On a Turning Tide

by Ellie Dean

  ‘By the way,’ she said once the babies were asleep and in their prams again, ‘Ron and Rosie have decided to hold their wedding at the Town Hall. It’s the same date, as Rosie needs time to get things ready for the big day.’ She gathered Daisy onto her lap. ‘And Daisy is going to be a bridesmaid, so I’ve got material to find and some sewing to do.’

  ‘I’m sure Ron’s relieved,’ said Kitty with a glint of humour in her blue eyes. ‘He never struck me as someone who felt easy in a church. And talking of sewing, are you getting nervous about taking on that new position at Solly’s?’

  ‘A bit,’ Peggy confessed. ‘There are one or two women there who might take umbrage over my promotion. They’ve been there for years and will probably think they should have got it.’

  ‘Solly had his reasons for picking you over them,’ said Charlotte. ‘I shouldn’t let their jealousy get to you.’

  ‘I’ll try not to, but the first week or two could be tricky. Winnie Holman and Gladys Bright are a force to be reckoned with if you get on the wrong side of them. I’ll have to watch my back.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll cope admirably,’ said Kitty. ‘I remember when I was flying there was a girl who was always sniping at me for no real reason, and I found that if I just kept on smiling and ignoring what she said, she soon got tired of it and gave up.’

  ‘Do you miss flying?’ asked Peggy.

  ‘Yes,’ the girls chorused before sharing a chuckle. ‘We’d both love to be back in the air, but now we have our babies, it’s out of the question,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we’ve given up on the idea completely, though,’ said Kitty. ‘Once Roger and Freddy and the others come home, we thought we might start up our own charter business – delivering people and goods all over the country. With four fliers in the house, we can take it in turns to mind the children and do the runs. It seems too silly for all of us to be grounded, and the men will need something to do to keep them out of mischief once they get back – especially Freddy.’

  ‘Goodness,’ breathed Peggy. ‘What a very exciting idea. But won’t it be expensive to set up?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Kitty on a laugh, ‘but there are bound to be unwanted aircraft lying about once this war’s over, and I wouldn’t mind betting we could find some bargains. We’d start with one plane and see how we go, but the plan is to have a small fleet eventually, and to take on more pilots.’

  Peggy’s smile was warm with affection as she hugged each girl in turn. ‘Well, I wish you all the luck in the world,’ she said. ‘But for now, I’d better get home. Ivy’s in charge of tea, and if I don’t keep an eye on her, she’ll burn it to a cinder.’

  The Colonel returned after an hour, and having signed the letters, he sat back in his chair and regarded Doris with some concern. ‘I don’t wish to pry, Mrs Williams,’ he began tentatively, ‘but you’ve seemed rather distracted these past few days. Is something troubling you?’

  Doris was startled by his astuteness, for she’d thought she’d hidden her concern over Chumley rather well. ‘It’s this war,’ she said lightly. ‘There seems to be no end to it, and it’s getting rather wearing.’

  His gaze remained steady. ‘It’s tiring us all,’ he murmured. ‘But now Rommel’s committed suicide and the Allies have liberated Athens, things are improving by the day.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, but this weather doesn’t help lift the spirits much.’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t,’ he replied, staring gloomily out of the window to the damp and dreary sprawl of grey factory roofs beneath the leaden skies. ‘Perhaps we should cheer ourselves up by having dinner at the club tonight?’ he said. ‘There’s a rumour the chef will be cooking roast beef with all the trimmings.’

  Doris felt a stab of alarm that even the temptation of roast beef couldn’t quell. ‘That sounds heavenly, but I can’t, I’m afraid,’ she said rather too quickly. ‘I promised to have supper with my sister Peggy tonight.’

  ‘Oh, that is a shame,’ he murmured. ‘Another evening then?’

  Doris nodded, feeling the colour rising in her face at the lie she’d told him. ‘I look forward to it,’ she replied, turning her attention to the pile of invoices. ‘Until then, we have these to go through for the government auditors who’ll be coming on Monday,’ she said briskly.

  They worked through the rest of the afternoon and it was almost five o’clock by the time they left the office. The Colonel offered his arm and they shared his large umbrella as they walked through the factory estate and past the guard at the gate.

  There was an uneasy silence between them for once, and to break it, Doris pointed to the building works going on to restore the dairy which had been flattened some months ago by a doodlebug. ‘It looks as if Mr Jenkins will have his dairy up and running properly again soon,’ she chattered. ‘It must have been an awful bind having to milk his cows by hand every day.’

  ‘I suppose it must,’ he murmured, clearly not that interested in the Welshman or his dairy.

  Doris wasn’t looking where she was going and stepped in a puddle. ‘Damn and blast it,’ she muttered crossly as icy water splashed her good stockings and soaked through her best shoes.

  The Colonel came to a halt and turned to face her. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing bothering you, Doris?’ he asked. ‘Only you seem very out of sorts.’

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Please don’t fuss.’

  He regarded her questioningly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, realising she’d been rather abrupt. ‘It’s just that these are my best shoes and stockings, and this rain is really getting on my nerves.’

  He said nothing, merely tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm and set off again, but Doris could tell that he was puzzled by her edginess.

  They left Mafeking Terrace and began the steep descent into Ladysmith Close. The view of the town and the Channel was lost in the low cloud and sweeping curtains of rain which came in from the east – but nothing could mask the sight of the distinctive Rolls-Royce which was parked outside Doris’s bungalow.

  ‘I say,’ murmured John. ‘Isn’t that Chumley’s Rolls? I wonder what it’s doing here?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’ Doris felt like a rabbit caught in the light of a poacher’s lamp, but somehow managed to keep walking, praying all the while that the chauffeur would drive away as she was with John.

  But the Rolls-Royce stayed where it was, and as they approached, the chauffeur leapt out, opened an umbrella and the back door.

  Doris thought her heart would stop as Walter Chumley emerged armed with an enormous bunch of hothouse flowers.

  ‘What’s all this?’ murmured John.

  ‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ she managed. ‘Just ignore him.’

  But Wally Chumley was not a man to be ignored. He stood beneath the umbrella and blocked their way. ‘Mrs Williams, at last,’ he boomed. ‘You are a difficult lady to please, so I thought I’d bring you these in the hope they’d brighten this gloomy day before we go to dinner.’

  Doris felt John tense, was aware of his confusion as he looked to her for an explanation, but her whole focus was on Chumley. ‘I’m not coming to dinner,’ she blustered. ‘Not tonight, or any other night.’

  Chumley blatantly ignored John and thrust the flowers at Doris. ‘Lovely flowers for a lovely lady,’ he said with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. ‘I do enjoy the cut and thrust of the chase, Mrs Williams, and although I’m disappointed that you’ll not be dining with me tonight, I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon.’

  Doris clutched the flowers to her bosom as he doffed his hat, climbed into the car and was driven off. She was almost numb with shock at his audacity, and unable to think or even speak.

  ‘I understand now why you couldn’t have dinner with me tonight,’ John said gruffly. ‘I didn’t realise Chumley was on the scene.’

  ‘He’s not on the scene,’ she snapped, completely unnerved. ‘N
ever has been.’

  ‘But this isn’t the first time his car has been seen outside your door,’ said John, holding her gaze. ‘What’s going on, Doris?’

  She swallowed and tried desperately to get her thoughts in order and her panic under control. ‘Absolutely nothing on my part, I assure you. Suffice it to say, Chumley has been pursuing me for some reason and sending me unwanted gifts to try and bribe me into having dinner with him. I’ve turned him down flat, having no wish to get involved with him or his silly games.’

  ‘I see,’ he said softly, his steady gaze fixed upon her. ‘So you weren’t lying to me about having supper with Peggy tonight?’

  Doris swallowed, and looked away. ‘No … well, yes, I was, but I …’

  ‘There’s no need to explain,’ he said sadly. He tipped his hat to her. ‘I’ll see you in the office on Monday.’

  Doris stood in the rain clutching the flowers as John turned and walked swiftly up his garden path, taking the umbrella with him. The door closed behind him and the only sound in the street was the splatter of raindrops on the pavement and the chatter of the wind through the remaining leaves on the trees.

  Suddenly aware that everything was being eagerly watched from behind nearby curtains, she dug her key out of her coat pocket and ran indoors. Once the door was closed behind her, she let the flowers drop to the floor and burst into tears of anger, shame and frustration. Everything was ruined, and John would never believe a word she said from now on – and all because that bastard Chumley wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Eventually she stopped crying and dragged off her sodden coat and headscarf. Furious with herself for letting Chumley get under her skin and reduce her to tears, she picked up the soggy flowers which had been crushed and broken during the exchange, and threw them out in the general direction of the compost heap.

  Feeling much calmer, she made a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to think about how she could convince John that she wasn’t a liar – that she’d only fibbed about Peggy because she hadn’t wanted to go to the Officers’ Club in case Chumley was there. And to work out why Chumley was pursuing her – once she knew that, she could find a way to put a stop to it.

  4

  The piece of shrapnel in Ron’s back was giving him real gyp this Sunday morning, and he put it down to the cold, damp weather and the fact he really should remember he wasn’t eighteen any more. Rosie weighed very little, but lifting her up like that did him no good at all – especially when followed by a night of enthusiastic lovemaking.

  He’d left the Anchor whilst it was still dark so as not to set the gossips’ tongues wagging, and had returned to Beach View for a hot bath in the hope it would ease the pain. However, one bathroom in a busy household could never be a haven of peace, and it wasn’t long before Fran was urgently knocking on the door.

  He emerged from the bathroom wrapped in his old dressing gown, muttered a good morning to Fran who was due to start her shift in the hospital theatre within the hour and made way for Cordelia as she came bustling out of her bedroom.

  ‘What are you doing, lurking about here in a state of undress?’ she demanded crossly.

  ‘Waiting for you to get out of my way so I can get downstairs,’ he replied. ‘What’s bitten you this morning? You’re not usually this nice to me so early.’

  Her expression was scathing. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, and the highest form of vulgarity,’ she retorted.

  ‘Ach, yes, Cordelia, but a smile costs nothing, and you’re awful pretty when you smile,’ he teased.

  She swiped at his arm. ‘Get away with you, you old scallywag,’ she said, trying not to laugh. ‘Soft words don’t impress me.’

  Cordelia headed for the stairlift contraption that Rita and Peter Ryan had built for her so she had the freedom to come and go about the house as she pleased. Picking up Queenie who’d taken to sitting on it every morning for a free ride, she tucked her onto her lap and strapped herself in. Pushing down the handle to engage the motor, she gave a regal wave of her walking stick and sailed slowly down the stairs to the hall, the cat sitting like a masthead on the good ship Cordelia.

  Ron followed, admiring the engineering of the stairlift, and the huge benefit it had brought to Cordelia. He went down to his basement bedroom to get dressed in his oldest clothes, for after walking the dogs and visiting his son Frank, he would be giving the Anchor’s chimney a good sweep before painting the ceiling in the bar. In between, he’d be visiting Father O’Leary, but he was trying not to think about that.

  The rain had stopped, so after a breakfast of tea and toast, he left Beach View, and was soon tramping up the hill with the dogs haring ahead of him. His back didn’t like it and, unusually, he had to stop frequently to ease it before he could carry on.

  He’d never given much thought to his age, and certainly never considered himself to be old, for he’d always been fit, the shrapnel a minor niggle he’d learned to live with. But today the shrapnel was really bothering him and he felt every one of his – how many years? He paused to add them up and was shocked to discover that he was sixty-seven.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I never thought I was that ancient. ’Tis no wonder I’m falling to pieces.’ He squared his shoulders and strode out, determined not to let that unwelcome knowledge slow him down. He was about to get married to a lively and rather demanding, sensual woman – he’d have to look to his laurels if he was to continue to keep her happy.

  At last he crested the hill and made his way across the flatter ground to the steep track that led down to Tamarisk Bay. There had once been a number of fishing boats beached on the shingle, but now there was only one, and the lobster pots and trawling nets lay idle beneath tarpaulins.

  Three cottages nestled beneath the cliff, well above the high-tide mark, facing the arc of the tiny bay and the sharply sloping shingle beach. Two of them had been abandoned at the start of the war and were showing marked signs of neglect as the elements ate away at them, spiders weaved their webs across the mouldy windows, and wild ivy and brambles took over. The house on the end was in better shape, the wooden planking of the walls freshly painted, the roof, gutters and chimney in good repair and the windows neatly shuttered from the wind and rain – proof, if needed, that Frank had too much time on his hands.

  Ron stood for a moment on the bank at the top of the rutted track where the tamarisk grew in abundance amid the long marram grass and sea sedge. This was the house his father had helped him buy just after Frank had been born, and where he’d raised him and his younger brother, Jim, after Mary had died. It held a lot of memories – not all of them good – and he’d gladly handed it over at a peppercorn rent to Frank on his marriage to Pauline, and moved in with Jim and Peggy at Beach View.

  Yet, as his gaze trawled the beach which the army had declared too small to be mined, he could still remember the pleasure of foraging the shore for rock samphire, wild fennel, sea beet, lovage and spinach to eke out the meals when the catch had been poor. To the uneducated eye a shingle beach held only weeds, but to Ron it was a storehouse of nutritious vegetables – the rock pools a source of shellfish – and he knew Frank went foraging to this day.

  The dogs raced ahead of him and he found Frank sitting in the wheelhouse of the last of the family’s fishing boats staring out to sea. There was no sign of his moody and difficult wife, Pauline, which was a relief, for Ron found her tiresome in the extreme.

  The shingle crunched beneath Ron’s boots and Frank leaned out of his shelter to watch his approach as the dogs hurtled past him and into the shallows. ‘Hello, Da. What brings you down here on a Sunday morning?’ he boomed.

  ‘To be sure, ’tis a lovely day and I needed to get away for a wee while.’

  Frank grinned. ‘Rosie finding you too many things to do, is she?’

  ‘Aye, she is that,’ replied Ron, clambering into the boat to sit beside him. ‘If that’s tea you’ve got brewing, I’d be glad of it,’ he said, eyeing the spirit stove
and whistling kettle.

  Frank was still smiling as he poured the tea into two tin mugs and added generous slugs of whisky. ‘To chase away the cold,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Pauline’s not here, then,’ said Ron, returning the wink.

  ‘She’s gone to work for the morning,’ Frank replied, ‘so what she doesn’t see won’t hurt her.’ He regarded his father with gentle pleasure. ‘It’s good to see you, Da.’

  Ron took the tin mug and breathed in the aroma of whisky and good, strong, milkless tea as he regarded his eldest son with deep affection and pride. Frank was a big, handsome man of few words who’d just turned fifty. He had an expressive face and a thoughtful disposition which Pauline found infuriating, and Ron considered to be wise as he was married to the sort of woman who took umbrage at the slightest thing.

  Frank had fought in the First War and done a couple of years’ service in this one, and Ron knew he was finding it hard to settle down again now he was at a bit of a loose end, and had time to worry about his only surviving son, Brendon, who was with the fleet in the Mediterranean. The two other boys had lost their lives in the Atlantic on one of the family’s large trawlers which had been requisitioned as a minesweeper – and their loss still cast a long shadow over everyone.

  ‘How are things with you?’ asked Ron, after taking a tentative sip of the scalding drink and burning his lips in the process.

  ‘The same as always,’ Frank rumbled. ‘Pauline’s still on edge over Brendon, but she’s less fraught because that office job at the Red Cross place has given her something else to focus on, which can only be a good thing. We’re rubbing along a bit better now we share our thoughts and talk things over.’

  ‘That’s good,’ murmured Ron, thankful that his son was having a quieter, more settled life since Pauline’s mother, Dolly, had come down for a visit. ‘Dolly must have pulled her up short,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘Aye, Dolly saved our marriage. I don’t know what she said to Pauline before she left, but it worked, and life has been a lot easier since.’