by Katie Flynn
How can I bear to leave him, Glenys asked herself as she stood and watched him go aboard the Hunter. She ached to run after him, to beg him to stay, but she knew he could not. And presently she walked back to the Corner House, feeling as if she were floating a foot above the ground. That Sam loved her she no longer doubted. She loved him too, loved him with all the strength of her once lonely heart. But I’ll never be lonely again, because whatever happens Sam and I are together now, and will remain together till death us do part, Glenys told herself. Dear God, if I’d known being in love was like this I’d never have left the farm. Why didn’t I make him show his feelings; and why didn’t I show him mine, for that matter? I knew I loved him, I just didn’t know whether he loved me, and of course my silly pride wouldn’t let me admit to a love which I was not sure was returned.
And now a week’s leave would give her plenty of time to get back to Weathercock Farm, and face the task of explaining why she had left, and how she and Sam had resolved their differences. It’ll be my first visit in nearly two years, she thought. I wonder how things have changed? I wonder if Nain and Taid will be happy when I tell them I’ve met Sam and all our troubles and misunderstandings are over? At least the kids will be thrilled. Oh, what a fool I was! I kept telling myself not to give in, not to go back until I was sure of Sam’s affection. But how could I be sure when I made certain we never met? I really have been a fool, and giving in to Sam just now, admitting how much I love him, must be the only sensible thing I’ve done since I left Weathercock Farm. I love and am loved in return, and that’s enough to make anyone think they are on cloud nine. And I’ll see Sam just as soon as his ship comes in, and when peace comes we’ll never be parted again.
Chapter 19
‘HEY, BEAVER! ERNIE Beaver! Don’t you know you’re on perishin’ watch? Unless you want me to tip you out you’d better get on your feet and get up on deck, else you’ll find yourself on a charge. It’s just rung four bells for the change, so I’m off and you’re on.’
Cyril Huxtable groaned and opened his eyes, then sat slowly upright. Whenever somebody called him by his new name he had to remind himself not to glance around for his one-time shipmate, Ernie Beaver, whose identity he had decided on the spur of the moment to steal because he dared not go ashore in his home port under his own name. In fact, he was wary about going ashore anywhere, or had been. The reason – which still made his blood run cold – was something that had happened on a previous visit to Liverpool. Ever since the incident of the necklace – which had turned up, just as his mother had predicted, when he had finally secured another berth and Mrs Huxtable had stripped his bed of its filthy sheets so that she might take them to the wash house – he had been looking for an opportunity to do a little thieving on his own account. When the air raids had begun in 1940, he had followed the example of his drinking pals whenever he was on shore leave, and when a raid started had helped himself to anything not closely guarded before the all clear sounded. And not immediately, but soon enough, he had remembered just where he could find the most valuable loot of all.
So when his ship had next docked in his home port and a raid had started he had set off to the area where the people with money lived. When he reached the house he was heading for, he simply lumbered up the garden path, ducked under the branches of a flowering tree and, heart thumping, put a cautious hand on the kitchen door handle. He knew an old lady lived here with her niece, a simple soul who frequently left doors and windows unlocked, but he was pretty sure they would have gone into the country to escape the bombs, probably to relatives who would see them safe. In the good old days, as he now thought of them, he had owned a long ladder and had come round Princes Park on his shore leaves cleaning windows for a local contractor called Freddie Cummins. On one occasion he had looked through a bedroom window and seen old Mrs Rathbone sitting in front of her dressing table with a beautifully carved wooden box open before her. He had frozen, statue still, and had seen the sparkle of precious stones and the gleam of gold before she had closed the lid, pushed the box into the dressing table drawer and hobbled out of the room.
Greed had caused his eyes to sparkle, might have led him to throw caution to the winds then and there, but at the very moment his hand stretched out to open the window he had been hailed from below. ‘Hux! Will you get a move on, you lazy bugger! This may be beer money to you but it’s my livelihood! Come on down and go next door.’ Freddie Cummins had chuckled. ‘I keep these customers ’cos I’m reg’lar and cheap; there’s no one as mean as the rich. Go on, shift yourself.’
But that had been years ago; now he knew exactly what he must do, and his reward would be not beer money but a handful of those sparkly stones.
The back door had opened beneath his touch, the click of the latch drowned by the crump of the bombs, and he went like a shadow through the kitchen, across the hall, and up the stairs. He was almost at the top landing when he heard a sound, and glancing towards the half-open bedroom door he had nearly died of fright. An old, old woman stood in the doorway, ghostlike in a white cotton nightie, pointing a trembling finger at him. ‘How dare you come into my house!’ she said in a frail, shaking voice. ‘I’ll call the police, I’ll have you arrested. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
And on those words she had tipped forward, and though, to be fair, Cyril had tried to catch her, she fell and lay, an immovable bundle, on the landing.
Cyril had left the scene, but not before he had tried to open the dressing table drawer and found it locked. He would have broken it open had he not seen through the window a man in a tin hat and ARP uniform coming up the path. He must have seen the back door swinging open.
It was sheer bad luck that the ARP warden was Cyril’s erstwhile boss, Freddie Cummins. Cyril pushed past him, muttering that he had noticed the open door and come in to check that all was well, but Freddie stopped short and reached out to grab his arm. ‘Do I know you?’ he said uncertainly, but Cyril was already moving again.
He did not know whether he had been recognised in the dark or what had happened to the old lady. He had returned to his ship and resolved not to go ashore again until he had ascertained that the wretched old woman was not dead. But even then he would be in danger if Cummins had recognised him. It was whilst he was still trying to discover whether the scuffers might be on his tail that another thought occurred to him. If only he could become another person . . .
Then had come the attack on his convoy, and when his ship had gone down with most of the crew Cyril had been one of the lucky ones, for he was a strong swimmer and had speedily found himself a spar on which to cling. The sea had been relatively calm; the enemy had gone on their way, knowing that they had scored a kill. Cyril had looked around him and seen, in the dim dawn light, what seemed to be a friendly ship, and had set off towards what he hoped would be rescue.
Then he had seen one of his shipmates, Ernie Beaver, drifting towards him, his skinny white hands desperately clinging to just such a sturdy plank as Cyril’s. He had contemplated leaving the other man to struggle on alone, but even as the thought occurred to him Ernie turned his long, horse-like face towards his approaching shipmate. ‘Gi’ us a hand, Hux,’ he had pleaded. ‘I can’t swim . . . gi’ us a hand.’
Grudgingly, Cyril had begun to swim towards the other man, and it was only when the two spars to which they clung collided gently that the idea had come to him. Here was his chance! He could see Ernie’s pay book poking out of his breast pocket. No one was in sight; he and Ernie were alone on the face of the ocean save for the small sloop bearing down on them, and even as Ernie began to thank the man he plainly considered his rescuer Cyril made up his mind. Swiftly, he grabbed Ernie’s pay book and thrust it into his own pocket, before bringing his fist down on Ernie’s hands and tipping him, without a qualm, into the sea. Ernie Beaver had simply slid down towards the ocean bed far below, and Cyril, looking around him once more, could see no one near enough to have spotted his action. He began to grin, even to laugh, but hastily
pulled a grave face as the sloop drew near and cast out a rope ladder and one of the crew leaned over the rail and bade him climb up to the deck as fast as possible. At least Cyril supposed the man said something of the sort, but since he spoke in a language Cyril could not identify his words could only be guessed at. But then another voice had been raised, speaking fractured English. ‘What happened to ze ozzer bloke?’
For a moment Cyril, almost at the top of the ladder, felt a pang of icy fear, but he said, as he landed on the deck with a thump: ‘Other bloke? What do you mean? There weren’t no one else . . .’ And then inspiration came to him. ‘Oh, you must mean Cyril Huxtable. He were dead when our spars collided and the jolt sent him into Davy Jones’s locker, I reckon.’
Lie with conviction and you’ll never be found out, he told himself. Believe you are speaking nothing but the truth. This is the moment you get the chance to be a hero, the man who almost saved Cyril Huxtable’s life, but sadly arrived just minutes too late.
He did not have long to bask in glory. The rescue sloop handed him over to a merchantman heading first for New York and then for Liverpool, so his celebrity was short-lived. The officers aboard the merchantman merely gave him the berth of a man who had been swept overboard in a storm and kept Cyril’s nose to the grindstone.
But now they were approaching Liverpool; he could see the Liver Birds through the morning mist as he stumbled up on deck to take over the watch. This would be his first arrival at his former home port in his new identity, and he just hoped that no one would hail him by his real name. But he had shaved off his beard, and to the best of his recollection no one on this side of the Atlantic had ever seen him without it, so he should be safe enough. Once he’d had a drink – several drinks – at a pub he had rarely frequented in his old life, he meant to go straight to his mother and enlist her support.
Mrs Huxtable was no longer living in the Court, which had been badly bombed, but had taken herself off to her sister’s and got a job cleaning public lavatories and other amenities for the local council. Cyril had toyed with the idea of simply not telling her he had survived the attack on his convoy, but after much laborious thought he had come to the conclusion that she could be more useful to him if she were in on his secret than if he left her in the dark. It gnawed at his mind like a rat at a cheese that someone might reach the Rathbone jewels first and steal them from him, though he doubted anyone else would know exactly where the treasure was hidden. Not much longer, he told himself. Once he got the dressing table drawer unlocked and took the jewels he was sure it contained, he would be able to kiss the Navy goodbye and take himself off to somewhere a good deal safer than Liverpool in wartime. His mind filled with visions of unlimited riches, he performed his duties as the ship docked, then went ashore and gave an urchin sixpence to deliver a scribbled note to his Auntie Letty’s address, asking his mother to meet him at Lyons Corner House that very afternoon.
‘Oh, Cyril, it’s grand to see you, so it is. They told me your ship went down with all hands, and you was missing presumed killed,’ Mrs Huxtable said, sitting down heavily at the small corner table. ‘And the money stopped coming . . . What happened? Where’s you been?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Cyril said vaguely, not wanting to go into too much detail. ‘The main thing is, you mustn’t call me Cyril any more.’ He went on to explain, with certain omissions, how he had come to take over his erstwhile shipmate’s identity, and sat back to await his mother’s approval. When she said nothing, but merely looked thoughtful, he burst into angry speech. ‘What’s the matter, you silly old bag? You know the scuffers have been watchin’ me ever since some interferin’ busybody told them I’d kidnapped them kids. This way I get them off me back once and for all. So what’s wrong with that, eh?’
His mother did not answer at once. ‘Is this Ernie a local man?’ she asked eventually. ‘If so, me laddo, the first person to seek out Ernie Beaver is bound to notice he’s changed somethin’ remarkable. How will you explain that away, eh?’
‘Ma, for one thing he was a single man, with no wife, and no family that he ever mentioned, and for another Liverpool weren’t his home port,’ Cyril said impatiently. ‘He were from Southampton, which means that as long as I’m on me present ship no one’s likely to put two and two together.’ He glared at his mother. ‘Satisfied? Want to hear the rest of me plan?’
‘Sorry, Cy . . . I mean Ernie,’ she said. ‘Go on, spill the beans.’
Mollified, Cyril proceeded to tell his mother about the day when he had been cleaning windows at the Rathbone house and had spotted the rich spoils behind the glass, and went on to describe the night of the raid, when old Mrs Rathbone had collapsed at his feet. ‘You’ve got to find out whether she’s dead or alive,’ he said. ‘No one won’t accuse me of murder, acourse, ’cos only you knows I ain’t dead, but I need to know if she’s still livin’ in that house. So you write and tell me – only make sure you address the envelope to Ernie Beaver, aboard HMS Pinewood – and next time I come home I’ll make sure we’s set up for life!’
It was a fine hot day, but as Glenys walked along the sunken lane leading to Weathercock Farm she was torn between delight as each familiar scene unrolled before her and the chilly fear that she would receive a well-deserved telling-off for her long absence, perhaps even be told not to visit again.
Halfway across the farmyard she stopped and stared at the large dog kennel, which had been Flush’s home as the farm had once been hers. She expected him to come rushing out, giving either a warning bark or an enthusiastic wag of his plumy tail as he recognised her. But no Flush emerged, and Glenys guessed that meant Taid was working in the fields somewhere. But she knew he would not leave the farmhouse empty without a dog to guard it, so Nain and perhaps both children were probably in the kitchen at this very moment. Glenys had bent to peer into the kennel, but now she straightened up, squared her shoulders and headed for the back door. She would take her medicine like a man – no, like a soldier of the ATS – and the sooner she got it over with the better.
She rattled on the back door, knocked, and pushed it open. ‘Is it safe to come in or shall I be shot down in flames? I’m so sorry, so ashamed . . .’ There was a stifled cry from the room she was entering and then her arms were full of Mo, and Nain was hobbling across the floor towards her, a beam spreading across her face, and Glenys knew that all was forgiven even before Nain’s arms enveloped her.
‘Oh, you foolish girl, no visitor could be more welcome,’ Nain said, her voice shaking. ‘We got your letters and longed to be able to tell you all our news, but of course, you naughty girl, that was impossible without an address. Sit down, do, and tell us why you stayed away so long.’ She held Glenys at arm’s length, looking her over whilst a slow smile spread across her face. ‘My goodness, how your uniform suits you! But I do believe you’ve lost weight; have you been pining for – for a sight of your old friends? But I’m afraid you’ve missed Sam. He only left yesterday; he will be so disappointed. He’s been searching for you . . .’
‘I’ve seen him; that’s why I’m here,’ Glenys said quickly. ‘I was on my way to meet someone, and I was hurrying because I was late and Sam was trying to catch me up. I think he must have been running because I didn’t know anyone was behind me until suddenly someone grabbed me round the waist and it was Sam, bubbling over with excitement. Oh, Nain, I knew at that moment what a fool I’d been . . .’
Mo’s voice broke in on Glenys’s explanation. ‘Was you a fool because you didn’t come back to Weathercock Farm, or because you went away? Nain said you’d gone to get experience, wharrever that may mean, and I were afraid you might never come back, though Jimmy was sure you would and he’s usually right, isn’t he?’ She grabbed Glenys’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘Well, he was right this time, wasn’t he? You have come back, and if you promise never never to go away again I’ll let go of your hand so’s you can drink the tea Nain is pouring and have a buttered scone.’
‘And you must let
Glenys sit down,’ Nain said, pouring tea into two large enamel mugs. ‘My goodness, wait until the others see you. Taid always said I was wrong to let you go and I was beginning to fear he was right, but now he’ll have to admit I knew what I was doing.’
Glenys had seated herself at the table, and now she raised her eyebrows. ‘Let me go? What do you mean?’
Nain chuckled, but continued with the task of splitting and buttering scones on which she had been engaged when Glenys had entered the room. ‘I knew you and Sam had quarrelled, and while I won’t say I have second sight – though Taid always insists that I do – I suddenly knew that you would run away from us, because nothing in your life had prepared you to understand the emotions of a man like Sam, who has had the dreadful experience of losing a loved one. He was trying to be both mother and father to his children, yet I could see, even if you could not, that he was . . . well, more than fond of you, my dear.’ Her glance slid to Mo and a smile crinkled her eyes as she addressed her granddaughter. ‘I saw you nick that scone, you little monkey! And now we must let Glenys tell us what’s been happening to her.’ She turned back to Glenys. ‘I can see you have all the self-confidence you lacked when you left us, and that is thanks to the ATS, of course. But I’m more interested in the social side of your life. Do you have a young man? Friends of both sexes?’
Mo gasped. ‘Nain, you said a bad word,’ she said accusingly. ‘You said sex; our teacher says that’s a bad word.’
Glenys giggled. ‘It’s not a bad word, darling, it’s just another way of saying boy or girl,’ she explained. She looked back at Nain and thought guiltily that the other woman had aged in her absence. She hoped to God it had not been worry over her which had caused the additional wrinkles and the trembling hand. But Nain was still watching her expectantly. ‘Well, there have been a couple of fellows,’ she admitted. ‘But truly, Nain, they really were just good friends. And of course the person who ran away from Sam and the farm is entirely different from the person who works on the ack-ack site, spotting enemy planes so that the gunners can shoot them down, and, in short, is in command both of her duty and of herself.’
