by Ellie Dean
Ron came to a halt and swayed on his feet as he regarded his grandson. ‘To be sure Peggy won’t mind if we’re a bit late. But I’ve not seen my Rosie all day, and she’ll think I don’t love her.’
Frank grabbed his father’s arm to stop him falling backwards into a hedge. ‘She’ll not be thanking you for turning up in this state, Da,’ he said, struggling to keep his own balance as his father threatened to pull him over. ‘Besides, she might not be in the mood to see you if she’s heard what happened in the Crown.’
Ron contemplated this solemnly and then nodded. ‘Aye, you could be right,’ he said and hiccupped. He peered blearily through the drizzling rain. ‘Where’s Harvey?’
‘He got bored and went home,’ said Brendon, ‘and it’s time we followed him.’ He grasped their arms and gradually managed to keep them on a fairly straight course down the pavement.
Brendon was smiling as he steered them along, glad he was sober enough to witness his father and grandfather in such a drunken state. He could remember his eighteenth birthday when these two – accompanied by his Uncle Jim – had taken him into the Anchor for his first legal pint. Two tankards of bitter had got him very drunk and he’d been half-carried back to Beach View where he’d been violently sick in the back garden before passing out on Peggy’s scullery floor. He’d woken the following morning with a blinding hangover only to discover he was sharing a bed with his grandfather’s old dog Billy, the pup, Harvey, and a half-chewed beef bone. Now it was his turn to get them home in one piece.
They reached Camden Road and before Brendon could stop him, Ron had broken away from his clutches and was staggering across the road to the Anchor. The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone being home despite the fact it was almost opening time.
Ron rattled the wrought-iron handle and began to bang on the door.
‘Grandad, don’t,’ hissed Brendon, urgently trying to pull him away.
Ron shrugged him off and staggered back from the door to look up to Rosie’s upstairs rooms. He swept off his cap, one hand held over his heart as he missed his footing and ended up standing in the gutter. ‘Rosie,’ he bellowed. ‘Rosie, me darlin’ – ’tis your Ron come to serenade you.’
‘Grandad, shut up,’ Brendon hissed as the sound echoed down the deserted street and his father clung to a nearby lamp post in fits of laughter. Brendon tugged Ron’s arm, but it was as if he was glued to the ground.
‘Rosie, oh Rosie,’ sang Ron, off key. ‘Lovely sweet Rosie mine.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Brendon. He was frantic to shut him up and drag him away, but even so he could feel laughter bubbling up as Ron continued his caterwauling. ‘Grandad, please stop making that awful racket,’ he spluttered. ‘You’ll get us all arrested.’
‘I’ll not be leaving until I see my lovely Rosie,’ Ron replied, stripping off his coat to leave it puddled on the pavement as he promptly began to murder ‘The Rose of Tralee’.
‘For the love of God, will you stop, Da,’ groaned Frank as he slid down the lamp post and ended up sprawled on the pavement, helpless with laughter. ‘To be sure me sides are aching, so they are.’
‘Come on, Grandad,’ pleaded Brendon. ‘She’s not here and we have to get home.’
Ron threw off his hand. ‘Of course she’s here,’ he muttered. ‘She’s always here.’ He tipped back his head. ‘You’re waiting for me, aren’t you, Rosie – my sweet, darlin’ girl? Waiting for your Ron.’
The window above was thrown open and Rosie glared down at them.
Ron tripped over his coat, which sent him staggering into the road before he regained the pavement and weaved back and forth as he tried to look up and keep his balance at the same time. ‘Rosie, my love. Oh, my sweet Rosie, let me come in so I can kiss you.’
‘I might have known it was you,’ Rosie snapped. ‘Go home, Ron, and sober up.’
‘Ach, Rosie, me darlin’, slurred Ron, swaying alarmingly, his cap clasped to his heart. ‘’Tis beautiful you are in the moonlight. Let me come and kiss the very air from you.’
Rosie disappeared from the window, returning almost immediately with what Brendon instantly recognised as a swill bucket. He hurriedly stepped back into the road as, with deliberate aim, Rosie emptied the contents over Ron’s head before slamming the window shut and drawing the curtains.
Ron stared down in confusion as the sludge of vegetable peelings and rotting leftovers slowly dripped from his head, down his face and clothes. ‘What did she do that for?’ he gasped in bewilderment.
‘She obviously didn’t appreciate your singing, Da,’ said Frank, still helpless with laughter as he sat on the pavement and hugged the lamp post. ‘You want to be grateful it was only her swill bucket and not her chamber pot.’
Ron eyed them both aghast. ‘But she loves me,’ he hiccupped.
‘I don’t think she does right this minute,’ said Brendon, firmly taking his arm and dragging him away before reaching down to pick up the discarded coat and haul his father to his feet. ‘Come on, Da, you can’t stay there all night.’
Brendon was now almost sober, thankful that Rosie’s bucket of pig-swill hadn’t splashed his uniform, and the police hadn’t been called. He had a bit of a job keeping the other two on their feet, but they finally reached the alleyway and headed for the back gate.
‘Whew,’ breathed Brandon. ‘You stink, Grandad,’ he said, eyeing the mess still clinging to him. ‘I’d better try and clean you up before Aunt Peg sees you.’
‘Ach, she’ll not be minding,’ said Ron, once again struggling from Brendon’s grip, grabbing his coat and weaving his way to the back door.
Brendon let him go to his doom, but while his attention had been on Ron, his father had wandered off, crashed into the side of the Anderson shelter and toppled like a felled oak, head first into the compost heap.
‘Bloody hell,’ Brendon sighed. ‘That’s all I need.’
Frank was a big man – tall, wide and a dead weight. Brendon struggled to get him out of the mound of rotting vegetation, but it was hopeless. He’d have to get a wheelbarrow.
‘What on earth is going on out there?’ asked Peggy from the kitchen window.
‘Nothing to worry about, Aunt Peg. We’ll be up in a minute,’ he replied, wheeling the barrow over to his comatose father who was in danger of being suffocated by Ron’s compost.
He heard her say something to the others in the kitchen, vaguely wondered where Ron had got to, and battled to get the majority of his father’s bulk into the wheelbarrow. Sweating, fed up, and now feeling utterly sober, he steered the unwieldy barrow back to the path and then came to an abrupt halt when he saw the reception committee on the doorstep.
Peggy and Pauline were grim-faced as they stood, arms tightly folded, poised for battle outside the back door. Cordelia and the four girls were equally unamused as they crowded behind them – carefully avoiding stepping on Ron, who seemed to have passed out on the basement floor beside a fretful Harvey.
‘I can explain,’ Brendon blustered.
‘I’m sure you can,’ snapped Pauline. ‘But we don’t want to hear your excuses. How dare you and your father disgrace me like this? You’ve missed your own farewell dinner that your Aunty Peg slaved over all day.’
Brendon slowly approached with the heavily laden wheelbarrow, his father’s long limbs dangling over the sides as he snored thunderously. Perhaps it was time to use a bit of Reilly charm? It usually worked.
‘Ach, it was just a few drinks on my last night, Mum. Da and Grandad only wanted to give me a good send-off.’
‘I’ll give you send-off,’ growled Peggy. ‘Look at the state of those two. Both stinking to high heaven and out for the count.’ She eyed Frank, who was covered from head to foot in compost, and then back to Ron, who was equally filthy. ‘You’re lucky I’m not built like Gloria Stevens,’ she fumed, ‘or I’d chuck all three of you out and make you sleep in the Anderson shelter.’
‘I’m truly sorry, Aunt Peg,’ he said, hanging h
is head. ‘None of us meant for any of it to happen, but Grandad’s ferrets got loose in the Crown and then Rosie chucked a bucket of swill over him for trying to serenade her.’
‘No wonder she chucked that lot over him. He can’t sing – and after what he’s done today, it was lucky she didn’t throw something much heavier than a bit of swill.’
Brendon heard the stifled giggles and looked up hopefully to find that the girls behind his mother and aunt were trying very hard to keep straight faces.
Peggy regarded Frank, making a sterling effort to stay cross. ‘It’s not the first time he’s ended up in the compost, and I doubt it’ll be the last. You’d better bring him in and dump them both on Ron’s bed.’
‘But they’re filthy,’ protested Brendon.
‘It’s them that will have to put up with it,’ she said, ‘but on the other hand, it’ll be me that has to wash the bedding. Better to leave them both on the floor.’
Brendon struggled to get the barrow over the back step, and with the help of the girls managed to get his father out of the barrow and onto the hard, cold scullery floor. As Peggy and Pauline went to fetch pillows and blankets, he eyed the two men and couldn’t help but chuckle. It had certainly been a send-off to end all send-offs, and the memory of tonight would live with him for a long time.
And then he remembered that his grandad still had his ferrets tucked away in his coat. Gingerly searching the many pockets he found nothing but two dead and rather squashed rabbits. At some point during the crazy day Flora and Dora had escaped. And now they could be anywhere.
Peggy saw the funny side of it all and was glad to see that Pauline did too – eventually. Once Ron and Frank had been made reasonably comfortable on that hard concrete floor, Peggy served Brendon his portion of supper which she’d been keeping warm in the oven.
He regaled them with all that had happened during that eventful day, which made everyone laugh, and although Pauline was threatening to lose her sense of humour at the shame of it all, Peggy was delighted that he’d had such a rousing send-off. She watched him eat ravenously and gave him half of Frank and Ron’s share of the stew. They wouldn’t wake until morning, and it served them right to have to go without.
Once Brendon had eaten his fill, he spent a short while talking to his mother and aunt about Betty, and his hopes for their future, and then, because he had a very early train to catch the following morning, he pushed back from the table and went to kiss his mother goodnight.
Pauline had become tearful as the evening progressed, and as Brendon kissed her, she clung fiercely to him until he had to gently but firmly disentangle himself. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Mum,’ he said, before carrying his kitbag up to the single room that had once been Cissy’s.
Pauline sobbed into Peggy’s shoulder as his footsteps faded on the stairs, her fear for her son mingled with anger at Frank for denying her the chance to spend Brendon’s last night at home in Tamarisk Bay. Peggy comforted her, and as Frank was still out for the count in the basement, she didn’t like the thought of Pauline crying herself to sleep in the big spare room at the top of the house, so had reluctantly offered to share her bed for the night.
Peggy lay in the profound darkness long after the house had settled, weary to the bone but unable to sleep. It felt a bit strange to have Pauline beside her, who was a restless sleeper, forever turning, shifting, mumbling and stealing the blankets – so very different to Jim, who hardly stirred all night. Peggy closed her eyes, but her whirling thoughts wouldn’t let her relax.
It was clear that Pauline had yet to read her post, for she’d made no mention during supper of her sister, Carol, or Dolly’s revelation about Felix being the girl’s father, and their future plans. No doubt there would be ructions, and coming on top of Brendon’s leaving, Pauline would find it very hard to cope with it all.
Brendon would be leaving within hours for God knew where – Flora and Dora were probably enjoying their freedom somewhere in the hills, and although Ron would be devastated to lose them, it was entirely his fault they’d escaped. As for Rosie, she’d obviously heard about him being in the Crown, and his trying to serenade her had clearly been the last straw.
Peggy didn’t blame her one bit for tipping all that muck over him, but what was Rosie thinking by going for lunch with the Major when she must have known Ron would hear about it? The pair of them were behaving like naughty children, and deserved a good ticking-off. But then perhaps Rosie really had had enough of him, and had set her sights on someone who would no doubt prove more reliable and thoughtful. If that was the case, poor Ron would be bereft, and Peggy dreaded the fall-out. Her longstanding friendship with Rosie didn’t give her the right to interfere, but if things did go pear-shaped, Peggy knew she’d have to try and smooth the rift between them before it all went too far.
As her eyelids fluttered and her limbs became heavy with sleep, Peggy’s thoughts turned as always to her Jim. He would have loved to have taken part in today’s boisterous fun, and would probably have ended up in the compost heap alongside his brother, as had so often happened in the past. Darling Jim, she thought. I so wish you were here.
5
Burma
Jim’s thoughts were far from Cliffehaven as he marched with Big Bert and Ernie in the long column of men and hundreds of heavily laden mules and horses through the teak tree plantation and away from the latest skirmish. The Japanese patrol had been lurking in ambush and now lay dead some miles behind them. Their own casualties had been light, but it had been a salutary lesson to stay alert for further attacks.
It was noon, and the air shimmered in the breathless heat, the sweat darkening his shirt and making it cling wetly to his torso as the dead leaves crunched beneath the hundreds of boots and the shrill throb of thousands of cicadas rang in his head like a ceaseless chainsaw. Jim was tired and unbearably hot beneath the weight of his backpack, his mouth so dry it hurt to swallow after not having had a drink for over twenty-four hours. It had become a matter of pride as well as endurance for all of them to still have a full water bottle at the end of the day – but it was also a necessary evil, for fresh water was in extremely short supply, and not even the pack animals had been watered.
The man mountain that was Big Bert marched alongside him, his expression grim, his eyes alert as always for an enemy ambush, but disinclined to waste his energy by talking. Ernie looked small beside him in the midday glare, his hand resting lightly over the stock of his carbine, his eyes also swivelling left and right into the shadeless forest, all too aware that the column was vulnerable. His shirt was also black with sweat, his reddened face streaming with it beneath the broad-brimmed hat.
‘I bet we get bloody digging duty again,’ he grumbled. ‘My belly’s stuck to my spine I’m so hungry, and my mouth feels like glue.’
‘You and me both,’ rasped Jim, his own gaze darting through the endless rows of teak trees. ‘We can only hope there’s water in the next river – but I do wish those cicadas would shut up. They’re giving me a headache.’
They marched on in silence with no sign of enemy, animal or bird, and soon the high-pitched throb of the cicadas faded as they reached their night’s camp only to find that the river was dry, its stony bed as rough and parched as their throats.
It was still light, the heat as ferocious as ever as they came to a halt and made camp – but there was to be no rest, for Ernie’s prediction had proved right, and their battalion of sappers was immediately ordered to dig defence positions and slit trenches.
Jim worked with a will, the promise of food and sleep keeping him going. Sentries were posted, mortars put into position, and the machine guns sited so they were directed at their northern flank, and to fully cover the east and west perimeters of the open jungle – west where the enemy had been reported, and east where the column had left a wide belt of crushed teak leaves that could easily be followed by an enemy patrol.
It was finally time to eat, but there would be no fires tonight to heat wat
er and food, for it was imperative they remain undiscovered. The meagre meal was soon over, the water bottles remaining untouched as Jim, Bert and Ernie joined the other men in stand-to, equipped and prepared for any action as darkness fell with its usual swiftness.
Jim heaved a sigh of relief as the order to stand down came half an hour after darkness had fallen. The sentries remained at their posts and the signal and cipher men would be kept at work sending and receiving messages for at least another two hours, so it was with infinite thankfulness that his day was finally over that Jim shed his backpack and prepared for the night.
Taking off his boots, he stuffed the socks inside, leaving the laces drawn wide for quick and easy access, and placed his hat on top, the chinstrap tucked beneath them so it didn’t blow away. He loosened his belt and top fly button, checked his backpack was securely fastened and used it as a pillow. With his fully loaded carbine between his thighs, muzzle down, breach empty, safety on, he closed his eyes and was asleep in an instant.
The next day’s march took them to the edge of the forest where miles of fields, reeds, sandbanks and clumps of bamboo greeted them. A burst of gunfire from the east alerted them to the fact that the fighting patrol sent out to Katha was in action, and every man gripped his weapon in case the Japanese had sent other patrols towards their position.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Jim as they eventually reached the rolling sand dunes that bordered the vast Chindwin River which shone like molten silver in the brilliant sunshine. ‘We’ll be damned lucky to get the mules across that beast.’
‘It’s that over there you should be worried about,’ said Ernie, pointing to the far bank of the swiftly flowing river. ‘We’re going to have to tackle it with full kit as well as mules and heavy equipment before long.’
Jim stared at the high, jagged cliff of rock, the headland of which was covered in jungle growth that, from this distance, looked impenetrable.
He blew out his cheeks in a long sigh as he took off his hat and wiped away the sweat from his face. ‘At least we can have a drink now,’ he said, reaching for his water bottle, diluting a salt tablet in it and downing every drop in three great gulps.
