Daughters of Cornwall

by Fern Britton

  ‘Francine? Wallis?’ My eyes widened.

  ‘Yes, anyway, she started crying, her make-up was ruined and—’

  I interrupted again. ‘She’s on the cover of almost every magazine.’

  ‘Yes, darling, but believe me, she looks like a screwed-up sock when she’s been crying, so then the make-up artist took ages to …’

  I began to laugh. ‘But she’s the Face of the Year.’

  He stopped and looked at me. Really looked at me. ‘Darling Hannah, what am I doing, prattling on about idiotic, neurotic, arty pansies, when I should be hailing a cab and getting you back to my humble abode so that I can kiss you?’

  We hurried to the taxi rank. ‘Ealing please, cabbie. Denbigh Road,’ he told the driver with an easy charm.

  ‘Righto sir.’

  In the back of the cab, with Greg holding my hand, I felt born again. This was my future. I had heard girls talking about finding the ‘one’, and how you knew straight away when ‘It’ was ‘It’. And now I discovered for myself that they had been right. I had found my ‘one’.

  ‘Just here on the left, cabbie.’

  We had pulled up outside a large, red-brick, three-storey house, identical to the others in the street.

  ‘Two shillings and sixpence, please.’

  Greg patted his pockets. ‘Oh God, I’ve left my wallet at the studios. Darling …’ He pulled his mouth down in an apology. ‘Could you possibly?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I found the change and gave the cabbie a tip on top.

  ‘Thanks, miss.’ He smiled then said, loudly enough for Greg to hear, ‘Make sure he pays you back. Tata.’

  Greg tutted. ‘What sort of chap does he think I am? Thank you, darling, I won’t forget I owe you.’

  His flat was at the top of the house. Just one room but large and airy with a view over the street.

  ‘Just temporary,’ he told me, kneeling to put a match to the gas fire. ‘It gets a bit chilly up here but the fabulous natural light makes it worthwhile. Even if there is a hell of a draught coming through it.’

  I thought it the most romantic room I had ever seen. Through the skylight window the sky was cornflower blue. I pictured us lying on the rug by the fire, in each other’s arms, and counting the stars as they appeared in the heavens.

  The gas fire popped. ‘Shit. Bloody meter. Hannah, have you got a couple of bob?’

  I had and happily handed them over.

  ‘Sorry, darling. I wanted this to be so perfect for you.’

  ‘It’s rather romantic.’ I smiled, ‘Lovers in a garret and all that.’

  ‘Lovers?’ He raised an eyebrow comically. ‘You are not thinking of seducing me, are you?’

  ‘Furthest thing from my mind.’

  He took a step closer to me and said in a low voice. ‘Mine too.’

  I took a step towards him so that our faces were almost touching. ‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’

  I had never known a man kiss so beautifully. Some were overeager. Tongues like rogue invaders. Teeth clashing. But Greg’s lips were gentle on mine, moving with ease and no hurry. I honestly could have stood there being kissed all night. Such is woman’s frailty.

  When we broke away, Greg busied himself with making us cheese on toast and pouring two large gins from an almost empty bottle.

  I knew there was no boarding house down the road, as I had told Mum, and as the gin took hold, I was more than willing to shed my clothes and be made love to on the rug in front of Greg’s gas fire. There were no stars above, just the pattering of rain on the glass above us. He didn’t ask me if it was my first time and I didn’t tell him it wasn’t, but I was grateful that he had a packet of French letters to hand.

  ‘Hannah, did you hear anything I just said?’ Mum was carrying a basket of laundry out of the back door. ‘Or are you going to sit there and file your nails all day?’

  I put the nail file down. ‘Sorry, Mum.’ Greg had told me how beautiful my hands were. He said they were hands that could paint the Madonna or play the violin.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘Do you need some help?’

  She sighed. ‘Dear God, you’re about as useful as a wet dream.’

  I bit my lip, to stop myself laughing at Mum’s unusual crudity.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Well, honestly. Since you got back from London, I can’t get any sense out of you.’ She lifted the laundry basket further up her hip to wedge it better. ‘Get the pegs and help me hang this lot.’

  It was warm out. The heat was bouncing off the tiny square of brick yard we called a garden. Mum had recently planted a small trellis of sweet peas climbing the wall between us and our neighbour, and a crop of early potatoes were sprouting in an old zinc bath, by the gate.

  ‘These should dry well,’ she said as we strung the sheets and David’s school shirts on the line.

  ‘I’ll iron them tonight if you like, Mum.’ I gave her my most winning smile. She was right, I hadn’t pulled my weight since seeing Greg. ‘I’ll cook supper too. What have we got?’

  She knew I was trying to appease her and gave me a tiny smile as she delved into the front pocket of her floral overall for a cigarette.

  ‘Sausage, mash and beans. And while you’re in such a helpful mood, bring me out a cuppa, would you?’

  ‘Of course, Mum. You sit down in the sun and I’ll bring it out.’

  In the kitchen, I took two cups from the hooks hanging under the crockery shelf and waited for the kettle to boil. The smoke from Mum’s cigarette drifted through the open kitchen window. I liked it. It was her. I couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t have a cigarette in her hand or hanging perilously from the corner of her mouth as she pinned a hem or shelled peas, squinting against the smoke.

  I made the tea and took it out. She was sitting on the old bentwood chair we kept outside for the warm weather. ‘There you are.’

  She threw the stub of her cigarette on the brick floor and took the tea I passed her. She looked tired. ‘Thank you, darling.’

  I settled myself on the warm bricks. ‘You do too much, Mum.’

  She sipped her scalding tea, coughed and reached for another cigarette. ‘I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I’m in the churchyard.’

  ‘Your mum’s cough is sounding worse,’ Shirley said, walking down from church the following Sunday.

  ‘She’s always had that cough,’ Edward answered. ‘It’s just Mum.’

  Shirley turned to me. ‘Don’t you think it’s worse, Hannah?’

  I thought for a second. ‘No. Just the same as always.’ But she had got me thinking. I did hear Mum in the night coughing more than usual, and I had found one of her hankies with a bit of blood on it. ‘Nose bleed,’ she had told me.

  David left school that summer. He had done well in his School Certificate and had been taken on by the small garage workshop up at the Trevay sheds as an apprentice.

  ‘I thought you were going to Trinity? Dad’s old college,’ Edward said, tamping down his pipe, a new affectation.

  David shrugged. ‘We haven’t heard from Dad for ages. Why should I bother when old man Reggie—’

  ‘Mr Davies to you, David,’ Mum reprimanded.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ He began again. ‘When Mr Davies,’ he emphasised sarcastically, ‘says he’ll have me fully qualified as a mechanic by the time I’m eighteen.’

  ‘I could have done with you fixing up my old kite during the war,’ Edward said, lighting his pipe.

  ‘Could you? Could I still do that?’ David asked eagerly.

  ‘Of course, although knowing you, you’d be busy inventing new aircraft with all the gadgets.’

  Mum laughed as she inhaled deeply on her cigarette. ‘Oh darling, don’t give the poor boy ideas …’ She broke off, feeling for the hanky up her sleeve, and coughed violently, the noise coming from deep in her chest, until she retched.

  ‘Has something gone down the wrong way, Clara?’ asked Shirley, getting up ready to hit her mother-in-
law on the back.

  Mum held a hand up to stop her while holding her handkerchief to her face. She shook her head, struggling to inhale.

  ‘I’ll get some water,’ I said, running to the kitchen.

  When I came back, Mum was wheezing badly and Edward, Shirley and David were standing over her looking shocked. I followed their eyes and saw the red clot on the handkerchief in her hand.

  Edward took control instantly and got Mum to lie on her side on the floor, instructing Shirley to fetch a cushion and a blanket. ‘Hannah, get Dr Cunningham,’ he ordered.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ shivered David, and together we ran out of the house.

  ‘Is she going to die?’ David said, trying not to cry.

  ‘Darling, of course not,’ I said, trying to sound as if I believed the words myself. ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the doctor.’

  The rest of the afternoon went too fast and yet in slow motion.

  Dr Cunningham examined her and called for the ambulance. ‘Just a precaution. Might as well give her a night’s rest in hospital and check her out.’

  Shirley and Edward went with her while David and I ate toast and played Ludo while listening to the radio.

  We were still up when Edward and Shirley came home.

  David jumped up. ‘What did the hospital say?’

  Edward looked at me. ‘Toots, put the kettle on, would you?’ He looked dead on his feet. ‘Actually, have we any whisky?’

  I found the bottle and poured him a little and, after some hesitation, I put a splash into Shirley’s tea too.

  ‘So, tell us. What’s wrong with her?’

  Edward sat back in Mum’s armchair and rubbed his eyes. ‘They will do some tests over the next few days. Keep her in hospital to rest. It could be that coughing so hard has burst a blood vessel, or it could be just a bit of asthma, or, worst case, it could be TB, but they don’t think that’s likely.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ I immediately felt relieved.

  Edward drained his glass. ‘Toots, you are going to have to take some time off from the bakers. They’ll understand.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I wasn’t going to be taken advantage of. ‘I like my job, and the money I bring into this house is as good as yours.’

  ‘Shirley can’t leave the bank and I do enough as it is, working late in the pub and in Mum’s shop. It makes sense for you to stay at home and look after the shop and the house.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I answered gracelessly. When was I going to see Greg again if I was tied to the stove and shop?

  Edward had moved on. ‘David, you’ll help Hannah. It’s all hands to the pump.’

  ‘Why me?’ David whined. ‘I work too, you know.’

  Edward lost his rag. ‘My God, I am glad Mum isn’t here to listen to your selfishness.’

  Shirley, sitting next to him, placed her hand on his arm. ‘Teddy, we are all tired and upset. There’s no point getting angry.’

  I picked at a nail while David muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell work tomorrow. I don’t want Mum worrying.’

  ‘Here’s to teamwork,’ Shirley said, raising her cup.

  ‘Teamwork!’ I smiled weakly, but down in my shallow, selfish mind, all I could think of was how I could use Mum’s absence as a cover to see Greg.

  I couldn’t phone Greg because he didn’t have a phone in his flat, and if he wasn’t at home, he was on a photoshoot somewhere. But I did have his address and I wrote to him that night. My heart wanted to gush about how much I missed him and longed to see him again. My mind decided to affect sophisticated nonchalance.

  Dear Greg,

  Cornwall is gorgeous at the moment. All I want to do is swim and sunbathe. I am thinking of getting a new swimming costume. Perhaps a little daring? What would you think of a pretty red one with a halterneck and sweetheart neckline? Yes, I saw the picture you took of the bathing belles of Bournemouth in yesterday’s newspaper. Do you think one of their costumes would suit me?

  You might want to come down to Trevay and I could model for you. I am joking! But it might be fun!

  Unfortunately I cannot get to London to see you for a while. My mother is a little unwell and needs rest. She is in the local hospital, very well cared for, but I have to ‘man the shop’.

  Actually, it can be amusing. Mum’s customers are rather old-fashioned. They are disappointed when they see me behind the counter because they adore Edward. He helps Mum out sometimes and is a whizz at selling anything to them.

  Why don’t you pop down soon? Edward would love to see you.

  Very affectionately,

  Hannah

  I read it through several times. Would it sound too corny? Did I sound too desperate? Would he accept my oblique invitation?

  In the end I stuck a stamp onto the envelope and marched to the postbox where I pushed it straight in and let go before I could stop myself. Done. What was the worst that could happen?

  I fretted all that afternoon and evening, imagining scenes where I waited for the postman to empty the box, begging him to give me the letter back. ‘Can’t do that, miss. Against the rules. This is the Royal Mail and I am entrusted to make sure it doesn’t fall into the hands of criminals.’

  ‘But I’m not a criminal!’ I would wring my hands in earnest, fear and panic making me want to cry.

  ‘How do I know that? Eh? There could be money or a cheque in the envelope! Now run along, miss, or I will have to call a police officer to take you to the cells.’

  I was ashamed to have sent Greg such a clearly provocative letter. What would Edward or Mum think of me?

  Mum! I hadn’t thought about her at all. I resolved to go to see her first thing in the morning. Not only was I a harlot, I was a heartless daughter.

  Mum looked much better when I arrived. She was sitting up, drinking tea and chatting to a very old woman in the next bed.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Darling, I was just telling Mrs Lane here about the shop. How is it going? Did Miss Southern get the lace I ordered for her? I put it aside.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, and she liked it very much.’

  ‘Oh good; I told her the lilac would be prettier than the blue. Better on her sallow skin. Poor dear.’ She turned to Mrs Lane and raised her voice. ‘It’s such a godsend to have a daughter like Hannah. She was in the ATS, you know. On the guns. Became a sergeant.’

  Mrs Lane looked at me and grinned. Her teeth, I noted, were in the glass beside her. ‘Oh yes.’ She nodded, extending the ‘S’ to almost a whistle.

  ‘She’s rather deaf,’ my mother whispered to me. ‘Poor old thing. I chat to keep her busy but I’m not sure how much she takes in.’ She turned back to Mrs Lane. ‘This is Hannah. The one I was telling you about. She’ll bring me in some wool and my crochet hooks and I will make you a bed jacket. Remember?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Lane whistled again, grinning and flaunting her bare gums. ‘On Wednesday.’

  ‘That’s right.’ My mother nodded as though she were talking to a toddler, then lowered her voice again, ‘Poor soul. She’s not all there. She’s obsessed with Wednesday. God knows what happens on Wednesdays.’

  A young nurse, pushing a medicine trolley, stopped at Mrs Lane’s bed. She smiled at Mum.

  ‘Mrs Lane first, then your turn, Mrs B.’ I stood out of her way as she swished the curtains around herself and her patient.

  I pulled a chair up and took Mum’s hand. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fed up with being in here.’

  ‘The rest will do you good. How’s your cough?’

  ‘It seems a bit better. They keep coming round poking me and saying I have to give up smoking, then they give me tablets as big as horse pills which,’ she lowered her voice, ‘have blocked me up completely. Can you get me some syrup of figs?’

  ‘The nurse will give you some if you ask.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing enough without the whole ward knowing.’

  ‘Oh Mum. We are missing you.’<
br />
  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘We are, and everything at home is fine. Shirley and I do the cooking and ironing between us.’

  ‘And the shop?’

  ‘Ticking over. The consignment from Singapore came in yesterday. Some really lovely brocade.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And you? Has the doctor said anything yet? About when you can come home?’

  ‘They don’t tell you anything in here.’

  The curtains beside us swished open again, revealing Mrs Lane with her hair brushed and pillows plumped, sleeping quietly.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bolitho. Your turn. How did you sleep?’ The young nurse’s uniform rustled with pleasing authority.

  ‘Very badly,’ complained Mum. ‘It’s too noisy and too hot to get any sleep in here.’

  ‘Then why,’ the nurse smiled, taking a pen from her pocket, ‘did the night staff record that on their hourly checks you were asleep?’

  ‘I may have dozed.’

  ‘Oh, I see! I’ll let them know that if you’re snoring you’re just dozing. Is that right?’

  I laughed. ‘Pay no attention to my mother. She’s a story-spinner.’

  ‘I have noticed.’ She laughed. ‘Now then, Mrs Bolitho, the doctor will be coming around soon so I have to get you spick and span for him.’

  I stood up. ‘While you do that, I’ll go and get us a cup of tea. Oh, and do you have any syrup of figs? Mum needs some.’ I winked at them both and set off to find the tea trolley.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hannah, Trevay

  1947

  The doctor said that Mum’s chest was clearing well. It wasn’t asthma or TB, and as long as she stayed off the smokes she’d be fine; however, he was going to test some new medication on her and so she was to be kept in for the next week for monitoring.

  Walking out of the hospital I felt a lot happier. Edward was looking after the shop so I decided to walk down to the butcher’s and get us some nice steaks for supper. A celebratory extravagance. Mum was fine. The sea was sparkling and I was in love. I felt loved too, which meant that I had a spring in my step, a swing in my hips and time to smile and chat to people as I passed. The café on the quay had its tables outside, so I stopped and ordered a pot of tea for one and a toasted teacake; I hadn’t had breakfast so what the hell? It was my money.