She was seven when the War began. The second one, that is. One of those terrible wars that only need an ordinal to be identified. She was old enough to remember being sent to the countryside but knew little about the true horror of the War. There were a few things that stuck in her mind, though. The hunger. Ever present, always insistent. Rations weren’t enough for a growing child. She used to gnaw at the wooden legs of the kitchen table in a futile attempt to placate it.
Before the war began, she had been a little girl growing up in London. She preferred the term “tomboy” to “little girl”, though. The biggest pleasure in life was racing down the streets on her bike. Until one day she fell off and returned home with puffy eyes and knees scraped. Her father had warned her not to be perilous on the bike and the consequences she would face if she was. As a punishment for not heeding his warnings, he broke the bike in front of her very eyes. There could be more said about his character, but this image paints an accurate enough picture.
She had an older sister, Betty, but they never got on. She was too formal, too obedient. She was also her mother’s pride and joy, whilst she was not. But she didn’t mind too much, so long as she was allowed to go out exploring and climbing trees.
One day, however, her childhood morphed into something else as the air became tense.
Bombing.
She heard that word, whispered anxiously among the adults, but never knew exactly the extent to which it was about to affect her life. London was no longer safe, and she was sent away. Before she left, she saw her sister in her new uniform. She had joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service and that created an aura of mysticism around her. She remembered feeling respect for her Betty for the first time, at how she was stepping up to help their country in its time of need. They never did end up getting along, not even as adults, but she never lost that feeling of respect for her.
Saying the War was bad would be an understatement, but young as she was, things didn’t seem so terrible. She made a new friend, for one. Her name was Wendy, and they had a lot in common. They used to spend hours telling each other all sorts of exaggerations of anecdotes of their lives prior to the War. When the War was over, they stayed in touch. In fact, Wendy and she remained friends for the rest of their lives. She outlived her and attended Wendy’s funeral, remembering all those moments they spent together across the years, all those cups of tea and games of Scrabble, fondly.
In 1945 the War was officially over and all the children who had been evacuated to the country returned home. She had spent so long away she wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was absolutely not what she encountered. Her dad greeted her curtly, but her mother was nowhere to be seen. She had always known her mother preferred her sister, but she still thought she was fond of her and was surprised by her absence. The time away had created an even greater division between her father and her, so she couldn’t bring herself to ask. But when that night the only people at the dinner table were her father and herself, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Where’s mother? And Betty?”
“Your sister’s left”
Left? Where? How? All these questions sprung to mind, but she couldn’t decide which to ask first. Fortunately, her father continued:
“Your sister got… involved, let’s say, with an American soldier. It was only right she marry him and go back to the States to raise a family. Your mother is… rather upset, naturally”.
Upset. No, not upset. She was distraught. She hardly left her room. She had no interest in the child that had stayed, the child that had grown taller and older in her absence. She tried to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, but it still stung. Not even a hello? A how have you been? What were all those years in the country like?
It wasn’t the first time a war had broken her mother’s heart. Before the First World War Elizabeth, often called Lilly, had been a young girl, in love with a boy, James. When the war broke out, he was exactly the right age to fight. So off he went, promising that when he got back he’d marry her, planting a kiss on her tear-streaked cheek. But he never came back. So, she was left alone, heartbroken and grieving the future she’d never have. When she eventually married, it was because that was what was expected of her. She got along fine with her husband, but that was the problem. The passion, the connection she’d felt with James just wasn’t there. But they had two beautiful daughters, and Betty was her pride and joy. And now the War had taken her away from her too. Not by death, thankfully, but she was gone, nonetheless. And the USA was so far away. Letters would be sent, but they alone would take their fair amount of time to arrive. Elizabeth was heartbroken again. She was blind to how lonely her younger daughter felt now that she was back but was ignored.
One day, walking mindlessly towards her room, Elizabeth bumped into her younger daughter. They both looked at each other, startled. Her daughter’s name escaped her lips.
“Hello, mother.”
The tension in the air was palpable. Suddenly Elizabeth started crying and embraced her daughter with passion.
“You’ve grown so much… I’m so sorry… Betty left and I just… there’s no excuse… I shouldn’t have hidden away,” she said between sobs.
The girl stood in stunned silence as her mother embraced her. When she finally broke away, wiping her tears, she said “let’s go out into the garden. You must tell me about yourself since I know nothing about your time away”.
That is what they did. They talked well into the afternoon. She told her about Wendy and all the other girls she’d met. Her mother listened attentively, and once the anecdotes ran out, she explained about her sister, and how she’d met an American soldier and fallen in love. One thing led to another… she was old enough to understand without her mother having to spell it out. Betty, who had always been so responsible, who’d been the person her parents wanted her to be until that fateful night she had let herself go. Or set herself free. In any case, she was now in the States, entering womanhood, whilst her family were left behind in England.
But she never left. She grew old under her parents’ gaze, married, had three children. As did Wendy. She didn’t hear much from her sister, but they exchanged birthday and Christmas cards, and she assumed Betty was also happy with her children in the States. Later in life, her youngest daughter moved to Spain and formed a family there, but they kept in touch.
She learnt that it didn’t matter where your family lived, as long as they knew they could always come home to you.
Written in English by the author.
Ela Saldín Prior was born in Madrid to an English mother and a Spanish father. She studied a degree in Modern Languages, Cultures and Communication in the Autonomous University of Madrid and is currently studying a Master’s there in Artistic, Literary and Cultural Studies. She is passionate about literature, which she’s working on making the centre of her academic life, and enjoys writing.
This short story is part of a research project on speculative historical fiction in Ireland and Spain funded by the AHRC and the University of Plymouth.
Picture credits: hildgrim
THE WANDERING BARD 