The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  As Felix had never eaten porridge or marge, he had no idea what the man was talking about, but he knew when he was beaten. He stared gloomily out at the high hedges and steep, muddy banks that closed in on both sides, understanding that rationing was tight but perplexed by the lack of farm produce in the countryside.

  He slumped back in the leather seat, resigned to his discomfort. It seemed that nothing about his time in Devon was going to be plain sailing.

  They arrived at the Ploughman’s Inn to discover it was shut. The building leaned precariously to one side beneath a rotting thatched roof, the shuttered windows and beamed mellow brick walls telling of its great age. There was a weathered sign hanging above the door showing a man with horses and an old-fashioned plough tilling a field of dark red earth while being followed by a flock of gulls.

  Felix had always been fascinated by England’s historical buildings, for there was nothing so old to be found in America – but now his mind was on food. ‘Wake ’em up, Herby, and tell them we need breakfast,’ he ordered.

  Herbert climbed out of the car, settled the red-topped cap on his head and went to hammer on the heavily studded oak door. A window opened above him and a plump, ruddy-faced woman leaned out. She was clearly unhappy at being disturbed at this unearthly hour, but Felix couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Yet it appeared that Herbert was conversant in the lingo, for he gave Felix a thumbs-up, and within minutes the door was opened. The woman was dishevelled, and still in her dressing gown and slippers.

  Felix apologised for disturbing her as he followed Herby into a narrow dark hallway with an uneven brick floor, roughly plastered walls and a very low ceiling. It was so dimly lit he didn’t see the huge black beam crossing the ceiling and banged his head against it. He shot a wry smile at the woman. ‘I guess this old place wasn’t built for the likes of me,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Come by you’m in ’ere, sir,’ she said, unashamedly looking him up and down in admiration as his height and breadth filled her hallway. ‘We’m do food d’rectly.’

  He nodded and smiled politely even though he hadn’t understood her, and followed her into what he recognised as an English saloon bar. The remembered smell of beer, tobacco and woodsmoke assailed him, and as his eyes finally adjusted to the gloom he saw there was an inglenook fireplace with benches right inside it – just as he’d seen in the old London coaching inns on his previous trip.

  The woman fussed about lighting the fire, and then held a muttered exchange with Herbert before she bustled out to what Felix hoped was the kitchen to get their breakfast. ‘Don’t they speak English in these parts?’ he asked with concern, his cold hands held towards the meagre fire smouldering in the great hearth.

  ‘Of course we do,’ protested Herbert. ‘It’s just the accent which makes outsiders find it difficult to understand.’ He flushed and shifted his gaze. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  Felix waved away his apology. ‘I suppose I’ll get to understand it,’ he said without much hope. ‘But I’ll probably need you to interpret for a while until I do.’ He eyed the younger man keenly. ‘What was it she was saying to you?’

  ‘Her husband’s in the army and she’s struggling to cope with four children and this place to look after, so breakfast might be a bit delayed.’

  The two men went in search of the bathroom, which turned out to be a ramshackle shed in the back garden, and on their return, Felix made himself as comfortable as possible on the hard wooden bench closest to the fire and lit a cigar.

  The landlady finally returned bearing a laden tray which Felix eyed with a rapidly shrinking appetite. It seemed Herbert’s predictions were right, for the breakfast consisted of bowls of grey, lumpy sludge, slices of gritty toast smeared with something that smelled of fish oil, and tea so weak the leaves were probably older than the inn. There was no sugar or milk to add flavour to what Herbert assured him was porridge, and no jam or marmalade to hide the taste of the butter substitute which bore no resemblance to anything that might have come from a dairy.

  Felix thought longingly of the food provided by the American army then quickly reined himself in. America didn’t share England’s hardships and he had to learn British stoicism if he was to earn the respect of the people he would have to mix with from now on.

  However, his good intentions fled when he was confronted by a plate of yellow gunge. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with this?’ he rasped as soon as the woman left the room.

  ‘It’s dried egg,’ sir,’ Herbert murmured. ‘It doesn’t look up to much, but it’s quite nice when you get used to it.’

  ‘It strikes me I’m going to have to get used to a great many things, Herby,’ Felix said ruefully, poking the rubbery mess with his fork, aware that he was being watched closely by the woman and her four children from the kitchen doorway.

  When the awful meal was over Felix paid and then dug in his overcoat pocket for the small bags of candies he always carried, and handed them to the children before making a quick getaway.

  Climbing back into the car he once more wrapped the greatcoat about himself and contemplated the very real possibility that if the Luftwaffe didn’t get him, then the food surely would.

  5

  Slapton

  Despite her weariness after the long days at the farm where she and the other girls had had to battle with the weather and cloying mud as they’d ploughed the field and sowed the barley, Carol had found it almost impossible to sleep. Now she was cycling back to Slapton through the sullen drizzle for the long-awaited meeting in the village hall.

  Her thoughts churned as she navigated the winding country lanes from Beeson to Slapton, fretting over how she’d pack up her linen and china, and all the things she and David had accumulated – including his carpentry and plumbing tools – and then get them safely up to Coombe Farm.

  Millicent Burnley had agreed she could stay with the other land girls on the farm, but of course her wages would be docked for board and lodgings, and as they were only two pounds, two shillings and sixpence for a fifty-hour week, it would leave her very short. She had no savings, and although she received a war widow’s pension it didn’t go far, so when Millicent had told her it would cost another thrupence a week to store her things in one of the barns, she’d balked at the idea.

  But there was nowhere else to put everything. Bournemouth was too far away to cart it all there, even if her mother agreed to it, and of course Cliffehaven was out of the question, so she’d had to take it on the chin and agree to pay. Carol knew she was very fortunate to be able to stay so close to home when everyone else had to rely on friends or distant relatives to take them in – or worse, have to accept billets in strange towns far from all they knew – but that didn’t make this upheaval any easier.

  Ida, Pru and Maisie had been hugely helpful with making a start on clearing the accumulation of old metal and junk which had been left in the allotted part of the barn, but they were all too aware they would soon disturb the nests of rats which undoubtedly lay beneath it all. The thought of vermin gnawing at her furniture and getting into the bedding made her shudder, but to pay a storage company was beyond her means.

  As there were very few telephones in the village, Carol had gone to Betty’s lodgings in Blackpool Cove the previous evening to try and get through to Dolly, but there’d been no reply as usual, and since she didn’t want to disturb Peggy, she’d decided to write to everyone with her new address once this meeting was over and she knew more.

  With communication to anyone outside the area being so difficult, Betty was deeply worried – like many others – that work and accommodation might be impossible to secure. Carol was unable to provide any practical solution, and she felt helpless and anxious about where her friend might end up. She had even offered to speak to the Burnleys on her behalf, although she knew that Betty would never be able to cope with the farm work.

  Betty had turned down the offer, assuring her she’d sort something out through the sc
hool board. This didn’t really ease Carol’s worries, for Betty could be sent anywhere – and like most of the people living in the area, she’d never gone more than a few miles from where she’d made her home in Blackpool Cove, and was fearful of what awaited her beyond the boundaries of the exclusion zone. As for the farmers, they were at their wits’ end as to what to do about their machinery and stock and the produce in their fields.

  Approaching the centre of the village, Carol could see that the small unit of Royal Engineers and Artillerymen who manned the guns down on the seafront, in the cliffs at Torcross and the hills behind the Ley had been drafted in to help with the move. They were standing about in rain-dampened groups next to their army trucks, smoking, drinking tea and passing the time of day with Constable Betts. It was clear that none of them were sure what they were supposed to be doing, for the village streets were deserted but for a skinny black cat, and no one yet seemed remotely inclined to move anywhere.

  Upon reaching Thyme Cottage, Carol propped her bike against the wall and went inside to wash off the muck and mud from the cowshed and fields. Changing into clean dungarees and a sweater, she pulled on fresh socks and rubbed her bedraggled hair dry, before donning the khaki-coloured mac again and stepping outside beneath an umbrella.

  She splashed through the puddles in her wellington boots to the cottage next door to help old Mrs Rayner make the journey to the hall, and found her waiting in her cluttered tiny sitting room, dressed in a rusty black coat and moth-eaten hat, staring gloomily at the meagre fire, her plump Jack Russell curled at her feet.

  ‘Nipper doesn’t want to move and neither do I,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘I’m ninety-one, you know, and I don’t see why we have to leave.’

  ‘I think it might be too dangerous, Mrs Rayner,’ soothed Carol, stepping over the plump brown and white terrier before gently grasping the old woman’s arm to help her to her feet. ‘The army will most likely be using their guns, and you don’t want to get shot, do you?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare shoot me,’ Mrs Rayner retorted with a glare that had had many a poor soul quaking in their boots. ‘I’m Slapton born and bred, and I object strongly to being ordered out of my home.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what the bigwigs have to say about it all. We’d best hurry, though, Mrs Rayner, if you want to get a front seat at the meeting.’

  Carol shielded them both beneath the umbrella as they made their slow progress up the steep hill to the village hall. Her soft heart went out to Edith, for she was very old and set in her ways, and Carol suspected that her bluff and bluster was because she was frightened by the terrible changes facing her. With no children or other relatives to take her in she would undoubtedly be billeted in an old folks’ home where there’d be no room for her accumulated treasures or her beloved Nipper – and the thought of her living out what remained of her life in such circumstances made Carol wish fervently that she could do something to prevent it.

  The hall wasn’t very big, and the corrugated iron roof leaked in places, leaving patches of damp on the walls, the smell of which mingled with the odour of dust and decay, and the reek of muddy boots, damp dog and wet clothing. The few windows were so heavily taped that barely any light got through, and the single bulb illuminating the numerous lines of chairs was so weak it was like walking into a cave. There were faded posters stuck to the thin walls with warnings to ‘put out that light … careless talk costs lives … make do and mend’, which everyone knew by heart and no longer even noticed, and the old velvet curtains hanging on either side of the small stage were so moth-eaten they were in danger of simply disintegrating.

  ‘I want that seat at the front,’ Mrs Rayner insisted. ‘I need to look ’em in the eye when they start throwing their weight about.’

  Carol dutifully managed to nab the last three, and once Edith was settled and making her views known to anyone who would listen, she looked round and saw that Betty had just come in. She caught her eye and beckoned her over.

  Betty sat down and propped her walking stick against her knee. ‘It will be a horrid wrench to leave,’ she confided softy. ‘Yet I can’t help but feel quite excited at the thought of something happening at last in this quiet backwater.’ She leaned closer. ‘Did you know that there’re at least two American army camps being set up in and around the old RAF base?’

  Carol shook her head. ‘Goodness,’ she breathed. ‘Do you think they’re the reason we’re being evicted?’

  Betty eased her crippled leg to a more comfortable position. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Everyone’s being horribly tight-lipped about everything, but with all the talk of an Allied invasion into France and their sudden arrival here, it very much looks like it.’

  ‘I’m not giving up my home to any American,’ snapped Mrs Rayner, who despite her great age had nothing wrong with her hearing.

  ‘I doubt they’ll move into our houses,’ soothed Betty. ‘They’ll be in camps – and anyway, I’m sure that whoever is coming in will respect the fact that these are our homes.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ the old lady snorted. ‘Soldiers is soldiers, and I wouldn’t trust ’em an inch.’

  Carol turned back to Betty. ‘If we really do have to leave, will you go with the children to their new school, do you think? Or will you have to go further afield?’

  Betty’s smile faded. ‘I haven’t heard anything from the school board as yet, so I don’t know. It’s going to depend on where the children are sent, I suppose, and if the other school actually needs an extra teacher.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ said Carol firmly. ‘Otherwise the classes will be overcrowded.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Betty murmured, still not convinced. Then she brightened. ‘At least I’ll know that Ken’s all right. He’s got two uncles with a farm up Bickley way, so he’ll be going there with the rest of the family.’ She gave an impish grin. ‘The uncles are old bachelors, so it will come as a shock to them when they all turn up with their noise.’

  Carol smiled back, knowing that Ken had five much younger siblings along with a twin sister who’d recently had her second baby. ‘It’ll certainly liven them up,’ she chuckled.

  Betty nodded and looked round for Ken. Spotting him leaning against the back wall alongside his parents, siblings and the other farm workers, she smiled and waved, then turned back to Carol.

  ‘Ken was talking about perhaps making things more formal between us after Christmas,’ she confided, ‘but all this has rather put the brakes on everything, and I agree with him that it would be a bit foolish to make plans when neither of us know what the future holds.’

  Carol glanced back to see Ken ogling Molly Jelks, one of the Tower Inn’s barmaids, and wondered if he’d seen this evacuation as a way of getting out of committing to Betty, but she kept her thoughts to herself. The noise rose around them with yet more people arriving until there was standing room only.

  The vicar came in, dressed in his black suit and dog collar and looking harassed as usual, to be swiftly followed by Stanley Wilmott, the pompous church warden; the stone-deaf verger; Jack Burnley in his capacity as a local councillor; and Miss Ferris, who was in charge of the local WVS and a stalwart member of the WI.

  Mildred Ferris was a sturdy spinster of late middle age with the suspicion of a moustache above her top lip, and a penchant for wearing hairy tweed suits and brogues. She lived alone in a large house on the outskirts of the village and considered herself to be of a much higher status than everyone else as she’d inherited most of the land around the village from her wealthy father. Not blessed with an ounce of humility or tact, she was very fond of the sound of her own voice when it came to meetings of any sort and, when roused, could out-bellow any sergeant major.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to stick your penn’orth in as usual,’ shouted Mrs Rayner, waving her stick at her. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mildred Ferris. Siding with the enemy.’

  Miss Ferris ignored her and stuck her nose in the air as a shout came from
the back: ‘Good for you, Mother Rayner. You tell ’em, my flower.’

  There was a general tittering, and Carol and Betty exchanged amused glances before turning back to watch the little parade climb the three steps to the dais and sit down on the chairs that had been lined up behind a lectern borrowed from the church.

  ‘Them be like ducks lined up at the summer fair,’ drawled a woman nearby.

  ‘Arrr. Wish I had me gun,’ muttered one of the farmers.

  The giggles were swallowed and children quickly hushed as Sir John Daw, the chairman of Devon County Council, marched down the narrow aisle closely followed by two strangers in uniform, who drew murmurs of speculation and admiration from just about every woman in the hall.

  The younger of the two wore the red cap and khaki of the military police, and was very handsome – but the more senior man was quite something to behold. Tall and broad-shouldered, he struck an imposing figure in his superbly fitted uniform of smooth olive green and burnished brown shoes. There was a scramble of gold braid on his hat and sleeves, and three gold stars were studded across his breast pocket, which they guessed must denote his rank. That he was a serviceman of some sort was obvious from his bearing, and yet, compared to the ill-fitting utilitarian rough khaki of the British Army – or even the smart blue of the RAF – it was agreed amongst the women that he did look extremely smart and was as handsome as any film star.

  ‘Looks like ’em Yanks have invaded,’ said a sour male voice from the back.

  ‘Thurr’s pretty,’ purred Molly Jelks. ‘I wouldn’t mind ’im invading me.’

  ‘He’d not be the first,’ snapped Mrs Rayner, turning to glare at her and the other girls giggling by her side. ‘Hold your tongue, Molly Jelks, and show some decorum.’

  ‘You’m only be jealous because you’m a dried up old biddy,’ retorted Molly.

  ‘I’ll thank you both to hold your tongues,’ stormed Miss Ferris from the rostrum.