WHILE YOUR HEARTS ARE YEARNING

It was one of those lazy autumn days with a chill to the air.  Though I had every intention of doing something different for dinner, in an attempt to help Mum, I sat in front of a blazing fire instead, with the newspaper. Finding nothing but same old news, I became disinterested, and nodded off to sleep, dreaming of Jim. He had been away a long time, fighting as did many men of his age did, for his country, our country. Suddenly I was disturbed by the persistent knocking on the front door. Reluctantly, I rose from my seat and ventured into the cold hallway.

“Who is it?” I asked, my hand on the doorknob.

“Telegram Ma’am.”

I froze momentarily, as panic seized me. I could hardly breathe.

“Ma’am?” the voice sounded young but had no hint of impatience.

I opened the door apologising. The young man smiled awkwardly.

“No trouble, Ma’am,” he said as he handed me the envelope, with one hand doffing his cap with the other. I watched him walk down the front path, open the gate, climb on the bicycle and ride down the street out of sight. Staring ahead did not help, in fact, the open door would allow heat to escape, so I closed it, but apart from opening the envelope, did not move.

The short message hit me, I felt faint. Suddenly, there were strong arms around me, guiding me to the recently vacated chair by the fire. My father had come in through the door, in time to see the shock register on my face. It was his footsteps I heard going into the kitchen, fill the kettle, and place it on the old stove, to boil and subsequently whistle a merry tune as though to say “I’m ready!”

 Standing facing me, I could see him choose his words carefully,

“What is it lass?” he asked, “the news I mean.” I handed the paper which he skimmed through.

“You feel you are stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he said roughly. “Nothing I say will make you feel better, but I’m here if you need me.” He opened the cupboard, retrieved the whisky bottle, reserved for special occasions, poured a little into the empty cup, made a pot of tea, filled the cup and brought it to me, intending to have one himself.

“Don’t tell your mother.” he winked. I smiled. Mum did not mind a celebratory drink, but, to spoil a good cup of tea with whisky even in peacetime… There again it was a welcome change to the mostly milkless tea we were accustomed to as if we ever could be.

I twisted the tiny solitaire diamond, round my ring finger, thinking of the dress and veil in the spare room upstairs. We had decided Mum and me, that I should use her outfit, it was old fashioned but would serve the purpose. Of course, no date had been set and irrespective of the news we would not know until Jim was sent home or the war was over when the big day would be. Everything hung in the balance, or more accurately, given I was stunned, was at sixes and sevens.

The door opened again. Mum came in, closed the door took her jacket off, hung it up to dry off and looked at me.

“Ann?” Immediately I saw that mother look weave its way across her face. She picked the telegram up, then glancing at it rushed over to hold me standing, still expecting the tears, but none came.

“Yes, it does not tell you very much, but until we know, we have to keep going.” she picked up the drained teacup, sniffed it looked at me and said.

“Did Dad make the tea?”

I nodded looking sheepish.

“It was a wise move, Ann you are still in shock.” Though clipped, Mum’s words were what I needed to hear.

We went through the mechanics of the daily routine, preparing a meal that none of us really wanted to eat. Meatless days were never very interesting at the best of times, but somehow Mum put her magic on the vegetables.  l longed for another whisky laced cuppa, but alas! Again, I thought of the indignity; black tea was the one thing I could not stand, yet Jim always had his tea that way had done for…

Jim! Was he to be a 'walking wounded' casualty of this war, or was he now blissfully unaware of the horror, the struggle the ravages and the hatred? Would anyone ever respect Germany again? Would Hitler win or would he get what was coming?

Jim was tall brave and young. There were people who said we were too young to marry, but the war made us grow up in a hurry. Our ordinary lives were altered, and the threat of bombs was prevalent. London and Glasgow were potential targets, enough of a threat to send children to supposed safety in the country, away from the seaports, but as it turned out, not necessarily to the security of loving arms. There was always the threat that Hitler would return and leave his mark. I thought sadly about Pearl Harbour and the recent devastation caused. Another enemy Was it all worth it?

Tears were running down my cheeks. I was twenty-one life had only just begun but had it? Being asthmatic I was unable to serve in the forces, even the land army, but I did visit the neighbours, I did knit and sew, I looked after the house, that is except today because Mum was still young enough to work in the factory.

It was close to bedtime. Mechanically I prepared, however, a loud noise broke my train of thought. Was that a siren I heard? Surely not? Yes, Mum and Dad were preparing quietly. We hurried into the dining room which had the Morrison shelter, soon our neighbour arrived. She always shared our shelter.

At least it was warm and there were old but clean blankets, the usual card games. Dad had brought the harmonica.  After a while he took it out; the tune brought back the tears. Mum usually led the singing, though in this one, with just ourselves, the chorus only was sung to bolster spirits.

“Keep the Home Fires burning. While your hearts are yearning. Though your lads are far away they dream of home…” 

Mum was pensive, her rich contralto voice, was clear, though she brushed back tears, thinking of the future son-in-law she was proud to know. I blubbered openly. Our neighbour, having heard the news, took my hand, clasped it in her own and said.

“There love, it’s better out than in.”

“There’s a silver lining through the dark clouds shining. Turn the grey clouds inside out, ‘til the boys come home.”

Suddenly in the midst of tears, I remembered one of the stirring speeches Winston Churchill gave as he boosted the spirits of Britain’s future heroes at an elite school.

"Never give in, never give in, never, never, never in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy. "

I did not know who my enemy was, it might only be time and I needed to make the most of the time I had.

Again I heard a persistent knocking at the door. Who could this be? I arose from my seat again reluctantly and moved to open the door. In the darkness, I could not see who it was but the voice sounded familiar

“I hope your Mum means it about the home fire.”

“Jim?” I looked up. There he was dazzling smile, grubby face

“You are filthy,” I said thinking 'Oh Ann always the diplomat.'

“Probably.” he looked down sadly. I noticed the sleeve pinned to the coat.

“Wounded permanently,” he said “but the rest of the chaps are dead” he was biting his lip.

“I am never giving in, I have to keep going, for their sakes. Ann, darling will you still have me?”

I could smell smoke, it might make me wheeze, but he was back and my heart and arms yearned for him. Yes, once again the heat was escaping out the door, and I did not care.