by Ellie Dean
She swerved to avoid a group of drunken servicemen staggering out of the Crown and waved to Gloria Stevens, who was busy behind her bar. Dodging around clusters of people hobnobbing on the pavement or queuing outside the Home and Colonial, Peggy finally reached the bottom of the street.
She paused for a moment to catch her breath and look out to the beach, where huge coils of barbed wire fenced off the mined shingle, and men from the Artillery Regiment were stoically awaiting a chance to fire their guns. A line of concrete shipping traps was strung across the bay, and beyond that she could just make out several large warships at anchor, their grey hulls almost lost in the invisible line between steely sea and gloomy sky.
Peggy checked that Daisy was warm beneath her blankets and tightly fastened rainproof cover. She’d fallen asleep, her knitted hat askew over one eye, her mittened hands tucked beneath her chin. Peggy didn’t disturb her, but adjusted her own gloves and wrapped her scarf more firmly about her neck to combat the cold, damp wind that seemed to go right through her many layers of clothing to her very core.
She didn’t envy the soldiers, who must be fed up with having very little to do but stand about in all weathers, smoking and drinking tea. Jerry seemed to have given up trying to bomb them into submission, and if the distant booms and cracks of gunfire were anything to go by, all the action appeared to be on the other side of the Channel – but like the soldiers, she was fed up with all this hanging about. It was time to bring the sense of being in limbo to an end and get on with actually winning this blasted war.
She set off again, crossing to Havelock Gardens, which had once been a leafy oasis of lush lawns, rose-beds and quiet, contemplative corners beneath wooden arbours supporting sweet-smelling jasmine and trailing roses. The benches and arbours were still there, but the iron railing fences had been torn out to be melted and used in the production of planes and tanks, the lawns and rose-beds had been replaced by an allotment, and in the depths of this bitter winter, the trees were bare, their skeletons stark against the leaden sky.
Peggy hurried down Havelock Road until she reached the large detached house near the end of the cul-de-sac where Doris lived. Noting that the gravel drive had been raked and the flowerbeds weeded and dug over, Peggy wondered if Doris had stirred her stumps enough to do it herself, or had got one of her unfortunate evacuees to turn their hand to gardening. She had a suspicion it was probably the latter.
Wheeling the pram over the shingle to the freshly painted front door, she grasped the polished brass knocker, rapped it twice and then stood back to wait, rather hoping that her sister was out and she could just pop the note through the letterbox.
The door opened a fraction and Doris peered out warily as if she was expecting to find a platoon of Nazi soldiers on her doorstep. ‘Oh, it’s you, Margaret,’ she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. ‘I’ve had the distinct impression that you’ve been avoiding me.’
‘I can’t imagine where you got that idea,’ said Peggy. ‘I thought it was the other way round. But perhaps if you remembered to call me Peggy instead of Margaret, I might make more effort to stay in touch.’
‘It’s the name you were christened with,’ said Doris in her carefully modulated voice. ‘I really cannot understand why you demean yourself by allowing everyone to call you Peggy. What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘I’m not stopping,’ said Peggy briskly, frustrated that her visit had already got off to a prickly start, and wanting to nip it in the bud. ‘I just wanted to ask if you’d like to come to us for Christmas Day.’
The door remained almost closed, and all Peggy could see of Doris was an eye and one side of her face. ‘That’s kind of you,’ Doris said stiffly, ‘but if I do come it would only be for an hour or so. I’m awaiting an invitation to lunch at Chalk Hill House with Lord and Lady Chumley, the mayor, his wife, and the Lord Lieutenant of the county.’
‘Goodness,’ breathed Peggy. Despite herself, she couldn’t help being impressed. ‘That sounds a posh do. Beach View and the family certainly can’t compete with that lot.’
‘Quite,’ said Doris, not budging an inch from behind the door. ‘But I will do my best to call in with the season’s greetings.’
‘I’m sure everyone will be most grateful,’ said Peggy dryly, stung by her sister’s response to her well-meant invitation. She shivered as a particularly cold blast of wind came up from the sea. ‘How are you getting to grips with having those enormous guns bearing down on you?’
Doris grimaced and maintained her grasp on the barely open door. ‘Ghastly things,’ she said with a sniff. ‘They’re fine all the while they’re quiet, but they fired them the other night and the whole house shook in the most alarming manner. I thought we’d been hit by a bomb and the roof was about to cave in.’
‘How awful for you,’ said Peggy absent-mindedly, the bitter cold distracting her from Doris’s petty complaint. ‘Well, it’s getting dark and I must get home to start on the tea.’
‘Goodbye then,’ said Doris, and promptly closed the door.
Peggy pulled a rude face at the door, grabbed the handle of the pushchair and stomped back down the driveway. Doris could stuff her posh lunch right up her jumper along with the turkey they were no doubt going to be served up at Chalk Hill blooming House. Beach View might be shabby, the meal very much make-do, but at least there would be genuine people round her table – people who actually cared for one another and who shared the true spirit of Christmas.
The walk home didn’t take very long. Peggy was so cross with Doris she was almost running, and upon reaching Beach View, she closed the door firmly behind her, glad to be home.
Daisy woke up and started grizzling as Peggy carried her up the stone steps to the warm, cosy kitchen. Ron was skinning rabbits by the sink, Harvey and Queenie were sprawled in front of the fire, and Cordelia was writing letters at the table. ‘Put the kettle on, Ron,’ she said. ‘I’m frozen to the bone.’
‘Aye, you look it, wee girl,’ he replied, checking there was enough water in the kettle. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘She doesn’t need beans, Ron,’ said Cordelia, looking up from her writing pad. ‘She needs a hot cup of tea.’
Ron and Peggy exchanged knowing glances. Cordelia hadn’t remembered to turn up her hearing aid. ‘I posted the parcels to Jim and Anne,’ Peggy told him as she plumped down in the fireside chair and began to divest a wriggling, defiant Daisy of her hat, coat and mittens. ‘Then I did a bit of shopping before making the mistake of going to see Doris to ask her to Christmas lunch.’
Ron’s brows lowered and his blue eyes narrowed. ‘Ach, Peggy, why do you do it? That sister of yours doesn’t deserve the kindness you show her.’
‘Then you’ll be delighted to hear she’s expecting a better offer, so won’t be coming.’
Ron handed her the cup of tea and gathered Daisy up into his arms to stop her from pestering her mother. ‘Oh, aye? Have the King and Queen sent a summons from Buckingham Palace?’
Peggy chuckled. ‘Hardly, but in my sister’s eyes a summons from Lady Chump-Chop is probably just as eagerly awaited.’
Ron raised an eyebrow as Peggy went on to tell him who was expected at this illustrious gathering. ‘Well now, that’s all very interesting,’ he said, swinging Daisy onto his shoulders. ‘But you say Doris is only hoping to be invited and hasn’t yet received her invitation?’
Peggy thought back on their conversation and nodded.
Ron chortled and gently removed Daisy’s tiny hands from over his eyes as she clung to his head. ‘Then I wouldn’t mind betting she does turn up here to make our lives a misery, because I happen to know those invitations went out over a fortnight ago.’
Peggy looked up at him in astonishment. ‘How on earth …?’
He tapped his nose and winked. ‘I know a great many things,’ he said mysteriously. ‘And I tell you straight, Peggy, she’s not on the guest list.’
Peggy felt a pang of distress for her sister’s lost ho
pes, and a dart of concern that a thwarted Doris could end up spoiling everyone’s Christmas. ‘Stop messing about, Ron, and tell me how you know this for a fact,’ she said firmly.
Ron winced as Daisy’s tiny fingers clutched a clump of his hair. ‘A pal of mine’s wife organises fancy parties for those with more money than sense, and the Chumley woman called her in to help. She gave her a copy of the guest list to sort out the seating plan, and my pal showed it to me.’
He swung Daisy from his shoulders to the floor and encouraged her to play with her box of wooden bricks. ‘I must say, the old trout certainly knows how to throw a party,’ he muttered. ‘They’re not only having a turkey, but all the trimmings, with smoked salmon to start and plum pudding to finish.’
‘Then I hope it chokes them,’ retorted Peggy. ‘How dare that woman raise Doris’s hopes by telling her all about it and then not inviting her? I’ve a good mind to go to Chalk Hill and give her a punch on that snooty nose.’
‘I have no doubt of it, Peggy, girl,’ he replied with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘but I’m thinking it’s too cold and dark to be going all that way, and you haven’t even started on tea yet.’
‘Oh, lawks,’ Peggy sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. ‘What should I do, Ron? I can’t bear the thought of Doris waiting and hoping every time the postman calls – and of course when the penny finally drops she’ll be furious and hurt, and having boasted about it to me and probably everyone else, she’ll be impossible and make everyone else’s Christmas utterly miserable.’
‘If we’re lucky,’ said Cordelia, who’d switched on her hearing aid during the discussion, ‘she might stay at home and sulk – too ashamed of her bragging to face us all.’
‘My sister has no truck with humility,’ said Peggy evenly. ‘She’s more likely to arrive here full of herself, saying she’s turned down the invitation so she can spread her largesse to her poor relations.’
Cordelia blew out her cheeks. ‘I certainly wouldn’t put it past her.’
Peggy couldn’t help but feel sorry for Doris, even though most of her woes were self-inflicted. ‘Well, I can only hope that if she does turn up, she’ll bring a tin of ham or something to eke out the meal – because at the moment all we can look forward to is a promised chicken from Alf the butcher, vegetables from the garden and a plum pudding without fruit or brandy – or anything else remotely tasty or festive.’
‘Ach, Peggy girl, you’ve no need to fret. Whatever you cook will be delicious, and it’s the company that really counts. As for Doris …’ Ron shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to grin and bear her, and have a good time regardless of what mood she’s in.’
He turned back to finish gutting and skinning the rabbits, which would go in a pie the following day. He bit down on a smile as he washed the meat and placed it in a bowl beneath a strip of muslin in the larder. It would be lovely to surprise Peggy and the others with his special gifts, but it would be a while before he could reveal what they were, for Chalky White was smoking the salmon up at his place in the hills, and the three pheasants hanging in Frank’s outhouse would only just be ripe enough to cook on the day.
Ron lit his pipe and sat down, his thoughts running through all the preparations that were being kept secret from his beloved daughter-in-law. Pauline was making a chestnut stuffing and cranberry jelly; Alf had been persuaded to add a few extra sausages and bacon scraps to Peggy’s order in return for some of the salmon; the girls were secretly making special fancy crackers for the table, and Rosie had managed to get hold of a bottle of brandy, and enough ingredients to make a few mince pies. They would have a feast regardless of the war, the absence of most of the family – and the unwelcome presence of Doris.
15
Slapton
By the time the doctor had arrived Carol and Dolly were clean and dressed in fresh clothes, Nipper bathed and rubbed dry with a scrap of towel. Carol had escorted him next door and waited downstairs while he went up to examine Edith and provide the death certificate for the undertakers who would turn up early the following morning.
Dolly had stood beside her as the plain wooden coffin was loaded onto the back of the undertaker’s black limousine, and Carol’s tears were not only for the old woman who’d become an intrinsic part of her life, but for the memories that solemn departure had evoked. It was harder still to sort through Edith’s possessions, for Rosemary Cottage didn’t feel the same without her sitting in her chair by the fire, and Carol felt like an intruder.
It took most of that week, but Edith’s cottage was finally cleared. Dolly was very businesslike, and having donned a headscarf, wrap-round apron and rubber gloves, she’d got to work sorting and sifting through several generations of clutter and memorabilia. She sent Carol off to get extra boxes from Mildred Ferris, and by the time she’d returned with them, Dolly had gone through the cottage like a whirlwind and set aside the valuable ornaments, framed paintings and watercolour portraits, along with the good linen, a family bible and several leather-bound books which she suspected might be worth something to a collector.
Dolly offered to take the valuable bits to Bournemouth and store them in her spare room. It wouldn’t do them any good to be in a barn at Coombe Farm through the winter. There wasn’t much else worth saving; the curtains and rugs were moth-eaten and threadbare, the china mostly chipped and mismatched, although some clothes would do for the Salvation Army. Carol felt awful about throwing so much away. Edith’s possessions were all that was left of the old woman who’d spent her entire life in this little village and it just didn’t feel right.
On moving day four cheerful young American soldiers arrived with a large army truck and loaded the heavy furniture, bags, suitcases and boxes into the back. Dolly and Carol swept the hearth and stuffed paper up the chimney to prevent any falls of soot, and boarded up the windows with sheets of plywood donated by the Americans. Dolly sat squashed between the men in the cab, armed with a large flagon of cider for the girls, and they headed up to Coombe Farm leaving Carol to lock up.
Carol slowly walked through the empty rooms which still seemed to be imbued with Edith’s spirit, remembering how she’d been so determined to spend her final days here. She’d been feisty and abruptly scathing at times, but during those terrible first weeks of Carol’s bereavement, she’d been the first to offer solace, coming each day with a small tureen of soup or stew, and sitting with her until she was satisfied Carol had eaten properly.
‘Come on, Nipper,’ she murmured. ‘It’s time to leave.’ With the little dog tugging at the lead, Carol locked the front door and walked down the path to Constable Betts, who was waiting solemnly by the gate to take charge of the tagged keys.
He nodded his thanks, touched the rim of his helmet and walked away, the experiences of the last few weeks too emotional for trivial exchanges.
Carol looked back at Rosemary Cottage which, like the rest in the row, had already taken on an aura of abandonment, and then headed for home, knowing that within days she would be handing over her own keys and turning her back on Thyme Cottage with little idea of when she’d be allowed to return to it.
The thought took her up the hill and along the narrow, steep path which led to the back of the churchyard.
The day of Edith’s funeral was a dreary one, with a leaden sky promising more rain, and a wind that tore up from the heaving sea to cut like a knife through the thickest of clothing. And yet the weather hadn’t deterred the villagers. They’d arrived throughout the morning in cars and vans, on horseback, tractors and carts, and even on foot to pay their respects to a woman they’d known all their lives, and take this last chance to be amongst the community from which they’d gained such strength. They stood huddled against the wind, their voices a low murmur as they lined the narrow village street that led to the church.
Dolly held Carol’s hand as they waited with the vicar for the funeral cortege. She knew the girl was struggling to cope, not only with the passing of Mrs Rayner, but with having to face another funeral
before her own departure from her beloved cottage, and Dolly was extremely relieved that she could be with her at such a fraught time.
However, Dolly was also finding things difficult. She’d been on tenterhooks during the past week, certain that Felix would turn up to offer his condolences to Carol – but as the days had gone on with still no sign of him, she’d made a few discreet enquiries and learned that he was busy in Dartmouth. It was a huge relief, and yet Dolly knew she must remain on her guard until she left Slapton for, like the proverbial bad penny, he was sure to appear sooner or later and she had to be prepared for that moment.
The American soldiers who were billeted in the chantry had lined up in front of the picturesque cottages in Church Lane alongside the men of the Home Guard, the off-duty Artillery officers and the small local police force. As the crowd fell silent and the shining black horse-drawn hearse came into view, they stood to attention and saluted.
Dolly felt Carol tense, and tightened her grip on her hand as the coffin was hoisted onto the shoulders of six burly farmers, the single wreath of intertwined holly and ivy placed carefully on top.
The vicar began to recite the words of the funeral ritual and slowly led the way down the path to the church where he would hold a short service before the interment.
Dolly looked surreptitiously around and saw several American officers in the crowd of people already taking their seats inside the church, but thankfully none that she recognised. Hopefully, Felix was still occupied in Dartmouth.
She was not a churchgoer – enforced attendance as a child had put her off religion – but she did enjoy the pomp and ceremony of a special service, and the grandeur of an ancient church or cathedral which seemed imbued with the scent of incense and the peaceful worship of many generations.
