Always in My Heart (5 page)

The baby continued to suckle, her tiny fists bunched beneath her chin, the long dark lashes feathering her peachy cheek. Peggy lovingly ran her finger through the downy shock of dark hair as her thoughts turned back to Jim and Ron.

Jim had been banished from the bedroom by the young midwife, Alison Chenoweth, so he had gone downstairs to the room next to his father’s. It had once been the domain of their two young sons, Bob and Charlie, but since they’d been evacuated to Somerset, it had become a useful space for Ron to throw all his clutter and store the bicycles.

Peggy had heard the arguments as Jim tried to clear a space amid the collection of wellington boots, poacher’s coats, old ferret cages and numerous bits of fishing tackle, and had also heard the slam of the back door as Ron had stomped off to the pub in high dudgeon with his dog Harvey. The situation couldn’t be allowed to go on for long – Irish tempers flared far too easily – but at least peace had been restored now they were both asleep.

In the soft light of the candle that flickered in a saucer on the bedside cabinet, Daisy continued to suckle, unaware of everything but her hunger. Peggy smiled as she held her close. She’d forgotten how delicious babies could be, and how the great waves of love almost overwhelmed her every time she looked
at her. Nonetheless, the reality of being a new mother again at forty-four was a bit of a shock, and although she’d thought she was prepared – after all, she’d had four other children and was also a grandmother – she was rather disconcerted by how weak and sore she felt. But, looking down at the tiny person at her breast, she knew it was all worth it.

Daisy would be her last baby – the doctor had insisted upon that after the complication of her breech birth – and she was determined to enjoy every single moment of this precious and surprising gift. They grew so quickly, changed from helpless babes to demanding toddlers, and even more demanding young people struggling to find their place in the world, and she knew she had to hold onto this time and treasure it.

The minutes ticked by, the sound of snoring continued, and Peggy’s eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep. It had been a long, exhausting and exciting day, and the arrival of little Daisy had thrown the household routine into chaos. There had been a stream of visitors to coo over Daisy, and for a while Peggy had felt like a queen, sitting up in bed in the new and obviously expensive pink silk and lace bedjacket her sister Doris had brought. But the euphoria that had followed the protracted and painful labour had dwindled into an overwhelming weariness, and she’d been rather relieved when Alison Chenoweth had firmly sent everyone away.

She looked down as Daisy stopped feeding. She was fast asleep. ‘Long may it last,’ she whispered as
she rubbed the tiny back to bring up any wind, and bundled her against the cold in the soft blanket Mrs Finch had spent the last six months knitting.

The old cot which had seen much use over the years stood at the foot of the bed, well away from the draughts that whistled through the rattling frame of the sash window and made the blackout curtains sway. Peggy wrapped the bedjacket more firmly round her shoulders, eased out of bed and shivered as her bare feet touched the cold lino. There was another icy draught coming under the bedroom door from the hall.

She carefully tucked Daisy into the cot and made a mental note to get Jim or his father to find something to block the draughts out, but she suspected it would be up to her as usual. The pair of them meant well, and could certainly talk a good story about how capable they were at mending and making things – but they always seemed to have something more important to do than things about the house.

Once Daisy was warmly settled, Peggy drew Jim’s thick dressing gown over the bedjacket and winceyette nightdress and stuffed her feet into her slippers. She picked up the tall glass of milk from the bedside table and took a long drink before blowing out the candle and drawing back the curtains. She still felt rather wobbly and light-headed, but at least she was upright. It wouldn’t be long before she was back in harness again.

Peggy stared out of the window to the sky where
thick clouds scudded across the moon. There had been no bombing raids all week, and although it was a relief not to have to camp out in the freezing cold, damp Anderson shelter with everyone crammed in like sardines, there was still a tension in the air which increased every time a plane flew over.

Beach View Boarding House was three streets back from the seafront, and one of the many four-storey Victorian terraced houses that lined the steep hill. It had been in the family for years, but after war had been declared the visitors had stopped coming, and now the empty rooms were being used as billets.

There was usually a houseful of family and lodgers, but since Julie, her last evacuee, had returned to London, there was only Fran, Suzy and Rita billeted on the attic floor, and the elderly, bird-like little Mrs Finch, who was her permanent lodger, on the first floor next to the bathroom. Her youngest daughter Cissy was a secretary on the nearby RAF base, but rarely managed to get home on leave any more, whilst Anne, her eldest, was down in Somerset with her own baby, keeping her little brothers company.

Anne’s husband, Martin Black, was a Spitfire pilot with over twenty sorties under his belt. Although he’d recently been promoted to Air Commodore in charge of setting up new airfields, he was clearly frustrated by this new posting where he spent his days in an office dealing with paperwork and pen-pushers. To Anne and Peggy’s great dismay, they realised he was champing at the bit to climb back into a plane, and
with so many young men being killed, it was almost a foregone conclusion that he’d soon get his wish.

She tried to keep these worrying thoughts at bay as she looked down from her window at the long, narrow garden which sparkled with frost in the moonlight. The back gate opened onto a twitten that ran between the terraces and led eventually to the open grasslands and farms that lay to the north of Cliffehaven. The flint wall had been damaged long ago in an air raid, the makeshift repairs leaving it looking rather woebegone, but Ron’s vegetable garden was already sprouting a few green shoots beneath the thick cover of straw he’d put over it to protect it from the frost.

Peggy regarded the ugly hump of the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden, the sagging washing lines that were strung between the neighbouring fences, the outside lav, the shed and the chicken coop. The first few birds had been gifts from a group of Australian soldiers who’d come to tea almost two years before. Over the ensuing months Ron and Jim had somehow managed to increase the flock – though no one questioned their method, all too aware they might not approve of the answer – and now there was a cockerel in charge of a harem of ten hens. This cockerel made the most fearful racket every morning, but the number of eggs his hens laid more than made up for that.

Peggy let the curtain drop back over the window and returned to bed, keeping Jim’s dressing gown on for a while longer until the sheets warmed again. She
lay in the darkness and listened to the soft snuffle of her sleeping baby, the comforting scent of Jim’s shaving soap drifting from the dressing gown. Her eyelids grew heavy and, with a long sigh of contentment, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Mrs Cordelia Finch was feeling rather sprightly this morning, despite the fact that there was ice on the inside of the windowpanes, the milk on the doorstep was almost frozen solid, and her hearing aid was making the most annoying buzzing sound. At seventy-something – she’d lost track and no longer cared how old she was as long as she continued to enjoy reasonable health and kept her wits – she was still capable of taking over the reins from Peggy and getting downstairs in the morning to cook breakfast. In fact, it was the knowledge that she could still be useful that was making her feel so chipper.

As she clutched the cold milk bottles and rather damp newspapers, she resisted the longing to pop in and see Peggy and the darling baby, for she could hear the murmur of Jim’s voice behind the closed door and didn’t like to intrude.

Leaving the hall, she hobbled into the kitchen and abandoned her walking stick in a corner. With the milk and newspapers safely on the table, she slipped her arms into Peggy’s voluminous wrap-round apron and tied the strings at her tiny waist. Her arthritic hands fumbled a bit as they always did in the cold weather, but once she’d stirred the fire back into life in the
Kitchener range, the heat would soon ease the knots in her joints.

A small shovel of precious anthracite and a couple of logs from the pile Ron always left beside the scuttle soon had the fire blazing, and she set the kettle on the hob and the teapot to warm while she laid the table. All this activity made her feel a bit giddy, and she had to sit down for a moment to catch her breath.

The buzzing from her hearing aid was becoming a real nuisance and she switched the blessed thing off, once more mourning the loss several months before of the lovely new device Peggy had bought her. It had been so careless of her to trample it into a million pieces – but then she
had
been alone in the pitch darkness of the Anderson shelter, disorientated and afraid as she’d woken to the vibration of the overhead bombers.

She clucked impatiently at her wandering thoughts and turned her attention to more practical things – like making that pot of tea, and getting on with preparing the breakfast.

As she stood in the warmth of the range in Peggy’s kitchen and stirred the large saucepan of porridge, she contentedly hummed a little tune and regarded her surroundings. She had come to live at Beach View several years ago – long before this nasty war had spoiled things – and this room was the warm, beating heart of the boarding house that was now her home.

No one could deny it was shabby, for the chairs were mismatched, the table scarred, the lino worn into holes by the stone sink and in the doorway to the
basement, but somehow it didn’t matter. This was the room where everyone met to eat and talk, to knit and sew, listen to the wireless or catch up on local gossip, and Cordelia loved it. She felt safe here, warmed by the knowledge that Peggy’s family loved her and that even the young girls who were billeted here accepted her as an intrinsic part of their lives.

She sipped her tea and carried on stirring the porridge, her thoughts drifting back to the distant past when she’d been the youngest of four siblings growing up in the big house by the beach in Havelock Road.

Her parents were already middle-aged when she’d been born. The family was comfortably off as her father was a solicitor who had his own practice, and Cordelia had been blessed with a happy, fulfilled childhood. Her eldest brother was already married by the time her first birthday came round, and although she possessed some faded sepia photographs of those early days, she couldn’t remember ever meeting him, for he’d resigned his practice partnership with their father before she was two, and had gone in search of a more adventurous life in the tropics. The second brother was much closer in age and had been her hero, for he always had time for her and was tall and handsome, with kind eyes and a rather fine moustache. He’d been killed in the trenches in 1917, and she remembered she’d been inconsolable for months.

Cordelia stirred the porridge a little more vigorously as she thought of her sister Amelia. They had never got on, for Amelia was five years older and very bossy, and
it had taken some courage and will power to stand up to her. Amelia had become even worse in adulthood, and despite being a spinster, took it upon herself to tell Cordelia how to run her home, look after her husband, and raise her sons. Amelia was now living alone in a bungalow on the north-western edges of Cliffehaven, running a branch of the WI and on the committees of half a dozen good causes – no doubt enjoying her position of power, and telling everyone what to do.

‘Good luck to them,’ she muttered. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to listen to her any more.’

The porridge was bubbling nicely and she carefully slid the saucepan away from the direct heat and covered it with a lid. With a second cup of tea at her elbow, she sank into the kitchen chair and glanced at the newspaper headlines.

The battle for Moscow was still raging, as was the tank battle in Tobruk; the Japs had invaded Siam and there was heavy fighting in Malaya. America and Britain had declared war on Japan – and Germany and Italy had declared war on America. She set the papers aside, for they’d done very little to restore the bright mood that had waned after all those memories had come flooding back.

In fact, as she sat there in the quiet kitchen and heard the thin wail of the newly born Daisy drift in from the other room, the past returned even more forcefully. She had lost her precious daughter hours after her birth, but her sons had thrived, only to fly the nest decades ago to seek their fortunes in Canada.
She rarely heard from them now, just the odd card at Christmas and perhaps a hastily written aerogramme which told her very little. There were grandchildren she’d never seen, and, no doubt, great-grandchildren too – but they probably didn’t know she existed.

Cordelia realised she was feeling a bit sorry for herself and determinedly snapped out of it. Disappointments were all a part of life’s rich tapestry, and there was absolutely no point in dwelling on them now. She’d been lucky in so many ways, with a strong and happy marriage that had survived their moving into her childhood home in Havelock Road to look after her elderly parents in their last years.

When her husband died, she’d been left alone in that big house, and had at first managed quite well. But she hadn’t been used to seeing to repairs and bills and the day-to-day problems that her husband had always taken care of, and, with her hearing getting worse, and age and arthritis hampering her, things began to slide out of control. Her husband’s estate had not been as large as he’d planned – something to do with rather unwise investments – and she’d finally resorted to living in just two of the downstairs rooms without even the help of a daily woman. But then a pipe had burst in the attic water tank during one very cold winter and brought the ceiling down, and it had all become too much to bear.