Far From Home (4 page)

This new and terrifying war had changed it irrevocably and, had her parents still been alive, they would have been devastated to see it thus; for where there had once been an elegant terrace of fine Victorian villas, there was now a gaping hole at the end of the street to the east, boarded-up windows and toppled chimney pots, rubble-strewn gardens and damaged pavements. Families had been forced to move out, their children sent far from home and into the care of strangers; their husbands, sons and brothers fighting abroad.

To the west, beyond the street that led up the hill from the seafront, lay the broader Camden Road which ran past the local parade of shops and on to the school and hospital until it reached the High Street of Cliffehaven town centre. The school was closed due to a block of flats falling on it during an early bombing raid, the children swiftly evacuated to safety, the teachers, like her eldest daughter Anne, enlisting into the various services. The hospital had, thankfully, escaped damage but the new factory Solomon and Goldman which had opened only weeks before had not been so lucky, and production had been seriously affected. It was a miracle no one had been hurt.

Peggy tutted, slung the straps of her gas-mask box and handbag over her shoulder and hurried westwards towards the High Street and the town hall where the WVS had set up a reception station for the homeless and dispossessed. She supposed she should be grateful they weren’t receiving the same treatment from the enemy as London, but being directly beneath the shortest route from the continent to the capital meant they were getting their fair share.

It was a shame she’d been born a woman, she decided as she walked determinedly past the Anchor, Ron’s favourite pub, because she’d have liked to have shown Mr Hitler just what she was made of.

Danuta Chmielewski heard the front door slam and, from behind the curtains of her first-floor bedroom window, she looked between the criss-cross of white tape down on Peggy Reilly as she paused on the steps before striding purposefully to the end of the street and crossing over to Camden Road. She followed her progress until she was out of sight, lost among the other housewives who were hurrying to join the queues outside the local shops.

Peggy was, Danuta guessed, in her early forties, with a bustling, no-nonsense air that was evident in the way she walked. Dark haired and pretty, despite the weariness that seemed to shadow her eyes, Peggy had been kindness itself. Danuta knew only too well how hard it must have been for her to tell her about Aleksy – God knew, she’d had to impart such awful tidings herself too many times not to know how she felt. It never got any easier, either, she silently admitted.

Danuta pulled the curtains on the bright sunlight, unable to bear its cheerfulness. She turned her back on it and stood in the broad bay, trying desperately to find some essence of Aleksy in this room he’d once slept in. It was a pleasant room at the front of the house above the dining room, furnished with a highly polished oak wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table. The two single beds stood opposite the door, the eiderdowns covering crisp linen, the home-made rag rug between them on the varnished floorboards. There was a gas fire with a shelf over it, and a mirror above that. A comfortable chair sat to one side of it, a padded stool stood in front of the dressing table, and a little rattan table held the bedside lamp and the few precious photographs she’d managed to rescue from the rubble of their home.

It was luxurious compared to the shelled-out barns, ditches and ruined farmhouses where she’d had to sleep over the past months, and although she was dreading having to share it with the mysterious Nurse Brown when she eventually arrived, it was certainly more comfortable than the cramped, cold apartment her parents had rented in Warsaw. The thought of those tenement rooms only made the homesickness more unbearable and, at this moment, she would have given anything to roll back this last year and be with her family again. But they were gone – all of them – and no amount of wishing could bring them back.

Danuta moved slowly across the room and sank on to her narrow bed, her gaze fixed to those faded, creased photographs that she’d carried so far from home. The beloved faces smiled back at her, but it was as if they were already looking out from another world – a distant plane that she could no longer see or understand, their features blurred and almost ethereal.

She felt the weight of the gold medallion, warm in the palm of her hand. Their father had given it to Aleksy when he’d left to fight the war in Spain, and it was a tangible reminder of how Aleksy had not forgotten who he was or the family that had loved him so much. Had Aleksy foreseen his death, was that why he’d not been wearing it when he’d been shot down over the English Channel? Was that why he’d asked his friend, and Peggy’s son-in-law, Wing Commander Martin Black, to give it to Peggy for safe-keeping? Had he, in some strange way, known she would come to find him, and that this little circle of gold would bring her some kind of comfort?

She gazed at it now, turning it over and over in her hands, watching how the dull gold glinted in the light that seeped through the curtains. The Madonna and child etched into the precious metal had not protected him, the prayer on the back meaningless now in this godforsaken world that seemed intent upon destroying itself. Danuta had witnessed too much to be swayed by religion any more; she had managed to survive on her wits. And yet this was an intrinsic part of her brother, something he’d cherished, and therefore more valuable than the metal from which it was made.

She curled on to the bed, the medallion held tightly in her fist. She was weary beyond belief. Drained of all emotion, the spark of determination and life that she’d kept burning so brightly over the past year, finally extinguished. She knew she couldn’t stay in this room forever, or avoid the noisy, cheerful people she heard moving about the house. She also knew her skills as a nurse would be sorely needed now England was being bombed so regularly and with such devastating effect. But she’d been fighting this war since the Germans had occupied Poland almost exactly a year ago, and it was as if Aleksy’s death had killed her spirit, and she simply didn’t have the energy to fight any more.

And yet, as she lay there, she felt the flutter of the new life inside her and knew that if she gave in to this terrible despondency, she would be betraying not only the memory of Jean-Luc, but the child they’d made together. She softly ran her fingers over the barely discernible mound of her belly which she’d managed to camouflage with baggy clothes. She had to fight on to help win peace – had to reignite that battling spirit to ensure that this child, sown with love during the darkest days of her life, would survive and flourish in a world free of conflict.

Danuta slowly rose from the bed and stood in front of the dressing-table mirror, almost afraid of what she would see, but knowing she could avoid it no longer. Her reflection showed a short, thin young woman in shapeless trousers and loose shirt, who looked far older than twenty-three. The ordeals she’d suffered during her time with the resistance in Poland and her escape through a war-torn Europe were etched, not only on her mind, but in her face and the green eyes that had witnessed too much. Her short, black hair looked lifeless, her skin dull, and her once elegant hands had been roughened, the nails bitten almost to the quick.

Turning her back on this unedifying sight, she took a deep breath and strengthened her resolve to pull herself together and begin the next phase of her life.

Polly had had to change trains several times during the past three hours, and now they were on a small branch-line which would eventually bring them to a main station and the final leg of her journey. Polly had little real idea of where they were, for she’d never been outside Herefordshire before and all the signs on the platforms had been taken down. The countryside was unfamiliar, the small towns and villages they passed so very different to the ones at home, and she wondered if her little family was experiencing the same sense of disorientation as they travelled north to Liverpool.

Exhausted by the emotional events of the day, and lulled by the regular clickety-clack of the wheels and the warmth of the bright sun coming through the window, she dozed off.

It was only a small train of five carriages and a guard’s van. The other occupants of Polly’s compartment were middle-aged or elderly civilians who kept up a desultory conversation about the inconveniences of war and the lack of any real information from the government. The corridor outside was jammed with Canadian servicemen and their huge kitbags. Despite their loud voices and sudden bursts of laughter, Polly’s doze was not disturbed.

The urgent volley of sharp blasts from the train whistle woke her immediately. One glance out of the window into the almost blinding sun was enough. ‘Get on the floor,’ she shouted. ‘Enemy planes.’

The eight of them scrambled to the floor as the guard furiously blew his whistle and ordered everyone to get down. Polly could feel the train speeding up, could hear the first deadly rat-a-tat-tat of bullets and the roar of the two fast-approaching Messerschmidts. The train was now screeching along, jolting them hard against one another, the wheels rattling over the rails, smoke and soot streaming from the funnel.

Polly tried to make herself as small as possible in the tight gap beneath the seat as the train hurtled along, the carriages swaying alarmingly as it took a curve in the tracks far too fast. She could hear the enemy planes returning; could see two of the fool-hardy young Canadians lean out of the corridor window and cock their rifles.

Enemy bullets thudded and whined, pinging off metal, splintering wood and shattering glass. The carriage window exploded, showering them with deadly shards. Someone screamed and Polly curled into a tighter ball, head buried in her arms.

The answering salvo of gunfire from the corridor was deafening above the shouts and the thunder of the racing train wheels. Polly remained tightly curled in the sooty dust and cobwebs that lay beneath the seat. She could feel the stiff terror of the woman beside her and reached for her hand, seeking comfort as well as giving it.

‘Cease fire immediately that soldier!’ The roared command came from the end of the corridor and was obeyed instantly.

The train continued its hectic pace, iron thundering over iron as the vibration of the turning wheels shook the carriages and reverberated through the huddling passengers.

After what felt like hours, Polly realised the enemy planes had gone, and the train’s pace had slowed. She dared to peek from beneath the seat so she could scan the small area of sky to be seen from the shattered window. The sun glared from an empty, cloudless blue.

‘All-clear!’ shouted the guard. ‘All-clear!’

Polly eased out from her hiding place and looked at the others. ‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘If you could just help me up, dear, the old knees don’t work as well as they used to.’ It was the elderly woman who’d clung to her hand so tightly throughout the raid.

Polly tried to keep her balance in the swaying compartment as she helped the woman to her feet. ‘You aren’t hurt, are you?’

‘Bless you, no, but thank you for holding my hand,’ she replied, straightening her dusty hat and clutching her capacious handbag. ‘I’m not usually so timid, but I really thought I was a goner there.’

Polly noticed that despite her cheerful words, her smile was fleeting and barely reached her fearful eyes. ‘Sit down for a minute and catch your breath,’ she advised. ‘We’ve all had a bit of a shock.’

Polly settled her comfortably and tried to dust herself down as she took stock of the damage to her clothing. Her cotton dress and cardigan were filthy, there was a ladder in her stockings, her hair was a mess, and she’d banged her head at some point, for she could feel the swelling just above her eye. She cleaned up as best she could and foraged for her handbag and gas-mask box which had been flung to the other side of the compartment, then sat down with a thump. Her legs suddenly felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool.

‘I do feel rather queer,’ said the older woman. ‘Sort of shaky and a bit sick.’

‘It’s the shock,’ replied Polly, taking her wrist and checking her racing pulse. ‘We could all do with a strong cup of sweet tea.’ She looked at the others who were equally distressed, although they were stoutly trying to hide the fact as they tidied themselves. ‘Anyone got a flask by any chance?’

There was general chatter as two flasks were produced, and they waited in turn to use the cups. Now they had something else to concentrate on, they were more at ease, and the mood lightened.

Polly waited until everyone had had their tea before she took the cup. She had just taken a deep, grateful swallow when a shout went up from the guard.

‘Is there a doctor on board? We’ve got casualties.’

Polly quickly drained the cup and handed it back to its owner. Sliding the compartment door open, she waved her hand and caught the man’s attention. ‘I’m a nurse,’ she called. ‘What sort of injuries?’

‘Serious enough to need attention before we get to the next station.’

The soldiers pressed themselves to one side to let her through and willing hands steadied her as she clambered round the kitbags, squeezed past uniformed chests and tried to avoid tripping over highly polished boots.

Thanking them, she turned to the guard, whose expression was grim. ‘Show me the worst ones first,’ she said quietly, ‘and see if you can find a first aid kit.’

‘There’s one in me van,’ replied the guard, holding the door open into the next carriage. ‘You’d better see to this bloke first. I don’t like the look of ’im at all.’