Jim Boxall never forgot his first sight of RAF Uxbridge. For someone who until then had never travelled further than a charabanc trip to Brighton, the journey had been an excitement in itself, by tram to London Bridge and then through the complications of the tube to Uxbridge, which looked an open countrified sort of place after the hemmed-in streets of Greenwich. He was in a state of such powerful and complicated emotions that every detail of the day was etched into his mind as if it were red hot.
Outside the station he found that he was one of a group of about twenty men all clutching travel warrants and smoking cheap cigarettes and trying to look as though they knew where they were going. They were too ill at ease and embarrassed to greet one another but fortunately after four or five shuffling minutes a lorry trundled up to take them on the last leg. They were herded aboard, and began to introduce themselves to one another. Jim learned that his two immediate neighbours were called Froggy and Jock but he was too excited to remember any of the others, and in any case it didn’t seem any time at all before they’d arrived.
One minute they were rocking along an empty country lane between bare trees and scrubby hedges, joking to one another about the ‘rotten bus service’, the next they were gazing up into the white sky where a small silver biplane was descending gently and purposefully straight towards them. They could see the red, white and blue markings on its tail fin, the roundel on its side, its red nose cone, even the helmeted head of the pilot. It gave them an undeniable thrill. The RAF, Jim thought. I’m in the RAF now. There’s no going back.
Then the lorry swung in through the gates and deposited them at the guard house. And the RAF engulfed them. There were men in uniform everywhere they looked, walking briskly among long rows of wooden huts, or being marched about in well-drilled columns in a central square. The noise was incessant, drill corporals yelling, boots crunching gravel, hands slapping rifles, butts thwacking ground. There was even a side-drum clicking somewhere out of sight.
They stood in line outside the guard room as a roll was called and learned to say ‘Yes, Sergeant’ in answer to their names. Then they were marched off to another hut and put in the charge of a corporal called Waller, who was short and dark and looked uncomfortably belligerent, which as they soon discovered was only to be expected when his nickname on the camp was Shit-house Wallah and his favourite form of punishment was latrine duty.
‘This is East Camp,’ he shouted at them. ‘Those are your bunks, which you will keep clean, neat and tidy at all times. Now follow me.’
They spent the rest of the day being marched about and standing in queues. They queued for everything, to be given their service number and identity disks, for a medical which Jim found acutely embarrassing, to be issued with their kit which took hours, to be given their inoculations which were very painful, and at last, when they were all bewildered and exhausted they stood in yet another queue to be allowed to enter the mess hall.
Here they were ushered to a long table where they sat eight to a side and in complete silence, as though they were back at school. But the food was very welcome after such a day and when the orderlies wheeled their trolleys in from the kitchen and a meaty steam rose from the galvanized iron trays, Jim could have cheered with relief.
‘Blimey! What a day!’ Froggy said, when they were finally allowed back to the hut ‘to get some kip’. He was an odd-looking chap with thin mouse-brown hair and bulging eyes and the widest mouth Jim had ever seen, but he’d stayed irrepressibly cheerful all through their long day and he was still grinning even then.
‘A day an’ a half,’ Jim agreed, taking off his new boots and rubbing his heels.
‘D’ye reckon there’ll be anythin’ left for us tay do tomorrow?’ Jock said.
‘Plenty,’ Jim said. ‘You could lay money on it.’
‘I’m sick of queueing,’ Froggy complained, grinning again.
And that got a chorus of agreement from every new recruit in the hut.
During the next few days they learned that the camp was so overcrowded that they would have to queue for everything. It became a normal part of their lives, like the interminable square bashing, an initiation that had to be endured before they could be considered airmen. Froggy and Jim rapidly became ‘oppos’. They soon discovered that they shared the same taste in literature, had both studied history and economics and had the same dry sense of humour. And the more they talked to one another the closer friends they became.
Later that week Jim wrote four postcards, one each to his mother and his two sisters, and as a considered afterthought one to Peggy. ‘We shall be square bashing for three months,’ he told her. ‘I shall be glad when it’s over I can tell you. It’s worse than the gym we had to do at school. At least we didn’t have to do that in army boots. The grub’s good, plenty of it and served hot. I’ve had a haircut that makes me look like a fugitive from a chaingang. Give my love to the kids. Look after yourself, Love Jim.’
The sight of his familiar writing on that postcard made Peggy feel peculiarly lonely. She missed his presence next door more than she’d imagined she would. From time to time when she heard Mr Boxall shouting abuse or throwing things about, she found herself thinking of the old days when Jim hid his library books in her bedroom and brought fish for old Tabby and Tom, and it seemed to her that there was a huge empty pit yawning in the emptiness next door.
And when she came down to light the stove one bitter January morning and found her poor Tabby lying cold and dead by the hearth, with Tom sitting puzzled guard beside her, the emptiness yawned wider than ever, for Jim would have understood what a wrenching loss it was and now she had to endure it on her own.
He wrote her the most tender letter, pointing out that she’d given the old cat a good life and let her have lots of kittens and that if she hadn’t rescued her from the farm she would certainly have died long ago. ‘And you’ve got Tom, don’t forget.’
Which was all true, Peggy thought, reading the letter with Tom curled companionably on her lap, but the loneliness remained.
And it continued even when he came home on leave in March, for he spent all day in Thames Street with Lily and Pearl, and in the evenings he went to the pub with Mr Cooper and Arthur Walters, and although he walked down to the market with them all on Saturday evening and was marvellous handsome company at the ding-dong, he spent most of his time talking about the camp and his new friends there, which was understandable but disappointing, or discussing the German occupation of the Rhineland which was understandable but alarming.
By the time his leave was up and she and Mrs Geary were waving him goodbye from the upstairs window she knew how much she was going to miss him this time and how much she’d valued his company before he went away. Apart from Joan, on the rare occasions when she wasn’t too worried about Sid and the children, there was no one she could talk to the way she’d always talked to Jim Boxall.
The thought made her sigh.
‘You’ll miss him,’ Mrs Geary said.
‘Yes. I shall.’
‘Pity you can’t go with him.’
‘What, join the RAF you mean?’
That wasn’t what Mrs Geary meant, but the old lady had the good sense to keep her meaning to herself. There’s no point saying anything now, she thought. It’ll only make the poor kid miss him more than ever, and she’s got enough on her plate with her mother going on about her nerves all the time and that Baby flibbertigibbeting. And anyway it don’t look as if the penny’s dropped yet. Next time maybe.
But next time wasn’t for another two months and then it was only a thirty-six hour pass between one course and the next and he was so excited by his success he couldn’t stop talking about it.
He’d passed his five week course for Titter’s Mate’ and now he was qualified to train as a flight mechanic. Froggy had failed the course, which was a great disappointment to both of them because it meant that they would have to part company, but they both knew that he would soon find something else and they’d promised to keep in touch.
‘I’m posted to Henlow,’ Jim said to Peggy and Flossie and Mrs Geary at that night’s ding-dong. ‘Report back Sunday night. Now I shall be servicing planes.’ He was bristling with excitement, his dark hair thicker than they’d ever seen it, and his eyes shining.
They’re exactly the same blue as his uniform, Peggy thought, admiring them, and he’s so broad-shouldered now he’s put on a bit of weight. And suddenly, for a brief dizzying second, she wished she could put her arms round his neck and kiss him. The feeling was so strong she was quite shaken by it. She wanted to kiss him, to stand as close to him as she could possibly get and hold him tight and kiss him. Oh dear oh dear, how awful. If she didn’t watch out she’d end up being really fast, if she could feel things as quickly and strongly as that, and all for no reason. What a good job thoughts are private. She turned away and stopped looking at him so as to give herself a chance to calm down, and Baby came swishing across the room in her new crêpe de. Chine blouse and hung onto his arm and fluttered her eyelashes at him in that infuriating way of hers.
‘How’s our handsome airman, all in his gorgeous uniform?’ she said, clinging so hard she sent his arm downwards.
‘Thirsty,’ he said, finishing off his beer and dislodging her hand in the process. How unattractive she was with that dyed hair and that awful lisp she would put on. Not like Peggy, who was beautiful in her quiet way, even if she wasn’t spangled with sunshine. And the memory of their day in Brighton washed back into his mind bringing desire with it. If only she was interested in me, he thought, but she was walking away from him, talking to Joan and Mrs Geary. And he remembered how embarrassed she’d been at the pictures that time, and that brought a familiar sinking of heart and desire.
‘How’s the Royal Air Force?’ Mr Cooper said turning from the piano at the end of his tune.
‘Posted to Henlow,’ Jim said, relieved to be back on safe territory again.
That night he dreamed he was swimming in the sea with Peggy in his arms, and that they were making love under the water where no one could see them.
And that night Peggy was dreaming too, walking on a floating cloudway with her arms about a man she knew was her beloved, who was sometimes Jim, which was wonderful and easy, and sometimes a faceless, shapeless man, which was horrible and made her feel afraid. How stupid dreams are, she rebuked herself when she woke, and she got up at once to shake it out of her memory. It’s no good thinking about Jim in that way. No good at all. And she thought how embarrassed he’d be if he knew about it and resolved never to tell him or anyone else.
When she said goodbye to him over the garden fence later that afternoon she managed to be perfectly calm and friendly without a trace of silliness.
‘Write to me,’ she said, ‘and tell me how you get on.’
‘I will,’ he promised.
It wasn’t the sort of letter to keep tied in pink ribbon.
‘The U/T Flight Mechanics, that’s us,’ he wrote, ‘are in the old station as No 5 wing and the U/T Flight Riggers are in some new huts they’ve put up as No 2 wing. The course will last eight months and it’s thorough. They are giving us all the gen, engine-fitting, handling and servicing, working carbon and alloy steels, ferrous metals and their heat treatments, various tools, taps and dies, drills, taper pins, pitch diameters, root thread, morse taper. You name it we do it. Yesterday we stripped down a Jupiter from a Bulldog and next week we shall be stripping a Kestrel from a Hart. Look after yourself. Love, Jim.’
There you are, Peggy told herself sternly, he’s not interested in me. Not in that way. I’m a friend and neighbour, that’s all, and I’ll have to be content with that. Still at least he didn’t seem to be interested in any one else and that was some consolation, for she knew now that she would be jealous if he was. Look at the way she’d felt when Baby was being so silly trying to flirt with him. If only he hadn’t gone into the RAF. Oh damn this war, she thought. I wish it would either hurry up and start or go away altogether.
It was an ambivalent wish but one that was shared by a good many people in London that summer, particularly as the news from the Continent was always so bad, and particularly as it invariably brought changes. In May Hitler’s friend Mussolini announced that he had annexed Abyssinia, and in July a Spanish friend of his called General Franco led an uprising against the Spanish government. The newsreels were soon showing pictures of the uprising and horribly upsetting they were, of rifles firing and terrified civilians caught in the middle of a gun-battle with nowhere to hide.
Flossie said it stopped her heart beating she was so frightened, and certainly her trip to the cinema that week was followed by three days of constant nerves and bad temper.
‘If a war comes here we shall all be killed,’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t someone do something to stop them? What’s the good of a League of Nations if they never do anything?’
A fortnight later something was done, although she didn’t approve of that either.
In amongst the advertisements for bricklayers and plumbers and carpenters in the local newspaper was a plea for part-time workers to assemble civilian gasmasks.
This time it was Mrs O’Donavan who took up the offer, leaving her seven small children in the care of the eldest girl still at home.
‘It’s horrid work, so it is,’ she told her neighbours, ‘but you’ve got to make the effort, have ye not? I couldn’t stand by and see the poor souls lying gassed in their beds and me doing nothing to save them. Not after all those poor Abyssinians.’
‘Gas masks!’ Flossie snorted. ‘I never heard such nonsense. Haven’t they got anything better to do with their time than frighten us all? That won’t do any good. It’ll only make people run away.’
Two of Mrs Roderick’s wealthiest customers agreed with her. That summer they sold up their London homes and went to live in the country. Flossie said she could quite understand it, but Mrs Roderick was aggrieved.
‘Such cowardice,’ she said. ‘I thought they were made of sterner stuff.’
‘I suppose it’s hard to know what they’re made of,’ Peggy said to Megan, when the two of them were gossiping in the shop. ‘Not when they’re packed inside those great stiff corsets she sells them.’
‘They all look the same to me,’ Megan grinned. ‘Like the Chinese. I can’t tell ’em apart.’
‘It won’t help our trade if they’re all going to run away,’ Peggy said.
But Madame Aimee’s sales didn’t drop and the next pair of runaways were the poorest couple in Paradise Row.
Peggy woke one night later that month to hear Mrs Geary hobbling about in her room next door. She got up at once to see what was the matter and found the old lady sitting by the window watching the road through her mirror.
‘Shush!’ she whispered when Peggy came in. ‘Don’t make a sound. They’re doing a moonlight.’
‘Who is?’
‘Next door. The Boxalls. Come an’ have a butcher’s.’
In the pale blue light from the full moon they could see a wooden handcart propped up beside the kerb. It was loaded with old chairs and pots and pans and kettles and an assortment of badly-rolled rag rugs. Mrs Boxall was trying to push a cardboard box into the muddle.
‘They’re owing two weeks’ rent,’ Mrs Geary said. ‘She was telling me. I knew this would happen once young Jim went away.’
‘Why,’ Peggy whispered. ‘Did he pay the rent?’ But she realized as she asked the question that of course he’d paid it. It was just the sort of thing he would do.
The flit was over in twenty minutes for poor Mrs Boxall had very few belongings to move and Mr Boxall was frantic to be off.
‘Where are they going?’ Peggy asked as the two bent figures trundled their cart down the road towards the pub. ‘She didn’t say,’ Mrs Geary whispered. ‘Lily’ll know. Time we was getting back to bed. It’s parky sitting here. You wouldn’t be a love an’ just pop down an’ get me some fresh water would you? I’d go mesself only these legs are giving me gyp.’
‘Two rooms down by the gasworks,’ Lily told them when she came visiting that Saturday. ‘Nasty pokey little rooms they are. Ought to be slum clearance. I’m so cross. All these years we’ve kept her comfy and now see what’s happened. He can’t even manage the rent.’
‘Your poor Mum,’ Peggy commiserated. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She says she is,’ Lily said. ‘But I don’t know.’
‘Have you told Jim?’ Peggy asked. ‘He’ll be upset.’
‘Now that’s a funny thing,’ Lily said. ‘I sent him a postcard straight away, ‘cos that’s what I thought too and he wrote me back a most peculiar letter.’
‘Peculiar?’ Peggy echoed. ‘What was peculiar?’
‘He said we was all adults now an’ we all had to make our own decisions an’ live our own lives.’
‘That’s not like Jim,’ Peggy agreed, wondering at it.
‘He said he’d go over and see how she was next time he gets leave and sent his love an’ all that sort a’ thing but…’ She looked perplexed, her blue eyes troubled.
‘What’ll happen to next door?’ Peggy said deciding to change the subject. ‘Will you an’ Arthur take it?’ That’ud be lovely. To have Pearl and Lily next door again and without their awful father.
‘I asked him,’ Lily said, ‘and he says we could just about afford it, but he couldn’t bear it. Not to live in the same house where Dad was always lammin’ into us. He says it would remind him. You got to see his point.’
So she and Arthur and Pearl stayed where they were for the time being and Peggy’s two new neighbours were a couple of elderly men who ran a small flower shop off the High Street. They were called Mr Crosier and Mr Budleigh but were soon known to everyone by their Christian names, which were Leslie and Ernest.
Peggy wrote a full description of them to entertain Jim. ‘They’re a funny looking pair. Ernest is a big man and rather fat and he’s got long straight white hair and he wears wrinkly jumpers and sagging trousers, and Leslie is short and ever so neat, quite dapper really, with a toothbrush moustache and an army haircut. Never a hair out of place. They’re as quiet as church mice most of the time and then they suddenly break out into a screaming row and rush about the house slamming doors. Then it all goes quiet and they’re back to being mice again. Leslie threw his dinner into the garden yesterday and I’m sure I could hear poor Ernest crying afterwards. They’ve put up net curtains and scrubbed the front step and now they’re clearing all the rubbish out of the garden and planting dahlias in the flowerbeds. Imagine that.’
‘I shan’t know the place,’ Jim wrote back.
There were other changes in the road too. Just after Leslie and Ernest moved in, the electricity board arrived to instal electricity in all the houses. Mrs Roderick didn’t like it because she said electric light was bad for the eyes, but Mrs Geary and Mr Allnutt were delighted, he because he could now use an electric soldering iron, ‘think of all the useful jobs I can do with that’, she because she could buy one of the new wireless sets that you plugged into the mains.
In August, while Hitler was prancing about at his Olympic Games in Berlin, two more changes came to Greenwich. The clearance of the slums in Thames Street finally got underway and a block of splendid new flats began to rise in Creek Road.
And in September Mr Bertie Allnutt took a job in Slough in one of the new firms that the government had commissioned to make aircraft parts. It was much better paid than the job he’d been doing in Deptford and it gave him the chance to buy his own house like one of the nobs. After a cheerful farewell ding-dong, he and his family left Paradise Row in high spirits and a battered van. Now there was another empty house in the street and this time Arthur and Lily took it on, with Pearl as their lodger to help them out with the rent.
Peggy thought it was lovely to have them back and even lovelier when Lily told her that she was expecting in the spring. ‘Does Jim know?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ Lily said. ‘I’ll tell him Christmas time. They must let him home for Christmas this year surely. Now he’s got somewhere to stay.’ Last Christmas he’d have been on his own in the house with Mum and Dad, and Dad was always at his most disagreeable at Christmas time, so they could all see why he wouldn’t have wanted that.
But in the middle of December he wrote to both his sisters and to Peggy to tell them that he was half-way through the course and would be staying on camp until it was finished. ‘I shall have some leave in the spring,’ he said. ‘Just think. When you next see me I shall be a fully-qualified Flight Mechanic.’
The letter made Peggy feel bleak. This would be his second Christmas away from home and he didn’t seem to mind. He never said he missed – well – any of them. Not that he should. There was no reason why he should. But it would have been so nice if he had.
But his sister answered her letter cheerfully. ‘When you next see me,’ she wrote, ‘I shall be a fully-qualified mother.’
‘That’ll bring him if nothing else does,’ she said to Peggy and Pearl.
The three of them were busy in the kitchen of number two making a shepherd’s pie. Peggy had been invited to supper that evening and had accepted on condition she was allowed to help with the cooking.
‘Seamus O’Donavan’s got a job making gasmasks with his mum,’ Pearl told them. She was mincing onions and weeping copiously.
‘I’d’ve thought they’d got enough of the things by now,’ Lily said.
‘We’re all to have one,’ Peggy said, adding milk to the mashed potatoes, ‘so the paper says.’
‘I wish it wouldn’t,’ Lily said. ‘It’s enough to give you the creeps all this talk of war and gasmasks and bombs and everything.’
‘It makes you wonder what’ll happen next,’ Pearl said, wiping her eyes.
‘My baby’ll happen next,’ Lily said, patting her belly.
But she was wrong.
That spring when the sky was pleasantly blue, the market stalls were yellow with daffodils and the gardens round the park were bold with the bloom of white and purple lilac and the long golden ringlets of laburnum, the newsreels were full of monochrome horror.
A little market town in Spain had been bombed by Franco’s German aeroplanes. It was called Guernica and the day Franco had chosen for its destruction was market day when its streets would be crowded with shoppers. The newsreels showed horrific shots of men and women terribly injured, children screaming, houses blown to pieces, and bombs falling like grotesque eggs from the belly of terrible planes. ‘Heinkels,’ the commentator said, ‘and Junkers.’ The names were as ugly as the aircraft. The attack started at half past four in the afternoon, and from then on the town was bombed and machine-gunned by wave after wave of aircraft flying in every twenty minutes until a quarter to eight. There was nothing to stop them and nowhere to hide. The carnage was dreadful.
This time Flossie came home from the cinema in a state of collapse and took to her bed for the next two days, prostrated with nerves, which Mrs Roderick said was hardly to be wondered at. ‘Showing such things,’ she said angrily, ‘in the middle of the afternoon when you’re not expecting it. It ought not to be allowed.’
But Peggy was profoundly moved by what she’d seen.
‘I feel I should be doing something about it,’ she wrote to Jim, ‘only I don’t know what.’
‘Cheer up,’ he wrote back. ‘We’re developing a plane that will be more than an answer to the Heinkels, if we can get enough of them built in time.’
He had meant it to be an encouraging letter but Peggy was cast down by it. What if we can’t get them built in time? she thought. And for several weeks her dreams were riven with the scream of falling bombs and the terror of children she couldn’t help.
But then Lily’s baby was born, a small skinny boy with a bald head and his father’s face. He was called Percy after his paternal grandfather and Lily declared him the prettiest baby alive, but Mrs Geary told Peggy privately that she thought he looked ‘like a skinned rabbit, poor little beggar. Though I dare say he’ll grow out of it in time. They usually do.’
Jim came home briefly for the christening and stayed at number two with his sisters, which he said was quite a treat even if young Percy did spend rather a lot of the night crying to be fed. ‘But I dare say he’ll grow out of it,’ he said to Peggy.
There were rather a lot of things for this baby to grow out of, and his skin wasn’t one of them. He remained thin and fretful for the first six months of his life, putting on weight very slowly and to the continual concern of his mother and father. But at last he was strong enough to sit up in a high chair and take mouthfuls of lightly boiled egg or a spoonful of custard. And that was such a relief to Lily that she grew quite lightheaded.
‘Now he’s sitting up he’ll be a different child,’ she promised. ‘We shall have him dancing at the ding-dong in no time.’
That December the New Year ding-dong was held in the Earl Grey, because Mr Allnutt had had the flu and his wife said he was to give himself a chance to recover instead of rushing about organizing a party.
‘No one’ll mind,’ she said. ‘You’ll see.’
And nobody did. Although the party had quite a different flavour. They wore paper hats and sang the old songs but their hearts weren’t in it. Perhaps it was because it had been such a difficult year with the threat of war so close and so many people in the street involved in war-work in one way or another.
Mrs Roderick said she’d be jolly glad to see the back of it. ‘1937,’ she said. ‘What with one thing and another, it’s been a perfectly dreadful year. Almost as bad as ‘36.’
‘Has it?’ Baby said, examining her red nail-varnish. ‘I thought it was all right. Not exactly thrilling but all right. You had a coronation.’
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Roderick agreed heavily. ‘We had the coronation but think what we had to endure beforehand, with the Prince of Wales such a disappointment to us.’
‘Oh that,’ Baby said, dismissively.
‘Yes, that,’ Mrs Roderick told her. ‘It isn’t even two years since poor old King George passed away, and if you ask me it’s just as well he did when you consider what’s been going on ever since. The poor man must be turning in his grave. Turning in his grave.’
‘Yes well… ‘ Baby said, trying to get away.
But Mrs Roderick was determined to give vent to her grievance. She held on to Baby’s skirt and continued with her lecture. ‘To get himself mixed up with an American was bad enough,’ she said, ‘but a married woman, like that Mrs Simpson. Well really! And she’s so ugly. You could understand it if she was a beauty. Fancy giving up the throne of England for a woman like that. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. She looks as though she’s been run over by a bus.’
‘Yes, well… ‘ Baby said again, sending frantic glances to her mother to be rescued.
‘And now there’s his poor brother got to be king and I’m sure I don’t know how he’ll make out stuttering the way he does, poor man. I think it’s a scandal.’
‘Yes,’ Baby decided to agree. ‘It is. Shall I get you another drink, Mrs Roderick? That glass looks jolly empty.’
Over by the piano Uncle Gideon was talking about the Spanish Civil War to Mr Allnutt and Mr Cooper.
‘A bad business,’ Mr Allnutt was saying, sympathizing with the Spanish government. ‘They won’t be able to hold out against Franco much longer, not with Hitler sending him planes and guns. We could’ve stopped that, surely to goodness.’
It’s a rehearsal,’ Mr Cooper said. ‘That’s what it is. They’re testing all those planes. Trying ’em out for the real thing when they invade Hungary or Austria or poor old Czechoslovakia.’
How boring they all are, Baby thought. I wish Jim was here. And she remembered again how jolly good-looking he was in his uniform and wondered whether he’d got himself a girl out on his RAF base. She didn’t actually fancy him herself because he was more like a big brother really, but he was useful to flirt with and she didn’t want someone else to have him.
Flossie was grumbling to old Mrs Allnutt that it was perfectly dreadful the way the government was going on. ‘Making gasmasks,’ she grumbled, ‘building aeroplanes. You’d think they want a war. Why don’t they go over and talk to that Hitler, that’s what I want to know? Talk to him and make him stop all these awful things he’s doing. That’s what they ought to do. He’s only a silly little man when all’s said and done.’
Peggy was sitting by herself in a corner alone with her thoughts. We are all drifting, she thought, drifting nearer and nearer to a war we don’t want and we can’t avoid. It was futile and terrible and inevitable and it made her want to cry. Whatever 1938 had to offer, she was sure it would be difficult and painful.