by Ellie Dean
Matron went quite white. ‘I’ll see what can be arranged,’ she stammered. ‘But it’s most irregular.’
‘How very kind,’ Sylvia murmured. ‘Thank you so much.’ She turned her back on the other woman and perched once more on Ron’s bed as Matron snapped an order at one of the passing nurses for two cups of coffee.
‘Tell me, Mr Reilly,’ said Sylvia. ‘What is the name of your family boarding house, and where can I find it?’
Ron looked into her eyes, saw the laughter there and tried not to crack up as he caught a glimpse of Matron hovering uncertainly nearby. ‘Beach View is away along Camden Road to the left as you leave the hospital,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘To be sure, ’tis not a palace, but it is a home. Me daughter-in-law’s away at the moment, but me granddaughter and son will look after you, so they will.’
Matron was within earshot as she brought the coffee cups to the bed. ‘I really don’t think such an establishment . . .’ she blustered.
Sylvia turned a beaming smile on her as she took the cups. ‘Ah, coffee. How simply lovely. You will thank the nurse for me, won’t you?’
Matron dithered, clearly anxious to get Sylvia out of her ward and away from Ron and all the other gawping men.
‘Please don’t let us hold you up, Matron,’ said Sylvia pleasantly. ‘I’m sure you have far more important things to do than chaperone me.’
Matron Billings went the colour of beetroot, turned on her heel and marched out of the ward. The swing doors slammed behind her in condemnation.
Sylvia giggled. ‘Good heavens,’ she breathed. ‘What a simply ghastly woman. Where on earth did they dig her up?’
Ron roared with laughter. ‘You’re a caution, so y’are, Lady Anstruther-Norton.’
‘I insist you call me Sylvia,’ she said sternly, although her eyes still sparkled with fun, ‘otherwise I shall refuse to speak to you at all.’
‘Let’s compromise. You call me Ron, and I’ll call you Lady Sylvia.’
‘It’s a deal.’
They regarded one another like conspirators as they drank the almost tasteless drink which bore little relation to proper coffee. Sylvia finally gave up on it with a shudder, but Ron was grateful for anything that had been wrung out of Matron and finished the last drop.
Sylvia took his empty cup and then leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘I’ve driven all the way from Wiltshire almost non-stop and am desperate for sleep,’ she confided. ‘Do you think your family would mind very much if I went there tonight and simply climbed into bed without going through the rigmarole of social chit-chat?’
Ron was rather regretting his hasty and ill-thought-out invitation. ‘The offer was genuinely made,’ he said, ‘but I won’t be at all upset if you’d rather stay at one of the big hotels.’
She shot him a beaming smile. ‘I realised you were tugging the tiger’s tail, Ron, but large hotels are rather impersonal, aren’t they? Beach View sounds absolutely perfect.’
Ron reached into the locker, found the stub of a pencil and tore a bit off the end of the newspaper. ‘This is our telephone number. Give them a ring and explain who you are and that I sent you. They’ll have the room ready for you by the time you’ve visited Christopher and found your way there.’
She took the slip of paper and tucked it into her handbag. Her smile was soft. ‘Bless you, Ron. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
He decided to push his luck. ‘To be sure, a drop of brandy and a cheese and pickle sandwich wouldn’t come amiss,’ he said. ‘The food’s like the coffee. But you’ve got to be careful. Matron searches us for contraband.’
She patted his hand and gathered her things. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said and smiled. ‘See you tomorrow, Ron – and don’t cause too much trouble until then, otherwise we’ll both be for the high jump.’
Ron watched her leave the ward, smiling at each man as she passed and wishing them luck. ‘Now that,’ he murmured appreciatively, ‘is a real lady.’
Sylvia Anstruther-Norton softly brushed the lick of fair hair from her youngest son’s forehead and blinked back the tears of weariness and anxiety. He was sleeping peacefully, and his wounds would soon heal, but the fear that had overwhelmed her on hearing he’d been shot down still remained, and she knew that all the time her three sons were involved in this terrible war, she would never sleep easily.
Closing the door to the private room, she slowly made her way down the endless hospital corridors to the front entrance. The night was cold, the wind coming off the sea in gusts as the clouds scudded over the moon, and she drew the mink coat tighter to her neck as she hurried through the darkness to the Rolls-Royce she’d parked rather haphazardly outside the main gate.
The car was splattered with mud after the long, exhausting journey, but the interior smelled reassuringly of soft leather and the heater soon blasted out welcoming warmth as she checked Anne’s instructions on how to reach Beach View Boarding House.
As the delightful Anne closed the bedroom door behind her and plodded back down the stairs, Sylvia took in her surroundings. Beach View was a little shabby, but nevertheless far more homely and welcoming than she could have wished for. Ron hadn’t warned her that his granddaughter was heavily pregnant, and she hoped very much that the girl hadn’t gone to too much trouble on her behalf.
The room was as neat as a pin, with fresh linen and towels, the pretty bedspread and downy quilt making the narrow single bed look enticing. Sturdy furniture gleamed with polish, the floor had been swept, and every drawer in the dresser had been lined with crisp white paper. She walked into the bay and peeked between the blackout curtains, but it was too dark, and all she could see was the huddled mass of nearby roofs.
She shivered in the chill and kept her mink coat on as she slotted several sixpences into the meter then lit the gas fire. With a wry smile, she took off her hat and began to unpack. It had been a long time since she’d stayed in a lodging house, and this one far outshone those stinking, flea-infested East End hovels of her youth. But perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of those years of hardship and struggle – of the times when she’d not known where her next meal was coming from – for she’d had things far too easy of late and had taken for granted the privileged lifestyle and happy family life that her marriage to James had provided. Christopher’s close shave with death had shaken her to the core, woken her to the harsh realities of this war and the fact that no one, however well cocooned, was safe.
Once the room had warmed, Sylvia prepared for bed and finally slipped in between the freshly ironed sheets and soft blankets with a sigh of pleasure. As she lay in the darkness listening to the whispers and creaks of the old house, she thought of James and wondered if he too was lying wakeful in their London flat, or if he was working through the night in the Cabinet room of Downing Street. They had spoken briefly on the telephone during a short visit to Matron’s office, so he knew their boy was on the mend, but that wouldn’t make sleep any easier – not when their two other sons were in battleships somewhere out in the Atlantic.
Closing her eyes, she remembered that night twenty-five years ago when they’d met. It was 1915 and London had been smothered in thick, choking fog. She’d been seventeen, and hurrying out of the hotel where she worked as a chambermaid. James had been in uniform, dashing up the steps, already late for a meeting with friends when they had collided.
He’d caught her before she fell, but her handbag hit the pavement, spilling the contents everywhere. Apologising profusely, he’d helped her retrieve her belongings, and then insisted upon taking her out for supper at a nearby café. The hours flew as they ate and talked and strolled along the Embankment, and when dawn lightened the sky they had both known that despite their wildly different backgrounds, this was the start of something very special indeed.
Sylvia sighed as sleep softly claimed her. There had been ructions, of course, and his family had been horrified to learn they’d married at the town hall before he went back to his regiment
in France. She had been shunned by them, spending the remainder of the war in his flat in London. But on his return, his love and gentle encouragement had sustained her through those early years of marriage, and little by little she’d learned to fit in and become accepted. Now it seemed she could play the part with ease, but never again must she forget her humble origins, or take anything for granted, for she had been blessed with far more than any one person deserved.
It was May’s last day at the aircraft factory and the other women gathered to wish her luck. Rita rode pillion as May stuffed a change of clothing in the pannier, fired up the BSA and hurtled out of the factory compound, heading for Barrow Lane. She clasped her hands round May’s waist as they took the sharp bends at speed and rattled over the cobbles. It was a precarious ride, and Rita preferred to be in charge of the bike rather than being a passenger, but as this was May’s final evening in Cliffehaven, she had readily agreed to the lift home.
May brought the bike to a skidding halt outside the garage doors and switched off the engine. Rita clambered down and took off her helmet and goggles. ‘Whew,’ she breathed. ‘That was a bit hair-raising.’
May grinned as she wheeled the motorbike into the garage. ‘It’s good to get the wind in your hair now and again,’ she said, ‘but I suspect flying a plane will be even windier.’
‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’
May shook her head as she took her bag out of the pannier. ‘I’m nervous, that’s all, and just wanted to have fun on my last ride.’ She patted the BSA and slowly pulled the tarpaulin over it. ‘You will look after her for me, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, though I can’t guarantee the Luftwaffe won’t drop a bomb on it.’
‘Rather that than Mum selling it, which she’d do the minute I leave. Thanks, Rita.’ Her gaze dipped to the floor beneath the slit in the door that served as a letter box. ‘Hey, it looks as if the postman’s been.’
Rita picked up the envelope with a shaking hand. It was franked with the insignia of the RAF. ‘I’m almost afraid to open it,’ she breathed. ‘What if they’ve turned me down?’
May grew impatient as Rita turned it over and over in her hand. ‘Just open it, Rita. The suspense is killing me.’
Rita’s heart was pounding as she carefully slit the envelope and drew out the two sheets of closely typed paper. Her gaze flew across the words, her breath caught in her throat, and she could hardly believe what she was reading, for they were offering her far more than she could ever have wished.
‘I’m in,’ she breathed. ‘They want me. Oh, May, they really do want me, and they say that if a position arises in the engineering department for an apprentice mechanic, they will arrange for me to finish my course so I can get my final qualifications and work for them.’
May grabbed the letter and read it swiftly. ‘There, see, I told you they wouldn’t turn you down. You have so much to offer, Rita – and this proves it.’ May’s eyes were shining with laughter as she handed it back. ‘And they’ve even let you stay at home for Christmas before you start your training. Lucky old you – I’ll be eating my Christmas lunch in some draughty air-force canteen in the middle of nowhere.’
Rita grabbed May and they danced an awkward jig among the piles of tyres and abandoned boxes of spare parts, their happy laughter ringing into the rafters. Once they had sobered a little, they stood hand in hand in silence, finally letting the full import of what they were about to do sink in.
‘Things are going to be very different from now on, aren’t they?’ murmured May. ‘I wonder where we’ll be this time next year?’
‘You’ll be flying planes, and I’ll be rushing about on the Norton at some airfield, or better still, helping to mend aeroplanes.’
‘You’ll have to tell Louise soon, because you’re due to take your medical and initial interview in less than a week,’ said May. ‘Want to do it tonight while I’m here?’
Rita thought about it then shook her head. ‘I’ll tell her after you’ve gone.’
‘You can’t leave it too late, Rita,’ May warned. ‘Christmas is going to be hard enough for her as it is, and you leave for your training on the twenty-ninth.’
‘I know,’ Rita sighed, the euphoria seeping away. ‘Let’s just hope she hears from Papa or Roberto before Christmas. I’ll feel so much easier about leaving her once she knows where they are.’
May squeezed her arm. ‘Come on, she’ll have heard us coming home and will be wondering why we haven’t gone up.’ She gave Rita an encouraging smile. ‘I expect she’ll read me the riot act as well once she hears I’m off to fly planes. Perhaps it would be better if you did tell her tonight – get it all over in one fell swoop.’
‘Maybe. I’ll let you tell her first and then play it by ear.’
May grinned. ‘Coward,’ she chided softly.
Rita silently acknowledged that she was being cowardly, but it was important she found the right moment, and the right words, to break her news. This letter was promising everything she’d ever wanted and now it was even more vital to have Louise’s blessing. She carefully folded the letter into her trouser pocket and prayed fervently that nothing would happen to stop her from following her dream.
Louise’s kitchen was warm, the firelight glinting in the ragged bits of tinsel she’d hung from the mantelshelf and over the mirror. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe had been tied together with scarlet ribbons and suspended from the picture rail, and some rather tatty paper chains which Rita and Roberto had made many years before were stretched from one side of the ceiling to the other. There was no Christmas tree, no fairy lights, and only four little gaily wrapped presents sitting on the sideboard. It would be a very different Christmas this year.
‘Hello, May,’ said Louise, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘I can offer you a cup of tea, but I’m afraid there isn’t much in the way of food tonight.’
‘I’m not stopping long, Mrs Minelli. I’ve just popped in to say goodbye before me and Rita go off for our last night in town.’
Louise paused in the act of putting the kettle on the hob. ‘Goodbye? But where are you going?’
Rita watched Louise’s expression as May told her about the training she was about to do. She noted how her face paled, how her eyes clouded with tears and how she wrung her hands in her apron, and with a sinking heart, was made to realise how very difficult it would be to tell Louise her own wonderful news.
‘But you’re just a child,’ Louise finally managed. ‘You can’t possibly fly planes.’
‘I’m the same age as Rita,’ May replied, ‘and there’re plenty of other girls flying planes, driving fire engines and ambulances – even working for the gas board and sewerage works.’
‘But it’s dangerous.’ Louise sank into the kitchen chair. ‘And girls like you and Rita weren’t meant for such things. I’ve seen some of those posh women up at the airfield, May. You won’t fit in at all.’
‘Things are different now,’ May said firmly as she sat next to her. ‘Girls like me and Rita are doing things we never thought possible before the war. You see, it’s offered us a way of getting out of these streets and trying other things. You know how it is at home with Mum. I don’t want to end up like her, Mrs Minelli, and this is my chance to make something of myself.’ She looked across at Rita for support. ‘Rita understands, don’t you, Rita?’
She nodded, all too aware of Louise’s close scrutiny.
‘Rita has a good life here,’ said Louise comfortably. ‘She has no need to do such a foolish thing when she has me to look after her and give her a proper home.’
Rita knew May was willing her to say something, but realised that if she did it would spoil their last evening together. ‘I’ll make us all a cup of tea,’ she said instead, ‘and then me and May are going to get changed and go out for a drink. As we’re both eighteen, we can now legally go into a pub.’
‘I don’t like you going into those places,’ muttered Louise, rising from her chair to fe
tch cups and saucers. ‘You’ll get a bad reputation, and then how will I face Papa Tino?’
‘We’re just going for a drink, Mamma,’ Rita replied. ‘It’s all quite respectable.’
‘I just don’t understand it. In my day no respectable woman would be seen anywhere near a public house.’ Louise shuddered. ‘Nasty rough places full of drunken men with only one thought on their minds. My father would have taken the strap to me if I so much as went near one.’
The moment was over for now, but as Rita made the tea, she could hear the rustle of the letter jammed in her trouser pocket and feel the awful churning of excitement and dread that knotted her stomach. Louise had to be told, and soon – but not tonight.
It was almost dawn by the time they returned. There had been two air raids during the night and several hours had been spent huddled in the shelters, but it had been a good, happy evening, and they were both pleasantly tired.
‘I’ll leave my stuff at your place so I don’t disturb Louise,’ said May as they halted at the crossroads which would take them on their separate ways. ‘I won’t need most of it, and it’s only fit for the bin anyway.’
‘I’m going to miss you, May,’ said Rita, her voice wobbling dangerously.
They embraced, their tears mingling. ‘You’ll soon be far too busy to miss me,’ managed May as she drew back. ‘We’ll both be up to our eyeballs in learning new stuff, but I’ll never forget you, I promise.’
‘What time are you catching the train?’
May looked at her watch. ‘In just over two hours.’
‘Want me to see you off?’
May shook her head. ‘Better not. It’s hard enough saying goodbye as it is, and the WAAFs won’t appreciate me blubbering like a baby on the platform.’ She gave a shaky smile. ‘Bye, Rita. Best of luck.’
‘Bye, May.’ Rita stood at the crossroads and watched as her friend walked into the gloom of a foggy dawn. Her footsteps rang in the silence and then faded as she was lost from sight. The tears blinded Rita as she turned away and headed for home.
