Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

  She stepped back and her mother’s expression was so serious that for a minute Shirley was seized with panic. Dear Lord, she wasn’t ill again, was she? ‘Mum? What is it?’

  ‘It’s about your grandmother,’ Florrie began. She held both her daughter’s sticky hands in hers and looked her in the eye. ‘I think you’re going to be shocked by what I’m about to tell you, but I hope you will find it in your heart to understand.’

  Shirley could see this was going to be a long story, so she backed towards an old tree trunk and they both sat down.

  ‘When I was your age, my father had been in the war for two years and apart from ten days’ leave in 1915, I hadn’t seen him,’ Florrie began. Leaving out the bit about him going AWOL and being put on a charge when he was caught, she went on, ‘Money was tight, so to make ends meet, Mother took in lodgers: first, Mr Payne and then Captain Faversham-Wood. I had little to do with them. I had been taught to be polite, so I answered their questions, but I kept out of their way. After six months, when Mr Payne left, Mother didn’t get a replacement. I never questioned anything she did. Apart from the war, life was quite good. My friends and I went roller-skating whenever we could. I’d got plenty of pretty dresses, which attracted admiring looks wherever I went.’ She let out a wistful sigh. ‘There were church socials, and we used to go for walks by the river. I loved reading romances and I always dreamed that some handsome knight in shining armour would carry me off on his white horse.’

  Shirley squeezed her mother’s hand. Florrie hurriedly wiped a tear from her cheek with her hand, leaving behind a blackberry-stained smear. ‘I had noticed that Mum and Captain Faversham-Wood got on particularly well. I would often hear them laughing together, and occasionally they went to the music hall or out for a walk of an evening. Mother often ran errands for him as well. He would give her an envelope and she’d have to deliver these letters to somebody. “Just a little favour your mother does for me,” Captain Faversham-Wood used to tell me when he saw me watching my mother setting off. I just shrugged. It was nothing to do with me.’

  She gave Shirley a wobbly smile. ‘It wasn’t until a few months later, when my best friend, Edna, made a remark about Mother putting on weight that I began to put two and two together. “They say your mother is carrying on with your lodger,” Edna said. Of course, I was furious.’ Florrie sighed. Shirley slipped her arm round her mother’s shoulders. ‘The sad thing is, I really liked Edna, but I never spoke to her again.’

  Shirley said nothing.

  ‘Then one night, there was an almighty row,’ Florrie went on. ‘When it was over, Captain Faversham-Wood had gone and Mother was distraught. A little later, the police turned up and arrested her.’

  ‘Arrested her?’ Shirley gasped.

  Florrie nodded. ‘As you can imagine, it was an awful shock. The trial lasted four days. I went to the court every day. I could hardly believe it. Mother was accused of passing information to the benefit of the enemy, but not only that, she was expecting Captain Faversham-Wood’s baby as well. The shame and disgrace were terrible.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ said Shirley.

  Florrie gulped and blew her nose. ‘When the guilty verdict came,’ she said, stuffing her hanky up her sleeve again, ‘the neighbours took it out on me. My father came back home, but he was so terribly ill I had to do everything for him. I couldn’t look after Mother’s baby as well, so she had to be adopted or grow up in a home for destitute children. Then someone told me about Mrs Andrews. She sometimes helped distressed women.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Shirley. ‘I had no idea . . .’

  ‘The last time I saw my mother,’ Florrie went on with a sad smile on her lips, ‘she said, “You’ve been a good daughter to me. Please don’t tell your father what I’ve done,” and I never did. He wouldn’t have understood anyway. He was a wreck of a man.’

  ‘But Mrs Andrews found the baby a home?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘She found a lovely couple who were just dying for a baby. It was of some consolation that when we met, Ruth told me she’d been well looked after.’

  ‘You’ve actually met her?’ said Shirley, her eyes widening.

  ‘She came to the convalescent home,’ said Florrie. ‘She’s awfully nice. She was upset with me at first, but she’s all right now.’

  ‘Why was she upset?’

  ‘There was a silly misunderstanding,’ said Florrie. ‘She thought I was her mother.’

  ‘So she’s my aunt,’ said Shirley.

  Florrie nodded.

  ‘And my grandmother, where’s she?’

  ‘They exonerated her in the 1930s,’ said Florrie, her voice tight with emotion, ‘but of course by that time it was far too late.’

  ‘She’d died,’ said Shirley sadly.

  Florrie brushed an imaginary crumb from her lap. ‘Your grandmother had been found guilty of high treason. The penalty for that was hanging,’ she said simply.

  The long, hot summer gave way to the more balmy days of autumn. In keeping with farming tradition, Shirley, Tom and Janet repaid the kindness shown to them when lifting the potato crop by helping other farmers in the area get their harvests in. Some days, they would be lending a hand in the fields, and other days picking fruit. The Battle of Britain was still raging and they often had to dive for cover into ditches or a purpose-built air-raid shelter (if they were lucky) to avoid the fighting overhead. Despite the difficulties they faced, everyone worked hard, loving the sense of all pulling together.

  The first week in September saw the beginning of the harvest festival services in the local churches, and on Sunday September 8th, the king called a National Day of Prayer. It couldn’t have been more timely. The night before, starting at 6.30 p.m., the skies over the Channel were thick with German planes. They came over, wave after wave of them, for hours and hours. There was little activity in Sussex, but when Janet switched on the wireless, each bulletin seemed to bring worse news. By morning, the heaviest bombardment of the war had left three hundred dead and more than a thousand people injured. Not only that but a large part of London was ablaze, and because it was only sixty miles away, when she’d padded outside to the lavvy last night, Shirley had seen a red glow on the distant horizon.

  In Angmering, everybody set out early for St Margaret’s, including Florrie and her children and Granny Roberts. As they walked, they passed the place where just the day before, Florrie had told Shirley about her grandmother’s conviction and Ruth. It hadn’t been easy, but Shirley had been overwhelmed with sympathy for her mother’s predicament. When she’d stood up from the tree stump, they’d held each other for a long time and wept.

  For Florrie, it was a moment of tremendous release. Now all the people who mattered the most to her, with the exception of Tom, who probably wouldn’t understand, knew the whole truth. She didn’t have to hide her heartache, or feel guilty any more; she didn’t even have to hold on to her regrets. She had done what she could and it was all in the past now. When Ruth had had a bit of time to nurse her wounds, she would invite her to meet her family.

  As for Shirley, the revelation had been the stuff of a mystery writer’s imagination. It was a lot to take in. She’d mulled it over for hours, and although she had always respected her mother, now she held her in the highest esteem. If Shirley thought she’d had it tough for her age, it was nothing in comparison to what her mother had had to deal with. It must have been awful for her. As she’d lain in bed that night, another thought had crossed Shirley’s mind. She would never say it to her mother, but it was all rather exciting too. Everybody had a skeleton in the family cupboard, and hers was quite something compared to other people’s.

  As they reached the end of Dappers Lane, Florrie said, ‘I heard someone on the radio saying that last night’s raid in London was worse than the Silvertown explosion.’

  ‘Whatever was that?’ Janet asked.

  ‘A whole lot of TNT went up at Brunner Mond back in 1917,’ said Florrie.

  ‘I remember t
hat,’ cried Granny Roberts. ‘It was in all the papers at the time. Something like nine hundred homes were destroyed, weren’t they?’

  Florrie nodded. ‘They said it was the largest explosion in history,’ she said.

  ‘Will everybody move to the country like us now?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, love,’ said Florrie. ‘It’d take more than a few bombs to shift them out of London. And if I know the people of Canning Town, it’ll make them all the more determined to stick it out no matter what.’

  ‘But you won’t go back, will you?’ asked Granny Roberts.

  Florrie shook her head. ‘I’ve already found a buyer for my shop. I’ve signed the papers at my end, so as soon as Mr Mills signs at his end, I shall be free to make new choices.’

  Janet raised an eyebrow. ‘And how was the honeymoon?’ she teased.

  Florrie laughed. ‘All too short,’ she said, ‘but we went to a lovely place called Worthing. Ever heard of it?’

  ‘I think I might have done,’ said Janet with a grin.

  ‘Have you found anywhere you’d like to buy, Mum?’ Shirley asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Florrie confessed, ‘but I’m going to look at a cottage over the bridge at Rustington tomorrow.’

  ‘Um, that’s not far away,’ said Janet.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s suitable,’ said Florrie, ‘but it is a very reasonable price.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave the farm,’ said Tom. ‘I like the animals.’

  ‘I know, love,’ said Florrie, ‘but we’ll find you another job.’

  ‘With animals?’

  Shirley glanced anxiously at her mother as she nodded. ‘With animals.’

  They arrived at the church in good time for the service, but it was already packed, with standing room only. They squeezed down the side and stood at the back, although a younger man did give up his seat for Granny Roberts. The service included prayers for the Royal Family, for Mr Churchill and the government, and for the people of London. After each was said, every ‘Amen’ from the congregation was heartfelt and sincere.

  They all went back to Granny Roberts’s for lunch. Janet had contributed to it as well, so they sat down to rabbit stew and dumplings, Oliver’s Farm potatoes and carrots, followed by apple pie and custard. They squashed themselves into her little kitchen, although after a few minutes, Seth and Vince decided to sit outside, complaining that they couldn’t get their arms up to put their forks in their mouths.

  ‘Huh,’ said Granny, when they’d gone. ‘They want to have a beer more like.’

  After such a busy period, it was good for the women to relax during the afternoon. They didn’t talk much. It was nice just to sit and do nothing, to knit or read a book. At milking time, the men and Tom went back to the farm to see to the cows, while the women laid the table for tea. By the time they came back, it was groaning with sandwiches and a cake, even though no one was particularly hungry after such a large dinner.

  ‘Telegram for you, Florrie,’ said Vince.

  Florrie thought he was joking at first, but then she saw that his face was deadly serious. The colour drained from her cheeks and she clutched at her throat. Oh God, don’t tell me something has happened to Len, she thought darkly.

  ‘I didn’t think they delivered telegrams on a Sunday,’ Shirley remarked.

  ‘Sunday mornings they do,’ said Janet.

  ‘The telegram boy was too scared to go back with it undelivered, so he was sitting outside the back door waiting for you to come home,’ said Vince. ‘I think it might have been his first job.’

  ‘He looked really worried,’ said Seth, ‘but he felt a bit better when Vince slipped him a bob for his trouble.’

  Florrie lowered herself down onto a chair and opened the telegram with trembling hands. Everyone watched her anxiously. As she read the first few words, Florrie took in her breath noisily, and then covering her mouth with her hand, she burst into tears.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’

  The flimsy paper fluttered onto the table. They all looked from one to another, but it was Shirley who picked it up and read it out loud.

  ‘Terrible bombing last night stop. Shop took direct hit stop. Betty missing stop. Love Doreen.’

  CHAPTER 31

  The next few days were pretty fraught. Understandably, Florrie was distraught by the news from London. It was bad enough that her shop had been blown to bits, but she was far more upset about Betty. She had been such a wonderful friend, and the thought of her going like that was almost too much to bear. A day or two after the telegram came, Doreen had written to say that Betty had been packing up Florrie’s things in anticipation of the sale when the air raid had sounded. There had been air raids before, but this one had begun in broad daylight. The ack-ack guns had done their best, but the sheer numbers of German bombers overhead had meant it was hopeless. No one could be absolutely sure what happened, because Betty was on her own, but the educated guess was that she never even made it to the air-raid shelter in time. The docks were the main target, and of course they were in a tightly packed residential area, so by the end of the first day, it was said that over four hundred people had been killed and more than thirteen hundred injured. Apart from a two-hour reprieve at six o’clock in the evening, the raid had continued until four-thirty the next morning.

  It seemed like the blighters were coming over every two or three minutes, Doreen wrote. The racket was just awful, and what with the sound of the engines and the bombs dropping, not to mention the guns, I thought my poor head would split in two.

  To Florrie’s immense disappointment, a couple of days later, her solicitor wrote to say that Mr Mills hadn’t signed the papers, so the loss of the shop was hers. In one fell swoop she’d lost everything.

  Shirley comforted her as best she could, but she could see that her mother was in no fit state to make decisions about her future. She shared Florrie’s sense of grief over Betty, and the loss of the shop made it quite apparent that teacher training would have to wait. From what she could gather, her mother had a bit put by in the bank, but nowhere near enough to buy a property. Perhaps it was just as well. Right now, Shirley was angry enough to take Hitler on single-handed.

  It seemed somehow fitting that Shirley should arrive at the offices of Peach & Lemon on the brink of a thunderstorm. Thick, dark clouds had been gathering out to sea ever since the early morning, and as she dashed inside, the skies opened.

  The reception area was empty. Good. That gave her time to slow her breathing and compose herself. She glanced around the dingy office as a brilliant flash of lightning suddenly lit the dark green and cream walls. With the exception of one photograph, framed and faded certificates hung from the picture rails. Shirley’s laboured breathing slowed as she moved closer to look at the photograph, which was of a large crowd of sombre townspeople standing in front of a monument outside the new town hall. In the foreground, a woman was making a speech, but every eye was on the drapes that were being pulled away from the life-size figure in bronze, the British Tommy, his arm raised above his head and his tin helmet in his hand to represent victory. The impressive statue had been paid for by the ordinary people of the town with their hard-earned shillings. The date underneath said, ‘1921,’ and the names of the dignitaries present were recorded on a gold-painted plaque. The mayoress, who was making the speech, was Mrs Chapman, and the man who had officially unveiled the memorial was Field Marshal Sir William Robertson. As the thunder growled above the building, the irony wasn’t lost on Shirley and she sighed. There they were, commemorating those brave men who had died in the war to end all wars when, less than twenty years on, the country was at war again.

  She heard footfall behind her, and taking a lungful of air, turned as a soberly dressed woman wearing a small brooch on the lapel of her navy dress came up behind her. Her hair was held in a roll at the nape of her neck, and she peered at Shirley over her tortoiseshell glasses. She was smart, but her shoes, black brogue-fronted lace-ups with a small
heel, although highly polished, had seen better days.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘I apologize for keeping you waiting. I didn’t realize anyone was here. Do you have an appointment?’

  Shirley smiled. ‘With Mr Peach at two-thirty,’ she said.

  ‘Did I hear someone taking my name in vain?’ said a voice behind her.

  ‘Your afternoon appointment, Mr Peach,’ said the woman as Shirley turned to see who it was.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Webb,’ he said, and extending his hand towards Shirley, he added, ‘Miss Jenkins? Come this way, will you? Oh, and could you bring us some tea, Mrs Webb?’

  Shirley followed as he walked from the reception area down a dark corridor. He was younger than she’d expected. He looked about thirty-five or forty, clean-shaven, roughly five foot six, slim rather than thin, and he was dressed in a tired-looking brown pinstriped suit. She wondered vaguely why he wasn’t in uniform, but then noticed his profound lurch to one side as he walked and realized why he hadn’t been called up. He had a built-up shoe because his left leg was at least five or six inches shorter than the right.

  ‘Filthy weather,’ he remarked as they reached his office, and Shirley agreed. If the rain didn’t ease up a bit, she was going to get soaked running for the bus.

  The room itself was rather poky, very cluttered and dominated by a huge desk, which was covered with bits of paper, biscuit crumbs and an overflowing ashtray. A pile of casually stacked paper almost obliterated a typewriter. It was noisy too. She could hear the rain pummelling down on a corrugated-tin roof somewhere close by. As he walked round his desk, Mr Peach indicated that she should sit on the chair opposite. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  Shirley showed him the cutting and waited patiently while he read it.

  For a second or two, Mr Peach seemed confused, and then his face lit up. ‘Ah yes, Mrs Oliver. I remember her. A charming woman. You should have had a letter with this. Do you have the letter?’

  Shirley shook her head.