by Ellie Dean
He weaved his way through the furniture, hoisted the wide wooden ramp away from the far wall and set it in place beneath the hatch that opened in the pavement above. It was firmly locked at the moment, but he’d open it when he heard Leg-Over’s dray horse plodding down the road, for it was a danger to life and limb if left open, and he didn’t want some unsuspecting pedestrian ending up in a broken heap on Rosie’s cellar floor.
Returning upstairs, he regarded Harvey fondly as he lay sprawled and snoring on the couch, his belly full of things he had no business eating. The old rogue was still as slim as a greyhound and as energetic as his pup, Monty, but he was tiring more easily, and slept for longer these days. He was getting to be an old boy, a bit like himself, Ron thought mournfully. The mind was deluded into thinking they were still young and sprightly, but the body was starting to let them down.
Thoughts of Monty brought him back to Rosie’s absence, so to dismiss the ever-present anxiety, he went into the kitchen and placed the kettle on the hob. While he waited for it to boil, he filled his pipe and watched Camden Road slowly come to life.
Queues of housewives were quickly forming outside the shops where awnings had been drawn out over the pavement to give the place a bit of colour in the welcome sunshine. No one seemed to be taking any notice of the planes which continued to roar back and forth on their mission to bomb the hell out of enemy installations on the other side of the Channel, and Ron sensed an air of stoicism in the women who were patiently waiting to collect their rations and girding themselves for many more months of hardship before their men could come home and things return to normal.
He opened the window and puffed on his pipe, deep in thought. He very much doubted things would ever be the same again, for this war had brought so many changes to everyday life it would be a long time before the country settled down and accepted that the old ways were a thing of the past, and that new challenges lay ahead.
Victory back in 1918 had brought challenges none of them had expected, for food had been scarce and poverty rife; the returning men finding not a home for heroes, but a tired, dispirited country where there were few jobs and the injured amongst them were reduced to begging in the street.
And then the flu epidemic had swept the world, killing more than had died in the trenches, and the little spirit there was had withered to nothing.
He stared unseeing out of the window, the memories of that time sharply imprinted on his mind. It had been nothing less than a miracle that he and his sons had survived the horrors of the trenches, but on their return home it had been a fearsome struggle to blank out all they’d witnessed and try to survive the homecoming. He and the boys had gone out day after day and sometimes throughout the nights, into deeper and more dangerous waters to bring in the catch, but they counted themselves fortunate to still have the fishing boats Ron’s father had willed to him, for they’d kept them alive during those long, tough years.
The kettle began to whistle and broke into his dark thoughts, and as he made a pot of tea and brought it back to the sitting room, he berated himself for letting his profound sadness over Rosie make him so gloomy. Things would be different this time, for twenty-five years had passed, and although they were once again at war with Germany, the world had moved on.
People were better educated and far healthier; huge advances had been made in engineering, medicine, communications and technology, so there would be jobs aplenty. New houses and schools would have to be built, whole towns and cities raised from the rubble which would offer a promising future for the next generation of bright young things like his grandsons.
Sinking into one of the armchairs, he stretched out his legs and relaxed for the first time since waking. It was barely nine thirty, but it felt much, much later after all he’d been through today, and as his eyelids drooped, he settled his head back into the soft cushions and let sleep claim him.
Startled awake by the sound of the horse’s hooves on the street below, Ron spilled cold tea all down his front and cursed. Brushing it off his sweater and jacket with irritation, he hurried downstairs, grabbed the trapdoor key and slammed through the side door.
‘Morning, Ron,’ said a smirking Leg-Over. ‘Cutting it a bit fine, weren’t you, phoning in your order so late?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Ron muttered, patting the patient old dray horse before slotting the key into the brass fitting and heaving up the weighty hatch until it was tethered firmly to a hook on the Anchor’s wall.
‘On your lonesome, I hear,’ continued Leg-Over, making no effort to unload the barrels and crates from the dray. ‘Still, you can’t expect a looker like Rosie to ignore the attentions of a much younger man with better prospects than a scruffy pensioner like you.’
Ron gritted his teeth, refusing to rise to the goading as he hoisted eight crates off the dray and carefully placed them on the pavement before reaching for one of the barrels. He worked quickly and efficiently, determined not to let Leg-Over rile him, but it was getting harder by the minute as he stood there needling him while he watched him work.
Once all the barrels were lined up on the pavement, Ron wiped the sweat from his brow on his jacket sleeve. ‘I’ll go down and give you a shout when I’m ready to catch them,’ he said. Not waiting for a reply, he hurried back through the side door and into the cellar.
Peering up at Leg-Over’s ugly mug, he yelled, ‘Right you are! Let’s be having them.’
Leg-Over slid the crates down with unnecessary speed and Ron just managed to catch them and move them out of the way before the first barrel began rolling ponderously down the ramp. ‘Slow down,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll crack the barrel.’
‘Then you’d better work faster, old man,’ Leg-Over retorted, sending the second barrel down.
Ron swore under his breath, determined not to let Leg-Over get the better of him, but he promised himself that one of these days, he’d land such a punch on the man’s nose he’d be out cold for a week.
‘Right you are,’ shouted Leg-Over once everything was in the cellar and the empty barrels in the dray. ‘That’s it. Give my love to Rosie when you see her. If you see her again,’ he added with a snigger.
The wooden hatch slammed back into the hole, leaving Ron in the pitch black of the cellar.
Muttering dire threats to get his own back on Leg-Over, he switched on the single light bulb and removed the ramp. He manoeuvred the heavy barrels across the concrete floor towards the pumps, and then stacked the crates by the bottom of the steps so they’d be easy to grab when the bar got busy.
Once he was satisfied that all was in order for opening time, he returned to the pavement, locked the hatch and hung the key back on its hook by the telephone. Sweating profusely and covered in muck from handling the barrels and crates in the dusty, cobwebbed cellar, he went upstairs to have a quick bath so he’d look reasonably respectable by the time Brenda appeared and he had to open the doors.
Ron was feeling refreshed after his bath, and in a better frame of mind. He combed his thick, unruly hair, winked at his reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror and went to check on the animals.
Finding them both still sleeping, he put some food down, closed the door behind him and went down the stairs and into the bar. He switched on the lights, checked there were clean glasses under the counter, and enough crates to see them through the next couple of hours.
He fetched a pint glass and pumped some of the new beer into it, giving it a good inspection before he threw it away and pumped some more until it ran clear. The first pouring from a new barrel was always cloudy – especially if it hadn’t had time to settle – but this looked the business, and as he was feeling quite thirsty, he refilled the glass and drank deeply.
He savoured the pint as he regarded the room, noting how neat and clean it looked, with the chairs and tables tidied away, the cobwebs dusted from the inglenook, and the floor swept. Brenda was worth her weight in gold, he decided, for she did the things he hadn’t thought to do, and remember
ed things he should have.
He finished the beer and rinsed out the glass, then took the tea towels off the pumps and gave the counter a quick wipe over – not that it needed it, for the wood gleamed richly from many years of Rosie’s loving polishing.
Satisfied that she would be pleased at how well they were managing, he headed for the door. There were a few minutes still before opening time, but there were letters on the mat and hope sprang eternal that at last there might be something from Rosie.
He gathered everything up and sifted through the bills and private letters until he came to the envelope with his name on it in Rosie’s handwriting. Frowning at the fact it bore no stamp, and had clearly been opened and much handled, he tossed the rest of the post on top of the dilapidated piano and sat on the stool, eager to see what she had to say.
Ron,
I’m writing this in haste, for I don’t have much time before I have to leave. I hope Sergeant Williams returned Flora and Dora safely, and I’m sorry I couldn’t deliver them myself, but it was very late when I found them and I didn’t want to disturb the household.
I received some sad news by telegram this mid-morning, and having spent the rest of the day trying desperately to find a way of sorting things out, I was unable to get hold of you or anyone at Beach View – which is why I must leave so swiftly and without warning.
My poor James died yesterday after a particularly bad episode, and of course I must go and see to all the arrangements before his family take over and go against his wishes. Thankfully, he was sound enough in mind for a little while to write a will before he was committed to the asylum, and although his family want him to be buried in their village churchyard, he’d always had an abhorrence of the idea and so expressed the wish to be cremated, and his ashes scattered across the Channel.
You will no doubt have heard about the lunch I had at the Officers’ Club with Major Radwell. Henry’s a good companion, and has turned out to be a most helpful friend. When I found it impossible to obtain a travel warrant to get to the asylum, he called in a lot of favours and secured warrants for both of us as he was being discharged that day from the Memorial. He even hired a chauffeur-driven car to take us all the way up there, so I could travel in comfort and take Monty, who would have been an added burden to you when you have so many other commitments. I’m sure Henry will prove to be an enormous help when it comes to all the paperwork that’s bound to be involved, and I feel rather blessed to have him at my side during this difficult time, since I couldn’t have you.
I will give this letter to Stan, whom I trust will pass it on with little delay, for once again I will need your help in keeping the Anchor going while I’m away. You will have Brenda to help you, and can rely on her to remind you of all the things you’ll probably forget.
I’m so sorry I didn’t get the chance to speak to you and smooth things over between us before I had to flit. But I should be home within a fortnight, and we can talk then. Thank you for all the years of love, support and laughter you’ve given me. I will hold onto those memories as I sadly turn the final page on my marriage to James and try to come to terms with what his passing will mean.
I will write no more of my thoughts now, for I am tired and will probably not make much sense. As you will note, there is no address on the letter, for I have no idea of where we’ll be staying.
With love,
Rosie
Ron scanned through the pages again, desperately trying not to read into them things that weren’t there, but failing miserably. They might just be friends, Rosie and the Major, but they were clearly on first-name terms, and what did she mean about where they were staying? Did they plan to be in the same hotel or boarding house? And it seemed the Major’s eagerness to help was over and above what should be expected from a mere friend.
Ron tried to stop his jealousy from ruining what should have been a moment of joy. Rosie had written to him, after all, and there was a very real reason why she’d had to leave Cliffehaven. Of course it was sad that James had died, but it meant that Rosie was free at long last to marry him, so why was he being so sour?
He re-read the last but one paragraph, trying to figure out what she meant by having to come to terms with what James’s death would mean for her. They’d talked about it often enough – planned their future together for when the time came. Now it had, it seemed she was having second thoughts, and that could only mean one thing. Major Henry Radwell.
Ron’s emotions were mixed, his thoughts confused as he sat there in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the coloured glass of the small window in the door. He couldn’t honestly say he felt much about James’s passing, for he’d never met the man, but he understood that it would affect Rosie after all these years of sorrow. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of it, for parts of her letter held promise, and other parts felt as if she was holding back.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Brenda said cheerfully as she opened the door and stepped inside. ‘You look as if you lost a bob and found a farthing.’
‘Nothing a pint won’t fix,’ he muttered.
‘So the order’s arrived then, that’s good,’ she replied, her gaze falling on the grubby envelope in his hand.
He shoved it in his pocket just as the telephone began to ring in the hall. There seemed to be an added urgency to its tone, so he hurried out to answer it.
‘Ron, it’s me, Stan. I need your help, old friend.’
Ron gripped the receiver. ‘What’s happened? Where are you?’
‘I’m at the police station. Ethel’s been brought in for stealing …’ His voice broke and he couldn’t continue.
‘I’ll be right over,’ said Ron, slamming down the receiver. ‘Would you be after minding things for a wee while, Brenda? Only I’ve got something important to do.’
She regarded him with undisguised curiosity, realised he wasn’t going to enlighten her and gave a sigh. ‘Only if you promise to be back in time for closing,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my daughter coming over with the grandchildren this afternoon, and it’s a rare treat, so I don’t want to miss a minute of it.’
‘I can’t promise how long this will take. I’m sorry, you’ll have to lock up on your own.’
He was halfway out of the door before he remembered Harvey and Queenie were still upstairs. He dithered, and then decided the animals would be all right shut in up there for a couple of hours.
Hurrying down Camden Road and up the High Street, his thoughts were in a whirl. He couldn’t care less what happened to Ethel, but his old friend Stan must be going through all kinds of agonies.
The police station stood tall and imposing halfway up the High Street, and Ron hurried up the steps and pushed through the swing doors into the reception area where two policemen were trying to deal with a belligerent drunk, while the duty officer attempted to take down the man’s details.
Ron could hear Ethel and another woman yelling blue murder from somewhere in the building; but his whole attention was on Stan, who sat slumped on a nearby chair, his head in his hands, a forgotten cup of tea cooling beside him.
He hurried to him and squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Stan. I’m here now.’
Stan looked up, his face ashen, eyes haunted with despair. ‘Oh, Ron,’ he rasped, gripping Ron’s hand as if it was a lifeline. ‘My Ethel’s in awful trouble and I just don’t know what to do about it.’
Ron was about to question him further when Bert Williams emerged from a nearby room and acknowledged him with a nod. ‘I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting so long, Stan,’ he said. ‘But there are procedures to go through, and they always take time.’ He cast a glance at the other officers and the raucous drunk. ‘Let’s talk in here where it’s quieter and more private.’
Ron steadied Stan by holding his arm as they traipsed into the small office where in happier times they’d shared a glass or three of whisky and put the world to rights during the long reaches of the night.
The man standing by the
window was a stranger to both of them, so Bert made the introductions. ‘This is Colonel John White,’ he said. ‘He’s actually retired from the army, and is now the supervisor of the factory estate, and responsible for bringing Ethel and her crony in.’
He sagged into the well-worn chair which creaked under his weight as the three men guardedly shook hands. ‘I think it’s best if he explains the circumstances,’ he added.
John White might have long retired from the army, but he’d retained the bearing and polish of his years as a soldier. He remained standing by the window, his thick silver hair glinting in the sunlight that struggled through the unwashed glass, his highly polished shoes and neatly pressed suit at variance with Bert’s rather scruffy uniform.
‘I have been shocked by the amount of pilfering that has been going on in the estate,’ he began, ‘and because my son is a POW in Germany, I’m particularly disgusted that some choose to steal from the Red Cross.’
He looked at Stan without a trace of pity. ‘Mr Dawkins, your wife has been under suspicion for some time. Earlier this morning, I called for a constable, and he and I caught her red-handed as she tried to pass some stolen goods on to her friend and co-conspirator, Olive Grayson. The Grayson woman has admitted to selling such goods on the black market, and both of them have now been charged.’
He glanced towards the door. ‘As you can hear, they are now being detained in the cells, awaiting the duty solicitor.’
‘It’s got to be a mistake,’ muttered Stan. ‘My Ethel wouldn’t—’
‘This is the proof, Mr Dawkins,’ he interrupted, placing a box of tins and packets on Bert’s desk. ‘They were found upon her person at seven thirty this morning, and as they are clearly marked with the Red Cross stamp, there can be no doubt they were stolen.’
His gaze hardened as he regarded Stan. ‘As her husband, I find it hard to believe you knew nothing of this.’
‘But I didn’t,’ Stan managed, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘Absolutely nothing. I swear it.’
