by Ellie Dean
Peggy smiled back at him. ‘That’s what he’s doing, but I can tell he’s not finding it at all easy after spending most of his life following his own dubious path.’
Solly laughed. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, Peggy. You’ll be shadowing Loretta for a while until you get the hang of things.’ His eyes were kindly as he regarded her. ‘They’re not so difficult, Peggy, and I have every faith in you, so there’s no need to look nervous.’
Peggy nodded and returned to her sewing machine. She wasn’t nervous exactly, just a little wary about the added responsibility and the prospect of having to work with Mavis – but there was excitement too for the challenge ahead – and as there was nothing Peggy enjoyed more, she couldn’t wait to begin and prove to Solly that he’d made the right choice.
It was a bright, brisk day, the wind carrying a chill as it blew across the hills from the sea, and Ron was congratulating himself on having escaped the Anchor and the endless list of jobs Rosie had presented him with. He loved the very bones of that woman, but she was firing on all cylinders at the moment, and he was wondering what it was about weddings that turned women into whirling dervishes. After all, he reasoned, it was simply a matter of getting his suit cleaned, buying a ring, sorting out a bit of grub and some decent drinks and turning up on the day – he really couldn’t see why so much fuss had to be made of it all.
He was tramping along the hill with Harvey and Monty galloping ahead of him, the ferrets snugly curled up asleep in the deepest pocket of his poacher’s coat. They’d been out for most of the morning and Ron had netted four rabbits, as well as a canvas bag full of mushrooms he’d found on the edge of the woods belonging to Lord Cliffe, and a paper bag filled with juicy blackberries he’d gathered from a hedgerow.
Ignoring the nagging pain in his lower back from the shrapnel that had become embedded there during the First War, he stomped across the gently undulating grassland, unperturbed by the ever-present thunder of the planes returning from their bombardment of German airfields and industrial zones. There were fewer aircraft at Cliffe now, for the much-depleted Luftwaffe no longer came across on raids and were kept busy by the Allied Air Forces who’d set up bases all along the northern shores of France, the Netherlands and Belgium to concentrate their firepower on German targets and V-2 rocket sites.
Ron’s granddaughter Cissy had at first feared she’d be relocated to another aerodrome far from Cliffehaven and her mother, Peggy, but she’d been assured that her WAAF posting at Cliffe was secure for the immediate future. The girl was worried about her American flyer, Randolph Stevens, who’d been captured some time ago and was now in a POW camp somewhere in Eastern Germany, but at least she knew he was out of danger. Which was more than could be said for Rita’s Australian chap, Peter Ryan. He’d been sent to an Allied airfield in Belgium, and from his brief letters to Rita, it seemed he was flying endless sorties over Germany and coming under constant fire.
Ron paused to dig his pipe out of his pocket and take in the view as he filled it with tobacco and got it alight. Ugly gun emplacements lined the clifftops, but they were no match for the V-2s which came across silently and far too high to be seen, let alone shot down, and this southern corner of England had once more become a dangerous place. Hundreds of them came across every day, undetected until they went pop and then exploded mightily on contact with the ground, causing death and destruction to the villages and farming communities – as well as poor old London. The newspapers were calling it a second Blitz, and it certainly felt like it at times when all the sirens went off.
Ron tried to ease his aching back as his thoughts turned to the women at Beach View. Being the most senior man in the house, he felt responsible for them, and he was rather worried about how they’d cope without him once he moved into the Anchor with Rosie. Peggy would miss the rent he paid her, and elderly Cordelia Finch would have no one to banter with over the breakfast table, or carry her home after she’d enjoyed a sherry or three at the Anchor.
As for the girls in his and Peggy’s care, Sarah was doing well at her new office job, but she was worried sick about her father and fiancé who hadn’t been heard of since the fall of Singapore and their incarceration in Changi prison. Rita fretted over Peter Ryan as well as her father who was fighting with the army in France; and little Ivy was just as worried about her older brothers who were with the Atlantic convoys, and her parents and sister who’d refused to leave the East End of London despite these recent attacks. Danuta seemed content enough now she’d settled into her job as district nurse and assistant midwife, but he suspected the latest news coming out of Poland had dashed any hope for her country’s liberation.
He heaved a sigh, thankful that now Peggy’s snobby sister Doris had seen the error of her ways since moving into Rosie’s rental bungalow, the calm atmosphere at Beach View had been restored. Doris had surprised him by how much she’d changed – both in her outlook on life and her attitude to the people she’d once looked down on – and he was secretly pleased that she and Peggy had mended the rift between them, for he knew how much it meant to Peggy. How long that would last was anyone’s guess, but it seemed Doris was settled and content and making a new life for herself following the death of her estranged husband and the V-1 attack which had destroyed her home.
Ron set aside these thoughts, determined to focus on more pleasant things. Fran would be all right now she had the stalwart Robert to stand by her. The newly-weds had returned to Beach View, all starry-eyed from their honeymoon, to set up home in the large bedroom on the top floor. His smile was wry, for they emerged from that room only to leave for work, join the others for their meals or help about the house. They seemed to be blissfully happy despite the fact Fran’s family had banished her from their lives, and Ron thought their registry office wedding had been perfect.
Rosie, however, had other ideas for their own wedding. She thought a registry office service was too short and lacked any sense of real occasion, so despite Ron’s distinct lack of faith in any sort of religion, he’d reluctantly let her have her way and they’d booked St Cuthbert’s for the 9th of December. The wedding celebrations were to be catered for in the private function room at the Officers’ Club, which would no doubt cost him an arm and a leg, but if that’s what Rosie wanted, then that was what she’d get. If he’d had his way, the ceremony would take place next week at the Town Hall, with the wedding party in the large community hall next to the council offices – but Rosie had turned up her nose at that idea and seemed determined to have a really big do.
He gripped the stem of his pipe between his teeth. He really couldn’t blame her for they’d waited long enough to tie the knot, and he didn’t have it in his heart to deny her yearning for what she saw as a proper wedding with all the trimmings, but there was an unexpected price to pay. It didn’t involve money, but it was at a cost to his conscience, and as time had gone on it had begun to trouble him.
Ron puffed furiously on his pipe. Because the wedding would be in church, he’d been forced to make an appointment to see Father O’Leary this afternoon, which he most definitely wasn’t looking forward to. The old priest had been around for years and seemed determined to bring Ron back into the Catholic fold – even though he’d never seriously been in it once he’d passed puberty.
He and Father Peter had had many heated religious discussions over the years, helped along by a dram or three of whisky, and Ron had steadfastly refused to be a hypocrite by attending Mass or playing any part in the church’s affairs – especially after he’d come back home from the trenches in 1918. Now it seemed the old man had the upper hand, for he’d made it plain that Ron must attend Mass every Sunday leading up to the wedding, go to confession and brush up on the catechism, or he wouldn’t marry them in his church.
Ron had found himself wedged between the devil and the deep, and knew he’d be damned if he stuck to his principles, and damned if he didn’t. But that didn’t mean the wily old priest would have things all his own way.
; He checked his watch and whistled to the dogs before hitching the string of rabbits over his shoulder and half-heartedly making his way towards the ancient church of St Cuthbert which sat in a fold of the chalk hills and overlooked the sea.
The square Norman tower and delicate Gothic spire rose towards the clear blue sky, and the rough stone walls which had been there since Saxon times seemed to hold the echoes of all the generations who’d come before. Ron pushed through the lychgate, the dogs racing past him as he slowly walked up the path. Lichen-covered headstones stood on either side, so worn by age and the elements that the epitaphs were illegible. Ron looked across the carefully tended cemetery, noting that the winter pansies he’d planted were nodding their bright heads in the breeze, and that the grass had recently been given its final cut of the year.
He suspected Father O’Leary was having his usual afternoon nap, so it wouldn’t matter if he was a bit late – and he needed a moment to think again about what he was doing.
Ron walked past the memorial for Danuta’s heroic brother, Aleksy, who’d been shot down and killed during the Battle of Britain, and the stone cherub that had been placed for her baby, Katarzyna, who’d barely lived long enough to take a breath. The shadows of the yew trees stretched across the peaceful garden of rest, and as Ron took the path towards the back of the church he was rewarded by the sight of the sea stretching between the chalk headlands, and out to the horizon where, on this clear day, he could see the faint smudge of the distant French coastline.
Reaching into his poacher’s coat pocket, he whistled to the dogs and clipped the leashes to their collars. Both looked at him with disgust as he firmly tied the ends to a sturdy bench and ordered them to stay. With disgruntled sighs, they settled down, experience telling them they were in for a long wait.
Satisfied they couldn’t get up to any mischief, Ron followed the meandering path through the headstones until he came to where his wife, Mary, had been laid to rest over forty years before. A carpet of pansies covered her, and the roses he’d placed last week in the stone urn at her feet were still quite fresh. He pulled out a couple of weeds, and then rested his grubby hand on the sun-warmed headstone he’d lovingly carved for her.
‘Well, Mary,’ he murmured, ‘it seems you and Father O’Leary have your way at last. The black sheep will darken the doors of your church again. To be sure, I’m not easy with it, but ’tis all for a good cause, wee girl – and you know me, acushla, it won’t last.’
Ron could almost hear her laughter as a sudden memory returned of her looking up at him, her dark hair flying in the winter’s wind, her cheeks bright with cold and her eyes sparkling with love and happiness as they’d emerged from this church on their wedding day. She’d known then that he’d never be a regular churchgoer, but that hadn’t really bothered her, for she had her own faith and was certain it was strong enough for both of them.
‘Ach, Mary,’ he sighed, remembering all that youthful exuberance and joy in life slowly ebbing away as the sickness took her and he was left alone to raise their two small boys. ‘You were too young for your God to take you from us, and to be sure I still find it hard to forgive Him for that.’
Closing his mind to the terrible struggle he’d had to raise his sons and put food on the table while he grieved, he patted the headstone and then headed for the church. He’d visited Mary regularly over the years and told her all about Rosie, even though he didn’t really believe in life after death. Yet having her to talk to and confide in when things troubled him was comforting, and he liked to think that Mary approved of Rosie and was glad that he wasn’t alone any more.
The dogs looked up at him hopefully as he passed and then slumped back down with sighs of disappointment when it became clear they were to remain tied to the bench.
Ron lifted the heavy iron latch and the studded oak door creaked ominously as he stepped into the dark, chill interior of the church and closed it behind him. The familiar smell of incense, snuffed candle wicks, damp stone, woodworm and musty prayer books greeted him along with that echoing and rather intimidating hush that all churches seemed to possess.
Ron hung up his coat so the ferrets couldn’t escape, dumped the string of rabbits and canvas bag on the floor, and then stuffed his old cap into his trouser pocket before bypassing the stoup of holy water to make his slow way up the aisle.
The white altar cloth gleamed in the flickering light of candles and the glow from the eternal flame in the small brass tabernacle which had been placed beneath the simple wooden cross. Beams of sunlight poured through the stained glass of the windows where motes of dust danced and shimmered in the blue and red, and the only sound to break the silence were his footsteps on the flagstone floor.
‘You’re late!’
The voice of doom resounded through the church and up into the high rafters.
Ron nearly jumped out of his skin, and his heart skipped a beat before it began to hammer wildly against his ribs. And then he saw the dark-clad figure standing in the shadows by the pulpit. ‘To be sure, Father, I thought God himself had come down to strike me,’ he managed. ‘Is it a heart attack you’ll be wishing on me?’
Father O’Leary smiled as he stepped from the shadows in his long, rusty-black cassock. ‘If you didn’t have such a guilty conscience, you’d not be afeared of a voice in the stillness, Ronan Reilly.’
Ron refused to let him see how rattled he was, and he met the Dublin man’s amused gaze squarely. ‘Is it not said, Father, let him who has no sin cast the first stone?’
‘Well remembered, Ronan,’ replied the priest. ‘I’ll make a believer of you yet.’
‘I wouldn’t count upon it,’ he retorted gruffly. Father Peter O’Leary was at least eighty-five, but his face was barely lined, his brown eyes were lively and his mind was as sharp as a tack. Short and stout, he had to look up at Ron, but strangely, Ron always felt small and intimidated in his presence.
Ron broke the eye contact first. ‘Well, I’m here now, so let’s get on with it, eh? I’ve things to be doing.’
The priest regarded him from head to foot, and clucked in disapproval at the old corduroy trousers held up with garden twine, the faded shirt and ragged sweater. ‘You could have made an effort, Ronan.’
‘I’ve been out ferreting with the dogs,’ he replied shortly. ‘No point in dressing up to kill your God’s creatures.’
The other man sighed in acceptance that Ron was a lost cause, especially when it came to his attire. ‘When was the last time you made a confession, Ronan?’ He held up his hand as Ron opened his mouth to reply. ‘And I don’t mean all the times you’ve confessed your shenanigans to Rosie or Peggy, either,’ he said sternly.
‘Well, now, it seems to me that me sins are me own to be dealing with – and although I know you enjoy hearing all the wicked things your parishioners tell you, I’ll not be adding to your entertainment today. Besides, it would take too long.’
‘I have all afternoon,’ Father O’Leary countered, undeterred.
Ron shook his head and, reaching into his trouser pocket, drew out a quarter-bottle of whisky. He saw the priest’s eyes light up as he’d known they would. ‘This is good twenty-year-old malt. Why don’t we share it while I listen to your usual lecture? I’m sure your God already knows all me sins, so we can cut out the middle man, and I’ll rattle off a couple of Hail Mary’s as penance. What do you say, Father?’
The priest tore his gaze from the bottle and shook his head, his expression mournful. ‘You’re the very divil for tempting me this way, Ronan Reilly. To be sure, there’s little point in you pretending to do penance when you lack an ounce of remorse and have absolutely no intention of mending your ways.’
Ron chuckled. ‘Aye, temptation’s a terrible thing, and I’ve always found it easy to give in to it.’ He turned the bottle so it caught the coloured rays of light coming from the windows. ‘But it would be an awful shame to turn down fine malt whisky when it’s so hard to come by these days.’
Peter O�
�Leary raised a bushy eyebrow, his gaze once more returning to the bottle. ‘I’ll not be bothering to ask you where you got it,’ he said in defeat, ‘but if you promise to come with Rosie to Mass every Sunday, I’ll forget about listening to your confession for now.’
‘Good wee man,’ said Ron, giving him such a hefty pat on the shoulder that the little man sagged beneath the weight of it. ‘To be sure, I’ll do me best – but I’ll not be promising, mind.’
The priest held up a warning finger. ‘You’ll be here every Sunday,’ he said sternly, ‘and I will test you on the catechism before we go much further. If you fail, I will be forced to inform the cardinal, and he will have no choice but to put a stop to the wedding.’ He regarded Ron from beneath his heavy brows. ‘And ’twill be you having to explain why to Rosie.’
Ron experienced a sharp stab of panic and covered it up by turning towards the vestry. ‘Ach,’ he said airily, ‘that’s no bother. To be sure, it was drummed into me well enough as a wee boy, so I’ve not forgotten a word of it.’ He rummaged about in the vestry cupboard. ‘Where have you hidden the glasses?’
‘Where they always are,’ the priest replied dryly, reaching to the shelf below the small washbasin.
Ron opened the bottle and was disconcerted to see a glint of something approaching triumph in the other man’s eyes. He knew then that his ruse hadn’t worked, and if he didn’t do some very thorough homework, he would be in deep and terminal trouble with Rosie. But how to get hold of the necessary books without having to admit he’d forgotten nearly everything he’d learned as a boy?
To his consternation, he found his hand was shaking as he poured generous measures into both glasses. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, before downing his in one.
Father O’Leary smiled and repeated the Irish toast. He savoured the whisky in silence, his brown eyes all too knowing as they regarded Ron. ‘I could test you now, if you’d like,’ he said, after draining his glass.
