by Gloria Cook
‘Glad you’re an optimist. We’re not doing too badly,’ Tom had said. He’d gazed across the shorn field then up at the pale-blue, lightly clouded sky. He’d gone so quiet, Jill had wondered what he was thinking.
This time, the nicotine steadied her. Screwing her eyes up against the smoke, she brought the cigarette up for the next inhalation and noticed the ingrained dirt in her hands, the ragged nails. She reached up and felt at her hair, her face. Felt dirt on both. ‘Oh, what must I look like?’
‘A grubby urchin,’ Lottie stated.
‘I don’t look that bad, do I?’
She felt Tom’s eyes on her. They had often strayed to her throughout the day. She didn’t mind. His looks had not been invasive. Every time, however, Lottie had showed that she minded. Jill was amused but she found it reassuring to have someone looking out for her honour.
Tom said, ‘If you look exactly as you do now, I’d be proud to escort you to the dance next month.’
‘Dance?’ Jill stifled a yawn. ‘I’ve never been to a dance before.’
‘It’s nowhere special,’ Lottie said, ushering her inside to clean up. ‘Just in the village, the Methodist social rooms. But the proceeds will go to the Linen League, for the infirmary. A friend of ours, Louisa, has helped with the fund ever since the infirmary was bombed last year. Mum and Pappa are arranging the dance. Uncle Tris will come. You’ll like him, Jill. He’s a darling. Sometimes he stays with us. He lives at Watergate Bay, near Newquay, and he’s been so lonely since our cousin Adele joined the WRENS, and his stepdaughter Vera Rose moved up to London to work for a government ministry. Tragically last year our Aunt Winnie was killed when she was hit by a car after dark.’
‘Jonny should be well enough to travel and attend the dance by then,’ Tom said, waiting his turn for the soap. ‘He and I together will liven things up.’
‘You must spread it around that he’s coming anyway,’ Lottie said. ‘That way we’ll get girls from the other villages and Truro. There’s always a shortage of male partners. Jonny’s the most gorgeous man you’ll ever set eyes on,’ she explained for Jill’s benefit, then she cast a meaningful look at her brother. ‘Although he’s another who has the morals of a tom cat. We might be unlucky to attract some boring American servicemen at the dance. They seem to hear about all the social events. They’re so boastful. They think they’re God’s gift.’
‘Lottie, you’re so uncharitable,’ Tom chided. He still smarted over her observable amusement back in the spring, when their American allies had led the Wings for Victory march, part of the fundraising for a new Spitfire, past the war memorial in Truro and had been virtually ignored by the public. They must have been annoyed and embarrassed when the British servicemen following on after them had been loudly and passionately cheered. Tom hated what he saw as unfair behaviour. Give everyone a chance, was his philosophy.
‘Do they usually come?’ Jill asked. Her grandmother’s worsening senility had caused her to liken GIs to German troops. Evangeline Laity had been so afraid of the expected enemy invasion of 1940 she had threatened to kill both herself and Jill if it took place, to spare them rape and capture. While not despising the Americans, of which there were increasing amou'nts packing in and around Falmouth, it had not bred a security in Jill about them either.
‘So you’ve never been to a dance before, Jill? Does that mean you can’t dance at all?’ Tom moved in to take the bar of soap from her.
‘Well, I’ve done some country dancing at school.’ Gingerly, she dried her sore hands on the towel.
He studied her closely. ‘Well, you have got a lot to learn. Haven’t you?’
Emilia had agreed to rest but not to stop work. She was busy in the den with the farm accounts, inserting the amounts received from hotels, restaurants, cafes and canteens for dairy produce, eggs and vegetables. The telephone rang. After she put the receiver down she went to the open window and called to Perry. He was hoeing long rows of runner beans. Once roses had been grown here. Now, except for a small plot they kept as a memorial garden to dead loved ones, every scrap of earth had been given over to edible produce.
‘Darling?’ He came to lean over the windowsill. ‘What is it? You’re looking very serious. Was that more news about Jonny?’
‘Jonny? Oh, yes, that was Tris who rang and Jonny should be home in a few days. He’s a bit battered but on the mend. They will be coming to stay, which will be lovely. But it’s Tris’s other news that’s astonished me. I’m surprised it hasn’t swept round the village by now. Ben had phoned Tris, and you’ll never guess what’s happened! It’s Faye, Ben’s daughter. She suddenly turned up on his doorstep this morning. She’s been over from America for years. I wonder why she’s come to him after all this time. There has to be a reason. Apparently, Ben’s so shocked he hasn’t a clue what to do about it. He should make things up to her, that’s what!’
Perry reached in through the window and laid a restraining hand on Emilia’s shoulder. ‘You’re not thinking of racing over to Tremore, are you, Em?’ She was a firm believer in family love and loyalty, and as a champion of rights she could be impulsive and stubborn.
‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall there for a day or two, but Ben and Faye need time alone and lots of it. I hope she calls on us. I’d love to hear all about young Alec.’
‘I’m sure you’ll see her about the village. She’ll be able to pass on our good news to Brooke. Perhaps Brooke will get in touch at last. It wasn’t as if we fell out with her or anything when she left Ben.’
‘Who could blame her for that? Ben must have really hurt Brooke for her to cut herself off so completely. I often wonder what happened when he went to America. Why he decided to reject his own children. Ben’s despicable. It’s hard to believe that he used to be happy-go-lucky like Tom. Just one small accident and all this…’
‘But if it weren’t for that he’d have fought in the Great War and wouldn’t have become bitter for missing out on service, and if he’d survived, you and he would have married and there’d be no Will, Tom or Lottie. And you wouldn’t have married me after Alec died and there’d be no child of ours on the way.’ He laid a hand tenderly on her tummy, still flat but not for long, all being well. ‘Em, darling, are you hoping for a girl?’
‘Because we’ve both lost a daughter, you mean? I don’t mind.’ She raised her arms round his neck and hugged him tight. ‘Are you hoping for a son to carry on the Bosweld name?’
He kissed her, and as always couldn’t hold back the passion he felt for her. ‘I don’t mind at all.’
‘I just hope everything will turn out all right. I shall be an older mother, after all. To be bringing a baby into such an uncertain world is not the best thing to do, but to have your child, Perry, I can’t think of anything I want more. I just pray this war will end soon and Will and Jonny will come back safely and we can all be together again.’
Chapter Five
‘Excuse me? Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Faye looked up from the criss-crossed taped shop window of a shoe shop in Princes Street, in Truro, at the young woman who had spoken to her. She was about seven years older than herself, and looked vaguely familiar. Slender and fair, she had a small, ragged pink birthmark on her right cheek. Her short-sleeved dress, like Faye’s, was utility inspired, and also worn with flair. With clothes so plain it was the fashion to have hats that were obvious, but while Faye’s had a high crown tilted towards the forehead, the other’s was round, of straw and undecorated. ‘Oh, yes. Is it Louisa? Louisa Hetherton-Andrews? I’m Faye Harvey.’
‘Faye Harvey! Of course, I can see the resemblance to your father. I’m now Mrs Carlyon, but sadly a widow. My husband David was killed during the withdrawal from Dunkirk. Well, what a surprise to see Uncle Ben’s daughter. Of course your father’s not my real uncle but it’s what I’ve always called him. He must be delighted to see you.’ Her last comment was unlikely to be true; it was the usual sort of thing to say. ‘Well, ho
w long have you been in Cornwall?’
‘Just a few days. My father isn’t at all pleased to see me.’ Faye watched the delight die in Louisa’s soft blue eyes. She deflected attention away from herself. ‘I’m sorry about your husband. How is your Aunt Polly? Does she still live up at Kenwyn?’
‘Sadly, Aunt Polly died years ago. I live in the house with Ada – do you remember the maid? I think of her as a friend now. She works full time in a… workshop, not far from here actually.’ Faye took it to mean one of the workshops of HTP Motors, which had been given over to vital war work. The noise of the welding could be heard from a couple of streets away. ‘David and I were hoping for children but it wasn’t to be. Faye, please feel free to call on me at any time.’ Louisa spoke with her head in a forwards direction, showing she was fully interested in her conversant. ‘I’m kept busy with voluntary work, but I pop along to Tremore when I can. And Ford Farm too to see Aunt Em. How long are you planning to stay at Tremore?’
‘I shall be sticking around.’ Faye had still not been given an opportunity by her father to talk to him at length. He never responded to mention of young Alec and she had not bothered to show him the photographs of him, or those of herself taken throughout her childhood. He didn’t care about her past or future. The longest sentences she had got out of him this morning were, ‘Do you know the time of the bus back? Don’t miss it. There won’t be another and you’ll have to walk.’ Sometimes she didn’t think she could stand much more of his indifference, but she couldn’t give up. She still had time to get on better terms with him before making some vital arrangements.
Louisa saw how downcast she was. ‘Faye,’ she said carefully, ‘I can imagine how strained things must be between you and Uncle Ben. If you ever want someone to talk to… Well, what I’m trying to say is that I know how difficult it must be for you. Aunt Polly wasn’t my real aunt and I’ve no idea who my parents were. I know about that awful feeling of being lost and uncertain. Of not quite belonging.’
‘Thank you, Louisa.’ The kindness touched Faye and she choked back a rush of tears. It would be nice to make a firm friend of this gentle-natured woman, but she recalled the closeness that existed between Louisa and her father. He, and her late Uncle Alec, and Aunt Emilia, had been very protective towards Louisa, who had been shy and lacking in confidence. It had given her an appealing vulnerability. She was now unassumingly poised, but still retained a fragility that made Faye sure people would always rally to her cause. Hurt and angry, Faye wondered what it was about herself that had made her father so easily reject her. Unable to hide her suffering, she barked, ‘So you’ve always kept in touch with the family?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Louisa understood the other young woman’s resentment. There was something she hoped would give them empathy. ‘But I’m afraid that for some inexplicable reason your Uncle Tristan can’t seem to bear the very sight of me. He makes it plain he doesn’t like me being friendly with Jonny. It’s very unsettling.’ Now she tried a way to cheer Faye. ‘Uncle Ben’s informed me that Jonny will shortly be staying at Ford Farm. I can’t wait to see him again. We get on particularly well. He can be a riot, you know. You’ll enjoy catching up with him, Faye.’ Louisa glanced at her silver bracelet watch. ‘Well, I’d better make a move. Got a Red Cross meeting to attend – we’ll be packing up parcels for our POWs. I’ll let you get on with your shopping. Are you going inside? Sampson’s sell very good quality footwear.’
‘I’m thinking of buying a pair of gumboots so I can help out on the farm. If I’m allowed.’ Faye repressed a heavy sigh. Her father preferred that she kept to helping Agnes in the house.
‘Have you been over to Ford Farm?’
‘Not yet.’ The animosity her father bore towards those who lived at Ford Farm made her wary of antagonizing him. But no matter how much he hated it, she was determined to live under his roof. And to be joined there by another.
Chapter Six
‘You are comfortable?’ Tristan Harvey glanced at the front-seat passenger in his twenty-year-old Citroën. ‘Want me to slow down?’
‘There’s no need to fuss. I’m fine,’ his son replied. In RAF officer’s uniform, his left arm in a sling to keep his upper body stable, and a dashing-looking dressing above one bold black eyebrow, thirty-year-old Jonny Harvey was in good spirits. Although sitting and confined, the energy that readily flowed through him was evident, like something instantly available for ignition. He’d been given many glowing labels about his good looks, usually by women: a dreamboat; a warrior; a demi-god. He was well structured, unlike his father, who had always been rangy, but was now worryingly thin. ‘And if you drive any slower, Dad, we won’t arrive until the middle of next week. I want us to get to Aunt Em’s so she can start feeding you up.’
‘Now it’s my turn to tell you not to fuss,’ Tristan said. He found it easy to smile, filled with relief as he was that Jonny had survived the plane crash. He didn’t feel at all guilty for wishing it had left him slightly maimed, so he’d have to sit out the rest of the war behind a desk. This war, and the last one, had cost Tristan immensely and he couldn’t bear another loss.
Jonny pressed his free hand on the warm leather seat. He was serious now. He had come through many perilous bombing raids. Planes of his had developed fuel problems or taken flak before, but because of the powerful cannon fire from a crafty German night-fighter a few nights ago, it had taken every scrap of sheer nerve, bloody-mindedness and impassioned prayer to bring the Lancaster back on the dreadful, achingly long ten-hour trip and land it without most of its undercarriage. Those last dreadful minutes of violent impact, then skidding down the runway, of feeling the aircraft juddering and breaking up, of hearing its dying screams, along with the terrified cries and shrieks of his crew, and his own, would stay with him for ever. He’d thought he was going to die. How he and the five other men had managed to scramble out, all battered but alive, was a mystery, a miracle. Faulkner, the flight engineer, was deeply religious and had quietly said they had been spared for a purpose. To die another day, Jonny had thought, after he had solemnly agreed. Now he took an affectionate but sorrowful pleasure in valuing everything familiar to him. Touching things as if he’d never felt them before.
‘Where did you get the petrol coupons to have the jalopy running today?’
‘The colonel who’s sleeping in my bedroom fixed me up,’ Tristan said blandly. His Victorian clifftop house at Watergate Bay had been requisitioned as a billet for officers and he was living in the original servants’ quarters. He’d wanted to stay close to his late wife but the loneliness had become too much to bear. Too much had changed. The once peaceful sands fifty feet below the house had been laid with mines, and now they had been cleared and young American servicemen were training to land in strange-looking craft. He was planning on alternating a long stay between Ford Farm and Tremore. He had closed his antiques and curio shop in Newquay shortly after the outbreak of hostilities – there was going to be little demand for the wares – and he could easily carry out his other work, for ex-servicemen charities, at either place. An extra pair of hands at either farm would be welcome. He took a bend in Henna Lane at prudent speed; Jonny would have taken the Citroën round so fast there would have been a noisy swiping off of the heads of the creamy-white cow parsley in the hedge. ‘Jonny, I’m thinking of moving out of Roskerne for good. There’s nothing for me there now. Your stepmother never made a will and although the house is legally mine, I feel it’s only right it goes to Vera Rose. She’ll need it when she settles down after this current mess is over. She doesn’t intend to stay on for ever in London.’
Jonny thought about his stepsister, who, because his father’s late wife had been a Harvey cousin, was also his second cousin. ‘Vee will appreciate the gesture. But where will you live? What about Adele when she comes back from Portsmouth?’
‘I’ll find us somewhere to live. I accept that she’ll probably want her own home in due course. Hennaford will do for me for the time being. Well, son,
it’ll be interesting to catch up with Faye. I suppose she’ll return to America eventually and then we might never see her again. I wish everything would stop changing. I feel life is slipping away from me.’
‘Don’t get depressed, Dad. You’re still a young man. There’s time enough for you to start all over again. It’s very odd, about Faye.’ Jonny puffed on a cigarette, ponderous, frowning. ‘I hope she gets some sort of justice for herself and young Alec. It’s time Uncle Ben received what’s due him.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tristan frowned. He’d driven to the end of the lane and stopped at the crossroads. At one time only a pause and a brief look to the left and right would have been necessary, but with the county’s main road cutting through the village there were often military lorries, jeeps, and even the odd-looking American bulldozers passing through. He waited for an American naval staff car to pass. The sailors saluted Jonny and waved to them both, and they reciprocated. ‘On their way to somewhere on the Fal or Helford, no doubt.’
‘Yanks everywhere,’ Jonny said dryly. ‘About Uncle Ben? Well, it’s no way to treat your children, is it?’ He turned his head sideways and set his strong, dark grey eyes on his father. ‘Or any young person.’
Tristan tightened his narrow mouth, making his neat moustache jump up as if to attention. Jonny was referring to his stiff manner towards the Carlyon woman. Louisa. It was something Jonny hated, but Jonny didn’t know the truth about her, how her very existence caused terrible hurt to him even now. Tristan would never come to terms with the death of his unfaithful first wife during the birth of her lover’s child. The child who had been adopted and raised in Truro against his wishes. Louisa Carlyon. Jonny had been told his half-sister had died the same day as his mother. It tortured Tristan how Jonny and Louisa were so struck on each other. For years it had been the devil’s own job keeping them apart, more so since she’d been widowed. Apart from the obvious worry of them getting together, there was also what Jonny’s reaction would be if he learned the truth now. He was bound to be upset and furious and that might make him careless when he was on ops again. And the very thought of Jonny hating him for the deception chilled Tristan to his bones.
