‘Mrs Jones!’ she called out sharply as she hurried across. For months now she had suspected Mrs Jones of over-indulging her weakness for gin. ‘Stand up this moment! I want you on your feet right away!’
Her words had no effect, but it was not until she had reached the women that Mrs Martinson understood why. A fat, green caterpillar was creeping purposefully over Mrs Jones’s scrawny neck; another had already penetrated the solf pulp-flesh of her breast and only a gross, stubby tail was now visible. The second woman was in an even worse condition, with four or five of those hideous caterpillars burrowing into her exposed midriff.
Mrs Martinson stared at them horrified, her mouth dry, her stomach rising in protest.
A girl in jeans and a halter top reeled crazily in front of her, her shoulders a mass of raw wounds like battlefield craters; she fell across the first two and more caterpillars appeared, busily setting to work like bees gathering pollen.
Ignoring the clamour around her, Mrs Martinson marched directly to the Church Tower Tombola, requisitioned the quart of whisky, and twisted off the metal screw-top. She hadn’t been in the army for nothing, she thought grimly. No use standing and screaming when she could do something to help.
She seized the girl’s foot, dragged her clear on to the gravel path, rolled her over and proceeded to splash whisky over any caterpillars she could find, hoping it would kill them. Without waiting to see the result, she began to do the same to Mrs Jones but stopped when she realised the woman was dead.
Still, plenty of others needed help too, so she carried on like someone possessed until the bottle was empty. It was only then she became aware that none of the caterpillars had died after all but were still actively chewing into their victims like obscene, hairy maggots. At the sight of them she broke down and cried.
Useless. It had all been useless.
She fell to her knees beside the girl with the halter top, wanting to fold her in her arms and comfort her. Instead, she began concentratedly to pick the caterpillars off her, two or three at a time.
Their furry bodies stung her fingers as she touched them; their mean little heads swung around to bite through her wrinkled skin: but what else could she do? She couldn’t just let the girl die, could she?
Around her — she only vaguely noticed — screams were subsiding into moans. A voice shouted orders. A child sobbed hysterically. Yes, it was war again. It all had a puzzling familiarity. She was not surprised to feel that sharp pain in her upper arm, shooting through her armpit into her chest. Shrapnel, it had been that first time. Now caterpillars, eating a tunnel into her.
It was her voice screaming. Was she going to faint? You stupid cow, Dottie. Never could stand pain, could you?
What a boring husband Henry had turned out to be! If only she’d known in time! Riding on his tank when she first saw him, a modern Lancelot on a charger she’d thought. Angry, too. Yelled at her. As an ATS lieutenant with a signals unit she should never have been anywhere near the front line. Tell that to the Germans, she’d bawled back. Perhaps they don’t know the rules!
That sergeant, he’d have been more fun. Slipped a hard hand up her skirt one dark night behind the mess, regardless of rank. Took her by surprise. Wouldn’t get far these days, not with tights.
She giggled. Henry had never touched her outside the marital bedroom, and not often there.
‘Aa-aaah!’
The shrapnel shifted. Excruciating pain stabbed through her lung like a saw-edged bayonet. Was this it? Was there nothing more to life? After all those years?
Oh God, why did you curse me with Henry?
Why?
Ginny had really lost her temper when she heard that woman shouting that there was a caterpillar on one of the little girl’s dresses. Of all the stupid jokes! She’d swung around, searching the faces to discover who was responsible. Then she heard the second yell, ‘It’s on Caroline! The doctor’s girl!’ It was like a cold, clammy hand clutching her stomach.
‘Stay there!’ she shouted to Lesley, who had Frankie with her. ‘I’ll get her!’
‘Caroline!’ Lesley shrieked simultaneously, rushing forward despite her limp.
‘Lesley, let me get her!’
But everyone had the same idea, all wanting to snatch their own children to safety, only that idiot policeman stood in the way trying to stop them, actually holding out his arms as though directing traffic. Before Ginny could prevent it, her sister was caught up in the crowd. She was tripped or pushed — it was impossible to say which — and fell face down under their feet.
Then the rush stopped, everyone paralysed at the sight of the teenage boy cautiously lifting the giant caterpillar from Caroline’s dress and bearing it away. The sigh of relief was audible and followed by a sudden round of applause as he reached the wooden fence, then fainted.
‘You can stop crying, it’s all over now,’ she overheard a mother tell her weeping son.
If only it were, she thought grimly. She had a gut feeling it was only just beginning.
While Phuong helped Lesley to her feet again, Ginny elbowed through the crowd to collect Wendy and Caroline who were gazing wide-eyed about them, bewildered and frightened. The moment she reached them Caroline began to cry, but Ginny told her roughly to stop it. That was one complication she just couldn’t face.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ Ginny announced when she got back to Phuong and Lesley. By that time Frankie had joined them, clinging to her mother’s skirt. ‘Quietly now. No fuss.’
It was like one of those still periods before a storm. A holding of the breath.
‘Let’s all have a cup of tea!’ Lesley announced cheerily, forcing a smile. Her face was strained and there were traces of dirt on her cheek where someone’s shoe had grazed her. ‘They’re probably not serving yet, but I’m sure they’ll make an exception. And they’ve got lovely ice cream.’
Her words calmed the children down a little.
Ginny shepherded them towards the marquee, taking hold of Caroline’s hand while Phuong carried little Wendy. Frankie walked with her mother. Following the arrows would have led them past the old oak, but she deliberately made a detour to stay well clear of it.
A sudden fearful screaming started from the direction of the avenue of beeches near the churchyard wall. Lesley stopped and turned, clutching her arm.
‘What’s that?’ asked Frankie innocently.
‘Oh, they’re probably playing some game,’ Ginny answered hurriedly, glancing back. ‘Let’s find that ice cream before everybody wants some.’
In the marquee the trays of sandwiches they had cut that morning were set out on long trestle tables, ready for the first stream of customers. One of the women serving, someone Ginny didn’t recognise, asked what on earth was going on with all that screaming. They made some answer and paused long enough to buy the children an ice cream each to keep them occupied before taking them out into the lane at the back which led directly up the hill to the doctor’s house.
It was then that Caroline — backed up by Wendy — demanded to know why they were going home already and when they were going to do their playgroup dance. Only Frankie seemed to grasp that something was seriously wrong.
Lesley bent down to talk to her. ‘You are going to be a big girl and help Mummy, aren’t you?’
She nodded, tight-lipped. From the field they could hear shrieks of terror, with men shouting and someone moaning gibberish over the loudspeaker.
Leaving Phuong and her sister to get the children back to the safety of the house, Ginny ran back through the marquee, heading for the field. The scene was indescribable, like some Hieronymous Bosch nightmare: a mother piteously clutching her small son whose face and neck were torn open by one long, raw wound; a girl of Ginny’s own age lying with her back unnaturally arched over the debris of a broken white elephant stall while fat green caterpillars explored her legs; the barman from the Plough in agonising convulsions on the grass, his face purple as he choked on the caterpillars eating into his throat; oh, and many others, the lucky ones dead already. One thin grey-haired woman was on her knees, holding up her hands clasped together in prayer in the midst of the carnage, her voice penetrating the din from the crazed people dashing about in search of escape: He hath put down the mighty from their seat and exalted the humble and meek; He hath filled the hungry with… The spot of blood on her blouse grew larger, spreading down her side. Her voice faltered. She sat back on her heels, a look of surprise on her face, then crumpled into death.