The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  Snobbish and prejudiced to the point of being unbearable at times, Doris didn’t possess an ounce of tolerance for those less fortunate than herself – which included Peggy, her lodgers and her family. Her attitude was baffling, for she’d set herself apart from Peggy and their younger sister Doreen, seemingly determined to turn her back on her working-class upbringing and lord it over them all now she had that fine house in Havelock Gardens and a more than generous divorce settlement from the long-suffering but very decent Ted.

  Peggy heaved a sigh, wondering why she bothered with Doris at all. She only caused grief and wound her up like a clock – but family was important no matter how awful they were, and she would issue the invitation with a smile.

  Peggy reached the Town Hall at last and dragged Daisy’s pushchair up the stone steps to bundle her way backwards through the heavy double doors into the relative warmth of the reception area. She took off her wet headscarf, shook the rain from her coat and headed towards the nursery. A retired nanny had volunteered to look after the children whilst their mothers worked in the main room to provide comfort boxes to the troops abroad, or prepared piles of sandwiches and urns of tea to take up to the station to feed the endless number of servicemen who were now passing through.

  Having relieved Daisy of her outdoor clothes, she just managed to kiss her dark curls before the child toddled off to play with her little friends. With a smile to the woman in charge, Peggy headed for the main room. She saw Pauline and hurried across to give her a hug.

  ‘You’re looking chipper today,’ Peggy said, taking in the freshly washed hair, the touch of lipstick and the pretty blue woollen dress beneath the floral apron and white cardigan.

  ‘I am feeling much better now I have other things to think about,’ Pauline replied, busily packing socks, shaving soap and packets of cigarettes into one of the comfort boxes. ‘And with Frank due home soon, the house won’t seem so empty.’

  Peggy pulled her wrap-round apron from her string bag and draped it over her sweater and skirt before tying it around her waist. ‘I know it’s a bit early, but I’ve been thinking about Christmas,’ she said, beginning to pack another box. ‘Would you both like to come to me and stay the night? And of course if Brendon manages to get leave, he’d be more than welcome.’

  Pauline’s eyes filmed with tears as she paused in her work and grasped Peggy’s hand. ‘Oh, Peggy, that would be lovely. Beach View is always filled with laughter and warmth, especially at Christmas, and it will help enormously to chase away the ghosts. I’ll tell Frank the minute he gets home, and I’m sure he and Ron will manage to find some sort of bird for the table.’

  Peggy giggled. ‘Knowing Ron, he’s already got an eye on something from Lord Cliffe’s estate which will find its way into his poacher’s coat pockets. Let’s just hope he hasn’t lost his touch and that new gamekeeper doesn’t finally catch up with him.’

  ‘I heard from your Sarah that with so many Yanks up there the stock of pheasants, chickens and salmon has gone down drastically. It seems the Americans have realised that the gift of a tasty dinner far outweighs the lure of chewing gum, candy and nylons when it comes to attracting the women.’ Pauline chuckled. ‘Not that they need much encouragement. Those American boys are a good-looking lot, and their manners are impeccable.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy fondly. ‘I’ve been lucky enough to have a few around my table over the past couple of years, and of course Cissy is walking out with one of their airmen. I’ve always found them to be generous to a fault, and very pleasant company.’

  They finished their boxes at the same time and quickly taped them up before starting on the next. ‘I got a letter from Carol yesterday,’ Pauline confided. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in Devon, but she’s moving out of her cottage and up to Coombe Farm for a while.’

  ‘But that cottage means so much to her,’ gasped Peggy. ‘Why on earth is she moving out?’

  Pauline shook her head, her hands still busy with the small gifts of soap, cigarettes and postcards she was putting into the box. ‘She didn’t give any explanation, which is very odd, simply asked me to send any mail straight to the farm for the foreseeable future. I tried to get hold of Mother to see if she’d heard anything, but the telephone just rang and rang, and someone was waiting to use the box, so I had to give up.’

  ‘You must come to Beach View and use my telephone,’ said Peggy. ‘But I shouldn’t worry too much. Carol is probably feeling lonely in that cottage and has decided to be with the other land girls now the weather’s closing in and Christmas is looming. I understand it’s a long, uphill cycle ride to the farm, so it can’t be pleasant leaving and returning home in the pitch dark.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Pauline sighed. ‘But if that’s the case, why not just tell me instead of being so mysterious about it?’

  Peggy shrugged. ‘It was probably a spur-of-the-moment thing. And no doubt once she’s settled up there, she’ll write and explain more fully.’

  8

  Devon

  It was now early December, with only ten days to go before the thirty thousand acres of this South Devon corner was closed off to everyone but the military. Carol’s milk round had taken twice as long as usual despite the fact that the villages, hamlets and farms were being swiftly cleared, for she’d met long convoys of overladen cars and farm vehicles carrying household furniture, machinery and their hastily harvested crops which clogged the narrow lanes; and even longer military convoys which took precedence over all other traffic, thereby forcing everyone to either reverse or risk getting bogged down in field gateways.

  Carol was saddened by the fact that the quiet hours with Hector had almost come to an end, for the milk would soon be collected by truck and taken to a central delivery point each day to be distributed across the area. She was saddened too at the changes being wrought by the thousands of incoming American army and navy personnel; for where there had once been pastures and fields of crops, there were now forests of tents and wooden huts, and the ugly scars of tyre and tank tracks, the peaceful silence shattered by the unceasing roar and rumble of heavy machinery.

  She sat with the reins loose in her hands as Hector took them down the hill towards the bay and the Ley. Gun emplacements manned by the Royal Artillery Regiment and Home Guard were now accompanied by American rocket launchers which made the outdated English Bofors guns look small in comparison; and up in the cliffs above Torcross there were even more anti-aircraft guns pointing towards the Channel where an enormous flotilla of landing craft was bobbing at anchor. Patrolling the bay were three Motor Torpedo Boats and two Motor Gun Boats, and it was rumoured that there were more keeping an eye on the Cherbourg side where the German E-boats were supposedly based.

  Carol looked towards the small, sheltered patch of beach which had previously been left unmined so the locals could use it in the summer. She and the other girls had swum from there and enjoyed picnics on the sand, but now the fences had been torn down and it was indiscernible from the rest. There was little doubt that this upheaval was in preparation for something very big, and it could only mean that the rumours of an impending invasion into France were true.

  She regarded the dark-skinned soldiers who’d caused such a stir amongst the community which had never seen their like before, but on discovering they were polite and friendly, had accepted them as they did the white GIs. They were laying down a broad apron of hardstanding along the curve of the bay to the high-water line with wide tracks leading from the beach towards the Ley.

  Carol saw that a guard post and barrier were being erected at the Blackpool Cove end. She’d seen similar ones all along the boundaries of the eviction zone, and more barbed-wire fencing being put up to keep people out. Trees were being cut down and lanes filled with piles of hard core between the flattened hedgerows to make easy access for the heavy vehicles to get to the shore.

  Turning her gaze towards the Ley, she noted sadly that the geese had gone along with all the other wildfowl, and ugly steel
Bailey bridges now stretched across the water to the hills behind, where foxholes had been dug and guns were positioned along the skyline. It was as they’d all feared, for the arrival of the Americans was like an invasion.

  The changes were apparent in Slapton village too, for the school had been closed, and poor Betty was still waiting to hear from the school board about a new posting and a fresh billet – but with communications even worse than before, Carol hadn’t seen her friend since the meeting in the hall, and she was deeply concerned about what would happen to her.

  The narrow cobbled lanes of the village seemed to permanently ring with the sound of horses, cattle and sheep being herded to one of the special markets that were now running at Kingsbridge and Totnes. With such vast numbers of stock for sale, the farmers saw the value of their beasts plummet, but could only hope that the promise of compensation was fully met and they wouldn’t be out of pocket.

  Now that extra petrol rations had been issued to assist in the move, the village streets had become blocked by army vehicles, cars, farm carts, tractors and trailers, as well as removal trucks which had been brought in to transport the families and their possessions out of the area. The American GIs assigned to assist in the clearance had been billeted in the old chantry, and had proved to be as helpful as General Addington had promised – the chaos and heartbreak of the locals having to leave their homes with all their possessions made a fraction easier by the GIs’ cheerful willingness, and the seemingly endless provision of sweets and chewing gum for the children.

  Carol waited patiently for enough room to be cleared so she could get Hector and the cart through the melee of badly parked vehicles and a herd of cattle being stoically encouraged to get a move on by two small boys wielding sticks. She watched Mildred Ferris come out of one of the cottages laden with a box of cooking utensils, which she deposited on the back seat of her car, where there was already a collection of cases and cartons.

  Mildred had more than proved her mettle, for although her large mansion had been requisitioned by the Americans as officers’ quarters she’d accepted the fact with good grace and moved to one of the farm cottages belonging to her estate outside the exclusion zone. Yet she could be seen each day in the village organising the ladies of the local WVS so there was always hot food and tea available, and plenty of packing cases and boxes to hand – and was proving a stalwart help in sorting out alternative accommodation, as well as schooling for the children and jobs for those who needed them. She’d even promised Carol that she’d find suitable accommodation for Mrs Rayner.

  Hector stamped his hooves on the cobbles and shook his head impatiently, so Carol climbed down to give him a couple of windfall apples she’d picked up earlier from one of the abandoned orchards. He slobbered and crunched these treats and when he’d finished, he rested his great head on her shoulder and snorted heavily at all the goings-on.

  The truck finally moved and Carol steered Hector past the church where the vicar was overseeing the painstaking removal of the ancient and very fragile rood screen, as well as the Jacobean cover for the font and the five bells from the tower. The ancient church would be divested of its portable treasures, but Carol shared the vicar’s concerns that the ninth- and tenth-century tiles found during the restoration of 1905 might be damaged along with the intricately carved wooden pulpit and beautiful stained-glass windows. And then there was the cemetery, which was already showing signs of being trampled as the men from the Home Guard helped the GIs to pack the treasures away in a truck.

  She passed the Queen’s Arms, which had become a favourite watering hole for the Americans, who seemed to prefer the local cider to the English beer which they regarded as undrinkable. As Carol and Hector reached the junction where they would turn off for Coombe Farm, the butcher came out of his empty shop carrying a bag of coal and loaded it onto the open door of the boot of his car. There was already a bedstead lashed to the roof along with a rolled-up mattress and a chicken coop complete with chickens, firmly tethered with rope.

  His wife emerged armed with the last of her cooking pots and joined her other three children in the car as their youngest son straddled the sack of coal. With his cheeks bulging from the sweets he’d just been given by a passing GI, he waved a cheerful goodbye to Carol before wedging himself more firmly into the boot. The butcher would be setting up another shop in Prawle, and once a final check was made to ensure they had everything, he locked the door and handed the tagged key to Constable Betts.

  Carol watched in some trepidation as the overladen car began to move and the boy gripped the sides of the boot as the coal shifted beneath him, but luckily his father was driving very slowly and he seemed to be hanging on all right.

  Once the sound of the car had faded she regarded the locked, empty houses and shops which had already taken on an air of abandonment, and with a heavy heart, turned Hector’s head towards Coombe Farm.

  Felix had hoped to be back in London by now, but following his initial written report to his superiors, he’d received a terse telephone call from the American Army HQ instructing him to stay put in Devon. His brief was to try and bring some sort of order to the chaotic preparations for the invasion rehearsals which would culminate in Operation Tiger.

  He stood on the cliffs, chewing his cigar, his hands dug deeply into his greatcoat pockets and the collar turned up against the wind that was tearing up from the sea. His gaze was fixed on the men working to finish the accommodation huts before the winter got any worse. Someone was playing big band music over the loudspeaker to keep their spirits up, and a tantalising smell of roasting meat was coming from the cookhouse. At least the priority of decent food had been dealt with, he thought grimly.

  He’d swiftly come to realise he was facing a mammoth task. Operation Tiger would begin in earnest at the end of April, with a series of practice assaults over the following weeks which would mirror the planned landings on what were secretly coded Utah and Omaha beaches the other side of the Channel. Live ammunition would be fired over their heads and they would also have to deal with a bombardment from the ships as well as the guns on the hills, which would begin as they made their way towards the beachhead.

  Four and a half months seemed like plenty of time to get these boys prepared, but their youthful inexperience, lack of discipline and the foul weather would eat into those months, and all he could do was hope that the newly built hospital was not called into service.

  Rehearsals had yet to begin. Troops were pouring into Slapton and the surrounding area by the day, and there was still a vast amount to do to set up proper camps, for there were too few large residences in the area to provide proper billets, and the tents they’d brought were more suited to Californian weather, not the relentless downpour and blustery winds of an English winter.

  Ike had been right to insist upon these training exercises, for these were inexperienced boys with absolutely no idea of what they would be facing when these rehearsals came to an end. It was all very well getting them to march in unison, dig foxholes and trenches, complete the obstacle courses and shoot their guns at static targets, but they were merely playing at being soldiers, and having watched as they’d struggled to get the LSTs – Landing Ship, Tanks – through the heavy seas and onto the beach, he could see they weren’t nearly ready to face action under fire.

  And then there was the issue of the Royal Naval protection of the exercise area, which apart from three MTBs and two MGBs consisted of a single corvette, and a World War I destroyer which was so slow and lumbering it would be of no use at all if pursued by the much swifter and more manoeuvrable German E-boats.

  Felix had used all his diplomatic skills in trying to persuade the American admiral in charge, Don Moon, and his British counterpart, that the men needed better protection should things go wrong and the activity in the bay be spotted by the enemy. But it was to little avail. The admirals had pointed out that the guns on the ships were in full working order and would be enough, but on his pressing further, had merely
given a grudging promise that the S-class destroyer, HMS Saladin, would be kept in readiness at Plymouth should the need arise. As this was yet another old ship well past its prime, it was hardly a comfort – but the admirals were adamant that it was all they could spare, for the more modern fleet was fully occupied in the Pacific.

  Felix turned away and plodded back across the deeply rutted field to where Herbert was waiting at the barrier. He threw up a casual salute to the guards manning the barrier and climbed into the car. ‘Take me back to the billet, Herby,’ he said dolefully. ‘I need to get warm again before I have to check on the progress in Slapton. Then I think we’ll call into the Queen’s Arms for a glass of their great cider.’

  ‘A pint of beer would certainly go down well, sir,’ said Herbert.

  Felix shuddered. ‘I don’t know how you drink that stuff. It’s warm and flat and sour, and nothing like the beer we have at home.’

  Herbert didn’t reply as he steered the car away from camp and headed for the large house nestled within the folds of sweeping parkland behind Strete. He was becoming used to the informal ways of the general, but he wasn’t about to get into a debate over the local ale, which he considered to be like nectar compared to the rather cloying cider, and the light, fizzy rubbish the Americans had the nerve to call beer.

  9

  Slapton

  With the days becoming even shorter as they approached Christmas, Carol and the other girls were, nonetheless, kept busy between the two milking sessions. They trapped rats, mucked out the stables and byres, trimmed hedges and chopped wood for the fires. The barley had been sown, the mangolds and potatoes harvested, and the bales of straw neatly stacked in the barns out of the wind and rain, but despite the few hours of daylight, there were still chickens to feed, horses to groom, harness to be kept supple with wax, and repairs to be made to some of the ancient machinery. Jack had also taken on two more working horses which would stay at the farm until their owner was permitted to return to his own place. Bluebell and Fred were now happily ensconced in the stables with Hector and Harriet, who’d perked up no end to have new companions.