by Clare Flynn
The beaches at Holywell had always been quieter than those nearer the pier and the Wish Tower, being further from the town centre, accessed by steps down the cliffside and rocky at low tide. That was why Gwen loved it so much here.
The sea was calm and blue today, fading to a silvery white at the horizon. The water shuddered and twinkled with tiny diamonds where the sun touched it. Gwen turned her head and looked back towards the east, where the water was a chalky turquoise, darkening to blue towards the horizon. She looked at her watch. Another hour before it would be time to pack up and take Brenda home. Something caught her eye as she looked eastwards. A tall figure in shirtsleeves, jacket slung over his shoulder, was walking along the promenade. Although he was too far away to see properly, there was something familiar in the way he moved. Gwen squinted in the bright sunshine and then her heart jumped and she was on her feet, oblivious to everything, everything but the man who was now running towards her.
‘Wait here, darling, just a moment,’ she said to Brenda, barely able to form the words, and she was already stumbling up the shingle towards the steps.
He was moving quickly and before she could get to the steps he had leapt from the stone walkway down onto the beach. One stride and she was in his arms.
He held her so tightly she could barely breathe and she wept tears of joy.
‘You came home. I knew you would come home. Oh my love, you’ve come back to me.’ She clung to him, arms around his neck, head buried in the warmth of his chest, her ear pressed against the sound of his heart beating.
Roger tilted her chin and kissed her and she returned his kiss with passion.
’My darling girl,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve dreamed of this moment every day of every year since I went away, but those dreams weren’t a patch on reality.’ He drew her to him and kissed her again.
They were so caught up in the embrace that Gwen didn't notice that Brenda had wandered across the beach to join them and was tugging at Roger's trouser leg.
He looked down at the child, surprised.
Brenda gazed up at him.
Roger took a step back, then squatted down in front of the little girl and said, 'What's your name, then?'
'Bwenda.' She took a step sideways to Gwen and lifted her hand to grasp hers. 'Who's he, Mummy?'
Roger got to his feet and looked into Gwen's eyes, his face a mixture of puzzlement and hurt.
Gwen clutched at the front of his shirt. ‘No. It's not what you think. Brenda’s mother and sister died in a raid and her father was killed on the Atlantic convoys.’ She took his hand and said, ‘Brenda is a special girl and I love her very much.’
Brenda studied Roger for a moment then hid her head in Gwen’s skirt in a sudden fit of shyness. Gwen bent down and lifted her in her arms. ‘Say hello, darling, then we’ll all go and see if we can find you a treat in the tea rooms.’
Brenda turned her big eyes on Roger and then in little more than a whisper, said, ‘Is he my new daddy, Mummy?’
He looked at the little girl and said, 'If you’ll have me, I am. Now how about a piggy back?’ He reached down and lifted the giggling child onto his shoulders. ‘Let’s go to the cafe and get you an ice cream.’
Gwen linked her arms through her husband’s and said, ‘Thank you, my love. Thank you.’
Gwen’s hand cupped the back of Brenda’s chubby calf as it dangled down over Roger’s chest, and leaned her head against his arm.
That night, when Brenda was sleeping and they had eaten their meal, Gwen moved to the gramophone and put on a Glenn Miller record. As the music filled the room she felt Roger move behind her and stand with his body pressed up against hers. He moved her round to face him and began to dance with her. The French windows were open and they danced out onto the terrace where he kissed her again. Light spilled out onto the stone paving from the drawing room. No need for blackout any more. Gwen looked up to the sky, where what they once would have called a bomber’s moon poured milky light onto the dark of the sea. A lovers’ moon, that’s what she would call it from now on.
The End
Afterword
The impact of the second world war upon the quiet seaside resort of Eastbourne was enormous. The town was said to have been the most heavily bombed of the South East of England. The first bombing, of Whitley Road and St Philips Avenue on 7th July 1940 was two months to the day before the Blitz began in London. That first bombing, on a Sunday morning, was probably more by accident than design as the Dornier 17 which did the damage had been heading elsewhere but was turned away by anti aircraft fire so dumped a stick of ten bombs on the town as it retreated from England. There was no doubt about the intention behind the raids that followed over the course of the rest of the war.
In more than one hundred raids, the death toll was one hundred and seventy-two civilians and twenty- seven forces personnel. Four hundred and forty-three civilians were severely injured with a further four hundred and and eighty-nine slightly injured. Four hundred and seventy-five houses were completely destroyed, a thousand seriously damaged and twenty thousand slightly damaged. The bombing destroyed many notable landmarks including the town’s library and fire station, Barclays Bank, Marks and Spencer and the church of St John’s. As well as bombs, the population faced machine gun attacks from fighter planes as they walked the streets.
The Canadian army had a presence in Eastbourne over most of the war with units stationed there between July 1941 until they moved out of the town in 1944 to assemble and prepare for the D Day landings. I did not attach Jim to a specific regiment, as the 23rd Infantry which was based in Meads didn’t leave Canada until 1943, whereas Jim, like many Canadians was based in Aldershot before Eastbourne.
All the characters in the book are entirely fictitious but all the bombing incidents are closely based on real ones.
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Acknowledgments
I am so fortunate in my editor, Debi Alper. As well as being an acclaimed novelist and editor, Debi is also a highly regarded teacher of creative writing and I am grateful to have her wise counsel and editorial skills.
I am indebted to the members of my critique group – three fellow authors, Margaret Kaine, Jill Rutherford and Merryn Allingham and editor Jay Dixon, who have given great advice and feedback over many months.
Thanks to Helen Baggott my eagle-eyed proof reader – and for squeezing me in at the eleventh hour. Also to Jo Ryan, Anne-Marie Flynn, Jill Rutherford, Sue Sewell, Jenn Brown and Clare O'Brien for their feedback. Having the scrutiny of different people, each of whom notices different things is invaluable. When one lives with a book for many months it is easy to let inconsistencies slip by – and you have all been fantastic help in spotting these.
Thanks to Joan Fairbairn and June Brown for sharing their wartime memories with me and to Sue Rowe for her help with German language and suggesting the Goethe quote.
Finally to Anita Jay who was the reader who won my name-a-character contest. She came up with Scotty McDermott and wanted him to be an airman. As there are no airmen in the book he had to make do with being a soldier but he did get to be a motorcycle dispatch rider, a master mimic of noises and even got to do a bit of cross-dressing while on manoeuvres.
I have a lengthy list of sources I consulted in researching this book but would like to mention two which were particularly invaluable in understanding the bombing of Eastbourne and the Canadian presence here. They are Wartime Eastbourne by George Humphrey (Beckett Features 1989) and Canucks by the Sea by Michael Ockenden (Eastbourne Local History Society 2006)
About the Author
Clare Flynn is the author of four other works of historical fiction and a collection of short stories.
&nb
sp; A former Marketing Director and strategy consultant she was born in Liverpool and has lived in London, Newcastle, Paris, Milan, Brussels and Sydney and is now enjoying living in Eastbourne on the Sussex coast where she can see the sea from her windows.
When not writing she loves to travel (often for research purposes) and enjoys painting in oils and watercolours as well as making patchwork quilts.
Contact Clare -
www.clareflynn.co.uk
[email protected]
Also by Clare Flynn
A Greater World
Kurinji Flowers
Letters from a Patchwork Quilt
The Green Ribbons
A Fine Pair of Shoes and Other Stories
