Always in My Heart (8 page)

Mrs Finch had donned her overcoat and was sitting halfway down the concrete steps that led to the basement, the air-raid box of essentials clasped to her chest, her walking stick and gas-mask box lying on the scullery floor next to a packet of biscuits. ‘Oh dear,’ she quavered. ‘I’m quite all right – but I think I’ve broken the biscuits.’

Peggy held the fractious baby in one arm, and helped Mrs Finch to her feet. ‘You’re more precious than any biscuits,’ she muttered as she took the air-raid box and left it on the top step.

Once they’d reached the scullery and the walking stick and gas mask had been retrieved, Peggy steadied Mrs Finch as they hurriedly negotiated the rough path to the Anderson shelter. At least it had stopped raining, but the sirens were still wailing, Daisy was still screaming and the searchlights had begun to flicker into life against the dark sky.

The Anderson shelter was bitterly cold and stank of
damp, rust, and mouse droppings. A bench had been fixed on both sides and a deckchair had been wedged into a corner so that Mrs Finch could be comfortable. There was an oil lamp hanging from the tin roof, and a primus stove for cooking tucked away under the bench beside the special gas-mask cot for Daisy.

A kerosene heater stood by the entrance so the fumes could escape through the many gaps in the door. On the back wall, Ron had fixed a wooden shelf, which held a battered saucepan, an equally battered kettle and teapot, as well as chipped mugs, mismatched cutlery and some tin plates. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, and hardly a home-from-home, but it had been their refuge now since the first air raid in 1940, and they’d become inured to its dubious attractions.

Peggy helped Mrs Finch into the deckchair and, with Daisy still screaming and flailing in her arms, attempted to light the lamp and the heater. Daisy suddenly became fascinated by the flickering light and forgot her fear, and Peggy handed her to Mrs Finch who’d at last had a chance to switch on her hearing aid.

‘I need to go back and get the rest of the stuff,’ she said clearly.

Mrs Finch nodded and held Daisy close as Peggy dashed out of the shelter. Retrieving the precious digestive biscuits as she ran up the scullery steps, she put them back in the box, yanked on her overcoat and grabbed the pillows and spare blankets which were always to hand for just such an emergency.

Heavily laden and out of breath, Peggy stumbled outside again. The sound of approaching bombers was interspersed with the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the ack-ack guns as red tracers stitched through the sky and the searchlight beams swung back and forth in search of the enemy.

She didn’t stand about to watch, but ducked her head and almost fell into the shelter. Slamming the door, she dropped everything on the bench and collapsed beside it as she tried to catch her breath. She really did feel awful, with a head full of cotton wool, legs like jelly and a dull ache at the pit of her stomach.

‘I don’t wish to state the obvious, dear, but you’ve been overdoing things,’ said Mrs Finch as she gently rocked a now pacified Daisy back and forth in her arms. ‘Why are you even out of bed, let alone dressed?’

Peggy’s heart was racing and she felt sick and faint. Dropping her head to her knees, she fought to stay conscious. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ she insisted.

Mrs Finch didn’t reply, but her silence spoke volumes.

Peggy waited for her pulse to return to normal, and as it did the nausea faded along with the feeling that she was about to faint. She slowly lifted her head and reached for the large fresh-water container she always kept in the shelter. The tin mugs weren’t very clean after sitting out here for days, but she didn’t care, and she poured the cold water and drank greedily. The second cup restored her to something approaching
normality, and she smiled to reassure Mrs Finch that she was indeed all right.

It was impossible to talk, for the bombers were right overhead now, probably heading for the large naval dockyard further down the coast. It had already taken a fierce hammering over the past year, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there was much left to bomb. Of course there was always the chance they would dump the last of their deadly load on Cliffehaven before they scuttled back across the Channel – and these ‘tip and runs’ had caused a great deal of damage to the town.

Peggy was about to hold out her arms for Daisy so she could put her in the special cot, when she saw how Mrs Finch’s old face was alight with love as she looked down at the baby she cradled – and how the arthritic fingers so tenderly touched her cheek and held her close. Daisy’s wide, unfocussed blue eyes looked up at her, and it seemed as if she understood the muttered words of endearment and was soothed by them.

Peggy felt an almost overwhelming need to cry at this heart-warming scene, and she had to swallow a lump in her throat and blink back tears as she tidied the blankets and rifled in the box for the milk and tea.

The deep inside pockets of Ron’s ankle-length poacher’s coat held a hare and a brace of rabbit. He’d been tramping the hills for most of the day, glad to be out of the house despite the appalling weather, and had hoped to snare a couple of ducks from Lord Cliffe’s lake. Unfortunately, some stupid bugger had
put up a big wire fence which seemed to stretch the entire length of the estate and effectively shut him out.

This fence had really got his back up, for the Cliffe estate was one of his hunting grounds now the gamekeepers and groundsmen had gone off to war, and with Lord Cliffe spending more time in London, it had become Ron’s personal larder. He’d walked the length of the fence and then peered through the gloom at the big notice that had been nailed to one of the sturdy posts and grimaced in disgust. The Forestry Commission had taken the place over – and trespassers would be arrested and heavily fined.

Not that this particular threat worried him; he was always trespassing, and so far had eluded those trying to catch him. But it did worry him that the wire seemed very strong and the fence was much too high for a man of his age to negotiate. With a large household to feed it would just make life more difficult.

He’d stood there in deep contemplation as Harvey ran back and forth in search of anything hidden beneath the tough, wind-blown grass and spiny gorse. The lake had provided ducks and quails along with their eggs. There were salmon in the streams that ran through the estate forest, and pheasant and partridge, even the occasional deer. Alf the butcher and Fred the fishmonger paid well for anything he managed to get, and although the risks involved were high, it was worth it just for the excitement.

Deciding to bring his wire-cutters next time, he’d eventually turned his back on the fence and headed
morosely for home. It was already dark, and although it had at last stopped raining, the wind still tore across the hills like a fury, chilling Ron to the bone despite his woolly hat, three sweaters and thick coat. Yet his mind wasn’t really on his discomfort or even on the problems posed by the new fence – it was occupied with thoughts of Rosie and the strange way she’d been acting just lately.

Rosie was the landlady of the Anchor pub, and the best-looking woman in Cliffehaven as far as Ron was concerned. Blessed with an hourglass figure, long, slender legs and eyes a man could drown in, she exerted a powerful attraction, and Ron had been besotted with her from the moment she’d arrived. But Rosie had played hard to get, and although there was no doubting that she liked him, she’d kept him at arm’s length for years.

There had always been a bit of a mystery about Rosie, for no one knew anything much about her, other than that she’d come from outside of town to take over the Anchor, and that there didn’t appear to be a husband in the picture despite the fact she wore a wedding ring. Lively and attractive in her early fifties, she’d set many a heart fluttering amongst her male customers, but she’d kept them at arm’s length too, run an orderly house and seen to it that there was never a breath of scandal attached to her.

Ron had begun to help change the barrels and bring the crates up from the cellar when the pub was shut, and little by little she’d rewarded his perseverance by
spending her few precious free hours with him. Their flirting had become a game which they both enjoyed, and although Rosie was a good deal younger than him, it seemed she didn’t mind being courted by a rather scruffy old Irishman. And then one summer night he’d taken her to a charity ball at the Grand Hotel on the seafront, and after he’d walked her home, she’d kissed him and told him she loved him.

Ron dug his hands into his deep pockets, his heart warmed by the memory of how sweetly soft her lips were, and how perfectly she’d fitted into his embrace. But then she’d confessed she had a husband and that, because he was locked away in a mental hospital, divorce was out of the question. His love and admiration had grown as she’d opened her heart to him that night, and although he’d longed to take her to bed and kiss away her cares, he’d respected her wish not to betray her sick husband further with such intimacy.

In the months that followed, Rosie had told him snippets of her life story, but when she’d revealed that shifty, two-faced Tommy Findlay was her brother, he’d been undeniably shocked. However, he had to accept there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Tommy had never done anything to him personally, but Ron knew he was light-fingered and sly. He detested the man for his smarmy ways and underhand dealings with the women who fell for his dubious charms, and wouldn’t have trusted him to tell him which way the wind was blowing. But as Rosie happened to share
Ron’s opinion of her brother, he’d decided that as long as Tommy stayed out of Cliffehaven and away from Rosie and the Anchor, they could just forget about him.

As summer had slowly waned into autumn and then winter their friendship had deepened to something very precious and Ron had thought Rosie felt the same way. But four weeks ago there had been a subtle change in her – so subtle he’d hardly noticed at first. Then he began to realise that she didn’t seem to want to talk to him as much as he sat at the bar during opening hours, and would cut short their afternoon teas in her rooms above the pub with some excuse about washing her hair or doing shopping. Yet the real eye-opener was when she’d asked one of the other men to help with the barrels and crates, and he’d known for certain that something was very wrong between them.

He’d watched her more closely after that and detected a brittleness in her laughter, a darkening in her eyes as she studiously avoided his gaze, and a certain impatience that manifested itself in a shrug or a tut. It was as if she was trying to distance herself from him and, with each small rejection, his heart ached just that bit more.

He’d tried asking her what the matter was, but she’d merely shrugged away his concern and told him not to fuss – in fact, she’d made him feel as if he was being a nuisance, and that had really hurt. So he’d stayed away for a while in the hope that his absence might bring her round. But there had been no telephone call, no little note through the letter box at Beach View, and as
the days had turned into weeks, he’d begun to wonder what he’d done to make her behave in such a way. It was simply so out of character.

Now Ron was a plain-speaking man who didn’t like being kept in the dark, and he’d had enough of pussyfooting about. He loved the bones of her, and if something was troubling her then it was his duty to sort it out – regardless of the pain it might cause him.

‘It’s the Anchor for me tonight, Harvey,’ he said purposefully as they plodded homeward. ‘Ye’ll have to be content with sitting by the fire with the women. Me and Rosie have things to discuss and ye’ll only be in the way.’

Harvey grinned back up at him, his ears flapping in the wind as he trotted alongside him.

‘Ach,’ said Ron. ‘You don’t care, do you? They say ’tis a dog’s life, but if all I had to worry about was me belly and a warm bed at night, to be sure I’d change places with you in a flash.’

Harvey gave a single bark and ran off.

‘Eejit beast,’ Ron muttered affectionately.

He followed the dog, his heavy boots treading confidently over the hills he’d tramped since he was a lad fresh off the boat from Ireland. He loved it up here, even in the cold, for the only sound he could hear was the distant thunder of the breakers crashing against the cliffs and the sough of the wind in the grass and the trees. The sky above him was black, the moon veiled in scudding clouds – and if he ignored the gun and searchlight emplacements that now dotted the hills, he
could believe he was treading in the footsteps of the ancient people who’d once lived and hunted here.

As he reached the top of the chalk cliffs that sheltered the northern end of Cliffehaven beach, the tranquillity was suddenly shattered by the wail of sirens. Ron stood there and watched the searchlights fizz into life as one by one the sirens began to gather strength all through the town.

Harvey hated them and he raced back to Ron and pressed his shivering length against his legs as he set up a piteous howling.

‘Shut up,’ Ron muttered as he stroked the soft head.

Harvey took absolutely no notice, his howls rising in volume as the sirens reached their highest pitch.

Ron knew he would carry on like this until the sirens stopped, so ignored him and peered into the darkness across the wind-ruffled waters of the Channel. Pinpricks of light revealed about four enemy bombers which were still out of range of the guns. This was obviously one of those short, sharp raids meant to keep them all on their toes.

Ron grabbed Harvey’s collar and dragged him towards the tumbledown remains of an old barn. It was unlikely they would bother with one man and his dog, but the gun emplacements and searchlights were obvious targets, and Ron didn’t fancy getting blown up before he had the chance to talk to Rosie.

The flint barn and farmhouse had long been abandoned, the family relocated to a farm in Scotland so the army could use their home for target practice. Now
there were just the few remnants of walls standing to mark at least a hundred years of one family’s endeavour.

Ron wrapped his coat tightly round him and pulled the woolly hat further down over his ears as the rumble of the enemy planes drew nearer and the ack-ack guns began to rattle beneath the booms of the Bofors.