LOCAL HEROES    

By Jane Scoggins       

                       

 ‘‘Cheers Philip’’. Annette held up her glass to Philip. He leaned forward and they chinked glasses. Beaming at one another for a few seconds they studied each other’s faces. Philip loved her face. Soft pale skin and gentle brown eyes twinkling with warmth and mischief. In turn, Annette loved Philip’s freckled face and the bright blue eyes that absorbed everything around him in an instant.

    ‘‘Happy Birthday Annette’’ said Philip raising his glass to her.

     ‘‘Thank you Philip, I can’t believe I am 90 years old, I feel like a 20-year-old inside’.

Philip laughed. ‘‘I know you do, you are always larking about and saying things to be outrageous.  I’ve got used to you now but I used to be quite shocked. I think you have a wicked sense of humour. You are what some people call a recycled teenager; lots of attitude but minus the spots.’’

    ‘‘I know, I used to say things on purpose just to see you go red and flustered, mean of me wasn’t it but I couldn’t help myself, I’ve always had a mischievous streak. Anyway, it worked because you don’t go red anymore; you just smile and shake your head. Makes you a person who can handle what gets thrown at you unexpectedly, and I like that. At my age, you don’t care what people think of you, although I never did really, which is the one advantage of getting old. Anyway enough said, shall we have cake now, it looks delicious?’’

    Philip reached for the cake.

    ‘‘I made it myself you know, just to prove to you that I can now cook.’’

    When the cake was eaten Philip put his hand behind the cushion on the sofa and brought out a gift, wrapped in birthday paper with colourful butterflies. Annette smiled and took the gift in her hands and for a few seconds admired the wrapping paper and showing absolute delight at receiving a gift.

    ‘‘My oh my, what a lucky girl I am today, a gift as well as a delicious chocolate cake that would make a Paris patisserie proud.’’

     Annette carefully unwrapped the gift so as not to tear the pretty paper and rip the butterflies. She revealed a picture of a popular Impressionist print within a small rectangular frame.

     ‘‘Poppies’ Annette said wistfully and was immediately taken back to the poppy fields of France where so many brave men and women lost their lives fighting for King and Country during the First and Second World Wars.

    Annette was nineteen when the Second World War broke out. In 1943, aged twenty-three, she had been recruited to the prestigious Special Operations Executive, known as the SOE. They were unprecedented times; she was young, adventurous, and proud to be chosen to serve her country in this way. Not that she had much time to think about it before being trained and given orders. The first time Annette was parachuted into France was both terrifying and thrilling. Met by Resistance workers in the darkness and silence of the night she was hurried away by locals across the fields to a safe house. In the morning the sight of the poppy fields all around was breathtaking and forever memorable. Later, poppies became the symbol for the fallen and every November poppies continue to be worn in remembrance. All those Annette met and worked with so briefly in northern France she never saw again. Annette wondered how many survived. There was one brave English girl, Nancy, whom she would always remember. They were parachuted into France together in 1944 just before D-Day, and tasked with helping distribute weapons to the Resistance fighters. If not for Nancy’s quick thinking after they landed in a field and hurried to hide themselves, they would have been discovered and probably shot dead. German soldiers tipped off about a possible landing, had fired indiscriminately into the undergrowth where they were hiding. Fortunately for Nancy and Annette, the soldiers, halted by the sudden loud screech of an owl nearby, briefly discontinued their firing and bayonet thrusting. Nancy followed the screech with a perfect owl call, as if from the owl’s mate. The soldiers laughed, and presuming that there was nothing hiding there except wildlife, moved away.

    Annette was roused from her reverie by Philip, telling her he had to go or he would be late to collect the papers.

    ‘‘Don’t forget you are going to Fitzwimark school next week will you?’’ Philip said as he prepared to leave.

    With Philip gone Nancy considered what she would talk to the Year 9’s about at the school. The youngsters had been learning about the Second World War. Pupils and teachers had been asked to talk with an older person who had memories of the war and then to write up the conversation.  These were already up on the classroom walls. Everyone had commented on Philip’s piece about Annette. She, along with two other senior citizens from Rayleigh had been invited to the school to share their memories with the pupils. Annette knew that this was a special event for Philip, she knew he was proud of knowing about her secret role during the War.

    Annette was equally proud of Philip. He had recently saved the day for her with his quick thinking and prompt action. He had helped to save her life three months previously when she had fallen in the kitchen and lain cold, stiff and in pain for several hours.  The old wound in her spine from the German soldier’s bullet that fateful night in France was so painful from her fall that she kept slipping in and out

of consciousness and feared she would not survive a night on the floor. When she heard the newspaper come through the letterbox she called out but was not heard.

 Annette resigned herself to her probable fate. But all was not lost. Out of the blue the paperboy came back, pushed the newspaper through and peered through the letterbox shouting, ‘‘Hello are you there?’’  He waited and listened, and on hearing a feeble cry had called out to her.

    ‘‘I’m going to get help, I will be as quick as I can.’’ After rushing to get help from a neighbour an ambulance was called.

    And the reason Philip the paperboy came back?  He knew the lady at that house must be at home as he could see her mobility scooter parked, and the light was on inside the hall.  She always collected her newspaper straight away from the door and had asked him to only push it through the letterbox halfway as she suffered from a painful back, and didn’t want to bend to pick it up.  After finishing his round he noticed that the newspaper was still in the door. Instinct told him to go back and check all was well.

Copyright Jane Scoggins