Keep Smiling Through (Beach View Boarding House 3)

by Ellie Dean

  Rita had been on tenterhooks ever since she’d returned to the recruitment office with her birth certificate. The woman had clearly been surprised at her eagerness, and had softened enough to tell her more about the kind of work she might be doing.

  It was a bit of a worry that she’d have to be billeted in one of the large accommodation blocks on the airbase and therefore would have little chance to keep an eye on Louise. But it all sounded terribly exciting, and she was bursting to tell someone other than May – yet, like May, she knew it wouldn’t be wise to say anything until she had confirmation.

  The hardest part was keeping it from Louise, who was already suspicious about what she was up to, and not at all pleased at the amount of make-up she’d been wearing. Rita had so wanted to tell her last night, but didn’t dare in case she caused her any unnecessary anguish only to discover that her application had been turned down.

  It was a dilemma, and it played on her mind so much that she’d made several mistakes this morning, and Major Patricia was not best pleased with her.

  ‘Concentrate, Smith. You’ve made a complete hash of that.’

  She lifted the visor, looked at the welded joint and reddened with shame. It was indeed a shoddy piece of work. ‘I’ll do it again,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Yes, you will. But I suggest you take a break and concentrate your mind first. It’s clearly not on your work.’

  Rita dumped the heavy leather visor and apron on the workbench, glad of the respite. Despite the cold wind that rattled the corrugated roof and sang in the wires supporting the barrage balloons, she was drenched in sweat, her hair sticking to her head, her shirt and dungarees clinging to her back and chest. She gave a wry grin as she ran her fingers through her lank hair. Cissy would be horrified, but there was little point in putting on make-up and making her hair look neat when she spent most of the time covered from head to foot in sweltering leather.

  Reaching for the flask of tea and the Spam sandwich she’d made that morning, she perched on the bench and mulled over her plans for her birthday. She would have to work, of course, and tomorrow night was her turn to fire-watch, but she knew Louise had planned a special dinner, and she was really looking forward to seeing what she could possibly have conjured up from the bit of scrag end she’d so victoriously carried home last night.

  As she munched her sandwich and washed it down with the weak tea, she watched May and the other women. The enormous hangar was a gloomy place, and every sound was magnified, echoing to the rafters as the women bent to their various tasks and shouted to each other to be heard. They were all dressed in dungarees and shirts, their hair covered with knotted hankies, their hands swathed in thick gloves. Some were welding, others were hammering, or working the vast rollers and lathes, while others painted the sheets of metal a uniform grey.

  It was strange to think she might not be coming here for very much longer, and in a way she felt a bit uneasy. This was what she knew, and now the others had set aside their prejudices and offered friendship again, she was quite surprised to realise how much she would miss them.

  Her reverie was rudely interrupted by the wailing sirens, and she swiftly reached for her gas mask and jacket. Racing for the door, she and May were almost carried out into the windswept concrete yard by the tide of women, and jostled towards the enormous shelter that had been built beneath it.

  Men and women from all over the industrial compound raced to join them, and in the moment before she plunged into the darkness of the shelter, she heard the steady, ominous rumble in the distance. The enemy was fast approaching.

  Ron had eaten the strong-smelling cheese Rosie had given him with a pickled onion and a hunk of bread for his lunch. It had been a successful trip, for they had bagged a couple of pheasants which were nestled nicely in his coat’s deep pockets alongside the duck Harvey had managed to catch close to the big pond that was on the very edge of Lord Cliffe’s estate.

  It had been a close-run thing, for they’d been spotted by the elderly Lord Charles, and had had to make a quick escape. The old boy had proved to be quite nifty on his feet as he’d given chase, his shouts of fury following them right into the woods. But the old fellow’s age had finally caught up with him and he’d run out of steam – leaving Ron and Harvey to saunter victoriously back towards the cliffs with their booty.

  ‘It’s your fault, Harvey,’ he muttered to the dog that bounded along beside him. ‘You know better than to go for the ducks. Now the old fool will probably have the law on us for poaching.’

  Harvey waggled his eyebrows, tongue lolling, tail wagging like a metronome as he looked up at Ron. It wouldn’t be the first time, he seemed to say. And we’ve got away with it before.

  ‘Very pleased with yourself, aren’t ye, y’old scoundrel?’ Ron growled. ‘But now I have to be hiding these birds and make sure the cops don’t find ’em.’ He stomped across the rough tussocks of grass, his cap firmly jammed low over his bushy brows. ‘Still,’ he muttered more to himself than the dog, ‘I suppose Rosie might like a nice duck for a treat.’

  He ruffled the dog’s ears to show he was forgiven, and then tensed, eyes searching the horizon, alert to the ominous sound of distant thunder. But this was no storm coming across the Channel, he realised. It was the Luftwaffe.

  ‘Come,’ he ordered the dog, and broke into a run towards the thicket of trees that grew in a nearby dell.

  Ron dived into the shadows, making for the heart of the thicket in the certain knowledge that Harvey was right behind him. He came to a halt beside a particularly tall oak and waited for the lurcher to join him. ‘Harvey,’ he snapped. ‘Where the divil are you, you heathen animal?’

  Harvey trotted up to him, a rabbit hanging from his mouth, thorns spiking his muzzle.

  ‘Eejit beast,’ he murmured affectionately. He stuffed the dead rabbit in one of his pockets, encouraged Harvey to lie next to him in the deep shadows and began to carefully divest the soft nose of its thorns.

  The thunder was coming closer, drowning out the many sirens that had gone off round the town, and soon the air and the earth vibrated with it.

  Ron looked up through the leafy canopy and shook his fists as the first wave of bombers ponderously rumbled over them. Their shadows stole the sun in that clear blue sky, stained the windswept grass and chilled the man and his dog who watched them.

  The answering boom of the guns on the headlands shook the earth and resonated through them, and Harvey whimpered as he rested his sore nose on his paws, his eyebrows jiggling, his ears flat to his shaggy head.

  Ron laid a reassuring hand on his head and fondled the silky ears. The noise was so loud there was little point in trying to talk to him, so Ron lay beside him and held him close as he heard wave after terrible wave of enemy bombers and fighter planes head inland.

  And then, within that awful noise, came the lighter, quicker sound of the brave little Spitfires and Hurricanes, racing from the nearby airbase to cause as much disruption as they could before the bombers reached their targets.

  As Ron and Harvey moved to the outer edge of the copse they watched them peel off from their tight formation, swooping, diving, climbing, picking out their separate targets, harrying them while they dodged the enemy bullets and fired off their own.

  ‘Come on, me boys,’ yelled Ron. ‘Show the bastards what you can do.’

  His heart was pounding, swelling with pride as two of the enemy fighters were hit, and the Spitfires continued to attack. He could hear the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the bullets – had a front-row view of the deadly dogfights that were being carried out high above him, and could hear the deep, rapid booms of the Bofors guns further along the cliff and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns on the seafront.

  He held his breath as one of the Spitfires streamed black smoke from its wingtip. It began a slow, deathly spin, the engine screaming as one of the enemy fighters closed in for the kill. ‘Come on, boy,’ he muttered fiercely. ‘Pull out, get ’er straight again.’

  The
brave little plane was hit again and again – the German pilot making sure of a kill before he banked away and hunted for another target.

  Ron searched the skies as the Spitfire spun out of control, its fate already clear. But where was the pilot? Had he managed to eject? He screwed up his eyes, straining to see the billow of white silk that would mean the pilot had escaped.

  And there it was, drifting down, spinning in the strong wind coming off the sea and the downdraught of the enemy planes. He could even see the pilot struggling to control its flight as it came ever faster towards land. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Yes, my lad, you keep a steady bearing and you’ll be all right.’

  Forgetting how exposed he was to stray bullets or trigger-happy Huns, Ron left the shelter of the trees and followed the parachute’s path. He had no need to whistle to the dog, for Harvey was already at his heels, and they set off at a quick pace towards the spot where Ron suspected the pilot might come down.

  It was soon clear that the lad was injured and struggling to control the parachute, and Ron feared that if he didn’t watch out, he’d have a heavy landing in the trees that edged Lord Cliffe’s estate and cause himself further damage.

  Disregarding the enemy planes that still thundered overhead, Ron picked up his pace as the pilot disappeared behind the nearby hill and the parachute deflated like a pricked balloon. ‘Seek ’im, Harvey,’ he ordered.

  Harvey shot off and Ron tramped steadily after him until he’d reached the summit and could see what had happened. The lad had missed the trees by some way, but he was lying very still – too still. With fear making his heart thud, Ron raced down the hill. He’d seen too many young men killed in the first war – and somehow it had become imperative that this one should live.

  The parachute had been unhitched and gathered up by the pilot, who’d also had the time to peel off his flying helmet and goggles. But this great effort must have drained him, for he now lay on his side, head cushioned by the parachute, unaware of Harvey’s rasping tongue on his face and the prodding, inquisitive paw nudging his shoulder.

  ‘Leave him be,’ muttered Ron as he pushed the dog away and got on his knees beside the pilot. Tears blinded him. He was just a boy – a boy who was white with pain and terror – a boy with a child’s soft face and a lick of fair hair which fell across his closed eyes.

  Ron’s heart ached as he gently brushed back that lick of hair. ‘It’s all right, son,’ he murmured. ‘You’re home now. You’re safe.’

  The boy stirred and the long lashes fluttered against the downy cheek. ‘Dad?’ he rasped. ‘Dad, I tried to save her, but she was hit too badly.’

  ‘Shh now, son. Be still,’ muttered Ron as he examined the bloody mess above the heavy flying boots and checked there were no other injuries. The boy had lost a lot of blood and was obviously delirious. What did it matter if he thought Ron was his dad?

  He sniffed loudly and scrubbed away his tears impatiently. Stripping down to his shirt, he pulled it off and tied it tightly above the leg wound in the hope it would stem the bleeding. The cold made him shiver and he swiftly put his jumper and coat back on then reached into the many pockets, found the flask of tea and carefully poured some into the plastic cup.

  Gently easing his hand beneath the boy’s head, he tried to get him to drink. It was sweet enough to counter the shock, for he’d sneaked four teaspoons of sugar into it when Peg wasn’t looking, so it should do a bit of good. But the heavily sugared, milky tea dribbled from the slack lips and darkened the pale sheepskin at the neck of the flying jacket.

  Ron sat back on his heels, the boy’s head cradled against his legs. He eyed his remote surroundings, realised the enemy bombers were no longer flying over Cliffehaven and came to a decision. ‘Well, Harvey,’ he said, ‘it looks as if you and me are going to have to get him home by ourselves.’

  He gently lowered the boy’s head back onto the parachute silk. ‘Stay,’ he ordered the dog, and hurried off to find enough sturdy branches to make into a travois.

  He kept a close eye on the time as he used the deadly sharp hunting knife to hack down several branches and strip them clean. The bombers would be back soon, and he had to hurry. Returning to the valley, he saw the boy was awake, and that Harvey was happily trying to wash his face again.

  ‘Leave him,’ he growled. ‘How do you feel, son?’

  The blue eyes that looked up at him were cloudy with pain. ‘I’m fine, sir. Is this your dog?’

  ‘His name’s Harvey,’ muttered Ron. ‘And he and I are going to get you home so that leg can get seen to.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, sir, really.’ He made a tremendous effort to sit up. The blood drained from his face and he fell back in a dead faint.

  ‘Just as well,’ Ron muttered. ‘At least he won’t feel any pain.’ He hurried to lash the two longest poles together at the top with the thick string he always kept in his pocket, then took off his coat, emptied the pockets, and threaded the poles through the sleeves. He then slashed the parachute free of its strings and used them to lash the two shorter poles crosswise so the travois formed a rough triangle, and used the last of the string and the parachute lines to thread around the buttons and through the buttonholes to anchor the coat firmly.

  ‘Let’s just hope it holds,’ he muttered, giving it an experimental prod. He eyed the parachute and the sturdy canvas bag that had carried it. The rabbits and birds fitted in the bag very nicely. Now for the tricky bit.

  It didn’t take long to lift the boy onto the makeshift stretcher – he didn’t weigh much. Ron worked quickly, tying the parachute across the boy’s body and lashing it firmly to the poles. They couldn’t stay out here in the open much longer – he could already hear the distant droning of the returning bombers.

  His fears were confirmed by the cacophony of wailing sirens that had Harvey howling – he hated them – and Ron told him to shut up and get into the trees. Picking up the canvas bag, he slung it over his shoulder, placed his rifle on the boy’s chest, and took the weight of the travois. Aware of the rough terrain, he tried to make his hasty dash into the trees as steady as possible so as not to cause the boy any unnecessary pain.

  Ron and Harvey waited with the boy until the last of the enemy had been chased back over the Channel, then set off on the long journey home to Beach View.

  The winter’s day was closing in, darkness coming early as it always did in December, and Ron shivered as the cold penetrated the ragged jumper and settled into his old bones. But he trudged purposefully on, pulling the travois behind him. There would be no afternoon tea with Rosie today, he thought sorrowfully, for there was at least another half-hour to go before he reached Beach View, and the pub would be opening soon. But none of that mattered. The boy had to be got back to safety and into the care of a doctor.

  Harvey loped beside him, turning now and again to check on the airman who was falling in and out of consciousness. He whined when the lad was awake, and Ron would stop and try to encourage him to drink a bit of tea, but these short stops were exhausting, and it became harder and harder to get going again.

  Ron plodded on in the darkness, the scrape of the travois and the moans of the boy accompanying him across the rough terrain he knew so well. They were almost there now, he could make out the shapes of the houses against the sky, the alley behind Beach View – the bomb-damaged wall – the gate.

  He was almost spent. The travois was too wide to go through the gate, and he simply didn’t have the strength to haul it through the hole in the wall. He put the travois down and rested, hands on knees as his chest heaved. ‘Jim,’ he rasped. ‘Jim, I need some help.’

  Harvey gave three sharp barks and Jim finally appeared at the back door. ‘What the divil are you doing, old man?’

  ‘Stir yourself and help me get him inside,’ Ron panted. He saw Anne and Mrs Finch appear in the doorway. ‘Telephone for an ambulance,’ he ordered, ‘and be quick about it, I’ve got an injured man here.’

  Jim helped him hoist the travois ov
er the hole in the wall, but then discovered it wouldn’t fit through the back door. ‘We’ll have to get him off this thing,’ said Jim. ‘Give me your knife.’

  Ron was drained but still had his wits about him. ‘Don’t cut the parachute. It’s valuable.’

  ‘To be sure, I know that much,’ retorted Jim. ‘And I suppose you’ll be claiming the silk for yourself?’

  ‘I think I’ve earned it,’ Ron replied wearily. He watched his son cut the strings holding the coat to the travois and carefully untie the parachute, then used the last of his strength to help carry the boy inside and settle him in the chair by the fire.

  The room seemed to spin round him, the familiar faces blurring, the concerned voices muffled as wave upon wave of darkness filled his head. He stumbled towards the other chair, desperate to sit and dispel the giddiness.

  But he never reached it and didn’t feel the thud as his head caught the corner of the table and he sank into oblivion.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘IT’S NO USE you coming in here every five minutes,’ said the woman sternly. ‘I don’t have the authority to tell you anything.’

  Rita felt she was being a bit unfair, this was only the third time she’d been in since yesterday. She shuffled from one foot to the other. The reek of the oil heater was exacerbating the queasy feeling in her stomach that had been troubling her all day. ‘I just thought you might know if my application got through all right?’

  ‘It has been less than twenty-four hours,’ the woman said, her expression softening. ‘I admire your enthusiasm, Miss Smith, but please go home. You will be notified soon enough, I assure you.’

  Rita was forced to accept that the agony of waiting was to continue. She left the enlistment office carrying her helmet and goggles and swung her leg over the motorcycle’s saddle, sitting for a moment to quell the squirms of doubts that were plaguing her.