Samantha Grosser

He wasn’t coming back.
She waited for him at the hotel near the air base, roused from dreams by the sortie of bombers flying east overhead, lying shattered and sweating, awake but still in the nightmare.
Dragging herself from the warmth of the bed, she shivered as the winter air touched bare skin, and dressed hurriedly in the semi-darkness of the morning. Downstairs, the hotel was just beginning to stir, and outside, shadows made their way here and there across the village.
She walked all morning to fill the space before the bombers returned, unable to find peace, her steps always drawn towards the air base, waiting, waiting. She bought a Daily Express from the shop in the village and saw the words Monte Cassino in the headline, but the name held no meaning for her and she tossed the paper aside on the hotel bed, unopened.
It was lunch time when the planes returned, a distant drone that rose to the familiar roar, and she raced down three flights of stairs to stand on the street, watching the damaged aircraft flying low across the village, searching among them for the American Maiden, unable to make out the names. She almost ran to the base as the planes came into land one after another, and the silence of the afternoon was deafening when the last engine finally died. Pacing back and forth, never far from the gate, she waited till the chill of the evening began to settle around her and the light to leave the sky before she returned to the hotel, arms wrapped around herself against the cold, useless because the cold was inside her.
She waited all night for him, refusing to believe that he hadn’t returned, wrapped in her arms, cold and in pain, hating each footstep on the stairs that wasn’t his. Staring into the fire, she hoped against hope that there was some other explanation, that some miracle might bring him to her even now. But the morning light brought no relief, just the thunder of another mission flying overhead and the growing realisation of the truth. He wasn’t coming back.
But she waited still, unable to leave, walking again in the lanes near the base as though by being close to where he should be he would come. Once, she approached the gate, wanting to ask the sentry, desperate for information, but at the last moment she backed away, knowing he would tell her nothing, that she had no proof of who she was.
Late in the afternoon, as the winter light ceded easily to the darkness, she retraced her steps to the hotel and another night of fitful sleeping, dreams of fire and falling planes. Then finally, as the sun rose once more behind its shroud of grey, she understood that he would not come, so she packed her few belongings, paid the bill with the money he had given her, and went outside to wait for the bus that would take her home.

It was early afternoon when Anna Pilgrim turned into Byron Street and walked with reluctance towards the only home she had ever known, hands dug deep in her pockets, head bent against the wind that bit between the rows of houses. A sudden gust almost took her hat and she reached up a hand to save it, surprised by the existence of an outside world. The children from the house at number four were playing hopscotch on the pavement and George’s thin legs had turned bluish purple in the cold. She watched them absently as she approached.
‘Morning, Miss Pilgrim,’ George said.
‘Morning.’ The word left her lips as a whisper.
Susan buried her face in her scarf and peered up at Anna with sad brown eyes.
‘Mum said you were missing,’ George said. ‘Captured by Germans most likely and never to be seen again.’
‘Really?’ The shock of such a ridiculous assumption forced words from her throat. ‘Did your mum say that?’
George nodded.
‘Well, I’m back now,’ she replied. ‘Safe and sound.’
‘Was you really captured by the Germans?’
‘No George. No, I wasn’t.’
‘Not even a little bit?’ His young thin face was long with disappointment.
‘I’m sorry, not even a little bit,’ she said, and she smiled at him before picking her way through their chalk lines on her way up the street.
At number eight she paused, rested one hand on the broken gate and looked around her, reluctant to go in. It was an ugly house, red brick and pebble dash on the end of a short terrace, protected from the road by a small garden and a flight of four stone steps. Above it the sky bulged with low, dark clouds. Too heavy to fly she decided, and was glad. They promised rain.
Swallowing hard, she resisted the urge to turn away and run back to the hotel, to be close to the base and other airmen, part of his world amongst their uniforms and the music of their accents. Then, breathing deeply, collecting her resolve, she pushed open the gate on its one remaining hinge, climbed the steps to the door and slipped inside. She was home.
In the dingy hallway, lit by the greenish light that filtered through the stained glass window, she breathed in the familiar musty smell. Swallowing again, tasting the vomit that threatened to rise, she shrugged herself out of her coat and hung it on the rack by the door. Everything seemed strange, somehow, changed since she had been here last, and she was acutely aware that she no longer felt at home.
Her mother would be in the kitchen at the back of the house, and she wondered if the old woman had heard her yet, whether she was waiting, her anger prepared and ready, or if she might get to the kitchen unannounced and take her mother by surprise. Hesitating, Anna caught the flicker of her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She stepped up to it, observing eyes that were red from weariness and crying, hair tangled and unkempt. Then, turning away, depressed by what she saw, she pushed open the dining room door and trod across the tiles that led to the kitchen.
Her mother was waiting, facing the door, hips spread wide against the sink as she rested her bulk against it. Red pudgy hands gripped the counter either side of her body, knuckles white with the force of her grasp. She was not a big woman, but her presence filled the small kitchen, and her fury swept through the room in a flood of foul air.
‘Hello Mother,’ Anna said. ‘I’m back.’ She stood inside the door and leant against the wall, facing her mother, ready for the fight she knew was coming.
Anna shook her head. It was better to say nothing, to give her mother’s anger nothing to feed on.
‘Aren’t you even sorry? I’ve been worried sick about you. You disappear for a week in the middle of the war and you’ve got nothing to say? And you aren’t even sorry? Don’t you care that I’ve been out of my mind with worry?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Anna said mechanically.
Her mother nodded, mollified a little by the apology, and there was a pause. Then, ‘So where were you?’
Anna kept her eyes lowered resolutely to the tiles and said nothing.
‘All the neighbours noticed you were gone. I didn’t know what to telll them.’ Mrs Pilgrim stopped and looked enquiringly at her daughter, the small eyes narrowed in the fleshy face. ‘So I told them you were staying with a friend.’
Anna nodded in response.
‘Were you? Were you staying with a friend?’
‘Yes,’ Anna whispered finally. ‘I was staying with a friend.’ Tears burned at the back of her eyes, and her mother’s voice, insistent and shrill, cut through her mind like a chain saw.
‘Who?’ her mother demanded. ‘Who did you stay with?’
‘No one you know,’ Anna answered. ‘A woman from the factory.’
‘Well why didn’t you tell me? You could have let me know. I was sick with worry wondering where you were. There was a bombing over at Ditchfield and I couldn’t sleep I was so worried you’d been caught in it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Anna said again, but her own detachment surprised her. She felt no guilt, no sense of remorse for her mother’s unhappiness, and the old woman’s anger had lost its power to frighten her.
Because of Tom, she thought. Because I have Tom.
‘I’m sorry you were so worried,’ she said.
Her mother was still breathing heavily, still staring at her daughter with a mixture of disgust and incredulity. ‘I even thought of calling the police. You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be so worried, and no one to share it with.’
There was a silence.
‘I need to sleep,’ Anna said finally. ‘I’m going to bed.’
She pushed herself away from the wall and walked slowly away from the kitchen. Upstairs in her room she slept immediately and deeply, untroubled by dreams, exhausted.

Anna woke with the dawn the next morning, and in the half light between sleep and waking, still in the warmth of forgetfulness, she reached out a hand for Tom’s body next to hers. But there was only the emptiness of the bed, and with a start she came to full consciousness, the memory returning, taking her breath away.
She lay unmoving in the darkness, resting her hand where his chest should have been, her head against his shoulder. Tears fell unwiped across her face, her eyes still closed so that behind them she could see him there, just waiting for her to wake. Soon they would get up, go for breakfast somewhere, and he would make her laugh with his quiet humour and teasing eyes.
Her mother’s footsteps on the narrow landing outside her door roused her from the make believe and she sat up, wiping the wetness from her cheeks, brushing the sodden strands of hair from her face. The cold air stung her skin as she reached out in the darkness to the lamp and turned it on. In its light she touched one finger to the small photograph of Tom that was there, tracing the lines of his face, the creases beside his eyes, the high cheekbones and slightly crooked nose, the wide lips that always seemed hesitant to smile even when his eyes were full of humour.
‘Please sweet Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘Please keep him safe.’
When her mother’s footsteps had receded down the stairs and along the hall into the kitchen, Anna climbed out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom to wash herself at the sink, standing naked in the cold room, watching the goose bumps rise as she splashed tepid water on her skin. Afterwards, she dried herself quickly, warming her body with the rough towel, rubbing the skin until it reddened, and when she was dry and warm she put on the green wool dress that Tom had picked out for her their last day in town. The memory of it was still woven in the fabric; his fingers against her skin as he helped her with the buttons in the shop, the scandalized expression of the assistant who couldn’t look away from them. She shivered, wondering what his hands touched now, if there was still life in them, then she set to combing her hair, patiently working from the ends, using her fingers to untangle the worst of the knots.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Anna could hear the clatter of her mother washing up, and though she was hungry after so long without eating, the tears were too close to face her mother. So she stayed in her room, tidying things, killing time until the morning began to lighten behind the heavy curtains. Then she turned off the feeble lamp and looked out across the street to another row of houses like her own. Behind them the sky had turned to gun metal grey, and the empty road was still damp from yesterday’s rain. For a moment she was puzzled by the quietness of the street, but then she remembered that it was Sunday and that people were at home with their families. Depressed by the greyness, she turned from the window, left the sanctuary of her room and went downstairs.
‘Morning, Mother,’ she said as she entered the kitchen.
Mrs Pilgrim looked up in surprise. ‘Morning.’
Anna stepped round her mother’s chair to light the stove for the kettle.
‘There’s tea already made,’ her mother told her.
‘I think I’ll make some fresh, thanks.’ The tea in the pot would be cold and stewed.
‘Tea’s rationed, you know,’ Mrs Pilgrim said. ‘You shouldn’t waste it.’
‘I know,’ Anna replied. ‘But I want a hot cup of tea.’ It was hard to talk and she wished her mother would leave her alone. There was silence except for the hissing of the kettle as it warmed.
‘Are you coming to church?’ her mother asked.
Anna nodded and made her tea.

They walked to church without speaking and Anna missed the bells that had been silent since the war began. The air was fresh and crisp after yesterday’s rain, and the sky had cleared to a beautiful blue with a few leftover strands of cloud that whispered above the tops of the houses. The freshness of the day lifted her spirit a little and she held her head up to the sun’s pale warmth as they walked through the quiet streets.
A half recognised buzz in the corner of her mind became more insistent and swelled into the drone of approaching bombers. They’re late today, she thought, and looked up, shielding her eyes with a hand against the sun. Fortresses. The planes that Tom flew.
Her mother stopped and grabbed at her arm. ‘Ours?’
‘Ours.’
The roar was a part of her now, almost comforting in its familiarity, a connection to Tom. They stood and watched the planes pass over, all thought suspended in the vibration, metal glinting in the sun until the sound began to die away. Then they moved on slowly into the Sunday morning silence, Mrs Pilgrim’s steps quick against Anna’s long stride.
The vicar arrived late at the church as usual, his frizzy grey hair springing uncontrollably from its proper position as he hurried through the chapel. He smiled a greeting at each one of the small congregation before he turned and took his place at the lectern. Anna returned the smile. She liked him. She liked his warm eccentricity and his kindness. She glanced sideways at her mother who sat stony faced and impassive, waiting for the service to begin, then she knelt, resting her forehead against her hands as she prayed.
Blessed Jesus, help me. Bring me news of Tom. Bring me good news of him, news that he’s safe and well. Bring him home unharmed. Give me patience, Lord, and strength to wait.
The early morning service was short; a brief sermon on overcoming fear amid uncertainty, and then Communion. Afterwards, they walked home in silence, not waiting to chat with the others as they usually did, her mother still too full of her anger to socialise, and their heels on the pavement cut into the peace.
There were no signs of the war in this middle class suburb except for the stubs of railings atop the walls. No damaged buildings, no soldiers, no screams and cries, and the tranquillity was beguiling. A tortoiseshell cat basking in the sun raised sleepy eyes to them as they approached, then jumped up and slunk off over the low stone wall into a garden. Anna watched and wished she could disappear into hiding as easily. The prayer and Communion had helped; there was a fragile peace inside her now, and she held on to it tenaciously until Mrs Pilgrim stopped abruptly and swung round to her daughter. She slowed and waited, and as they stood on the pavement near the shops that were closed, an elderly couple passed them, labouring up the slope towards the church. As they went by they smiled and said good morning. Only Anna replied.
‘So have you still got a job?’ her mother asked.
She sighed and lowered her eyes, brushing aside the twinge of guilt.
‘Didn’t you go to work last week either?’ Mrs Pilgrim demanded.
Anna glanced up. Her mother was glaring, trying to force a response.
‘No,’ she answered. She felt foolish, scolded in the street like a child, and the peace inside began to dissipate under her mother’s attack.
‘And just what are you going to tell Morris?’
‘I’ll tell him I was ill or something,’ she shrugged. It didn’t matter. It would soon be forgotten.
‘I’m very disappointed with you,’ her mother said. ‘I thought I’d brought you up to be more reliable. And more considerate.’
‘Yes,’ Anna agreed. ‘You did.’
Mrs Pilgrim nodded to herself and bustled on, and Anna followed behind, squinting into the blue clarity of the sky, scanning for aircraft.

‘What will your mom say when she finds out about me?’ Tom had asked.
Then, curled and warm, his gentle hardness against her body, her mother seemed trivial, insignificant. ‘She’ll be cross,’ she replied.
‘What’ll you tell her?’ He stroked the soft hair from her forehead, winding its silkiness around his fingers.
‘I don’t know. Nothing probably. I’ll tell her nothing.’
‘You’ll have to tell her something, won’t you?’
‘No. It’s better that I don’t tell her anything or she’ll pursue it forever.’
He was silent, eyes scanning the rough worn cotton of the sheet between them before he looked up at her, searching and intense. ‘Why can’t you tell her about me?’ he asked.
‘She wouldn’t understand.’
‘Are you ashamed of me?’ He was uncertain suddenly, and vulnerable.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course I’m not ashamed of you.’
‘Then why?’
She lifted her fingers to his face and stroked the unshaven cheek, liking the roughness of his skin against her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell her about you. But she wouldn’t approve and she’d say awful things and…..’
‘I’ve asked you to marry me.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve spent the night with you. She won’t like it. She’s… old fashioned.’
‘You should have told me,’ he said. ‘I’d have taken you home.’
‘Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you,’ she retorted, and he smiled in spite of himself. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I can’t tell her. I just can’t.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, but she knew that it wasn’t, that it hurt him.
‘We’ll be married soon,’ she told him. ‘And then after the war we’ll go to Montana and forget all about my mother.’
‘Sure.’
‘Tom, it doesn’t matter,’ she persisted. ‘Please believe me.’ She took his hand in hers, touching the calluses there with her fingertips, caressing his fingers gently. Rough hands, a carpenter’s hands. ‘I don’t care about my mother any more,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what she thinks. All I care about is you and being with you.’
There was a silence and then he asked again. ‘Will it be all right with your mom? Really?’
‘It’ll be fine,’ she had promised, knowing that it wouldn’t, and hating herself for lying.