Page 1 of Last Letter Home
To Sheila
and in memory of Ann
One
They call it a storm and after days of it she felt storm-tossed, clinging to the wreckage of her life, each new attack dashing against her with a force that left her bruised and gasping. She might have borne it if it had simply been words, painful, devastating words though they were, words that cruelly shredded her self-worth, her professional reputation, her trust in her own judgement, her identity as a woman, but it was more than that; her sense of safety was threatened.
It had been her first time in a television studio, Jolyon Gunn’s late night chat show, and she’d been invited on at the last minute because one of his guests had been taken ill. Probably with fear. Narcissistic Jolyon was not known for his charm, though this seemed only to boost the ratings.
‘And we welcome historian Briony Wood, who is writing a book about World War Two, is that correct, love?’
‘Yes, it’s to be called Women Who Marched Away. It’s about the ATS, the women’s infantry service during—’
‘Sounds smashing,’ he cut in. Jolyon did not have a long attention span. ‘Briony’s here to talk about the news that lady soldiers will now be fighting on the front line. Briony, I know this will be contentious but, really, war is a job for the lads, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. There are plenty of examples of fighting women going right back to the Amazons. Or think of Boudicca or Joan of Arc.’ Briony tried not to sound strident, but the sight of so many men in the audience, some of whom had nodded in agreement at Jolyon’s words, meant she had to speak with confidence. Dazzled by the studio lights, she blinked at her host, who lounged lord-like in his leather director’s chair with his short legs spread, suave in a designer suit, his fat Rolex watch glinting. He smirked back at her and rubbed his neat black beard.
‘Surely they’re exceptions, though, Briony, and we remember what those Amazon ladies had to do to use their bows, don’t we?’ He made a slashing gesture to his chest and winked and there were shouts of male laughter. ‘You see it’s not natural, women fighting, they’re not shaped for anything apart from pulling out each other’s hair.’
More bayings of amusement.
Briony drew herself up and glared at him. ‘That simply demonstrates their determination. Anyway, just because something is “natural” doesn’t make it right. Warfare itself is natural, after all. But, Jolyon, surely our discussion should be about psychology and the social conditioning around gender . . .’
The word gender made Jolyon straighten and his eyes filled with a mad light. Briony realized she’d walked right into a trap. This was a populist show and outspoken Jolyon had a huge following among a certain sort of male, but it was too late to retract her words, she’d look weak and stupid. She was suddenly acutely aware of how schoolmarmish she must appear, her light brown hair tied in a knot at her nape, her charcoal-coloured sheath dress smart and understated rather than fashionable, even with the soft blue scarf coiled about her shoulders.
‘The girls aren’t tough enough, Briony. They’ll cry, and fuss about their lipstick.’ The audience howled with laughter at this, though there were one or two hisses of disapproval as well.
‘I’d like to see you on a battlefield,’ she snapped. ‘You’d not hack it for a second compared to some of the brave women I interviewed for my book.’
There were shouts from the floor and several men rose to their feet. One shook his fist at Briony. Jolyon himself stared at her with a pasted-on grin, for a moment lost for words. Only for a moment, though.
‘Thank you, Briony Wood,’ he pronounced with mock surprise. ‘I think she’s just called me a coward, guys! Isn’t that smashing?’
Escaping into the rainy night, Briony switched on her phone to be greeted by a tattoo of alerts as the messages flew in. She opened her Twitter app with trepidation. As she read the first notifications, her eyes widened with horror.
You ugly cow cum the war you’ll be first against the wall.
Our Jolyon’s tuffer than any wimmin.
The third was merely a string of obscenities that brought her hand to her mouth.
The phone then rang. A name she recognized. She swiped at the screen.
‘Aruna?’ She glanced about the lonely South London backstreet and began to walk briskly towards the main road.
‘Don’t look at any messages. Especially not Twitter.’ Briony heard the panic in her friend’s voice.
Too late. ‘Oh, Aruna. Why did I say it? How can I have been so stupid?’
‘It’s not your fault, he was awful, the pits. I’m sorry I ever gave his people your name. Listen, where are you?’
‘Clapham. I’ve just left the studio.’ Briony turned onto the high street and startled at a trio of youths in leather jackets who swaggered, laughing, out of a brightly lit pub. They brushed past, not even seeing her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Don’t faff about with public transport. Get a cab.’ Aruna sounded urgent. ‘Go straight home, then ring to tell me you’re safe.’
Men from Jolyon’s audience were beginning to emerge from the studio front door. They hadn’t spotted her yet, but their coarse gestures and rough laughter frightened her. Briony pulled her scarf up over her hair and began to hurry.
Aruna came to her flat in Kennington that night, and Briony was glad because the next morning the abusive messages were still pouring in. At first, despite Aruna’s protests, she read them, answered the more reasonable or supportive ones, deleted others, sobbed with rage, but on they came. Finally, Aruna made her suspend her Twitter and Facebook accounts and told her to avoid the internet altogether. She did read a blog piece Aruna found, from a female politician who’d suffered similar attacks. ‘Eventually the cyber trolls will tire and retreat to their lairs,’ the woman concluded. The advice was to ‘stay strong’.
