by Ellie Dean
He’d known he had to tell her about Olivia and Felix Junior, but it had never seemed to be the right time, and as the months had rolled on it became harder still to confess. And then, on the second anniversary of their meeting, she’d said she no longer wanted to be his mistress and began to talk of commitment and marriage. She’d mentioned it lightly, but he’d seen the determination in her eyes, and had known the time to confess had arrived.
Felix pummelled the pillow and tried to find escape from the memories of what had happened when he’d told Dolly about Olivia and his son, and the impossibility of his situation which prevented any talk of divorce. The hurt and disbelief in her face haunted him, her cold withdrawal still chilling him as he remembered the lack of angry words, but the far more shaming look of utter contempt she’d shot him before she’d walked away, and out of his life without looking back.
He lay there staring into the past as dawn seeped round the blackout curtains, and the hundreds of Allied planes returned from their bombing mission to their West Country bases. It seemed Harris’s campaign was in full flow, he thought distractedly before returning to tonight’s revelations.
Had Dolly walked straight from him into the arms of Major Frederick Adams? She could very well have done, perhaps seeing it as an act of revenge, but knowing her as he did, he found the idea improbable – yet it was strange he was unfamiliar with the name, and that there had been no rumours of such a liaison. The circle he’d moved with in London had been close-knit, making it almost impossible to remain anonymous or keep secrets.
He twisted and turned restlessly and finally gave up on sleep when he realised Brendon would soon be returning to his billet. Yet, as he prepared for the day, his troubled thoughts continued to plague him. Dolly could certainly be accused of flightiness but she wasn’t a tart, and he simply couldn’t believe she’d thrown herself into another affair just to spite him. But then again, she had left London shortly after that awful exchange, and it was possible she’d met Adams elsewhere, which would explain why he’d never heard of him.
His earlier suspicion that Carol might be his daughter seemed faintly ridiculous in the light of what he now knew – but there were still too many anomalies for him to be totally convinced, and it would be interesting to see Carol’s photograph of the mysterious Frederick Adams. There was really only one person who had all the answers; but she was probably in London and he was stuck down here for the foreseeable future. He would have to be patient until he could confront her, but in the meantime he’d contact a friend at the Pentagon with access to military personnel files, and find out just who Frederick Adams was, and where he’d been stationed in 1915.
32
Cliffehaven
March had proved to be a month of mixed fortunes and emotions for Peggy, and she rather hoped that this first April day heralded a time of calm in which she could catch her breath. She finished stacking the freshly ironed laundry, relishing the peace and quiet of a Saturday morning, and gazed out of the window, letting her thoughts drift back to the events of the past weeks which had both unsettled and delighted her.
Her one-time evacuee and ATA pilot Kitty Makepeace had arrived the night of the first Allied mass bombing raid over Germany, blooming in her pregnancy – although struggling a bit with the added weight on her prosthetic leg – and bubbling over with excitement. She and her brother’s wife, Charlotte, had bought a cottage in Cliffehaven so they could be near their Wing Commander husbands, Roger and Freddy, while they awaited the birth of their babies. Peggy’s delight in having them near tempered any initial disappointment that they wouldn’t be moving into Beach View, for with Charlotte expecting twins, there would be three precious little babies to cuddle and spoil, as well as the chance to mother both girls.
Peggy’s triumph at having overcome her nerves to secure a job as a sewing-machinist at Solly Goldman’s uniform factory had been swiftly dashed by Ron telling her that Jim hadn’t been in India since the previous October, but was now stationed somewhere in Burma. Stunned by the news and furious that the authorities had kept this from her for so long, she’d hung on to every word of the nightly newscasts until she realised the reports of the awful battles to oust the Japanese from Burma only increased her terror for Jim’s safety. Knowing there was very little she could do about any of it, she’d determinedly swallowed her fears and knuckled down to sewing shirts at the factory, each stitch a silent prayer that the wearer would survive to come home.
There had been a bit of argy-bargy from Jim about her not asking his permission to get a job when she had home duties to be getting on with, but she’d fired a letter back telling him she was quite capable of making her own decisions without his permission, and to get on with winning the war while she saw to things at home. His reply had been contrite, no doubt because Ron, Anne, Cissy and everyone at Beach View had given her their wholehearted support in the matter, and had written to tell him so.
It was the condemnation by Doris that had really put the cat among the pigeons. Doris’s evacuees worked in the same factory, and she was appalled by what she saw as her sister’s further descent into the lowest of the lower orders. Her snobbish disapproval had led to an exchange of harsh words, revealing that she was once again in the thrall of Lady Chump-Chop, and cared only that Peggy’s new career might taint her own standing in that self-satisfied clique. The fragile truce was broken, and now Doris refused to speak to her until she gave up the job.
Peggy was saddened by the falling-out, but had absolutely no intention of giving up the work she loved, or the new friends she’d made. Doris lived a very comfortable life and was incapable of understanding her need for independence, the chance to earn her own money and have a life outside Beach View – and as Daisy was very happy in the factory crèche under the supervision of Nanny Pringle, and Peggy was earning enough to pay Billy Wilmott to come in and do the house repairs, she felt quite justified in refusing to be bullied.
She gave a deep sigh as she carried the laundry upstairs to the airing cupboard, for despite her determination to make a better life for herself and her family, her new independence was restricted by this blasted war, and all the worry it incurred.
There was still no sign of the promised invasion into France, but at last the news offered a glimmer of hope. The campaign to destroy enemy arms dumps, factories, railways, airfields and industrial sites all over Germany, Belgium and France was continuing day and night, with over a thousand bombers attacking Frankfurt, Essen, Hannover, Nuremberg and Berlin. Every aircraft and pilot available was utilised, and the latest raid by several squadrons of Mosquitoes had pummelled targets in Hamburg, the Ruhr and the Rhineland.
Peggy’s thoughts were constantly pulled into worrying about her son-in-law Martin, Rita’s Matthew Champion, Kitty’s husband, Roger, and Charlotte’s Freddy, for the death toll amongst Bomber Command and their escorts of fighter planes was frighteningly high, and the pilots were under intolerable strain to remain alert despite their exhaustion and the loss of so many of their comrades.
Poor Martin was completely drained, brought low by the number of condolence letters he had to write; and the short leave he’d taken to go down to Somerset had not helped, for he’d imagined that Anne was getting far too friendly with the German POWs who were now working on the farm. This had led to him ordering Anne to bring the children home – which she’d very reluctantly agreed to do – but the tougher new travel restrictions meant that was no longer possible. Peggy was rather glad that Anne and the children hadn’t had their lives disrupted, for she privately considered Martin’s demands had been grossly unfair, but this latest blow was a terrible distraction for an already troubled man who needed to have all his wits about him.
And then there was Cissy, who’d experienced an anguished few days when her young American had been mistakenly reported as killed in action, and then mercifully found to be a prisoner of war. The fact that her daughter had kept her torment to herself worried Peggy, for it was unlike Cissy to remain silen
t, and she’d made her promise never to keep things from her again, no matter how awful they might be.
Peggy closed the airing cupboard door and glanced into the bedroom shared by Fran and Sarah, which was as neat as a pin as usual, and then went to see if Ivy and Rita had, for once, managed to emulate such tidiness. They were a couple of imps, and rather more inclined to throw things under the bed or in the bottom of the wardrobe than put them away properly.
She felt a dart of loving exasperation as she eyed the unmade beds, the dirty cups and plates stacked in the corner, and the clothes and shoes littering almost every inch of the floor. She’d have to have yet another word with them, but with Ivy doing long shifts at the factory, and Rita busy at the fire station, she understood that they wanted to spend their leisure time having fun – not doing housework. And yet Fran and Sarah also worked long hours, so there really was no excuse, and she shouldn’t let them get away with it.
Unable to bear the sight, however, she made the beds, folded the clothes away, opened the window to let the stale air out, and gathered up the dirty crockery to take downstairs, vowing that this would be the last time – just as she always did.
The house was quiet, with Fran, Ivy and Rita at work and Daisy spending the day at Gracie’s so she could play with little Chloe, her new best friend from the crèche. Ron was out with Harvey somewhere, and Sarah had gone with Cordelia into town to change her library books. They would probably stop off at the Lilac Tearooms on the way home, so there would be time to put her feet up and re-read her letters before she had to think about what on earth she could rustle up in the way of lunch.
Peggy had just reached the kitchen when the telephone rang. Dumping the crockery with a clatter on the table, she hurried to answer it, fearful as always it could be bad news.
‘Pauline hasn’t turned up for her shift,’ barked Doris without even saying hello.
‘I’m sure she must have a very good reason for not doing so,’ replied Peggy, immediately worried that Pauline must be ill, for she loved her work with the WVS, and hadn’t missed a shift since she’d started.
‘I warned you she was unreliable,’ stormed Doris. ‘Lady Chumley is furious she’s let us down when recruitment is so difficult now women prefer employment in factories – and none of this reflects well on me. You’ll have to do something about it.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Peggy, stung by the barely veiled snipe at her own defection from the ranks of volunteers to her well-paid job.
‘She’s your sister-in-law and you introduced her to the WVS, so I think it’s very much your responsibility. If this isn’t resolved before noon, you’ll have to come in yourself.’
‘It’s not convenient,’ Peggy said flatly. ‘My weekends are for the family now I’m working, and I’m not prepared to compromise on that, Doris. If you’re so short-handed, why don’t you and Lady Chump-Chop muck in for once? I’m sure neither of you has anything better to do.’
‘Lady Chumley cannot be expected to pack comfort boxes or sort through old clothes,’ gasped Doris in horror. ‘And I have a very important meeting today with the leader of the council.’
‘On a Saturday?’ Peggy said in disbelief.
‘These latest travel restrictions mean I’m unable to go to Anthony’s for Easter,’ Doris snapped. ‘The meeting is to persuade him to get me a special travel warrant.’
‘Good luck with that,’ said Peggy. ‘Those restrictions are for everyone, Doris. I doubt very much if he’ll agree.’
‘I’m not interested in your opinion, Margaret,’ she said coldly. ‘I need you to either get Pauline here, or come yourself.’ With that, she disconnected the call.
Peggy slammed the receiver into its cradle and scrabbled in her apron pocket for her packet of Park Drive. Having lit a cigarette, she puffed on it furiously before marching into the kitchen to set about washing the dirty crockery with rather more vigour than was needed.
‘Blast you, Doris,’ she muttered crossly. ‘I will not be bossed about, or give up my Saturday for you. And if you get that warrant, I’ll be up to those council offices demanding an explanation.’
She dried her hands, finished the cigarette and looked at the clock. It was nearly ten, and Pauline should have been at the Town Hall over an hour ago. Something was wrong, and it was doing no good standing here swearing at Doris when she should be going over to Tamarisk Bay to check on Pauline.
She whipped off her headscarf and apron, reached for her coat, scarf and gloves, and shoved her feet into her sturdiest walking shoes. Tramping the hills between Cliffehaven and Tamarisk Bay was not her idea of fun, and the last time she’d done it she’d ended up puffing and blowing like an old steam engine. But a glance out of the window showed it was a bright, crisp day, and despite her concern over Pauline, she knew it would do her good to get some fresh air and walk off her bad temper.
She closed the basement door behind her, shivering in the long shadows cast by the house across the garden. Queenie looked down on her from a sheltered, sunny spot on the roof of Ron’s shed. Wrapping her scarf more firmly about her neck, she pulled on her gloves and dug her hands into her coat pockets before setting off down the twitten that ran between the backs of the tall Victorian terraced houses.
The hill began gently enough, but as it became increasingly steep, Peggy felt the pull on her calf muscles, and a tightening in her chest. Her heart was hammering and she was gasping for breath before she’d reached halfway, and by the time she’d got to the top, she had to stop. Her legs felt like jelly, she couldn’t breathe, and felt quite light-headed with all the exertion, but at least her bad mood had disappeared. How on earth Ron managed this twice a day she had no idea, but it was galling to have to admit that for all her running around after Daisy and everyone else, he was much fitter than she’d ever be.
She took her time waiting for her breathing to calm down and looked down on the town. She rarely came up here, but it was always interesting to see it laid out beneath her, sprawling up into the arc of hills, the barrage balloons above the factories gleaming silver in the sunlight, the smoke from the chimneys rising in the still, cold air as the townspeople took advantage of the lovely day to wrap up and stroll along the promenade.
Feeling ready to tackle the rest of the walk, which was fairly flat, she set off again, and soon saw the remains of the abandoned farmhouse and barn in the distance. They were a stark reminder of what the army did with requisitioned land and buildings, and she shuddered at the thought of what might be happening to Carol’s village. Carol had written about her own fears, and although she hadn’t gone into much detail, Peggy could well imagine the damage that could be caused by the influx of so many hundreds of men with their heavy and unwieldy machinery.
She paused and looked down beyond the vast Cliffe Estate to the farmland in the valley and the distant aerodrome with its runways, wooden huts, hangars and control tower. Martin and the others had probably been amongst the massive swarm of planes that had left at dawn, and somewhere down there was Cissy, anxiously awaiting their return. Peggy didn’t envy her, for she was at the very heart of it all, and the increasing losses incurred on these raids were bound to be playing on her mind, stripping away her youth and natural vivacity and leaving her with memories that would probably never really fade.
Peggy gave a deep sigh and determinedly concentrated on the matter in hand. The only way in and out of Tamarisk Bay was either by boat or along a deeply rutted track which ran up the steep hill from the village road edging the boundary of Cliffe Estate, to peter out into a rough, narrow lane leading down to the tiny shingle cove and the row of fishermen’s cottages that overlooked the sea.
Frank and Pauline’s cottage was the only one still inhabited, for those of enlistment age had been called up, the elderly, the women and their children long since departed for safer billets away from what had become known as ‘Bomb Alley’, for this whole area was directly beneath the flight path of enemy bombers heading inland.
Where
there had once been several fishing boats drawn up on the shingle, only Frank’s now remained. It was the last of the small fleet once owned by Ron’s family, for the larger vessels had been requisitioned by the navy to be used as mine sweepers, the rest beached and probably rotting beneath the cliffs for the duration.
As Peggy carefully picked her way down the rough lane, she could see how the cottages had deteriorated since being left empty and it saddened her, for she could remember how attractive they’d been before the start of the war. Now the walls were sagging, the wooden planking coming loose. The whitewash which had once gleamed was blistered and green with mould, and weeds sprouted from gutters and between dislodged roof tiles and rotting window frames. The tamarisk which had given the bay its name had gone wild, smothering the gardens and seeding itself in the most meagre drift of sand and earth to sprout new growth.
She was almost at the bottom of the lane when she heard the slam of a door and the sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the shingle. Rounding the corner of the cottage, she saw Frank stomping off towards his fishing boat which had been pulled up on the beach to escape the high spring tides. About to call out to him, she was forestalled by Pauline rushing out of the cottage and hurtling straight into her.
‘Peggy,’ she gasped, her eyelids reddened and swollen from tears. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here,’ she babbled, frantically clutching at her. ‘You’ve got to talk some sense into him.’
Startled, Peggy tried to calm her by putting her arm round her shoulder. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Pauline?’
‘He’s going off again,’ she rasped, her voice rising with every word. ‘Never mind leaving me all alone when I’m worried sick about Brendon. And I won’t have it, Peggy. Do you hear?’
‘Aye, that we can, Pauline, and I should think they heard you on the other side of the Channel as well,’ growled Frank, plodding back to them with a face like thunder. ‘There’s no need for all this fuss. I shan’t be gone for long.’
