by Ellie Dean
‘Good,’ breathed Peggy. ‘The sooner they admit defeat, the sooner my Jim can come home.’
The broadcast continued with news that the advancing 5th and 8th armies in Italy had broken through a significant line to take Monte Cassino, and six thousand Germans were now prisoners. There was a new offensive on the beaches of Anzio, and Terracina was expected to fall within hours – and then the Allies would advance on Rome.
Peggy closed her eyes as the newscast came to an end. There was at last hope that the tide was turning – that the Allies were achieving victory after victory. But still there was no hint of an invasion and she burnt with frustration that their leaders seemed intent upon hanging about instead of striking while the iron was hot. She got to her feet, grabbed a duster and set about cleaning the dresser with far more vigour than was necessary. If she didn’t do something to vent her pent-up emotions, she’d explode.
Ron was not a man who cared much about his appearance, and so was wearing his usual ragged shirt, old corduroy trousers held up at the waist with a length of narrow rope, an ancient sweater and his long waterproof poacher’s coat. A greasy cap was pulled over his thick, wayward hair, the peak tipped down almost to his bushy brows, and his feet were shod in a stout pair of boots, the laces of which had been replaced by thick garden twine.
With Harvey loping alongside him, he left the hills and tramped down the steep slope until he reached the High Street. He had two dead rabbits in one of his poacher’s coat pockets, and his sleeping ferrets, Flora and Dora, were curled up in another. It had been a good morning of netting rabbit holes and exercising the ferrets; now he and Harvey were ready for a beer and a sit-down.
He’d arranged to meet his son and grandson – Frank and Brendon – in the back room bar at the Crown, to start Brendon’s send-off a little early. They could have met at home or in the Anchor, but the Crown was the only place in Cliffehaven they could really talk away from their women and enjoy a pint or three at the same time. Yet he kept a wary eye open as he approached the pub, knowing that if his Rosie caught him anywhere near the landlady, Gloria, there would be fireworks.
The two women had called an uneasy truce because it was wartime, but there was no love lost between the two landladies of Cliffehaven; they were women on their own, and running a pub was difficult at the best of times – and it didn’t help that Rosie hadn’t really forgiven Gloria for kissing Ron under the mistletoe two Christmases ago. She’d made it very clear that Ron was never to set foot in the Crown again.
Ron could understand Rosie’s reasoning and was quite flattered by it, but as he was completely innocent of any wrongdoing with Gloria, he rather resented being told what he could and couldn’t do. At the same time, he didn’t relish getting caught coming in here.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him the coast was clear and he nipped into the alleyway at the side of the pub and through the back door, with Harvey following closely behind him.
Gloria was serving behind the bar, and she shot him a wink, and indicated with a tilt of her head that he should go straight through to the snug. Ron winked back and headed to the small private lounge bar at the back of the pub, his gaze feasting on the luscious landlady who, despite her come-hither looks, was most definitely out of bounds.
Gloria had none of the soft glamour and sweet appeal of his Rosie, for she was a big, buxom lass built for sin, with a loud voice and rough ways – but there was no doubting she made a pleasing sight behind the bar, her large breasts undulating delightfully beneath that tight blouse as she pulled pints and kept up a flow of bright chatter. She was a Londoner, but had been running the Crown for so many years she’d become part of the fabric of Cliffehaven, and because she wasn’t averse to a bit of harmless slap and tickle, was regarded by her male customers as the salt of the earth and a jolly good sport. To other, more prudish minds she was no better than she should be, and to Rosie, she was a danger to anything in trousers – especially her Ron.
Gloria shrugged off her detractors, seemingly undisturbed by their hurtful sniping, and carried on in her own sweet way. Ron admired her, for he knew Gloria better than most, and despite the brassy hair, heavy make-up and provocative clothes, she had an intelligent, quick mind, and a sharp nose for trouble. In fact, she’d been instrumental in helping to capture a rats’ nest of fifth columnists who’d held their meetings in her function room the previous year, and Ron suspected that, being perfectly placed to overhear all sorts of things, she passed on a good deal of useful intelligence to MI5.
He pushed through the door to the snug with Harvey barging before him to greet Frank and Brendon who were waiting there. ‘To be sure it’s good to have you both to meself for a change,’ he said after they’d embraced. ‘Once the women get involved you can’t get a word in edgeways.’
‘It’s only because they care, Grandad,’ said Brendon, making a fuss of a joyous Harvey. ‘You can’t blame them.’
‘Aye, I know that, wee boy,’ he replied, reaching for one of the many beer bottles on the table, and emptying it into the dog bowl Gloria had thoughtfully provided for Harvey. ‘But it’ll be good to have an intelligent conversation for once. I’m surrounded by women, and this is a rare chance to be away from them.’
They sat in the worn leather chairs and Ron cast an appreciative eye over the laden table, noting the bottle of Irish whiskey nestling amongst the beers. ‘I have to say, you’ve been mighty generous, Frank. This little lot must have set you back a few bob.’
‘Aye, it did that, but I can’t have me boy leaving without a decent send-off, can I? And Gloria gave me a discount on the whiskey.’
‘Aye, and so she should,’ muttered Ron.
They drank in comfortable, companionable silence as Harvey’s collar tag clanged against the metal bowl in his eagerness to lap up the last drop.
Harvey finally slumped onto the floor with a satisfied sigh and went to sleep, and Ron surreptitiously watched his son and grandson as he packed tobacco into his pipe and took his time to get it alight. There was something between Brendon and Frank – some indefinable thing that had been there ever since Frank had come home from Devon. Peggy had noticed it too, and when Brendon had come on leave a few days later, their suspicions had grown that something bad had gone on down in Devon which now preyed on their minds.
‘Are either of you going to tell me what happened down there?’ he asked gruffly. He saw the swiftly exchanged glance between them and grunted. ‘You know it’ll go no further with me,’ he said. ‘Come on. Out with it. I can see it’s eating at both of you, and it’ll do Brendon no good to be going back on duty without a clear mind.’
‘We’ve been threatened with a court martial if we breathe a word of it, Grandad,’ said Brendon solemnly.
Ron gripped the stem of his pipe between his teeth and leant back in the chair, feeling the weight of his ferrets and the dead rabbits dragging on his coat. ‘It was that serious, was it?’ He regarded them evenly as they remained silent. ‘Let me guess. Those in charge were incompetent. A careless order or lack of proper guidance led to men getting hurt – or worse – just as it did at Dieppe and Gallipoli. And now the whole thing has to be hushed up because it might damage morale and show the public just what sort of fools are running this war.’
‘You’ve got that about right,’ growled Frank, slamming his tankard down on the table with such force that the remains of his beer splattered his hand. ‘The whole thing was an absolute disaster.’
‘Dad,’ warned Brendon.
‘I don’t care if they court-martial me,’ he retorted loudly. ‘I’m not afraid to speak out to me da.’
‘Then do it quietly, son,’ cautioned Ron. ‘There’s no wisdom in letting half of Cliffehaven hear you.’
Frank swallowed the last of his beer, opened the bottle of whiskey and poured generous measures into the clean glasses Gloria had set out. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, raising his glass and downing it in one.
Ron drank his own whiskey while Frank poured himse
lf some more. His son’s hand was shaking so much the bottle rattled against the glass, and Ron experienced a cold dart of uneasiness. ‘To be sure, Frank, you don’t have to tell me. I can guess enough to know things didn’t go well and that somehow you and Brendon were caught up in it.’
‘I was only a bystander,’ said Frank, ‘but I saw enough, and can only thank God my boy wasn’t amongst the dead that day.’ He shrugged off Brendon’s staying hand, raised his head and looked at his father with bloodshot eyes, his gaze never wavering as he described the terrible scenes on Slapton Sands those two consecutive early mornings when raw, young American recruits had been sent to their deaths during a rehearsal for landing in France.
‘The final death toll was over seven hundred,’ he finished brokenly.
Ron gritted his teeth, holding back his anger at such an unnecessary waste of young lives, and the futility of ever trusting those in charge to get beach landing assaults right. He’d seen enough slaughter during the first shout, and the knowledge that things hadn’t really changed made him sick at heart.
Brendon leant forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘As tragic as it was, we’re fighting a war, and men die.’
‘It was just a bloody rehearsal,’ Frank hissed furiously. ‘And they weren’t men – they were boys – they weren’t supposed to die.’
‘Everyone knows that,’ said Brendon firmly, ‘and you can be certain that it wasn’t taken lightly by Churchill or Eisenhower. General Addington – the American observer – told me that changes have been implemented to make sure something like that doesn’t happen when we—’ He broke off and bit his lip.
‘You’re taking part in the invasion?’ breathed Ron, his heart thudding at the thought.
Brendon scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t mean … That’s to say …’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Just forget I said anything – and for God’s sake don’t say a word of it to Mum.’
‘It’s all right, son,’ said Frank, putting his large arm around his shoulder. ‘We understand, and it’ll go no further than this room, I promise.’ His heavily lined, weathered face showed his anguish. ‘But the thought of you going back to the fighting is a knife to me heart, wee boy. If anything should happen to you …’
‘I’ll do my best to stay alive, Da,’ Brendon replied softly. ‘But it’s war, and we all have to take our chances.’
Ron’s heart shrivelled at the thought of the danger the boy would be in. He poured another round of drinks and gulped his own down. ‘When you told us you were going down there you said you wouldn’t be involved in the fighting,’ he muttered.
‘I know I did – and at the time, that’s what I believed. But it turns out that every man, ship and vehicle that took part in those rehearsals will be involved in the real thing, and I for one am glad of it. I’m sick of hanging about in London like a spare part when I should be doing something useful elsewhere.’
‘When will it be?’ Frank asked raggedly.
‘I’ve said too much already, Da. Please don’t ask me anything more.’
‘But it’ll be soon?’ Frank’s penetrating gaze was fixed on his son.
Brendon nodded curtly and poured another whiskey before making a visible effort to change the subject. ‘So, what’s Aunt Peggy cooking us for supper, Grandad?’ he asked a little too brightly. ‘Something you pilfered from the Cliffe estate, perhaps?’
Ron understood the boy’s need to lighten the mood, but his heart was heavy at the thought that this treasured grandson would once again be involved in the fighting that had already taken his two brothers, Seamus and Joseph and could see that Frank was really struggling to absorb the knowledge that his last surviving son would once again be in peril. Ron battled to keep his tone light and his expression bland as he played along with his grandson’s charade that everything was all right.
‘Those pigeons had nothing to do with Lord Cliffe,’ he said stoutly. ‘To be sure they were flying free up on the hills and simply got in the way of me shotgun, so they did.’
Brendon chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘If you say so, Grandad.’
Ron grinned back. The whole family knew that the Cliffe estate had been his larder for many years, and although the pigeons had been legally shot, their Christmas dinner had certainly been courtesy of Lord Cliffe’s well-stocked salmon ponds and pheasant pens.
He sipped the good whiskey and regarded his silent son, who was drinking it down as if it could wash away his fears and drown out the sounds and sights of what he’d witnessed at Slapton. Ron shared Frank’s anxieties and would have given anything to be able to lift the burden of Frank’s suffering, but what could he say or do that would make a difference to how they were both feeling? This war had to be won – boys like Brendon had to put their lives in danger to gain victory – and all anyone could do was cling together and pray that they all came home in one piece.
‘Let’s not dwell on things we have no control over,’ he said into the heavy silence. ‘Our time together is short enough without getting depressed.’ He forced a cheerful grin at Brendon. ‘Why don’t you tell us more about your young Betty?’ he encouraged. ‘From what your Aunt Carol says in her letters, she sounds like a nice wee lass.’
Brendon made a visible effort to emulate his grandfather’s cheerful tone as he filled Ron in on his girl down in Devon. ‘Aye, that she is,’ he said, pouring yet more whiskey into the empty glasses as he sang the young schoolmistress’s praises. ‘I hated leaving her down in Devon, but when this is all over we’ll be together again, I’m sure of it.’ He finished with a sheepish smile. ‘I know you’ve heard all this before, but she really is the one, Grandad.’
Ron smiled. ‘What it is to be young and fancy free,’ he joked, the whiskey giving him a pleasant buzz. ‘To be sure I remember when I was a lad. The girls couldn’t get enough of me back then.’
‘You’re not doing too badly now,’ teased Brendon, whose cheeks were getting flushed. ‘You’ve got a fine woman in Rosie Braithwaite.’
Ron chuckled. ‘Aye, I do that, and I count myself lucky that she puts up with me.’ He felt the ferrets begin to stir and hoisted them out of his pocket to drape them over his shoulders and stroke their soft fur. ‘But if she catches me in here, she’ll have my guts for garters.’
The ferrets lay slumped over his broad shoulders, hypnotised by Ron’s gentle hands and snuffling with pleasure.
‘D’you think it’s wise bringing them in here?’ asked Frank. ‘Rosie wouldn’t like it, and I doubt Gloria will either.’
‘Ach,’ he murmured, ‘they’re fine, so they are. They’re tired and it’s peaceful enough in here.’
As if on cue, the door slammed back, making them all jump. The ferrets stirred, raising their inquisitive noses and digging their claws into Ron’s shoulders as Gloria bustled in with a large plate of sandwiches.
Catching sight of the ferrets she dropped the plate and let out a screech. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing bringing them in ’ere?’ she yelled.
The ferrets took objection to the loud interruption and before Ron could grab them, they’d shot off his shoulders and scampered at lightning speed across the floor towards the open door.
Ron raced after them in an attempt to bar their escape – but Gloria was yelling fit to bust, the ferrets were too quick, and Harvey was barging about, trying to snaffle the sandwiches from the floor.
‘Get them things outta my pub,’ yelled Gloria, holding up the hem of her skirt as the ferrets darted between her feet and disappeared into the main saloon bar.
Frank and Brendon were quickly in pursuit and Ron dived after Flora, who was about to disappear up the chimney, managing to grab hold of her back leg. A firm tug, a grasp of her sooty scruff, and she was quickly shoved back into the deepest pocket of his coat.
But pandemonium had broken out amongst the crowd of drinkers as Dora shot between their legs, darting back and forth in search of an escape route through the tangle of screaming women and shoutin
g men.
Brendon made a grab for her, but she twisted away, clawed up the sturdy oak bar and leapt for safety onto the mirror-backed shelves on the wall behind it. Glasses smashed and bottles teetered dangerously as she arched her back, dropped a stinking pile of poo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.
To the accompanying cries of horror at the stench, shouts of encouragement from the servicemen and over-excited barking from Harvey, Brendon and Frank closed in on her, wary of her sharp claws and even sharper teeth.
‘Look what it’s done all over me shelves,’ wailed Gloria. ‘You’re gonna pay for this, Ronan Reilly, you can be sure of that!’
‘Gloria, stop yelling, or you’ll frighten her even more,’ Ron retorted.
Gloria glared at him, her eyes glinting dangerously, but she held her tongue and her customers fell silent, agog as to what might happen next.
Brendon and Frank closed in with Ron. ‘Go slow and easy, boys,’ he said, grabbing Harvey to make him shut up and sit still. He murmured soft words as he slowly approached Dora, and gently drew Flora back out of his pocket so they could see each other.
Dora sniffed the air suspiciously and Ron held Flora up so they were nose to nose, and while Dora was occupied with greeting her companion, Frank took a firm hold of her scruff and eased her off the shelf.
Ron tucked them both away in the deepest reaches of his coat. Mournfully eyeing the shattered glasses and bottles on the floor and the odorous mess on the shelf, he gave Gloria a hapless smile. ‘To be sure, I’m sorry, Gloria. We’ll clean up and pay for any damage.’
‘Damned right you will,’ she stormed. ‘Do you know how hard it is to get glasses these days? And that were a full bottle of gin – worth a king’s ransom.’
