The Bomb Girl Brides

by Daisy Styles

  ‘Come along,’ he said, as he relieved her of her suitcase and slipped an arm around her slender waist. ‘I’m dying to take you home.’

  In Roger’s old Morgan, which seemed to judder and rattle more than ever, he prepared Rosa for her first meeting with his parents.

  ‘We’re a noisy family,’ he said with a grin. ‘Everybody’s got an opinion – even the dogs!’

  ‘How many dogs have you got?’ Rosa asked nervously.

  ‘Three at the last count, but if the bitch has whelped there might be more.’

  As they roared along the winding narrow lanes, Rosa marvelled at the wild flowers in the hedgerows: wood anemones, celandine, primroses and tiny daffodils jostled for space, colouring the hedges cream and yellow.

  ‘It’s so lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘So different from the moors!’ she laughed.

  ‘What about your landscape, Rosa?’ Roger asked. ‘The landscape of home?’

  Rosa’s thoughts flew back to the old farmhouse in the hills overlooking Padua, which her family had owned for decades. She had an image of Gabriel as a boy, climbing a tree heavy with cherries, which he showered down on his little sister, who spun around down on the ground collecting every ripe red cherry which fell.

  After sharing this memory with Roger, she went on to describe a hillside of ancient olive trees. ‘We made our own olive oil from them, and we had vines too, for wine,’ she told him proudly.

  Roger briefly took his eyes off the narrow lane in order to smile at his fiancée. ‘You really are a wonder, darling Rosa – an Italian work of art!’

  The spring breeze lifted Rosa’s long dark hair and sent it flying around her face, which even after a short time with Roger looked younger and less careworn.

  ‘I hope your parents think so,’ she said, as Roger swung off the road and into a drive that wound its way around disused paddocks to a big old grey stone Queen Anne house, where the sun lit up every window, colouring them a vivid blood-orange red.

  ‘Here we are,’ cried Roger, yanking on the handbrake and leaping out of the car, then running round to Rosa’s side in order to open the door for her. ‘Welcome to Hawksmoor House.’

  Catching sight of Rosa’s expression as she gazed up at the towering edifice, he said with a chuckle, ‘Don’t worry, I know it looks like it’s falling down, but it’s stood for over two hundred years and has another good two hundred to go, so it will see our grandchildren out.’

  Rosa smothered a gasp; she’d never imagined bringing up children in England, and certainly not in a vast old house in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Did you spend all your childhood here?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It was a wonderful place to grow up. I roamed the countryside, climbed trees, swam in the rivers and streams, camped out and lit fires. I suppose I was a bit feral,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Just you, nobody else?’ she asked.

  ‘My sister was around some of the time, but she’s much older than me so it wasn’t like we grew up together.’

  ‘Weren’t you ever lonely?’

  ‘Never! Anyway, I had lots of friends at boarding school so it turned out to be a very good balance.’

  Rosa marvelled at her fiancé, who seemed to have the ability to bounce back from any new and potentially strange situation with a bright smile on his face. Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by Roger leading her by the hand up a flight of steps to the solid oak front door; before he could even grip the handle the door was thrown wide open by a tall, lean woman with flowing iron-grey hair and startling blue eyes. Surrounded by barking Labradors whose tails smacked against her legs, the woman firmly shook Rosa’s hand.

  ‘You must be Rosa!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m Bertha, Bertie to most. Come in.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Rosa said shyly, as she made her way through the licking, barking overexcited dogs.

  ‘Get out of the way, Sherry! Bugger off, Brandy!’ Roger cried fondly, as the dogs mobbed him.

  A tall man who was the image of Roger except for his shock of thick white hair came striding across the echoing stone-flagged entrance hall.

  ‘Ah, here you are,’ he boomed and shook Rosa’s hand so hard she winced in pain. ‘Cecil Carrington.’ Roger’s father gave her an appraising look up and down, then nodded as if he approved. ‘So you’re to be my future daughter-in-law?’

  Rosa blushed. ‘I hope so,’ she answered modestly.

  ‘TEA!’ announced Bertie as she led them, dogs and all, into the kitchen, where a long, scrubbed wooden table was laid with a plate of warm scones, clotted cream, homemade jam and a large pot of tea.

  ‘This is wonderful!’ Rosa cried at the sight of the fresh food.

  ‘We’re fairly self-sufficient here in Hawksmoor,’ Bertie told Rosa, as she poured tea into delicate china cups. ‘Keep chickens and a cow and grow fruit and veg all year round.’

  ‘Are you a keen gardener?’ Cecil asked as he spread his scone with a thin layer of jam and cream.

  Feeling like she was failing the first test, Rosa answered truthfully, ‘Actually I’m not.’

  ‘Not to worry – I’m sure you’ll soon pick it up,’ Cecil said with a confidence Rosa certainly didn’t feel.

  After tea Bertie took Rosa to her room on the second floor, which was spick and span and so cold Rosa immediately began to shiver.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve warmed up your bed,’ Bertie said, as she threw off the covers to reveal two stone hot-water bottles. ‘Now I’ll leave you in peace to unpack,’ she added and left the room followed by the relentlessly panting dogs.

  The minute she was out of sight Rosa threw open her suitcase and took out her warmest woolly jumper, which she pulled on, then hurried to close the windows that stood wide open to the cold East wind.

  Feeling better now that she was warmer, Rosa unpacked her few things, then slipped downstairs to find Roger, who insisted that they went for a walk round the estate before supper.

  Out in the fresh air Rosa’s cheeks turned a soft rosy colour and her dark eyes sparkled with happiness. Now that the ordeal of meeting her future in-laws was over, she began to feel a lot more relaxed.

  ‘They loved you,’ Roger announced as they strolled hand in hand through an apple orchard just about to burst into bloom. ‘Not that I ever doubted it,’ he quickly added.

  A walk around the empty paddocks, which Roger optimistically promised would house ponies one day soon for their children to ride, was followed by a close inspection of the rather neglected tennis court, where Rosa had to laughingly admit that she’d never played a game of tennis in her life.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll teach you,’ he said with great confidence. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘I’ve something else to show you.’

  In the stable block Roger marched past the vacant stalls and entered the tack room. ‘Up here,’ he called, as he took a flight of low wooden stairs two at a time.

  Intrigued, Rosa followed and gasped in delight when she saw that she was in Roger’s studio. ‘This is wonderful!’ she exclaimed, as she examined his easel.

  ‘It used to be the old hayloft,’ Roger explained. ‘It has the most perfect Northern light.’ Taking her in his arms, he whispered, ‘Imagine, Rosa: we can paint side by side. I’ll set up an easel for you right beside mine and we can swap notes as we work.’

  Touched by his excitement and generosity, Rosa stood on her tip-toes so she could reach up and kiss her fiancé’s soft mouth fringed by his sandy moustache.

  ‘And how will we make our living, caro?’ she murmured. ‘What did you do before the war? Did you work?’

  ‘I was studying law, hoping to join the family firm as a junior partner,’ Roger told her. ‘If I’m honest, I love being a pilot far more than being a lawyer.’

  ‘I thought you might say that,’ she teased.

  Roger led Rosa to a battered old chaise longue littered with sketches, which, with an impatient gesture, he threw to the ground before drawing her down beside him.


  ‘I could stay on in the RAF and we could do a bit of travelling, if you’d like that?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would like that,’ Rosa replied. ‘But only after I’ve found Gabriel,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Of course,’ he whispered, as he softly stroked her long curls. ‘That has to be our first priority: finding Gabriel and your parents.’

  Moved by her fiancé’s tender but hopeful voice, Rosa finally told him about her disastrous attempt to find her brother, concluding with a despondent, ‘So, you see, I’m no nearer to knowing where he is or even if he’s alive or dead.’

  At the sight of her sad, defeated expression, Roger hugged her tightly. ‘You brave, reckless girl,’ he said.

  ‘There was nothing brave about what I did; in fact, most people accused me of stupidity,’ Rosa told him bitterly.

  ‘Darling,’ Roger said, as he sat upright and spoke to her earnestly. ‘The shift of power is changing: it’s Hitler’s armies that are on the back foot these days. We’ve just dropped three thousand tons of bombs on Hamburg, we’re gaining the upper hand – and one day soon this blasted war will be over. Imagine, Rosa – peace!’

  Frustrated by his reaction, Rosa pushed her point home. ‘Yes, but that doesn’t address the problem of Gabriel,’ she insisted. ‘I thought after I’d told you how desperate I’ve been you might actually have some ideas about helping me to find him,’ she snapped.

  Roger looked genuinely astonished, both at her words and at her tone of voice. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I couldn’t possibly shine any light on a matter like that.’

  ‘Given your job, I was hoping that you might have a few powerful contacts in the RAF?’ she persisted. ‘People who could open doors for me?’

  ‘I certainly know a number of powerful men but I really don’t think any of them would be of any help in finding Gabriel,’ he replied with a regretful smile.

  ‘Oh,’ she murmured and blinked hard to hide the tears that were forming in her sad dark eyes.

  ‘Whatever happens, my sweet, we’ll face it together,’ he promised. ‘And don’t forget, dearest Rosa, you have a home here now.’

  Rosa bit back the cross words that were on the tip of her tongue; how many times did she have to say to Roger that she couldn’t begin to settle anywhere if she didn’t know where her brother was?

  After a hearty supper of Lord Woolton Pie and spring greens accompanied by home-brewed stout, Rosa sat with Roger and his parents in their drawing room, warmed by the crackling fire that blazed in a baroque stone fireplace set with simple square decorations. As Rosa savoured the strong coffee, a mix of chicory and acorn nuts skilfully blended by Mrs Carrington, she felt warm and comfortable, her head drooping on to Roger’s shoulder and her eyelids closing.

  ‘Time for bed, young lady,’ he said, as he helped Rosa to her feet.

  After bidding goodnight to Mr Carrington, Rosa followed Bertie up the back stairs to her bedroom, which was colder than ever, but at least her bed was warm. Snuggled under the heavy blankets and eiderdown with her small feet pressed to the now cooling stoneware hot-water bottles, Rosa jumped in fright when she heard the door squeak open.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called.

  ‘Shhh, only me,’ Roger called softly in the darkness.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ she gasped in surprise.

  ‘Coming to give my beautiful fiancée a goodnight kiss,’ Roger chuckled as he lay alongside her on top of the eiderdown.

  Feeling the warmth and strength of his body against her back, Rosa wriggled round so she could loop her arms around Roger’s neck. ‘This is cosy,’ she said dreamily as they locked lips.

  Rosa was surprised by the passion that blazed through her body, and by how good it felt to be close to Roger again. The touch of his caressing hands, albeit through layers of intrusive sheets and blankets, made her limbs go weak, and being with him felt right in a way she realized she’d been doubting for some time. The thought of abandoning all the fears and anxieties that besieged her daily and giving herself over to a few blissful hours of love-making on a long cold night was deeply appealing.

  ‘Tesoro,’ she murmured in her mother tongue as she struggled to free herself from the heavy bedding that restricted her every movement.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ Roger groaned as his hands reached inside her nightdress and found her small firm breasts. ‘Oh, God, I love you so much,’ he sighed as he smothered her neck and shoulders with hot kisses.

  A loud cry from downstairs froze them both.

  ‘Roger!’ his father’s commanding voice boomed out. ‘Time to take the dogs out.’

  Rosa smothered a disrespectful giggle. ‘Damn the dogs!’

  But Roger immediately loosened his hold on her. ‘Better go – don’t want to disappoint the old fella,’ he said as he rose to his feet.

  The laughter faded from Rosa’s voice. ‘Don’t go, Roger,’ she implored. ‘Please stay with me.’

  Stumbling in the darkness, Roger urgently muttered, ‘He’s waiting for me, sweetheart.’

  ‘But I need you,’ she said close to tears. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow – stay and talk to me,’ she begged.

  ‘Are you coming?’ his father’s voice boomed out again, this time even more loudly.

  ‘See you in the morning, dearest,’ Roger whispered, as he bolted across the room to open the door.

  Bitterly disappointed that he could just leave her, when for the first time in ages she’d really felt close to him, Rosa cried out in frustration and hurt: ‘ROGER!’

  In an obvious attempt to cover her cry, Roger called loudly, ‘COMING!’ and, taking the stairs two at a time, he joined his demanding father and the three expectant Labradors in the hallway.

  Left alone, Rosa stared miserably into the velvet darkness. She’d meant it when she’d said she really needed Roger to stay with her. It had been unexpectedly good to feel close to him after so long apart, and she’d wanted to share her fears and worries with him before she left. Feeling thoroughly disgruntled, Rosa pulled the covers back over her chilled body.

  ‘Duty first!’ she grumbled into her pillow. ‘If this is the Carrington way, I’d better learn to live with it!’

  28. Encounters

  Rosa’s next day with the Carringtons was not unlike the previous one: lots of good nourishing food, hearty conversations and blustery walks in the wind and the rain. After her hurt at Roger’s abandoning her the previous night, she was in no mood for his passionate attempts to rekindle the moment. She felt let down and made no move to initiate further conversations about her brother, or anything else that was bothering her. She knew she was overreacting, but she couldn’t help it. She had needed him last night and he hadn’t even realized it.

  Feeling not that much happier than when she’d left, Rosa returned to the cowshed to find the dress-making sessions in full swing. Highly motivated Nora and Maggie, helped by Maggie’s creative mum, Mrs Yates, had transformed their two pink satin dresses into a single gown with a fitted bodice and long, tight sleeves (just like the one Nora had spotted in Vogue). And there was even enough material left over to make a little train, which delighted Nora.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s really me,’ she gasped as she gazed at herself in Maggie’s dressing-table mirror.

  ‘You look thinner!’ Maggie giggled. ‘Maybe it’s because you’ve been giving all your chip butties to Polly,’ she teased.

  Giddy and happy as she was, Nora’s heart sank; time was now seriously running out for her beloved pig. Since Maggie had acquired the dress of her dreams, she ticked off the days to her wedding day on the calendar hanging up on the kitchen wall every morning.

  ‘One day less to go!’ she gleefully told Nora, little knowing that her daily countdown was like the sound of a death knell to her beleaguered friend.

  On a visit to Wrigg Hall, Nora unexpectedly poured her heart out to Peter, who, after a second skin graft on his face, was making a remarkably fast recovery. Though the stitches were still e
vident, it was clear that the surgeon, who’d used skin tissue from Peter’s thighs to rebuild his face, had done an excellent job. He was now walking better too: daily physiotherapy sessions and regular walks around the hospital grounds had strengthened the muscles in Peter’s damaged leg and he was able to forgo the wheelchair in favour of a walking stick.

  Seeing Nora weeping uncontrollably moved Peter to tears; he felt so sorry for the sweet, willing girl who spent all her free time helping others. She arrived like a ray of sunshine twice a week without fail: breezing on to the ward, pushing her clattering tea trolley, she brought more than refreshment into their lives. Nora would never know how much she’d personally helped Peter in his own recovery; her regular visits, her patience and compassion had helped to restore not just his body but his mind too. She made him want to talk, to walk, to smile – to live, in fact. To see her with tears running down her cheeks and her wild red hair springing out from underneath her starched cap made Peter’s heart ache, and in that moment, quite suddenly, the balance of their relationship shifted. Now he was the strong one helping Nora in her hour of need.

  ‘I might have only one good working eye,’ Peter thought to himself. ‘But I can see as clear as day that my favourite girl needs help.’

  Boldly taking hold of her hot trembling hands, he said softly, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Polly!’ Nora wailed. ‘Her days are numbered.’

  ‘But you always knew that, didn’t you, pet?’ Peter gently pointed out.

  ‘Yes!’ Nora cried. ‘I tried not to think about it, but now, with Maggie reminding me every single day, I can’t not think about it. What am I going to do?’ she wailed. ‘I love Polly so much. I can’t bear to think of somebody cutting her throat!’

  Peter offered Nora a sip of water from the glass on his bedside table, then he waited patiently for her to regain her composure before he dropped his bombshell.

  ‘You could steal her,’ he whispered.

  The thought shocked Nora so much she stopped sniffling. ‘Steal a pig?’

  Peter nodded. ‘And hide her,’ he added.