by Ellie Dean
She reached for her white fox fur wrap and then leaned towards him, brushing her soft lips against his cheek. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself, Ronan Reilly.’ Then she was gone with a delightful chuckle, pushing through the door and into the alleyway that ran between the pub and the shop next door.
Ron was in a daze as he hurried after her, his senses filled with the scent of her skin, the promise in her eyes, and the softness of her lips.
She tucked her hand in his arm and draped the fox wrap over one shoulder. ‘I get the feeling this is going to be a very special night,’ she murmured as they began to walk towards the seafront.
‘It already is,’ he replied softly.
The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense, making that night’s supper the most awkward meal ever endured at Beach View. The only glimmer of relief came from Charity’s silence as she greedily tucked into her food, and refused to be drawn into the stiffly polite conversation.
Julie had no appetite, and had spent most of the meal pushing food round her plate. Peggy too seemed distracted, and Julie noticed that she’d hardly eaten either. Ron had disappeared, no doubt down to the Anchor to be with Rosie, and the whole celebratory supper seemed pointless and flat without him.
As the last bowl was scraped clean the tension broke with an audible sigh of relief. No one lingered round the table over cups of tea as they usually did, but made their hurried excuses and fled. Mrs Finch plumped down in her armchair, turned off her hearing aid and picked up a book. Jim muttered something to Peggy which made her frown, and then headed off to do his fire-watch duties, and Anne pleaded a headache and took herself off to her bedroom where Rose Margaret was already asleep in her cot. Which left Julie with Peggy and Charity.
‘I’d better go and check on William,’ Julie murmured as she pushed back from the table, desperate to escape.
‘You’ll hear him right enough if he’s wanting,’ said Charity. ‘I’ll say this fer ’im, he’s got a good pair of lungs for a scraggy bairn.’ Her withering gaze held Julie until she sat back down again. ‘Tell me about yon sister,’ she ordered.
Julie glanced across at Peggy, who was trying to be inconspicuous as she washed the dishes. They caught each other’s eye, and Peggy gave her a nod of encouragement. Julie licked her lips and began to talk about Franny.
Charity listened, her expression giving nothing away as she slurped yet another cup of weak tea. She waited until Julie had finished and then folded her arms beneath her bosom. ‘None of you sound as if you’ve a healthy bone between you,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been looking at babby – don’t take after our William at all.’
Julie had prepared for this, and pulled the precious birth certificate from her pocket. ‘I was able to register this because of the letters Bill had sent to Franny,’ she explained firmly. ‘He acknowledged repeatedly that he was William’s father. He had made arrangements for Franny’s lodgings during her pregnancy, and they were making plans to marry when he came home on leave.’
‘Tha’s all very well, lass, but many a man has been fooled by a pair of lying blue eyes.’
‘If you’re so determined that William isn’t Bill’s, why did you bother to come at all?’ Julie said in exasperation.
‘Needed to tek a look for mesen,’ she muttered. ‘My sister’s too soft to know her own mind, and she left it to me to decide.’ She took a deep breath and placed her hands on the table. ‘She’s always relied on me for advice. That husband of hers is good for nowt when it comes to making decisions.’
‘So, what have you decided, Miss Farnsworth?’ Peggy perched on the chair next to her, her expression tight and anxious.
‘Babby’s sickly and nothing like our William,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll not be teking ’im.’
Tears of joy and relief sprang into Julie’s eyes and she could have flung her arms round the old trout and given her a kiss on that whiskery chin – but she resisted and quietly rose from her chair and hurried upstairs.
William was asleep in the cot, his thumb plugged into his mouth, and Julie knelt on the floor beside him and just watched him. Her heart was so full of joy she couldn’t find the words to express it, so she remained sitting there, drinking in the sight of him, knowing he was now hers to cherish and keep.
Chapter Nineteen
PEGGY CLOSED THE door quietly on Mrs Finch, who was fast asleep, and listened to the loud snores coming from the room next door. That awful woman was making enough racket to wake the bloody dead, and since her arrival the atmosphere in the house had become poisonous. She’d be glad when she was gone.
She went back down the stairs to her kitchen to tidy up and have a last, peaceful cigarette before going to bed. It was nice to have the kitchen to herself for a change, and after clearing away the last cups and saucers, she sat down with a sigh of pleasure and stroked Harvey’s silky head.
Ron and the girls were still out, Jim was on fire-watch, and Julie and Anne were tucked up in bed, their babies asleep in their cots. All should have been right with her world, but it wasn’t, for she hadn’t yet managed to find a quiet moment to talk to Jim, and he’d gone off to his warden duties in a sulk.
‘It’s all a bit much, isn’t it, Harvey?’ she murmured. ‘All right for him to fib and get up to mischief, but when the boot’s on the other foot, he gets all moody and dog in the manger – if you’ll pardon the expression.’
Harvey waggled his eyebrows and laid his long nose on her lap, his eyes beseeching.
Peggy found a crumbling dog biscuit in her apron pocket, and he took it in his soft mouth and proceeded to crunch it on the mat. Life was so simple for a dog, she thought wearily. All they needed was kindness and they were loyal to the end – whereas humans were far more complicated.
Her thoughts turned to Charity and she grimaced. The damned woman had rejected darling little William as if he were a bit of scrag end on a butcher’s slab – but Julie had been so joyful not to lose him that she hadn’t minded.
Peggy smiled as she watched Harvey chase the last few crumbs of biscuit with his nose. The thought of William going to such an appalling family had worried her sick, and it had been a moment of inspiration on her part to tell Charity about William’s deafness – not that she’d said anything about how temporary it had been – and there was little doubt in her mind that this piece of information, dropped so casually as she showed the woman to her room, had been the deciding factor in Charity’s rejection.
The first hurdle was over, but there were more to come, and she was doing herself no good sitting here worrying about them. She finished her cigarette and threw the butt into the range, which she’d damped down for the night. ‘Keep watch, Harvey,’ she murmured as she switched off the light and stepped into the hall.
The clamour of the telephone ringing almost stopped her heart, and she raced to pick up the receiver, dreading the bad news – for nothing good came from calls so late at night. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Reilly. This is Dr Michael, and I need to get an urgent message to Sister Harris.’
‘She’s in bed asleep. I’ll take the message to her,’ said Peggy, reaching for the nearby pad and pencil. She listened as he gave her the name and address where Julie was needed, and repeated it back to him once she’d written it down. ‘I’ll tell her at once,’ she said, and put down the receiver.
As she was about to climb the stairs she heard the first sinister wail of the sirens and realised the long day wasn’t over yet. Knocking on Anne’s door, she peeked in and found she was already out of bed, so she ran up the stairs shouting to Julie and Miss Farnsworth to get up.
She reached Charity’s door as Julie came hurrying down the stairs with William straddling her hip, her medical bag and gas-mask box gripped in her free hand. The girl obviously hadn’t been to bed yet, for she was still fully dressed. ‘Get Anne to take the box of things while I rouse the others,’ said Peggy as she began to knock frantically on the door of Charity’s room.
The snori
ng persisted as loudly as a herd of hogs from the other side of the door, and Peggy finally lost patience. She went into the room, switched on the light and roughly shook the woman’s shoulder. ‘Air raid,’ she yelled over the screaming sirens. ‘Get downstairs and into the Anderson shelter immediately.’
‘Wha’s tha doin’?’ She rose like a monolith in the narrow single bed, her hair straggling round her face as she blinked in the bright light.
‘Air raid,’ Peggy snapped. ‘Get up.’ As the wailing grew in strength, Peggy realised that Gerry was on the move in numbers tonight, and she didn’t have a moment to waste.
The sound of Hurricanes and Spitfires overhead meant the raid was imminent, and she dashed back along the landing and went into Mrs Finch’s room. The lovely old dear was dead to the world, her snores rather more ladylike than Charity’s, but deep and contented. Peggy switched on the light and gently drew back the blanket so as not to startle her. It was the only way to wake her when she’d taken out her hearing aid.
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Mrs Finch as she let Peggy help her into her slippers and dressing gown. ‘I was having such a lovely dream.’
‘Never mind,’ muttered Peggy as she grabbed the hearing aid and slipped it into her pocket. ‘You’ll soon get back to it once you’re settled again.’
She steadied the old lady as she slowly made her sleepy way down the stairs with her walking stick, and then guided her through the dark kitchen, where she grabbed her gas-mask box, overcoat and handbag. Navigating the stone steps to the basement, they finally reached the garden.
The summer evening sky was cloven with the bright phosphorous fingers of the searchlights and, as the wailing sirens reached their ear-splitting pitch, another squadron of Hurricanes came roaring overhead. The earth shuddered beneath their feet as Peggy helped Mrs Finch along the garden path, the very air trembling with the noise.
Harvey rushed past them and scrambled under one of the sturdy benches Ron had built into the sides of the Anderson shelter. He could put up with all the whizz-bangs but hated the sirens, and he now cowered behind Anne’s legs, his eyebrows drooped in misery.
Anne and Julie had already lit the primus stove so they could boil a kettle, and both babies had been placed, with a great deal of protest, in the special gas-mask cots which had been wedged side by side on the floor. The box of essentials Peggy restocked after every raid was tucked away under the other bench, where a pile of blankets had been stacked in readiness should it get too cold.
What with the sirens, the RAF and the screaming babies, it was hard enough to think, let alone hold a conversation. Peggy settled Mrs Finch in her deckchair and wedged her in with pillows so she wouldn’t slip out of it when she fell asleep. There was still no sign of Charity – what was the blasted woman doing?
She was about to rush back to the house when she saw the doughty figure lumber down the garden path, fully dressed in hat and coat, and carrying her suitcase.
‘It’s a bit of a tight squeeze,’ shouted Peggy, ‘but hopefully the raid won’t last long.’
‘Ee, by goom, you ’ave it rough down ’ere in south,’ Charity boomed above the racket as she sank onto the bench and made it creak under her weight. She grimaced as she took in her surroundings. ‘Happen it smells in here, and I’ll not abide spending night with dog, neither,’ she added, glaring at Harvey, who eyed her warily from beneath the other bench.
‘The dog is one of the family,’ retorted Peggy. ‘He stays.’ She’d had enough of Charity Farnsworth. She turned to Julie and pulled the slip of paper out of her pocket. ‘Sorry, love, but Dr Michael just phoned,’ she shouted in her ear. ‘You’re needed at twenty-seven, Hazelwood Avenue. Mrs Morris has gone into labour, and it’s advancing rapidly according to her husband, who seems to be in a bit of a lather.’
‘Great timing,’ said Julie wryly, ‘but then it is her first, and her poor husband panics at the slightest thing.’ She glanced at Charity, who was sitting like a malevolent Buddha on the opposite bench, her suitcase clasped to her chest as she glared about her. ‘Don’t let William out of your sight,’ she said in Peggy’s ear.
Peggy smiled and nodded her understanding as she accompanied the girl to the shelter door. ‘You take care out there, Julie.’
‘I’ll do me best,’ she shouted back as she clamped the tin hat over her head and pushed her bicycle through the back gate.
Peggy closed her eyes momentarily and prayed she’d be all right before she went back into the cramped Anderson shelter and closed the door. A long, trying day was clearly about to turn into an even longer and more trying night for everyone.
Air raids didn’t stop a good night out and, as the first siren began to wail, everyone had taken the party into the basement beneath the Grand Hotel.
The hotel definitely lived up to its name, for the basement proved to be almost as wide and high as the main ballroom, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and a proper dance floor laid over the concrete. There was a bar at one end, and a gramophone at the other – not even the Grand could accommodate a fifteen-piece band in its basement. There were low tables, and comfortable couches and chairs to rest on between dances, and a good air-filter system that stopped it from getting too smoky or hot.
The girls’ pretty dresses and the smart uniforms of the many Allied servicemen made it a colourful scene as they whirled on the dance floor, and Ron looked round him in awe. He’d never been down here before, and had seen nothing like it in his life.
‘Certainly beats my cellar,’ said Rosie as she sipped a gin and Italian and admired the surroundings. ‘No room in there to swing a cat, let alone do the foxtrot.’ She put down her glass and grabbed his hand. ‘Come on, they’re playing “Begin the Beguine”, and it’s my favourite.’
Ron set his whisky glass on the low table and led her onto the floor, which was as smooth and flexible as the one up in the ballroom. No wonder they charged such fancy prices, he thought. This place must cost a fortune to run.
‘Stop thinking, Ron, and enjoy the music,’ murmured Rosie in his ear.
He held her close, breathing in her womanly fragrance as her lithe body moved in perfect harmony with him across the floor. Rosie was the belle of the ball, and he was a very lucky man. It would be foolish to waste a moment thinking of anything else.
As one lovely tune followed another they became lost in the dance and in each other, the drone of aircraft and the distant, muffled crump of bomb blasts seemingly coming from another world – a world that could no longer touch them in this bubble of happiness.
Julie wasn’t having much fun at all, but then neither was poor Mrs Morris, who was cramped up on the narrow bottom bunk of their Anderson shelter. Her husband was pacing the concrete floor, wringing his hands and constantly sweeping his fingers through his tangle of hair with impatience. Mrs Morris was taking her time having this baby, and it felt as if it had been going on for hours.
‘You won’t make it come any quicker by huffing and puffing, Alf,’ said Mrs Morris after the latest contraction had eased. ‘Why don’t you go back to your fire-watch duties and leave us women to it?’
Alf worked for the electricity board and was a plodding sort of chap, unused to drama and clearly out of his depth. His short-sighted gaze flitted between Julie and his wife as he shifted his feet and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I dunno what to do for the best,’ he said fretfully.
‘Your wife’s right,’ said Julie. ‘She could be ages yet, and you have an important job to do out there. Why don’t you go back on fire-watch duty and come home when the raid’s over?’ She really didn’t want him hanging about, because he looked like a fainter, and there simply wasn’t any room in this shelter for him to be stretched out on the floor at the first sight of blood.
He squeezed his wife’s shoulder in a bashful sort of fashion, picked up his tin hat and hessian bag and backed out of the shelter. ‘See you later then,’ he murmured, and was gone like a scalded cat as his wife began to groan again.
‘That’s right,’ Julie soothed as the bombers thundered overhead and the contraction deepened. ‘You can make as much noise as you like now. No one will hear you over that racket.’
She sat with Mrs Morris as the fighters and bombers roared overhead and the hurricane lantern swung and flickered shadows across the tin walls of the shelter. They listened to the distant crumps of explosions and the whine of straining engines as the fighter planes did battle overhead, but their main concern was the baby that seemed reluctant to come out.
‘Can’t say I blame the poor little bugger,’ chuckled Mrs Morris. ‘If I were him, I’d stay in there until this lot have finished and all.’ Her smile faded suddenly and her eyes widened. ‘Oh, Gawd,’ she gasped. ‘I think this is really it.’
Julie saw the look of concentration on her face and was prepared for what she suspected would be a very swift delivery after all that hanging about.
As Mrs Morris gave an almighty push, her baby was born and began to cry furiously. ‘It’s a little girl,’ Julie said delightedly as she dealt with the umbilical cord. Wrapping the squalling baby in one of the clean towels Mrs Morris had prepared, she handed her over.
‘My word,’ breathed Mrs Morris, her face soft with love and pride, all the pain and worry vanquished by the sight of her newborn. ‘She’s got a set of lungs on her, and that’s a fact.’ She looked up at Julie with sudden concern. ‘Alf wanted a boy,’ she said, ‘do you think he’ll mind?’
‘She’s beautiful,’ replied Julie with a soft smile. ‘I think your husband will just be so relieved it’s over that he won’t mind at all.’
Mrs Morris grasped Julie’s hand. ‘Thanks ever so for coming out on a night like this, Sister – and I’m sorry it took so long.’
‘Just rest and enjoy your baby while I clean up and get you comfortable. We could be here a while yet, so would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’
