Far From Home (35 page)

‘I have to say,’ Polly said eventually, ‘that has to be the best scone I’ve ever eaten.’

Mary grinned as she poured the last of the tea into their cups. ‘It’s certainly set me up for my mother-in-law’s visit later today. I dread her coming, you know; she does nothing but pick holes and complain. But then she’s old and lonely, and while Simon’s away fighting, I’m the only family she has.’ She suppressed a yawn. ‘We’d better go before I fall asleep at this table. What a night,’ she sighed. ‘I thought it would never end.’

They split the cost of their luxurious treat and the little bell rang out cheerfully as they closed the door behind them. The wind whipped at their cloaks and tore at their caps as they bent into it and struggled down the street to the crossroads.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ said Mary as she grimly held her cap in place. ‘Polly? Polly, what’s the matter?’

Polly was transfixed. She heard nothing and was unaware of anything but the newspaper headline on the board outside the shop on the opposite corner.

MERCY SHIP; 46 MORE SAVED

She stepped off the pavement, right into the path of a cyclist who shouted at her as he swerved to avoid knocking her down and almost came off his bike. She didn’t even notice he was there, for now she could see the rest of the headline, and her heart thudded with joyous hope.

Six Children ‘Back from the Dead’

PLANE SEES BOAT AFTER 8 DAYS

‘Polly, no,’ shouted Mary, as she grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t let this get your hopes up. They would have told you if one of them was Alice.’

Polly wrenched away from her and ran into the shop. Scrabbling in her bag, she found the right change and almost threw it on the counter before snatching up the paper.

Forty-six people; six children, a woman and 39 men, believed drowned in the torpedoing of the mercy ship
City of Benares
, were brought safely home to port last night by the Navy. The six children were all boys.

Polly closed her eyes, the moan of despair trapped in her throat. She stood there, unaware of being watched by Mary and the shopkeeper and his wife, her heart drumming painfully as she tried to absorb the terrible news that Alice had not escaped death – that this miracle had not been meant for her.

‘Come on, Polly,’ said Mary, taking her arm. ‘Let’s get you home.’

Polly stared at her and couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. ‘I have to read the rest of it,’ she muttered. ‘I must make sure. Perhaps one of my nephews survived – perhaps they both have. They were all boys, you see. All boys.’

‘Polly,’ Mary said softly. ‘Don’t torture yourself.’

‘I have to know,’ she rasped. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely read the rest of the article, but it seemed the survivors had drifted in the lifeboat for eight days before being spotted by a Sunderland flying boat. Rescued by a navy destroyer, they were taken to the safety of a port on the western coast of Scotland.

The list of survivors was the final proof that the hope she’d carried for these few short minutes had been betrayed – the miracle of the survivors a devastating reminder that fate had not smiled on her little family, and that she had indeed lost them all.

Polly swayed as her vision blurred and the newspaper fluttered to the floor from her nerveless fingers. The truth was a heavy weight on her heart – a leviathan of darkness that was sweeping over her just as the icy Atlantic waves must have swept over those she loved and engulfed them.

* * *

Polly opened her eyes and looked round in confusion. She didn’t know this room, didn’t recognise the faces that seemed to swim in front of her, or the voices that murmured close by.

‘Polly? Polly, it’s all right,’ soothed Mary. ‘You fainted.’

‘Where am I?’

‘In Mr and Mrs Ellis’s back parlour,’ said Mary, indicating the middle-aged couple dithering with concern in the doorway.

Polly frowned. She couldn’t remember ever having met Mr and Mrs Ellis, and certainly couldn’t remember ever being in this over-furnished, stuffy room with ornaments and pictures crowding every flat surface and wall.

She struggled to sit up, but her head began to swim again and she collapsed once more into the soft embrace of the sagging couch. ‘Who are they?’ she breathed. ‘Why am I here?’

Mary took her hand. ‘They own the paper shop, Polly. Mr Ellis carried you in here when you fainted.’

‘Paper shop?’ she murmured, her comprehension still muddled by her light-headedness. And then the fog cleared with vicious speed and she remembered everything. ‘I have to get home,’ she said, struggling with the blanket and the enveloping couch.

‘In a while,’ said Mary, as she gently pushed her back into the cushions. ‘It’s a bit of a walk, and I don’t want you fainting again. Here, drink this.’

Polly stared at the cup of weak tea. She wasn’t thirsty. ‘I need to get back so I can telephone Miss Jackson at the Welfare Office,’ she said, gripping Mary’s hand and making the tea slop into the saucer. ‘Papers get things wrong – keep things secret – don’t always tell the truth. I have to make sure.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Miss Jackson,’ said Peggy as she bustled in. ‘I did it the moment I read that article. I’m so sorry, Polly, but that report was true – every last word of it.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to find you. You were late home, and I didn’t want you to see the paper headlines without someone being with you.’ Her face crumpled as she fought her tears. ‘Oh, Polly, I’m so sorry you’ve had such a terrible disappointment, dear.’

Polly stared at her, knowing she was telling the truth, and that she had no choice but to accept it. The emotions that had besieged her since Miss Jackson’s first awful visit deserted her, and she was left feeling cold, empty and numb.

‘Would someone help me out of this couch?’ she asked flatly. ‘I need to get back to Beach View and change out of my uniform. Our bedroom rugs need beating, and I’ve lots of washing and darning to do as well.’

She caught the worried look that passed between Mary and Peggy and threw back the blanket. ‘Please don’t make a fuss,’ she said unemotionally. ‘I’m quite all right, really.’

ALMOST THREE WEEKS
had passed since Peggy had tracked Polly down to the paper shop. It was now near the end of October, and the war had entered another, more dangerous stage, with the signing of an axis pact between Germany, Italy and Japan. Romania had fallen, the Italians had invaded Egypt and Greece, and massive German air raids had devastated London, Southampton, Bristol, Manchester and Liverpool.

Due to the enemy bombardment of supply ships, and fierce fighting in the Channel as well as the Atlantic, rationing had been tightened even further. But, like their beleaguered countrymen and women, the residents of Beach View shouldered the tribulations, kept their grim determination, and an irrepressible tendency to break into a defiant grin even after the sirens had gone off eight times in a day, and they’d emerged from their shelters to discover that awful damage had been inflicted. They refused to be intimidated, their spirit of resistance fortified with every bombing raid and every inconvenience. Even the smallest of victories against the enemy were celebrated, and life was lived to the full, for no one knew what tomorrow might bring.

For the people of Cliffehaven, the sight and sound of hundreds of RAF bombers and fighter planes heading across the Channel had become almost commonplace, and many stood in the streets or on the hills to watch the furious dogfights going on overhead, and to cheer on their brave boys in blue. At night they went to sleep in the shelters to the sound of hundreds of enemy planes droning towards London, and this noise soon became known as the ‘Luftwaffe Lullaby’.

The continual raids and tip-and-runs by the enemy had left their scars on Cliffehaven, and parts of the town were now almost unrecognisable, especially around the station and goods yards. The military camps had been quickly moved further into the countryside to protect civilians from unnecessary danger, but the airfield where Anne’s husband, Martin, was stationed had come under constant fire in the past few weeks, and the loss of planes and personnel was reaching crisis level.

Peggy closed the blackout curtains on the cold, damp Friday evening and switched on the kitchen light. She could hear the wind howling round the house, and it made the warm room feel even cosier. Mrs Finch and Anne were happily knitting by the fire as chamber music drifted from the wireless, and
she
returned to her chair, content to leave her own knitting for a while and just sit and watch them as she smoked a cigarette.

It was lovely to have Anne home for the weekend, and to be able to make a fuss of her. She hadn’t liked the thought of her girl in that cliff-top bunker, where no doubt she’d done sterling work for the Observer Corps until her pregnancy forced her to resign. Peggy felt far more relaxed now Anne was safely ensconced in the sweet little cottage Martin had bought for them in the village of Wick Cross. It was a few miles out of Cliffehaven on the other side of the hills and, because of the distance involved, it wasn’t easy to get to. But there was a rather unreliable bus service and, as long as it was running, Peggy made a point of going there every Friday. It was a rare occasion for Anne to come into town, and Peggy was determined to enjoy every minute of her visit.

‘I really hope this weather keeps the bombers away,’ she said. ‘We’ll freeze in that Anderson shelter tonight, and I’d like to spend at least a few hours in my bed for a change. I do so miss my small comforts.’

Anne looked up from the matinee jacket she was knitting and smiled. ‘Me too, but then I think of Martin at the airfield in his hard, uncomfortable bunk, and feel ashamed. The wind whistles through that hut, and there are very few home comforts apart from a kerosene stove which reeks and fills the whole place with most unpleasant fumes, and a couple of battered old chairs and tables.’

She sighed. ‘I take over the magazines and books my neighbours give me, and Martin bought a radio to keep them occupied while they hang about waiting for the next shout. He’s so tired, Mum, they all are – but there’s very little let-up, and with so many missions, there’s barely time to get a decent few hours of sleep.’

Peggy eyed her eldest daughter with deep affection. Her pregnancy had made her even more beautiful, and there was a serenity about her that told of her contentment, despite the very real worry over her husband’s safety.

‘I thought that once they’d flown a certain number of missions, the RAF insisted upon them taking up training posts or admin?’

Anne chuckled. ‘I can’t see Martin being terribly happy in an office, can you?’ She finished knitting the row, a little frown creasing her brow. ‘His commanding officer has already offered him a nice safe post at a training school up north, but Martin turned it down.’

‘Surely, with the baby coming, he should consider his safety?’ chirped Mrs Finch, who was making a complete mess of the bootee she was attempting to knit.

Anne eyed her affectionately. Mrs Finch had lived at Beach View for several years now and had become so much a part of the family that Anne thought of her as her grandmother.

‘He doesn’t want to leave “his boys” now that they work so well together,’ she explained. ‘They’re a tight group which includes several Poles and Free French, and he’s become a bit of a good luck charm – even though he denies it. But their squadron has certainly suffered fewer losses than many others.’ She grinned. ‘And that’s probably down to the ear-bashing Martin gave them a few months back. With so many aircraft being lost, they simply couldn’t afford to be quite so gung-ho.’

‘I still think he should consider you and the baby,’ Mrs Finch replied. ‘Men get so carried away with things like war, they can be very selfish at times,’ she added with a delicate sniff.

Anne dipped her chin, letting her dark curls cover her face. ‘He’s only doing what he does best,’ she murmured, ‘and with so many losses, it would be even more selfish to pack it all in and get a nice safe desk job instead of fighting alongside his men.’

Peggy heard the tremor in her voice and took her hand. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Anne,’ she said softly so that Mrs Finch couldn’t hear. ‘She’s only thinking of you and the baby.’

‘I know.’ Anne shook her head, making her curls bounce on her shoulders. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ she said, picking up her knitting again. ‘How are the plans for Sally’s wedding coming along?’

‘We’ve all been saving food coupons, and she’s managed to get the extra ones she’s entitled to from the Town Hall so John’s mother can bake a wedding cake with a bit of fruit in it and some icing on top. John has got a new suit, and Sally says he looks more handsome than ever when he’s wearing it, and his mother managed to find a lovely hat at a jumble sale, which Sally is decorating with fabric flowers.’ Peggy was quite misty-eyed. She loved weddings.

‘What about my dress?’ asked Anne. ‘It has certainly put in some good service since I wore it. Sally’s must be the fifth or sixth wedding it’s had – and there are at least five more girls wanting to borrow it.’

‘She’s finished altering it so she doesn’t trip over the hem any more, and has had to take it in quite a bit since that last girl borrowed it. I’m sure she’ll look every bit as beautiful as you did on your wedding day, Anne.’