Short story Wartime Secrets by Bishop’s Stortford U3A creative writing group member Peter Latham

The latest in a series of pieces written by members of the Bishop’s Stortford U3A creative writing group which meets monthly, when they are set challenges on a wide range of subject matter.

Inspired by the word ‘secret’, Peter Latham has written the short story Wartime Secrets.

They had grown up living only a few doors apart and always went to school together. After leaving school, they naturally walked out together, proudly supported by their parents and the approval of the neighbours. When they married, everyone thought it was the most natural thing that could have happened.

They set up home in a new house on the small council estate and a couple of years later my elder brother came along in 1938. In keeping with the times, my mother left her employment to become a full-time housewife. They always planned to have two children, but, when war seemed inevitable, decided to postpone having their second.

Like many in our village, dad did not go to war as he had a reserved occupation in the local chemical factory. My mum, who had learned some German at night school, volunteered to assist at the local prisoner-of-war camp. My father was not enthusiastic about his wife going back to work, but accepted she wished to “do her bit” for the war effort.

My father was also concerned when mum was required to make a declaration of secrecy about the work she was doing. Father was not particularly interested in the work mum was undertaking, but thought it might be dangerous for her. Mum used the declaration for being vague throughout her life about the work she did at the camp. She would only say it was administrative, involving writing reports. It was clear, however, that she had gained much satisfaction from her work.

After the war and all the prisoners repatriated, my mum became a full-time housewife again and I was born in 1946. From an early age I was aware that my dad was much more interested in my older brother than me. I thought it was probably because my brother was older than me and looked very much like our dad. However, I didn’t mind as I was very happy with the attention I received from my mum. She adored me, we shared a very close bond and she always made sure that I was presentably turned out. She was tactile with me and frequently smoothed down my hair, which had a habit of sticking up at the crown. She would lick her hand and run it over my hair saying, “there you are love, that looks better”.

The age difference between me and my brother meant we had different friends and interests and never developed a true sibling relationship. Also, I never really felt close to my father, although he always cared for me. He was clearly a good man and was respected in the community and an active churchgoer. Some thought he could be a bit stand-offish and there were those who even thought he might vote Tory, which he would quietly deny when confronted.

Mother was cleverer than dad but, nonetheless, always deferred to him. There was always the feeling that mum was capable of more than her quiet life as a dutiful housewife suggested. It was evident to me, however, that the spark that I detected between most of my friends’ parents was missing between mum and dad.

Time passed and we all pursued our lives until, in 1989, two things happened. My dad died and the Berlin Wall came down. My brother, who was unadventurous like dad and had never left the village, rang to say that a trip to East Germany, the home of some of the ex-prisoners of war from the local camp, was being planned. It was the first time this had been possible since the end of the war, in fact all communication lines had been cut soon after the prisoners were repatriated. He said that mum was excited about the prospects of the trip, but she would not go on her own. He did not want to impose on me, but said we both knew that mum would rather go with me than him. He also admitted he had no interest in the trip.

A coachload of veterans and family members joined the trip. Many had worked at the POW camp and some ex-British soldiers had befriended the German POWs, particularly after the war ended and they became civilians again.

The Germans were generous hosts and the visitors were made extremely welcome. There were excursions to places of interest, dinners where speeches were made and on the final day there was an informal gathering before departing for home. Groups sat around and reminisced and it surprised me that some were quite emotional.

Mum introduced me to several of the Germans she remembered, but there was one in particular, a smart man who was with his wife and two children. The man and my mum drifted off into conversation and suddenly mum leaned forward, licked her hand and smoothed down the hair that was standing up on the crown of his head. For a few moments, they gazed quietly at each other.

Mum hardly said a word on the home journey.