String of Pearls

by Madge Swindells

  Ugh! It was a pleasure to switch off the light and leap into bed. The linen was fresh and clean and smelled of Persil, but the blackout curtains wavered in the breeze letting in stray beams of moonlight reflected from the corrugated iron roof jutting out below her window. Pale and spectral, they lit the ceiling, making weird patterns and then moving pictures. She saw strange pictures of troops in the Boer War with their horse-drawn guns, and then came the Tommies floundering in the mud of the Great War, and then there was Mike, crossing the Channel and fighting his way across the beach which had become the front line and she was there, too, running before him, clutching a basket to gather up the mines.

  The north wind strengthened during the night and clouds piled up on the northern horizon. Daisy set out at two p.m., thoroughly chilled. The sky was dark and purple-looking and the beach and promenade were deserted.

  I must look like an idiot, she thought as she walked on to the beach. They’ll have to amputate my toes. There was no sign of Mike. What if he didn’t come? What if he’d been sent somewhere else?

  Mike was worrying as he sat on the bus. He’d been summoned to see the captain just as he was leaving, He wanted to know how his scuba diving training was progressing. ‘It seems they want you back at Mowbray camp,’ he told Mike, ‘but I insisted that you finish this training course.’

  ‘About a week should see me through it, sir,’ he’d said, cutting off a couple of days. The guys would have to work that much harder.

  They weren’t as liberal with their jeeps as Captain Rose had been and he’d stood at the bus stop for half an hour before a bus came. It was only four stops. He could have walked there faster and he wished he had.

  They reached the beach stop at last. As he quit the bus, he saw that the beach was deserted, but right at the end a woman was crossing the road. Could that be Daisy? Huddled in a duffel coat with the hood pulled over her head, it was hard to tell. He set off at a fast sprint, dashed across the road and was just in time to see her turn the corner, but when he got there she had vanished. He paced the street forlornly, wondering if she had gone into one of the tatty shops along the pavement, but then he saw Daisy emerging from a cafe, holding a chocolate bar.

  He crept up behind her, but she spun around.

  ‘Oh, Mike . . . I thought you weren’t coming.’ She burst into tears, grabbed him and dropped the chocolate.

  ‘Even if I’m late, I’ll always keep my word. Don’t worry so much. I’ve good news . . . the captain called me in just as I was leaving. I’m to be sent back to Mowbray. Captain Johnson has been pulling strings.’

  ‘Wow! That’s great,’ she said, stooping to retrieve her chocolate.

  He pulled her up. ‘Leave it, Daisy. The gutter’s mucky. I saw a fish restaurant just around the corner. I’m pretty hungry myself,’ he lied. ‘Let’s go.’

  It wasn’t bad there, clean, but cramped, but at this time of the day they were the only customers. He plied her with questions about where she worked and where she slept, was she getting enough to eat and was she lonely? She answered between mouthfuls of plaice and chips with mushy peas.

  ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ she wanted to know. Mike forced himself to eat at least a part of his second lunch while she told him about Mrs Jenkins and her goats.

  She had five days leave, he heard, and then she was going back to the hostel.

  ‘You must know that your mum is desperately missing you. Miro is away studying music with some nutty professor for a month and she’s all alone, apart from Gramps. Simon knows you’ve come here to see me. I told him. He has kept in touch with me since you left home . . . for Helen’s sake.’

  He paused to pick at his overcooked chips.

  ‘Look here, Daisy. I want you to go home. I’ve been desperately worried about you. I couldn’t tell them where you were, because I didn’t know, but I guessed you’d write. It was such a relief to get your letter, but I wish you hadn’t done that, Daisy. It wasn’t right. You overreacted.’

  ‘Gramps had no right—’

  ‘Of course he did,’ he interrupted her. ‘I’d do the same if we had daughters your age. Simon persuaded him to withdraw his complaint, and Helen has explained to Captain Rose that I was a friend of the family and that they need me to shoe the horses.’

  ‘Wow! She did that? I’m amazed. She must like you a lot.’

  ‘No, she did it to get you home.’

  ‘Oh my goodness. Of course it wasn’t Mum’s fault, but I wish they’d stop treating me like a child.’

  ‘Then don’t act like a child.’

  Daisy felt insulted. How could he say that? ‘Stop nagging me. All you’ve done is blame me. You’re spoiling our holiday. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I want you to call Helen. You’re so lucky to have a mother like Helen. She’s so supportive. I envy you.’

  Remembering that Mike’s mother had died when he was young, Daisy was overcome with compassion. She reached out to hold his hand. ‘All right I’ll phone Mum. Let’s not fight.’

  They walked back towards her boarding house where there was a pay phone. Daisy was strangely silent, not sulking, nothing like that. Her arm was linked with his, but he realized she’d seen another side of him.

  ‘I didn’t know you could be so hard,’ she complained.

  ‘I’m not hard. I’m pressing for what I believe is best for you because I love you. I’m going away and it might take a couple of years or more to beat the Germans and the Japs. I might even be killed.’

  ‘Don’t . . . Please . . . Don’t say such awful things.’ She looked horrified.

  ‘Let’s face facts, Daisy. Some of us will die, but most of us will live. I don’t want to worry about you when I’m in the thick of a battle. If you love me you’ll go home.’

  ‘Otherwise what?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Otherwise nothing. I’m not threatening you, I’m just telling you. Go home! I’ll be there. We’ll have fun, like we used to.’

  ‘You want me to leave, just when I got here?’

  He sighed, still undecided. ‘What are you going to do here all day while I’m training? I can only get off on Wednesday afternoons. We’ve almost had a full Wednesday.’

  ‘So why did you ask me to come?’

  ‘Because I needed to persuade you to go home.’

  ‘This is where I booked in.’ She paused in front of a gaunt building in need of a coat of paint.

  ‘Good. Now let’s phone your Mum.’

  Helen had been waiting all day for a call from her daughter. Mike had told her they would phone on Wednesday, but it was five o’clock and dark. Brixham was a place she detested. The hotel on the cliff was where she had first learned about Eric’s affair . . . Luckily, the telephone rang, rescuing her from bitter memories.

  She heard Mike’s voice saying, ‘Hi, Helen, hold on,’ and then: ‘Mum, it’s Daisy.’

  ‘Darling. I’ve missed you. When are you coming home?’

  ‘I’m in Brixham. Do you remember we were here—’

  ‘I remember,’ Helen said, interrupting her.

  ‘I’ve just met Mike. We had lunch. He’s going back to Mowbray in a week’s time.’

  ‘Is that so, Daisy.’ Helen had decided not to mention that she had spoken to Mike twice by telephone and that Simon had pulled strings to get him back.

  ‘Look, Mum, I’m sorry you’ve been upset, but you should have known I’d be all right.’

  Like you were when you ran off to London to find your grandmother, Helen thought, but all she said was: ‘I miss you, darling.’

  ‘You have to understand that Mike and I are getting married as soon as the war ends.’

  Remembering how much she had loved Eric, and how she had fought her parents to marry him, she shivered inwardly and told herself that she must end the rift fast because the time might come when her daughter needed her.

  ‘Well, let’s hope that doesn’t take too long,’ Helen said. ‘When will you be back?’


  ‘Actually, Mum, I have a room of my own at a Land Army hostel. It’s pretty nice and I can’t let them down. I’ll have to give a long notice.’

  ‘Can’t you cycle to work every morning?’

  ‘I suppose I could come home for weekends.’

  ‘Or be transferred to a farm that’s nearer to home. I’m sure you’ll manage, dear, since Mike will be here, although I don’t understand why you’re so determined to give up your career.’

  ‘But Mum, I’m not giving up anything. How could you think that? Whatever time is left before the invasion, I’ll spend with Mike. Then I’ll take up the scholarship.’

  ‘Meantime, come home I need you.’

  Feeling obscurely blackmailed, Daisy agreed. ‘D’you want to say hello to Mike?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Mike. It might be better not to tell her that we’ve spoken on the telephone or she’ll think we’re conspiring against her. She’s seems to be very much on the defensive.’

  ‘Exactly. See you soon, Helen.’

  ‘Mike.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I trust you to look after her. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  She said goodbye and replaced the receiver.

  They were walking arm-in-arm along the moonlit, empty street. They could hear singing coming from the pub on the corner. A hungry cat rifling through a bin, yowled and fled as they approached. Not a night to be alone in that cold and ugly boarding house, Daisy decided.

  ‘You must stay the night,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh Daisy, God knows I’d like to, but we must be careful.’

  ‘Then stay for a little while.’

  They were halfway up the stairs when Mrs Browning, Daisy’s landlady, caught sight of them. ‘Where do you two think you are going then?’

  ‘Up to my room,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Oh no you don’t. This is a respectable house. No men in your room, young lady. Whatever next.’ She turned on Mike, looking furious. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young man. I don’t allow any going’s on in this house.’

  Daisy’s face was crimson, but Mike thought it was funny. ‘She resembles a rat,’ he whispered. ‘Those teeth sloping back. She’s absolutely terrible. Paint her for me, against her horrible wallpaper.’

  ‘All right I will . . . when I get home.’ She giggled. Life was so much better when Mike was around. She knew she’d always be laughing, even when things went wrong. He had a knack of seeing the funny side of life. He was dependable and kind, and loyal and she would never love anyone as she loved him. They had a few precious months, or weeks. No one knew for sure. They must make the most of the time they had left.

  They said goodnight formally on the top step of the rooming house. ‘Go to bed, young lady,’ Mike whispered.

  ‘No, not right now. I want to walk around the corner with you.’

  Arm in arm, they walked along the pavement, their footsteps making sharp, metallic clicks on the frozen pavement. ‘This way,’ she urged him, tugging at his arm. ‘Do you see that shed?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s special about it?’

  ‘That’s my window right above. Even I could climb up there. We could pretend we were back in the stables. Please Mike. I came all this way. I don’t want to be alone. That room depresses me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ It was what he wanted more than anything, but not here and not now. Daisy’s eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until the rat lady goes to bed,’ he said.

  Mike waited a while. He walked down to the pub and back again, enjoying the scent of ozone which reminded him of holidays by the sea back home with his dad. He took off his shoes and climbed on to the roof of the shed, feeling prey to curiously mixed feelings: part guilt, part desire. Mainly he felt uneasy. Daisy was such a child and she wasn’t thinking of the consequences. What if she found herself pregnant and he was fighting somewhere in Europe. He’d be unlikely to get leave to marry her.

  He thought about the stories they had all heard about English girls being real pushovers, but Daisy wasn’t like that. She was just like the girls back home and her grandpa, John Cooper, had been acting just like dads back home. He was glad of their long, chaste friendship.

  He had curiously mixed emotions about Daisy. He regarded her artistic talent with awe. He’d seen some of her paintings and they were really great, but apart from her extraordinary talent she was such a child. She should never have left home, but he knew how much she loved him. Just as much as he loved her. She had unlocked feelings he never knew existed. He wanted to guard her, protect her, take her home and look after her forever. This damn war made all that impossible, which was why he felt so unsure of himself.

  He reached the window which was slightly open, pushed it up and climbed into her room. A vague scent of toothpaste, perfume and talcum powder rose from the bed. How beautiful she looked lying there softly lit by reflected moonlight. One arm was flung over the pillow, the eiderdown was disarranged, revealing one perfect breast. Her mouth was open showing a glint of white teeth, long lashes fanned her cheeks, her hair was damp and tousled and she was warm and highly desirable. He would love nothing more than to climb in beside her. But then what?

  He thought of Helen who trusted him. Was he free to love Daisy when he might be killed over there? He pulled the duvet up around her neck and stepped through the window.

  He was sliding down the roof of the shed when Daisy called, ‘Come back. Mike . . . please.’

  It sounded like real anguish. He sighed and climbed back in again.

  Twenty-Nine

  Miro’s training at spy school was like nothing he could ever have imagined: a place staffed by cranky adventurers who were paid and housed in order to further their craziness. One afternoon in late November, Miro saw one of their instructors go down and nearly drown in a midget submarine in the duck pond behind the house, amongst the golden carp and water reeds. He was dragged up, in the nick of time, fronds of weeds trailing over his shoulder and several litres of murky water pouring from his blue lips. ‘Not quite watertight yet,’ he gasped, when he could speak.

  The unarmed combat instructor, who lived on brown rice and sat cross-legged in the corner of the floor to eat, could be seen most evenings, weather permitting, meditating on the lawn, but he knew his craft and Miro was black and blue for most of his month there. These were two of the many weird men who ran the school. They taught him to drill, to fight dirty, and to live off the land, and a variety of ways to turn ordinary items like cutlery, pens and garden spades into lethal weapons.

  Miro was training with four other Czechs, all crazed with ambition to get home and kill every German they saw. This restored Miro’s faith in his countrymen. After ten days, the unknown men who ran the camp decided that Miro was more English than Czech and transferred him to a group of upper class graduates who seemed to think that all Jews needed pulling down a peg or two. Miro tried to keep his sense of humour and eventually they became buddies, perhaps because of their mutual hatred of their instructors who demanded perfection. Miro scored at languages, speaking German and Czech like a native, they told him, which of course he was.

  After three weeks at the combat camp came the demolition school, located in a former farmhouse near Inverness. Miro exploded mock-ups of railway lines, bridges, interior machinery and stable walls a foot thick. Then it was time to move on to the parachute course, which was more complicated than necessary because of the large amount of gear he had to carry. Miro was becoming fit and tough and his shoulders broadened. Despite the late season he was sunburned with blond streaks in his light brown hair which was making him anxious. Could he look like this after five weeks of playing the clarinet, he asked himself? Mainly he worried about the family. Hitler’s so-called first ‘reprisal weapon’, known as the doodlebug, was menacing Southern England. This pilotless, jet-propelled aircraft was capable of travelling at 400 mph and carried nearly a ton of high explosives.

&n
bsp; Whenever he could, Miro borrowed a bike or cadged a lift to look around. All coastal areas were banned to visitors and US troops were camped on every pavement and corner of spare land. Military exercises were taking place in every available space and villagers were becoming used to hundreds of parachutists dropping around them, while heavily-laden gliders swooped low overhead as troops practised over and again for the big day.

  And where would his duty lie, Miro often wondered? When Simon joined the invasion armada, his job as a courier of disinformation would be over. Would he join Simon? Could he, as a Czech, become part of the US fighting forces? He decided to work on Simon. This was what he wanted above all else. Miro sweated it out, wishing he could do his bit.

  Then, towards the end of the month Simon telephoned in the middle of an unarmed combat lesson.

  ‘OK. This is it. I need you in a hurry. Get on the six a.m. train to Whitstable,’ he said. ‘Pick up your ticket at Information. You’ll be met by Uncle Fred . . . an old friend of the family and you’ll spend the day with him. I’ll collect you the following morning.’

  Miro boarded the train, which was two hours late, and after an uneventful journey was met by a bearded stranger who put one arm around his shoulders and said, ‘My dear Miro, it’s great to have you back again, and looking so well. You must have grown a foot since I last saw you.’

  Miro, who was becoming used to the wonderland he inhabited nowadays merely smiled, shook hands and said, ‘It’s great to see you, Uncle Fred.’

  They drove due east and half an hour later ‘Uncle Fred’ pulled up before a graceful, red brick home, with a windswept garden full of leaves, dead chrysanthemums and little else. Miro sensed that Fred lived alone here, but he was wrong, for a red setter bounded out and made straight for them, scattering his ecstatic welcome over the two of them. ‘Clearly Rosa remembers you,’ Fred said.