Seventy-Six
I stood outside the church and watched as Father and Jessie came out into the sunshine, she looking like a young, beautiful girl in love. She clung to Father’s arm and her homely, weathered face was radiant as are the faces of all brides I suppose.
Even I, with Herr Euler standing over me and the official—cold, hurried, anxious to get back to the safety of his office—thrusting a page at Michael and me to sign, even I, when I had the gold ring on my finger and I was Michael’s wife, even I had had a glow in my eyes and I knew it.
Perhaps it was the pink flowers Jessie held in her hand, or the soft pink dress she was wearing or it could have been the sheer happiness in her eyes, but she looked wonderful. Like a radiant young girl.
From my experiences in Germany and now, the vulnerability of my motherhood, I realized fifty wasn’t very old these days. Women of near that age had been killed as spies, proper spies, not amateur bunglers like me.
They were going on honeymoon but only to the farm in Carmarthen, so for the time being I was to stay in the Swansea house with my sister Hari. I was apprehensive; what if Hari was hostile to my baby? I needn’t have worried. When we got home Hari smiled and took the baby from me and kissed his fuzzy head.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said. ‘They’ve all gone: Georgie and Vi, Father and Jessie; from a full house I find an empty one.’
‘Hari,’ I began. She waved her hand.
‘Don’t talk about it, it won’t help,’ she said gently.
‘But you loved Michael and I…’ I stopped, prevented by the turn of her shoulders that begged me to say no more.
‘“
‘Want something to eat, gannet?’
‘What have we got?’
‘Eggs, some cheese, a tiny bit of butter. It’s still rationing in town, you know, we’re not overflowing with milk and honey like the country.’
I stopped myself saying the ‘milk and honey’ had to be worked for, the chickens fed on bran and mash and potato peelings, the butter endlessly churned until my arms nearly fell out of the sockets.
‘I have to keep up a good supply of milk for baby gannet,’ I said, pointing at little Harry, ‘so I’ll have eggs on buttered toast and hope it doesn’t give the baby too much wind.’
We talked after the meal and as I fed the baby, hoping he wouldn’t clamp too hard on my poor nipples, Hari went to wash up, singing as she swished the dishes through the water, hoping, I think, to drown out the sound of my baby, Michael’s baby, suckling at my breast.
And then, for the rest of the evening, we talked about anything but Michael and we drank a little home-made wine, and we avoided each other’s eyes. I was glad to go to bed in my old childhood room, staring at the pictures of fairies on the walls, at the cut-outs of Rupert Bear, Bill the elephant and Podgy, who still reminded me of George Dixon—George, who had changed now into a good man and who had brought my son safely into the world; and then I was lonely for Michael and began to cry.
Hari left for work early the next morning. I heard her creep downstairs. I changed the baby’s sodden napkin, washed my hands and took him back to bed. I snuggled him into the warmth of the pillows and gave him the comfort of my milk. We both fell asleep.
The sun was shining when I woke again and I felt well and happy even though the word ‘repatriation’ was being talked about at the prison camp; this repatriation of the German soldiers would take months yet, there was plenty of time to act.
I would go and see Michael, I would give him Fritz’s name and what I remembered of his contact code. I felt confident that the resistance movement would get Michael back to Wales even if Fritz had to get Michael forged papers.
The train was full and stuffy with body smells. Harry didn’t like the journey; he wriggled and moaned. The woman sitting next to me in the small carriage tutted her disapproval.
I turned and smiled falsely at her. ‘Do you serve in the forces?’
‘No,’ she said shortly.
‘The munitions?’ I persisted.
‘Well, no.’ Her arrogance was fading.
‘Too old, I expect,’ I said in mock sympathy. She looked abashed and stared out of the window. ‘Excuse me.’ I brushed past her and held my baby fast as I climbed from the carriage, ashamed of my burst of spite.
When I arrived at Bridgend, to my shock and anger, my sister Hari was standing outside the barbed wire fence of Island Farm Prison Camp talking to one of the soldiers. Hari was plainly dressed and carried a clipboard as if she were in a position of authority.
Always the actress, I went close to the soldier and looked up at him with limpid eyes. ‘Excuse me, officer—’ I knew very well he was no such thing—‘you’ve seen me before I’m sure. I’ve got a baby by one of the prisoners. Please let me see the father for just one minute, would you? Please, sir.’
He stared at me in disgust. ‘Yes, I’ve seen you and heard you talking to him in German, you traitor. Us British aren’t good enough for you, eh?’
‘I fell in love; I’m just seventeen.’ I said. ‘Please, sir, the German should take some responsibility for his baby, shouldn’t he?’
He caught my chin and turned my face up to his. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Please, officer, it was when the prisoners were allowed out in town for church or something.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what young girls are coming to these days. In my time they…’
‘It’s the war, sir, tomorrow we could all be dead,’ I murmured. ‘Please, sir, let me see him. I’m afraid he’ll be sent back to Germany soon.’
‘Aye, and then you’ll never see hide nor hair of him again my girl. Saddled with a bastard kid you’ll be for the rest of your life.’
‘I expect you’re right sir,’ I said meekly.
‘What’s his name?’ he asked at last.
Michael was fetched and came to the fence watched by the other German soldiers laughing and jeering, saying vulgar things in German all of which I understood all too clearly.
‘You don’t look well,’ I said in concern. He was pale, sweating, he’d lost weight. ‘Hold my hands,’ I ordered Michael, resenting his quick look in Hari’s direction. He did as he was told.
‘It’s a contact for one of the Belgian resistance people,’ I said in hurried, whispered German—in case you’re sent back.’
I showed him his son and simpered, aware of the soldier watching us. Michael looked at his small image amazed, properly aware now that his son was beginning to look like him.
‘My code name is Anwn, remember that.’ I stared at him as he leaned against the fence. I glanced up at the barbed wire lacing the top of the fence and knew there would be no escape that way. In any case, Michael would be tracked down and fetched back to prison again.
‘See you soon,
I turned away then as the soldier hauled an unresisting Michael back to the huts.
‘You deserve a good kicking for despoiling one of our young girls,’ he said fiercely.
I didn’t speak to my sister. I don’t know why—ashamed or choked with tears I suppose. I made my way back to Swansea with tears in my eyes but there was a glimmer of hope in my heart.
Seventy-Seven
It was three weeks since Hari had last seen Michael and then Meryl had been there, her son cradled in her arms, whispering sweet nothings through the fence to Michael. Well, she would see him now, alone; well, as alone
