by Ellie Dean
On the home front, the new national call-up included all men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one, and women without dependants between the ages of twenty and thirty and, following the heavy losses of shipping, Bevin was asking for another fifty thousand more workers at the docks. It seemed that Hitler’s spring offensive had begun, and the men and women of Great Britain were steeling themselves for the toughest battle of their lives.
Like everyone else in Cliffehaven, Ron had kept abreast of the news and continued to play his part, knowing that even his small effort was needed to win this war. His duties with the Home Guard and the fire-watch team meant he had less time to go into the hills with Harvey, but he still jealously guarded his precious few hours with Rosie each day.
This is the life, he thought as he sat back in the comfortable chair, feet on a stool, cup of tea in his hand and a slab of cake on a plate at his elbow. Rosie’s upstairs parlour was cosy and a little too feminine for his taste, but welcoming all the same, and he felt strangely at home among the chintz and the frills.
It had become an afternoon ritual to share a cup of tea with Rosie after he’d changed the barrels and brought the crates of bottles up from the cellar in preparation for the evening session. He watched her now as she sashayed across her sitting room in her high heels, admiring her long, slender legs and narrow hips, and the curve of her breasts beneath the frothy white blouse. No one knew how old Rosie was, but Ron thought she was about fifty – which he considered a ripe, luscious age when a woman was in her prime and at the height of her self-assurance and sensuality.
He might be in his sixties and considered past it, but by jingo, Rosie could stir the dead. He crossed his legs and tried to concentrate on his cup of tea.
Rosie grinned at him as she kicked off her shoes and curled like a contented cat into the corner of the couch opposite him. ‘Tea too hot?’ she asked innocently, her wide blue eyes gleaming with fun as she patted the neat waves and curls in her platinum hair.
‘It’s just fine,’ he muttered, the hot brew burning his mouth. ‘To be sure, Rosie girl, a man could be driven to distraction, so he could.’
She raised a fine eyebrow and smoothed the hem of her skirt over her knees.
He chuckled and reached for the cake. ‘’Tis your cake I’m praising,’ he teased, holding her gaze. ‘Very distracting, it is.’
She giggled and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it. It’s not often I get to do any baking, and I thought you deserved a treat now the butter ration has been increased.’
Ron tucked into the delicious jam sponge as Harvey stretched along the rug in front of the rather miserable fire in the grate. Ron had been after the luscious Rosie for years, and his pursuit had become a bit of a game between them – a game they both enjoyed, but which he’d never dared push beyond mild flirtation and a friendly peck on the cheek. He regarded her surreptitiously as he ate, marvelling that such a woman seemed to enjoy his company.
Mrs Rosie Braithwaite had moved to Cliffehaven many years ago to take over the Anchor. No one knew where she’d come from, or anything about her life before she’d arrived, and although it was most unusual for a young woman to run a pub single-handedly, she’d captained a tight ship and had become a well-respected and much admired landlady. Despite her obvious attractions and her flirtatious ways, she stood little nonsense from her customers, and no hint of scandal had ever been attached to her.
There had been no sign of a Mr Braithwaite, despite the wedding ring she still wore, and his whereabouts remained a topic of speculation amongst the regulars. Ron had dared to ask about him once, and she’d told him rather firmly to mind his own business. He hadn’t broached the subject again until Tommy Findlay had put in a surprise appearance just before Christmas.
Ron’s thoughts drifted. Tommy had turned up over the years in Cliffehaven like a regular bad penny. Where he came from, and where he disappeared to, Ron didn’t know, and didn’t much care. The man was nothing more than a lounge lizard and a spiv, who preyed on vulnerable, silly women dazzled by his flashy clothes and glib tongue. Ron had been astounded when Rosie had admitted she’d known him for years, and trusted him enough to let him behind the bar. What their relationship was, he had no idea, and Rosie had refused to discuss it. Ron had found that most unsettling.
He gave a deep sigh and ate the last of the cake. There had been no further sighting of Findlay since Christmas, and he wasn’t going to spoil this precious time with Rosie by speculating about him.
‘Whatever’s making you frown like that?’ she asked.
He forced all thoughts of Tommy Findlay out of his head and shot her a cheeky smile. ‘Well, now, Rosie. That would be telling.’
She grinned back. ‘You don’t fool me, Ronan Reilly,’ she retorted. ‘Something’s on your mind – and it’s not the usual,’ she added mischievously.
‘These past two weeks have been enough to try anyone,’ he replied, ‘and now I’m a great-grandfather, I feel I’m entitled to frown now and then.’ He wiggled his bushy brows. ‘’Tis a serious business, you know.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ she murmured, ‘but don’t worry, Ron – you look very well on it.’ Ron puffed out his chest at this praise, and Rosie giggled. ‘How is Anne?’
Ron licked the jammy crumbs from his fingers with schoolboy relish and set the plate aside. ‘She’s brighter now Martin can visit every day, but she’s still stuck in that bed with her wee leg strung up in the air.’
‘Poor Anne. It can’t be much fun. I’ll sort out some magazines and books and you can take them with you later.’
‘I think she’s fretting over the wain – they only bring her down twice a day to see her, and even then she’s not allowed to feed her.’ He reddened as he always did when talking about such intimate womanly things. ‘It’s the drugs she’s on,’ he said gruffly as he stuffed his pipe with tobacco.
‘Will the baby be discharged soon? She’s been there two weeks already.’
Ron nodded as he tamped down the tobacco and hunted in his pocket for matches. ‘Peggy’s picking her up tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Lord knows how she’ll cope with two wains in the house.’ He sucked on his pipe as the tobacco crackled beneath the flame of the match. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘that wee William is a good baby, hardly ever cries.’
She concentrated on stubbing out her cigarette. ‘It can’t be easy for Peggy, but knowing her, she’ll manage somehow,’ she said with a sigh. ‘All the fuss over that young nurse couldn’t have helped, but at least it seems to have died down now.’
‘I think her sister probably had something to do with that,’ said Ron. ‘I heard she’d threatened to sue the editor for libel if it went any further.’
‘Really?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ she said coldly. ‘Eileen Harris has always been very careful about her precious reputation, regardless of what it might do to others. But she didn’t come out of this latest mess in a very good light, and it serves her right.’
Ron was alerted to the unusual edge to Rosie’s voice and he regarded her with interest. ‘You make it sound as if she’s been the target of gossip before,’ he said mildly.
‘She managed to hush that up, too,’ said Rosie, swinging her feet to the floor and hunting for her shoes. ‘If I’d had my way, I’d’ve hung the bitch out to dry in the town square.’
Ron stared at her in amazement. He’d never heard her so bitter before and it hurt him to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. ‘What the divil did she do to you?’ he asked softly.
Rosie shook her head as she pulled on her shoes. ‘It was a long time ago, and I don’t want to talk about it, Ron,’ she said firmly. She picked up the dirty china, loaded it onto the tray and, without another word, carried it through the dividing curtain into the tiny kitchen.
Ron sucked on his pipe, deep in thought as he heard her moving about in the other room. He’d never met Eileen Harris and wouldn’t know her from Adam, but she’d clearly upset his Rosie, and he
was curious to know what had happened between them. Now the atmosphere of the cosy afternoon had been ruined, and it was time for him to leave. Tipping the dottle from his pipe into the smouldering fire, he stuffed it back in his pocket and ambled to the kitchen door. ‘I’ll finish bottling up and be off,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Ron.’ Rosie didn’t turn from the sink where she was washing up.
Ron frowned and reached out to her. ‘What’s the matter, Rosie?’ he asked softly.
‘Nothing,’ she rasped.
He firmly turned her to face him and was horrified to see tears streaming down her face. ‘Rosie, darlin’ girl. What is it? What have I said to upset you so?’
She shook her head, refusing to look at him. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she said thickly as she scrabbled for a handkerchief in her skirt pocket. ‘So silly of me to be like this after all these years.’
‘This is to do with Eileen Harris, isn’t it?’
She blew her nose and struggled heroically to regain her composure. ‘Don’t take any notice of me, Ron,’ she said with a brittle smile. ‘Women my age often cry about nothing.’
He knew that was utter nonsense but didn’t press her. Rosie was a woman made for fun and laughter, and his heart ached to see those tears. He wanted to help but didn’t know how, so he said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Would you like a drop of gin?’
‘Oh, Ron,’ she sighed. ‘You know me too well.’ She cupped his grizzled chin in the palm of her hand and kissed his cheek. ‘A gin and It would set me up no end,’ she murmured, ‘but only if you’ll stay and have one too.’
He poured the drinks while Rosie went into her bedroom to fix her make-up and prepare for the evening rush, which would start the minute the doors were opened at six. When she returned there was no sign of the tears, but the shadows behind her smile told him that whatever Eileen Harris had done to her still had the power to wound.
Seeing her like this wounded him, too, for Rosie was in his heart, his darling girl – and he silently vowed he would find out what lay behind those tears, and, if it was in his power, put things right for her.
Julie had written letters to Bill and to his parents, informing them of her new address and William’s slow but steady progress. She wasn’t too concerned that she’d heard nothing from his parents, but Bill’s lack of response really worried her. Had he decided just to ignore his son after all, or were his letters simply held up by the erratic mail service? She had to hope it was the latter.
It was a lovely bright Saturday, with a crisp wind coming off the sea as she wheeled the pram along Camden Road. She and Kath had just had tea at their favourite little café opposite the hospital, and they’d spent most of the afternoon gossiping about the play they’d gone to see the night before. No Time for Comedy was on a short run in Cliffehaven and had a strong cast, which included Rex Harrison, who they’d both agreed was one of the handsomest men in England. The fact that there were rumours linking him to his co-star Lilli Palmer had guaranteed a full house, and added extra excitement to the evening.
They’d finally said their goodbyes and Kath had hurried home to help her mother get tea for their lodger. Julie continued down the pavement, enjoying her weekend off from her long district round and the continued frostiness of Eunice Beecham. The uniform dress had been altered with Peggy’s help, so she didn’t look quite such a fright, and she’d certainly been kept busy during the past two weeks. It seemed the volunteer nurses were always needed elsewhere. However, now that she knew her way around the town which sprawled between the hills and the sea, she had come to appreciate the solitary nature of her daily travels.
Her thoughts meandered as she walked, happy with life in general and thanking her lucky stars that she’d found a warm and loving home with the Reilly family. They were such good people, and Peggy was an absolute star – but with Rose Margaret coming home tomorrow, would she be able to cope? It was a worry, but one that could be put off on this lovely sunny day. She would wait and see how things went, and then, if it proved too much for Peggy, she would try and find a nursery place for William while she worked.
She came to a halt outside Eileen’s door and hesitated momentarily before pushing the map through the letter box. They hadn’t spoken since the morning she’d left, and although Julie would have liked to clear the air, she didn’t think her sister would appreciate her turning up unannounced.
She was about to walk away when the door opened and Eileen came out onto the step. ‘I was just bringing your map back,’ Julie said hurriedly. ‘Thanks for the loan.’
‘That’s all right. How are you settling in?’ Eileen asked, her eyes wary, her smile tenuous.
Delighted by this change in her sister, Julie returned her smile. ‘Everyone’s been marvellous,’ she said. ‘Peggy and the family have made us feel very much at home.’ She hesitated and then plunged on. ‘Look, Eileen, I’m sorry about all that fuss in the paper. It was none of my doing, honest.’
Eileen wrapped her skinny arms round her narrow waist. ‘I know,’ she admitted stiffly, ‘and I’m glad you’re happy at Beach View.’ She hesitated, looking for once a little unsure of herself. ‘That’s a very smart pram. How is William?’
Julie smiled and pulled back the blankets just enough to show him off. William was awake and giving her a toothless grin. ‘He’s still a little small for his age, but he’s a good baby and now sleeps right through.’
Eileen peered into the pram, her arms still tight about her waist as William gurgled up at her. ‘He has Franny’s smile,’ she murmured as she straightened. ‘But I still believe you’re very foolish to keep him.’
Julie bristled but kept silent. Eileen was making overtures of friendliness, and although she didn’t agree with her, it would be daft to fall out again. She was about to reply when a passing motorbike backfired, making them both jump.
It was Rita, dressed as usual in her leather jacket and old flying helmet and goggles. Julie returned her cheerful wave and looked back at Eileen, who was regarding William with a deep frown. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Julie asked, peering anxiously at the happy baby.
Eileen shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Something’s bothering you,’ persisted Julie. ‘What is it?’
Eileen shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about babies, and it was probably just my imagination.’ She regarded Julie thoughtfully. ‘Has he had a check-up at the doctors’ since you arrived in Cliffehaven?’
Julie felt a chill of foreboding. ‘He was given a clean bill of health when we left London,’ she replied uneasily. ‘Why?’
‘I just thought it a bit strange that he didn’t react to that backfire.’
‘Is that all?’ Julie looked down at the happy William. ‘He’s just used to loud noises. After all, he was born in the middle of an air raid, and we’ve spent many a night in the Anderson shelter listening to the racket overhead and the bombs going off.’
Eileen folded her arms again. ‘That’s as maybe,’ she said quietly, ‘but you should get one of the doctors to check his hearing.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ Julie retorted. ‘He’s a perfect baby.’
Eileen’s expression softened. ‘I hope I’m wrong, Julie,’ she said, ‘but when that motorbike backfired he didn’t react at all, and the noise was sudden enough and loud enough to make both of us flinch.’
Julie looked down at William, who was now gaily batting his mittens against the soft blue teddy she’d strung from a ribbon above him. She didn’t want to believe Eileen, couldn’t bear to think that William might not be perfect after all. But there had been moments of suspicion that all was not well, and certain little incidents suddenly made awful sense. She looked at her older sister, unable to voice the growing dread.
‘You didn’t see because you didn’t want to,’ said Eileen softly. ‘You made the mistake of loving him too much, and he’s not even yours, you foolish, foolish girl.’
Julie blinked bac
k her tears and grabbed the pram handle. ‘I’ve got to get back,’ she managed through the lump in her throat. ‘Foolish or not, he’s my responsibility – and yes, I do love him, with all my heart, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure he comes to no harm.’
Eileen grabbed her arm. ‘Just remember that one day you might have to hand him over to his father, Julie,’ she said softly. ‘Try not to love him too much. It will only break your heart.’
Julie pulled her arm away. ‘For someone who’s never had a child and seems not to possess a maternal bone in her body, you’re very free with your advice, Eileen.’ Without another word, she strode off, blinded by tears of anguish.
Eileen watched her hurry away and knew from the set of her shoulders that she was crying. She hadn’t meant to hurt her, but the realisation that William might be deaf had made it impossible for her to keep silent. She hoped with all her heart that her suspicions would be proved unfounded, but if it turned out she was right, then Julie would have to come to terms with William’s disability. Which could, in turn, become a real burden if the father refused to take him on. Poor Julie, she’d done what she thought was the right thing, but she’d made the fatal mistake of loving William as her own – and now her life would be ruined.
Eileen turned and closed the front door behind her, leaning against it for a long while before she slowly trudged upstairs to her flat. Her advice had come from the heart, and had been given with good intent, but Julie could never know how deeply her parting words had cut.
Julie could barely see where she was going through her tears as she hurried along the narrow lane between the tall terraced houses and through the back gate. How dare Eileen insinuate there was something wrong with her precious William? How dare she spoil what had been a perfect day with her unwanted advice? What did she know about babies?
She refused to acknowledge the niggle of doubt as she wheeled the pram down the path between Ron’s vegetables and into the basement. William was absolutely fine, and all new mothers worried about every little thing their babies did or didn’t do.
