by Ellie Dean
Doris discovered that she was now on the second step down, the pound note crushed in her gloved hand. ‘Thank you, Lady Anstruther-Norton,’ she managed. ‘It is most kind . . .’
‘Not at all,’ said Sylvia with some asperity. ‘Now, I really do have to go and help in the kitchen. Goodbye, Doris.’
‘Goodbye, Lady Ans . . .’
Sylvia closed the door quietly but firmly, and leaned against it with a deep sigh of relief.
‘Well done,’ breathed Anne as she came into the hall. ‘Aunt Doris was worse than usual today. It must be your august presence and fetching rubber gloves that brought it on,’ she added with a chuckle.
Sylvia grinned. ‘I don’t wish to be rude,’ she said, ‘but please tell me your mother is nothing like her sister.’
Anne laughed. ‘Mum’s the exact opposite and she’d have applauded that performance. Aunt Doris is always turning her nose up at our home and making snide comments about Dad and Grandpa. She winds Mum up like a cuckoo clock.’
‘I know how Peggy feels,’ Sylvia admitted. ‘In fact, Anne, I think my cuckoo expired about ten minutes ago due to an overdose of pomposity and strangled vowels.’
They burst out laughing, and linked arms as they made their happy way back to the peaceful sanctuary of the untidy kitchen.
Three days had passed since that awful confrontation and Rita knew that neither of them would ever forget it. The harsh words had remained between them like an unseen third presence, the thorny topics of leaving Cliffehaven and Rita’s broken dreams firmly avoided.
But as they stepped out of the church after the beautiful midnight mass, and heard the joyous ringing of the bells, Rita felt Louise reach for her hand, and knew that the sense of peace that had come with the lovely service had touched her heart too.
‘Happy Christmas, Mamma,’ she said softly.
‘Happy Christmas, Rita,’ she replied, tucking her hand into Rita’s arm as they stood in the churchyard which glistened with frost and listened to the bells.
They made a joyful sound compared to the awful, spine-chilling wail of the sirens and the drone of enemy planes, and Rita’s pulse quickened with hope that this war would soon be over and the bells could ring every night.
‘Come, Rita, let’s get going before we freeze to death.’
They waved goodbye to their friends and set off from the church for the long walk home. Rita had decided it was far too dangerous to ride the bike down the hill in such weather, and anyway, there was only just enough petrol in the Norton to get them to Peggy’s in the morning. As Rita would be on fire-watch duty tomorrow night, she would refuel at the fire station on the way.
They were bundled up in their thickest coats, scarves wrapped round their heads and necks to stave off the bitter cold, gloved hands dug deep into their pockets. The wind coming off the sea nipped at their noses and made their eyes water, and in its breath was a promise of snow.
‘Perhaps we’ll have a white Christmas,’ said Rita, as they carefully walked along the slippery pavement towards the small park on the edge of Havelock Gardens.
‘I’ve lived here all my life and never seen snow fall on Christmas Day,’ Louise replied.
‘We’re probably too far south,’ muttered Rita as she concentrated on where she placed her feet. She paused and looked round. ‘But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Look how the frost is all lacy in the trees, and the way the spiders’ webs are glittering with it.’
Louise tugged at her arm. ‘It’s too cold to be admiring the view,’ she said, huddling into her coat collar, ‘and we’ve got that hill to climb yet.’
It was only a short walk through Havelock Park to the far western end of the promenade, but the pavement was treacherous and they kept hold of one another until they reached the gravel path that ran through the heart of the small park. The elegant iron benches and ornate railings and gates had been taken to be melted down and made into fighter planes and tanks, and the carefully ordered flower beds and arbours had been demolished to provide vegetable plots and air-raid trenches.
They silently passed the pond and the deserted swings and slides and headed towards the high hedges and grand houses that lined the broad streets of Havelock Gardens. They could still hear the bells, but now they were accompanied by the mournful moan of the foghorn and, as they began the long climb to the asylum, they could see the fog coming in from the sea in swirling clouds.
Disregarding all the blackout rules, Rita switched on the powerful torch she’d borrowed from the fire station. They were now shrouded in fog and couldn’t see a thing. ‘Not much chance of Gerry being out on a night like this,’ she reassured Louise as they slowly went arm in arm up the winding track and negotiated the frozen ruts and icy puddles.
Neither of them regarded the asylum as home, but on this bitter night its promise of sanctuary and warmth drew them ever onwards, safe in the knowledge that no matter how tough things became, they would always have each other.
It was Christmas Day, but the routine of life on a busy farm went on as usual and, once again, Peggy was woken by the low of cows, the rattling of buckets, the crow of roosters, and the fussy clucking of hens. The days began before first light here, for the cows had to be brought in for milking and there always seemed to be something to do.
She lay in the comfortable bed, enjoying these few moments of tranquillity before she went down to help Violet in the vast flagstoned kitchen. It felt odd without Jim lying next to her, for they’d never spent a night apart since their wedding, but it was rather nice to be able to stretch luxuriously across it, wrapped in all the blankets and burrowed in a stack of pillows.
Her room was beneath the heavily beamed eaves of the isolated farmhouse. Warmed by the chimney breast that ran up one side of it, it was a pretty haven with sprigged curtains and bedspread, dark sturdy furniture, faded Turkish rugs, and a tiny latched window that looked out over the farmyard to the fields and the distant lake.
She appreciated the beauty of the rolling Somerset landscape but still couldn’t get used to the emptiness of it all. A town girl at heart, she preferred to have shops nearby and a firm pavement beneath her feet. It was all very well for the boys, they didn’t mind getting muddy and wet, and had no objection to the wide open spaces where they could roam at will from dawn to dusk.
She smiled as she thought of Sally Hicks’ little crippled brother, Ernie. Violet was his aunt, and she had given all three boys sanctuary for the duration. Ernie had blossomed, his once wan face glowing with health, his shambling gait in the restricting caliper much improved as he followed her boys about. It did Peggy’s heart good to see how much he’d come on – for she remembered all too well how desperately needy both he and his sister had been when they’d arrived at Cliffehaven as evacuees at the start of the war. Now Sally was married to the fire chief, John Hicks, and Ernie was thriving in this good country air.
But despite Violet Cardew’s warmth and generous hospitality, Peggy knew she didn’t belong here. She was missing Beach View and the sound of the seagulls and clattering trolleybus, and wished she could gather up her boys and take them home.
Peggy closed her eyes and tried not to mind that Bob and Charlie seemed so content to be here – that, like Ernie, they had so swiftly taken to the warm, motherly Violet, and regarded this rambling farmhouse as their new home.
They’d been thrilled to see her, of course, but after the initial excitement of showing her around the place, they’d happily gone off to help the land girls in the fields, and she hadn’t seen them again until supper. Over the past two weeks she’d barely had more than a snatched hour or two with them as they went about their daily chores, and got embroiled in making camps in the woods or fishing in the nearby river that fed the large pond at the bottom of the field.
She’d tried to join in, but realised fairly quickly that she wasn’t cut out for such rough and tumble, and that they were quite happy to be left to their own devices – in fact, they seemed to prefer it. Feeling rather sorry
for herself, she’d turned to the understanding and ever-patient Violet, who’d gentled her out of her misery and made her see that her boys were just behaving quite naturally and that she shouldn’t take it personally.
The evenings were the best times, for after their bath and tea, they’d sit with her by the blazing fire in the inglenook, wrapped in dressing gowns, drinking hot cocoa and telling her about their day’s adventures. Bob was still the quiet, more thoughtful of the three and, at thirteen, seemed to be taking his responsibility for Ernie and his young brother very seriously indeed. Charlie was his usual exuberant self, chattering away nineteen to the dozen, his little face glowing with health and happiness.
She didn’t resent Violet, in fact she was profoundly grateful that her boys were being so well looked after, but she could already see an indefinable change in them, which would become more apparent the longer they stayed. And yet she had no choice but to leave them here where it was safe. She’d heard about the awful raids along the south coast, and Jim had told her about the damage in Cliffehaven. She couldn’t expose her sons to that, no matter how much she wished them by her side.
Impatient with her dissatisfied thoughts, she clambered out of bed and prepared for the day. The presents were all under the huge tree in the sitting room, and she could smell the turkey roasting. There would be no turkey at Beach View this year, but Jim had assured her there would be plenty of pheasant and duck, courtesy of Ron and Harvey, and that Rosie had donated her extra rations so they could have a proper cake. It sounded as if half of Cliffehaven would be round the table today, for apart from the family and the lodgers, Rosie, Rita and Louise had been invited.
She drew her thick cardigan round her and stared out of the window, not really seeing the view as her thoughts settled on home. She’d had to make some tough decisions recently, and was still torn between the need to be with her boys and the draw of home and the rest of her family. ‘Damned war,’ she muttered crossly. ‘Why did it have to spoil everything?’
She gave a sigh as she put on her sturdy shoes and tied the laces. There was little doubt she would continue to be tormented by her family’s enforced separation, and yet, frustratingly, everyone seemed to be managing very well without her. Her boys were thriving, Martin and Cissy had survived the raid on the airfield, and Beach View was still standing despite the shattered windows. But she had an unsettling feeling that when she’d telephoned, they’d been keeping something from her.
She paused as she reached for the wooden latch on the door. Jim had a glib tongue and could sell sand to the Arabs, but she knew him too well, and suspected he wasn’t telling her the half of it. Anne had been equally evasive, and although her story about the titled lady seemed plausible enough, it somehow didn’t sit right with her.
Lady Sylvia had sounded charming on the telephone, and very posh, but what on earth was she doing at Beach View when she could have stayed in any one of the far grander hotels that remained open? Not all of them had been taken over by the forces, and their accommodation was much more suitable than that draughty bedroom at the front of the house.
She bit her lip, determined not to give in to the awful niggle of doubt, and to enjoy this precious Christmas Day with her sons, for her visit would soon be over, and she had no idea when she might see them again.
Chapter Fifteen
RITA AND LOUISE had exchanged their small gifts of handkerchiefs and cheap scent before they left their billet and set off for Beach View in a happy mood. The snow promised the night before had not materialised and the fog had cleared, so they had an easy run on the Norton.
Beach View dining room was now alive with the chatter of many voices, the delicious aroma of the roast dinner and plum pudding they’d just finished lingering throughout the house. Wrapping paper and bits of string and ribbon littered the floor, and Cissy’s camp bed had been exiled to the cupboard under the stairs.
There had been fewer presents this year, for no one had much money and the shops offered a very poor selection. Rita had managed to find pretty brooches on a market stall for Cissy, Anne and Mrs Finch, and socks for Ron and Jim. She and Louise were delighted with their colourful woolly scarves, gloves and berets.
Rita was happy to sit back and sip wine as she listened to them talking and laughing. Peggy and Jack had both managed to telephone that morning, but their absence was keenly felt, reinforced by the programme on the wireless earlier that day which had arranged for parents and children separated by war to talk to one another.
Listening to those tearful voices, it was as hard for Rita and Louise as it was for Peggy’s family – but she refused to let thoughts of her father, Papa, Roberto and May cloud her happiness, for it was wonderful to be in a real home again, and warming to see how loving and big-hearted the Reilly family was. She gazed about the room, content to soak up the atmosphere.
The big bay windows in the dining room had been boarded up after the last raid, but with the curtains pulled, the room was cosy with the flickering fire in the hearth and the many candles. Holly and ivy had been draped artistically over the mantelpiece and round the big mirror above it. There was a decorated, sweet-smelling pine tree in the corner that had been carried down from the hills by Ron and Jim, and someone had taken the trouble to hang a vast number of paper chains across the ceiling. These acted as a reminder of Bob, Charlie and Ernie, who’d made them the previous year and, according to Jim, they would remain there now until they came home to make new ones.
Rita glanced at Louise, saw that she was talking earnestly to Fran – the nurse with the Irish accent and fiery hair – and returned to her quiet observance.
There were fourteen sitting round the tables that had been put end to end and covered in crisp white linen cloths, and although the china, cutlery and glasses were mismatched, and the chairs had come from just about every room in the house, it didn’t matter a jot. It was the people who counted, and the opportunity to share this special day in a happy atmosphere.
As Rita looked round the table and listened to the laughter, she was made shockingly aware of how dreary her life had become since Tino and Roberto had been taken away. Her horizon had become constricted and she’d fallen into the habit of mirroring Louise’s moods – of not seeing beyond the high walls of their relationship, and burying herself in work and duty.
She glanced at Louise, wondering if she too was aware of the different atmosphere, of the lightness and warmth that could still be maintained despite the dark consequences and fears of the war. But Louise was dabbing at her eyes as she talked to a very patient Fran about Tino and Roberto, and the tragedy of being bombed out. It seemed she would never emerge from that all-encompassing grief.
Rita turned her attention to the others again, unwilling to be drawn into Louise’s unhappiness today. Cissy looked very pretty in a soft pink woollen dress, her damaged arm in a very fetching pink and white scarf which she’d made into a sling. Martin still had some nasty bumps and bruises on his face and around one eye which had turned a jaundiced yellow and angry blue, and his arm was also swathed in a sling – albeit the white one provided by the hospital. The bandage round his head remained, and Rita thought he looked rather like a dashing pirate with his twirled moustache and winning smile.
The three nurses were off duty for once and so they’d dressed in their best clothes for the occasion, and Jim and Ron looked very smart in the suits, shirts and ties that Anne had insisted they wore today. Sylvia was elegant in a moss green skirt and creamy silk blouse, and hadn’t seemed to notice the suspicious glances Rosie shot her every time she laughed and chatted to Ron.
Rita thought it odd that Rosie should feel threatened by Sylvia, for not only was dear old Ron clearly head over heels in love with her, but she looked quite magnificent in the beautifully tailored navy dress that showed off her curvaceous figure admirably.
Anne looked radiant in a sprigged smock and matching cardigan, and she sat next to Martin and held his hand like a new bride. Dear little Mrs Finch was fes
tive in her best grey dress, string of pearls and the paper hat she’d made from an old newspaper.
Christopher had struggled into a shirt and tweed jacket to make up for the pyjama trousers and slippers, the heavy plaster cast on his leg and the cumbersome wheelchair, which had been drawn up at the top of the table where he could sit with a tray across the handles to eat his dinner.
Harvey had been groomed and bathed, and now sat on the floor beneath the tray, waiting patiently for tidbits. Everyone had been warned not to give him vegetables or anything too rich, unless they wanted him to disgrace himself and send them all scurrying for fresh air.
Rita knew she didn’t look half as smart as the others, but the jewelled comb in her hair and the pearl earrings suited her very well, and she was glad her best cardigan, blouse and skirt had been packed in her emergency bag, and not blown sky-high with everything else.
But she did mourn the loss of her one pair of decent shoes, and the make-up Cissy had given her. The rather worn low-heeled pumps she’d found among the donated clothing at the Town Hall had definitely seen better days, and were half a size too small, which meant her toes were being pinched. She’d kicked them off under the table, and just hoped she could get them back on again when it was time to leave.
Ron had brought the wireless into the dining room so they could listen to the King’s speech at three o’clock, and as the time approached, he twiddled with the knobs and they all fell silent. His speech wasn’t very long, but it was clear that he was still struggling with his terrible stutter. But they all agreed it was a vast improvement on the speech he’d given at the outbreak of war.
They were discussing the speech, and the five thousand jerkins that had been parachuted by the RAF into occupied Corfu for the children who were facing enemy action in a bitter winter, when Sylvia came bustling into the room. She was armed with clean glasses and several bottles which she placed in front of Jim.
