by Jill Barry
Slowly the locomotive snaked towards her. Carriages slid past her until the train ground to a halt, leaving her opposite the guard’s van. Doors burst open, releasing the usual mix of civilians, servicemen and women on to the platform. Where was the man she’d come to meet?
Then she noticed the tall figure standing outside the front carriage of the train. Her heart missed a beat and her legs felt wobbly as she began walking towards him, slowly at first then faster and faster until she was running to Robert, dodging people but earning black looks as others got in her way.
He leaned on his stick, watching her approach, his eyes wary. She knew her first reaction would be important. He looked to be all in one piece but this wasn’t the moment for questions.
Her greeting stuck in her throat. All she could do was stop, walk up to him and put her arms around him. As she felt his arms close around her, she rested her head on his shoulder and they stood, holding each other, letting the shouts, banging doors and piercing whistle noise wash over them.
He released her gently, used his stick as support and kissed her lightly on the lips. Still neither said a word.
“Just that one suitcase?” Her voice quavered.
He shot her a resigned smile. “I’m back in Civvy Street now. Travelling light … oh, Charlotte.”
She took both his hands. “Shall I take you straight home?”
“No,” he said. “Not ready for that yet. Could we find somewhere to sit? Maybe get a drink? I have a little money.”
Her heart felt as if it would burst. “I know just the place,” she said.
They sat in the Lyons Corner House for an hour, eating Madeira cake spread with dark red jam and drinking cups of strong tea. Robert’s face contained a touch more colour now. Charlotte, shocked at his gaunt appearance, made no mention of what he’d gone through nor did he seem to want to discuss his experiences.
She brought him up to date, told him her father had taken up the reins again. Eleanor was living back in her flat and the two were contemplating matrimony.
Robert smiled and nodded.
She told him Don was still stationed in India. Robert nodded, his face concerned.
“Pearl volunteered and she’s a WAAF now,” Charlotte said. “Stationed somewhere in England, doing important things.”
Robert laughed out loud. “That’ll suit her. Did she give Phil his marching orders?”
“Thankfully, yes,” said Charlotte, relieved to see a little of the sparkle back in her fiancé’s eyes. “I’ll tell you as much as I know about it but maybe we should go home now. You’ve had a long day.”
He shrugged. “I’ve spent most of it sitting down.” He reached for her hand and held it between his, turning it and looking down at her ring. “You didn’t get much of a bargain,” he said.
“I don’t understand.” She wondered how much her heart could endure.
“Charlotte, I’m damaged goods. I’ve lost the sight in my right eye and I’ll probably walk with a limp for the rest of my life. I’m no good for active service. I’m no good to you.”
“Thanks a lot,” she said. “Are you giving me my marching orders?”
His eyelids fluttered but he kept hold of her hands. “I’m giving you the chance to walk away, if you wish.”
“Welcome home, Robert,” she said calmly. “Bear with me, a moment.”
She withdrew her hands from his, rose from the table then dropped to her knees beside him. “Listen to me, darling,” she said. “Unless you’re suffering from concussion, may I remind you we’re still engaged to be married? I haven’t stopped wanting to be your wife. Do you still want to marry me?”
For the second time in her life, Charlotte experienced sudden total silence as customers realised a drama was being played out.
“Well, do you?” She still knelt beside her fiancé.
“You know I do.”
“Well, that’s all right then.” She scrambled to her feet and looked down at herself. “Oh, my goodness, Auntie El’s going to kill me. I’ve laddered her best nylon stockings.”
Laughter and clapping greeted the announcement. A woman blew her nose loudly. To Charlotte’s acute embarrassment, an American airman heading for the door dropped a pack of nylon stockings beside her plate. “Have these on me, Ma’am,” he said. “Have a nice life, guys.”
On the way home, Charlotte made Robert aware of possibilities for the business, to help cement the family’s position.
“We’re all one family now, Robert. We look after one another. And that’ll apply when Don and Pearl come home.”
He’d been glancing sideways at her. “You really think we could make a go of it? Make a living for us all?”
“I’m convinced of it. This rotten war won’t go on forever. There’ll be changes ahead. Dad thinks more and more people will want to buy motorcars. It might take a while but he’s keen to expand by running a car dealership. There’ll be work for you and Don and for Pearl and me. We need to have faith, Robert.”
“Surely there’s not enough space?”
“There is at Fun Land. Your father can hardly wait to tell you all about it.”
For a moment she feared she’d sprung too much on him at once. She slowed down, ready to drive through the open double doors of the Corner Garage.
When she switched off the engine, she took a deep breath and turned to look at him.
His smile told her all she needed to know.
If you enjoyed Homefront by Jill Barry, you might be interested in A Murder of No Account by Julia Underwood, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from A Murder of No Account by Julia Underwood
Chapter One
When considering what happened later, Eve realised that things would have been very different if it hadn’t been for the rain. She and Charlie would have gone out earlier, and the miserable, cold body of the brutally murdered girl would have been found long before they had walked home. The universal opinion that the death was of little importance – just another tragedy added to the myriad tragedies that War had brought – meant that Eve would never have been involved; would never have had her life changed beyond recognition.
Earlier that afternoon, before that murder first came to light, Eve was sat at home. She stirred the puny fire with the poker and saw that she would soon have to go outside for more coal. Where did it all go? The chilly August and the tension that everyone is under must make us feel cold. She sometimes wondered why she had chosen this damp, squalid basement to live in but, despite its drawbacks, she loved it.
The best part of thirty years had passed before she escaped the stifling stranglehold of home. Many battles were fought before she finally broke to freedom.
‘Why d’you want to leave us, Evie?’ her mother had asked over and over; hurt bafflement colouring her voice. ‘Aren’t you happy here? A little dab of a girl on your own. It isn’t natural, it isn’t safe. What will the neighbours say? Stay and someone is sure to marry you, if you don’t let on what a temper you’ve got.’
‘I’m not a baby any more, Mum. I have no intention of sitting around waiting for someone to marry me.’
Eve’s strong will prevailed and, a couple of years ago, before War was declared at the end of 1939, she moved to these two rooms in Shepherd’s Bush. The family’s bewilderment was palpable, but they finally accepted her wilful independence. No-one stood against Eve’s persuasive tongue for long.
‘If it’s what you want, Evie,’ said her father with a wheeze, legacy of gas damage in the Great War. ‘We won’t stand in your way, love.’
Mum stood aside, biting her lip, harsh words held back behind clenched teeth. All her three girls had fled the nest and the loss rankled.
Now Eve sank into the plush of the old sofa, reclaimed from Mum when she threatened to chuck it out.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Eve. ‘There’s life left in that old thing, the springs are fine. I’ll have it for my place.’
She’d got Charlie to bring it over from
Wembley in the back of his brother’s van. With a bright knitted blanket, courtesy of her industrious sister Grace, and a couple of cushions, it looked almost stylish; comfy anyway. Her little terrier, Jake, snuggled up beside her and gazed with eloquent eyes full of adoration and pleading. It must be time for a walk, he seemed to be saying.
Boring, wet Sunday. Restlessness impelled her to pace the room and Jake followed hopefully at her heels. It was not a lengthy circuit as the room measured barely twelve feet each way and that was taken up by the sofa, an armchair, a bookcase and Aunty Vi’s old sideboard; the repository of Eve’s chipped crockery and other paraphernalia.
Even on the brightest day little sunshine penetrated the room whose only window was high on one wall. Through it you could see only a cast iron railing and the brisk ankles of people passing by outside. Then every evening, as daylight faded, Eve was obliged to arrange the mandatory blackout curtains over the windows, sealing every crack where a chink of light might escape and alert the enemy.
Why did she feel so uneasy? It wasn’t just the weather. This was her day off, why couldn’t she relax and enjoy it? It may have been boredom; life was not exciting. But that was ridiculous. They were at war and everyone lived in constant fear. Since Dunkirk in June and the rescue of the army from the French beaches, the population had been under threat of German invasion. Fear stalked the streets and here, in darkest Shepherds Bush, things were no different. On the East coast, particularly in Kent, with fighter aircraft skirmishing overhead daily, the threat was even more apparent.
September the first today and the war wasn’t ‘phoney’ anymore, real danger tainted the air. The population had to always carry gas masks. Ugly concrete communal shelters had sprung up in the streets since March, in preparation for air raids. They were intended for people caught in the streets when an attack started. So far they hadn’t been needed, but everyone expected something to happen soon. Now and then the shriek of the siren being tested split the air, followed shortly by the all clear signal, but it was nerve-wracking nonetheless.
None of this explained Eve’s dissatisfaction. With a well-paid job - four hundred pounds a year - she should be happy. The Post Office, for whom she had worked for years, had appointed her supervisor in the Censor Section at Mount Pleasant. She oversaw the opening of mountains of letters scrutinised daily. The staff obliterated passages in thick black ink that might be useful to the enemy. Eve knew that she would never have been given such a responsible job in peacetime.
Women repeated the daftest things in letters to boyfriends, about the aircraft they had seen and where their cousins’ regiments were being posted. It was demanding, fascinating work and Eve felt that she was contributing something to the war effort.
She heard feet on the basement steps. Jake’s head shot up and inclined to one side with a tiny whine. Who was that on a wet Sunday?
‘Oi! Evie! It’s me,’ a voice shouted from the enclosed area by her door.
‘It’s open, Charlie, come on in.’
In a few moments Charlie Spalding strode into the room, bending his head to clear the door frame and bringing with him boundless energy. Jake greeted him, all wriggling body and wagging stub of tail.
‘Blimey, Evie, it’s raining stair-rods out there,’ Charlie said, shaking drops off his gabardine raincoat like a dog and removing his hat, which shed yet more water onto the floor. Charlie had style, even dripping wet. A silk scarf was tied around his neck and his expensive shoes were burnished. The effect was somewhat spoiled by his darkly piratical looks and five o’clock shadow.
‘Don’t mind me visitin’, do you? You on yer own?’ He peered around as if someone might be hiding.
Eve grinned, happy to see him. ‘Yes. Thanks, Charlie. Pete was here, but he went at lunchtime; afternoon shift. Try not to get the rug too wet, could you?’
Charlie nodded idly, making a ‘don’t care’ face. Pete was Eve’s boyfriend and Charlie didn’t like his profession of Police Sergeant, though he didn’t mind earning a few bob from him when he could. Use people and make money where you can, was Charlie’s motto. He removed the wet coat and draped it over the fireguard.
‘You wanna go for a pint? The Bush is open soon and I’m gasping.’
Perhaps that’s what I need, thought Eve, to spend time with friendly faces, have a laugh and a natter. The walk might help too; I could do with some fresh air.
‘Righto. But it’s only half past five, a while till opening. Have a cuppa and tell me what you’ve been doing. Nothing I couldn’t tell Mum, I hope.’
‘Give me a break, Evie. What could I be up to on a rainy Sunday afternoon?’
‘Well, knowing you,’ Eve said, moving towards the kitchen and putting the kettle on, ‘you could find mischief almost any time.’ She pushed aside the breakfast things cluttering the wooden draining board. Her tea ration was depleted, there wouldn’t be any more for a week; so much for a spoonful each and one for the pot.
‘Once you enjoyed mischief. Remember going down the market Saturdays and pinching apples? And the sweets from Woolworths till they got that manager with the eagle eyes?’ Charlie leaned against the doorframe with Jake in his arms, ruffling the dog’s ears.
‘We were just kids then, Charlie, and there wasn’t a War on. You’ll be in the shit if you get up to anything now – they’ll bang you inside, or worse, send you to the Front.’
Charlie quailed at the thought. He had blagged his way out of conscription because of his rotten eyesight, flat feet or breathing difficulties, depending on whom he was explaining his absence from the Army to. He worked as anything from a market stallholder to a bookie’s runner, keeping his eyes and ears open for snippets of information he could sell to the coppers. Nowadays his activities were legal and the police prized him as a valuable source of intelligence. New, previously unheard of crimes had sprung up like weeds. Black market traders, dealing in illegally acquired rationed goods, were everywhere, as well as suspicious characters, possibly enemy spies or just dishonest refugees from countries overrun by the Germans. London teemed with strangers, refugees, evacuees and itinerant servicemen.
Charlie felt no sense of guilt for his absence from the battlefields. He was proud of joining his Uncle Len in his cutter crossing the Channel at the beginning of June. They rescued ten survivors from the Normandy beaches amidst a terrifying barrage of artillery fire, somehow managing to get everyone home in one piece. He knew that eventually he would be forced to be more useful in the war. For now he hoped for the best.
Eve put the tea tray down. The fire had found a spark and sent feeble warmth into the room.
‘Could you get some coal, Charlie, when you’ve had your tea? There’s a new delivery in the shed.’
The coal hole was in the basement area beside Eve’s front door, next to a cupboard where she kept her bicycle and stuff she didn’t want indoors.
Charlie sipped his tea. ‘In a mo’. It’s a bit early for a fire, init? It’s only just September. You’ll run out before the winter.’
‘They say they’ll be rationing coal soon because there won’t be enough miners to dig it up and then it’ll all be needed for the ships and power stations,’ said Eve. ‘We may as well enjoy it while we can.’
‘Nah. War’ll be over before that happens. We’ll have them Nazis on the run once we get back to France.’
Eve regarded him doubtfully, wishing she had his faith. The Battle for Britain was not prospering and Mr Churchill thought they could expect bombing soon. How long would they last, isolated from the rest of the world and with the Germans knocking at the door? They might all starve to death if things went badly. Who could they expect to rescue them? The Americans didn’t look as if they would, as they had no interest in the War. All the European allies had capitulated to the Nazis, except for struggling Russia. What hope did poor England have against such a mighty enemy?
Chapter Two
Eve put the fireguard around the hearth. Charlie and she put on coats and hats and ventured into
the street, where the rain had eased. Eve wore brown corduroy trousers, a hand-knitted jumper, Grace again, and a slick waterproof like those worn by fishermen, topped off with a woollen hat pulled over her ginger curls. They strolled to the Green and into the welcoming Bush pub, with Jake prancing beside them. As they opened the door the ghosts of a million cigarettes escaped into Shepherd’s Bush.
Jake curled up by the fire, while Charlie bought the drinks. Eve had taken to drinking beer. She didn’t much like it and made a pint last. But other tipples had become expensive and scarce. She had not been brought up in a household where alcohol was consumed regularly. Some drinks sat in the oak sideboard from one Christmas to the next, sacrosanct. The suggestion that a glass of something stronger than orange juice might be supplied met with dismay.
‘Are you feeling poorly, love? Coming down with a cold?’
So, medicinal purposes only.
The rain had eased off by the time they waved goodbye, leaving The Bush at 8.30.
‘See you soon,’ Bill, the landlord, shouted.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ some wag yelled from the bar.
‘Cheerio!’ called Eve, ignoring that last remark as they stepped into the street and she slapped her hat onto her head. ‘Everyone thinks we’re a couple,’ she said to Charlie.
‘Well, no wonder. You spend more time with me than with Pete.’
Eve couldn’t dispute this. Pete visited twice a week, his shifts permitting, and even then he often left Eve’s warm bed at 5.30 am. At least he worked at the local police station and didn’t have to travel across London. Charlie was her best friend and always had been. He may have been a good-looking devil, but there had never been a hint of romance between them. They knew each other far too well and too long, having shared a desk at Stonebridge Park Elementary School for years. He was the reason she had chosen Shepherd’s Bush, because he also lived here, in a room above a barber’s shop on the Uxbridge Road.
