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Authors: Ellie Dean

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BOOK: All My Tomorrows
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Now the only scents were the oil on the shingle, the faint whiff of smoke from a recent bomb site and the tang of the sea. Bomb craters marked the demise of many of the elegant hotels, and in the place of parasols and deckchairs were barrage balloons and gun emplacements. The pier had been separated from the beach at the beginning of the war to deter enemy landing craft that might have made it through the traps, and now, with the remains of a German bomber still jutting from its burnt-out skeleton, it would have been a kindness to blow it up and let it sink.

Peggy turned her gaze from this gloomy scene and concentrated on Daisy. At four months old her youngest daughter was a little beauty. Plump and forever smiling, she had Peggy’s dark brown eyes and the black hair of the Reilly clan and, even at this tender age, possessed the same innate charm as her father and grandfather in getting her own way. There was a danger she would become spoiled by all the attention she got from the inhabitants of Beach View Boarding House, and Peggy had had to be quite firm about a strict routine.

Peggy smiled as Daisy watched the birds in wide-eyed fascination as they swooped and hovered overhead. She was the image of her father, and at times like these Peggy ached for Jim to be with her. He was missing so much of his daughter’s growing-up, and right this moment, she herself needed his solid presence and his comforting arm about her. But he’d been called up and was miles away somewhere in the north of England, and it was doubtful she would see him again for many months.

Peggy experienced a wave of debilitating loneliness and self-pity and swiftly controlled it as she manoeuvred the sturdy old pram so the wind didn’t blow in Daisy’s face. Her emotions were all over the place, and she knew that if she didn’t keep a tight rein on them, she would be lost. And yet her hands still trembled as she cupped them round a match and lit a cigarette. She wasn’t ready yet to return home to the usual chaos of Beach View, for she needed these few moments to come to terms with what she had learned that morning.

She felt the chill wind on her face and blamed it for the tears which she quickly blinked away. Crying wouldn’t change anything, and she had to keep strong and focussed. After all, she reasoned, her condition wasn’t life-threatening – merely highly inconvenient, and rather worrying.

She watched the smoke from her cigarette spiral away on the breeze, and then followed the wheeling path of the black-headed gulls whose only concern was the need for food. If only life could be that simple, she thought with a deep sigh. But it wasn’t, and now she was faced with the prospect of having another baby before Daisy had even celebrated her first birthday.

The doctor had confirmed her suspicions half an hour ago, and he hadn’t been at all pleased, for he’d warned her after Daisy’s difficult delivery that another pregnancy at her age would simply exacerbate her anaemia and high blood pressure. He’d tutted and clucked as he’d weighed her and taken blood and urine samples, and she’d had to promise to slow down, to take his horrid iron pills, drink a pint of milk stout every day and try to put on weight.

Peggy puffed on the last of her cigarette and mashed the butt under her shoe as she folded her arms tightly about her waist. ‘I know he means well, Daisy,’ she muttered crossly, ‘but how on earth can I put on weight when rationing’s so tight?’ Her sour mood was born of frustration and worry. ‘As for slowing down – well, he should spend a day in my shoes and see just how impossible that is.’

Daisy batted the rattling plastic ducks that were strung across her pram and gurgled up at her mother.

Peggy’s flash of sourness disappeared and she smiled back at her tiny daughter. This pregnancy was all her own fault, for she’d thought she couldn’t get caught while she was breastfeeding Daisy. ‘It just goes to show,’ she said, ‘how much rubbish all those old wives’ tales are and how stupid I was to believe them.’

She turned her gaze back to the waves that were hissing against the shingle. She’d worked out that she’d fallen for this baby in the days leading up to Jim’s leaving for his army posting, and of course the last thing on her mind had been the possibility that their lovemaking would lead to another pregnancy. She felt a tiny flutter of apprehension in the pit of her stomach and decided there and then that however inconvenient it might be, this new life was a precious gift, and it would be loved and nurtured as all her others had been.

Daisy crowed and giggled as she waved her arms about and tried to kick off her blankets.

Peggy grinned and tucked her back in. ‘You might laugh about it now, young lady,’ she said softly, ‘but you wait until you have a rival for everyone’s attention. You won’t be the Queen Bee of Beach View then, you know.’

Daisy’s bright brown eyes regarded her solemnly for a moment, and then she plugged her thumb into her mouth and settled down to sleep.

Peggy knew in that moment that her momentary lapse into self-pity would not be repeated. There was a house to run, people to tend to and Daisy to care for. Air raids, rationing and the day-to-day struggle for survival were enough to be getting on with, and she was being selfish by sitting here feeling sorry for herself when there was so much to do back at home.

She stood up, ready to continue her walk, but a wave of light-headedness made her grip the pram handle, and she had to wait until it passed. This pregnancy was still in the very early stages but was proving to be unlike any of the others, with various niggles and aches and a sense of being tired and out of sorts all the time. But then that was probably due to her age and the galloping anaemia the doctor had been going on about. No doubt the iron pills and a drop of stout each evening would soon sort that out.

‘I must remember to ask Ron to bring some home from the Anchor,’ she said as she set off down the promenade, ‘though Lord only knows how I’ll swallow it down – I hate the stuff.’

She was still feeling a little light-headed as she slowly walked along the promenade, and when she turned from the sea and looked up the long, steep climb she had to tackle to get home to Beach View, she wondered if her legs would carry her that far. Accepting there was no alternative, she gritted her teeth and determinedly traipsed towards home.

Beach View Terrace was a cul-de-sac about halfway up the steep incline which led eventually to the top of the surrounding hills and the Cliffe estate, which had recently been taken over by the Women’s Timber Corps. Cliffe airfield lay some miles beyond the estate in a broad valley, and the sight and sound of Spitfires, Wellingtons, Stirlings and Halifaxes overhead had become so commonplace no one really noticed them any more.

Beach View Boarding House was a Victorian terraced house which had been in Peggy’s family for two generations. Almost indistinguishable from all the others which lined the hill on this eastern side of Cliffehaven, it had managed to escape serious damage during the air raids. Tall and narrow, its only view of the beach was from the corner of one of the upstairs front windows, but its depth provided seven bedrooms, a dining room and kitchen on three floors, and another two bedrooms and a scullery in the basement.

Peggy had a stitch in her side and was out of breath by the time she reached the alley which ran between the backs of the houses and continued on as a muddy track into the hills. She paused for a moment to catch her breath before opening the rickety gate.

The flint wall had been damaged early on in the war and Jim and his father, Ron, had done some makeshift repairs which unfortunately had not withstood time and the elements. There were some loose tiles on the roof and several of the windows had been boarded up – glass was expensive and difficult to find, and it made sense not to keep replacing it when Gerry was constantly dropping bombs all over the place. The neighbouring houses also had boarded windows, but some had lost their chimneys, and the two houses at the end of the cul-de-sac had been ripped apart by a gas explosion. All in all, she thought, they’d been lucky to escape so lightly.

As Peggy wheeled the pram along the garden path she eyed the ugly Anderson shelter which was going rusty beneath its turf-covered roof and then turned her gaze to the shed, the outside lav, the chicken coop and Ron’s flourishing vegetable garden. The eggs and fresh vegetables certainly helped them to eke out their miserly rations, as did Ron’s forays into the hills with his dog, Harvey. The pair of them were disreputable and unruly to the point where Peggy often despaired at the mess they made and the scrapes they got into – but their hunting trips were always successful and they’d come home with rabbits, wild berries and herbs – and the odd game-bird which had wandered by accident from the safety of the Cliffe estate into the deep pockets of Ron’s ankle-length poacher’s coat.

Peggy smiled as she passed the woodpile and coal bunker, and wrestled the pram over the back step into the basement. Her father-in-law might be in his sixties now, but he was sturdy and strong, still with a twinkle in his eye and the soft brogue of Ireland in his speech. He had enough blarney to sink a battleship, the dress sense of a tramp, and the heart of a lion. Peggy adored him, and couldn’t imagine life without him – even though he persisted in keeping ferrets in his bedroom and let Harvey sleep on his bed.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of damp dog as she parked the pram beside the stone sink and copper boiler. The basement had been divided into a scullery and two bedrooms. Her two youngest sons, Bob and Charlie, had once slept down here in the front room while their grandfather slept in the other. Now the boys were in Somerset, Ron had the place to himself, and he used the empty room to store all his junk. The place smelled of dog, pipe tobacco and old socks, but at least the two new ferrets didn’t pong as well and their bedding was always fresh.

Peggy eyed the mound of washing that awaited her in the basket and decided it could wait. Daisy was stirring and would need feeding and changing, and she was in desperate need of a cup of tea and a bit of a sit-down after that long haul up the hill.

She carried Daisy up the concrete steps and into the kitchen, surprised to see it was deserted for once. Having changed Daisy’s nappy and fed her with a little mashed vegetable, she settled down in the armchair by the Kitchener range and gave her a bottle of formula milk. The kitchen was her favourite room in the house, for although it was shabby and the furniture bore the scars of years of rough treatment, it was homely and welcoming, and held precious memories, not only of her childhood, but of her own family gathering here before war had torn them apart.

The glow from the range warmed her as she relaxed into the chair and gazed up at the photograph of Jim which she’d framed and placed with pride on the mantelpiece. He looked so handsome in his Royal Engineers’ dress uniform, the beret tilted low over one eye, his sensuous mouth curved in a smile that told her he’d been thinking of her when the photographer took the picture.

Her gaze drifted to the other photographs she’d placed on the dresser next to the wireless. Her two young sons grinned mischievously at her, arms entwined about each other’s shoulders as they stood in the back garden in their short trousers and wellingtons. Charlie was eleven now, and Bob had just turned fifteen, but they were growing up without her, far away on a farm in Somerset. It had broken her heart to have to send them back there after their all-too-short visit – but at least they’d had a chance to see their father and say goodbye as he’d left on the train with his brother Frank for the army barracks so many miles away.

Peggy blinked back the ready tears and regarded her eldest daughter, Anne, who’d just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday when the photograph was taken. Standing beside her husband Martin, who looked so dashing in his RAF uniform, she held their little daughter, Rose Margaret, in her arms and smiled bravely for the camera. Dark-haired, slender and beautiful, only Peggy knew the torment that lay behind that smile, for Martin had returned to flying again, and with each sortie, his odds of surviving this war were shortened.

And then there was Cissy. Peggy smiled. Cissy was twenty now and her fair hair had been styled in fetching waves which fell to her shoulders and almost covered one eye. Cissy had always been rather theatrical, and liked to emulate the Hollywood beauties Hedy Lamarr and Lana Turner. Thankfully her yearnings to go on stage had been nipped in the bud by an unfortunate run-in with a sleazy theatre director, and she was now enjoying life to the full in the WAAF and driving some RAF bigwig about in a staff car.

Peggy realised Daisy had fallen asleep, and she gently laid her in the playpen in the corner and covered her with a blanket. As she looked down at her sleeping child she couldn’t help but wonder how she would cope when she had two babies to look after.

‘Hello, dear. You’re looking thoughtful. Anything I can help with?’

Peggy turned and smiled at the elderly woman who was watching her from the doorway with such concern. ‘Just wool-gathering,’ she said lightly. ‘The tea’s fresh in the pot. Sit down and I’ll pour us both a cup.’

Cordelia Finch fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Do speak up, dear. You know I can’t understand a word you’re saying when you mutter.’

Peggy poured the tea, added a bit of precious sugar and hunted out the biscuit tin as Cordelia discarded her walking stick and gingerly settled in the other chair by the range. Cordelia Finch was aptly named, for she was delicately boned and small in stature, with a tendency to twitter and blush every time Ron or Jim teased her. She was in her seventies and had been living at Beach View for many years. The family, as well as the evacuees and lodgers, had come to regard her as a surrogate grandmother, and it was clear she enjoyed this position of love and trust and felt very much at home here. Peggy loved her dearly, although it was a bit of a trial at times to hold a sensible conversation when her hearing aid was on the blink.

The house was very quiet, and as Peggy had left straight after breakfast for her clandestine appointment at the doctor’s she had little idea of her lodgers’ timetable for the day. ‘I suppose we ought to enjoy this lull while we can,’ she said as she munched on a rather soggy digestive biscuit. ‘They’ll be home soon enough, starving hungry and in a rush to go out again.’

BOOK: All My Tomorrows
12.93Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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