WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 1b

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 1b

         Collapsing into his chair he looked at his meal with glazed eyes.   He pushed the plate away.

‘Got something to tell you,’ he slurred.

I glanced at him, only half of me paying attention; the other half fully occupied regretting his rapidly congealing supper.

‘Mm?’

         ‘I’ve joined up.’

 Food forgotten, my eyes jolted towards his face.

‘What?’

         ‘I’ve joined the army,’ he repeated, his voice suddenly loud.  ‘I leave at the weekend.’

         The ticking of the clock seemed deafening, echoing the thumping of my heart.   My mouth fell open as his words sank in.   Then, I shook my head.   This was pure nonsense:  but Frank was no joker.   I looked at him.    He was staring past me at the wall, his face stony.

         ‘What are you talking about?   Why on earth would you join the army?  You’re a farmer, you don’t need to.  Please don’t talk nonsense Frank.’

         His face flooded with colour; he made a quick movement towards me and I flinched.

         ‘Nonsense is it?  So, you think I can skulk at home while our boys are being slaughtered over there?’   He jerked his head towards the south.  ‘Good God woman! Do you think I’m that much of a coward?’ 

         His voice was loud and like thunder it rolled around in my head.

         ‘No, of course I don’t think you’re a coward.  But you can’t be serious.   Do you really think one man is going to make a difference?  And, what will happen to me?  What will happen to the farm?  I can’t manage on my own.’

         ‘There’s no need to worry.  I’ve arranged for some help.’

         Suddenly, I felt so angry I could have hit him.   ‘And what sort of help would that be, pray?   A pensioner?   Or perhaps the local half-wit?   Or maybe you’re thinking of Bill Rogers.  He’d be a great asset.  He could use his wooden leg to plant the spuds.’

         He shook his head, my sarcasm bouncing off him.   

         ‘There’s the prisoner of war camp down the road.  One of them’ll be drafted. I’ve arranged it with the Sergeant at the camp.  He’s a mate of mine.’  He stared harder at the wall.   Then I knew he was wrong.  He was a coward; he couldn’t even look at me.

  I knew all about the camp.  Newly opened, it had been thrown up to house the increasing number of German Luftwaffe pilots shot down from our skies.    Its presence had caused great consternation in the village and if the rumours were to be believed, all its inmates had horns and forked tails.  Once, I’d caught sight of a trickle of them marching in a drab line along the lane.   Immediately, I’d turned and gone the other way, my skin crawling at the thought of their eyes on me.   I hated and feared them: they were Nazis and the newspapers were crammed with stories of their brutality.

‘No Frank. Not in a million years and anyway, surely, that’s not allowed?’ 

‘Yes, it is.   It’s already been okayed.    You’ve got nothing to worry about.  It’s only a small camp and they’ve all been vetted.  None of ‘em are dangerous.  You’ll be all right.  I’ve left you the telephone number, it’s behind the clock.’

I felt my face freeze.

‘I’d rather die.  If you go, I’ll manage on my own.’  

Copyright Janet Baldey  

(To be continued/...)