Heronfield Read online

"Come on, you lot. Let's get you back home to a nice cup of tea."

  The men in front of Tony began to ease their way forward, and were soon being helped aboard. Tony counted sixty-four men going aboard a boat that could only have been built to carry a quarter of that number, and marveled at the bravery of the civilians who had made this trip so many times before, yet still came back to aid the beleaguered army. When the small boat began to pull away Tony realized that there was no one else in front of him. The next boat to come to this part of the beach would be his ticket home.

  He found himself standing in water up to his waist, the waves reflecting the flames of the burning ships in rainbow hues. Tony realised that the whole of the water’s edge was coated with a thin film of oil from the wrecks. It clung to their clothes, and the stench of it invaded their nostrils as they stood as still as they possibly could, for the oil made it slippery underfoot. Tony had never felt so weak and tired before in his life. The constant shaking of his legs was due only in part to the low temperature of the water, and at times black dots danced before his eyes. He had slung Wilson's rifle onto his back, for he knew that he could not hold onto it much longer, and his hands hung limply at his sides. Jim noticed how weak his new friend was, and understood exactly how he felt. They had had nothing to eat for three days, and since their water had run out the previous evening they had existed on what they could gather from condensation. They had an unspoken agreement that none of them would go back up the beach, for that would mean losing their hard earned place and starting the endless waiting all over again.

  They had been standing in the cold water, which seemed to drain the last reserves of their energy from their exhausted bodies, for almost an hour when Phillips pointed a shaking hand out to sea.

  "Look at that. It's our ride home."

  Making directly towards them, through the oil slick which covered the sea, was a small private yacht. For a moment it looked as though it might run them down before running aground, then it tacked beautifully and halted inches from the waiting soldiers.

  "Come on lads."

  A man in his thirties and a boy of about fourteen, perhaps his son, leant over the side and began to drag the exhausted men aboard. Tony watched as one soldier after another was hauled from the water, and prayed that he would not be left behind. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, he felt strong hands lifting him and laying him on the deck. The small, two-berth, cabin was already crammed with thirteen men so that Tony, Jim and Phillips were moved to the back of the boat. Another five men were helped onto the deck, a total of twenty-one evacuees in all, when the boat’s owner took hold of the tiller and ordered his son to ready the sails.

  "Don't worry lads, we'll be back,” he said comfortingly to those left standing in the water. Some of them did not want to wait for the next vessel and, thinking that there might be room for just one more, began to swim out after the yacht. As they got out of their depth, the heavy uniforms began to drag them down. A dazed Tony saw three of them disappear beneath the surface of the water, before helping hands pulled their companions back to the comparative safety of the shallows.

  Nothing was said as the yacht picked her delicate way through the harbour, past the burning wrecks that blocked most of the safe passages. The owner of the yacht sat at the stern, steering them carefully around obstacles, while passing quiet instructions to the boy at the sails. As they moved further from the shore Jim was able to see, for the first time, the full horror that was the beaches of Dunkirk and wondered again at the bravery of the men who came back time after time to do what little they could to help. He gazed off to port for a moment, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow, then his eyes opened wide in horrified understanding of what he saw.

  "Look at that!" His voice was a hushed whisper and the others followed his pointing finger to see what could have affected him so.

  At first they saw only what they thought was a causeway, some eight feet wide, extending far out into the sea. Then understanding dawned. It was not a causeway but a column of men, six abreast, standing as if on parade. Those at the front were standing up to their necks in water, calmly waiting for the Thames barge which slowly approached them. The yacht swung wide to avoid a burning pleasure cruiser, and the column of men was lost from sight. Moments later they rounded the end of the shattered harbour wall and were in the open sea.

  "We're heading for Portsmouth." It was the first time their rescuer had spoken to them since they left the beaches. As Tony turned towards him he noticed the deep shadows under his eyes, and the weary stoop of his shoulders.

  "How many times have you been to the beaches?"

  "This is our nineteenth trip. Twenty-one soldiers at a time means that when we get you lot home we’ll have brought back nearly four hundred men." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'll try to get back one more time tonight, but it's not easy. The navy has only cleared three narrow channels of mines, and with all the buoys and lightships blacked out it's easy to wander from these. So if you gentlemen would like to keep an eye open for any strange objects floating near us, I would be most grateful."

  For a time Tony watched the heaving grey waves for any sign of mines, but his tiredness, coupled with the relief of being away from the beaches at last, must have overwhelmed him, for he woke to find Jim shaking him gently by the shoulder.

  "Tony. We're home." His voice was full of relief at an ordeal safely overcome, and Tony sat up to look around him. They were sailing into Portsmouth harbour, but not the harbour he knew from peacetime, for there were no lights shining, and the yacht had to maneuver carefully between other vessels before coming to rest beside the quay. The soldiers rose gratefully to their feet.

  "Here you are then, lads. Home at last."

  Tony turned to their rescuer and smiled a weary smile.

  "I don't know how to find the words I want to say. 'Thank you' seems so inadequate after what you've done for us."

  "No need for thanks, lad. I'm just doing my bit for king and country, same as you are. Now, if you'd like to go ashore, I think I'll get turned around and head back to France."

  The soldiers climbed wearily onto the quay to be greeted by smiling women, civilian volunteers again, who handed out mugs of steaming tea and doorstep sandwiches.

  "Move over to the warehouse, loves, and when you've rested a bit you can register, so that the army knows what to do with you. There are some postcards there as well, so you can write to let your families know you're safe."

  They smiled their grateful thanks and moved off. Phillips noticed a friend nearby whom he had thought to be dead, and the small group said an emotional farewell as he went to rejoin his comrade.

  "Just the two of us now." Jim sipped the scalding tea. "I'm glad about the postcards. My family must be worried sick about me. They’ll be glad to hear I'm all right."

  "I shan't bother with a postcard." Tony sat down on a packing crate. "Don't forget I'm still a civilian. I'm catching the first train home, and I’ll be there long before any postcard can arrive."

  Jim nodded. "I don't blame you. Do you still intend to join up?"

  Tony nodded, images of dead civilians mingling with the beaches of Dunkirk in his mind. There was nothing else he could do.

  "Well, I can't say too much at the moment, but just before all this blew up in France I was given a posting to a new unit, to take effect at the beginning of July. They said they needed men like me who can speak French and know parts of France quite well. You made a good showing of yourself out there Tony and I think they might be interested in you. I'll speak to my superiors and see what they say. I can't promise anything, but if you can postpone joining up for a month or so I'll be in touch. All right?"

  Tony nodded. "Just as long as it's not some desk job translating French papers. I want to get some action against the Germans, after what I've seen out there."

  "I know what you mean,” Jim agreed. "I'll let you know as soon as I can."

  11

  The Tony Kemshall who walked towa
rds the steps of Heronfield House that evening was very different from the smart young man who had set out on his journey to France. He was still wearing the bloodstained greatcoat that Jim had acquired for him on the beaches of Dunkirk. His trousers were stained with seawater and oil, and his shoes were splitting at the seams. He had landed at Portsmouth, and caught the first train for London at six a.m., changed at Guilford and again at Reading before taking the branch line to Marlborough. It was now almost six in the evening and the journey, together with his exhausting activities of the previous two weeks, left Tony so weak that he could barely stand. He was lucky to find a delivery van going his way and it dropped him off at the end of the drive. As his feet crunched on the gravel of the sweeping driveway, and he approached the house which had been home to him for all his twenty years, he felt a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. There had been times over the last few days when he had thought that he would never see his home or his family again, never walk the driveway to the safe haven which awaited him. He smiled as he pushed the door open. It would be good to see his family again, and then to get some rest.

  A frown began to furrow his brow, and he stopped. Something was wrong. It was the same hallway, with the same familiar furniture and pictures, but there was a subtle smell, like a hospital, in the air and he could hear the murmuring of many voices upstairs. A door closed down the hallway and, to his surprise, a nursing auxiliary approached, although Tony was too tired and bemused to notice the auburn hair, lively green eyes and clear skin. The woman, however, noticed his dark hair and complexion and the tired brown eyes. Her professional gaze also took in the tattered and bloodstained clothes, and the smell that had accompanied all of the soldiers who had come to Heronfield directly from the beaches.

  "Hello." She greeted him with a warm smile. "I'm sorry there was no one here to meet you, but we weren't expecting any more wounded. Are you just back from Dunkirk, like all the rest?"

  He nodded, trying to work out what this nurse was doing in his home. "I arrived in Portsmouth this morning, but I'm not wounded. Just tired."

  Sarah frowned. "Not wounded? Then what are you doing here?"

  Tony managed a weak smile. "I could ask you the same question. This is my home. Where’s my family? What’s happening here?"

  Sarah's eyes opened wide. "Are you Sir Michael's son, Tony? He was in my ward, trying to find out if anyone had seen you at Dunkirk. He’s been very worried about you. He’ll be so glad you’re safe."

  "I'd like to see him, if you'll only tell me where he is."

  "Oh, I'm sorry." Sarah noticed the young man swaying on his feet, and pulled up a chair. "You must be exhausted. Sit down while I explain." She waited while Tony thankfully lowered himself into the chair, then continued. "Your father has given up Heronfield House for the duration, to be used as a hospital and convalescent home."

  "Yes, I vaguely remember him talking about it before I left.” He smiled wearily. “I’m so tired and I was so eager to see them all again that I’d forgotten. Where are my family? Have they gone up to London?"

  Sarah smiled. "No, they’ve not gone that far. They’re at the lodge. I'll get someone to take you down there. I'm sure you..."

  Realising that he was safe at last, Tony could stay awake no longer and slumped from his chair. As Sarah rushed to the side of the unconscious young man, she called for aid. Two more VADs came hurrying to help her carry him into the drawing room, where he was laid on a sofa. One of the girls went to summon the doctor, while the other ran down to the lodge to inform Sir Michael that his son had arrived safe home at last.

  Sarah had already removed the greatcoat and was loosening Tony’s filthy clothing, when the doctor arrived to conduct a swift but expert examination. He was just putting his stethoscope away as Sir Michael burst into the room.

  "Tony? Is he all right?"

  Dr. Millard nodded. "He's fine, just exhausted. I think it will be best if we let him sleep, then he can come down to the lodge with you when he wakes. A few days’ rest and food and we'll soon have him back to his old self."

  Sir Michael nodded his thanks as the doctor and Sarah left. Kneeling beside the couch he took his youngest son’s hand in his own.

  "Tony. Thank God you're alive." His voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm so proud of you. So very proud."

  Sir Michael was glad he was alone with his son so no-one could see the tears of relief coursing down his cheeks.

  It was lunchtime just three days after Tony had returned from Dunkirk. Sarah and Jane were taking a well-deserved break from work, sitting in the warm summer sun in the gardens of Heronfield House. Jane had been reading the newspaper, and sighed deeply as she put it down.

  "Even Mr. Churchill admits we’ve suffered a great defeat. He says we must prepare for an invasion any time."

  Sarah nodded sadly. "I wish I could go home and see Mum. She must be worried sick. And I'd like to see Joe again, just in case..."

  Jane took her hand reassuringly. "I'm sure we'll be all right. Hitler won't get us without a fight." She picked up the paper again. "We can all do our bit. Listen." She began to read from the paper. “All signposts and place names are to be removed or painted out, so that they will not help enemy paratroopers to find their way. Defences along the coast-line have been extended, and many beaches are now off limits. It’s now an offence to leave a car unlocked, or a bicycle not immobilised, or anything else which might help a German paratrooper.”

  Sarah laughed bitterly. "Much good that's going to do us without an army!"

  Jane shrugged. "It's not over yet. We ought to be less pessimistic."

  Sarah sighed. "I suppose you're right. Hitler hasn't won yet. But it all seems so hopeless after Dunkirk. How on earth are we going to defeat the German army, when most of our soldiers are in hospital, or a prisoner of war camp?"

  There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path, and the two young women turned to see Tony Kemshall approaching. He smiled warmly at them.

  "Excuse my interrupting, but aren't you the nurse who met me when I came home?" Sarah nodded and he continued. "Can I speak to you for a moment please?"

  Jane rose from the bench where they had been sitting.

  "Well, I must get back to work. See you later, Sarah." With a quick wave of her hand she turned and ran across the lawn.

  Tony looked more like his old self after three days of rest and home cooking. He was clean, freshly shaven and well dressed, and no longer so tired that his skin was pale and black rings circled his eyes. Unlike his first meeting with Sarah, he was now able to take note of her looks and the warm smile. He felt an instant liking for the young VAD.

  "May I sit down?"

  Sarah nodded. "Of course." She turned towards him with a puzzled frown. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you get involved with the troops at Dunkirk, if you’re a civilian?"

  Tony found himself responding to her quizzical look with a smile.

  "Of course I don't mind. I went out there to help my grandmother to get to England, and foolishly stayed behind. I suppose I thought it would be just like the books I used to read as a boy, but I couldn't have been more wrong.” He frowned. “War is not all heroics, with the goodies always defeating the baddies. Still, I managed to get away in the end, and I wanted to thank you for being so helpful."

  Sarah was a little embarrassed. "It's all part of the job, sir."

  "Gosh, 'sir' makes me sound so old!" His face held such a look of mock horror that Sarah had to laugh. "Please call me Tony," he continued, "and may I call you Sarah? That is what your friend called you, isn't it?"

  Sarah was not quite sure what to say. It was strange, but she already liked Tony. He was friendly and seemed in many ways to be just like her friends at home. Yet he wasn’t. He was a member of the aristocracy, a class of people who would never dream of speaking to her under normal circumstances, and she felt uncomfortable to be talking so freely with him. Finally she shrugged her shoulders. What did it matter? They would p
robably never meet again and, after all, there was a war on.

  "Of course you can call me Sarah."

  She smiled across at him, and Tony's heart raced. That smile was something special, and he decided there and then that he wanted to get to know her better. Searching for some sort of common ground, he began to enquire about her family.

  "Are any of your family in the Forces?"

  Sarah shook her head. "No. There's only me and my mum. My dad died two weeks before the end of the last war, shortly before I was born."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  "That's all right. I never knew him, and I never really missed having a father as a child. I suppose it was a case of not missing what you've never had."

  "What about your boyfriend? A pretty girl like you must have one. Is he in the army?" As he asked the question, Tony hoped that she would say no, there was no boyfriend, she was unattached and free to be courted. His brief hopes were soon dashed.

  "My boyfriend is called Joe. The day after war was declared I joined the VADs and he tried to join the army, but they found him unfit. He has a weak heart. They say it’s a result of the rheumatic fever he had as a child. He's taken a job in an aircraft factory, so he can feel he's doing his bit, ‘though he’d prefer it if he could join up and fight." Sarah smiled. "I’ll be going home to Coventry in a couple of weeks. It seems ages since I've seen him."

  Tony noticed the extra brightness in her eyes and the softening of her smile as she spoke of Joe, and for some reason it saddened him. Here he was talking to a total stranger, yet she was making him feel things he had never felt before. He longed to get to know her better; and found that he was jealous of a man whom he had never met, and probably never would meet. Maybe he was still tired from his ordeal in France, still emotionally fragile after what he had seen and experienced, or maybe he had just found someone who could hold a special place in his life. Whatever it was, Tony was confused at his churning emotions, and felt that he needed some time alone to think.