Short Story

A WAR MEMOIR

by GLYNIS WATKINS

It was the cold Esme remembered - and then fear, in all its forms.

But first the cold; the unlit, unheated train that shuffled its way across England like a wheezing old man, with people slumped everywhere, deeply asleep. As some got off, mothers took their place and fell asleep too. Barely noticing her fellow passengers’ occasional attempts to catch her eye, she huddled in her seat, shivering with cold and fear.

“Please God, please God”, she whispered every time the train threatened to stop or lingered too long at a station. She felt it was only her force of will that kept the train going. But what was she praying about or to whom?

“Please God....” It had to be worth it, the planning, the deceit, and always the terrible fear that it would be too late.

Esme remembered her mother-in-law’s face that morning as she left – had this bitter war widow with an only son, already a soldier, and a daughter-in-law she mistrusted guessed? At the station the crowds pushed and propelled each other onto the train. A young soldier gave Esme his seat but she barely acknowledged him except for a watery smile.

How long had she known the man she was about to leave everything for? Months, weeks? The precious hours when he got leave, the short phone calls (always someone waiting), wonderful letters she read and then hid - what did it all add up to?

“Next stop Lincoln”, the guard announced. The young airman, who’d slept the whole journey with his head on Esme’s shoulder, stretched and pulled his luggage down, as the rest of the train yawned and prepared to leave.

Everyone seemed to know where they were going - cars and bikes rattled into service. Esme stood on the platform, her breath taken by the force of the arctic Lincolnshire wind, feeling utterly alone as the platform emptied.

She became aware of a low droning sound that grew to a crescendo. The grey watery Lincoln sky was suddenly full of heavy planes climbing steadily. Despite the cold and fear, Esme felt exhilarated as the sound and power of the planes surrounded her and swept on, just as he’d described. And there he was, running towards her, waving, smiling. “Sorry I’m late, darling.” It didn't matter, he was here and all was well.

He’d rented a tiny, primitive cottage on the edge of a village - it felt as though it was opening its arms to protect them from the endlessly rumbling, circling planes. It gave them time to commit to each other, whatever the future. On the last night, they sat quietly curled up in front of the fire.

“I shall be off early tomorrow,” he said. “I’m getting a lift, so promise you won’t wake up.”

Esme promised but was acutely aware of every sound the next morning, from the stuttering little car to the shutting of the front door. She flew to the window and glimpsed the taillight of the car as it disappeared.

And then she saw his footprints - it had snowed lightly, his footprints stood out blackly where he’d climbed up to the road. Suddenly she realised that they could disappear, this might be all she had left of him. She lay frozen and sobbing on the bed for what felt like hours.

It was the sound of planes that roused her - amongst them he was there, the most precious person in her life, flying into mortal danger. Standing in the garden, watching the planes go, she waved and waved unaware of anything but him.

“Please God.....”

That night a full moon etched the footprints as a hoar frost descended. Esme sat rigid by the window, every part of her straining to hear the sound of planes, limping, stuttering home.

“Please God…”