by Ellie Dean
Mary smiled back. ‘It’s far less stressful to be a part of an orchestra than sitting behind the piano on my own, believe me.’ She glanced at the clock again. ‘I’m sorry, Peggy, but I really do have to go.’
Fetching her coat, gas mask and overnight bag from the hall, Mary returned to the kitchen and gave Peggy a big hug. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate how difficult you must have found it to tell me such things last night, and I’m very grateful.’
Peggy pushed her dark curls away from her face. ‘I’m glad you feel like that, Mary. It can’t have been easy for you either. But as long as you’re able to put it all behind you and get on with your new life here in Cliffehaven, then I’m happy.’
‘I’ll see you tonight then. Seven o’clock outside the Anchor.’
‘We’ll be there, dear, don’t you fret. Now run along and have a good day.’
Mary waved goodbye to Cordelia, who’d finally looked up from her newspaper, and then ran down the steps and out into the garden.
It was a bright, brisk morning, with the sun shining from a clear sky, and the wind holding the saltiness of the sea. White gulls swooped and hovered above the rooftops, their wings gilded by the sunlight as their mournful, raucous cries heralded a new day.
Mary took a deep breath and began to walk down the twitten towards the street that led up the hill, and eventually to the factory estate. She was freed from her search into the past and although she still deeply mourned her father Gideon’s passing, she could now forget about Cyril Fielding and the feckless girl who’d given birth to her, and look forward to this new life in Cliffehaven.
Chapter Two
ROSIE BRAITHWAITE PUSHED back her platinum hair and heaved a sigh of exasperation. She’d just collected up the dirty glasses, scattered newspapers and a full ashtray from her sitting room and carried it all into the tiny kitchen. On seeing the mess there, she immediately stormed into her brother’s bedroom without knocking.
‘I will not have you turning my home into a pigsty,’ she snapped.
Tommy was lounging in bed having a cigarette and quickly pulled up the bedclothes over his bare chest. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d knock before you came crashing in here,’ he protested.
‘And I’d appreciate it if you showed some respect for me and my home,’ she retorted, her horrified gaze taking in the clothes flung on the floor, the dirty cups and plates, discarded magazines and overflowing ashtray.
‘Aw, come on, Sis,’ he drawled, flashing her one of his most charming smiles as he ran his fingers through his brutally short hair. ‘I’ve been out with the ARP all night, and what with having to report to the police station every day and do a shift with the Civil Defence Service, I can’t be expected to turn my hand to housework as well.’
Rosie could no longer be moved by that smile, for she’d long since learned it was utterly false. She folded her arms and looked at him with little affection. Her younger brother had been the bane of her life ever since he’d discovered he had a talent for charming people out of their money. Now, because of her stupid sense of family loyalty, she was stuck with him until his term of probation was over. It was going to be a long six months.
‘Get up and put on some clothes,’ she said crossly. ‘Then clean this mess and sort out my kitchen – you’ve got time before you have to report in to the police.’
The charming smile faded and the indolence disappeared as he sat up. ‘I don’t appreciate being ordered about as if I was a kid,’ he retorted. ‘I had enough of that in prison.’
‘Then start behaving like a grown-up. For goodness’ sake, Tommy, you’re forty-five, and your bad behaviour has led you to my door, yet again. Pull yourself together and at least try to make an effort.’
‘It’s not easy,’ he replied, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘People have long memories, so how am I supposed to be able to start again with a clean sheet?’
‘There are no clean sheets as far as you’re concerned,’ she said wearily. ‘And if people have long memories, then I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with it and show them you really mean to mend your ways.’
‘That’s all very well,’ he grumbled, reaching for his pyjama jacket. ‘But someone’s been asking questions about me, and I don’t like it.’
Rosie frowned. She was afraid this would happen, for Tommy’s past was littered with wrong-doing and she suspected there were several people who would have liked to get their revenge on him. ‘What sort of questions?’ she asked.
He suddenly looked shifty and gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Just asking about me.’
‘Well, you only have yourself to blame,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Though why anyone should be asking after you when most people in the town know you’re living here is a little odd. If they have something to say to you, then why not just come out and say it?’
He shrugged again and his gaze slid away from her.
She recognised the evasion and knew he was hiding something. ‘I don’t want any trouble, Tommy,’ she warned. ‘This is a respectable pub and it’s taken me years to turn it into a good business. If you have people after you, then you can settle any disputes outside these four walls. Is that understood?’
He nodded, his expression sour.
‘And what were you doing with Eileen Harris last night?’ She saw he was about to deny it and hurried on. ‘I saw you meeting her outside and going off with her – and I will not have you bringing her in here.’
‘Which is why we met in the street,’ he said sulkily. ‘We had things to discuss, that’s all.’
Rosie took a deep breath. ‘Just keep her away from me,’ she said coldly. ‘Now get dressed and sort out your mess.’ Not waiting for a reply, she left the room and slammed the door behind her, which made the poor brindled pup, Monty, cringe.
Deciding she couldn’t stand being indoors any longer, she soothed the pup and clipped the lead to his collar, then fetched her coat and flat shoes and went downstairs. Once she’d reached the pavement, she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air and felt instantly better.
Monty pulled on the lead so he could sniff at everything before he watered it, so it was a while before Rosie reached the end of the road and tried to head towards the seafront.
Monty had other ideas and began to pull in the opposite direction. His sire, Harvey, lived up the hill with Ron at Beach View, and that’s where he wanted to go.
‘Come on, Monty, we’re not visiting him today. We’re going down to the prom so you can chase the gulls.’ She stroked his brindled head before rather forcefully dragging him down the hill. He was only a few months old but already large and ungainly, and could pull ferociously hard on the lead, so when he decided he rather liked the idea of the seafront and took off at a gallop, she almost had to run to keep up with him.
The promenade had been closed off from the mined beach by huge coils of barbed wire and several gun emplacements, and now it was deserted. Rosie let Monty off the lead and watched as he raced back and forth, barking at the seagulls. He was a sweet dog, but a ruddy nuisance at times – just like Harvey – and yet he’d become an intrinsic part of her rather lonely life these past few months, and now she couldn’t imagine not having him.
A bit like Ron, really, she thought with an affectionate smile. Darling, scruffy, naughty Ron – with his twinkling Irish eyes and stout heart; how she adored him. And how very much she would have liked to start a new life with him.
She ran her fingers through her platinum hair and lifted her face to the weak sun as she fought the regrets. Her poor sick husband would never leave the asylum, and all the while he was alive, the law forbade her to divorce him – so she was stuck in this half-life of being alone and yet not free to follow her dreams.
Her conscience bothered her frequently, for although she and Ron had never slept together, she was guilty of being unfaithful to her husband, for she’d given her heart to Ron. But the real guilt lay in the knowledge that she couldn’t find the lon
ged-for happiness with him until her husband died – and yet to wish him gone was a terrible sin. She gave a wry smile and began to slowly follow Monty down the promenade. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, and there were none so adept at feeling guilty about everything.
She determinedly pushed these thoughts aside, for she’d survived the situation for two decades and would continue to do so until things were resolved one way or the other. Her husband could live for many more years and Ron could get tired of waiting – or he could die and Ron might change his mind about marriage. After all, he’d long been a widower, was very set in his ways, and would find it extremely difficult to settle down to a new way of life with her.
Their relationship, as it was, gave them both a deep, loving friendship with the added spice of secrecy and stolen kisses in their moments alone. It could change radically if they lived together, for she liked order, and Ron was chaotic at the best of times.
Rosie pulled up her coat collar against the wind, and after a brief, sorrowful glance at the piles of rubble that had once been the Grand Hotel and two boarding houses, she continued her walk.
It was good to be free of her brother’s company and the rigours of running a busy pub for a little while. Yet, at fifty-two, the late nights were beginning to take their toll, and although she still loved the camaraderie of a full bar and the ring of her till as the money poured in, she knew that she’d come to rely increasingly on darling Ron’s continuous and unstinting support.
Not that she was ready to sell up and retire – the thought of living in a small flat or bungalow with nothing to do all day was deeply depressing. But no one realised how much it took to run a pub – especially in wartime – for there was far more to it than standing behind a bar and chatting to the punters while you pulled pints.
There were licences to fill in, orders to make, stock checks and pipe-cleaning to be done so the barrels of beer didn’t spoil. There were unexpected visits from the inspectors and police to check she was keeping a respectable house and wasn’t serving under-aged drinkers or trying to sell black-market booze. Restrictions on everything meant that supplies of beer and spirits were getting lower by the month, and the busy lunchtime sessions and the much longer evening ones took time to clear up once the door was shut behind the last customer.
It was a matter of pride to plaster on a smile, put on her make-up, tight skirt and frilly blouse, and to slip on her high heels, for she saw her role as landlady much like the leading part in a theatre production, and the clothes and shoes were her props. Yet, at the end of the night, her feet were aching, her clothes stank of cigarette smoke and spilled beer – and the empty bed upstairs was not at all inviting.
She watched as Monty began to chase a seagull, and then realised in horror that he wasn’t looking where he was going. ‘Monty, stop! Stop now!’ she shouted as she began to run towards him.
Monty chose not to hear her, and was so intent upon catching the gull that as it flew above the coiled barbed wire, he took a great leap after it. With a howl of pain he was instantly snared.
‘Monty, oh, God, Monty,’ panted Rosie as she reached him. ‘Keep still or you’ll hurt yourself even more.’
Monty howled piteously and squirmed even harder.
Careless of the damage the sharp barbs would do to her hands, Rosie tried to ease back the wire and grab his collar so his flailing paws couldn’t reach the mined shingle. ‘Keep still,’ she begged as he continued to whine and yelp and wriggle.
But his long legs were caught, the barbs sticking more firmly into him every time he struggled. Rosie was almost in tears.
‘Let me help.’
Rosie shot a glance at the woman and froze. It was Eileen Harris. ‘I can manage,’ she said stiffly.
‘No, you can’t, and your poor dog’s suffering,’ she replied as she held back several coils of wire with her gloved hands.
Rosie didn’t stop to think. She grabbed the other side of the wire and together she and Eileen managed to extricate Monty. Clipping on his lead, Rosie ran her torn and bloody hands over him. There were tears and scratches and he’d lost several clumps of hair, but he was pulling on the lead, ready to chase another gull. ‘I think I’m worse off than he is,’ she said ruefully, her voice unsteady with relief as she looked at her damaged hands.
‘You’d better get them seen to before they get infected,’ said Eileen, patting Monty.
‘Thanks for your help,’ said Rosie awkwardly as she found a clean handkerchief to dab at the wounds. ‘I couldn’t have got him out on my own.’
Eileen nodded, her expression giving nothing away. ‘It wasn’t all my fault, you know,’ she said quietly into the tense silence that had fallen between them.
Rosie felt the prickle of dislike raise the hairs on her neck. ‘Why should I believe you?’ Her voice was flat with loathing, for this woman had lied to her and betrayed her in the worst way possible.
‘Because it’s true,’ Eileen replied. She reached out her gloved hand and quickly withdrew it again as Rosie flinched from it. ‘If you’d only let me explain,’ she began.
‘I’ve heard enough of your lies to last me a lifetime,’ snapped Rosie. ‘Thank you for helping me with Monty – but don’t think that’s earned you even one more second of my time.’
Ignoring the pain in her hands, she tugged on the lead and marched away from Eileen, furious that she’d had to rely on the woman for anything after all the terrible hurt she’d caused in the past.
Mary had spent the day sorting through the airgraphs to categorise them into separate piles according to the service or theatre of war of the recipients. It was tedious work, made a little less so by the radio programmes being piped into the vast warehouse, the company of Jenny and the other girls who worked beside her, and the thought of all the men who would receive these letters from their loved ones. One day, she too would be sending and receiving such letters, for even if Jack didn’t pass his test for the commandos, he would still be sent abroad. The thought didn’t thrill her, for she dreaded the moment they would have to part – and the doubtlessly long periods of time they would be separated until this war was over.
She emerged from the Kodak factory at five, to find Ivy waiting for her, and they walked past the guard at the gate of the enormous factory estate, and down the hill in the darkness.
‘There’s that woman again,’ Ivy muttered.
Mary glanced across the road to the shadowy figure they’d seen waiting there the past two evenings. ‘I wonder who she’s waiting for,’ she replied without much interest. ‘She must get very cold standing about like that.’
Ivy shrugged and dismissed any further discussion on the subject. ‘I’m really looking forward to tonight,’ she said, her elfin face lit with excitement. ‘All me mates are coming, so it should be a good turnout.’
Mary’s feelings about the evening ahead were mixed, for although she was looking forward to being an intrinsic part of a happy evening, she definitely wasn’t keen on the idea of bumping into Tommy Findlay.
She shook off the doubts and smiled at her friend. ‘The more the merrier,’ she said lightly. ‘Peggy and everyone from Beach View are coming too, and there might even be a bit of added entertainment tonight.’
She went on to tell Ivy about Fran and her fiddle.
‘Cor, that would be good,’ Ivy exclaimed. ‘We ’ad ever such good nights at the Dog and Duck back in ‘Ackney. The landlady were a dab’ and at the Joanna, and there was more’n a few locals what could get a good tune out of penny whistles and a squeeze box.’
‘Let’s just hope Doris kept the violin and that Fran can actually play it, otherwise you’ll just have to put up with me,’ Mary said.
They carried on walking and Ivy chattered away about what they’d wear, who they might meet and which songs were the most popular. As they crossed the humpbacked bridge, they waved to the stationmaster, Stan, who was standing outside his Nissen hut ticket office having a gossip with one of his elderly pals, and then th
ey hurried on down the hill to Havelock Road.
‘Take off that filthy footwear immediately,’ said Doris as they came through the front door. ‘I will not have you traipsing dirt through my house.’
Duly chastened, they shed shoes and boots and hung their coats on the rack in the hall. ‘I was wondering, Mrs Williams,’ said Mary, ‘if you still happen to have your violin?’
Doris frowned and looked down her nose. ‘How do you know about that?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Your sister remembered you’d bought one several years ago – and I wondered if you’d be kind enough to lend it to me,’ replied Mary carefully.
Doris’s eyes lit up with almost greedy excitement. ‘You can play the violin? But why didn’t you say? I could have arranged for you to—’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Mary hastily. ‘It’s not for me, but for a friend. I couldn’t play a violin to save my life.’
Doris thought about this and then sniffed. ‘And who is this friend?’
Warned by Peggy that Doris didn’t like Fran, Mary knew she would have to fib. ‘It’s a girl I met the other night,’ she hedged. ‘She’s from Dublin, and when she heard I was playing at the Anchor, she said that if only she had her fiddle she’d have loved to accompany me.’ Well, it was a sort of truth.
‘And is this girl a respectable sort?’
‘Yes, very,’ said Mary firmly.
‘My violin is not a fiddle,’ Doris said snootily. ‘It is of very good quality and I bought it in London when my Anthony was a boy.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Mary rather breathlessly. ‘And I promise to take very good care of it.’
Doris seemed satisfied with this. ‘I have no intention of getting covered in dust and spiders’ webs, so if you want it, then you’ll have to go into the attic to find it.’ She pointed to a hatch in the ceiling above the upstairs landing. ‘But you will come directly down without poking and prying into my private things – and if there is even a single scratch on that violin after today, I shall be seeking reparation,’ she warned.
