachery or her family would be dishonoured for ever.

Feeling sick, exhausted and defiant at her action, she struggled to justify what she had just done. Surely the boy would be felled before he left the winding alleys of the Venetian port? He was an easy target, even for a child. Ana shuddered. Her duty lay with the living, not the dead.

‘Ana! Ana! Where are you? Have you been asleep?’

Perhaps it was a dream, just a nightmare, and tomorrow she’d find it had been all a figment of her imagination.

But when the sun rose like a ball in the east, nothing had changed. She had met the enemy and his name was Otto. His face haunted her dreams. For that one act of mercy, she’d been punished over and over, but now there was no time to dwell on such horrors.

The two women sat together on the bench, moving closer as if to gain courage from one another. The daughters on their knees reached out to one another. A tall woman walked past them, staring. Someone brought them a cup of tea and they sipped it politely. Ana did not know what to say to introduce herself to the oriental girl, even though her English was better than most.

‘You wait also for soldier boy to come?’ she asked, looking again at the clock on the wall. ‘It is late.’

‘Mr Stan will not forget. I wrote many times,’ smiled the young woman, sipping the tea, her back straight. Her voice was clipped but the English was good.

‘My man is at camp, maybe come. Maybe he send someone,’ Ana nodded. ‘Where you stay, in Manchester?’

‘No, it is a town called Grimbleton. I will live with his family when he is a soldier. I sent a telegram. He will come soon…This is not tea.’ She grimaced, trying to swallow the terrible taste, and Ana laughed. She would never get used to this dishwater either.

‘We go Grimbleton also,’ Ana nodded, wishing this drink was hot strong Greek coffee with glyka–lots of sugar-but she had not tasted real grains for years. ‘My man has a house there for us to stay, my fiancé.’ She paused. She wanted to be thought respectable, even to a stranger.

‘We shall see each other in the village then?’ answered the other mother.

Ana nodded at the tiny woman, who was sitting so pert, her glossy, black hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was heart-shaped. With those wide eyes and dusky skin, she looked delicate, like a china doll. ‘Where you come from?’ Ana asked.

‘London…it has been a long way, a long story to tell,’ the other woman replied, her eyes lowered as if she did not want to be reminded of her past. ‘And you?’

‘I come from Athens…Greece.’ Ana did not want to give her true identity. ‘It is a long story how I come to Manchester with my Dina.’ They smiled politely and fell silent.

‘Your child has hair like gold,’ sighed the oriental girl. ‘My soldier has hair like a sunset too. It is not a colour we see often in hair. Somewhere I have a picture. Would you like to see my intended?’ She was rummaging through her straw holdall but stopped suddenly to inspect a man as he hurried over to the desk looking in their direction.

He was tall and lanky, dressed in a black suit with hair flattened down into a centre parting, on his face a thin moustache. The officer looked at them both, gathered up his papers and strode across towards them.

‘No one’s come for you yet? Are you sure you’re in the right place? This is Manchester. You can’t stay here much longer.’

Ana looked at her neighbour and promptly put her cup down. ‘I go nowhere. I wait here. They will come.’ She had been in too many displaced persons’ camps not to know how to get attention. Making a fuss had saved her life, got her food, got her and Dina safe passage. She would open her blouse. That soon got them going. She was a proud daughter of Crete but she knew how to fight. But first she must give him the facts. ‘I have letter. This is right town. I not move. I have baby to feed,’ she pleaded. One thing she had learned about the English was they didn’t like a fuss: no loud voices, tears or wailings. They liked fair play but done quietly, no digging in of heels.

‘I also have a letter,’ chirped in her neighbour. ‘We will wait.’

‘Please yourselves, but if no one’s come to collect you soon…’ the official sniffed.

‘They will come,’ they said as one, more in hope than certainty.

By the time Lily made her late entrance through the foyer of Ringway Aerodrome there was no one waiting for her; only an escort officer giving two foreign girls an ultimatum.

‘I’m sorry, ladies, but yer time’s up. I did warn you. If no one comes to collect you, it must be reported and you’ll be sent back to your own country.’ He looked at his list and at his watch, brushing his hand over his Brylcreemed hair, clearing his throat.

They were the only people left, sitting with toddlers on their knees in the draughty arrivals hall, looking forlorn as they scoured every coming and going, to no avail.

Suddenly the oriental girl stood up and flung herself on the floor on her knees in a bow of total submission, her black eyes peeking from beneath a battered straw hat while the child, in brown leggings and pixie bonnet beside her, watched open-mouthed as in halting but perfect English her plea was made.

‘Honourable sir…this is a big mistake. I have my letter here. I send a telegram. He will come for me,’ she pleaded. ‘We do not want to go back out east.’

This is terrible, Lily thought. That poor lass must be desperate to be humbling herself before a stranger like that. She could hardly watch. Poor refugees coming all this way by sea and air to a strange country that demanded papers, checks, medicals and questions, and no one to greet them. It was a disgrace.

And just who was the other reject in the printed headscarf? She looked like one of those displaced wanderers of war you saw on the Pathé News: a war bride or perhaps the bona fide fiancée of a British citizen. The two girls seemed such forlorn figures, abandoned by heartless Tommies who had, no doubt, promised them the earth. They looked so helpless Lily just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

Her heart went out to them but where was Susan Brown? Did she think she too had been abandoned in the cold, clutching her bags in a panic, Freddie’s letters burning a hole in her pocket? What must she think of his family?

Lily watched the golden-skinned child cowering into her mother’s blouse for comfort until the mother pulled her away and the child’s mouth opened into a huge howl of protest. There was a tincture of dirty nappy she recognised only too well.

The muffled toddler was lifted up. What a welcome to Manchester! To be left behind with no one to greet them was a dreadful fate.

Passengers from the next flight were already hurrying through the hall, looking out expectantly as they were met by waiting relatives. Was Susan Brown among them? She would be searching for Freddie in the crowd, not a stranger. She must have wandered off somewhere, but where in this rabbit warren of buildings?

Perhaps the girl was in the toilet trying to spruce herself up after such a long journey, putting on warmer clothes? If only Lily knew what she looked like. Better to ask again at the desk, but the plight of these two Orphan Annies and their babies moved her to offer some help.

It was those summer dresses with ill-fitting suit jackets-probably their very best outfits-that moved her to pity. Their offspring at least were well padded in siren suits with pixie hoods, wide-eyed with terror. She would have to do something. She was a Brown Owl and Guiders knew their duty.

Perhaps there was some hiccup at Immigration and Susan Brown was delayed somewhere. Freddie must have filled in the sponsorship forms or his girlfriend wouldn’t have got this far.

The second mother looked thin and shabby in her faded frock with a striped headscarf covering her dark copper hair. Wisps were straggling across her cheeks and there were tears welling in her eyes as she helped the oriental mother from the floor. Suddenly they both started to rock back and forwards, keening and hollering so everyone stopped to stare and the children howled in sympathy.

No one was coming for them. It was a terrible sight, tugging at Lily’s heartstrings. Something must be done.

‘What is going on?’ she asked the official.

‘These lasses’ll have to go back. They are the third lot of abandoned refugees I’ve had to sort out today. More paperwork and more tears. If only our chaps wouldn’t promise these girls the earth, but that’s soldiers for you. Where that Greek comes from she’ll be in trouble. Women like her end up put out of the family for bringing shame.’ He was pointing at the headscarf, shaking his head.

‘Can we get them a cup of tea?’ Lily asked, feeling even more sorry for the two rejects, who were now huddled on the bench together as if to gain courage one from the other. It would give her something to do and a chance to search for Miss Brown, but with no photograph to guide her, Lily was beginning to panic. What if the girl set off for Grimbleton on her own in the dark? There was no direct bus route without going into the centre of Manchester first. Anything could happen…

A woman in an overall brought some chipped cups of tea on a tray and Lily handed them out to both strangers with a smile.

‘Your soldier boys will come,’ she said in her brightest voice. It was late. Perhaps Miss Brown was on the next plane from London.

‘Mister Stan will not forget. I wrote many times,’ smiled the oriental young woman, shaking her head at the teacup. ‘No more tea, thank you.’

‘My soldier is at camp. He come. He send brother,’ said the other.

‘Where are you from?’ Lily asked, hoping to take their minds off their predicament.

‘London,’ answered the tiny woman.

The two of them were like peg and prop. One was tall and statuesque, the other tiny like a bird.

‘And you?’ Lily turned to the girl in the headscarf.

‘I come from Athens…Greece.’

They all smiled politely and fell silent, lined up like a set of jugs against the wall until the official Lily had spoken to at the information desk hurried over. He was beaming with relief, looking at each of them and clutching his papers.

‘Winstanley…Any of you for Winstanley?’ he mouthed slowly.

At last, thought Lily, her enquiries were bearing fruit.

At the sound of the name the two women rose as one. ‘Yes,’ they replied in unison, standing expectantly and then immediately stared at each other with suspicion.

Lily sat down with shock.

‘This is Miss Winstanley, she’s come to collect one of you,’ said the officer, but they both also sat down promptly and shook their heads.

‘There must be some mistake. I’ve come for Miss Susan Brown from Burma,’ said Lily.

The man was pointing to the oriental girl, who was back on the floor, prostrate again, her head buried in her palms.

‘Honourable sir, I do not know this lady…She is not my Mister Stan,’ she sobbed, pulling her child into her chest away from them.

The other girl grabbed her hand. ‘Get up, Miss Susan. Your Mister Stan has sent for you. Lucky, lucky you.’ She turned to Lily. ‘I wait for Sergeant Winstanley. She wait for a Mister Stan.’

Lily felt her knees shaking. There couldn’t be two Winstanleys anticipated, could there?

‘Not to worry,’ she whispered. ‘If your name is Susan Brown, then it’s me come to collect you. I’m Lily Winstanley, Freddie’s sister. I’m sorry I was late.’ Stretching out her hand as if to gather up Susan in one fell swoop, there was no hiding her relief. ‘Freddie said you were bonny but I was expecting…never mind…’ There was no hiding her surprise.

‘Freddie, you know my Freddie, Miss Lily?’ said the Greek lass, jumping up excitedly. ‘I have his address: twenty-two Division Street, Grimbleton.’ A piece of paper was shoved under Lily’s nose. Arms were flung round her. ‘He is coming for me too?’

‘Hang on,’ Lily gasped, stepping back quickly. ‘Not so fast…It’s her I’ve come for: Susan Brown from Burma, Freddie’s intended. I don’t know anything about you. Show us that address again,’ she said, peering at it intently and then at them both.

‘But that is my address too,’ cried Susan, peering at the lettering. ‘My Stan lives at twenty-two Division Street, Grimbleton. It is written on my heart.’

The other girl folded her arms. ‘But I am Anastasia Papadaki. Sergeant Freddie Winstanley is my man and Konstandina is his child. I name her after his mother, Konstantia. It is the custom, yes?’

‘No, No! I am Susan Liat Brown. Mr Winstanley is my intended,’ screamed Susan. ‘And this is his child, Joy Liat. He is my man. I have his address. You, lady, are a big liar! I have a photo…See!’ Susan produced a tattered sepia photograph. ‘It was taken in Rangoon before he left on a ship, when I was a teacher. See…we are in a concert party.’ Her smile was triumphant.

Lily peered at it with dismay. There was no doubting that was Freddie grinning at the camera, dressed in a Pierrot costume.

‘Give me here. On the bones of Agios Vasilios…Ne! Ne! Yes! That is Freddie, my Freddie. We meet in Athens when I was nurse,’ said the Greek, refusing to give way. ‘She is liar. Susan is dead!’

‘How am I dead if I am here with little Joy?’ Susan shouted back, clinging to the toddler. ‘She is his little Joy.’

There was a deafening silence as they both stared at each other. Lily’s heart was thumping a drumbeat. It would take the judgement of Solomon to sort out this mess.

‘Oh heck,’ she said, scratching her head. What have you been up to Freddie? she sighed.

They were all looking to her for guidance. ‘What do we do now?’

‘These women go nowhere,’ ordered the officer, already pink in the face. ‘Not until the man in question comes to collect them in person. He can’t have two wives in this country, whatever he’s been up to. So one of you is going to be disappointed, I’m afraid. Sergeant Winstanley must choose his bride.’

‘That might prove difficult, sir. Can I have a word in private?’ Lily whispered to the officer.

He pointed to a corner out of earshot, both looking over at the mothers, who were each wishing that the other would disappear into thin air. How on earth was this mess going to be sorted out?

Miss Brown was standing frozen like a statue, tears rolling down her face. Anastasia was standing with her arms folded. And there were the two kiddies to consider: were they both really Freddie’s little girls? The two of them then came storming across, led by the Greek, who was all fired up.

‘Come on, missy…I no trust them. They hide words from us. We have daughters. Maybe there are two Freddie Winstanleys. One for each of us.’ Miss Ana was taking charge. ‘You and me is going to sort this out.’

The officer stood in their path. ‘There’s been a development,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry but under the circumstances, you must both go with Miss Winstanley and sort this out amongst yourselves, the two of you and the family. His mother is waiting to meet you. Good luck!’

He looked relieved to be shovelling this awkward problem on to the stunned woman in the tweed suit. And Lily was too shocked to do anything other than gather up their luggage and propel them towards the door like a taxi driver.

It was raining hard as they trooped towards the black van with no time for Lily to put on her mackintosh so it would hide the black armband sewn onto her sleeve. The mothers would be far too upset to note its significance or the fact that they were getting soaked.

Somehow cases and bodies and children were crammed into the back of Gertie. The gloomy ride back to Grimbleton was a blur of steamy windows accompanied by the ammonia smell of wet nappies and the sniffing of tears in the back. Gertie coughed and spluttered in protest at the extra weight but trundled them northwards. If only she was driving the bigger Rover saloon but it was still in the garage, standing on bricks, out of action for the duration.

What on earth must these two poor lasses be thinking? Lily felt her hands shaking at the wheel. Perhaps it was lucky that the windows were steamed up so they missed the worst of the soot and the grime, the gaping bomb sites around Manchester, the dark satanic mills.

Lily’s heart was thudding as the streets of Grimbleton came into view.

What on earth was she going to do with two of them? What would the family say to two women with the same address? How did they explain away two little girls, not the size of tuppence halfpenny? What would the neighbours think, and Walt too?

This would be the biggest bombshell to hit Division Street since the air raid in ’41. I’d like to give that brother of mine a piece of my mind. He’s gone too far this time, she thought.

Then she remembered he was dead and these two didn’t know. None of them would ever see him again.

The baby, Dina, was whimpering, tugging her back to reality. Freddie may have passed away but he’d sure as hell left quite a legacy behind.