by Ellie Dean
Each year they had decorated the church with wreaths of holly, ivy and mistletoe, and dozens of candles that were lit for the midnight service. The Nativity crib, which looked a little more battered every time it came out of storage, had always been placed by the font, and each year she’d watched in awe as Gideon lovingly mended the wooden figures and repainted Mary’s blue robes and the golden halo above the baby Jesus’ head.
Gideon had always let her help decorate the sweet-scented tree in the sitting room with tinsel and silver baubles, and when she’d been very young, he’d lifted her up so she could put the rather scruffy angel right on the top. Then there was the stocking hanging by the fire, the plate of mince pies and carrots left for Father Christmas and his reindeer – and Christmas mornings, and the magic of presents followed by the morning service around the crib. And then home to turkey and silly parlour games with their visitors before a tea of iced fruit cake and turkey sandwiches. Once the evening had drawn in, Gideon would tuck her into her snug bed and read the story of that first Christmas in his melodic Welsh tones that soon sent her happily to sleep.
Every memory was redolent with Gideon, and Christmas could never be the same now he was gone. The knowledge that she would never hear his lilting voice again or feel his comforting arms around her made her heart ache, and she was blinded with sudden tears.
‘Are you all right, dearie?’ The plump woman in the white overall looked at her in concern as she cleared the dishes onto a tray.
Mary hastily blinked back her tears and gave a tremulous smile. ‘Just feeling a bit homesick,’ she replied.
‘Yes, it’s tough on you young ones at Christmas,’ the woman said in sympathy. Then she smiled. ‘Never you mind, dear. We’ll soon have that blooming Hitler on the run and then we’ll all get to go home.’ She picked up the tray and waddled off.
Mary was strangely cheered by this, and she pushed back from the table and headed for the door. There would be other Christmases and the pain of her loss would gradually fade as Jack came home and life returned to normal – but for now she had to keep her chin up and get on with things as best she could.
Looking out, she realised that at least it had stopped raining, even though the wind was still blustering. She pulled up her coat collar, tucked her umbrella under her arm, hitched her handbag and gas-mask box straps over her shoulder and hurried towards the gate.
She saw the woman pacing back and forth on the other side of the high fence, her chin tucked into her coat collar, her dark hair covered in a headscarf, and recognised her as the same one she and Ivy had seen several times before. Who she was and what she was doing there was a bit of a puzzle, but they’d come to the conclusion that she must have been waiting for someone to come off their shift.
Mary was about to head down the hill when the woman called out, ‘Excuse me! Are you Mary Jones?’ She stopped walking and looked at the woman, who was probably in her late thirties, maybe early forties. She was of medium height and very slender, her dark hair glinting from droplets of rain, and now she was closer to her, she looked rather familiar, though Mary couldn’t think why. ‘Yes, I’m Mary,’ she said with a frown.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I startled you,’ the woman said. ‘But I’ve been trying to catch you alone so we could talk in private.’
Mary’s frown deepened. ‘Do I know you?’
The woman shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am.’ She put her hand on Mary’s arm and drew her further from the curious guard at the gate. ‘But if you’re the girl who’s been asking about Cyril Fielding, then I need to have a serious talk with you.’
Mary’s pulse began to race. ‘You know Cyril?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied dryly. ‘Can I ask why you’re trying to find him?’
Mary looked into the carefully made-up face and thought swiftly. This woman could be Cyril’s wife, or some women he’d abandoned or cheated out of money. She would have to tread carefully. ‘I really don’t think that is any of your business,’ she said politely. ‘And anyway, how did you know I was looking for him?’
‘You were asking about him in the Lilac Tearooms.’
‘But that was weeks ago. Why didn’t you say something then?’
‘I have my reasons,’ the woman said cryptically. ‘But I should warn you, Cyril Fielding is not a man to be trusted, and it would be wise to stop asking after him.’
Mary regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I’ve already heard a great deal about Cyril – none of which gives me the slightest desire to have anything to do with him. How do you know him?’
‘I met him many years ago, and got to know him too well,’ the woman replied bitterly.
Mary thought she understood now: this must be one of his numerous discarded women. ‘I’m sorry if he did you wrong,’ she sympathised. ‘And it was very kind of you to warn me about him, but I can assure you, I really am not interested in finding him any more.’
The woman’s tense shoulders relaxed and she pulled her coat collar more firmly round her neck. ‘Good, because whatever reason you had for trying to find him would only have ended in trouble.’
Mary regarded her steadily as they were buffeted by the wind. ‘You speak as if he’s still here in Cliffehaven – but I was told that he’d left long ago, and no one has seen him since.’
Something sparked fleetingly in the woman’s eyes before she looked away. ‘Cyril certainly left, but there are some round here who have long memories, so talking about him would just stir things up.’
This was just what Peggy had said. But Mary was intrigued by this woman who clearly hated Cyril enough to come and stand outside the factory gate waiting until she was alone to warn her off. ‘Well, I’m very grateful to you for making the effort to talk to me about all this, but why won’t you at least tell me your name, and how you got involved with Cyril?’
‘As I said before, it doesn’t matter who I am. I’m just wondering what business a young girl like you would have with a man like Cyril.’
Mary realised then that the woman would tell her nothing. ‘Private business,’ she said mildly so as not to give offence. ‘Now, I really do have to go because I have to be somewhere.’
‘Yes, I know. You play at the Anchor, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Are you one of the regulars? I don’t remember seeing you there.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I’m not welcome at the Anchor,’ she said flatly. She suddenly gripped Mary’s arm, her expression intense. ‘Watch out for Tommy Findlay. He might appear to be charming, but he’s a snake.’
Mary was startled and immediately wary. The woman was too intense, too persistent – and far too secretive. A shiver of apprehension ran down her spine as she eased her arm from the stranger’s grip. ‘I already know all about Tommy, and believe me, I keep well away from him.’
The woman nodded and stepped back. ‘Good. Make sure you keep it that way.’ She turned abruptly and headed quickly down the hill.
Mary watched until she was lost in the darkness, then she shivered again before she slowly followed her. It had been an extraordinary and unsettling conversation, and although it had confirmed that she’d done the right thing by bringing her search for Cyril to an end, Mary had the feeling that there had been far more to that woman than she’d first thought.
Her footsteps faltered and she came to a sudden halt as she remembered where she’d seen her before. Yes, it had been outside the factory gates – but before that she’d seen her outside the Anchor, with Findlay, and he’d called her Eileen.
It had been a worrying few days for Peggy, but a telephone call three nights ago had finally put her mind at ease over Martin. He’d been held up on his journey from visiting his parents and had then been ordered back to immediate duty. He hadn’t had the time to telephone but had sent a message through one of his admin staff, which obviously hadn’t reached her. He apologised profusely for worrying her, and promised to try and visit over the Christmas period if his duties allowed.
<
br /> Peggy hoped he could make it, for she didn’t like the thought of him stuck at the airfield without any of his family to share the day with. Yet the same applied to Cissy, for she’d telephoned in tears and said she had to remain on duty at least until New Year’s Eve – and even that wasn’t set in stone. Peggy had tried to soothe her, but it had been awfully difficult over a telephone, and once the heart-breaking call was over she too had burst into tears.
Now it was Christmas Eve and Peggy had decided not to go to the Anchor tonight. The weather was foul, Daisy was teething and Cordelia had a nasty cold. Having given Daisy her nightly dose of cod-liver oil and sung her to sleep, she then went up to settle Cordelia with a fresh hot-water bottle, a cup of hot cocoa and some Vicks VapoRub to ease her congestion.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said as she blew her poor reddened nose. ‘What a nuisance I’m being when you’re so busy. I do hope I’m feeling better in the morning.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep,’ soothed Peggy as she tucked in the blankets and pulled up the eiderdown. ‘And you’re never a nuisance, Cordelia,’ she added softly. ‘So please, just snuggle down and stop worrying.’
Peggy turned off the main light so the room was lit only by the bedside lamp. Leaving the door ajar so she could hear if Cordelia called out in the night, she went to check the bedrooms. Jane and Sarah were at the pub with Fran, who unfortunately was on duty tomorrow night. Rita was also out, but she was on fire-watch until the early hours of the morning. Mary would be sleeping here after the pub closed, and she would go into what had once been Cissy’s bedroom, which was on the top floor.
Peggy noted that, as usual, Jane, Sarah and Fran had left their rooms neat and tidy, but that Rita’s looked as if a whirlwind had gone through it. With a weary sigh, she picked the discarded clothing from the floor, pulled the bed-covers straight and plumped up the pillows. The furniture could have done with a dust, the floor needed sweeping, and there were biscuit crumbs in the upholstered chair that stood by the gas fire.
Peggy had to smile, for Rita was such a darling girl, and she knew she rather spoiled her. The poor child had lost her mother when she was still at junior school, and she and her father had struggled on until he’d been called up. His letters home had been few and far between, and Peggy knew how Rita depended upon her for the mothering she so sorely missed – but she really should try and keep her room tidy and clean. The other girls managed it, even though they worked the same long hours, so there was no excuse really.
She looked at the three framed photographs that stood on the narrow mantelpiece above the gas fire. Rita had inherited the dark hair and eyes of her mother’s Irish ancestry, and the firm chin and steady gaze of her father. The third picture was of Rita and Cissy in their school uniform, arm in arm, grinning like imps at the end of a summer term long before war was declared.
Peggy closed the door and went upstairs to the large double bedroom where daylight would give a view over the rooftops to a glimpse of the sea. Suzy and Fran had lived in this room for three years, and it still felt strange not to see their things scattered about. Fran had moved to the smaller room which had once been Anne’s, and although she’d settled in happily and assured everyone she was delighted to have her own room for a change, Peggy knew she was missing her best friend.
Suzy’s quiet presence had become such an intrinsic part of her family that its absence was keenly felt by them all – especially Fran. Perhaps she should seriously think about asking Fran if there were any other nurses she might like to share with. She gave a sigh and closed the door. Her chicks were slowly flying from the nest to make new lives for themselves, and that was the way it should be. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel sad about it.
Peggy went downstairs and checked that the dining room was all ready for tomorrow’s lunch. She didn’t really need to, for she’d been in and out of here all day as the girls had helped her clean and sweep and set the table, but it wouldn’t hurt just to take one more look.
Ron had carried the small tree home yesterday, having chopped it down from the tangled copse in the hills, and everyone had helped to decorate it with the old and rather tatty bits of tinsel and the few surviving glass balls. Faded paper chains hung from the ceiling – a poignant reminder of her young sons’ last Christmas at home – and she’d hung one of the lovely boot-shaped felt stockings from the mantelpiece for Daisy.
Sally had made the Christmas stockings back in 1939 when she and her little crippled brother, Ernie, had been evacuated here from London. The family had all still been together then, but now Sally was married to the local Fire Chief, John Hicks, Ernie was in Somerset with Anne, her children and Peggy’s two boys – and that little, rather solitary stocking was yet another reminder of how scattered they all were now. But Daisy deserved to enjoy her first Christmas, even if she didn’t understand what it was all about.
Peggy determinedly dismissed these thoughts and gave the table a final check. It was covered in a white linen, lace-edged cloth, with candles in jars placed down its length, and Sarah and Jane had made a lovely centrepiece with holly and ivy and green ribbon. The cheap cutlery had been polished, the mismatched glasses gleamed, and her mother’s lovely linen napkins had been starched and folded into the shape of miniature mitres by a skilful Sarah.
There would be ten of them, including Daisy, sitting down for lunch, for she’d issued an invitation to Cissy’s American, Randolph Stevens as well as – and rather reluctantly – to Captain Hammond, who was also an American and Sarah’s friend up on the Cliffe estate. Peggy didn’t know exactly what sort of friendship it was between the two of them, and fretted that the girl had had her head turned whilst there was still no news of her fiancé Philip in Singapore.
Yet she’d sent out the invitation when the call had gone out from the American commands to share Christmas with their boys who were so far from home at this special time, and she’d since heard that for every GI and airman there had been fifty such invitations. No doubt the promise of extra rations was a huge incentive, but on the whole the British had finally accepted the Americans into their lives, and with so many of their own men away at war, their presence would fill the all-too-visible gaps at the festive tables.
Doris had decided she and Ted would eat at home and if the weather wasn’t too atrocious or something more interesting didn’t crop up, then they might come over for afternoon tea. Mary would be at work, and as Rosie knew Tommy would not be welcome, she’d felt she couldn’t really leave him on his own, but might pop in later as the pub would be shut until Boxing Day.
Peggy’s sister-in-law, Pauline, wouldn’t be with them this year, for she’d travelled up to London today to be with her only remaining son who’d been reposted by the RNR to the Tilbury Docks. With her husband, Frank, Jim’s older brother, still away with the army, and her other two sons lying somewhere beneath the Atlantic, Peggy could fully understand that Pauline needed to escape the sad memories of the empty house in Tamarisk Bay and be with her boy.
Peggy switched off the light, closed the door and stopped for a moment by the telephone. She’d managed to get through to Somerset earlier in the day and had spoken to everyone, which had upset her terribly. Anne had been quite tearful – probably suffering from the baby-blues – but her boys hadn’t seemed at all bothered at having yet another Christmas far from home, and had bombarded her with all their plans for the holiday, which included a huge party for every schoolchild in the area which the Americans were planning in the village hall.
Her parcels had arrived, Vi was stuffing a turkey that had been killed that morning, and there was a real Christmas pudding for afterwards. Vi had made two dozen at the beginning of the war when there had been no rationing and dried fruit was easily found, and her forethought meant that each year they had a proper plum pudding.
With a tremulous sigh, Peggy accepted that at least they were safe and well fed down there, and that Vi would make sure they had a wonderful time. She
went into the kitchen. The shops were shut and Christmas was now only a few hours away. There was nothing left to do, and if she’d forgotten anything, then they’d have to go without.
The large chicken Alf the butcher had put aside for her had been gutted, plucked and stuffed with her homemade mixture of breadcrumbs, onions and dried herbs. There was a string of sausages, the tin of ham Cordelia had received from her family in Canada, and fresh sprouts, potatoes and parsnips from Ron’s garden.
She hadn’t been as forward thinking as Vi and didn’t have a store of puddings, so she’d followed the latest recipe she’d found in the Radio Times. The enormous pudding was sitting in a china bowl in her larder covered with greased paper, but she did wonder what on earth it would taste like. With so little fruit left over from making the wedding cake, she’d had to use grated carrot and potato to moisten the mixture. A bit of real butter, two eggs from her chickens, and a little sugar along with cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and a drop or two of brandy gave it the smell and texture of a proper pudding – but it would take three hours to steam it until it was cooked through, and there was no guarantee that anyone would like it.
She turned on the wireless for company and settled down to listen to the carol concert as she reached for the airgraphs which had arrived this morning. She’d only had time to skim through them and was looking forward to reading them properly.
Jim still seemed to spend a lot of time reading now that Colonel Grafton was down with a fever in the medical room, but he’d managed to get a dinner from the officers’ mess of roast pork, courtesy of a steward he’d befriended. There had been great excitement at the first sighting of land, and as they’d docked he’d been quite overawed by the beauty of the brick-red earth and the lush green of the palm trees and surrounding jungle.
