by Ellie Dean
Ron returned to the kitchen half an hour later looking very smart in his suit and greatcoat, Jim’s dark blue fedora set at a jaunty angle above one shaggy brow. ‘I’m off to the pub,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, Harvey.’
Harvey opened one eye, wriggled his brows, and promptly went back to sleep.
‘It looks like you’re on your own,’ chuckled Peggy. ‘Good luck.’
‘To be sure I shouldn’t have bothered getting up today,’ Ron grumbled before heading outside again and slamming the door behind him.
His departure triggered a bustle of fetching belongings and dressing once more for the outdoors. The afternoon had sped past and none of them had realised just how late it was. Peggy followed them down the path, holding tightly to Daisy’s hand as she waved them goodbye at the gate.
Peggy stood there until they’d gone out of sight, and then turned back towards the house. There was still no sign of Rita or Sarah, and with the grey day closing in and the foghorn once more moaning out at sea, her concern for little Rita deepened. She was in a fragile state of late having lost her beloved Matthew, and Peggy was apprehensive that seeing Jack might have done more harm than good to Rita’s state of mind.
Hurrying back into the kitchen, she glanced again at the clock. ‘If Rita isn’t back by the time I’ve got Daisy in bed, I’m going out to look for her,’ she said to Cordelia.
‘But where would you start?’ Cordelia asked fretfully. ‘This is a big town now, and if she’s gone out on that motorbike, she could be anywhere.’
‘Then I’ll go to the fire station and get John Hicks to drive me to all her usual haunts first,’ said Peggy with determination. ‘She could be all alone in a state about her father, or worse still could have had an accident on that motorbike and be lying out there somewhere injured and in need of help.’
Ron strode through the gathering gloom, the mournful sound of the foghorn echoing his mood. The day had been a disaster so far, but he was determined to end it on a high note. He’d come to the conclusion that he’d been in Rosie’s bad books too often to placate her with flowers or chocolates, and that if he was to keep her, he’d have to go about things differently. The long walk in the hills had cleared his head and made him see their relationship from her point of view, and he’d been chastened to realise how careless he’d been towards the woman who meant so much to him.
He opened the door to the Anchor fully expecting to see the Major in his usual place at the end of the bar by the till, but there was no sign of him – which was a relief, because he wasn’t yet ready to face him and be polite. Pushing through the crush of people, he noted how few servicemen there were, and that the majority of the customers were locals and factory workers – a sure sign that something was afoot with regard to this rumoured invasion.
Ron finally managed to get to the bar, but one glance told him Rosie wasn’t there either. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him, and waited patiently until one of the part-time barmaids caught his eye.
Beryl and Flo usually worked in the factory canteen up on the industrial estate, and when Rosie was in a bind, she called on them for help, even though they weren’t as efficient as her usual two women.
‘Hello, Ron,’ said Beryl, her matronly figure swathed in a floral wrap-round apron, her plump face flushed with her exertions. ‘Rosie said you might pop in to lend a hand, and goodness knows, me and Flo could use you tonight.’
‘Where’s Rosie? Upstairs, or changing barrels?’
‘She had to go out,’ said Beryl, swiftly clearing dirty glasses from the bar as Flo continued to pull pints. ‘Didn’t say how long she’d be.’
‘She were looking ever so smart,’ piped up Flo. ‘So she were off somewhere important, I bet.’
That nugget of information didn’t make him feel the least bit better, but as both women were clearly struggling to cope, he took off his coat and hat and dumped them on the coat rack in the hall before returning to the bar.
His mind was working furiously as he filled glasses and took the money, and when there was a lull, he approached Beryl again. ‘Did she say where she was going?’
The woman shook her head. ‘She just said it was important, and if she wasn’t back before closing to lock up for her.’
Ron frowned and went back to serving until he had a chance to speak to her again. ‘Did she go out on her own?’ he asked Beryl, who was older than Flo and less inclined to exaggerate.
‘I don’t know, Ron,’ she said impatiently. ‘She opened up for me and Flo and then left through the side door. But she took Monty with her, so she can’t have gone far.’
Ron felt enormously relieved. If she’d taken Monty then she wasn’t off to some posh dinner or the theatre with the Major – but where the heck could she be?
‘No sign of the Major this evening,’ he remarked nonchalantly.
Beryl shrugged. ‘He doesn’t come in every night, and with the weather so bad I doubt he could get a lift in from the Memorial tonight.’
Ron considered this and decided it made sense, for the military hospital was situated on the other side of the surrounding hills, but jealousy sparked at the realisation that the Major had managed it earlier this morning, which didn’t ease his concern over where Rosie had gone tonight – and if she really was on her own.
He continued serving, his gaze drifting repeatedly to the large clock above the bar as yet another hour passed. The noise level was rising along with the cigarette and pipe smoke that now hung in a thick pall beneath the heavy beams of the low ceiling. Someone was bashing out a tune on the old piano which encouraged others to try and sing along, but it was a horrible noise, and he wondered if that was how he’d sounded the night before – in which case he couldn’t blame Rosie for upending the swill bucket on him.
It was getting hot and stuffy in here, but the blackout rules meant they couldn’t throw open windows and doors, and all the noise was beginning to give him a headache. I must be getting old, he thought dolefully, for I usually enjoy a lively night – but it’s not the same without Rosie, and that’s a fact.
It was gone eight o’clock when he heard a kerfuffle by the door, looked up to see who was causing it, and saw a white-faced Peggy pushing her way towards him. Dashing from behind the bar, he led her into the relative quiet of the narrow hallway. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Rita. We can’t find her, and we’ve looked everywhere in Cliffehaven.’
Ron hid his alarm as he sat her down on the stairs and took her cold hands in his. ‘Who’s we, and where have you looked?’ he asked firmly.
‘Andy and Ivy have taken a small van from the fire station, and John Hicks has gone out in the other. Her motorbike isn’t at home or the fire station, so they’ve been to the cinder track, up to the farmhouse ruin, and asked all the people manning the clifftop guns if they’ve seen her, but no luck. Andy and Ivy have been all over town, back to where she used to live, knocking on her friends’ doors and looking in the recreation ground, the allotments and the parks – but there’s no sign of her.’
She paused to take a breath through chattering teeth. ‘I’ve been to the hospital, but Fran hasn’t seen her, she’s not listed as a patient, and she’s not in any of the pubs either.’
Ron’s mind whirled with all the possibilities. Rita was a lively little thing, mischievous too, but she was also a solitary soul, preferring her own company when things worried or upset her. And a lot had happened to the girl over these past few weeks – culminating in her father’s unexpected visit, which must have further increased her anguish when she’d had to watch him leave again so soon.
He looked up as Flo handed him a glass of brandy which he cupped in Peggy’s trembling hands, encouraging her to drink. ‘Thanks, Flo. Can you and Beryl manage without me for the rest of the evening? Only there’s something I have to do.’
‘Yeah, of course. But what about Peggy?’
‘I’m taking her home,’ he replied.
He grabbed his hat and
coat, waited until the glass was empty and then helped Peggy to her feet, almost relieved to have someone else to worry about instead of Rosie. ‘I have a feeling I know where she might be,’ he said as he steered her through the side door and into Camden Road.
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ she said.
‘No, Peggy, girl. You’re going home to thaw out before you die of the cold. And I’ll have no arguments about it.’
‘But—’
He maintained his grip on her waist and hurried her outside and along the pavement, towards Beach View, his mind working out how to get where he needed to be in the quickest time possible. ‘Is Harvey out with the others?’
‘No, he’s at home sulking because they left without him.’
As they reached home at last Ron hustled Peggy indoors and gave her a nudge up the concrete steps. ‘Go and get warm while I organise meself,’ he muttered as Harvey flew down the steps to greet them both and almost knocked Peggy off her feet.
Peggy trudged up the steps and Ron swiftly changed into his old clothes and sturdy walking boots while Harvey watched him in puzzlement.
Ron stripped the blankets off his bed and rolled them with the sheet into a tight bundle which he tied together with garden twine, checked that his lamping torch had new batteries, wrapped a thick scarf round his neck and crammed his woolly hat over his ears. Slinging the bundle over his shoulder, he picked up his small haversack which contained a first aid kit and a flask of brandy.
Stomping up the steps into the kitchen he was met by the sight of Cordelia and Peggy sitting wide-eyed and fearful by the fire. ‘I’ll send Harvey back when I find her,’ he assured them, reaching for Rita’s colourful scarf which was lying on the kitchen table.
‘But what if the others find her first? How will we let you know? How are you so sure you know where she is?’
Ron had no answer to all of these questions, for he was acting purely on instinct, and his knowledge of the young girl he’d known since she was a baby. He left the house with Harvey, and set a fast pace along the alleyway and up into the hills.
It was an unusually cold, damp night, the temperature dropping rapidly, and the very fact that Rita was still out there somewhere told him she must be in trouble. Rita was a thoughtful, sweet girl, and no matter how troubled she was, she would never knowingly cause Peggy worry like this.
Ron tramped up the steep hill and was soon engulfed in the thick fog that was rolling in from the sea. Visibility was down to a few feet, and the dampness in the air would be washing away any scent. He gently grasped Harvey’s jaw, looked him in the eye and held Rita’s scarf to his nose. ‘Seek, Harvey. Find our little Rita.’
Harvey snuffled at the scarf then ran round in a wide circle, nose to the ground, tail stiff with concentration.
Ron doubted he’d come across it yet, especially if the girl had brought her motorbike up here, so while Harvey was tracking back and forth, he set off towards the ruined barn.
He could see very little and the fog would have been debilitating to anyone who didn’t know these hills as well as he did. Sure-footed, his sense of direction honed by many years at sea and in these hills, Ron kept going until he could make out the darker shadows of the ruined barn emerging through the swirling fog. Although Peggy had said it had already been checked, he gave it a cursory inspection anyway, and Harvey got quite excited for a moment, but then he lost the scent again, so Ron turned northward and began to descend towards the forest and farms of the Cliffe estate.
Reaching the high chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire, he came to a halt and once more drew Rita’s scarf from his pocket.
Harvey sniffed deeply, searched amongst the gorse and long grass by the fence and then worked his way along the perimeter until he reached the country lane in the valley. The fog was thinner here, the visibility just good enough to make out the fields of wheat, and the ghostly white fleeces of grazing sheep.
Ron followed him, watching his every move. If his instinct had been right, Harvey should pick up her scent very soon.
Harvey stood in the lane, sniffing the air, his ears pricked – and then he shot off towards the airfield.
Ron hurried after him, straining to hear his bark which would signal that he’d found her.
It came within minutes, muffled by the fog and very distant.
Ron strode towards the sound, his boots crunching on the loose gravel of the country lane as he passed the silent fields and approached the far reaches of RAF Cliffe’s runways and security fencing. There were no planes tonight, and the fog was now rolling over the hills into the valley, deadening all sound but for the frantic high-pitched and urgent barks of his dog.
Harvey galloped out of the fog, saw Ron, gave a single bark and turned swiftly back at the faint cry for help.
Ron frowned as he broke into a trot. That wasn’t Rita’s voice.
He found them at the side of the road, half-hidden in the undergrowth of a high hedge, the mangled motorbike on its side in a nearby ditch, Harvey going back and forth between them, whining with concern.
Ron patted his head and praised him quickly before fighting his way through the brambles to the two girls who were huddled together for warmth and comfort.
‘I don’t know how you found us, but thank God you’re here,’ said Sarah tearfully through chattering teeth. ‘We’ve seen no traffic for hours and although we’ve been calling and calling, no one’s heard us.’
Ron hid his surprise at seeing her. ‘Where are you hurt?’ he asked, switching on his torch and taking in their deathly white pallor, their scratched faces and the awkward angle of their limbs.
Rita’s brown eyes were huge in her ashen face as she tried to move her leg and gave a sharp gasp. ‘It’s my knee and Sarah’s ankle and arm.’
He untied the bundle and swiftly wrapped them in the blankets, for although Rita was wearing her fleece-lined leather flying jacket and thick trousers, Sarah had only a lightweight overcoat over a cotton dress, and both girls were trembling with shock and the cold. ‘How did this happen?’ he asked, glancing at the damaged motorbike.
‘Yank army truck going too bloody fast round the bend back there, clipped the rear wheel and knocked us flying,’ Rita rasped. ‘They couldn’t have felt the collision, because they just kept on going.’
Ron handed over the brandy flask, noting how Sarah was cradling her arm against her chest. He tore the sheet to make a sling and gently eased her arm into it before turning his attention to her ankle. ‘It doesn’t look broken,’ he muttered, ‘but I’ll strap it up for now.’
He turned to Rita when he’d finished, and eyed the thick leather trousers. ‘What about your knee?’
She grimaced. ‘There’s not much you can do about it unless I take these trousers off, and it’s far too cold for that. I’ll be fine, really.’ She finished off the brandy. ‘We’re a couple of cripples and the bike looks written off. What on earth do we do now?’
Ron sat back on his haunches. He calculated the distance he’d have to go to get help from either RAF Cliffe or the American HQ on the Cliffe estate. ‘I’ll go and get help from the Yanks,’ he muttered. ‘It’ll be quicker than trekking round the airfield to the guard house.’
He tucked the blankets more tightly around them, hoping they would be enough to stave off the cold while he was gone. ‘Huddle together to keep warm. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘Can Harvey stay with us?’ pleaded Sarah.
Ron shook his head. ‘I’m sending him home to let everyone know I’ve found you. They’ve been out searching since six o’clock and must be frantic by now.’ He tied Rita’s scarf to Harvey’s collar. ‘Home, Harvey,’ he ordered.
Harvey dithered and whined, clearly loath to leave.
‘Home. Now,’ said Ron, his tone stern.
Harvey went hurtling into the lane and was soon swallowed up by the fog.
Ron handed the torch to the girls and strode away, breaking into a steady trot as he headed through the rapidly thicke
ning fog towards the main gate of the Cliffe estate. The blasted Yanks were always driving too damned fast in those great heavy trucks, and it was a miracle the girls had survived such a collision if the state of Rita’s bike was anything to go by. And if he had any kind of back-chat from the guard on the gate, the man would soon learn not to mess with Ronan Reilly – or any of his family.
Peggy had been pacing back and forth; repeatedly going down to the scullery door to peer into the thick blanket of fog, straining to hear any sound that might herald Ron’s return. Her worry over Rita was now all-encompassing, and not helped by the fact that Sarah seemed to have gone missing as well.
Andy, Ivy and John Hicks had come back from their fruitless search, and Fran had just arrived from her shift in the hospital theatre, to make tea and comfort poor Cordelia.
‘To be sure, Grandma Cordy, they’ll come home and wonder what all the fuss was about,’ Fran soothed. ‘I expect they lost track of time, and with the fog and everything are finding it difficult and slow to get back.’
Peggy wanted to believe her, really she did. And then she heard a sharp bark and the furious scratching of paws against the back door and flew down the steps.
‘Harvey, oh, Harvey, good boy,’ she cried as he rushed in. She looked up at the gathering in the kitchen doorway. ‘Ron’s found Rita – look, this is her scarf.’
There was a general sigh of relief before the speculation began as to where and how he’d found her, and how long it would be before they got home. And then Cordelia’s soft voice broke through the chatter. ‘But where’s Sarah? Why isn’t she here?’
Peggy rushed to her side and held her close. ‘She’s probably still with her friend,’ she soothed. ‘And if they’ve gone to the pictures they won’t be back for another hour, so please try not to worry, Cordy.’
‘She should have telephoned to let us know what she was doing,’ said Cordelia crossly. ‘With this fog closing in, she must have realised we’d be worried.’
Peggy accepted she had a point, and decided that when the girl did come home she’d give her a good talking-to. But the relief of knowing that Rita was safe with Ron was all she could think about at the moment.
