Уильям Николсон - Motherland

She tries to find Ed among the faces streaming by, but there are too many and it’s still too dark. She returns to her post.

The endless flow of tramping men moves onto the boats. After a while Sergeant Sissons comes round, releasing the drivers.

‘Return to HQ. Await orders.’

‘Will it be long, Sarge?’

‘Long enough.’

One by one the staff cars pull away from the quay. Kitty is reluctant to leave. She’s still there, standing by her car, when the muster officer she approached comes over to her.

‘Got a boyfriend in 40 RM, then?’ he says.

She nods.

‘They’ve embarked,’ he says. ‘Don’t say I said so.’

He leaves her there, looking out to sea at the great fleet.

Got a boyfriend in 40 RM, then?

She hardly knows him. They’ve met twice, kissed once. And yet the memory of his pale face is before her, his mouth almost smiling, his blue eyes holding hers, his thoughts unreachable. She realises with a sudden ache that she wants more than anything to see him one more time. There’s something she wants to say to him that he may not know. That she wants him to know.

We’ve only just begun. Don’t leave me yet. I’m waiting for you, here on the harbour side at Newhaven. Where the river meets the sea.

She gets back into the Humber and starts the engine. The great yard is almost empty now. Day has begun. A ridge of low cloud has gathered to hide the sun. It’s the second day of July, and still this strange summer is keeping everyone guessing.

The journey back, alone in the car, alone on the road, has none of the electric anticipation of the journey out. The big house and the camp are empty and silent. She returns the car to its garage and crosses the yard to the inner courtyard, entering the house by the servants’ door. The long dining room with its three bay windows and its heavy fake-leather wallpaper has been cleared of all signs of the early breakfast. Hungry now, she seeks out the kitchen.

Here, sitting at the scrubbed deal table, she finds George Holland. He’s eating a bowl of porridge by himself. From the scullery beyond comes the clatter of washing up.

‘Ah, Kitty,’ he says, visibly cheered by her appearance. ‘It’s the strangest thing. I got up this morning and found the house empty.’

‘Yes,’ says Kitty. ‘There’s a big show on.’

‘So when will they be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The real thing this time, is it?’

‘Yes,’ says Kitty.

George eats some more of his porridge.

‘I expect you think it’s a bit rich, me sitting here eating while men are risking their lives.’

‘Not at all,’ says Kitty.

‘It’s different for you,’ he says. ‘You’re a girl. A man should fight.’

‘We can’t all be fighting. Someone’s got to keep the country going.’

‘I do have various official duties,’ he says, frowning down at his bowl. ‘Local defence, magistrate, that sort of thing. But I can’t fight. Eyesight, you know.’

‘I’d better be going,’ says Kitty.

‘Don’t go. There’s something I want to say.’

He takes his bowl and spoon into the scullery and returns empty-handed, nervous, avoiding her eyes.

‘Odd to have your own house full of strangers,’ he says. ‘Have you seen the library?’

‘It’s the officers’ mess,’ says Kitty.

He leads her across the hall and into the Oak Room, the lobby to the library. He points to the lettering on the doors.

‘ Litera scripta manet, verba locuta volant . “The written word remains, the spoken word flies away.” All very true, of course. But even so …’

His voice tails away. He leads her into the library itself.

The great arched window at the end floods the long room with light. Down the walls on both sides stand book-stacks numbered with Latin numerals, holding leather-bound volumes with gold titles. The floor is a pattern of inlaid marble, a tangle of leaves and flowers. Clusters of War Office-supply armchairs stand about on this shiny expanse. A table at the far end is crowded with bottles.

‘It’s not the way we had it before the war, of course,’ says George, looking round. ‘My father was a great traveller, you know. He collected maps and travel books. I do a bit in that way myself.’

‘It’s a beautiful room,’ says Kitty. ‘You must hate having your house messed up like this.’

‘No, no. It’s good to see it full of life. Houses need to be lived in.’

He crosses to the high window and stands looking out at the park and the distant rows of Nissen huts. Kitty understands that he’s leading up to something.

‘The world has changed so much, hasn’t it?’ he says.

‘War does that,’ says Kitty.

‘People come and go. They live and die. You can’t stand on ceremony any more. My father has left me a relatively wealthy man. That must be worth something, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ says Kitty.

‘But this eyesight business isn’t so good. Rather clips my wings. Cramps my style. No point in complaining. There are pros and cons to every venture you undertake. Are you a reader?’

‘Yes,’ says Kitty. ‘I love reading.’

‘I’m not so much of a reader myself. I find it tires me. Anyway, the thing is this. What do you say about it? Is it something you could contemplate? Or do you recoil in horror?’

Kitty’s about to say he’s not made himself clear, when she stops herself. Of course he’s made himself clear. She’s known from the moment he finished his porridge in the kitchen. He doesn’t deserve to be forced into the humiliation of speaking the plain words.

‘Earlier this morning,’ she says, ‘I was at Newhaven watching the men go into the boats. Wherever they’re going, they’re going into danger. And you see, among them is the man I love.’

Strange to be saying these words to someone she barely knows; words she has not yet said to Ed.

‘The man you love,’ says George. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘I shall be there on the quayside when he returns.’

‘Quite right. Quite right.’

He moves away down the long empty room. His arms hang loosely by his sides, as if he’s lost the use of them.

‘I should report back to my section leader,’ says Kitty.

‘Yes, of course.’

He’s standing before the carved stone mantelpiece, gazing at the framed photographs arrayed there.

‘My mother,’ he says, indicating one of the photographs. ‘If you go into the chapel, there’s a plaque on the south wall. It says, “In memory of a faithful wife and a loving mother.” I could have said much more, but in the end that seemed to cover it. A faithful wife. A loving mother. What more can a man ask?’

Kitty leaves him with his photographs and his memories. She wants to be out of this house. It’s too full of sadness.

She finds Louisa in the Motor Transport Office in A Block.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Kitty. ‘No one’ll miss us.’

They ride their bikes down the Eastbourne road as the clouds gather and the sky darkens. They’ve just reached the Cricketers in Berwick when the rain starts to fall. There, wet and panting and pink-cheeked, they beg the bar girl for something – anything – to eat, and she brings them cold boiled potatoes. Two farm workers come in to escape the rain and stare at them.

‘Don’t know why we bother,’ they grumble to each other. ‘Could have done with this back in April.’

By silent agreement Kitty and Louisa don’t talk about the great military operation now under way. Kitty tells Louisa about George Holland.

‘I knew it,’ says Louisa. ‘I could tell from the way he watched you like a dog waiting for his dinner.’

‘Poor George. He always looks so lost.’