‘We’re going with you,’ she told the sergeant.
‘It’s best if you stay here, Mrs Pengelly—’
‘Sergeant, I’ve never been rude to a police officer in my life before, but if you try to stop me walking these moors tonight I shall demonstrate the extent of my vocabulary.’
‘I’m coming too,’ Butch said, standing close to her and Nick and presenting a united front.
‘Of course you are, Butch,’ Skye said, knowing how important this was to him.
* * *
The night was overcast by now, and the sky-tips loomed up ahead of them like ghostly sentinels. There were huge numbers of people about now, as word had spread through the towns, and police, soldiers and local folk all joined in the search.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Skye said to Nick, as the shouting for the girls echoed up and down the moors. ‘Even if they called back, we’d never hear them with all this din going on. Can’t they see how stupid it is?’
‘We should have let the police do their job, Skye. We’re only adding to the confusion.’
‘But we’re involved. We couldn’t sit at home twiddling our thumbs when Daphne might be – might be—’ She was choked suddenly, as the realisation of just what could have happened to Daphne struck her forcibly.
These moors had long been mined for china clay, but they were also criss-crossed with old mine shafts from the days when tin was king. Theo Tremayne’s own natural grandfather, Sam Tremayne, had died when Ben Killigrew’s rail tracks had collapsed taking clayworkers on an outing to the sea.
The thoughts flitted in and out of her head like a dire presentiment of what could be happening. Her grandmother’s best friend, Celia Penry, had drowned in a clay pool belonging to Killigrew Clay. Accidents had happened over the years on these moors, and some things that weren’t accidents…
Already they seemed to have been searching for hours with the dim lights of the torches like useless glow-worms in the dark. The old moorswoman had been questioned and said she had seen the children, but it was hours ago. Skye could still hear her indignant screeching and cursing as the police insisted on searching her hovel, before reeling out of it, having found nothing but the stink of her and her animals.
Then at last the piercing sound of a whistle stopped her heartbeat for a long moment. It was the signal that something or someone had been found…
‘Dear God, let them be safe,’ she whispered aloud, and with Nick’s and Butch’s hands holding tightly to hers, she struggled to reach the area where the sound was coming from, somewhere beyond the old Larnie Stone.
Chapter Ten
It was inevitable that Daphne would see herself as a heroine. She had saved Tilly’s life, she told Butch dramatically, by keeping her warm until they were rescued.
They had both been taken to hospital, where Tilly was treated for cuts, bruises and concussion, and Daphne had her sprained ankle strapped up. The nurses petted them, and visitors brought them sweets from their rations. They remained there for two days for observation, and were then allowed home. But if Daphne thought she was going to get off lightly just because everyone was relieved that no real harm had come to her and Tilly, she was very much mistaken.
. ‘Do you know just how wicked and stupid you were, by going off like that?’ Skye railed at her. ‘Anything could have happened to you on the moors at night, and I’ve had nightmares just thinking about it. You were a very foolish girl, Daphne, and you’ll be lucky if you’re allowed back to school at all after the summer holidays.’
‘Good,’ Daphne screamed at her, still wrapped up in her own little euphoric cloud, and not wanting to hear anything different. ‘I don’t want to go back to that bleedin’ stupid tin-pot little school anyway.’
‘Daphne, I’ve told you before about using such language,’ Skye said, incensed. ‘I won’t have it in my house.’
‘Well, we can soon change that an’ all, can’t we?’ Daphne bawled back. ‘I don’t wanna be in your house, neither. You’re not my mother, and I hate you!’
Skye felt as if she had been slapped in the face. Lord knew she had done her best with this girl, and it had got her precisely nowhere. She turned away from the sofa where Daphne was sitting in state with her feet up to rest the swollen ankle, and fought the urge to retaliate at this little tyrant. And then she heard the sound of sobbing, and Daphne’s voice, thin and weak and aching with remorse.
‘I didn’t mean it, Mrs Pen. I don’t hate you, honest.’
Skye turned back to her at once, kneeling on the carpet beside her and gathering the stiff little body in her arms. So what if she was being a sucker and Daphne was using her the way she always used people? The evacuees were as much war victims as any wounded soldier. Daphne was in her care, and she had to see this through, no matter what.
‘It’s all right, honey. We all say things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment, and I dare say your ankle’s giving you hell, isn’t it?’ she said, giving her a let-out to save her pride, and knowing it.
Daphne nodded. ‘You shouldn’t use such words, Mrs Pen,’ she said with a ghost of a smile, and Skye laughed as they hugged one another, both perfectly aware that Daphne was careful to wince dramatically for maximum effect.
* * *
‘It’s true what she said, though,’ she said to Nick later. ‘I’m not her mother, and I should remember it. One of these days, her mother will want her back, and I’ll miss her.’
‘Like you’d miss a thorn in your foot, you mean,’ Nick commented, never able to be as forgiving as Skye.
‘That too,’ she grinned. ‘She can be impossible, but she’s still vulnerable, and she’s got a birthday in August, Nick. She’ll be in double figures, as our children used to say. We should give her a small party, don’t you think?’
‘If you like,’ Nick said. ‘As long as I don’t have to be there. But who are you going to ask, anyway? Do you imagine the Greens will allow their ewe-lamb to come after Daphne nearly killed her?’
‘Stop exaggerating, and yes, of course we should ask Tilly, and a few more of her school friends. It will be a nice gesture, and by the time they go back to school after the holidays, hopefully all this will be forgotten.’
In her heart, she knew it was a vain hope. Daphne would be bragging about the incident for ever more, and had begged for a copy of the Informer newspaper for herself after David Kingsley had felt obliged to put the whole story in print, much against Skye’s wishes.
‘It has to be done,’ he’d said. ‘Everyone’s got wind of what happened, Skye, and it’s better that they get a tempered version in print than garbled stories spread from mouth to mouth. Before you know it, they’ll have Daphne tarred with the same brush as old Helza, and there are still superstitious folk prepared to believe in witches and the like. You don’t want any scaremongering to result in the kid being hounded out of New World, with you in the thick of it.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said with a shudder. ‘Go ahead then, but don’t make her out to be too much of a heroine. She’s preening herself enough as it is.’
* * *
‘My mother’s going gaga,’ Wenna declared to Rita, incredulous at the news. ‘This appalling child has turned the whole town upside down and managed to get her name into the newspaper as if she’s a little angel instead of a villain, and now Mom’s going to give her a birthday party.’
‘Not jealous, are you, Pengo?’ Rita said, too excited over the fact that at long last they were going overseas to entertain the troops, to bother too much over one wayward child in a remote Cornish town she’d never heard of before.
‘Jealous! Of Daphne Hollis?’
‘Well, she seems to have conned your mother all right. What did it say in that newspaper cutting? “Daphne is very contrite about her misdemeanour. Mr and Mrs Pengelly have forgiven her for her irresponsible behaviour, and trust that others will do the same.”’
‘My mother’s a very forgiving person,’ Wenna defended her. ‘She stuck up fo
r my brother when he enlisted under age and refused to let my stepfather bring him back home.’
‘That’s the first time you’ve referred to him as your stepfather,’ Rita noted. ‘In fact, you hardly mention him at all. Don’t you get on?’
‘Of course we do. He’s a darling, and I said it without thinking. We’re one big happy family,’ she added glibly.
‘Cripes, do such things exist? Don’t answer that. Where do you think they’ll be sending us, anyway?’
‘Somewhere warm, I hope,’ Wenna said, stretching like a sleek cat. ‘Somewhere where the sun shines all day—’
‘And the Yanks are ready to play all night,’ Rita added with a grin. ‘That’ll be enough to raise our temperatures. But with our luck, it’ll be the back of beyond.’
She eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘So are you going to tell me who your other letter was from? The one you read mighty quickly and then tucked away.’
‘No,’ Wenna said flatly.
‘It wasn’t from your Canadian then?’
‘He’s not my Canadian.’
‘It was from him though, wasn’t it?’
Wenna sighed impatiently. Rita could be as tenacious as a limpet when she wanted to know something.
‘All right, so it was. He wrote to my aunt’s house, and she passed it on to my mother, and it finally got to me.’
‘And?’ persisted Rita.
‘And nothing. It was a letter to a friend, that’s all. I doubt that we’ll meet again, anyway.’
‘That’s not what Vera says, is it?’
Wenna looked blank for a moment. The only Vera she knew was one of her mother’s cousins, and she had died years ago… and then she heard Rita humming tunelessly, and realised she was referring to the song that Vera Lynn had made her own.
‘You’re letting all this sentimental romance stuff go to your head, Rita.’
‘And you’re not? Are you telling me you don’t put your heart and soul into those slushy songs you sing? Especially when you go all gooey-eyed over “I haven’t said thanks for that lovely weekend”…’
‘That’s different. That’s work,’ Wenna said crisply.
‘So when you come off stage with tears in your eyes and your throat working overtime – that’s work too, is it?’
‘I’m fed up with this conversation, and you’re getting far too nosey,’ Wenna said.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about it all the same. She couldn’t stop thinking about Harry Mack either, nor the sweet things he had said in his letter. She hadn’t wanted to read them, nor to remember his voice, nor the look in his eyes when she had sung the words of the traditional Scottish song he had requested at Aunt Betsy’s house.
But somehow, no matter how hard she tried to put such emotions out of her personal range and limit them only to her stage performance, it was gradually becoming impossible to do so. The shock of losing Fanny and Austin, and everything that had happened since – including getting used to the sight of the badly wounded and shell-shocked servicemen who were brought by nurses to hear their concerts – had made her close her mind to becoming involved with anyone else for the duration.
She gave a wry smile as the phrase entered her head. It was one of the phrases they all used so thoughtlessly now. But the duration of what? This terrible war? Her lifetime? Who knew how long that might be? How did any of them know? She shuddered, knowing how fragile life could be these days.
And the sweet, polite, handsome Harry Mack was in the thick of it, maybe flying regular sorties over Berlin by now, and longing for a letter from a girl he knew, just to have a breath of home. So what sort of a monster was she to refuse?
* * *
‘Yer going to give me a birfday party?’ Daphne echoed suspiciously when she heard. ‘Me Ma would still be givin’ me a cuff round the ears of a night, for what I done.’
‘I told you, it’s history now, Daphne,’ Skye said. ‘You have to try to forget it and just be as pleasant as you can at school and not cause any more trouble.’
‘Why do I have to keep goin’ there?’ she said, as sullen as ever. ‘Nobody plays wiv me now—’
‘Yes they do,’ Butch broke in. ‘Don’t tell such lies, Daphne. You should see ’er, Mrs Pen. She’s still telling everybody how she saved Tilly Green’s life, and as Tilly can’t remember much of it, she believes it an’ all. They all hang around Daphne when she tells her tales.’
‘They ain’t tales, anyway,’ Daphne scowled. ‘It was all in the paper for everybody to see. And I don’t remember you saving anybody’s life, donkey-drawers!’
‘All right, that’s enough,’ Skye said, seeing another battle about to begin. ‘The fact is, Daphne is going to have a birthday party. Auntie Lily’s two boys will come, and you can choose which of your school friends to invite, honey.’
‘I bet their mums won’t let ’em come,’ Butch sniggered.
She turned on him. ‘Butch, please go into the garden and pull up a lettuce for tea, while Daphne and I talk.’
‘I hate lettuce,’ she said at once. ‘It’s yukky stuff, and it’s fer rabbits, not yoomans.’
‘Well, you’ll either eat a lettuce sandwich for tea or go without,’ Skye said grimly. ‘I don’t exactly like seeing my lovely flower garden turned into a vegetable patch, either, but we all have to dig for victory these days, and grow what we can. So are you going to tell me which of your friends you want to invite to your party, or shall we forget it?’
‘As long as you don’t give ’em lettuce, then,’ Daphne said, scowling.
‘We’ll try to do better than that,’ Skye promised.
* * *
‘There’s something on her mind,’ she reported to Nick that evening. ‘I thought she’d be pleased about the party, but she just droops about the place and scowls at everyone.’
‘She always did,’ Nick replied.
‘But not like this. I wonder if the ordeal on the moors upset her more than we realised. Tilly was concussed, but Daphne probably stayed awake half the night until we found her, imagining all kinds of horrible things. She must have some sensitivity, Nick.’
‘I doubt it. But if anybody can find out what’s bothering her, it’s you. You’re the one she trusts the most.’
‘Do you think it’s because Butch is leaving school now and going to work at the pottery?’
‘Why should she care about that?’ he said, too busy with his own work problems to worry overmuch about Daphne Hollis, who, he thought, could very well take care of herself.
‘I don’t know. Maybe she feels we’re favouring him. His father’s dead, and I know he wants to stay with us when the war ends, now that he’s got nobody else. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I wouldn’t object. He’s a cute boy.’
Nick laughed. ‘You’re too soft with them, Skye. I can’t imagine anyone else calling Butch cute.’
‘Well, so he is. You have to see beyond that large, awkward exterior to the good-natured person inside.’
He slid an arm around her shoulders and kissed her. ‘And you would, wouldn’t you? He’s not the only one who’s cute and good-natured around here.’
She kissed him back and then went back to her theme.
‘So what do you think is troubling Daphne?’
‘Lord knows, and he’s not telling,’ he said carelessly.
* * *
‘O’ course,’ Daphne said in a superior tone to the admiring crowd of little girls sitting in a circle around her in the school playground, ‘I don’t really want a bleedin’ party at all, but Mrs Pen wants me ter have one, so yer all invited, if yer wanna come.’
‘My mum might not let me,’ Tilly said uneasily.
‘There’ll’ be more grub fer the rest of us then, won’t there?’ Daphne shot at her. ‘Yer mums will have to bring yer all anyway, and Mrs Pen’s written out the invitations.’
Since Daphne had never had anything so grand happening to her in her life before, she handed them round as solemnly as if they were made of gol
d. Despite her airy voice, she desperately wanted every one of them to come and see the posh place where plain old Daphne Hollis lived now.
It was a bit different to the two-up, two-downer in the East End where she’d been born, crammed in with her Ma and Dad and all her brothers and sisters, though as far as the tiny house went, things had got easier when one after another of the younger ones had died of diphtheria. At least then the six of them hadn’t had to sleep head to foot in one room in three narrow beds, all sweaty little bodies and smelly feet and sniffling noses. Daphne swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat, remembering those contrary little devils, bawling and screeching the night away when her Ma and Dad were down the pub, until he’d gone off and was never heard of again. She didn’t really miss any of them. Well, not often.
What she did miss more and more, though she wasn’t going to tell a living soul, was her Ma. Only Daphne herself knew how bruised and bewildered she was that her Ma never wrote to her now, except to send her a miserable little note from time to time, saying she hoped Daphne was being a good girl for the lady who was looking after her, while Daphne dutifully wrote a letter home once a month.
She had already written an extra one, telling her Ma about the birthday party. Her stiff-necked pride wouldn’t let her beg her Ma to come to Cornwall for it, and anyway, she knew her Ma was far too busy working in her munitions factory to bother coming all this way for an afternoon. Or far too busy making eyes at the Yanks… but Daphne didn’t want to think about that.
By the time her birthday arrived, a small group of Truro mothers and foster mothers had brought their daughters to New World, most of them curious to see this grand house, and confident that Mrs Pengelly wouldn’t let things get too riotous with the unruly Daphne and her evacuee friends.
‘Mrs Pen’s made me a cake,’ Daphne announced, the minute anyone arrived. ‘You can all ’ave a piece, as long as there’s enough left to keep a piece fer me Ma.’
A Brighter Tomorrow Page 18
