by Ellie Dean
The clanging of the ambulance bell grew nearer and Rita ran outside in her bare feet to meet them.
Cordelia didn’t stir, but the bright red blood was blossoming like a poppy through her white hair, and there was a blue tinge to her skin. Peggy grasped her hand. ‘Hold on, Cordelia,’ she said urgently. ‘Help’s on its way.’
The two men came sliding down the garden path and quickly examined Cordelia. ‘She needs to go to hospital,’ one of them said grimly. ‘That ankle looks as if it might be broken, and I don’t like the look of that head wound, or her colour. Has she gained consciousness at all?’
Peggy shook her head, too numbed by shock to talk.
Whilst Rita kept Cordelia’s head steady, they gently lifted her onto a stretcher. One of the men put a brace round Cordelia’s neck to protect it from any jarring, and as Rita and Peggy anxiously held their breath, they carried her precariously down the glassy path and along the twitten to the waiting ambulance.
‘I’ll go with her,’ said Peggy. ‘Can you stay and look after Daisy?’ At Rita’s nod, she grabbed one of Ron’s disreputable old coats and dragged it on as she slithered down the path in her slippers and hurried to catch up with the ambulance before it drove off.
Within seconds of her climbing into the back, the doors were slammed, and to the urgent clanging of the bell, they were screeching into a tight turn and heading down Camden Road to the hospital.
She was too concerned about Cordelia to notice Ron, who was walking with some determination towards Beach View with a grim smile of satisfaction on his face.
Chapter Thirteen
ROSIE WAS ONLY dimly aware of the ambulance clanging its way down the street, for the pub was busy, the noise rising as the beer flowed. She could have done with some help today, but one of her barmaids was down with influenza, and the other was visiting her sister whose husband had been recently killed in the Atlantic.
There was no sign of Ron, which was unusual, but he had taken Monty out this morning, and she’d spotted him and Bert strolling down the street deep in conversation, so she supposed he’d been sidetracked by the promise of a glass or two of the malt whisky Bert always kept in his desk drawer. Yet Monty had been delivered home at some point during the morning, for he was now asleep in front of the inglenook fire, his long, skinny legs sticking out as he snored. It was odd that Ron hadn’t popped in to say hello, especially as he must have known from Bert about Tommy.
As she pulled pints and exchanged lively banter with her customers, Rosie had soon discovered that her brother’s plight was now common news that elicited very little sympathy, but a great deal of speculation. She listened to the gossip and fended off the endless questions by saying she didn’t know who’d done it or why. She didn’t really want to think about her brother, and how close he’d come to dying from the cold, and supposed she should have felt at least some pity for him. However, her well of loyalty had long since run dry, and Tommy was a survivor – he’d pull through this as he’d pulled through everything else, and would, no doubt, be back to his old ways the moment he was up and about again.
But it was worrying that there were such brutal thugs in Cliffehaven who were out for revenge, and although they’d beaten up Tommy, was that enough? What if they decided to come here and smash things up – or take her stock to make up for what Tommy hadn’t delivered? She’d have to take more precautions from now on, she decided, like keeping the side door locked at all times, and arming herself with a cricket bat or something.
She grasped the pump handle to pull a pint, angry with herself for being so stupid, for acting on impulse and getting rid of the drink and cigarettes. She should just have telephoned Bert Williams and told him what she’d found, then none of this would have happened. Tommy would have been sent back to prison, she would have got her life back, and things could have returned to normal.
As she rang the bell for last orders and the crowd began to thin out, she set her mind firmly onto this afternoon’s tea. She’d managed to get a sponge cake from the bakery and a lovely packet of biscuits from the Home and Colonial before she’d opened up this morning, and she’d washed her best tea set which she’d laid out on the low table in her sitting room. There was a fresh packet of tea, and even some sugar, so it would be a real treat for Peggy and dear little Mary.
She quickly served the final few drinks, keeping a close eye on the clock. As she collected the empty glasses and encouraged the slow to finish their drinks and leave, she wondered if Ron would come this afternoon as he’d promised. It wouldn’t be easy to question Mary about why she’d been searching for Cyril Fielding, and although she’d been very unwilling to carry out Tommy’s order to do so, her own curiosity had been piqued. Peggy had told her snippets of Mary’s background, but not enough to explain things fully, which was rather frustrating to say the least. But the whole thing was just so odd, and she couldn’t help but wonder what Mary’s story really was.
She bolted the door behind Fred Smith, who was always the last to leave, and then turned to Monty, still sprawled in front of the fire. ‘Come on, you lazy thing,’ she said fondly as she stroked his ears. ‘Upstairs for a saucer of tea and a biscuit while I get out of these clothes and have a nice bath.’
As Monty stretched and yawned, Rosie saw the discarded newspaper on the table. She glanced at it and discovered it was folded back to the daily horoscopes, so she took a moment to read what the day had in store for those born under the sign of Pisces, and then thoughtfully tucked it under her arm. She didn’t hold much store with all that nonsense, but she knew Peggy might like to read it – and it could come in handy later on as a way of getting Mary to open up about herself.
Monty’s claws clicked on the uneven brick floor as he followed her out of the bar and then raced up the stairs, eager for his daily saucer of milky tea. Rosie didn’t immediately follow him, for the side door was unbolted as usual. She then decided she was getting paranoid. If the thugs were determined enough, all it would take was a broken window to gain access – and besides, she didn’t want to be running up and down the stairs to let her visitors in. But it might be wise to find something heavy to defend herself with.
A short rummage in the cellar unearthed a baseball bat that one of the American GIs had left behind some months ago. She felt the weight of it and gave it a practice swing. It was perfect.
A fretful Peggy had been sitting in the crowded and rather noisy accident and emergency waiting area for almost an hour. She was vaguely aware of the curious stares of those around her, and realised she must look very silly in her slippers, wrap-round apron and Ron’s tatty, smelly jacket. But actually she didn’t care. What was happening to Cordelia was all that really mattered.
Rita finally came in a while later carrying not only Daisy, but a large, rather bulky bag. ‘Uncle Ron came home, so I told him what had happened, and he said he had something to do first, but he’d be here as soon as he could.’
‘What could possibly be more important than Cordelia?’ Peggy was overwrought, and her tone was a little sharp.
Rita seemed to understand, for she just shrugged and sat down. ‘I don’t know, but he was certainly acting mysteriously.’ She divested Daisy of some of her sweaters and tucked the knitted mittens in her coat pocket. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so long, but Daisy took a while to soothe after that crash woke her up, and I had to get dressed. I thought you might need these,’ she murmured as she handed over the bag. ‘Is there any news yet?’
Peggy regretted her sharpness. ‘No, nothing really,’ she said wearily. ‘She’s had to go off for X-rays, despite the fact she has yet to come round.’
She looked inside the bag and felt even more guilty at having snapped at the girl. ‘Thanks for my things, darling,’ she said as she pulled her coat, scarf, shoes and purse out of the bag. ‘Ron’s jacket smells horrid, and goodness only knows what he’s been keeping in the pockets,’ she said with a grimace as she wriggled out of it and stuffed it in the bag alongside her apron and r
uined slippers. ‘And I’ve been gasping for a cup of tea, but of course without my purse …’
She was in the middle of pulling on her overcoat when Rita’s words suddenly sank in, and she frowned. ‘What do you mean about Ron acting mysteriously? What was he up to?’
Rita was having trouble keeping Daisy on her lap, for she was wriggling like an eel in her attempt to get down to the floor. ‘The last I saw of him, he was dithering about in the kitchen in his poacher’s coat looking furtive. I went upstairs to get dressed, heard the back door slam a short while later, and by the time I’d come back down, he was gone.’
Peggy really couldn’t concentrate on Ron’s strange behaviour, not with Cordelia being so poorly. ‘I do wish someone would come and tell us what’s happening,’ she said anxiously. ‘Cordelia’s head wound isn’t serious, thank goodness, but she still hasn’t come round, and although he hasn’t said anything, I can tell that the doctor is getting rather concerned.’
She fidgeted with the strap on her handbag as her deepest dread surfaced. ‘I’m worried, Rita. She should have woken up by now. You don’t think we’re going to lose her, do you?’
Rita gave up the struggle with Daisy and sat her on the floor before taking Peggy’s hand. ‘They wouldn’t be wasting time on X-rays if they thought that. Please don’t fret, Auntie Peg. Grandma Finch is much tougher than we all realise. She’ll come through this, you’ll see.’
Peggy realised Rita was trying to look on the bright side of things, but it didn’t help ease her very real fears. She glanced at the clock and then snatched up her purse. She had to do something to pass this endless wait, or she’d go mad. ‘I’m going to get a cuppa,’ she said. ‘Do you want one?’
At Rita’s nod she went off to get two cups of tea from the café that had been opened by the WVS in what had once been a small treatment room. On her return, she discovered that Daisy was crawling happily between the feet and chair legs, looking up occasionally with a beaming smile to those who cooed at her before continuing her exploration.
Rita rounded her up, and as she squirmed and protested on her lap, she was placated with some watery juice from her bottle and one of the rather stale biscuits Peggy had just bought. Once she’d had her fill she demanded to be put down again and Peggy advised Rita to let her. ‘She’ll only start yelling, and the people here are poorly enough without her noise going through their heads. Besides, your tea’s getting cold.’
As Daisy sat happily on the floor and gnawed on her second biscuit, Peggy could see that she’d become fascinated by the life of the busy hospital department which swirled around her. Doctors, nurses, orderlies and porters dashed back and forth between the cubicles; patients came and went, and those still waiting to be seen were doing their best to appear stoic during the long delays. When Daisy saw Ron coming towards her, she lifted up her arms and beamed in delight. ‘Dadda, dad, dad, dad.’
Peggy closed her eyes in despair at this, for her baby should know by now that this wasn’t her daddy. Damn this bloody, bloody war.
Rita told Ron there was very little news and he sat down to start filling his pipe. ‘What the hell was she doing down there in the first place?’ he asked once he’d got it going satisfactorily.
‘I can only guess she was attempting to help put the washing out,’ said Peggy. ‘And if Doris hadn’t chosen to telephone at that precise moment, none of this would have happened.’ She glared at him. ‘What have you been up to, Ron? Rita says you’ve been acting oddly.’
‘Ach, to be sure, ’tis only me usual way of doing things,’ he replied with a twinkle in his eyes as he stretched out his sturdy legs so Daisy could clamber onto them. ‘I’m thinking young Rita has an overactive imagination, so I do.’
‘Well, whatever it is that you’re up to, it can stop,’ she said crossly. ‘Now. Right this minute. There’s enough trouble to be going on with, without you acting up.’
‘Ach, Peggy girl, you’re overwrought about Cordelia.’ His great rough hand caught hold of her fingers. ‘She’ll be fine. Tough as nails, that one.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ she muttered as the tears came. ‘But she’s old and frail, Ron, and that fall … That fall could …’ She leaned against his broad shoulder as she sobbed, and the lack of any reply from him told her that he too was deeply concerned.
Rosie had cleaned the apartment and shut the door on Tommy’s untidy bedroom. The kettle was filled and ready to bring to the boil, she’d made spam sandwiches to go with the cake and biscuits, and everything was laid out on the low table between the couches and chairs. Monty had been sternly ordered to lie on the hearth rug and be good. She’d caught him sniffing the biscuits earlier and didn’t want a repeat performance.
She had taken a leisurely bath and changed into her favourite blue woollen dress, which enhanced the colour of her eyes and didn’t make her look quite so washed out, and her make-up had been freshly applied. She’d begun to relax and look forward to the afternoon, for she’d relented and telephoned the hospital to see how Tommy was. The ward sister had told her that the doctor insisted he be kept in overnight for observation, but he would probably be discharged tomorrow lunchtime if there was no sign of concussion. This news had come as a mixed blessing, for it meant she would have him home again tomorrow, but at least she wouldn’t have to face him tonight, and for the first time in many weeks could enjoy her comforts.
‘Hello? Rosie?’
Monty leapt to his feet and shot down the stairs as Rosie stood at the top and welcomed Mary. ‘Hello, dear, it’s lovely to see you. But don’t let him jump all over you like that, he’ll ruin your nice coat.’
Mary continued to make a fuss of Monty as she grinned back up at her. ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It’s just lovely to get such a warm welcome.’
‘Monty, that’s enough,’ Rosie said sternly. ‘Come on up, Mary. Peggy should be here soon, but we can have a cosy little chat while we wait for her.’
Mary managed to disentangle herself from Monty’s rapturous welcome and came up into the sitting room to take off her coat and scarf. ‘I heard about your brother,’ she said awkwardly. ‘That was a terrible thing to happen.’
Rosie gave a small shrug. ‘He’s his own worst enemy, and will get over it,’ she said dismissively, her attention caught by the bruises and cuts on Mary’s face. ‘Good heavens,’ she gasped with concern. ‘What happened to you?’
Mary smiled ruefully as she touched the cut on her bruised forehead, and told her about being trapped in the shelter. ‘It wasn’t a very nice experience,’ she said finally, ‘but at least we all got out, and even those who were taken to hospital weren’t that seriously injured.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re safe. Now sit down and make yourself comfortable while I go and put the kettle on.’ Rosie walked into the tiny kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle, watching Mary surreptitiously through the open doorway as she warmed the pot.
It was a shame about the cuts and bruises, but they would heal and leave no trace. She was such a pretty girl, with that long, dark hair and lovely blue eyes – and in a way she reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t for the life of her think who.
As she carried in the teapot, she saw Mary was looking at the newspaper she’d left on the arm of the couch, and realised this was the perfect moment to find out more about the girl. ‘I don’t really believe in all that stuff, but I always find myself reading the horoscopes, don’t you?’
‘No, not really,’ Mary said shyly. ‘My parents were very religious, so this sort of thing was always frowned upon.’
‘Oh, but it can be quite fun,’ said Rosie enthusiastically as she put the teapot on the tray and reached for the paper. ‘Let’s have a look at what the Oracle has in store for you today – just for a giggle, mind. What’s your star sign?’
Mary’s returning smile was uncertain. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she confessed. ‘What’s a star sign?’
Rosie settled down on
the couch beside her and pointed out the twelve separate paragraphs under their headings. ‘I was born on March the second, so I come under the sign of Pisces, the fish. Each of these is the name of the star formations we can see in the sky at night, and according to the astrologers our lives are influenced by the sign we were born under.’ She saw Mary’s sceptical expression and grinned. ‘I know it sounds daft, but it’s only a bit of fun, so please humour me.’
‘It all sounds gobbledygook to me,’ Mary replied, ‘but seeing as how neither of us takes it seriously, I suppose it won’t do any harm. I was born on or around the tenth of October in 1924.’
Rosie felt a pang of something close to pain, then dismissed it firmly. She looked at Mary in confusion. ‘Don’t you know the date you were born?’
‘Not really. You see, I’ve never managed to get hold of my birth certificate, but I’ve always celebrated the day on the tenth.’ She leaned forward to examine the newspaper in Rosie’s lap. ‘That would mean my sign is Libra. So what does it say?’
Rosie gathered her scattered thoughts and began to read aloud. ‘You will have some difficult dilemmas to face today, but never fear, they can be easily solved. Be prepared to hear from someone in your past, and open your heart to the person who loves you.’
Mary giggled. ‘What a load of tosh. Honestly, Rosie, you can’t really believe all that, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ she replied, folding the paper and setting it aside. ‘The tea must be mashed by now, so let’s have that cuppa.’ She poured the tea into the bone-china cups which were rimmed in gold and decorated with roses. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Peggy,’ she said anxiously as she glanced at the mantel clock. ‘She’s very late.’
‘I expect she’s held up at home,’ said Mary as she accepted the cup and saucer. ‘There’s always someone needing her for something.’
Rosie suspected that if that was the case, Peggy would have telephoned her to warn her she’d be late – she was always good like that. But Peggy’s whereabouts were secondary to her curiosity about Mary’s lack of knowledge concerning her birth. She knew from Peggy that the girl had been adopted by a vicar and his wife, and that she’d lost them during a tip-and-run following an enemy bombing raid. Other than that, she actually knew very little about Mary. It was time to discover more, and even perhaps broach the thorny subject of Cyril Fielding.
