by Ellie Dean
Jock must have heard the fear in her voice and seen it mirrored in Sybil’s face, for he rose to take them into his embrace. ‘It’s just a precaution,’ he murmured. ‘Lieutenant General Percival has ninety thousand British, Indian and Australian troops under his command, and with the Allied air forces and the Royal Navy giving support, we’ll soon have those yellow devils routed.’
Sarah and her mother leaned into his embrace and tried to find comfort in his words. But in the sudden heavy silence that followed the abrupt end of the rainstorm, Sarah thought she could feel an ominous tension in the air. It was as if the jungles of Malaya were holding their breath.
Chapter Five
Cliffehaven
England was in the grip of a cold, wet winter, with gale-force winds that howled across the rooftops, rattled the windows and generally made life difficult. It was only just four in the afternoon, but already it was dark outside, and Peggy snuggled further under the blankets, the feather-filled eiderdown tucked up to her chin.
There was something quite primal in the pleasure of being snug and warm while the wind moaned outside and the rain beat on the window. On days like this she was relieved not to have to be out there, standing in the endless queues at the local shops, dashing here and there doing things for her neighbours or battling the wind to reach the WVS centre at the Town Hall where she helped pack emergency rations of food and clothing for the homeless.
And yet, as she lay there, she had to admit she was getting rather bored with it all. She missed her kitchen, and the evenings by the fire – missed the chatter and warmth of being at the heart of the family. It was all very well to have people popping in at all times of the day, but as much as she loved seeing them, she preferred to be up and doing and in charge of things.
With this thought, she grabbed Jim’s dressing gown and pulled it on before clambering out of bed and stuffing her feet into her slippers. She was feeling much more herself after nearly four days of doing nothing, but despite Alison Chenoweth’s thorough bed-baths, she felt grubby and her hair was sticking to her head in a most unbecoming way. With Daisy asleep and not due for another feed until six, she would have a bath – and to hell with the water rationing.
She found the lovely unused bar of lavender soap she’d been saving for a special occasion, and then rummaged in the wardrobe and drawers in search of some warm and comfortable clothes. Another quick glance to make sure Daisy didn’t look about to stir, and she opened the door.
The house was quiet, and she suspected Mrs Finch was upstairs with her hearing aid switched off, having her afternoon nap. If Jim caught her sneaking up to have a bath there’d be hell to pay, but as he was at work in the projection room of the Odeon Cinema, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. But she still dithered in the doorway, wondering where Ron and the girls might be.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘I’m a grown woman, and if I want a bath, I’ll jolly well have one.’ She closed the bedroom door quietly and crossed the hall to the flight of stairs that went right up to the attic rooms, and, grasping the bannister, she started up.
By the time she’d reached the first floor landing her legs felt decidedly wobbly and she was out of breath, which was silly – a week ago she’d been running up and down these stairs like a spring chicken. Well, she admitted silently, not exactly running – one couldn’t run when nine months pregnant and as big as a barrage balloon.
She stood there for a moment to get her breath back, and then, fearing that Mrs Finch might suddenly come out of her room, hurriedly made use of the lavatory, and then took two towels from the airing cupboard and headed into the bathroom. She locked the door and sank onto the wooden chair that stood by the bath. She felt a bit light-headed, and suddenly wondered if this had actually been such a good idea.
The icy cold of the room cleared her head, and she drew Jim’s dressing gown more tightly round her as she closed the blackout curtain on the dark, gloomy day and switched on the light. She found the matches and, standing well back, turned on the gas boiler and held the match to the pilot light. There was a loud bang and two tongues of flame shot out of the vent – but Peggy was inured to this and simply waited for the boiler to settle down.
Once this was achieved she waited a few more moments before turning the taps. As the steam began to rise and form condensation on the white tiles, Peggy placed the precious bar of lavender soap in the dish at the end of the bath and rummaged in the cabinet for her shampoo.
Eyeing the almost empty bottle with a rueful smile, she realised one or all of the girls had been using it. That was the problem with so many females in the house – shampoo, lipstick, stockings, and even face powder were fair game when left lying about. But she didn’t mind. The girls worked hard and times were tough, and it wasn’t as if she’d not been guilty herself of borrowing the odd dash of lipstick and bit of talc now and again.
Peggy eyed the regulatory two inches of water in the bottom of the bath and decided that having missed out on three proper baths she was due an extra few inches. Minutes later she tested the water, added some cold and then hurriedly slipped out of her nightwear.
The icy cold of the bathroom goosed her flesh and she quickly slid beneath the lovely hot water until it lapped about her ears. Closing her eyes, she lay there, revelling in the luxury. Every extra hour of work and every penny saved for this bathroom had been worth it, she decided.
After some moments she realised she was in danger of falling asleep, so she reluctantly roused herself and reached for the soap. Once she was sweet-smelling again, she clambered out of the rapidly cooling water, wrapped herself in a large bath towel and used the tin jug that always stood by the bath to wash her hair.
Still feeling slightly light-headed from her exertions, she dragged on her underwear and red flannel vest and quickly pulled on the old tweed skirt and warm sweater. She was sitting on the chair rubbing her hair dry when she heard the low moan of the first call of the air-raid siren.
Leaping to her feet, and regretting it instantly, she dropped the towel on the floor, steadied herself for a moment then unbolted the door. She stumbled to Mrs Finch’s room, which was right next door, and went in without knocking.
Mrs Finch was snoring happily as she lay fully dressed beneath the eiderdown, her discarded hearing aid dangling from the bedside table.
Peggy gently shook her awake.
‘Whasamatter?’ she mumbled as she emerged from her deep sleep.
‘Air raid,’ mouthed Peggy as she handed her the hearing aid, grabbed her gas-mask box and helped her off the bed.
The dear old thing was a bit unsteady on her feet, but then Peggy wasn’t much better, and they both swayed a bit as Peggy handed her the walking stick and tucked her hand into the crook of her arm. The sirens were louder now, reaching their highest pitch, and Peggy was frantic to get Cordelia downstairs so she could reach Daisy, who was now crying.
‘You go,’ ordered Mrs Finch. ‘I can manage perfectly well.’
Peggy was torn between the needs of her frightened baby and those of this frail old lady she’d come to love.
Mrs Finch pushed past her and started down the stairs. Clutching the bannisters, she swayed on each step with heart-stopping regularity, and Peggy rushed to help her down to the hall. ‘Get the air-raid box from the kitchen,’ she shouted over the screams of the baby and the wailing sirens, ‘but don’t go down the cellar steps. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘I know what to do, dear. See to Daisy.’
Peggy tore into the bedroom and plucked the thoroughly agitated Daisy from her cot. Wrapping her firmly in several small blankets, Peggy kicked off her slippers and dug her feet into her everyday shoes, grabbed her gas-mask box and fresh nappies and rushed into the kitchen.
Mrs Finch had donned her overcoat and was sitting halfway down the concrete steps that led to the basement, the air-raid box of essentials clasped to her chest, her walking stick and gas-mask box lying on the scullery floor next to a packe
t of biscuits. ‘Oh dear,’ she quavered. ‘I’m quite all right – but I think I’ve broken the biscuits.’
Peggy held the fractious baby in one arm, and helped Mrs Finch to her feet. ‘You’re more precious than any biscuits,’ she muttered as she took the air-raid box and left it on the top step.
Once they’d reached the scullery and the walking stick and gas mask had been retrieved, Peggy steadied Mrs Finch as they hurriedly negotiated the rough path to the Anderson shelter. At least it had stopped raining, but the sirens were still wailing, Daisy was still screaming and the searchlights had begun to flicker into life against the dark sky.
The Anderson shelter was bitterly cold and stank of damp, rust, and mouse droppings. A bench had been fixed on both sides and a deckchair had been wedged into a corner so that Mrs Finch could be comfortable. There was an oil lamp hanging from the tin roof, and a primus stove for cooking tucked away under the bench beside the special gas-mask cot for Daisy.
A kerosene heater stood by the entrance so the fumes could escape through the many gaps in the door. On the back wall, Ron had fixed a wooden shelf, which held a battered saucepan, an equally battered kettle and teapot, as well as chipped mugs, mismatched cutlery and some tin plates. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, and hardly a home-from-home, but it had been their refuge now since the first air raid in 1940, and they’d become inured to its dubious attractions.
Peggy helped Mrs Finch into the deckchair and, with Daisy still screaming and flailing in her arms, attempted to light the lamp and the heater. Daisy suddenly became fascinated by the flickering light and forgot her fear, and Peggy handed her to Mrs Finch who’d at last had a chance to switch on her hearing aid.
‘I need to go back and get the rest of the stuff,’ she said clearly.
Mrs Finch nodded and held Daisy close as Peggy dashed out of the shelter. Retrieving the precious digestive biscuits as she ran up the scullery steps, she put them back in the box, yanked on her overcoat and grabbed the pillows and spare blankets which were always to hand for just such an emergency.
Heavily laden and out of breath, Peggy stumbled outside again. The sound of approaching bombers was interspersed with the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the ack-ack guns as red tracers stitched through the sky and the searchlight beams swung back and forth in search of the enemy.
She didn’t stand about to watch, but ducked her head and almost fell into the shelter. Slamming the door, she dropped everything on the bench and collapsed beside it as she tried to catch her breath. She really did feel awful, with a head full of cotton wool, legs like jelly and a dull ache at the pit of her stomach.
‘I don’t wish to state the obvious, dear, but you’ve been overdoing things,’ said Mrs Finch as she gently rocked a now pacified Daisy back and forth in her arms. ‘Why are you even out of bed, let alone dressed?’
Peggy’s heart was racing and she felt sick and faint. Dropping her head to her knees, she fought to stay conscious. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she insisted.
Mrs Finch didn’t reply, but her silence spoke volumes.
Peggy waited for her pulse to return to normal, and as it did the nausea faded along with the feeling that she was about to faint. She slowly lifted her head and reached for the large fresh-water container she always kept in the shelter. The tin mugs weren’t very clean after sitting out here for days, but she didn’t care, and she poured the cold water and drank greedily. The second cup restored her to something approaching normality, and she smiled to reassure Mrs Finch that she was indeed all right.
It was impossible to talk, for the bombers were right overhead now, probably heading for the large naval dockyard further down the coast. It had already taken a fierce hammering over the past year, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there was much left to bomb. Of course there was always the chance they would dump the last of their deadly load on Cliffehaven before they scuttled back across the Channel – and these ‘tip and runs’ had caused a great deal of damage to the town.
Peggy was about to hold out her arms for Daisy so she could put her in the special cot, when she saw how Mrs Finch’s old face was alight with love as she looked down at the baby she cradled – and how the arthritic fingers so tenderly touched her cheek and held her close. Daisy’s wide, unfocussed blue eyes looked up at her, and it seemed as if she understood the muttered words of endearment and was soothed by them.
Peggy felt an almost overwhelming need to cry at this heart-warming scene, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat and blink back tears as she tidied the blankets and rifled in the box for the milk and tea.
The deep inside pockets of Ron’s ankle-length poacher’s coat held a hare and a brace of rabbit. He’d been tramping the hills for most of the day, glad to be out of the house despite the appalling weather, and had hoped to snare a couple of ducks from Lord Cliffe’s lake. Unfortunately, some stupid bugger had put up a big wire fence which seemed to stretch the entire length of the estate and effectively shut him out.
This fence had really got his back up, for the Cliffe estate was one of his hunting grounds now the gamekeepers and groundsmen had gone off to war, and with Lord Cliffe spending more time in London, it had become Ron’s personal larder. He’d walked the length of the fence and then peered through the gloom at the big notice that had been nailed to one of the sturdy posts and grimaced in disgust. The Forestry Commission had taken the place over – and trespassers would be arrested and heavily fined.
Not that this particular threat worried him; he was always trespassing, and so far had eluded those trying to catch him. But it did worry him that the wire seemed very strong and the fence was much too high for a man of his age to negotiate. With a large household to feed it would just make life more difficult.
He’d stood there in deep contemplation as Harvey ran back and forth in search of anything hidden beneath the tough, wind-blown grass and spiny gorse. The lake had provided ducks and quails along with their eggs. There were salmon in the streams that ran through the estate forest, and pheasant and partridge, even the occasional deer. Alf the butcher and Fred the fishmonger paid well for anything he managed to get, and although the risks involved were high, it was worth it just for the excitement.
Deciding to bring his wire-cutters next time, he’d eventually turned his back on the fence and headed morosely for home. It was already dark, and although it had at last stopped raining, the wind still tore across the hills like a fury, chilling Ron to the bone despite his woolly hat, three sweaters and thick coat. Yet his mind wasn’t really on his discomfort or even on the problems posed by the new fence – it was occupied with thoughts of Rosie and the strange way she’d been acting just lately.
Rosie was the landlady of the Anchor pub, and the best-looking woman in Cliffehaven as far as Ron was concerned. Blessed with an hourglass figure, long, slender legs and eyes a man could drown in, she exerted a powerful attraction, and Ron had been besotted with her from the moment she’d arrived. But Rosie had played hard to get, and although there was no doubting that she liked him, she’d kept him at arm’s length for years.
There had always been a bit of a mystery about Rosie, for no one knew anything much about her, other than that she’d come from outside of town to take over the Anchor, and that there didn’t appear to be a husband in the picture despite the fact she wore a wedding ring. Lively and attractive in her early fifties, she’d set many a heart fluttering amongst her male customers, but she’d kept them at arm’s length too, run an orderly house and seen to it that there was never a breath of scandal attached to her.
Ron had begun to help change the barrels and bring the crates up from the cellar when the pub was shut, and little by little she’d rewarded his perseverance by spending her few precious free hours with him. Their flirting had become a game which they both enjoyed, and although Rosie was a good deal younger than him, it seemed she didn’t mind being courted by a rather scruffy old Irishman. And then one summer night he’d taken her to a charity ball at the Grand H
otel on the seafront, and after he’d walked her home, she’d kissed him and told him she loved him.
Ron dug his hands into his deep pockets, his heart warmed by the memory of how sweetly soft her lips were, and how perfectly she’d fitted into his embrace. But then she’d confessed she had a husband and that, because he was locked away in a mental hospital, divorce was out of the question. His love and admiration had grown as she’d opened her heart to him that night, and although he’d longed to take her to bed and kiss away her cares, he’d respected her wish not to betray her sick husband further with such intimacy.
In the months that followed, Rosie had told him snippets of her life story, but when she’d revealed that shifty, two-faced Tommy Findlay was her brother, he’d been undeniably shocked. However, he had to accept there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Tommy had never done anything to him personally, but Ron knew he was light-fingered and sly. He detested the man for his smarmy ways and underhand dealings with the women who fell for his dubious charms, and wouldn’t have trusted him to tell him which way the wind was blowing. But as Rosie happened to share Ron’s opinion of her brother, he’d decided that as long as Tommy stayed out of Cliffehaven and away from Rosie and the Anchor, they could just forget about him.
As summer had slowly waned into autumn and then winter their friendship had deepened to something very precious and Ron had thought Rosie felt the same way. But four weeks ago there had been a subtle change in her – so subtle he’d hardly noticed at first. Then he began to realise that she didn’t seem to want to talk to him as much as he sat at the bar during opening hours, and would cut short their afternoon teas in her rooms above the pub with some excuse about washing her hair or doing shopping. Yet the real eye-opener was when she’d asked one of the other men to help with the barrels and crates, and he’d known for certain that something was very wrong between them.
He’d watched her more closely after that and detected a brittleness in her laughter, a darkening in her eyes as she studiously avoided his gaze, and a certain impatience that manifested itself in a shrug or a tut. It was as if she was trying to distance herself from him and, with each small rejection, his heart ached just that bit more.
