Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  They regarded each other for a moment or two as the full import of what she was saying dawned on them both. ‘You should have got the letter,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I never did.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said apologetically, then rather awkwardly, he repeated, ‘Please, help yourself to something to eat.’

  Frankie did as she was bidden but she’d lost her appetite.

  Forty-Three

  Broadwater, North Farm, 1947

  They were saying it was the worst winter for more than fifty years and Frankie could well believe it. The snow began in January and a month later it was still falling. North Farm was all but cut off by a huge snow drift anything up to four feet deep in places.

  Uncle Lorry was frustrated because he knew there was a shortage of root vegetables in the town but he couldn’t get anything out of the ground. He’d tried a pick axe and managed to dig enough for Bet’s stew pot but it was too much like hard work to do it on a larger scale. They said on the wireless – the broadcasts were severely restricted because of the power cuts – that in some places farmers were using pneumatic drills to get their crops out of the ground.

  Although Uncle Lorry and Aunt Bet kept their chickens indoors, several of them died, freezing to death overnight. Frankie did her best to keep Lillian Rose warm and with no income coming in, her small savings kept the family afloat.

  Down in Broadwater, Sidney Knight’s neighbours, desperate for fuel, had finally broken into his coal hole. The small garden at the back of the property was hideously overgrown. They’d had to beat back brambles and overgrown Buddleia and dig their way through a snow drift to make their way in.

  Gwen Fielding had been the one who had mentioned the coal hole. ‘He always kept it filled,’ she’d said. ‘And nobody’s been in that place since he died. There must be a stack of the stuff down there.’

  ‘We can’t just take it, can we?’ said Maureen Bishop. ‘That would be stealing, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Who from?’ Gwen retorted. ‘The man’s dead.’

  ‘His relatives perhaps,’ Bill Bishop suggested.

  ‘Look,’ said Gwen. ‘He’s been gone for months. Nobody ever came to his place when he was alive and nobody’s been there since he died. I’m guessing he didn’t make a will and they can’t find any relatives. The whole place is going to rack and ruin while here we’re sitting here freezing to death for lack of a fire. I say we have a legitimate reason to go in there and get that coal.’

  Put like that, no one was likely to argue so the small deputation, armed with buckets and shovels, made their way around the back of the house and eventually climbed in.

  It smelled very damp and they could hear scuffling. Clearly the only occupants were rats and mice. To their absolute delight the coal hole was quite full so they agreed to make several trips, and involve a couple of other needy neighbours. It was after the third visit that Bill spotted something at the back near the wall. At first he panicked, thinking they’d uncovered a body. On closer inspection and under the light from several torches, they could see the bulky object was, in fact, a mail bag. Not only that, but there were two of them.

  ‘Good God,’ cried Bill. ‘There was that Post Office robbery, wasn’t there?’

  ‘That was years ago,’ said Isaac Fielding.

  ‘I reckon that’s where they come from,’ said Bill. ‘We’d better get the police.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Gwen. ‘What are you going to say when they ask you what you were doing in Sidney’s cellar?’

  It was a valid point and everyone was stumped. ‘We ought to tell them somehow,’ said Maureen. ‘Some of this mail could be important.’

  Everyone agreed with her, but they were all too scared to risk being caught.

  Some days it looked as if things would improve and the services began again, but more often than not, as quickly as a thaw had begun, the weather conditions deteriorated rapidly. The snow came down with a vengeance early one Sunday evening in February. On his way to feed the animals Uncle Lorry spotted a broken down bus on the road to Sompting village. Thinking he saw movement inside, he struggled down the path and found five passengers, three children, a woman and an old man, huddled together as they tried to keep warm. The driver had set out for Broadwater to seek help.

  ‘He left about an hour ago,’ said the middle-aged woman, cuddling a small child.

  ‘I doubt he’ll persuade anyone to turn out in this weather,’ said the old man. ‘There was another chap, but he’s just gone to see if there’s a pub hereabouts that’ll take us in for the night.’

  It was obvious they couldn’t stay there much longer so Lorry encouraged them to come up to the farm. They left a note for the driver and the man who had gone to look for accommodation and set off. The three children were crying with the cold by the time they all reached the back door.

  Aunt Bet welcomed them in a way that soon had everyone feeling a lot more cheerful. Frankie recognised the woman with the small child. Margery had been Doreen’s landlady and the child was her neighbour’s little daughter. ‘Her mummy is in Southlands hospital,’ she explained, ‘and I’m looking after Vera until she’s well again. The child misses her so much I thought we’d take advantage of the better weather and go over to see her.’ Margery threw back her head and laughed. ‘More fool me, eh.’

  Frankie gave her a quick hug. ‘You always did have a big heart.’

  The other two children had been to Lancing to visit their grandmother. Aged eight and ten, they’d been trusted to catch the bus on their own.

  ‘Is your mother on the phone?’ Frankie asked. She could imagine that the poor woman being demented with worry. The boy, Brian, shook his head.

  ‘But Mrs Cowley next-door has one,’ said Sally, his sister.

  Fortunately the telephone was still working and ten minutes later, they had put their mother’s mind at rest. ‘Your father says he will be up first thing in the morning to fetch you,’ Frankie told them as she put the receiver down.

  The old man sat hunched over the fire while the three women busied themselves doing their best to make everyone feel better. Frankie filled hot-water bottles and distributed blankets and Margery made the tea. Uncle Lorry stoked up the fire with their precious fuel to warm the room while Aunt Bet padded out their meal with more potatoes and a couple of swedes Uncle Lorry had pick-axed out of the ground.

  Once she was warm, Vera wanted to play with Lillian and Uncle Lorry showed the other children a collection of Alan’s old comics and his train set. It didn’t take long for the unpleasant feelings of cold and misery to vanish.

  By the time the man who had gone looking for accommodation arrived, they were all sitting down to a piping hot bowl of stew.

  As he came in, he took off his gloves and blew on his hands. ‘Couldn’t find anywhere,’ he said. ‘The pub down the road is all closed up. There’s a note on the door saying they’ve got no coal and they’ve gone to relatives.’

  He was a tall man, about Frankie’s age or maybe slightly older, muscular and with a warm smile. His good looks were slightly impaired by a deep scar on the right side of his cheek. It was not unlike the scar on Basil Radford’s cheek. The actor who had starred in one of Frankie’s favourite films, The Lady Vanishes, had sustained his wound in the trenches but this chap was far too young to have been in the Great War. As the man introduced himself to everyone as Edward Hammond, ‘just call me Ed,’ she wondered how he had got his wound.

  The children were all exhausted so it didn’t take long to persuade them to go to bed. Vera and Sally were given Frankie’s bed, and Brian was given a make-shift bed on the landing. Margery and Frankie were to share Alan and Ronald’s room, while the old man was given the sofa. Ed insisted he’d be fine on the floor of the sitting room.

  Gradually the others went to bed, but Frankie stayed in the kitchen for a while chatting to Ed. He seemed a nice chap. He’d spent most of the war in Italy, sometimes in the thick of a terrible battle, part of the ti
me as a POW, and after the fall of Mussolini, he’d been posted to Germany.

  ‘I’d most likely still be there if it weren’t for me war wound,’ he quipped.

  ‘Looks as if it was pretty painful,’ said Frankie.

  ‘When it happened it made me eyes water for a bit,’ he joked, ‘but I was lucky. The doc reckoned another millimetre and the bullet would have taken half my face away. One good thing, it got me an early discharge.’ He put his hand to his face as if he was in terrible agony and then grinned. Although slightly embarrassed, Frankie smiled.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  Normally when anyone asked her what she’d done in the war, Frankie was frugal with information. She would tell them about her dispatch rider days but only say, ‘My husband was killed.’ She’d been talking for about twenty minutes when she realised she had told Ed everything. He listened intently but unlike when he’d told her of his own experiences, he made no flippant remarks or jokes.

  The clock struck midnight. ‘I suppose I’d better let you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Perhaps we could do it again some time?’

  Frankie hesitated. She had enjoyed talking to him as well but she wasn’t ready for anything else. He must have seen something in her expression because he raised his hand defensively and said, ‘A cup of tea and a chat somewhere, that’s all. Promise.’

  She nodded shyly. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, and she meant it.

  *

  As it turned out, Frankie enjoyed being with Ed. He seemed to sense that she didn’t want to be hurried into any sort of relationship and yet as the weeks went by, she looked forward to his coming to the farm more and more. He took her to places she’d never been before. They enjoyed a meal out in some posh place far out in the country, or, more often than not, they’d simply go to the pictures. Later in the year they travelled to Brighton where he took her to the Theatre Royal to see Charley’s Aunt.

  ‘They’re offering a tour of backstage if you’re interested,’ Ed said as they arrived.

  ‘I’ve never been backstage before,’ said Frankie. The play was great fun. Afterwards, those who had paid a bit extra waited in the foyer for their guide. It was fascinating.

  ‘Built in 1807,’ the guide told them, ‘the theatre is one of the surviving “hemp houses” where every piece of scenery is raised and lowered into position by teams of men pulling on ropes.’

  They were given a short demonstration and Frankie marvelled at their skill. As they stood with their heads craned back, Ed slipped his hand over hers and laced their fingers. It gave Frankie a delicious tingling feeling.

  ‘I’m sure I’d pull the wrong rope,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ Ed agreed and the room was filled with his deep-throated chuckle.

  Ed had had his share of heartache too. His fiancée had been killed when the house where she was staying received a direct hit. ‘I was in Italy at the time,’ he said, ‘trying to get leave so that we could get married, but it wasn’t to be.’

  ‘Oh that’s so sad,’ said Frankie. ‘Sometimes the army can be so mean.’

  ‘It wasn’t their fault,’ he said. ‘My group was overrun and we were taken prisoner.’

  It would be two long years before he was released and by that time, Jenny was long gone.

  Now that he was back in civvy street, Ed was a jeweller by trade. His family owned a jeweller’s shop in South Street in Worthing so she had to get used to him travelling to Amsterdam quite frequently to visit some dealer with uncut diamonds for sale. Increasingly, as time went by, she missed him. She missed his throaty laughter and his sense of fun. She missed his cosy bear hugs and lately, his more passionate kisses. He was a big man with coal dark hair and blue-grey eyes who seemed to get better looking every time she saw him. In fact she hardly noticed his scar anymore.

  Lillian adored him. Calling him Uncle Ed, she would run to him on her chubby little legs and he would swing her high above his head. Frankie loved hearing her excited squeal and her chuckle of laughter as he tickled her tummy but sometimes it brought a pang of regret. Romare should have been doing that. Poor little lamb. She would grow up without ever knowing her father. The fact that children who had lost their fathers in the war were two a penny didn’t help. Frankie would feel her eyes smarting because this was her child and her husband. She knew she would have to let go soon, but she wasn’t ready yet. As 1947 turned into 1948, she looked forward to the day when Ed would ask her to marry him, but at the same time, she dreaded it.

  Forty-Four

  Broadwater Green, Worthing, 1950

  Barbara Miles stood in front of the hall mirror and patted her hair. Opening her handbag, she drew out her new Helena Rubinstein lipstick. According to the latest glossy magazines, deep red was to be the colour of the fifties and now, at last, she could afford to be at the forefront of fashion. She leaned forward and applied the vivid shade, pressed her lips together and then opened her mouth to get rid of any overspill at the corners with her finger.

  She paused for a moment beside her marital bed. When she’d married Norman at the tail end of 1946, she had thought she was in for a life of drudgery but things had turned out very differently. She smoothed down the already smooth counterpane and thought of her nights sharing this bed with Norman. She had been surprised to find that he was such a gentle lover, so much so that it didn’t take long for her to yearn for his touch. Her husband’s love making was so unlike Conrad’s hasty fumblings. Conrad had only ever made love to her in a bed once and that was in some seedy bedsit someone had lent him for the evening. Most of the time they were outside and he was in a hurry. They’d almost been caught out by a man walking his dog in Steyne Gardens once. It seemed funny at the time but the whole incident filled her with horror now. What on earth had she been thinking? Norman was so much nicer. Thank God he’d waited for her. She glanced around, admiring the pale pink curtains and cream walls. Who would have thought she would be lucky enough to have such a lovely home and be as well off as this? Shortly after his appointment to the finance department in the council, Norman had risen quickly through the ranks and was now deputy head of department.

  She chewed her lip anxiously. How ironic. Now that she had the letter in her hand, all of this could be in danger. As she hurried down the stairs she could feel that unsettled feeling coming back into her stomach again. Behind her, Barbara heard Alice, her daily woman, coming downstairs with the Hoover and as she turned towards her, she was rewarded by Alice’s admiring glance. Barbara smiled uncertainly.

  ‘You can go as soon as you’ve tidied the kitchen, Alice,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Your money is on the table.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Miles,’ Alice murmured.

  Outside a taxi tooted and Alice leaned the Hoover against the wall to open the door. Barbara walked through calling, ‘See you on Thursday, Alice, and thank you.’ The taxi driver had come around the side of the vehicle and as he opened the door, Barbara stepped inside. ‘Goring-by-Sea Post Office, please.’

  Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, Barbara opened her handbag to check that she had remembered to put in the letter. She ran her fingers over the buff coloured envelope. She didn’t get it out. Since it had arrived a week ago, she’d read it so many times she knew it off by heart.

  Dear Mrs Miles

  As you may have seen in the national newspapers, certain mailbags dating from 1944 have recently come into our possession. These bags include a letter addressed to you in your maiden name and the contents have been made known to a third party. We wish to return your property but would respectfully request that you attend the General Post Office building at the above address on Tuesday May 11th 1950 at 11.30am to that end.

  Barbara frowned anxiously. That letter could only have come from one person. Conrad.

  It only took about fifteen minutes to get to the Post Office. She paid the taxi driver and ran up the steps. At the top, a large man, obviously a bit drunk, bumped into her.

/>   ‘Sorry, lady,’ he said lifting a rather greasy looking hat. She could smell his whiskey-soaked breath. Barbara shuddered inwardly and, ignoring his apology, put her nose in the air and walked on.

  She turned just inside the door and was slightly alarmed to see that the man had followed her. Clutching her handbag closer, in her anxiety to get right away from him she bumped into someone else and apologised profusely. To her immense surprise, it was Frankie. Her short bobbed fair hair was styled attractively and she was smartly dressed in woodland green cigarette pants with a high waist band. She looked amazing. Her short jacket was rust coloured and the open neck print blouse underneath mirrored both colours. There was a kerchief knotted at her neck and she carried a small tan shoulder bag.

  ‘Barbara!’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to fetch a letter,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Me too!’ cried Frankie.

  The drunk wobbled towards them. Barbara linked her arm through Frankie’s and both women turned their attention in the direction of the Post Office cashiers. Having shown her the letter, they were both ushered into a small corridor where a row of green chairs stood against the wall. Several other people were already waiting. Frankie and Barbara sat on the end of the row.

  ‘You look as white as a sheet,’ Frankie remarked.

  ‘It’s that letter,’ said Barbara speaking in hushed tones. ‘I think it must be from Conrad.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Frankie. ‘After all this time?’

  ‘Oh Frankie, I wanted him to write for so long but I don’t think I could cope with it right now. Norman and I are happy.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Frankie said in a low voice. ‘They told me the letters dated from 1944. You had Derek years before that.’ She put a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. ‘Don’t go jumping the gun.’

  Barbara looked down. ‘But I wrote to him one last time in 1944.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re worrying about nothing.’ Frankie said with an encouraging smile. ‘By the way, how is your mother?’