Reaching for her pack of fags and "Bundles for Britain" matchbook, Captain Wolfe exasperatedly hummed the old familiar "Run Rabbit Run" on her breath as she finally threw herself onto her single bed. Well, cot more like. Many wouldn't think much of it but for a woman owning one pair of unopened Parisian silk tights, infantry basics and a wardrobe belonging predominantly to her late husband she thought the cot suited her quite well enough, thank you very much. "When you live above a pub aptly named 'The Whining Pig' I doubt you should ask for more" she thought as she unbuttoned the collar of her starched shirt and lit her cigarette.
The grained echo of Ralph Hill droning on "The Essence of Brahms" was interrupted by a voice Bernie had, quite happily, heard little from over the past few months:
"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street." The Prime Minister's voice never ceased to remind Bernie of her father's childhood scoldings.
"This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that, unless we hear from them by 11 o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany."
At War. With Germany.
At. War.
Bernie didn't know how long she'd been watching the rain trickle through a crack in her roof and onto the floor but the remnants of her cigarette were now scattered across her bedspread as she began to register a loud banging coming from the landing by her front door. At first confused for a searing headache induced by one too many whiskeys with a colleague downstairs the night before, Bernie was awoken from her haze by a familiar voice calling her name.
"WOLFE!"
No one could mistake the sound. No one in all Shilton. "At this rate" Bernie thought, "all Great Britain", could mistake the sound of Jac Naylor yelling at the top of her lungs in the middle of the night.
"WOLFE! OPEN THE SODDING DOOR!"
"Now" Bernie answered as she opened the door at a far more leisurely pace than Jac could surely handle, "I'm going to venture a guess that you aren't here to fix the leak then."
"And I'm going to venture a guess that you haven't bathed in a couple of weeks. Try a Brillo."
"Touché. However, you will find, being such an exceptionally accomplished landlord, that I haven't had running water up here since oh…three days after I moved in. I've complained more over a rubbish shag than issues with this room and between you and me" Bernie retorted "I need only one hand to count the former…. well…one finger technically". At this Bernie pressed her index finger to Jac's lips and chuckled as her face whitened.
"A Telegram. From London." At this she turned on her heel and stormed down the stairs.
"Oh and by the way," she called back up the stairs once she was out of view "we're at war. Don't do anything stupid."
Bernie knew exactly how to ruffle Jac's feathers. It wasn't popular knowledge that acceptance into Kings College Medical School seduced Bernie to new worlds and ideas she never thought she'd be able to explore and, through which, found another form of seduction in Jac. What started as a marriage of intellect and long nights of conversation soon turned to something more important to both. On the death of Jac's parents she was called home to run "The Whining Pig" in her father's place and her dreams of a medical career were thwarted. As for Bernie, there was nowhere else she could go after leaving school and, despite the love they once had now turned to dust and sarcasm, she knew Jac would be lost without her presence in her life. Lonely and alone. It suited them well.
Bernie wandered over to the forest green chaise she'd inherited from the previous tenant and proceeded to open the telegram.
POST OFFICE
TELEGRAM
CAPTAIN BERENICE WOLFE
THE WHINING PIG, SHILTON, WEST OXFORDSHIRE, OX18
DEAREST BERNIE
GETTING MARRIED
COME TO THE WEDDING
HAVE TOLD ARTHUR MUCH ABOUT YOU
THEY SAY THERE WILL BE WAR AGAIN
DON'T GO DOING ANYTHING STUPID
MISS YOU SAVAGELY
Bernie knew Morven was a beautiful and infectiously bright young woman but impulsive was something she was sure she wasn't. Who was this Arthur chap? Bernie had always been very protective of Morven since their first meeting at the enlistment for the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (FANYs). She'd always been drawn to medicine and knew she had the focus and capacity in the field, however, women of her class did not study medicine (or so her father thought). Women in her class, as was drilled regularly during all 13 of her years in boarding school, sewed pin-cushions, played croquet and waited in line at the church in their white dresses before relegating themselves to the kitchen pantry and the care of a John, Dick or Harry. Morven was the first person who befriended Bernie without judgment when she enlisted and, so, many nights were spent trawling the streets of Paris for new company and delicious wine (or Whiskey in Bernie's case) before crawling bleary-eyed to Saint-Antoine the next morning. It was Morven, in fact, who she still credits for the final push into studying medicine at Kings College (much to the chagrin of her father).
Bernie dropped the telegram into the coal fire - a cool September gale whistled through the paned window as she grabbed her husband's Greatcoat and prepared herself for a night by the fire and the promise of another whiskey-doused morning. Her eyelids grew heavy as the last of her cigarette once more found the floor and fond memories of the Yeomanry and Morven floated back to her. God, she missed it.
As quickly as the announcement came Bernie had forgotten a war had even been waged. From the expectation of heavily postered streets and telegrams from her superiors requesting a return to service to endless articles in the local tribune mentioning how the, now "Phoney War" may affect the odd civilian carrot patch.
That didn't stop Bernie from looking to the sky in the anticipation of spitfires and raids every time she stepped out on her short stroll to work. As tragic as it was, Bernie knew she yearned to return. Her services and promotion to the position of Captain in the FANYS (after many late-night munition drops and convoys full of injured infantry delivered safely to L'hôpital
Saint-Antoine where they were stationed) were wasted on rabbit trap injuries and senility that, unfortunately, could not be helped. She knew it and, sadly, as did her superior at the small clinic that acted as a small hospital as often as it did a grocery store, post office and community hall when required. When Bernie first arrived in Shilton many were grateful for a doctor with a Kings College level of knowledge so few acknowledged the fact that she was a woman. She dressed predominantly in her husband's old wardrobe so many of the more infirm did not see her as a woman at all. Bernie relished in the invisibility and laughed to herself when Mr Thompson would come in for his weekly insulin injection and walk out doffing his cap to 'Captain Bernard' for his hard work.
She missed London. Maybe this wedding would prove more fruitful than anticipated.