Another Time, Another Place
They said that it would only last a year at the most, those faceless civil servants I had learned to despise. A propaganda ploy to enlist the young and vulnerable I thought? The war was portrayed as a big adventure for those who had never strayed beyond England’s coastline. A ‘jolly’ I remember someone saying at the time, paid for by Winston Churchill. A quick visit to France, miss out winter in England, which wasn’t a bad thing for most people given the employment crisis and poverty, and back home before anyone knew that they had been away. When a year came and went, quickly followed by another, the mood of the great British people changed to a more sombre one. Realisation about the war wasn’t far away and any notion of it being a great adventure quickly disappeared. The grieving for some had started within months of the declaration of war as once young smiling faces returned home in body bags, the lucky ones, as far as their families were concerned, still intact bodily.
For others it was arguably much worse. ’Missing-in-action’ had become a well-used phrase in those early months and would continue to be so for at least another three or four years. Neither lost or found, relatives were left in a state of limbo not knowing whether to grieve or keep their spirits up in the hope that their loved ones would return home some day. How many families were suffering or had suffered to date, I could only guess. Couples like John and I, married only a year. There was always a mixed opinion on the wisdom behind marriage during wartime. For us it was a conscious decision we decided on as the war took hold. We simply couldn’t wait until it was all over. After all, when would that be? Nobody knew, not even Mr Churchill. We had to marry right away. There was no in-depth discussion about the perceived urgency; it was something we both understood and agreed on. Certainly, there wasn’t an indication of what the war may have had in store for either of us. That would have meant acknowledging horrors that had been placed at the back and deepest parts of our minds. It was enough to accept, without the spoken word, that our time together could be short and that we should be happy, if it was only for a moment.
All these thoughts raced around inside my head as I walked arm-in-arm with John along the cobbled platform. It was a cold bitter night for May, but for the last five minutes, I’d become quite oblivious to the biting effects of the northerly wind as it raced out of the tunnel entrance, just beyond the end of the railway platform. Far away in the distance, sirens announced the arrival of enemy aircraft, their monotone drone a familiar sound 4 years into the war.
“A penny for your thoughts darling?” John asked, squeezing my arm gently as he did. His breath bellowed out into the cold night air. With my petite 5’3” frame beside John’s 6’ 2”, heavy set build, I had to crane my head back to see him clearly. We had been childhood sweethearts living in the same country village until John’s father was forced to relocate further north, having been promoted by his employer. We were both just 11 years old when John and his family left the village and I cried none stop for a month.
My mum tried her best to console me bless her, but nothing worked. Then, 6 months later I received a letter. It was from John. Over the years we wrote regularly and even met a couple of times as our respective families found excuses to get together or mysteriously bump into each other on day trips to the seaside. One year when I was 15, I had planned – no orchestrated – a cunning ruse to stay at a friend’s house for a week during the school summer holidays. She lived a short distance from the Laine’s family home. The only problem was my friend caught chicken pocks the week before my visit and all arrangements had to be cancelled. Once again, I bawled my eyes out for a full week. Little did I know that alternative plans were already in place? I stayed at Calverly Sands a few weeks later visiting my grandparents and guess who was also staying there that week on business, John Laine senior, along with his family. I sometimes wonder whether the whole business was contrived for our benefit? Perhaps John was as inconsolable as I was when we were apart? The thought made me feel warm inside.
“Betty darling,” he persisted, patting my hand, “you’re cold.”
We stopped and he pulled his arm clear from between us, unbuttoning his RAF overcoat as he did. Bringing his arm and open jacket around at the same time, he wrapped both around my shoulders so that we were as close bodily as we could be. For a brief instant I felt safe. Safer than I had been since the war began with all the physical and mental torture that it had brought. But how could I ever be safe again? John was returning to duty after an all-too brief spell of leave. Strangely, he had been unwell during his stay at home taking to his bed for a day at one point. Oh how I prayed that it would be something that would keep him with me longer. That was the selfish side of me. Seldom seen, but very much at the fore about 2 days ago. Why shouldn’t I want my husband by my side as we had always planned when we took our marriage vows? Then I would see the propaganda messages about the war effort, radio bulletins from the BBC, individual acts of heroism, food rationing and it wasn’t long before those selfish thoughts were cast aside. I hated that maniac, Hitler. I hated him with a passion, like thousands of other women, wives and mothers, frustrated by the futility of war and sheer loss of life. The teardrop was involuntary, yet hardly unexpected. From his limited line of sight, John couldn’t see the tiny droplet and of course I knew that he must not. He needed all his resolve now. I blinked in a vain attempt to stem the flow.
“Oh Betty darling,” John stopped squaring up to me so that we were facing each other; my head was still bowed to try and hide my blurred vision.
“Gosh,” I managed finally, staring up at him apprehensively. “The wind coming out of that tunnel is freezing. It brings tears to your eyes.” The fact that my lips were trembling and my voice was warbling did nothing to support my attempt to hide my true feelings. My Clark Gable look alike, more so since the real Gable had himself recently become an air force pilot, pushed back the peek of his hat so that it perched on the crown of his thick black wavy hair. Even in the subdued light afforded by platform gaslights the twinkle in his eyes remained, that same twinkle that had melted my heart from an early age. His chiselled jaw slowly turned into a wide grin. He placed both his hands beneath my arms and gently, effortlessly, he picked me up until he could look directly into my eyes and I could look into his. The boy I had fallen in love with was still there underneath this raw masculinity, although the grin was a little more strained than usual. Pulling me forward those few inches, my feet dangling in mid-air like a puppet, he kissed me full on the lips. My arms quickly wrapped themselves around his broad shoulders, closing my eyes wishing that we were somewhere else, another time another place. Pulling us apart he smiled again, that strain still there now and in his eyes as well, a slight frown.
“I love you darling, I always have and I always will”. He kissed my cheek and lowered me back down on to the station platform. His term of endearment almost had a past tense feel to it, a final connotation that I objected to inside my head even though I knew I was being silly. I pulled at his waist until we were close again, burying my face into his chest.
“Why do you have to go John,” I blubbered, the tears now becoming uncontrollable.
“Oh darling,” he uttered reassuringly. “I need to do my bit just like all the rest. You know that?” He pulled us apart, putting a finger under my chin, lifting my head as he did so that we were looking into each other’s eyes once more. The wind howled again pulling ringlets of blond hair from beneath my headscarf.
“I must look a sight,” I said out loud, a forced grin playing on my lips? John stroked my forehead, gently pushing my hair back into place with one hand, whilst reaching for his handkerchief with the other. He dabbed around my eyes and cheeks tentatively.
“You’ve never looked anything other than perfect to me darling,” he said, trying his best to calm my increasingly agitated mood.
“Why now though John? You’ve only been home a week and you were suppose to have at least 2 weeks leave,” I protested. I knew the answer of course. It simply wasn’t the one that I particularly wanted to hear though.
“Now you know the answer darling as much as I do, “ he said calmly kissing my forehead and hugging me once more. “I can’t discuss it with you, but it’s an important mission. The Germans are sweeping across Europe at present and have to be stopped by fair means or foul.” Of course there was a heavy price to pay by allied forces. Nearly three quarters of John’s squadron had been replaced, lost to the war within the last 12 months. Most of the replacements looked as if they should have still been at school, when John had shown me a photograph of his team soon after arriving home. John is an experienced squadron leader even though he is only 27 years old. The RAF couldn’t afford to lose many more with John’s ability and equally couldn’t afford to have them inactive where immaturity and inexperience was rife amongst the rank and file. It didn’t take long for my thoughts to go out to the relatives of those brave young pilots wondering what they must be going through and to realise that their only chance of survival was having someone like John as their commanding officer.
I groaned again inwardly. The sound of a distant whistle emerging from the tunnel entrance cut short my self-pity. Wiping my eyes and blinking once more against the bitter wind, I concentrated on the blackness that was the tunnel entrance. Soon a train would arrive to take my love away, possibly forever. John noticed the grimace on my face and for a moment I felt ashamed of myself. What had been a world occupied by only the 2 of us for the last 20 minutes or so was in fact a busy railway station platform. The division between 2 sets of people was psychological as it was physical. Close to the platform edge nearest to where the train would stop, eager excited families waiting patiently to see husbands, fathers returning home on leave, as I had waited a week earlier. Under the cast-iron ornate canopy, several yards back, beneath hanging baskets bearing spring bulbs were more families huddled in groups of 2s, 3s and 4s mainly, the focal point inevitably a man in a uniform returning back to the war. The stationmaster, a burly fellow, had become quite use to this and had taken to playing the accordion to welcome those returning home and to try and raise the spirits of those departing. Just at that moment, he appeared out of the ticket office strapping the accordion across his stout frame and was just about to play a jolly tune when John waved a hand at him.
“Excuse me darling, shan’t be a tick,” he smiled mischievously. He skipped across to where the stationmaster was standing and whispered something in his ear. The round-faced, middle-aged would-be musician nodded enthusiastically, before breaking into a melody that I instantly recognised as our tune. “May I trouble you for this dance madam,” John asked as he returned, bowing and smiling like the cat that got the cream. He took hold of my hand and pulled me into a small clearing in between the crowds of people. I wondered what they would say?
“Perhaps John had had a relapse from his illness? Maybe he would have to stay at home after all?” I said to myself in hope. The twinkle in his eye suggested otherwise though. It was a typical gesture, one designed to make me feel at ease and take my mind off his leaving. Any worries about other people quickly disappeared and we began to waltz oblivious to everyone and everything around us. The hoot of the train ever nearer didn’t stop us either. Round and round we danced until I stopped abruptly and began giggling like a schoolgirl. John’s concerned look was followed by one of bewilderment. His mouth opened as if he was about to ask if I was all right, but this time it was my turn to surprise him. I placed the palm of my hand over his mouth, taking hold of his hand with my free hand, quickly slipping it inside my woollen coat. It rested on my plumper-by-the-week tummy and this time it was John’s turn to chuckle.
“He’s going to play for England at Twickenham when he is older,” he announced, allowing his hand to rove across my tummy no doubt searching for the experience again.
“And what makes you think we are having a son?” I protested, mockingly. In truth we were just happy to have a healthy baby, whatever the sex. Beside us and along the length of the platform, other couples danced now with us, their spirits lifted, if only temporarily. An army private danced with his daughter of about 4, held aloft, firmly in his arms, she enjoying every minute of it. A young boy, unaware of the dangers that lay in wait for his daddy, sped past them on his tricycle ringing its bell, no doubt excited by a late night out and unconcerned about the reason for it. Another much louder hoot announced the arrival of the Edinburgh to London train on time at 8:00pm. Everyone seemed to stop dancing simultaneously and the hugs, kisses and squeezes began to mark the departure of some and the arrival of others.
“Take care John dear,” I said, “God be with you.”
We kissed and hugged again. John was strangely quiet now. Perhaps the good old English stiff-upper-lip was hard to maintain after all? He climbed aboard the train and I felt the strongest impulse to climb onboard after him, but I resisted for John’s sake and our baby. It was hard enough for him without me making it more difficult. I didn’t even know if he was scared? I never asked. I suppose no one ever dared to ask there loved ones? If servicemen were ever allowed to have feelings and choice, the war would be over by now, possibly with the Nazis ruling the world. John pulled the carriage door closed behind him and then pulled the window down, reaching out for my hand.
“Now you look after yourself darling,” he called, over the general mayhem of people boarding and disembarking. “I’ll be back before he…” he looked at me and grinned.
“She (the baby) is ready to arrive?” I corrected him.
“I’ve asked for special leave after this mission and Frank has assured me that it is in the bag,” John said. He winked at me the way he always did. I pressed my cheek against his outstretched hand, more to hide the tears that were whelling up again inside. I felt his other hand caress the back of my head and our lips met again as he reached down for what we knew could be our final kiss. We parted eventually and John reached further and patted me lightly on the tummy, just as the wheels of the train began to spin and lurch forward. “Now you look after your mummy and don’t give her a hard time,” he teased, staring down at my protruding bump. The train began to pick up some momentum and we both knew it was time to let go. “Oh darling, there are extra ration coupons….” John started to shout now over the screeching sound of wheels against the tracks, before I interrupted.
“Inside the soup bowl on the top shelf of the welsh dresser in the kitchen,” I finished off his sentence again. Through the steam I could see his all to familiar grin looking back at me followed by a shrug of his shoulders. The arrangements for my well-being during his latest spell of leave had been well planned and rehearsed, given my condition. He couldn’t help the leader in himself coming to the surface though.
“I’ve spoken to Jane. She is happy to help. Oh, the telephone number for the airbase….” John shouted again, now in full voice, some 50 yards away.
“Is on the notepad on the wall near the front door,” I shouted back through my tears.
“Call me – for any reason or get Jane to call me. Frank will get a message to me.” John said, his voice straining against the backdrop of steam engine pistons hissing and shunting wheels. “Oh, “ he called. He waved, now more of a gesture than a coherent call. I stepped forward as if it would make a difference through the clouds of steam. For a moment he disappeared from view only to reappear clutching a small package wrapped in brown paper presumably from his kit bag. He held it aloft too far away for me to even see what it was clearly. John shifted his attention toward our friendly stationmaster, come accordion player, who had just signalled for the train to leave moments earlier. John threw the package at him and he caught it, clasping it tight to his barrel chest. Words were exchanged as the train sped passed and the man on the platform nodded understandingly. I waved a tearful handkerchief and whispered, ‘I love you,’ to myself before the train left into the night. I stood watching as the last carriage disappeared into the inky blackness and found myself caressing my unborn baby. My baby was the only part of John that I still had left now. I couldn’t get that thought out of my head.
“Excuse me, it’s Mrs Laine?” It was the stationmaster holding out John’s package. “The young gent on the train asked me to give you this. He said to be sure that you keep it safe until he came home.” He passed the lightweight, soft package to me and I noticed a small tear. A piece of blue fur poked out through the hole and I smiled to myself in anticipation. It was a blue furry rabbit.
“John was still running with his little boy theory I see,” I said to myself. I squeezed it to my chest – the rabbit a poor substitute for the man I love.
“I promised your husband that I would see you home when he asked me to play the music for you earlier.” He smiled the rosy red veined cheeks and white beard gave him a Father Christmas look close up. “I’m just coming off duty now if you would like me to accompany you home?”
“That is very nice of you and very thoughtful,” I managed, straining to read his name badge on the lapel of his jacket, “Mr Grimes, I only live at Henley Cottage, a short walk from the station entrance. Oh by the way, you play enchantingly.” He blushed even more and we both made our way down the steps between the 2 ticket booths toward the station entrance. Even as we did I couldn’t stop looking back to where I had last seen John.
Over the days that followed Betty had spoken frequently to John since his return to RAF Bellingham, but as the mission drew close, he became harder and harder to contact. She asked him about the mission repeatedly, even though she knew that he could not tell her anything. She hoped it would be cancelled or the war would end before the mission began, but this was just wishful thinking on her part. She had a terrible foreboding over the days that followed, something that she constantly put at the back of her mind and had dare not share with her husband.