A Place to Call Home

by Tania Crosse

  And when it came, who knew…?

  *

  ‘I’d say the easiest way to get to Peter Tavy is to get the train into Tavistock,’ Meg’s landlady had informed her, ‘and then walk. You take the main road north out of the town, same direction as you’ve been on the train,’ she explained, indicating a straight line with her hand. ‘And after a couple of miles, you turn off to the right, go over an old bridge and then follow the road into the village. About another mile or so, I think it is. I’ll draw you a map.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ Meg had answered. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The least I can do, my lover. I’m afeared I doesn’t know the place very well. You’ll have to ask when you gets there. But what I can tell you is that you’ve got two trains to choose from. One goes up the side of the river and across the Bere Peninsula. Very pretty it is once you gets past Devonport. That one arrives at Tavistock North. The other one goes round the edge of the moor, see, and goes to Tavistock South. That must’ve been the way you came down from London, from what you said.’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Meg confirmed. ‘It was pitch dark by the time we got there, though, so we couldn’t see a thing. So I think I’ll go that way. I’d like to see the moor in daylight.’

  She didn’t add that something inside her wanted to see the sort of ground where Ralph’s plane had come down. The better she could understand what he’d been through, the better she could help him work through his anguish. So now, as the train chugged its way northwards, Meg’s eyes searched the wild uplands of Dartmoor’s rugged landscape. Its open, seemingly infinite terrain sloped up to high, craggy outbreaks of granite that she’d learnt were known locally as tors. Barren and unforgiving, Meg had the feeling that under other circumstances, the moor could hold immense savage beauty. A place to get lost inside one’s own thoughts, find oneself again as you were soothed by a sense of nature at its most primitive. But it had been a black, bottomless hole on her journey to Plymouth with Mary a few weeks earlier. A vast nothingness. And all Meg could think of just now was how it would have been a hostile desert of loneliness and terror as Ralph’s plane had plummeted earthwards.

  She got off the train as her landlady had indicated and made her way down into the attractive town of Tavistock. She’d been told that the place had once been wealthy due to the abundance of copper in the area. Or at least, the land and mine owners had amassed fortunes, although a succession of local dukes had been most philanthropic towards the miners and their families. When the mines had closed, Tavistock had become a sleepy market town existing mainly for the local farming community and the usual commercial services to support it.

  Now though, at the start of February 1944, it was anything but sleepy. And there was good reason for that. Troops. British, but mainly American. The place was heaving with them, and people were excitedly lining the streets as well, as if waiting for something. The atmosphere was electric.

  ‘Excuse me, but please can you set me on the right road for Okehampton?’ Meg asked a woman standing on the kerb with two small children. ‘I need to get to Peter Tavy.’

  ‘Doesn’t you want to see what’s going on first?’ the stranger asked in almost affronted surprise.

  ‘Going on?’

  ‘Why, yes. They say General Eisenhower hissel’s coming to inspect his troops in Bedford Square. Big things be afoot, if you asks me.’

  Meg was a little taken aback, and she remembered the conversation she’d had with Ralph when he’d been home on leave the previous May. He’d felt preparations for something big were starting even back then, and after all, the Allies had been whittling away at Hitler’s domains ever since. Could it be that something really was stirring, if not immediately, then in the foreseeable future?

  ‘Oh, I’d have liked to see that,’ she told the woman with genuine disappointment. ‘Eisenhower, eh? But I’ve got to get up to a farm near Peter Tavy, and then all the way back to Plymouth by tonight.’

  ‘You’d best get going, then,’ the woman agreed. ‘You wants to go down that road there,’ she pointed out, ‘and just follow it for a couple of mile, and then you turn off right as the main road bends slowly left. No signposts, of course, so you might have to ask.’

  Meg thanked the woman, elbowing her way through the thickening crowds until she eventually got out onto the main road where she was able to lengthen her stride. She was walking along a wide valley, but it seemed the road was frequented by American troops in jeeps and all sorts of other military vehicles.

  ‘Can we give you a lift, missie?’

  Meg’s heart thumped in her chest as she turned to look at the driver of an open jeep that had pulled up beside her. A lift? He must be joking! But he was an older man with a trustworthy face, and there were a couple of other GIs in the vehicle with him, all in their smart uniforms. And there were so many other personnel on the road that surely it would be safe?

  ‘Just to the turn-off to Peter Tavy, if you know where that is,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Sure thing, miss.’ The soldier gave a half salute. ‘Been stationed here a while, so I know my way around. Hop in. Take you all the way to the village if that’s where you’re headed.’

  Someone else’s hand extended to help her climb aboard, and she perched warily on the seat as they rejoined the road.

  ‘Lucky we’re going this way,’ the driver continued, changing gear. ‘Most of us are required for the ceremony with Old Ike,’ the chap went on with affection in his voice. ‘You sure not going to watch, then?’

  ‘No. I’m…’ Meg hesitated, but there was no harm in telling him the truth, and in a way, she’d feel safer if they knew she was a married woman. ‘My husband’s in the RAF. His plane crashed on the moor a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Jeez, we heard about that. He OK?’

  ‘He was the only survivor. Recovering in Devonport Hospital. Only they’re going to transfer him to a hospital nearer home when he’s well enough. I’m going to try and find the farmer who came out and saved him, and thank him on my husband’s behalf as he won’t be able to do so himself.’

  ‘Oh, wow, ma’am, we’re mighty sorry to hear about all that.’

  ‘Sure hope he gets better soon.’

  ‘Here, Chuck, you got any of them stockings on you for the little lady? I’ve got some chocolate about me somewhere.’

  It only took five minutes to reach the turn-off, and another five to cross the old stone bridge over a small but gushing river, and then follow the lane that ran more or less parallel to it on the left, with the moor rising up on the right. Climbing out of the jeep when they reached the village, Meg found herself waving goodbye to the GIs, her coat pockets stuffed full of little gifts. Overpaid, oversexed and over here was the general grumble about the Yanks, but that hadn’t been her experience. She supposed she had taken a bit of a risk accepting the lift, but it had been an interesting experience as well as saving her some time.

  Peter Tavy was a tiny, intriguing place with a couple of farms with their barns in the actual village itself. The church, with the pinnacled tower that Meg had noticed was typical of the area, was set at the end of a wide grassed area flanked by tiny cottages that she guessed were some sort of almshouses. A woman with a scarf over her curlers was heading for the large graveyard that surrounded the church, and Meg hurried to ask her the way. She was directed out the far side of the village and up onto the moor proper.

  The view as Meg walked briskly along was spectacular. The track led partway up one side of a steep valley so that she was looking across to the rolling moor opposite. She crossed her arms over her chest, for the further she walked, the more exposed it became to the biting wind. A group of wild ponies stood on a flat outcrop of rock on the far side, long manes and tails shifting in the moving air, and Meg could see a patch of white in a hollow. She shivered. Beautiful though it was, the landscape would be inhospitable in the middle of a January night, and Meg’s gratitude went out to the people she was trying to track down. If they hadn
’t braved the elements, Ralph would very likely have died.

  The substantial farmhouse was the only one around so it was easy enough to find. Meg called out as she rounded the building into a farmyard behind, suddenly feeling somewhat nervous. And then she stood still, bowing her head in submission, as two dogs ran out, barking furiously. But the barking was friendly, and a few seconds later, an elderly man appeared from one of the barns.

  ‘Mr Pencarrow?’ Meg called.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered, fixing her with chocolate brown eyes. He was tall, his back straight despite his years, and Meg could see he must have been an exceptionally handsome man in his youth.

  ‘I’m Meg Hillier,’ she announced. ‘Wife of the airman you rescued a few weeks ago.’

  The fellow’s creased face at once moved into lines of concern. ‘How’s he doing? He is… OK, then?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Thanks to you, that is. If you hadn’t gone out onto the moor like you did in the middle of the night, I’d probably be standing here a widow. So… I’ve come to thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ she concluded in a rush to get the words out before she burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, there, there, cheel, it was nothing, like.’ Meg suddenly felt work-worn hands clasp hers. ‘Come inside and meet the wife.’

  ‘It was such a brave thing to do,’ Meg gulped between sobs. ‘I can see what it must be like out there in the dark.’

  ‘Not when you’re born and bred to it,’ Mr Pencarrow told her as he led her towards a door at the back of the farmhouse. ‘Born on this farm, and die here I will. Know this land like the back of my hand. And my son came with me that night, too. He’s a farmer above the age for conscription, see, so we didn’t lose him to the forces. So going out to see what we could do to help was a sort of thank you for that. Out on the moor our son is today, so you won’t see him, I’m afeared. But I’ll pass on your thanks. Good of you to come all this way. From Plymouth, is it?’

  Meg found herself being welcomed into a warm, spacious kitchen by Joshua Pencarrow’s wife and a younger woman who was introduced as their daughter-in-law. Meg was ushered into an armchair next to a large range that was throwing out heat, and a mug of weak tea was pressed into her hands.

  ‘Ralph’s not well enough to travel yet,’ she explained when she managed to gather herself together again. ‘And as soon as he is, they’re going to transfer him to a hospital nearer home. So he won’t get a chance to thank you himself. Not for a while, at least. So I’ve come instead.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be welcome here any time,’ Mrs Pencarrow beamed. ‘Both of you will. Maybe when the war’s over.’

  ‘D’you think it ever will be?’ Meg sighed.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Joshua spoke without looking up from filling his pipe. ‘All over the country they are, but the amount of Yanks we’ve got hereabouts, the camp up on Plaister Down, they’re planning something all right.’

  ‘And your husband’s coming on all right? And where is home?’

  ‘Slowly, but yes, thank you. He is improving. And home’s Kent.’

  ‘Ah, a long way, then. And you have the look of a country girl.’

  ‘Yes. Farmer’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah, I knew it. So what sort of farming are you into, then?’

  Within minutes, they were all chatting away, comparing notes. Meg was invited to stay to lunch, and found herself telling them all about Robin Hill House and how she’d ended up working as a Land Army girl back on the family farm. In return, Meg learnt how Rosebank Hall had been in the Pencarrow family for generations. They were yeoman farmers, owning their own land and also a couple of smaller farmsteads that they rented out. They were well respected in the area, yet Meg could see that they weren’t the sort of people to put on airs and graces.

  ‘Went through hard times back along did my parents,’ Joshua told her, sucking on his pipe. ‘My mother, now, she were the village wise-woman and herbalist. Many a tale she and my dear old dad could’ve told you if they’d still been with us.’

  Meg could imagine Joshua could talk in his own quiet, self-effacing way forever, and she’d have been interested to listen. But it was time she left for the journey home. She gave them some of the chocolate the GIs had given her, and they extended an invitation to visit at any time. She felt she was among friends, wrapped yet again in that wartime spirit that seemed to pervade everywhere.

  ‘Walk with you to the village, I will,’ Joshua announced, as they both shrugged into their coats. ‘Need to call into a friend.’

  A minute later, they were out in the raw February afternoon, and Meg was waving goodbye to the two women. As they set off down the track, Meg’s eyes travelled over the craggy landscape. Once again she couldn’t help imagining what it would have been like for Ralph, in shock, watching his friend and their passenger die in the burning plane, badly injured himself, all alone and lost out on the desolate moor in the pitch black of a freezing winter’s night. A glacial chill ran through her. The kind, self-effacing man by her side truly was an unsung hero.

  ‘Where… did it happen?’ her tongue seemed to ask of its own accord.

  ‘Oh, over the other side of the valley.’ Joshua waved his arm vaguely. ‘Can’t see the spot from here. We heard the crash, see. And we knew where it was because of the flames.’

  Meg gulped, and then nodded briefly. ‘It… was a long way for you to go. I’m so very grateful to you. So thank you once again, you and your son.’

  ‘Got to stick together against that Hitler, haven’t we? Now, you take care, cheel,’ Joshua said as they came into the village. ‘And I hope we’ll see you again one day, you and your Ralph.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll want to thank you himself in person.’

  Meg shook Joshua’s hand firmly, and then turned to wave back as he waited on a corner until she was out of sight. The wind blew hungrily about her coat, and she hurried on as quickly as she could. She wanted to be back in Tavistock and on the train before dark, and she hoped she could call in to see Ralph as well, and tell him all about her experiences of the day, and the wonderful people who’d saved his life.

  And she also wanted to tell him about what she’d seen in Tavistock, Eisenhower’s visit, and the growing sense of hope she felt she could almost touch.

  Thirty-One

  ‘Welcome home, Ralph!’

  Clarissa joined in the chorus of joyous greetings as everyone surged forward into the hall. But the lady of the house kept back, waiting her turn, holding her emotions in check. She’d been to visit Ralph several times at the hospital in East Grinstead once he’d been transferred, and had watched the haunted expression gradually fade from his eyes. And as he’d recovered, Clarrie had noticed how Meg had blossomed again, her gaunt, strained face filling out once more and her body taking on more womanly curves.

  Clarrie watched now as Meg’s eyes gleamed with happiness, and her own heart lifted with elation. Because Ralph had come home, so had Meg. Her Meg. She’d missed her so much when she’d been away working in the Land Army at Home Farm. The beloved young woman had come back to visit every few weeks, speeding up the drive on her bicycle. The children under Clarrie’s care were a great comfort to her. She felt like a surrogate aunt, and then dear old Penny was such a scream, lifting her spirits since Nana May had passed away. But it was only Meg who made Clarrie feel like a mother again. And now Meg had returned to Robin Hill House to be with her hero husband, and Clarrie rejoiced.

  As everyone trooped through the house, Glenn Miller’s ‘Moonlight Serenade’ was playing on the radio. It had been left on permanently since the Allied invasion of France the previous month, in case there was any sudden news. It was going to be a long, dangerous haul, but steady progress was being made. One of the big worries now, though, were these new flying bombs, or V1s as they were known, that had been attacking London to devastating effect over the last few weeks. The recent Allied bombing of the storage depots in France had drastically reduced the problem, but it was bound to start up again. Hitle
r wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

  But Clarrie wasn’t going to let morose thoughts spoil Ralph’s homecoming which was going to be held out in the gardens – or what remained of them since Gabriel and his band of young helpers had dug up so much of the lawn to grow vegetables. It was turning out to be a cold, wet summer, but today the sun was making a rare appearance in the July sky, and a celebration picnic was set out down by the lake. Ada and Penny had worked wonders with the ration books, and everyone was in party mood.

  ‘Good to have you home, Ralph,’ Wig told him in a quiet aside as plates were handed round and Ada, Penny and Jane carried out pots of tea.

  ‘D’you know what I want more than anything?’ Ralph said, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘What’s that, love?’ Meg asked anxiously.

  ‘To get this ruddy uniform off.’

  Ralph gave a bitter grunt, to which those near to him replied with a forced chuckle, not wanting to upset him. It wasn’t like Ralph to be churlish. Perhaps his mind wasn’t as healed as his body, but surely that would come in time.

  ‘All your clothes are waiting for you in the cottage. So come on.’ Meg held out her hand and Ralph grasped it tightly as they made their way through the orchard. ‘I expect it feels weird to be back,’ she said, slightly unnerved herself. Ralph felt… not exactly like a stranger, but she knew they’d need time for their emotions to settle down. She supposed they were both still in some deep-rooted shock.

  ‘To be honest, I’d rather it was just you and me,’ he answered, and Meg noticed him glance wistfully about him as they entered the cottage. ‘This is a nice little place and I’m very grateful to have it, but I wish we had somewhere that was really our own. This just doesn’t feel right anymore. I suppose it’s because I don’t feel quite the same person I was. Not with this to remind me all the time.’