‘Why shouldn’t I be? He’s a honey,’ Skye said.
* * *
The mood of the whole country was lifted by the fact that D-Day, as it became known, had been a success. But there was a price to pay. Early news reports made little of the terrible toll of killed and wounded in the battles of the first few weeks, but eventually the true figures were reported.
In any case, logical reasoning made anyone question how such a heavy bombardment could meet the expected fierce resistance without heavy casualties on both sides – though for families who had lost loved ones, logical reasoning didn’t come into it, of course. Those like the Pengellys, who hadn’t had to face receiving a dreaded yellow telegram, could still hold on to hope for their sons and daughters.
‘At least we can be thankful that Wenna’s safely back in England now,’ Skye said, but she spoke almost guiltily, still horrified that a family in Truro had heard that their two sons had both been killed in the first wave of Normandy landings.
They had heard nothing of Olly, but by now she was more than ready to hold on to the tired old cliché that no news was good news, however futile. It was by far preferable to thinking the worst.
The wireless news bulletins assured the public that the war was turning in the Allies’ favour at last, and that was the important thing. Breaching the Normandy beaches was the first step in liberating France. The recurring theme on everyone’s lips now was that the war would soon be over…
And then came a new horror.
* * *
The telephone rang at Killigrew House late one evening in the middle of June. Seb picked it up quickly, knowing that telephone calls at a late hour held terror for his mother these days. He was thankful he’d answered it when he recognised the cultured voice of Captain Giles Peterson.
‘Have you heard the news, Sebastian?’ he said formally. ‘The Germans have launched their secret weapon, and the city’s in a state of panic, though the very south of England’s seen the worst of it so far. They’re calling it the doodlebug or the buzz-bomb – you take your pick. Whatever it’s called, it’s causing hellish damage.’
‘Is this the V-1 bomb?’ Seb said sharply. ‘We’ve all heard about it, even down here in the sticks.’ They weren’t all country hicks in Cornwall.
‘Of course,’ Giles said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything else. But I wanted to let you know that Justin’s well enough to be moved, and I’m getting him out of London tomorrow morning before the flak really begins here. I have a friend in Derby who runs a private clinic, and he’ll continue his treatment there until we can go home to Yorkshire. I wanted to keep you informed, so that your mother wouldn’t worry for his safety. The moment we’re settled, I’ll contact you again.’
‘I appreciate your letting me know,’ Seb said, unable to doubt the other’s sincerity and genuine concern. ‘It would have worried my mother to death to learn about these V-1s flying about, knowing Justin was still in a London hospital.’
‘Well, we’ll soon be well out of range of the devilish weapons. Do you know much about them?’
Seb realised he wanted to keep him talking. Make contact. Establish a rapport. The way people did with their lover’s family. He made himself remember that Justin was dependent on this man, and forced his own feelings of distaste aside.
‘I know they’re high-speed craft and carry nearly a ton of explosive,’ Seb said, dredging up all he had learned.
‘And they’re already calling the area over Kent and Sussex ‘bomb alley’,’ Giles went on grimly. ‘People are being warned to take cover as soon as they hear the peculiar engine-note stop, because within fifteen seconds it will explode.’
Seb cut in. ‘Isn’t the theory behind it that as long as you can still hear it coming, you can feel safe?’
‘Yes. But who can calculate where they’ll explode? And with no pilot, what’s to stop them being sent over in daylight as well as during the night? First reports are that southern England has been as shaken by the bombardment as if it’s suffered an earthquake. Hell on earth is a more apt description.’
He spoke with crisp military precision, but it couldn’t hide the anger in his voice.
‘Then the sooner you get Justin out of the capital, the better,’ Seb heard himself say. He swallowed his pride, and added, ‘Thank God he’s got you to care for him.’
‘Those few words will mean more to both of us than I can say, Sebastian. I’ll relay them to Justin if I may.’
When the call ended Seb went into the living room where his mother and her convalescent boys were crowding around the wireless set, listening intently to the latest bulletin.
Thank God Giles Peterson had already put his mind at rest about getting Justin out of the capital, he thought now, seeing the fear in his mother’s face as the announcer relayed much of what Seb had just heard.
‘Before you start fretting unduly, Ma, that was Captain Peterson on the phone. Justin’s being moved to a clinic in Derby tomorrow for further treatment, so he’ll be well out of reach of these doodlebugs.’
‘Then let’s thank the Lord that somebody’s looking after him,’ Betsy said, almost weeping with relief.
‘Amen to that,’ muttered Seb.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite the Allies’ penetration farther and farther into Europe, hopes for peace seemed constantly thwarted as the German bombardment of London and the south-east became intensified during July, and frantic evacuation began all over again.
The doodlebugs were getting a stranglehold on the capital, and no matter how some of the newspapers tried to shield the public from the worst of it, the public demanded to know the truth. It was becoming clear that no amount of anti-aircraft gunfire seemed able to stop them.
There was no warning as to when the machines would stop their deadly approach, and once the noise of the engine ceased, you might as well say your prayers, according to many eyewitness reports in the newspaper.
It made depressing and horrifying reading, but Skye’s attention was caught by another small headline.
‘Can you credit this?’ she exclaimed. ‘The government has revealed plans for building between three and four million new houses in the first ten years after the war with proper kitchens and plenty of hot water. That must be a real comfort to people who are homeless now! What kind of tactless idiots sit on their backsides in Whitehall?’
‘They mean well,’ Nick said. ‘They’re planning for the future, and they have to look ahead, just as we all do. This war isn’t going to last for ever, and people will want decent homes to come back to. Jerry probably did us a favour in destroying some of the old slums.’
Skye stared at him in disbelief and her voice grew passionate with anger. ‘My God, sometimes I wonder if you have any compassion in you at all, Nick! How can you say such a thing? They may have been slums, but they were homes. People married and had babies there. They grew old together and they died there. There’s more to a home than a draughty old kitchen and no running water. There’s a family’s hopes and dreams—’
‘All right, don’t take on so, Skye. All I’m saying is that if people are better housed after the war, they’ll have a higher standard of living than they ever had before. You only have to compare the old clayworkers’ cottages on the moors with the smart little town houses in Truro to know the difference. You wouldn’t disagree with that, would you?’
‘No. It was just the way you said it, that’s all.’
He laughed shortly. ‘Oh well, not everyone can have your gift with words, sweetheart, especially not a stuffy old lawyer like me. I see facts where you see rainbows.’
‘Well, that’s not so bad!’ she said. ‘Everyone knows there’s a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.’
‘There’s no answer to that kind of crazy logic.’
But she declared that her prophecy about gold being at the end of a rainbow was proved right when Olly sent word that he was coming home on leave, and had “oodles” to tell them.
‘Oodles?’ Nick sai
d, as picky as ever. ‘Where the devil do they get these expressions from?’
‘It’s called youthful enthusiasm, honey,’ Skye said, too relieved and overwhelmed by the fact that all was well with their son to care about his censure.
* * *
Oliver Pengelly had broadened considerably during the last few years, not only in stature but also in maturity. He was twenty-one years old now, and the important birthday had come and gone. It hadn’t mattered a hoot to him that the only celebration had been in the mess-room with his mates where he was bumped and cheered and almost drowned in cheap booze.
He had seen and experienced far more in his years in the Royal Air Force than some men knew in a lifetime, and while some of it was good, much of it was more horrific than he would ever tell his parents.
Once he had got over the usual excitement of being home on his short leave, and they had all got used to his presence, it was only to Seb Tremayne, his closest confidant now, that he revealed the gut-wrenching terror that could make a man ‘brown-ass’ his trousers in mid-flight and be too traumatised even to notice.
On the last day of his leave, they strode over the moors as they used to do when they were children, finding a good vantage point to view the domain of the clayworks and surroundings that were still essentially theirs. Still Killigrew country. Still Tremayne and Pengelly country.
The endless moors and the Cornish sense of mystery and magic were still so peaceful and unchanging that for a while it was easy to forget that war was raging elsewhere. That men were dying and burning, and screaming in agony…
‘I sometimes wonder if Justin’s so lucky after all,’ Olly said abruptly, when they had exhausted all other topics of conversation. ‘Sometimes I think he’d be better off dead. Nothing personal, of course.’
‘Christ, Olly, what kind of a remark is that? It’s a hundred times better to be alive than dead.’
‘Not when you’re only half alive, sport. Not when the images of hell are so indelibly stored up in your head and your heart that you can still hear and smell your companions burning even if you don’t have eyes to see it happening. Those memories will never die, no matter how much you wish to God that they would,’ he ended savagely.
‘You’re speaking personally, of course,’ Seb said at once. ‘This isn’t only about Justin, is it?’
Olly shrugged. They sat cross-legged on the short stubbly moorland turf now, with the placid sight of the sea rippling like silver in the distance, and the only sound the sighing of the breeze through the bracken.
As it was Sunday, White Rivers Pottery was closed for the day, and the clayworks were still now, where they used to be constantly alive with the sounds of men and women hollering cheerfully to one another above the hum of machinery.
‘I had a good mate in my squadron,’ Olly said. ‘We shared the same dreams and ambitions for the future, and thought about going into commercial flying after the war. Going into it together, I mean. We could have made a go of it too, except that Hitler’s goons put a stop to all that.’
‘What happened?’ Seb said quietly, when Olly’s voice tailed away and he continued staring into space, as if his mind was a million miles away.
‘What do you think?’ he said, suddenly harsh. ‘Nothing exceptional. Nothing that wasn’t happening to dozens of other damn good eggs who thought they could conquer the world. We’ve all got a bloody nerve thinking we can reverse the Almighty’s plan and soar like eagles. We should leave it to the bloody birds to fly, and keep our feet on the ground like nature intended.’
Seb snapped back at him, ‘People get killed with their feet on the ground, Oliver. People get blown up and blinded. People get bombed in their own homes. You aren’t defying God’s laws by flying aircraft, if that’s what this little bit of self-hatred is all about. You’re doing a hell of a good job in helping to win this war, and you should stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself and remember it.’
Olly turned and glared at him, and after a moment he managed a hint of a smile.
‘All right, so I’m a bloody hero—’
‘Yes, you are, and so is every other man with the nerve to go up in one of those infernal machines and defend his country, so hate yourself if you must, but don’t belittle the rest of them, there’s a good chap.’
Olly glared at his cousin again. ‘Did you ever think of becoming a head doctor?’
‘No, I just use my common sense, that’s all. In this war, we can’t do without people like you and Justin, and your sisters, and the boys convalescing at Killigrew House. The ones who come home in one piece are the lucky ones.’
‘You’re forgetting somebody, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t think so—’
‘You, you bugger! Since when did you become so modest? You bought it too, and this soft-soaping is definitely not the Seb I remember. In fact, it’s more unnerving than all Hitler’s bombs,’ he said with a grin. ‘So when are we going to go out and find some girls? There are some still around who are looking for a good time, I suppose? And the day you tell me you don’t know where to find them is the day hell freezes.’
* * *
‘What did you think of Olly this time?’ Skye asked Nick when their son had gone back to his base. ‘I thought he was very on edge when he arrived, but I was glad to see that he and Seb got so pally.’
‘That’s because they did what every healthy young man should do, and went chasing girls,’ Nick said easily.
‘Well, I’m not sure that’s a very nice thing to say!’
‘How do you want me to say it? It’s natural for young men to want the company of girls, and in wartime, it becomes even more urgent to sow your wild oats.’
‘Nick!’
‘For pity’s sake, darling, I’m not suggesting he was bedding every girl who caught his eye, but when you’re never sure if you’re going to see another tomorrow, you want to make the most of your time. And don’t start reading anything prophetic into that remark.’
‘All the same, I wish you hadn’t said it,’ Skye said uneasily. ‘I’ve always been anxious about Olly—’
‘And about the girls, and everyone else you ever knew. Let’s face it, my love, you’ve turned into a worrier.’
Had she? Skye felt a little shock at his words, knowing it wasn’t the way she thought about herself.
She still thought of herself as the bright and breezy young American girl with the quick New Jersey accent who had burst in on her Cornish family for a year, and stayed for a lifetime. But she was no longer a girl, and she was in danger of letting herself slip into maudlin middle age, she thought with a sudden feeling of alarm.
‘Well, I’m not going to worry any longer,’ she said determinedly. ‘The war must be nearing the end, and I’m going to start planning my booklets properly, ready for the hordes of tourists who are going to discover us as soon as it’s all over. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t get them into shape, even if there’s not enough paper available to print them!’
‘That’s my girl,’ Nick said.
* * *
But as if to dash her determination every time it came to the surface, and remind her that the war wasn’t over yet, there was a telephone call late one afternoon at the end of July that had her heart thumping.
‘We’re at the railway station in Truro, Mrs Pen, so can yer send somebody ter fetch us, because there ain’t no bleedin’ cabs or buses to be had.’
‘Who is this?’ Skye said sharply, unable to believe what her brain was telling her.
‘It’s me and my gel. Edna Hollis and Daphne. Our ’ouse got hit by a doodlebug, and my Gary said we should get straight back down to Cornwall where it’s safe.’
Skye gasped as the woman’s words poured out with about as much emotion as if she was saying she was dropping in for afternoon tea.
‘Your house was hit? You mean it was destroyed?’ she said, knowing how stupid that sounded.
She heard Edna Hollis’s harsh laugh. ‘’Course it was, lady. Them bom
bs don’t do things by ’alves. It was lucky me and Daphne wasn’t in it when we was doodlebugged.’
Skye felt her mouth go dry, and then she heard Daphne’s excited voice burst in.
‘Come ’n get us, Mrs Pen, and I’ll tell yer all about it. The kids next door was burned to a cinder, what was left of ’em, anyway, but we was all right—’
‘Stay where you are, Daphne, and I’ll be there to fetch you as soon as I can,’ Skye broke in, knowing Daphne’s graphic turn of phrase, and not wanting to imagine the scene just yet. It would be bad enough later, when they had to hear it over and over again. And if the Hollis mother and child were assuming they would stay indefinitely, no doubt Daphne would soon be telling the whole school what it was like to be doodlebugged.
The idea of having the pair of them installed at New World for any length of time quickly stretched Skye’s charitable thoughts to the limit. She also knew that Edna’s incessant chatter, coupled with Daphne’s, would quickly drive Nick insane. There had to be another way. And by the time she reached the railway station in Truro she had already begun to plan it, providing it was handled delicately enough.
Daphne threw herself into Skye’s arms with a sudden burst of tears that took her by surprise.
‘The little bugger missed yer,’ Edna observed. ‘Always on about ’er posh house in the country, she was, even to my Gary, though he kept telling ’er we’d have a big place in America.’
‘I missed yer, Mrs Pen,’ Daphne sobbed. ‘When Gary comes ter visit us I want to show ’im my lovely room.’
Skye felt alarmed. How many more of them were there going to be? While she had a patriotic affinity with the unknown GI Gary, she realised that she didn’t want her house filled with strangers. Not any more.
‘I know you must have had a terrible time, Mrs Hollis, losing your home like that—’
‘Oh, it weren’t much,’ Edna said airily. ‘Anyway, we’d taken a lot of stuff wiv us while we were staying wiv Gary for the weekend. That’s how come we was so lucky, not bein’ there. We was glad to see the back of the old dump, and there’s no excuse now for not getting spliced as soon as poss.’
A Brighter Tomorrow Page 25
