With a Kiss and a Prayer (The Cliffehaven Series)

by Ellie Dean

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she promised. ‘I’m so glad you’ve recovered, Stan. Everyone was so terribly worried about you.’

  ‘My Ethel has seen me through,’ he said, reaching for a small framed photograph he kept on the counter. ‘She’s a wonderful woman, and I don’t know how I would have managed without her.’

  Dolly dutifully admired the sharp-featured woman in the photograph, glad to have the opportunity to see what she looked like so she would be able to recognise her again. Then she gazed round the cramped space of this makeshift ticket office and left-luggage store. ‘I’m surprised she’s not keeping you company,’ she said lightly. ‘It must get very boring sitting here on your own for hours.’

  ‘Ethel’s on night shift up at the armaments factory all this week,’ he replied, setting the photograph almost reverently back on the counter. ‘But you don’t have to worry about me getting bored, Dolly. There’s always something to do.’ He pointed to a collection of freshly planted seed trays and small garden tools that needed mending or sharpening. ‘They keep me out of mischief, right enough.’

  Dolly smiled at him fondly. ‘I seem to remember you, Ron, Fred, Alf and Chalky were always getting up to some mischief or other when you were boys – and I bet that hasn’t changed.’

  He shot her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Well, we do have a couple of enterprises in hand at the moment. Will you stay for a cuppa?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Stan, but I can’t. I’ll pop in tomorrow, and perhaps get to meet Ethel at last. I’ve heard a lot about her from Peggy.’

  ‘She gets back at seven, has a sleep until about two, and starts her shift at six. I’ll tell her you called in.’

  Dolly hugged him again, wishing she had time to reminisce and catch up with what the others in the gang had been up to, for Ron and Stan had been an intrinsic part of her formative years – the brothers she’d never had, her conspirators in mischief and adventure, and confidants in times of trouble.

  She returned to the car and drove quickly up to the Memorial to check on Danuta and explain Peggy’s absence before she returned to Tamarisk Bay and her daughter’s cold company. She’d already decided how to deal with Ethel in a way that would avoid Stan finding out how devious his wife was – but it would mean an early start tomorrow.

  17

  Peggy felt drained after letting her pent-up emotions out with Dolly and could easily have followed her friend’s advice and gone to bed once Daisy was settled, but there had been a marvellous delivery of letters waiting for her, and they’d perked her up no end.

  Once tea was over and Daisy asleep in her bed, Ivy, Rita and Sarah decided it was time for Cordelia to dye her legs with gravy browning to make it look as if she was wearing nylons. There was a huge amount of laughter and chatter as Cordelia willingly succumbed to their gentle ministrations, and everyone fell about when she tried to draw a pencil line up the back of her leg and ended up with a wriggly line that started at the ankle and finished up going across her knee.

  ‘I’ve started a new fashion,’ she said defiantly, lifting her skirt and admiring her handiwork. ‘A straight line is very boring. This is far more fun.’

  Peggy was delighted to see them so happy, but the siren call of those letters couldn’t be ignored any longer, so she took them into the bedroom so she could absorb them properly in peace and the soft glow of Daisy’s night-light.

  Anne was very busy down in Somerset with end-of-term tests and the arranging of a sports day at the village school. Her little girls, Rose Margaret and Emily Jane, had recovered from a bout of measles which had spread through the school like wildfire, and even infected one of the German POWs who was working on the farm. Calving was in full swing and the harvest would begin once the weather became more clement. Life was quite hectic, and she apologised for being so slack in not writing as often as she should.

  Peggy was delighted to learn that Anne had received a card from Martin, who said they were being treated quite well, and that they’d just received Red Cross parcels for the first time. These had proved to be a huge treat and helped no end to boost morale amongst the men, who had no news of how the war was going or what was happening to their loved ones. Like Anne, Peggy could only conclude that the Germans in charge of the camp were heavily censoring the prisoners’ mail, or just not delivering it.

  Peggy read her very young granddaughters’ almost illegible scrawl at the bottom of the letter, smiled at the row of rather wobbly kisses, and the two drawings of what were supposed to be newborn calves, but more resembled purple and yellow beetles.

  The letters from Bob and Charlie were rather more sobering, and Peggy experienced a deep ache of dread as she read them. Bob had left school and was now working full-time on the farm, which he loved. He’d joined the local Civil Defence and was also a part-time junior plane spotter, learning the craft of identifying enemy and Allied planes as they flew over the sprawling Somerset hills and reporting back to HQ. Bob wrote that he was hoping to remain on the farm and not be called up when he turned eighteen next year, but if the call came, he was prepared to do his duty for his country and make both his father and his grandfather proud.

  ‘Oh, Bob,’ she sighed tremulously. ‘They’re already proud of you. Please God stick to being a farmer and serve your country that way.’ She finished the letter, the words blurred by her unshed tears, and carefully tucked it back in its envelope.

  Charlie’s writing, as usual, was appalling and it took a while to decipher the single page. The scrawl was typical of her youngest son, for it was written in haste and great enthusiasm, without much care for spelling or punctuation. He clearly had far more interesting things to do than write letters home, and she suspected Anne had had to sit him down and make him do it before he disappeared off again for the day.

  Peggy pushed away the memories of the eight-year-old boy she’d been forced to send away once the nearby school had been bombed. He’d always had scabby knees and a dirty, impish face beneath a shock of dark, unruly hair – but his eyes always shone with mischief and a simple delight in life, which clearly hadn’t changed even though he was now thirteen.

  Charlie’s excitement at having managed to fix an old farm truck that everyone had abandoned as unrepairable leapt from the page. He was about to embark on a new project, which entailed restoring an ancient car he’d found in one of the barns, for if he could get it to go, he’d be able to drive it round the farm.

  Peggy raised an eyebrow at this, for Charlie was harum-scarum, and the thought of the damage he could do behind the wheel of any motor made her shiver.

  She returned to the letter to discover that he was looking forward to going up to the senior school in the autumn, but only because he’d been assured a place on the rugby and football teams, and would at last be allowed to wear long trousers like Bob.

  Peggy’s smile faded as she read the final paragraph. Charlie hoped the war would last long enough so he could enlist into the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers and join his father out in Burma, which sounded far more thrilling than being stuck in a classroom.

  Peggy’s heart missed a beat, and she prayed fervently that the invasion meant neither of her sons would ever have to fight – let alone be sent to a jungle. Her hands trembled as she held the letters to her heart. Where had the time gone? How was it that Bob was now on the brink of manhood, and Charlie was racing towards it when all the memories she had of them were of impish little boys?

  The knowledge that they’d grown and matured far from home and without her guidance lay heavily on her heart, for they had dreams and ambitions she’d known nothing about, and if they’d had worries or fears, they’d have turned to Anne or Aunty Violet for comfort and counsel instead of being able to come to her.

  The tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the realisation that her little boys would virtually be strangers when they came home. If they came home. What if Charlie decided he preferred tinkering with farm machinery to having to start again at a new school whe
re he’d know no one and couldn’t play rugby? What if Bob stayed in Somerset to help Violet run the farm? Reaching for Jim’s photograph, she held it close and curled onto the bed to sob quietly into her pillow as Daisy slept on, unaware of her mother’s anguish.

  Peggy had little idea of how long she’d lain there, but as the tears dried, she kissed Jim’s photograph and fought to find an inner calm to sustain her before she read through his all too brief note.

  The lined and rather grubby paper had been torn from a notebook as before; the pencil he’d used was faint, making the words he’d scrawled difficult to read. He missed her, fretted when there was no mail and was overjoyed when a great bundle of letters arrived all at once. He hoped his father was well and behaving himself, that Daisy was thriving and Cissy not too badly affected by what she must be experiencing at the airfield – for although they were isolated, the forces broadcasts were keeping everyone up to date on what was happening back home.

  He sent his love to Cordelia and the girls, promising to write to everyone when he had time, but every day was busy and at night he was too tired to concentrate on anything but sleep.

  Jim wrote briefly about the skilful and daring exploits of the glider pilots and the heroic Americans who could throw their planes about as if they were toys, using them to cut telegraph wires, pick up gliders, and land on the most makeshift of runways to deliver mail and supplies and airlift out the wounded.

  Peggy noted that he made no mention of any fighting, or the hardships he must surely be suffering, and had to accept that she didn’t really want to know. The bulletins on the wireless were enough to give her bad dreams; she didn’t need any more details for her vivid imagination to work on and worry about.

  Jim finished his letter, as always, with a kiss.

  Peggy gathered up the letters and added them to one of the shoeboxes she’d stored in the bottom of her wardrobe. There were three boxes now, every one of them full. They were visible proof of how long she’d been parted from her scattered family, and only served to reinforce her yearning to have them all safely home. Feeling restless, Peggy changed into her nightclothes, wrapped Jim’s dressing gown around her and went to wash her face and tidy her hair before she had to face the others.

  She went into the kitchen and, despite her low spirits, had to chuckle. Cordelia and the girls had finished mucking about with gravy browning, and were now sitting round the table, their faces plastered in some sort of gooey paste. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘It’s the latest beauty treatment,’ said Cordelia, the paste cracking on her face as she spoke. ‘Rita assures me I’ll look years younger once it’s washed off.’

  Peggy eyed it with some scepticism. ‘What’s it made of?’

  ‘Flour and water,’ said Rita, trying not to move her mouth too much. ‘It’s supposed to tighten everything up and get rid of wrinkles.’

  Peggy giggled. ‘If you believe that, Rita, you’ll believe anything. And at your age you don’t have wrinkles.’

  ‘Why don’t you give it a go, Aunt Peg?’ said Ivy.

  ‘I’d rather have a cuppa, dear,’ she replied, reaching for the teapot and still chuckling. ‘Honestly, you’re all as daft as brushes,’ she managed, looking at the four white faces covered in cracked paste. ‘Have you seen yourselves?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun, Aunty Peg,’ said Rita, ‘and it’s not as if anyone can see us.’

  ‘It’s a good thing Ron’s not here,’ said Peggy dryly. ‘I dread to think what he’d have to say about it.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do him any harm to give it a go,’ said Cordelia, the paste slowly cracking enough to drop off her face and into her lap. ‘He’s got more wrinkles than a bloodhound.’

  Everyone laughed, the paste crumbled to dust and there was a rush to the sink to wash it off before clustering around Cordelia’s compact mirror to see the results. It was agreed that none of them looked any different, but it didn’t really matter.

  Peggy’s spirits had been lifted by the warmth and affection of those around her. There was no place like home. The people in this little gathering had become family – and once Danuta was well and the war was over, these old walls would once again welcome back those who’d been away for too long.

  She sipped her tea and lit a cigarette as the others settled down to wait for the nine o’clock news and the message from their king. Sarah turned up the volume on the wireless to combat the noise of the planes which were still going back and forth, and they were treated to a rousing performance from a French choir of their national anthem, the ‘Marseillaise’, which was then followed by a military band playing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

  Everyone sat very upright on the edge of their seats, enthralled by the stirring music of the two nations. Peggy’s heart swelled with pride for the bravery and fortitude of the men who’d gone to free the French from beneath the boot heels of the Nazis, and looking round she noted she wasn’t the only one to be so moved.

  The music faded into silence and everyone edged forward in eager anticipation.

  ‘Here is the news read by Joseph Macleod. This bulletin will include a message from His Highness, King George, and end with the latest war report, including the voices of Generals Eisenhower, Montgomery and De Gaulle. It also has messages and recordings from correspondents in the field.’

  There was a short pause in which could be heard a buzz and whine of atmospherics, and then the King’s now familiar, halting voice filled the kitchen. He was speaking not only to the people of the vast British Empire which spread across the world, from New Zealand and Australia to India and Great Britain, but also to those people in Canada and North America whose sons were now in combat to overthrow Hitler – and to the armed forces of the Allied nations.

  ‘Once more,’ he began hesitantly, ‘a supreme test has to be faced. This time the challenge is not to fight to survive, but to fight to win the final victory for the good cause. Once again, what is demanded from us all is something more than courage and endurance; we need a revival of spirit, a new unconquerable resolve.’

  Peggy closed her eyes and tried to block out the roar of the planes overhead as the King urged people of every faith to pray for strength and guidance to endure the days and weeks ahead as the fight for victory gathered momentum – and to never lose hope or faith in the great cause.

  It was a short speech, but a moving one, and Peggy hoped that somehow Jim might get to hear it even though he was probably miles from civilisation, for surely it would hearten him and the men who fought alongside him to know that the entire free world was praying for them.

  Her thoughts were broken by Joseph Macleod continuing with the news.

  ‘All still goes well on the coast of Normandy. Mr Churchill, in a second statement to the Commons this evening, reported that in some places we’ve driven several miles into France.

  ‘Fighting is going on in the town of Caen, and six hundred and forty guns of the Allied navies bombarded the German coast defences in support of our troops. Our great airborne landings – the biggest in history – have been carried out with very little loss. On the beaches, opposition was less than expected but heavy fighting still lies ahead.

  ‘All through the night and today, air support has been on a vast scale. Thirty-one thousand Allied airmen have been over France today alone. Every one of the big fleet of American transport planes which carried the first troops and equipment to the Continent was painted with broad blue and white stripes so that friendly forces would know them. They carried coloured lights to help the pilots keep in formation. This brightly lit armada, stretching more than two hundred miles across the sky and travelling only a few hundred feet up took more than an hour to pass. Yet on the other side no flak came up. There was only small arms fire.

  ‘Then, there were all our own airborne forces going out. The gliders and parachute troops in great numbers, with their own umbrella of night fighters. The Germans say we also dropped many life-sized dummies by parachute. They looked l
ike men but exploded when they hit the ground.’

  Peggy was still aware of the planes thundering back and forth as the newscaster continued to reiterate the details of the Allied landings which they’d heard in previous bulletins that day. She found her attention was wandering as her eyelids drooped, and although it would have been interesting to hear Eisenhower and the other generals speaking, she needed sleep more.

  She kissed everyone goodnight and wearily trudged up the stairs to the bathroom before creeping into her bedroom and falling onto the bed, still in Jim’s dressing gown. She didn’t bother to draw the blackout curtains, for she was absolutely certain the Luftwaffe were far too occupied over northern France tonight to have the time to come and be a nuisance over here.

  As Ron had predicted, the Anchor was busy. The regiment of Reserve and Civil Defence soldiers who manned the guns on the seafront and along the hills had come in as soon as their duty period was over to take up the benches by the fire and get stuck into pints of beer. The members of the Home Guard had gathered in their usual corner with their backs to the soldiers, drinking the place dry and reminiscing about how they’d won the First War in an attempt to impress the young boys in the group with their exploits.

  Ron stood behind the bar drying glasses, keeping an ear open on the news and his gaze fixed on the gathering by the fire. He was always amused by the way the two factions studiously ignored one another, for they were very similar – although to mention the fact could cause heated debate and even a bout of fisticuffs amongst the older ones. None of them could fight their way out of a paper bag, and it usually ended up with lots of shoving and shouting, fists raised like aged prize-fighters, but judiciously too far from their opponent to land or receive a blow.

  The soldiers might preen and make fun of what they called ‘Dad’s Army’, yet they themselves weren’t hardened, battle-weary veterans, but men rapidly approaching their half-century, serving out their call-up until they were discharged and transferred to the Home Guard.