The sun was slipping down in the west as Bella poured herself another stiff gin and tonic. She remembered clearly Frank telling her that Theo had died in the asylum towards the end of last year. Frank had started seeing Theo’s widow, she felt sure. The first entry of the initials was against 5 January and they continued throughout the book, until the last entry on 2 May. That was two weeks ago. Bella sipped her drink thoughtfully. Frank was often out in the evenings. There were his masonic functions and the boxing tournaments, apart from his drinking nights with clients. Besides, he could have been seeing the Harrison woman during the day. Maybe she was being too hasty, though. The initials could stand for anything. She would need more to go on.
Bella felt apprehensive as she glanced up at the ornate clock over the fireplace. It was nearing seven o’clock and Frank had still not come home. The diary had been put back in his coat pocket and the room looked neat and tidy. There was nothing he could find fault with this evening, she thought. The casserole was doing nicely, and she had found some tinned fruit in the larder which she intended to serve with cream.
She drew the curtains and straightened the sideboard, moving the telephone diary away from the trailing phone lead. It was then that a thought struck her. She opened the diary and found what she was looking for. Then she hurried into the bedroom, took out the diary from Frank’s coat pocket and thumbed through it. She scurried back into the lounge and checked the dates against those in the telephone diary. That was it. The initials P.H. were listed against Frank’s masonic evenings, and on those nights he always came in late, sometimes in the early hours. He had noted the masonic dates in the diary long ago, she remembered him doing it. The next date was on the Wednesday of next week.
Bella glanced at the gin bottle on top of the drinks cabinet. Maybe just one more, she thought. She would need to be steady if she was going to confront that double-dealing husband of hers.
Carrie hummed happily to herself as she cleaned the house. The letter had arrived that very morning but she had been too nervous to open it. Joe had taken it from her and she had waited with bated breath while he opened it and read it in silence. His face dropped and he looked up at her without speaking. Suddenly he beamed and grabbed her in his arms. ‘Yer’ve got it, Carrie!’ he cried.
‘We’ve got it,’ she remembered correcting him.
It was the big one. The long-term, lucrative contract with the brewers which would set her up for the future, won against the competition of the Galloway tender. Carrie saw it as another step towards her avowed goal of seeing her arch rival’s business crumble. The next stage would be a country-wide permit, which would allow her transport firm to deal with the big local traders and their depots in the provinces. If she was successful in getting it, then the sky would be the limit. She had already bought another secondhand Albion lorry in good condition from a local firm that was selling up, and her letter to the labour exchange, asking for two more drivers, was ready to be sent.
Carrie had another good reason to be happy. There had been a letter from Rachel that morning too. Tony O’Reilly was finally coming home and he had been promoted to sergeant in the field. Rachel told her that she had leave outstanding and was going to save it until her man got his leave. She went on to say that the letter she had received from Tony was nearly two months old, which meant he could already be on his way.
The morning’s news put all the household in a happy frame of mind. Joe decided it was time he rebuilt the roof of the vehicle shed, which had been badly damaged in the last air raid, and Nellie put on her best hat and coat to pay an overdue visit to her old friends in Page Street. And when Tom Armfield drove into the yard, Carrie called him into the office and put her proposition about promotion to him, which he promptly accepted.
The clandestine movement of troops and supplies to the south coast was now taking place on such a large scale that it ceased to remain secret. Everyone was talking about the endless trains and lorries which were heading south, and in large areas of southern England the streets and lanes were becoming snarled up with military transport of all kinds. From bases around England the loud roar of bombers heading out on their missions was heard night and day and it was apparent to everyone that the invasion was at hand.
In the control tower on a bomber base in Lincoln the personnel were anxiously awaiting the return of the squadron stragglers. Since early dawn the first of the Lancasters had touched down, some riddled with cannon fire and flak, others with engines smoking. Now it was quiet and the losses were being reckoned. Four planes were missing, and the news spread through the base. Personnel not on duty stood around, scanning the clear morning sky. Rachel stood beside her friend Connie and the two looked away into the far horizon. News suddenly came through and a cheer went up. C for Charlie had ditched in the Channel and the crew had been picked up unharmed.
The senior duty officer was about to log the three remaining planes as lost when a crackling sound started to come through on the loudspeaker. O for Oliver was limping home with two engines out and wounded aboard. Word spread fast and everyone stood scanning the sky for the stricken plane’s arrival. In the control room the faces of the controllers were set firm. The pilot sounded calm but everyone was aware of the dangers involved. The plane’s undercarriage had been damaged and it would have to be a belly landing. Fire tenders and an ambulance took up their places on the edge of the runway. The waiting seemed to last for ever.
Rachel scanned the sky, a silent prayer in her heart. Aboard O for Oliver was young Matt Williams, not yet twenty years old. He was just a boy, a lonely, brave lad who had seemed to have an insight into life far beyond his tender years. Rachel bit her lip as she waited. Experience told her that if the plane did not make an appearance very soon, it would have gone down.
Her heart leapt as a cry went up. ‘There it is!’
She could see the Lancaster clearly now. It was coming in very low, a trail of black smoke spreading out behind it. It seemed to stand still in the sky for a long time and then suddenly it banked and came down in the final approach, inching lower and lower with its undercarriage still raised. It bounced once then skidded along the tarmac towards them. Black smoke billowed out, covering it, then it skidded completely round. The fire tender started to move towards it when the whole plane erupted in flames. A deafening explosion ripped it apart, reducing it to a blazing mass of twisted metal in seconds. There was nothing anyone could do. The crew of O for Oliver had perished.
The tragedy weighed heavily on everyone in the air force base. Rachel lay on her bed that night, her red-rimmed eyes staring up unseeing at the dusty rafters. Matt was gone. How many more young men like Matt would perish before this war was over?
Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Connie came into the dormitory. She sat down on her bed next to Rachel and stared down at the floor without saying anything for a time. When she finally spoke her voice was gravelly. ‘I’ve just come from the canteen. Did you know it was Matt Williams’ twentieth birthday today?’ she asked.
Rachel eased herself up onto her arm and looked at her best friend. ‘It was Matt’s twentieth mission,’ she replied.
Billy Sullivan went to see Father Kerrigan one evening but he was unsuccessful in persuading the priest that something more had to be done about the memorial stone in the ruined gymnasium. Father Kerrigan was his usual sedate self and he tried to assure his agitated parishioner that everything had been done to get the stone removed into safe keeping.
‘But the demolition men might cart it away,’ Billy said anxiously.
‘Be sure it won’t happen, Billy,’ the priest told him blithely. ‘I’ve been on to the firm concerned and they say that all care will be taken to preserve the stone in pristine condition.’
Billy came away from the church feeling very concerned, and he said as much to Danny when he called into the Bargee for a pint.
‘Look, Danny, yer know yerself that there’s a lot o’ labour battalions workin’ on the bombed places,’ he said
with misgiving. ‘You’ve seen ’em, we all ’ave. They’re a right mix from’ere, there an’ everywhere. ’Alf of ’em can’t speak English. I bet some of ’em ain’t even Christians. What does a stone wiv foreign writin’ on mean ter the likes o’ them?’
Danny agreed with his old friend but he tried to placate him. ‘Some o’ the firms use their own labour. It’s best ter wait an’ see,’ he replied.
Billy went home and spoke to Annie about it. ‘I’m sorry, luv, but that stone means a lot ter me.’
Annie put her arms on his wide shoulders and looked up into his troubled eyes. ‘Now listen,’ she said. ‘I understand, but it’s no good you getting yourself upset. Wait and see what happens. You’ve got to trust Father Kerrigan. He wouldn’t lie to you.’
‘I know that,’ Billy replied, ‘but I don’t trust the demolition men.’
Annie sighed and shook her head, knowing her husband’s tenacity. ‘Well, they would have to be heathens to disregard a sacred stone,’ she said emphatically. ‘After all, it’s a war memorial and it’s been blessed by the church.’
There was no doubt in Billy’s mind that some of the workers in the labour battalions were heathens, but he tried his best to be calm. ‘All right, I’ll wait an’ see,’ he told her. ‘But I can see trouble.’
Annie slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him gently on the mouth. ‘Now sit down and take those filthy boots off,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got your supper in the oven.’
Saturday afternoon was an ideal time to go visiting, Nellie knew. The shopping was over and one of her friends would always have a hot filled teapot under the cosy. Sadie would be her first stop, she thought. Sadie always had a nice clean parlour and her chairs were spotless. After all, she was wearing her best coat and she had to be careful.
‘You ain’t seen Sadie in yer travels, ’ave yer?’ she asked Mrs Green a while later. ‘I’ve knocked twice an’ can’t get any answer.’
‘I expect she’s at Maisie’s,’ Mrs Green replied.
Maisie’s front door was opened by Fred, who greeted Nellie with a smile. ‘She’s bin gorn fer ages,’ she told her. ‘I should look in at Sadie’s. That’s where she’ll be.’
‘She ain’t at Sadie’s,’ Nellie told him. ‘I jus’ knocked there.’
‘Well, I can’t ’elp yer, luv. Sorry,’ Fred said with a shrug.
Nellie decided it must be Maudie’s turn to supply the tea this week so she went round to her place. After the second knock brought no response, she was puzzled.
The Dawsons’ front door was opened by Wallace, who stood grinning at Nellie’s new hat.
‘I said is yer muvver in?’ Nellie asked for the second time.
Wallace’s grin became even larger as he stared at Nellie’s hat and she gave him a wicked look as she walked away. Sometimes the women gathered at the Haggerty house, but not very often. Mrs Haggerty usually tried to monopolise the conversation and Nellie knew that Sadie could not abide the woman. Still, it was worth a try.
‘’Ello, Mrs Tanner. I ain’t seen yer around ’ere fer weeks. Are yer all right? ’Ow’s the children? I saw Carrie the ovver day, ain’t she a picture. Yer ’eard about ’im in Bacon Street, didn’t yer? That bloke who sells the cockles on the corner o’ Jamaica Road. Sorry, what was it yer asked me?’
Nellie drew a deep breath. ‘ ’Ave yer seen Sadie about?’ she repeated slowly and deliberately.
‘Sadie? No, I ain’t,’ Mrs Haggerty replied. ‘’E got done, yer know.’
‘Who did?’
‘Why, ’im out o’ Bacon Street.’
‘Bacon Street?’
‘’Im who sells the cockles in Jamaica Road.’
‘Oh ’im.’
‘Takin’ bettin’ slips, it was.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Arfur got six months.’
‘What, fer takin’ bettin’ slips?’
‘No, that was ’im out o’ Bacon Street.’
Nellie had had enough. The conversation was beginning to make her head buzz. ‘Well, I must be orf. Take care o’ yerself,’ she said with a forced smile.
‘By the way, I should try Maurice Salter’s place,’ Mrs Haggerty called out.
‘Maurice Salter?’ Nellie said disbelievingly.
‘That’s right. They’ve bin goin’ in an’ out o’ the Salters’ place like a fiddler’s elbow fer the past few days,’ Mrs Haggerty assured her.
Nellie was beginning to feel jaded. All she wanted right now was to sit down with a nice cup of tea. The thought of having to deal with Maurice Salter made her feel ready to turn for home. Suddenly she spotted Mrs Watson hurrying along the turning towards her.
‘’Ello, Nellie. ’Ow yer keepin’, luv?’ she asked.
‘Well, I was feelin’ fine when I left ’ome,’ Nellie told her.
‘I’m just orf ter Maurice Salter’s,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘Fancy comin’ along?’
Nellie began to wonder whether she was going mad. ‘What for?’ she asked.
‘Ain’t you ’eard? Maurice Salter’s sellin’ loads o’ stuff dirt cheap,’ Mrs Watson told her. ‘My Carol bought a silk camisole fer two an’ a tanner, an’ I got a smashin’ pair o’ silk stockin’s fer four an’ six. Why don’t yer come wiv me?’
Nellie decided that what she needed right then was to lie down and rest her tired head. ‘No fanks, luv,’ she replied as she turned for home. ‘I’ll stick ter me flannel drawers.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
On Monday, 5 June 1944, a troop train from Southampton steamed into Waterloo Station. Aboard were men of the Eighth Army on leave after three years in the Western Desert. ‘Welcome Home’ banners and flags had been strung up on the station concourse and a military band was playing. It was a very emotional moment for the hundreds of loved ones and friends who waited by the platform barrier, and the hum of conversation turned into cheering and loud shouts as the train shuddered to a halt at the buffers.
The veterans of El Alamein and the Sicilian landings stepped down and hurried towards the waiting throng, their faces tanned leathery, their hair bleached by a fierce sun. They looked lean and appeared apprehensive as they faced the welcome-home festivities. Flashbulbs lit their startled faces and the newspaper reporters vied for stories as the men sought out their families and children. Station officials, policemen and military police tried in vain to intervene but they were all but brushed aside.
Rachel stood among the crowd, dressed in uniform, holding her cap in her hand and desperately searching for Tony. She almost allowed him to pass her by before she saw his wide grin and then she was in his arms.
‘It’s bin so long,’ she sobbed, unable to contain herself any longer.
Tony ran his hand over her fair hair and kissed her smooth white neck. ‘I’ve dreamed about this moment,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Two whole weeks. It feels wonderful.’
They turned with arms round each other and found themselves suddenly surrounded by newspapermen and a photographer. One little fat man jostled his colleagues and looked up at Tony. ‘That’s the Military Medal ribbon, son. Did yer win it in the desert?’
Tony looked embarrassed as he nodded.
‘Where was it?’ the newsman pressed him.
The two young lovers were blinded momentarily by an exploding flashbulb and Tony’s hand went up to the knot of his tie. ‘Mersah Matruh,’ he said quietly.
‘That was one o’ the big battles. What was it like?’ another newsman cut in.
‘South London Press,’ the photographer announced, pushing the little reporter aside. ‘Give me yer names an’ where yer from, folks,’ he shouted above the general din.
The pressmen finally moved away and Tony took Rachel by the hand as they hurried from the station. During the tram ride to Bermondsey, Rachel kept glancing at her young man, intrigued by his tan and bleached hair. Tony was looking out of the window, as though still not able to believe he was back home at last.
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