by David Brian
“Jerry bombers? But that makes no sense. The war has been over for years. Besides, the Germans never bombed the West-Country, did they?” I asked the question even though I was all but certain no such event ever occurred.
“Bombed it? Young man, they all but bloody well obliterated it! There used to be a number of important military installations around here. Jerry launched a non-stop three-month bombing campaign during the summer of ‘42. Thousands died. How can you not know this?”
“That’s awful.”
“Indeed it is, my dear. Almost as terrible as the fact schools don’t teach history, anymore.”
I was shaking my head in disbelief. “How come we’ve never heard about this?”
The man grimaced. “As I said, the education system in this country is sorely lacking – as is the attention span of young people.”
“But I’ve not been long discharged from the army, and I’ve never once heard mention of Cornwall being subjected to bombing raids. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of an abundance of military installations down this neck of the woods either.”
“Ex-military, eh? Explains you being ripped like Joe Weider. Still though, it doesn’t excuse your lack of general knowledge. I honestly don’t know what else to tell you, young ‘un, least not about the blitz. But when you exit the station, take a look left and you’ll see the remains of Camelford. It’s almost two miles down the hill, but you’ll be able to glimpse the devastation even from that distance. You’ll see the ruins of what used to be one of Cornwall’s premier towns. The bombing was so severe that a decision was taken not to rebuild the place. Instead, it lays in ruin as a monument to the people who perished and, I like to think, the futility of war.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence fell between us, and both Roz and I struggled to think of words which might suitably lighten the mood. Thankfully, the station master recognized just how much he’d unsettled us, and being keen to make the most of the unexpected company, the rotund man attempted to temper our unease by steering the conversation toward lighter fare.
“But that’s enough about our past doom-and-gloom.” He smiled, “Tell me; is this your first trip down to the West-Country?”
I straightened my jacket, which had become disheveled during our overzealous greeting, then undid a second button on my shirt, as though this minor action might serve to offer some relief from the heat of the morning sun. I nodded at the master. “Yes, it’s our first time down here. In fact, it’s our first time anywhere really. We’ve only been married eight months. So I suppose you could consider this our honeymoon, albeit a slightly delayed getaway.”
“Newlyweds? Oh that’s fantastic!” clapped the man, in an almost theatrical manner. “And you are headed up to the north coastline?”
Roz smiled. “Yes, we are booked to stay at Penhale House, in Boscastle.”
“Lovely,” he replied, without turning his eyes from me, or elaborating on what exactly was lovely.
“Our train got in late though. I should imagine our bus is long gone, too,” I added, my eyes searching the man’s features, hoping to find a glimmer of optimism for our current plight. Maybe he would tell us of the imminent arrival of a Boscastle bound bus.
I was left disappointed.
“Yes. Yes, the train is running behind schedule,” he agreed with a resigned nod. “And there is not another bus due for almost four hours.”
“Taxi cab?” suggested Roz.
The man shrugged. “You’ll not catch a cab around here, girl. Besides, the office phone hasn’t been working for almost two months. The nearest phone box is five miles south of here. By the time you reached it, you could have walked north to Boscastle.”
“We’re done for then,” groaned Roz. “We’ll just have to sit it out and wait for the next bus.”
“Not necessarily.” The station master was still running his gaze over me, as though he were a farmer eyeing up the best stock at a county fair.”
In that one instant, I suddenly understood how women felt when being ogled in a bar.
“You’re a wiry fellow,” he reiterated, “but you definitely look a fit lad”.
I shrugged, not convinced how this observation helped our plight.
Roz nodded, “He is fit. All that forces training has certainly firmed up the right bits.” She winked, and I gave a little jump as she discreetly slid her hand onto my behind and squeezed a fistful of butt cheek.
“Well then,” suggested the station master, “you could always walk to Boscastle.”
“How far is it?” asked Roz.
“I’d say it’s less than five miles as the crow flies. But, if you factor in the twisting, winding roads around here… I’d say closer to six and a bit!”
I gestured toward the case, “You’ve got a pair of low heels in there, babe, yes?”
Roz shrugged. “Sure. But over six miles on foot and in this heat?”
“We can do it.”
“You’ll never carry the suitcase, it weighs a bloody ton.”
“Whose fault is that?” I asked, and then, “We could always dump your togs. Be a helluva lot lighter then, right?”
“Hilarious. Not going to happen.”
“Yes, hilarious. But true.”
“Be serious. What are we going to do?”
“We’ll hike, Tub, it shouldn’t take too long, hopefully.”
“You’ll never manage the case.”
“Sure I will. Fit, wiry guy, remember?”
“I’ve got some parcel-string in my office,” chirped the station man. “We could wrap it around your case; use it to make some shoulder straps.”
I nodded. “Thanks. Sounds like a plan.”
“But…six miles?” groaned Roz.
The man’s face broke into an excitable smile, as though a revelation regarding some hitherto hidden knowledge had suddenly and miraculously revealed itself unto him. “There is a shorter route you could take. And it’s probably a lot less hazardous than traveling the B3266 on foot. Never too much traffic on that road, but the locals who do use it, they tend to drive like maniacs.”
“Go on.” I urged.
The man pointed toward the exit steps. “When you leave here, keep to the right, but instead of carrying on up to the top of the hill look out for a triple strand wire fence. On the other side of that fence you’ll see the old Northern Line. You’ll already be headed in the right direction so just cross onto the line and keep walking; it’s been disused for over ten years so it’s perfectly safe. Eventually you’ll see Boscastle on your left, down in the valley. As I said before, it’s probably less than five miles.”
“I don’t know…” said Roz, her face revealing the worrying prospect of a foot-slog in such daunting heat.
“It’ll be fine, Tub,” I reassured. “We’ll be there in two hours.”
“What’s with all this ‘Tub’ business?” The station master asked, his brows arching. “The girl hasn’t got an ounce of meat on her?”
I was surprised he’d taken the time to notice.
“It’s a long story,” replied my wife, and offered the man no further explanation for the pet name – and why would she, after all, it was our name: The night I returned home from Egypt, having served my conscription for queen and country, my train had been delayed in reaching Northampton Castle Station, running almost four hours late. And so, after my compatriots and I shook hands, and they cheered me from the train, I cut a lonely figure standing on the platform. Only later would I find out that Rosalind had spent over three hours sitting on that same platform, steadfastly awaiting my return.
It was just before lunchtime the next day when I called at her home. I hadn’t met either of her parents before, as prior to my service days we’d only ever fun dated – for Roz, at least, our bond developed slowly, over time, and moreover through the words we exchanged from a distance. But I had known she was the one for me, from the very first moment I set eyes on her, on the dance floor at the 20th Century Club in Northampton.
<
br /> By the time Roz arrived home for lunch I was on my second mug of steaming tea, and wolfing down a third slice of her mother’s banana cake. Her father and I exchanged war stories – he saw action as a boy soldier during the tail end of the first big one, and again, this time for a lengthier period, during the second bad one. Back then I was proud of having done my duty, but even more so, I was relieved to have made it home safely. Down the years I would grow to realize there are no winners in conflict, other than those who instigate and pull the strings. The rest of us were just victims, regardless of which cause we fought for.
As Roz came in the front door, her mother called out to join us in the parlor. She complied, and I nearly dropped the mug I was holding. What she was wearing (I later learned) was called a swagger coat: It was harlequin green, with three buttons centered down the front. From beneath the ribcage it flared – swaggered – out, in a manner reminiscent of an eighteenth century ball gown. To this day I’ll never understand the design of this outfit; it gave the impression of carrying an extra forty pounds, and at this stage I was under the impression my sweetheart had gained a bit. I greeted Roz affectionately, at least with as much warmth as I dared display in front of her parents, and silently contemplated the how and why of her unexpected weight gain. We made plans for the next night and I took my leave.
The following evening I took her to a local dance hall, and I confess, when she finally removed her coat I failed to mask my relief. My features betrayed me, and I was forced to admit my previous concerns. Thankfully she was not offended by my shallow nature, and we both saw the funny side. It turned out that a number of her friends had also queried the validity of her fashion choice. The coat was never seen again, at least not by me: But Rosalind would forever remain my Tub.
Chapter 3
Roz closed her eyes as the engine edged its way clear of the station, plumes of steam funneling along the platform and circling wraithlike around our bodies.
Meanwhile, the station master returned to his office in search of some parcel string. Once the train departed and the smoke cleared, I opened the case and removed the map I had bought at Northampton Station. Into this I made a number of additional folds, until it fitted snugly into my trouser pocket. Roz also used this opportunity to recover a pair of pink, slip-on pumps from the case. The pumps had a narrow throat line, and each shoe was decorated with a single lace bow across the toe strap, both features intended to emphasize the femininity of the wearer’s foot. However, Roz insisted that any allure her footwear presented was seriously diminished by the color clash they provoked: the charcoal pencil-skirt, and lemon blouse, which failed to provide a coordinated balance.
How can I be so sure these colors didn’t coordinate? Because, as every man knows only too well, these things are of importance to the female of the species, and so, despite the fact we were about to begin hiking through miles of overgrown desolation, my girl’s priority would be to spend lengthy periods of the following hours telling me – repeatedly – that her outfit didn’t match.
Imagine my joy.
And this as I hauled seventy-pounds of box-case.
The station master reappeared with a spool of string and a pair of scissors. As I manhandled the case, he wrapped several bands of cord around it before cutting and tying the two ends. Then he repeated the process further along the box, until he had completed two makeshift – though sturdy looking – shoulder-straps.
He helped hoist the case onto my back, and then supported its weight as I struggled to position the straps for best comfort, such as comfort was.
We thanked the fellow for his help and then headed toward the steps leading up to the exit. As we neared the top of the steps we were momentarily and painfully blinded by a burst of light I’ll never forget, a sudden, though brief display of intense luminosity. The white flash lasted barely an instant, but it was enough to make me misplace my footing. If I hadn’t grabbed hold of the balustrade I would have fallen. Thankfully, the support of the rail meant I merely dropped to one knee before steadying myself.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, clawing tears from my eyes.
Roz didn’t reply; at least not straight away. She was rubbing the back of her hand across her face. The burst of light had been intense enough to induce a short lived – though pressing – migraine behind her eyes. She swiped at wetting cheeks. “I don’t know. My eyes haven’t hurt like this since I was a kid and a gang of us played some really stupid game where we stared at the sun. Whoever stared longest wins the game, you know? Stupid game. Really stupid game. Our Raymond won it – no surprise there. Jesus. I think my head is going to explode.”
We took a moment to gather ourselves, waiting for the pain to ease. Then, using the balustrade to support myself, I climbed to my feet and mounted the steps. As we moved clear of the station I looked left, down the hill in the direction of Camelford.
“That’s weird,” I noted.
“What’s weird?” asked Roz, turning to face in the direction I was staring.
“That must be Camelford down there,” I said, gesturing into the distance. “But it doesn’t look rundown to me. At least three of those buildings have brand new roofs. The gardens, at least the ones we can see, don’t seem overgrown.”
Roz nodded, and then pointed slightly left of where I was staring, “Look. There’s washing on the line out the back of those houses.”
“This is really odd. Why would he have told us Camelford was a ghost town? I’d never heard of the Germans subjecting Cornwall to swathes of bombing raids, had you?”
“No. But if you think that’s odd… you might want to take a look down there.” Roz had turned and was now facing back in the direction of the station.
I followed the direction of her gaze. She was looking back toward the steps, and then on to the main station. My jaw fell open as surprise displaced puzzlement. “What the hell?”
The track remained clear. There had been no recent arrival. The next train wasn’t due in until mid-afternoon. Yet the small platform was now a hive of activity. I estimated there must have been upwards of forty people mulling about on the narrow walkway.
“I have no idea what’s going on here, Tub. But let’s get back in there and find out, yes?” I took a step forward, but was restrained by Roz’s hand on my arm.
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I really don’t like this, Frank. First, we have a trainload of passengers who mysteriously vanish, and now this? Let’s just get the hell away from here, can we?”
I wanted to know what was going on, but I also knew my wife well enough. The tone in her voice told me it would be pointless trying to persuade her to go to the station. I’d always been level headed, a confirmed agnostic who only ever looked for the logical answers in life’s mysteries. Yet even I was beginning to find this situation unsettling! Not that I had any intention of revealing my unease to Rosalind. Also, and I can admit this now, I too was beginning to like the idea of leaving this place, and with as much haste as possible.
“We could walk into Camelford,” I said. “It looks populated so we might be able to find a cab?”
“No. None of this makes any sense. Why would he have told us the town is deserted? I don’t want to go there. Let’s just get away from here.”
“You’re right,” I agreed, more in an attempt to placate her growing unease than because of my own concerns. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we start walking the sooner we reach Boscastle.” I linked hands with my wife, gently guiding her away from the station steps and on toward the stark incline of the hill.
We walked up the lane, which was bordered on one side by a deep hedgerow, while on the other side of the road the countryside fell away to an expanse of labored fields. Just a few minutes walking brought us to the wire fence the station master had mentioned. We could see the disused track on the other side of the barrier.
I slipped the case off my back and dropped it to the floor. Then I pulled the map from my pocket and unfurled it on t
he ground.
“What are you doing?” asked Roz.
“Just checking, Tub. I want to make sure we’re headed in the right direction.”
“And are we?”
“Yes, it looks like he was right. If we follow the rail tracks it should take us to within a quarter mile of Boscastle.”
“It still looks a long way to walk,” she said, tracing her finger along the route on the map.
“It is. But the sooner we get started the sooner we’ll be there. So let’s get going, Tub.” And with this, and in one swift movement aimed at inspiring my wife into action, I jumped to my feet and with two hands scooped Roz up in my arms. She yelped her surprise when I lifted her, and squealed again as – embracing her to my chest – I proceeded to step forward and carefully deposit her on the other side of the fence.
“You fool,” she squawked. “Lifting me up like that you’ll put your back out.”
I laughed as I re-folded the map, and then turned to the discarded suitcase, which I heaved up and over the barrier.
“Seriously, Tub. The day I put my back out lifting you, I’ll know I’m in decline. It’ll be time to pack it all in… or else you’ll have gotten old and fat and it’ll be time for me to pack you in, in favor of a younger model.”
“Cheeky sod!” Roz laughed.
I placed my hand atop the wooden stake supporting the fence and, with an exaggerated prowess, cleared the barrier. I winked at my partner and then slapped her hard on the butt.
“Ouch! You bugger!” she squealed. “That bloody hurt!”
I laughed again. “I’m still lovely though, right?”
Roz was rubbing a hand over her bum cheek, as though the action would miraculously sooth the sting of my strike.
