Ursula didn’t mention that she had been called to an incident, a house that had been hit, where the occupants had chickens in a makeshift run in the back yard and that when they arrived they had found the chickens, nearly all of them alive, with their feathers blown off. ‘Ready-plucked,’ Mr Bullock had laughed callously. Ursula had seen people with their clothes blown off and trees in the middle of summer stripped of all their leaves, but she didn’t mention these things either. She didn’t mention wading in effluent from ruptured pipes, certainly didn’t mention drowning in that same effluent. Nor did she mention the gruesome sensation of putting your hand on a man’s chest and finding that your hand had somehow slipped inside that chest. (Dead – something to be thankful for, she supposed.)
Did Harold tell Pamela the things he had seen? Ursula didn’t ask, even introducing the topic seemed wrong on such a pleasant day. She thought of all those soldiers from the last war who had come home and never spoken of what they had witnessed in the trenches. Mr Simms, Mr Palmer, her own father too, of course.
Sylvie’s egg production seemed to be at the heart of some kind of rural black market. No one in the village was particularly short of anything. ‘It’s a barter economy around here,’ Pamela said. ‘And barter they do, believe me. That’s what she’ll be doing now, at the front door.’
‘At least you’re pretty safe here,’ Ursula said. Were they? She thought of the UXB Hugh had gone to look at. Or the previous week when a bomb had come down in a field belonging to the Hall farm and blown the cows in it to pieces. ‘A lot of people have been quietly eating beef around here,’ Pamela said. ‘Us included, I’m happy to say.’ Sylvie seemed to think this ‘terrible episode’ had put them on a par with London’s suffering. She had returned now and lit up a cigarette rather than finish her food. Ursula ate what she had left on her plate while Pamela took one of Sylvie’s cigarettes from the packet and lit up.
Bridget came out and started clearing plates and Ursula jumped up and said, ‘Oh, no, I’ll do that.’ Pamela and Sylvie remained at the table, smoking in silence, observing the defence of the wigwam from a raiding party of evacuees. Ursula felt rather badly done by. Both Sylvie and Pamela spoke as if they had it hard whereas she was working all day, out on patrol most nights, facing the most awful sights. Only yesterday they had been at an incident where they had worked to free someone while blood dripped on their heads from a body up in the bedroom they couldn’t reach because the staircase was knee-deep in broken glass from a huge skylight.
‘I’m thinking of going back to Ireland,’ Bridget said as they rinsed plates. ‘I have never felt at home in this country.’
‘Neither have I,’ Ursula said.
The apple charlotte turned out to be simply stewed apples as Sylvie refused to use precious stale bread on a pudding when it could be fed more usefully to the chickens. Nothing went to waste at Fox Corner. Scraps went to the chickens (‘She’s thinking of getting a pig,’ Hugh said in despair), after bones had made stock they were sent for salvage, as was every last tin and glass jar that wasn’t being filled with jam or chutney or beans or tomatoes. All the books in the house had been parcelled up and taken to the post office to be sent off to the services. ‘We’ve already read them,’ Sylvie said, ‘so what’s the point in keeping them?’
Hugh returned and Bridget grumbled back outside with a plate for him.
‘Oh,’ Sylvie said politely to him, ‘do you live here? I say, why don’t you join us?’
‘Really, Sylvie,’ Hugh said, more sharply than was his usual manner. ‘You can be such a child.’
‘If I am then it’s marriage that’s made me so,’ Sylvie said.
‘I remember that you once said there was no higher calling for a woman than marriage,’ Hugh said.
‘Did I? That must have been in our salad days.’
Pamela raised her eyebrows at Ursula and Ursula wondered when had their parents become so openly quarrelsome? Ursula was going to ask him about the bomb but then, ‘How’s Millie?’ Pamela asked brightly to change the subject.
‘She’s well,’ Ursula said. ‘She’s a very easy-going person to share digs with. Although I hardly ever see her in Phillimore Gardens. She’s joined ENSA. She’s in some kind of troupe that goes round factories, entertaining workers in their lunch hour.’
‘Poor blighters,’ Hugh laughed.
‘With Shakespeare?’ Sylvie asked doubtfully.
‘I think she turns her hand to anything these days. A bit of singing, comedy, you know.’ Sylvie didn’t look as if she did.
‘I have a young man,’ Ursula blurted out, catching them all unawares, including herself. It was more to lighten the conversation than anything. She should have known better really.
He was called Ralph. He lived in Holborn and he was a new friend, a ‘pal’, that she had met at her German class. He had been an architect before the war and Ursula supposed he would be an architect afterwards too. If anyone was still alive, of course. (Could London be erased, like Knossos or Pompeii? The Cretans and the Romans probably went around saying, ‘We can take it,’ in the heart of disaster.) Ralph was full of ideas for the rebuilding of the slums as modern towers. ‘A city for the people’, he said, one that would ‘rise from the ashes of the old like a phoenix, modernist to the core’.
‘What an iconoclast he sounds,’ Pamela said.
‘He’s not nostalgic in the way we are.’
‘Are we? Nostalgic?’
‘Yes,’ Ursula said. ‘Nostalgia is predicated on something that never existed. We imagine an Arcadia in the past, Ralph sees it in the future. Both equally unreal, of course.’
‘Cloud-capped palaces?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But you like him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you … you know?’
‘Really! What kind of a question is that?’ Ursula laughed. (Sylvie was at the door again, Hugh was sitting cross-legged on the lawn pretending to be Big Chief Running Bull.)
‘It’s a very good question,’ Pamela said.
They hadn’t, as it happened. Perhaps if he were more ardent. She thought of Crighton. ‘And anyway there is so little time for …’
‘Sex?’ Pamela said.
‘Well, I was going to say courtship, but yes, sex.’ Sylvie had returned and was trying to separate the warring factions on the lawn. The evacuees made very unsportsmanlike enemies. Hugh was tied up now with an old washing line. ‘Help!’ he mouthed to Ursula but he was grinning like a schoolboy. It was nice to see him happy.
Before the war her wooing by Ralph (or his by her, perhaps) might have taken the form of dances, the cinema, cosy dinners à deux but now, more often than not, they had found themselves at bombsites, like sightseers viewing ancient ruins. The view from the top deck of the number eleven bus was particularly good for this, they had discovered.
It was perhaps due more to a kink in their respective characters than the war itself. After all, other couples managed to keep up the rituals.
They had ‘visited’ the Duveen Gallery at the British Museum, Hammonds next to the National Gallery, the huge crater at the Bank, so big that they had to build a temporary bridge across it. John Lewis, still smouldering when they arrived, the blackened mannequins from the shop windows strewn across the pavement, their clothes ripped off.
‘Do you think we’re like ghouls?’ Ralph asked and Ursula said, ‘No, we are witnesses.’ She supposed she would go to bed with him eventually. There was no great argument to be found against it.
Bridget came out with tea and cake and Pamela said, ‘I think I’d better untie Daddy.’
‘Have a drink,’ Hugh said, pouring her a tumbler of malt from the cut-glass decanter that he kept in the growlery. ‘I find myself in here more and more these days,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place I can get peace. Dogs and evacuees strictly barred. I worry about you, you know,’ he added.