Patrick
BOLTON
Right, was this Giovanni guy a one-off? Did he get her pregnant? Did he turn out to be a scumbag? And is she going to spill the beans about what happened with Harry? I grab the diary and flip through, reading entries on and off, searching for answers.
Friday, 15 August 1941
Dunwick Hall
A few girls stay here for the summer holidays, and I’m one of them. I only go back to Aunt M’s at weekends (and that’s only because she feels she has to make some gesture toward keeping an eye on me, otherwise God will be cross). Miss Philpotts and Miss Long, two very tiresome teachers, are here the whole time at Dunwick Hall supervising us, but I’ve found ways of eluding them. Because elude them I must if I’m to meet up with my Giovanni. The Saturday meets at the market are no longer enough. I play the teachers off against each other, telling one I am ill, the other that my aunt has requested my presence in Aggleworth. I leave a trail of confusion in my wake. They’re too lazy and stupid to work out that I’m actually sneaking out to meet my lover.
This new episode of life is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I’m swimming in a wild, bright ocean of magic. I am gloriously, thrillingly, wholeheartedly submerged in love!
Luckily, Giovanni is trusted at Eastcott Farm to take the cart out on his own. He’s good at finding pretexts so he can meet me at prearranged places and times. Once I’m out of the school gates I walk miles down the country lanes to reach the secret rendezvous. I select only the most romantic places, mapped out from my journeys in the milk float. Sometimes it’s under a spreading oak, sometimes inside a hay-scented barn, sometimes beside the daisy-strewn banks of a brook. Sometimes we can meet for only a matter of minutes to share kisses and whispered words across a fence. If we miss each other, we leave love letters under stones, marking them with a single plucked dandelion.
The harder it is to reach Giovanni, the more passionately I seem to want him. I dream and fidget my way through the knitting and cleaning chores and dull studies that Miss Philpotts sets for us. At meal times I don’t even try to talk to the other girls. I live only for the next sight of Giovanni.
Last time we met, I hid behind a tree to watch his reaction when he thought I wasn’t coming. He did look crestfallen . . . until I started singing. How his eyes sparkled then!
“Very, you are here! How splendid!” he cried, wrapping me in his arms.
I love his funny use of English, especially his constant use of the word “splendid.” I’ve started using it obsessively myself.
“It would be very splendid if you would kiss me again.”
“It would be very splendid if you would unbutton my blouse.”
“It would be very splendid if you would slowly but firmly put your hands here and here.”
He is always happy to obey.
When I feel Giovanni’s flesh on my flesh, the war and the hurt and the hatred all dissolve away. We are together and nothing else matters.
Monday, 25 August
Dunwick Hall
Giovanni and I managed to meet up for a whole afternoon yesterday while Aunt M was at a church meeting. We wandered through a grassy meadow dotted with dandelions—our flower. Some were blazing yellow, but many had turned into dandelion clocks. As we walked hand in hand, thousands of fluffy seeds were blowing on the breeze like confetti in the streaming sunlight. I took the opportunity to ask Giovanni about his life.
Giovanni was born in 1923, which makes him eighteen (three years older than me—although he thinks the difference is less because I’ve told him I’m seventeen). He is close to all his family, but especially his mother.
“When I was called up, Mama cried, big wailings and tears like the sea! That made the leaving home even more harder for me.”
Hearing that made me remember my evacuation from London and the sight of Mum’s red, swollen eyes. I pushed the memory out of my head and asked Giovanni if he enjoyed the army.
He said that, once he was used to his new life, he enjoyed joshing with his fellow soldiers. But he’d felt very clueless about warfare. He’d been given such minimal army training before being sent to Libya with his platoon.
I tried to imagine it. I have no idea where Libya is.
“Were you scared?”
“I was.” He pulled up a dandelion and blew the white tufts into the air. “I was scared of killing somebody and scared of somebody killing me.”
But the British Army had swooped in and captured the whole platoon before he’d had a chance to fire a single shot. Together they were sent first to a POW camp in Egypt, then to London, and then they were finally dispersed throughout Britain. The camp where he ended up is based in a Nissen hut some fifteen miles from Eastcott Farm. It houses a couple of hundred prisoners from different parts of Italy.
“I thought life as a prisoner would be bad, bad, bad. But it is not so hard. Your country has lost many men, many workers. For labor they use the women much more than before, but it is still not enough. England needs extra hands. So look! We Italians are prisoners, but if we work they agree to pay us. In cigarettes, in tokens for food, in small pieces of freedom. So what do you think we said when they asked if we would cooperate?”
“You said yes.”
“Some of my Italian friends believe Mussolini will one day shoot them if they agree, so they said no. But these men are sent to work in supervised gangs anyway. I said yes—and so now I get to stay at Eastcott Farm and I get some freedom . . . and I get these very splendid extras.” He stroked my cheek with a tender finger. “Your face,” he said in wonderment. “Your beautiful, beautiful face.”
It was too ridiculous, but I was purring all the same.
When we’d finished kissing, I asked for a lock of his hair. I’d brought scissors specially. I snipped off the hair and tucked it carefully into my locket with the hairs from Mum and Dad.
Giovanni seemed quite touched and overcome by my gesture.
“Will you come and live with me in Italia, Very, after the war?”
I gazed at him as he stood there with the feathery dandelion seeds floating all around him.
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely.”
“Oh, Very, my dear darling!” he cried, whisking me up in his arms. “But maybe you want to stay in your own country?”
I made a face. “Not in the least. Oh no. Far from it.”
“Then I will show you the splendid piazzas and fountains. We’ll wander in the shade of the olive trees—”
“What are olive trees?” I inquired. I should become more informed if I am to live in Italy one day.
“Olive trees? Of course they are the trees that grow the olives!”
“But what’s an olive?”
“Oh, Very, my lovely, there are many, many sorts of olives. They are green or black or purple, this big”—he showed me—“and they are both sweet and bitter. They taste like sunshine and earth and . . .” He paused for a moment. “They taste like youth.”
I slapped his chest and said, “I do love you so splendidly much.”
Thursday, 4 Sept
Dunwick Hall
It is term time again. That doesn’t matter. I am still adept at escaping from Dunwick Hall. But I’m worried. Today I skipped Geography to be with Giovanni; I dashed down the lanes to the edge of the copse where we’d arranged to meet, and there was no sign of him. I waited for half an hour at least. No message, either. I looked under every stone in the area to be quite sure. I know it’s not always easy for him, but I feel cross anyway. It was raining and my hair was plastered to my cheeks by the time I got back. I feel very weary and upset by it.
Tuesday, 30 Sept
Dunwick Hall
Dread. All I feel is dread. Dread, like rancid liquid, rising higher and higher every day, filling my every thought. I haven’t seen him for weeks. He isn’t at the market on Saturdays anymore. Mr. Howard isn’t there, either, so I can’t ask him. Giovanni knows where I live, knows where Aunt M’s house is. Surely he’d find a way of contacting me if he really tried? Does he not love me anymore? Has he met somebody else? Has he fallen for one of the land girls at Eastcott Farm? I never really bothered with them, but I think one of them was rather pretty. I know so little about men.
No. I cannot, will not, believe that my beloved Giovanni has been unfaithful to me. Has he had some kind of accident, then? Is he—can he be—dead? My heart screams at the mere possibility. I have made myself imagine his death in every gory detail, though, to prepare myself for the worst. Not knowing is the hardest. I could try asking Janet, but she hates me now and I’m sure she wouldn’t tell me.
Giovanni, where are you, where are you, my love? I miss you so much I feel sick.
Saturday, 11 October
Aggleworth
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.” At last I found Mr. Howard at the market this afternoon. He told me Giovanni’s camp has been requisitioned for other war work and all the prisoners have been moved on.
“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know where they’ve gone.”
I don’t know what to do with this misery. I have no idea if I shall ever see my Giovanni again.
I am so tired. Utterly tired and depleted.
Fri, 31 Oct 1941
Dunwick Hall
I’ve noticed something and it scares me. Although I am eating hardly anything, my tummy has begun to swell.
I am a woman now. I should have realized sooner.
What would Mum and Dad have thought of me? Would they be horrified and ashamed? Still, it’s their fault that this has happened. Why did they have to leave me? Why? And now Giovanni has left me, too. Everyone leaves me.
Today I opened up my locket to throw out the three strands of hair inside. I started to empty them out of the window of the dorm—but then I grabbed them back just in time. As soon as they were safe inside again I had to run to the lavatory. I was violently sick.
I’ve heard that the way to do it is to sit in a hot bath and drink gin, but there are no hot baths available at the school or at Aunt Margaret’s, and certainly no gin. On Saturday I planned to steal the communion wine from Aggleworth Church, hoping that might do the trick. But the bottles were under lock and key in the vestry.
The only other way must be to hurt myself. Every morning and night I lock myself in the bathroom and pound my stomach with my fists until I can’t bear the pain anymore. It hasn’t worked so far. The baby is determined to stay glued inside me.
Wed, 10 Dec 1941
Aggleworth
What will become of me now? I can’t imagine. I’m a prisoner here in my bedroom at Aunt M’s. I can only allay my fears by writing, so I will write everything that happened today.
It all began this morning, when I literally bumped into Norah on my way to math class. As we bounced off each other, I automatically clasped my tummy. She glanced down then up at my face and she knew in an instant. Full of fury, she flew at me like a wild cat. “Harry said you tried it on with him but he didn’t do it. He’s lying, isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
She pushed me against the wall. “You and he did it together, didn’t you, you little minx? And now you have his bastard inside you.”
I was so shocked at her venom I didn’t reply.
Norah poked a finger in my face. “You couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”
Her freckles seemed to swarm over her flushed skin. My refusal to answer drove her madder still.
“You won’t be so pretty by the time I’ve finished with you!” she cried, hurling her fists out. I fought back.
Through the violent slappings and scratchings that followed, I could hear a clip-clop of shoes up the corridor. Then Miss Philpotts’s voice. “Girls, girls. Stop that! Stop it AT ONCE!”
She wrenched us apart. We glowered at each other, panting. Norah’s nose was bleeding and her hair had fallen out of its net. I could feel deep scratches down my left cheek.
Miss Philpotts marched us up the stairs to the headmistress’s office. Miss Harrison looked up from her desk, scandalized at our appearance. “I am appalled, girls. What have you got to say for yourselves?”
“I’m very sorry, miss,” Norah moaned as she clutched a reddening handkerchief over her nose. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I got angry because of”—she left a pause full of accusation and self-righteousness—“what she did with my boyfriend.”
The headmistress turned to me.
“This is not sounding good. Veronica, what have you got to say for yourself?”
I held my head high, ignoring my stinging cheek. I decided to stick to my strategy of saying nothing.
Norah cut in. “With respect, miss, look at her. She doesn’t know what to say and I can tell you why: because she’s pregnant.”
The headmistress’s voice became louder and shriller. “Can this be true, Veronica?”
I could hardly deny it.
“You are fifteen years old! A mere girl. How could this possibly have happened? It is unbelievable—preposterous!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Pregnant at fifteen! Fifteen! You disgust me, Veronica McCreedy. We have done our utmost for you under very difficult circumstances. Yes, you have suffered such terrible loss, lost both of your parents in the Blitz, and times are hard, but this is no way for a decent girl to carry on. Where is your sense of loyalty—to this school, to the memory of your parents, to your poor elderly aunt who has had to care for you?”
I was supposed to feel all remorseful and humble. I didn’t, though. I felt defiant.
“It is impossible for you to stay at this school,” she went on. “You have brought shame on us all. I will phone your good aunt and ask her to come and fetch you at once.”
“As you wish.”
Norah glared at me, her eyes glittering with hatred.
They phoned Aunt M, but she didn’t come to fetch me. Instead I was instructed to make my own way to her house. I had to walk forty minutes to the bus stop, then wait an hour for the bus, then walk the length of Aggleworth.
When I arrived, my great aunt was at the door.
“Do not set foot inside this house.”
“Please, Aunt Margaret. I’m tired.”
“Tired? Tired? And whose fault is that? I knew from the minute I set eyes on you that you were not to be trusted. Despicable, ungrateful girl. Dirty, disgusting, wicked girl, to do such a thing, to bring shame on the memory of your poor parents. To bring shame on me.” She went on and on in a great tirade. She’d phoned Eastcott Farm, apparently, trying to press Harry into marrying me, which, of course, he wouldn’t.
“I have no intention of marrying him, either,” I declared. “Did nobody think of asking my opinion?”
“He vows that the baby you’re carrying isn’t his. He told me in a manner most uncouth that he refuses to bring up the child—and he used another word here that I don’t care to repeat—of another man. He swears he never touched you. Look me in the eyes and tell me: Is the father Harry Dramwell?”
“No.”
If I hadn’t wrenched myself from his grasp and spat in his face that night it might have been. But it wasn’t Harry and I’m glad of it.
“Heaven forgive you, girl! How many men have you been seeing? If it wasn’t him, then who was it?”
I hurled the words in her face. “A man ten times better than Harry. A man I love with all my heart. And you don’t need to worry, Aunt, because after the war is over we’re going to live abroad and get our baby away from here.”
Our baby. I’d never said it before. Those words seared into my heart.
Raindrops began to fall heavily onto my hair and shoulders. Aunt M grudgingly moved aside to let me in.
“Is he a soldier?”
“He is.”
“But how in the world could you have met a soldier?”
I sank into a chair. “‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’” I murmured. But the quote was completely lost on her.
“You will not eat a thing, Veronica—not one thing—until you have told me.”
I’ve already lost so much. There didn’t really seem to be anything left I could lose.
“My lover is a fine man, a noble man,” I answered, my voice sharp as needles. “He was fighting for his own country.”
“A German?” she asked, with a quick intake of breath.
“An Italian.”
Her features distorted into a battlefield of reaction. I’ve never seen such silent rage.
I ache for Giovanni. If only I could talk to him, feel his arms around me again, everything would be all right.
Thurs, 11 Dec
The Convent
While I was writing yesterday my aunt was making phone calls downstairs. An hour later an Austin 7 pulled up outside the house.
I was allowed to take a few things: my diary, my locket and my clothes. As I got into the car, the driver (a short, dumpy woman in sober woolens) looked me up and down. “You are lucky we had petrol,” she commented, as she started up the engine.
“Lucky, am I?” I said quietly.
Aunt M didn’t come out to wish me goodbye.
My new home is a prison of pristine white walls, hard chairs, crucifixes and ticking clocks. There are no mother and baby homes in the area, apparently, so Aunt M consulted her church contacts and found this convent where the nuns are willing to look after me for now. Perfect for Aunt M. She will feel she has done the right thing. Her conscience will be unburdened of me, and now she can continue to lead her dull life in peace.
1 Jan 1942
Another year begins. Who would have thought I’d be pregnant and living in a convent?
I don’t like it here.
At school I was treated like a child. Here I am treated like a dog. The sisters view me with revulsion. They skirt around me when they are in the same room and avoid any physical contact as if they’ll be sullied by touching me. I’m supposed to feel shame, but my spirits rise up and rebel against it. I feel only anger.
I’m forced to attend a service in the little chapel every morning. I stand when I am required to stand, sit when I am required to sit and kneel when I am required to kneel. But nobody has power over what goes on inside my head. I have only one prayer: that my Giovanni will come back and find me and take me away with him to Italy.
The service is dull, but at least it’s some relief from the relentless working hours. I am made to scrub floors and work in the laundry, washing, wringing out and pegging up the nuns’ habits. The work makes my hands red and raw. I’m constantly exhausted. A scrawny, sour-faced woman called Sister Amelia has been put in charge of me. She does little to hide her distaste for the job.
“Why do I have to do this for you?” I demanded yesterday, up to my elbows in soapsuds.
She clasped her hands together with an air of tired patience. “The mother superior, who is wise and generous, has decided on what is most beneficial for you. She knows that often the material world reflects the spiritual world. Cleaning work will help purify your soul.”
“I haven’t got a soul,” I retorted.
“Never let me hear you say such a thing!”
“I haven’t got a soul. I haven’t got a soul, I haven’t got a soul,” I chanted to the rhythm as I slapped wet clothes against the washboard.
I have made myself yet another enemy.
I don’t miss Aunt Margaret or my schoolfellows or my lessons. But I do miss the meager amount of freedom I had before. I miss the open countryside. I still miss my secret trysts with Giovanni, and I miss Mum and Dad more than ever.
Fri, 24 April 1942
I don’t write much more in here, do I? What is the point? I’m only writing now because I’m bored and I wish it was all over.
I don’t have to do washing anymore. I’m confined to a small, dark room. An alternating trio of nuns visits to make sure I am still alive. They bring me a diet of white bread, powdered eggs, stew and brown broth. They keep constant watch and check that I don’t wander from the bed. I’ve tried to open the window, but it is locked and the key is taken away. They seem bent on keeping fresh air and daylight out of the room.
My body is no longer my own. It’s a vehicle for a new force that nobody can stop. My skin stretches round the bulbous creature that is expanding inside me. No matter which way I turn, I can’t get comfortable. When I manage to sleep I dream of Dad and Mum and my beloved Giovanni and they are slipping away from me down a great landslide. I wake myself calling out to them. I will not be weak, though. I will not cry.
Outside the closed walls of my current life, war rages on. There’s never any word from Aunt Margaret.
I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel like a human being at all. The growing presence in my belly sucks all life from me. I try to imagine the bump as a little person with a future stretching out ahead, full of promise—but I can’t. I just want it out of me, a separate entity, and then I might be able to think again.
Monday, 4 May 1942
I’m not alone in this world anymore. I’m a mother! I have a tiny, beautiful baby to love. If only my own mother was here to see him! And Dad. Dad would have adored him. And Giovanni. I can imagine him holding our little son aloft, his eyes sparkling with pride. How I wish he was here.
The blood and pain were truly terrible. Earth-shattering. I don’t want to remember that now, though, because now everything is different. He is here: a new life, my very own boy. Red-faced, wriggling, but perfect in every way. I marvel at his tiny fingers and tiny toes, and each time I look at him, I’m shocked by an onrush of extreme love. It’s a different kind of love from any I have ever felt. It is fierce in its intensity . . . and yet so tender it’s almost painful.
“You are . . . you are sort of rubbery . . . and so strange . . . but you are delicious!” I whisper to my baby. He gurgles back at me.
I have decided to give him an Italian name, but I only know two: Giovanni and the name of Giovanni’s father.
“Enzo. Are you an Enzo?” I’ve just asked him. His hands are punching the air in excitement. I fancy he enjoys the staccato sound of the word.
I’ve managed to locate the pair of scissors that Sister Molly used to cut the umbilical cord. I have gently cut off a few wisps of Enzo’s dark hair for my locket.
There, right beside your daddy’s hair, little Enzo. You will meet him one day, my darling Italian boy. I’m sure you will.
1 Jan 1943
Another year has ended, another year begins. I am sixteen now and still live here in the convent. Enzo and I do all right. We look after each other. More than that; we delight in each other. I am never lonely now.
“It’s you and me against the rest of the world, my little darling,” I whisper to him. “Until your daddy comes. Just until your daddy comes . . .”
The nuns don’t take much notice of Enzo. I am working again in the laundry, and I keep him close. Most of the time he wriggles and giggles in his cradle or reaches up his little arms and makes patterns in the air as if playing an imaginary violin. I set him on the floor whenever I can and watch him crawl around, exploring everything. When he laughs, I laugh with him. When he cries, I hold him against my heart until he is happy again. When he soils himself, I use masses of fresh, damp cloths to clean him and make him spotless. His nappies give me extra washing work, but I am far happier serving him than those stupid nuns.
I abandon the laundry often to rush over to take my Enzo in my arms and rock him. I sing “You Are My Sunshine” or any song that comes into my head, and he loves it. He puts his little fingers around my thumb and holds on tight or grabs at my stray coils of hair. I only get half the amount of work done that I did before.
Poor Enzo didn’t have any toys at all, but now I have made him a puppet out of an old sock. I stayed up late one night sewing a cat’s face onto it, a face with a big smile and woolen whiskers. Whenever I put the puppet over my hand and make it meow, Enzo shrieks with joy.
I have also discovered there’s a library at the convent. It’s mostly religious books, but there are some classic novels, too, which I love. In the evenings I read Ivanhoe aloud, rocking my son on my lap. He gazes up with his big, dark eyes and cuddles close, soothed by my voice. Then I tell him everything about his handsome daddy and how the three of us are going to live in Italy together one day and eat splendid olives.