Home Sweet Home (10 page)

He slammed his foot on to the gas. The Jeep skewed from one side of the road to the other, loose pebbles and dust flying out behind it.

The man taking the money for the ferry looked up, alarm registering on his face as the Jeep came skidding to a halt at the head of the queue.

‘Churchill's children,' Declan shouted at the puzzled-looking man. ‘I'm taking them to safety in Wales. Direct order.'

He held out a piece of paper that Frances had not seen up until now.

There was barely enough time for the man collecting the money to see exactly was on the paper before it was snatched swiftly back.

Declan headed for the front of the queue. Heads shook in astonishment as explanations travelled from the ticket collector to the waiting queue.

Once securely on board, Frances looked at him with an amazed look in her eyes and amusement rippling over her lips. ‘Churchill's children?'

‘Okay, I was a little generous with the truth.'

‘It was a lie.'

‘Okay. It was a lie. But don't you know that saying, darling? The end justifies the means.'

For a moment, the enigma that was Declan O'Malley was almost heroic. They were on board the ferry and, more than that, they were first in the queue to get off.

Face wreathed in smiles, Declan turned in his driving seat, his arm casually looped over the steering wheel.

‘Okay, kids. Everybody out.' He then climbed out himself.

The eldest, a girl, groaned. ‘Can't I stay here?'

‘No.'

‘I'm so very tired!'

The other kids having already got out, Declan reached in, pulled her into his arms and, swinging round, placed her feet firmly on the wooden deck of the river vessel.

‘Nobody stays in the vehicle when we're crossing water. Anyway, I thought you all wanted to take a leak.'

‘But I could sleep in there,' she groaned, her face creased with disenchantment.

Declan was unmoved. ‘You could drown in there! Look at this thing. Look at that river. If an accident happened, where would you be? Asleep first. Dead later.'

The eldest Gates girl maintained her miserable countenance but did not attempt to get back into the vehicle.

‘Right! Boys first!' Declan commanded.

‘For what?'

Her question was taken by the stiff south-westerly blowing up the Bristol Channel. She watched as he proceeded to take the boys to where only an iron rail protected them from the water.

‘This is where you pee.'

Frances covered her mouth with her hand to prevent herself from bursting out laughing. The two boys, and Declan, were standing in a row, their backs to her, all peeing over the side.

First to finish, Declan came back with a grin on his face. The boys remained peering over the side of the ferry, watching for signs of fish.

‘Now the girls,' he said, his eyes meeting those of Frances.

‘I can hold on,' said Frances.

Ellen Gates, the eldest girl, shook her head avidly, as embarrassed at the thought of it as Frances was. Little Maggie, the youngest, was whining, wanting to do what the boys had done because she just had to.

After setting her up on the rail, Frances held on to her until she'd been.

‘Is there more water in the river now?' Maggie asked, her bright little eyes shining with interest, her white curls falling like a snowy avalanche from beneath her knitted beret.

‘You mean now you've put some water in it?' Frances asked as she set Maggie back on the deck, pulled up her knickers and tugged down the hem of the little girl's coat so that it almost covered her grubby knees. ‘You probably did, you know, and now the little fishes are swimming around in it!' The little girl giggled. ‘Now go on. Go and play with your brothers.'

Declan came and stood beside her as they slid away from the bank. Due to the fast-running tide, the ferry headed upstream, the engines beating against the force of the water, causing it to be pushed back on to the course they needed to make the far bank.

‘There's Wales,' said Frances to the children, whose faces had been pinched pink by the fresh wind. ‘A land of mist and mountains.'

She went on to tell them more about the forest, the place where they were going.

‘The Forest of Dean is in Gloucestershire. You'll love it. There are lots of trees to climb and flowers to pick, fish to take from the brooks, as well as rabbits and deer.'

Talking about the things she'd got up to herself when she had stayed there brought tears to her eyes. She'd loved her time in the forest and hoped they would love it too.

Declan turned to look at her. ‘You make it sound like heaven – a heaven full of rabbits to be caught, trees to be climbed. They'll never want to go back to their mother.'

‘They can do similar things in Oldland Common.'

‘You know you don't believe that. They're entering something magical here. Their first time away from home, away from all they've ever known. It'll make them restless.'

He was standing with his legs slightly apart, braced against the movement of the ferry boat, eyes narrowed against the stiff breeze. A half-smile lifted one side of his mouth. His easy self-assurance was appealing and although she tried to drag her attention away, it wasn't easy. He was like a magnet and she couldn't help being attracted to him.

Looking towards the far shore helped her concentrate. ‘We're almost there,' she breathed.

Locks of hair blew across her face along with the chill breeze and the tang of salty spray. ‘Won't be long now,' she said brusquely. From now on, she would go all out to give the impression that she was looking forward to the end of the ferry trip. In one way she was. Ada might know how she could start looking for her mother. If she did then she wouldn't need to approach her uncle. Uncle Stan had been good to her and she had no wish to appear ungrateful.

Once the children were settled, she could have a quiet word with Ada and then she would head for home. Though heading back today meant having only Declan for company. Dismay and excitement vied for dominance. Excitement won.

There was a lot of engine noise and the shouts of men as hawsers were laid out on deck, the smaller berthing lines attached and ready to throw to the men waiting on the other side of the river.

Frances brushed her hair back from her face. Clouds lay like ruffled silk above the Welsh hills that rose behind the slipway at Bulwark, an English promontory on the Welsh side of the river.

‘Get ready to disembark,' shouted the skipper.

‘That means you,' Declan shouted to the five children.

It was early afternoon by the time they resumed their journey. Just before the road dropped into the Wye Valley, they pulled in so the kids could eat the lunches they'd brought with them – those who had any left, that was. Frances handed out more sandwiches to those whose rucksacks were empty. Declan handed out more chocolate bars, oranges, apples and bananas. The latter were looked on with awestruck interest; only the older children could remember ever having eaten a banana. Like onions, the banana had been an early casualty of the war.

‘So how many kids do you want?' asked Declan as they set off again, instantly wiping the grin off her face.

‘What sort of question is that?'

The Jeep bounded along the slipway and on to a narrow road.

Declan shrugged. ‘A question I want an answer to. It strikes me that an only child is a lonely child and one with an inclination to surround herself with children.'

‘I'll leave it to fate.'

‘That's not a good idea,' said Declan, shaking his head. ‘These things should be properly planned.'

Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘Planned?'

‘Sure. You have to be able to afford a family. That's my motto, my dear. I want every single one of my kids to go to college, or at least have the opportunity to go. So I'll plan how many I will have. And I won't have any of them running around in ragged trousers – or dresses – because I can't afford to clothe them properly. No sirree! My kids will be the best-dressed kids on the block! Or in the village. Just in case you don't know what I'm referring to.'

Bristling with indignation, Frances's response was as hot as her face. ‘Mrs Gates does her best but her husband is away fighting. It's not easy for her.'

‘I understand that.'

‘You've got a bloody nerve, Yank!'

Those dark eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Do I?'

‘You're implying that American children are better looked after than British children. That's what you mean, isn't it? That British children are scruffy and ill fed!'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘You did!'

‘Only in a roundabout way. I said I would plan things. There's no way I would leave my wife with a bevy of kids, no matter what.'

Frances stiffened. Was he speaking from experience?

‘Are you married?'

He threw back his head and laughed out loud. ‘Oh, no! No, definitely, no. I've never been the marrying kind, honey, not yet, anyway. I fully admit that I love women, but whoever claps her saddle on me will have to be one hell of a special lady.'

‘And you haven't met her yet.'

He looked straight ahead at the winding road as it dipped down into the valley. In the valley itself, the River Wye snaked its way through the thick foliage of deciduous trees. Although she wasn't sure what she wanted him to say, his lack of response ate into her patience.

At last she spat it out. ‘Well?'

He raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Now what do you want me to say, my pretty little English rose?' His smile was beguiling, cheeky and startlingly intent. That was when she knew he had said it on purpose, purely to feed her indignation.

‘I just want you to tell me the truth. What else would I want?'

He shook his head. ‘You're like all women. You want to be the one. It makes you feel special. The trouble is that once you've hog-tied me and made me your own, you'll expect me to conform to the norm, like all married men. You'll want me to mow the lawn, paint the house and mend the roof, play golf and go to church with you on Sunday.'

‘I will not!'

His grin widened. ‘There you are! My lady doth protest too much …Was it Shakespeare who said that?'

‘I've no idea,' snapped Frances. It probably was but she had no intention of further enhancing his out-of-control ego!

Folding her arms she turned her head and stared unblinking out of the plastic window on her side of the Jeep. Declan O'Malley had a commanding presence. She couldn't think of him being
hog-tied
, as he put it, by anyone, though any woman would consider him a challenge. Was that what he was doing now, challenging her to rise to the bait? The trouble was she was sorely tempted, and even though she kept telling herself that Ed was in love with her, and if she really wanted to he would marry her, she also had to consider whether that was what she wanted.

Sensing she was backed into a corner, Declan changed tack. ‘So tell me about this woman who's taking on all these kids.'

Frances willingly told him all she could, not missing out Ada's quirky behaviour and the way she looked at you, as though assessing every thought in your head.

‘And she doesn't like being called Mrs Perkins. She prefers to be called Ada. Even her granddaughter calls her Ada.'

She went on to tell him that Ada's granddaughter was named Miriam and lived with her. ‘Miriam doesn't get on with her mother, Mrs Powell, who runs the village shop.'

She considered there was no need to enlighten him further and say that Miriam's mother had kept her daughter a virtual prisoner in the living quarters behind the tiny village store. Poor Miriam. Frances had no doubt whatsoever that she was far happier wherever she was, and that whatever she was doing, she was happier than back in Oldland Common.

‘I sense you're quite looking forward to seeing these women.'

‘Yes. I am.'

They passed a pub, a railway station and headed off on a side road before reaching the Welsh town of Monmouth where, having crossed a bridge, they found themselves in England again, such were the convolutions of the land and the ancient border around here. There were no road signs to tell them where they were. Road and rail signs had all been taken down to confuse the enemy should they land. To find their way, Declan had brought a map and compass, and, of course, Frances could direct him to the right place.

He slid the map in front of the windscreen. ‘Where now?'

‘Take the next turning on the right.'

Eventually, they were bumping along on the track leading to Ada's cottage.

A spiral of smoke drifted lazily through the trees, the sight of it gladdening Frances's heart.

Ada's smokehouse was in operation, salmon probably, poached from the river and totally illegal. Not that the foresters would see it that way. They'd been living here for centuries. The fruits of the forest – and that included anything that swam in the river as well as what roamed or flew through the forest – was theirs by right.

Sunlight speared through a gap in the cloud, momentarily dappling the ground with diamonds of light. The track they'd bumped along widened into a clearing.

To her surprise, a group of people – adults and kids – stood around the cottage door, avidly looking in their direction.

The Jeep came to a halt. Frances got out and waved. ‘Ada!'

Her heels sank into the soft ground as she ran to where Ada was standing with the others.

‘Ada! It's lovely to see you.'

There were no hugs or shaking of hands: the sight of Ada's beaming face was enough acknowledgement that they were welcome.

She was greeted by the other people with Ada: two officials from the evacuee scheme, the local Methodist minister, the doctor and another man who she thought she recognised but couldn't quite place. She was slightly surprised that Miriam wasn't with them.