‘Hmph. We’ll see,’ he muttered. ‘Give her sixpence for her trouble, Marjorie, and then get me a cup of tea. I’m parched.’ He gave Sally another fleeting glance and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Marjorie sniffed as she dug into a tin box on her desk, and almost grudgingly handed Sally the sixpence . ‘Mr Goldman is a fair employer, but he doesn’t hold with tardiness. If you’re not on time tomorrow, you will not be hired.’
Sally had no intention of being late. She wouldn’t have taken the sixpence either if she hadn’t needed it. She gave a sharp nod and quickly left the office, which reeked of Marjorie’s sharp perfume and Goldman’s cigar. It was quite a relief to get back in the cold, fresh air.
Following Anne’s map, Sally headed for the High Street. After a leisurely stroll, during which she’d explored every shop window and market stall, she bought a penny’s-worth of humbugs for Ernie to share with Bob and Charlie, and headed back down the hill towards the seafront. The town hall clock was striking two, and she was amazed at how quickly the morning had passed.
She reached the seafront and settled out of the wind on a concrete bench that had been set inside an ornate, open-fronted shelter. Her first, awestruck impression of Cliffehaven had been interrupted by Ernie being sick; now she had time to take it in and get a real feel for the place.
The pier must have looked lovely before the army ruined it. Now the once-elegant attraction had been boarded up and festooned in barbed wire. It stretched into the sea rather forlornly, stranded like some forgotten island far from shore. But the sea still sparkled and softly splashed against the great iron feet of the abandoned pier, and Sally hoped it wouldn’t be too long before it was open again, and she could have the chance to explore it.
She turned her attention to the way the town sprawled along the edges of the crescent of shingle that ran between jagged white cliffs to the east, and softly rolling hills to the west. It wasn’t anywhere as big as London, of course, but it was a fair size, with houses thickly massed nearest the sea, thinning out beyond the town centre and dotted among the hills that ran behind it like protective arms. She could imagine it in peacetime, with lots of families walking the promenade, children splashing in the sea, music coming from the pier, and colourful stalls selling cockles and whelks and candyfloss.
Sally let her gaze drift over the large hotels and private houses that lined the seafront. They were mostly boarded up for the duration, but it was clear from the different flags that fluttered from turrets and poles that some of them had been taken over by the forces. She could even see servicemen rushing back and forth or lounging on the balconies and terraces with pints of beer.
She turned her attention back to the promenade which had been closed off with rolls of barbed wire and heavy artillery emplacements, There was still a strip of pavement to stroll along and, although there were no deckchairs like in the postcards she’d seen in the corner-shop window, the bright winter’s day had brought people out of their houses to stroll, or watch the Australian soldiers play a noisy game of football in the street.
Soldiers, sailors and airmen in the uniforms of many countries strolled in groups along what was left of the promenade. They were whistling and calling out to the giggling girls, who pretended not to be watching them. Sally smiled wistfully, and felt strangely distanced from it all.
She moved away from the bench and pulled up her coat collar as she headed into the east wind. The London streets were full of servicemen as well, and she’d come to recognise the nasal twang of New Zealanders, and the slow drawl of the Australians, which was so different to that of the Yanks, who seemed to think they owned the place, regardless of the fact they weren’t even part of the war yet.
She shyly walked past a group of whistling sailors, keeping her chin tucked into her collar, and her gaze firmly on the pavement as they tried to coax her into talking to them. She wished she knew how to react without giving them the come-on – wished she could laugh, and flirt, and treat the whole thing as a bit of harmless fun. But she was too inexperienced and unsure of herself. Unlike her mother, who always had an answer, a smile, or a flirtatious look to throw back at them. It would have driven Dad wild if he’d caught her behaving the way she did when he wasn’t around.
The sailors finally gave up and she was left in peace to continue her walk towards the fishing boats that sheltered beneath the cliffs. There were several moored on the narrow strip of shingle that was free of barbed wire and hidden mines, and the fishermen were doing a roaring trade as the housewives jostled to buy a share of the day’s catch. It was all very different to Billingsgate, and even the smell wasn’t quite so bad because of the sharp sea wind.
The blood-chilling wail of the air-raid siren filled the air at the very moment an aeroplane dived out of the sun. It swooped below the barrage of gunfire from the Bofors guns on the cliffs, the rat-a-tat-tat of its bullets strafing the promenade. Sally couldn’t move – and couldn’t think. The plane seemed to be heading straight for her, its spew of deadly bullets flying ever nearer. She was mesmerised.
A hand grabbed her arm, yanking her off her feet. She cried out as she was thrown to the ground and rolled unceremoniously beneath a concrete bench. Bruised and shocked, she was about to protest when his weight squashed the breath out of her.
She fought against him, but found she was imprisoned, strong arms holding her against a thick woollen coat-front that smelled vaguely of moth-balls. ‘I can’t breathe,’ she managed, struggling to escape him.
‘Keep still, woman,’ he growled, even as he shifted his weight slightly.
She could breathe now, but her cheek was pressed intimately into his neck, her lips almost touching his ear lobe.
‘He’s coming back. Hold on tight.’
The roar of the enemy plane grew louder as it came nearer and nearer, and Sally forgot her discomfort as terror flooded through her and she clutched the stranger’s coat.
She flinched as bullets thudded into the bench above their heads and sprayed them with needle-sharp shards of concrete. Tried to burrow into his chest, as they clattered along the pavement, pinged off railings and lamp posts, and embedded themselves deeply into the grassy kerb. The down-draught of the Fokker’s low-flying passage above them threatened to blow them out of their hiding place – and he pressed harder against her, anchoring her to the ground.
The noise was deafening as the Bofors guns fired from the cliff-tops and along the promenade. The enemy plane roared over them again, still firing its deadly hail of bullets. And then it was gone.
Sally lifted her head as the welcome sight of two Spitfires came roaring over the headland. She could see them giving chase out into the channel and watched in awe over the stranger’s shoulder, as they did battle with the enemy plane. Diving, twisting, turning, they seemed to be taunting the Fokker. It was a deadly, almost graceful ballet against the clear blue sky.
The Fokker took a direct hit, burst into flames and nose-dived into the sea, and a ragged cheer went up as the Spitfires executed a victory roll above the seafront before disappearing back over the hills.
‘They’ll get into trouble for that,’ muttered the man. ‘Victory rolls are a definite no-no, especially so close to civilians.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But that’s the boys in blue for you – never know when to stop showing off.’
Sally tried to wriggle from under the stranger, but he was too heavy to shift. ‘Get off,’ she protested. ‘You’re squashing me.’
He didn’t move. ‘The name’s John Hicks, by the way. What’s yours?’
‘Sally Turner,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘Now, will you get off?’
He kept hold of her and rolled them both out into the open.
Disconcerted, Sally found she was lying on top of him in full view of everyone on the promenade. She looked down to find she was being regarded by a pair of laughing blue eyes that were fringed with long dark lashes. ‘You can let go of me now,’ she said stiffly, to hide her embarrassment.
‘I rather like the view,’ he replied unrepentantly. ‘Are you sure you want to leave?’
She tore her gaze from those bright blue teasing eyes and pushed away from him. Staggering to her feet, she brushed down her coat and took in the aftermath of the attack. There were several wounded people lying on the pavement and in the street, windows had been shattered by bullets, and someone had crashed their car into a lamp post. There were already two ambulances pulling up and lots of people rushing to help.
Realising she wasn’t hurt, and couldn’t do much to help anyone, she searched for her handbag and gas mask. To her dismay, she discovered they’d been blown into the coils of barbed wire and were stuck fast. There was no sign of her pretty headscarf.
‘I’ll get them.’ John Hicks sprang to his feet and within minutes was back with her belongings. ‘I’m afraid there’s a bullet-hole in your handbag, and it’s got a bit scratched on the wire,’ he said. ‘You must let me buy you a new one.’
‘This one will do fine,’ she said firmly, eyeing the damage with despair. It was the only one she had, and now it was ruined. But she wasn’t about to accept presents from a stranger – she wasn’t that kind of girl.
She looked up at him. He was very tall, with broad shoulders and the manner of a man used to getting his own way – but there was no sign of a uniform, and she wondered at that. ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ she said.
‘At least let me buy you a cup of tea. I know a very nice place …’
‘Oh, my Gawd. Ernie!’ Sally snatched her gas mask from him. ‘I gotta go,’ she breathed, ‘me little brother’s …’ She didn’t have time to talk, so she turned and started running.
‘Can I see you again, Sally Turner?’ he shouted after her. ‘Where do you live?’
She didn’t answer him. Her heart was racing, her mouth dry and tasting bitter. Ernie was up in the hills where the enemy plane had come from. She could only pray that Ron had brought the boys home long before the attack – if he hadn’t, then she couldn’t bear to think of the consequences.
Ron had spotted the enemy plane long before the sirens had gone off. He’d swiftly ordered the boys into the circle of gorse, and had sat with them in its deep shadows, chewing thoughtfully on his unlit pipe as they’d watched the dogfight from the cliffs.
When the enemy plane exploded and fell into the sea, he’d given a grim nod of satisfaction and patted the lurcher’s soft, shaggy head. ‘That’ll teach ’em to disturb decent folk going about their business, Harvey,’ he muttered.
The dog looked back at him and wiggled his brows. Nothing much fazed Harvey, for he was used to the sound of gunfire – but he wasn’t at all sure about low-flying aircraft and air-raid sirens. He’d dug himself deep beneath the gorse throughout the attack, now he’d edged out his nose, waiting for the all-clear to sound.
‘That was terrific, Gramps,’ enthused Bob. ‘Did you see how quick the Spitfires were to shoot him down?’
‘I saw,’ said Charlie, his eyes gleaming with excitement. ‘And when me and Ernie are grown up, we’re going to fly a Spitfire just like those.’
‘I probably won’t be allowed,’ said Ernie, ‘but I could fire one of them guns easy enough.’ He mimed turning the wheel that moved the huge anti-aircraft guns into place, and pretended he was firing at the enemy.
‘It’ll all be over by the time we’re old enough,’ said Bob gloomily.
‘Let’s hope so,’ muttered Ron. ‘But if the last war was anything to go by, you might get your wish yet.’ He eyed his grandsons with a scowl that hid his deep affection. All three boys were wearing school caps, belted gabardine coats, wellingtons and short trousers, their faces ruddy with the cold, eyes sparkling with excitement – and Ron hoped with all his might that this war would end soon and they would never be called to fight.
With a deep sigh, he checked that the two ferrets were happily ensconced in their separate inside pockets of his poacher’s coat, scratched the greying stubble on his chin, readjusted his cap and got to his feet. ‘Come on. It’s time to collect the purse-nets and get home.’
‘Do we have to?’ groaned the three boys in unison.
Ron didn’t bother to argue. They had enough rabbits for the pot and to sell to the butcher, it was a long walk home, and his orders would be obeyed. His grandsons knew the penalty for disobedience – a clip round the ear and no hunting trips for at least a week.
As he balanced Ernie on his hip and pushed his way through the spiny ring of gorse, his ankle-length coat caught on the thorns, hampering his progress. With a soft oath, Ron freed himself, set Ernie on the grass, and turned his face into the biting wind that came off the sea.
The boys and the dog scrambled after him and, as little Ernie watched enviously, Bob and Charlie raced off through the long, windswept grass – the dog in search of rabbits, the boys pretending they were Spitfires.
Ron watched them for a moment, glad of their innocent pleasure in a world gone mad. No doubt people were killed or injured in that surprise attack, but all the boys had in their heads were thoughts of the daring adventures they read about in their comics and the Biggles books they borrowed from the library. Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let them ever learn what it’s really like.
He remembered his own enthusiasm for war, and how he’d so naively enlisted in search of adventure, only to face the shattering reality of the trenches and the horrors of the Somme. He’d been forty – and really too old for enlistment – but his two sons, Jim and Frank, had barely left school when they’d joined the Royal Engineers to fight alongside him. It was only a matter of chance they’d all survived to come home – and now, a mere twenty-two years later, they were at war again.