Iris Gower - Bombers’ Moon

‘Yes, of course we are George, anything you want.’ She sounded uncertain and Hari wondered if Violet knew the facts of married life. Would Violet lie dazed and fainted with love and delight in her husband’s arms? Would she be raised on a glowing cloud to heaven the way Hari had been when Michael made love to her? She pushed the thought away. All that was over, a thousand waters had flowed beneath the bridges since then. Michael was a married man now and, what’s more, was a prisoner considered an enemy of the British people, spat on and hated by the inhabitants of Bridgend and all the world for all Hari knew.

Later, she drove the newlyweds to their country retreat. Violet stared out of the back of the jeep Hari had borrowed and looked in awe at the darkening countryside.

‘It’s a bit lonely isn’t it? No lights… nothing.’

George put his arm around her. ‘You’ll love it like I do, you’ll see.’

Hari left them at the door of the farmhouse and drove away, a lump in her throat. She could picture Michael there, his hair blown into a mop by the wind, his face tanned, his eyes very blue—and she wanted him.

It took her hours to drive back through the gloom of the blackout and, sometimes, when the moon appeared from behind the clouds and the roadway was a ribbon of light, she thought the bombers would spot her and drop their load on her. It was a relief to enter the familiar streets of Swansea and park the jeep at the curb outside her house.

Inside, the kitchen still had the scent of fruit and cake but Jessie was sitting at the table, her apron screwed up between her hands, her face white. ‘They’ve got out. The prisoners—they’ve got out.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hari’s mouth was dry.

‘A man called James came here, told me to tell you, “report to you”, he said. The Germans have escaped, girl, run away. Dug a tunnel they did, made the place all tidy like with milk tins and lights and such. Anyway, over seventy of them have got out, gone, God knows where, we could be killed in our beds.’

Hari wished she could faint, be out of the grip of fear and pain and the thought of Michael on the run with police and army and men with guns chasing him. But she just slumped into a chair and stared into the fire. How could she tell Jessie that her son, the boy she believed dead, was alive and probably with the other escaped prisoners on the run?

It was days now since the escape and Hari had heard nothing about the prisoners. Outside the camp the guard had doubled and even though Hari managed now and again to talk to James he was more tight-lipped than he’d been previously.

She saw him now outside the fence and waved and to her relief he came over to her. He took her in his arms and to her surprise buried his face in her neck.

‘For Gawd’s sake pretend you’re my girl,’ he murmured, the other fellows are getting a bit suspicious like.’

Hari felt uncomfortable as she put her arms round James’s neck but she could see the sense of his words. A warning bell sounded in her head, even James must be suspicious the way she kept standing around the camp. She put a bit of enthusiasm in her hug and James responded, kissing her soundly.

She drew away and forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry, James, it’s early days yet but I do like talking to you.’ She hated herself for the deception but it was necessary; she had to hide the fact that one of the German prisoners was in fact brought up on a farm in Carmarthen by a Welsh mother.

The Welsh guards might be sympathetic but the Germans would manage to do away with Michael because they would most certainly think him a spy.

‘Where do you think they are, the prisoners I mean?’

James looked dour. ‘One of them has got out of Wales, I know that, he was seen on a train, pretending to be a Welshman, could even speak Welsh. Wonderful what these chaps have picked up in here. Intelligent blokes these Germans.’

Hari’s heart pounded. ‘Was he caught, this man?’

‘Aye, he’s been caught, don’t know what state he’s in, mind, might have been shot or something or at least given a good hammering, don’t look right for prisoners to escape from our camp in Bridgend.’ He looked even gloomier. ‘So far this is the first escape ever of German prisoners, they don’t want to go back to war, most of ’em, havin’ a fine time doin’ nothing but lying around being treated like lords. I can only hope our boys are bein’ treated half as good in Germany.’

Hari handed James an apple she’d stolen from Jessie’s store, the orchard behind the farm in Carmarthen, which, though neglected now, had still yielded some fine apples. She and Jessie had brought them to Swansea and Jessie had ‘set them down’ in the cool larder in the back kitchen of Hari’s house.

‘A little treat for you James.’ Hari wished she could give it to Michael but of course that was impossible, especially now. Hari bit back a sigh. Where was Michael? Was he still alive or had he been shot attempting to escape? Fear was like a cold knife in her heart but she tried to smile as James took the apple, his features softening.

‘You’re like that there Eve in the Bible, girl,’ he said softly, ‘but I don’t need any tempting, see?’

Hari moved away from him. ‘I’d better not stay too long, don’t want to lose my reputation now, do I?’

‘You won’t do that, Hari, everyone can see you’re respectable. We only been inside the camp once and then we weren’t alone, like. No, you won’t lose your reputation as a nice girl, don’t you worry.’

Hari walked back to the munitions gate and settled down to wait for the next bus. She missed Violet’s company but Vi was on her honeymoon, enjoying life as a new bride.

As she waited, Hari remembered the way George had fought with Meryl. But they were children then and war had changed George: he’d seen violence and death on the streets; he’d done dangerous work; he was honed now into a good man. Violet had done well for herself.

When Hari at last got home, she saw her father sprawled in a chair, a steaming meal of hot pie on a tray on his lap. Jessie as usual was fussing over him. To be fair, with Violet and George away, Father was the only one Jessie had left to fuss over.

‘Jess has made us a delicious pie for our dinner, Angharad.’ Her father put down his knife and fork. ‘It will put some meat on those thin bones of yours.’

‘Precious little meat in that pie,’ Jessie said, in her usual blunt way, but her eyes gleamed at the praise. ‘Mostly veg from the farm and a bit of offcuts of lamb, bits and pieces, and pastry mostly made from lard.’

‘Still, it’s delicious.’ Father was in a good mood though lines of pain from his leg etched his face. He caught Jessie’s hand and held it for a long moment. She blushed and Hari hid a smile; her father and Jessie were clearly very fond of each other. She supposed they weren’t really that old. Father was fifty-two and Jessie was an indeterminate age, perhaps fifty, maybe younger, but her hair was white and long and always coiled into a bun which might make her look older. Anyway, they both appeared transformed, happy. Could there be love in the air?

Suddenly, Hari felt upset. She went outside into the tiny back garden, planted now with vegetables which were tended mainly by Jessie, and forced back the tears. Everyone had a loved one: Violet, even Father, and of course Meryl, who had the best love of all, married to dear darling Michael, who had once loved her , had lain with her, made a woman of her.

‘Don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said aloud. ‘You’re acting like a Victorian maid. Grow up, Angharad Jones, for God’s sake.’ She felt ashamed of herself, her little sister might be dead for all she knew.