by Milly Adams
He stopped, his windows open. She heard him shout, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
She reached up, and opened the door. Rosie leapt in, and she followed. ‘That’s the sodding harbour, ain’t it?’ he yelled. He rammed the lorry into gear and set off again. She shouted, ‘No, don’t go towards it. Drive back you old fool.’
He stopped again, looking from Hannah to the smoke. Another bomb fell and again there was the roaring of a plane. She leaned from the window, searching. It was behind them, but Old Davy pulled her back. ‘Get down,’ he shouted. She did and he threw himself across her. There was a rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, and bits of tar from the road flew up as the bullets tore into it, and then the plane was roaring away. ‘Not aiming, just testing his guns,’ Old Davy said, his voice shaking. ‘We’re demilitarised, the bloody troops have gone, so what the ’ell are they playing at, or did Churchill forget to tell ’em?’
The explosions were continuing. Old Davy rammed the lorry into gear and turned, going backwards and forwards in the narrow lane until he was driving like a madman back the way he’d come. He dropped Hannah and Rosie off at the farm, before swinging round the bend towards the Andrews’ farm. She rushed indoors, tugged along by Rosie. Her mother and aunt were sitting at the kitchen table, gripping each other’s hands. They looked up when she rushed in. ‘Thank the Lord, you’re home. Oh Hannah, I thought—’ her mother said.
Hannah shouted, ‘And I’m supposed to get the bloody boat at that harbour. Oh, good idea, Bryony.’
She flew to the telephone, but the lines were jammed.
All night she tried, and at two in the morning she finally got through. ‘Bee, the harbour’s been bombed. They’re coming, they must be. You tell that Adam he’s got to get the Sunflower ready. He must. Nine have died, Bee, and many more on Guernsey. I need to get out, now, or I’ll never leave, never find . . .’ She stopped and drew breath. ‘Mum wants to stay. She won’t leave a sinking ship, she says, but she wants me to leave.’
The line crackled. Bryony voice came through, still drugged with sleep. ‘All right. Don’t go near the harbour. I’ll come, even if I have to bring the Sunflower, or another boat, by myself. Remember that: I will come for you, if not tomorrow, then later, even if it’s much later. I promise I will come, to the cove and if you are not there, I will come to the cottage and bring you home. You are not alone.’
Chapter Nine
Bryony pounded up the stairs. The phoney war was over. Well, it had ended with Dunkirk, but now the Nazis were on the move again, with their bombers pounding the Channel Islands, where her mother’s family had lived for generations. She stood on the landing. ‘That doesn’t mean they will invade,’ she whispered to herself. ‘They could just be scaring them, playing around. But I need to get her.’
‘Did you promise?’ Cissie said quietly from the doorway of the twin bedroom, rubbing her eyes, sleep slurring her words. Her nightie was creased, her hairline sweaty from the night-time heat. ‘Let’s get you back to bed,’ Bryony murmured, her finger to her lips. ‘Everyone else is asleep.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ It was Adam, also creased from sleep. ‘I suppose that was the little madam on the telephone?’
‘I’ll talk in a moment, let me get Cissie to bed.’ Bryony took the child’s hand and led her into her bedroom. She lifted the blind, drew back the curtains and opened the bedroom windows wide. ‘Let’s get a draught going through here,’ she said as Cissie clambered into the bed.
‘My bed’s dry, Bee.’
‘That’s so good. You are doing really well, you clever girl. It might not be by the morning, but who cares.’ She paused, and together they half sang, ‘We don’t.’
As the draught came through the open windows she found herself listening for bombers but there were only the owls, and the odd screech of a fox, and somewhere the call of a cow for her calf. There was the smell of the night-time stocks she had planted beneath the window, mingling with the honeysuckle over the old shed. The side gardens were bathed in light from the moon. She remembered her fellow train traveller, and the song ‘By the light of the silvery moon’. Now, in Jersey, it would be a bombers’ moon and next, would it be troops? Then would it be Britain? ‘Don’t put the light on, Cissie. Whatever you do, now more than ever, don’t.’ Suddenly her voice was urgent. Cissie sat up in bed. ‘I know that, Bee.’ She eased herself back down, and was asleep almost immediately.
It was only after Bryony had tiptoed out on to the landing that she remembered too late that she should have taken Cissie to the bathroom. The landing was empty. She waited a moment, listening to the creaks of the house, which seemed alive to her, enfolding them in its arms as it always had. One of its children wanted to come home, of course she did, so she would bring her.
Adam’s door was still open, and she took it as a signal. She padded over to the doorway. He too had hauled up the blackout blind and drawn back the curtains. A soft breeze cooled them both, and the moonlight was clean and bright, but perhaps soon such gentle light would become their enemy. He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. She settled herself beside him, wishing she wore a pretty nightgown instead of her old striped boy’s pyjamas. No wonder he thought she was a bloke.
‘So, what’s happened?’ he muttered, running his hands through his hair.
‘They’ve bombed Jersey.’
He swung round. ‘Really, not just her story?’
‘Even she . . .’ She stopped and shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t make that up. It will be on the wireless news, I suppose. It’s the harbour, and Guernsey, which seems to have caught it worse than Jersey. There are deaths on both islands. She needs to leave.’
Adam was nodding as she spoke. ‘Has she by any remote chance got herself a passage?’ His voice was heavy with irony.
She sighed. ‘With the harbour bombed, I suspect that’s no longer an option, so I promised I’d go. But forget the Sunflower, I know you’re doing your best, but she’s still nowhere near ready. I’ll hire a boat and do it myself.’
Bryony rose and walked to the door. He said nothing. He was going to let her go alone. Well, she could do that, of course she could. The weather would stay fair and with the moon she could . . . Cissie barred her way, her little bare feet making damp footprints on the polished floorboards. ‘You never answered me, Bee. Did you promise ’er?’
Byony nodded. ‘Yes I did, and you should be in bed.’
Adam said from the bed, ‘Yes, off you go now. It’s like Piccadilly round ’ere, I mean here.’
‘I fought I’d go to the lav while I was awake, and I heard you two talking. My sister says I ’ear too much, and that’s why she sent me away. I can see why Hannah wants to come ’ome to ’ere. So, Adam, I fink if Bee promised, she should go. So should you, because you don’t want ’er to get ’urt. I can see it in your bleedin’ eyes.’
‘Don’t swear,’ Adam and Bryony said together.
Adam said, ‘It’s the Sunflower I don’t want hurt, young lady. Bee is a tough old bird capable of looking after herself, and don’t you forget it. Don’t stand there hopping from one foot to the other, go to the toilet, for heaven’s sake. Bee, we need to get dressed and get down to the Sunflower and see if we can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear in next to no time.’
They didn’t leave the harbour in the Sunflower until six in the evening of 30 June, even though they’d had Eric’s help. He had also offered to come to Jersey, but what was the point. If they were bombed, then why kill more people than necessary? It was still light, and later there should be a moon by which to see, but clouds were drifting as they chugged along, and the air was heavy. ‘Could be squalls,’ Adam muttered, half to himself.
The sea was crinkly, and they stood full square in the cabin, rocking with the movement. ‘Come on, old lady,’ Adam said, patting the wheel. Down at the harbour he and Eric had toiled on the engine while Byony refitted the benches and replenished the supplies: water, torches in case they had to clamber up from the cove. She h
ad been unable to reach her family after Uncle Thomas had followed up on Hannah’s call, probably because the cable was cut. At least, though, the BBC had announced that the Channel Islands were demilitarised, so that should save them from further bombing.
She moved out of the cabin, searching the seas and sky with binoculars. There were fishing smacks out, without lights, though not many, but no bombers that she could see, or hear. But then, there shouldn’t be, unless they were heading for Britain.
She moved back into the cabin. They spoke not at all for the three hours they thrashed through the waves, and when Adam finally did, his tone was cool. ’The Sunflower’s heart’s tired, Bee, and just like we have dreams and see Dunkirk, and smell and and taste it, so does she. This dear old girl bore the brunt, and now she’s at it again, straining herself because someone wouldn’t get a bloody boat.’
Bryony said, ‘But she said they were full. I’ve told you that.’
He didn’t respond because he was too busy listening to the Sunflower’s engine. He said, ‘Listen to her. We should go back.’
Bryony stood beside him looking out at the chaotic waves. It was gusty, and growing worse. They laboured on for another hour, sometimes the wind would drop, sometimes gust. They were making little headway, and now it was as though they could hear the separate parts of the engine clicking over, not quite synchronising.
Another gust, and surge, and suddenly the Sunflower lurched. Bryony slipped in the seawater that was slopping in the bottom of the cabin. She clutched at Adam but he shrugged her off as the Sunflower corkscrewed and he had to fight the wheel, peering out, trying to get a fix. Bryony crashed into the side, keeling back, falling on to the bench, and then the floor. She felt the crack of her arm, and the pain. It took her breath. She lay there, in the salt water. He called, ‘Help me get a fix, Bee.’
‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, as her breath became a thread.
She staggered to her feet, the Sunflower misfired, then twice more. She held her arm tightly against her side as she stood next to Adam. ‘Sorry, Bee, did I knock you? It’s squally, and the cloud is building. Always bloody gusty here.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, but her voice was still faint. She hadn’t enough breath to talk, only to breathe, but she couldn’t seem to suck in the air. ‘Can she try for a bit longer? Please.’ She touched his arm.
‘Listen to her, Bee.’ He wrenched the wheel again, knocking her. The jolt almost made her scream. She nursed her arm. It was the upper arm, and it was bruised, that was all. ‘But what if the Germans come and I can’t bring Hannah home?’
‘I know how important this is to you, and I’ll nurse her on a bit, but if she gets worse, we turn around, and that’s that.’ He didn’t look at her, just at the encroaching darkness as he held the Sunflower on course, but she knew that his anger and worry were building. The Sunflower was his baby, and he was sure Hannah could have taken a boat, so there was no contest, and through the pain, she felt the stress too. He was heading for Scotland tomorrow. He didn’t need this.
She sat on the bench, her legs wobbly. He said, ‘Things are conspiring, Bee. It’s not our fault, and absolutely not yours. It just is.’
‘I know.’
The Sunflower lurched into a trough. Bryony gasped at the pain.
‘So, when do you go?’ he said.
‘Go where?’
‘For your ATA training, you daft dollop. What is it they call you lot, the Attagirls?’
She made herself answer, wishing the sea would calm, and that her arm wouldn’t feel as though the bones were grating together. ‘I’m not one yet. I’ve passed but they might never call me, and then I’ll have to find something else. Perhaps the Wrens?’ She thought for a moment she’d whimpered. She made herself continue. ‘No call for more female ATA pilots at the moment.’
‘Use the “bins” and sweep the sky would you, have a scan round about. Don’t want to bump into an invasion force.’ Adam’s voice was tense.
She picked them up, her left arm limp, and stumbled outside, propping herself against the back of the cabin and then the side. She scanned as the wind and rain tore at her. Nothing.
She returned. ‘All clear. So, now you think they could invade the islands, having said it was rubbish?’ She heard the sharpness in her voice.
‘For God’s sake, Bee, don’t be so bloody cheap. How was I to know? How were you?’
The Sunflower misfired again, spluttered, and almost died. He turned to her. ‘That’s it, Bryony. I’m turning her round, she doesn’t deserve this.’
‘I promised,’ she shouted.
He yelled back, ‘That’s your bloody fault, not mine. I’m not ruining the Sunflower and getting us both stuck here in the middle of nowhere, for God knows how many Nazis to come along and clap us in irons, or shoot us out of the water. This isn’t a game, Bee, it’s war and it’s hotting up, and I need to get back on duty. You might think we’ve done our bit getting a few lads off the beaches, but it’s just the beginning, you stupid bloody woman.’
He was turning the Sunflower, and now the wind was behind them. She stared at him, her head swimming. ‘I promised.’
‘Shut up.’
She sagged suddenly, beginning to laugh, though it was strange, high-pitched laughter. He snapped, ‘There’s nothing funny about this. I’ve got to get this old boat back. It’s . . .’ He trailed off as they nose-dived deep into a trough; somewhere distant lightning flashed, and thunder crashed. She leaned forward and heard him mutter, ‘Well, if she gets back then we might all get through what’s coming.’
But he was talking to himself and still the laughter was coming and going but from a distance, and she was thinking of the soldier at Dunkirk having a second go at climbing the netting to the deck of the bigger ship, refusing to let go of the dog. Was it a corvette? She couldn’t remember. Somehow, in his arms, instead of the dog, he had held all their hopes of survival in this war. It wasn’t funny but the laughter wouldn’t stop, though it must only have been in her head, because Adam took no further notice.
They made better time now they weren’t battling the wind, which was actually behind them, helping, and all the time she imagined Hannah lying awake, waiting, or huddled at the cove with no one coming. ‘One day I will, because I promised,’ she said aloud.
He turned. ‘Yes, one day we will get her. I promise, too. Sorry I shouted, Bee.’
‘It’s not important.’ She leaned back against the cabin wall and thought of her lovely Dragonette, now in bits. Would she ever be put back together, would the skies ever be free? Would . . . She stopped. She was like a record. He’d said they’d get Hannah, one day, but they had to get home first.
A mile out, as the conditions calmed, they met a fishing smack heading for harbour. It was Eric’s father, Barry. ‘Good, if the old girl fails, he’ll tow us in.’ They ran the last hour together, limping into harbour under their own steam, but only just. They docked, Adam chivvying her to hurry and get up the ladder to the quay and tie off the rope. Somehow she did it, and clambered back down the quayside ladder. It was the early hours of the morning, and they still had to unload the Sunflower. Bryony tipped the water from the water carrier over the side, and only then did she lug it back up the ladder to the quay, though she didn’t know how. They cycled home, and somehow she did that too. The moon was behind clouds, the summer air was heavy, the owls hooted. They said little to one another, because she was beyond speech. As they headed into the drive of the house, Adam said, ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t sulk, Bee. I have to leave by ten in the morning. I’ve got to be on my ship. I’ve done my best for you.’
She could barely speak for the pain, and nodded. ‘I know. Thank you.’ It was all she could manage.
She dropped her bike on the ground when they arrived at the shed to the side of the house. She let it lie, the front wheel spinning, like her head. ‘Getting lazy in your old age, are you, Bryony Miller? Not that I blame you. It was a tough trip.’ He picked it up and prop
ped it inside as she headed for the back door. It was unlocked. In the kitchen there was a teapot with a note from April. ‘Welcome home, Hannah. In celebration we have fresh tea leaves.’ Adam looked exhausted but smiled and slung his arm over her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, but we will go again.’
She slipped from him, the pain too sharp, the weight of his arm too great. He dropped his arm, and stalked from the kitchen without even looking at her but flinging over his shoulder, ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, get on with it. I can’t be doing with this, Bryony. You need to get yourself sorted. You’re getting as selfish as your sister, and don’t worry, I won’t wake you when I go, and I’ll call on Eric to get him to sort out the Sunflower, so you don’t need to go down and clean her up. Don’t want to put any of the Millers out, do we.’ It wasn’t a question.
Bryony stared at April’s note, but could no longer read the writing. She was shaking, all over. Somehow she climbed the stairs and inched to her room. She lay on the bed, and knew something else was wrong because she couldn’t breathe properly, even now, and her rib hurt as well as her arm. She slept, or drifted, and heard Hannah calling, but how, because she knew now that the cable was cut. She heard Adam shouting, you stupid bloody woman. But he had called her woman, and even in her pain she had to laugh, because that seemed to be the best she could achieve from the man she loved.
In Jersey, Hannah sat in the kitchen as the clock ticked through the night, dressed. They had not come on the 29th, or during the day on the 30th but they still might, and at least there had been no more bombing. She waited all night. They never came. But perhaps they would come today, she thought, as 1 July dawned. She slept for a little on her bed, fully clothed, and then came down at lunchtime, when she heard Uncle Thomas come in too early for lunch.
