Cockney Orphan (42 page)

‘It’s one of those November colds that run all the time,’ Connie replied as she shined the knives and forks with a cloth. ‘Lawrence had it first and I expect Lucky will
get it next. Pat didn’t want them to pass it on to Sylvie’s twins.’

Olive looked at Connie with a frown. ‘Heard anything from Peggy?’

‘The police had no luck in tracing Gilbert Tucker.’ Connie shrugged. ‘It’s a lot more difficult in wartime to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.’

It was taking time for her parents to accept that Lucky was back for good. She suspected they were still worried he would be removed from her custody again, even though she’d assured them
that it wasn’t likely to happen, as Gilbert Tucker was a wanted man now and faced the prospect of time in prison when he was caught.

‘And no registration of his birth has ever been found?’ Olive asked doubtfully.

‘Not on the island, anyway. If nothing turns up I’m going to get him registered properly. Peggy said she’d help me go through all the rigmarole when it comes to it.’

Her mother nodded slowly. ‘And what of young Grace?’

‘She’s very happy living with the Burtons.’ Connie paused. ‘But Peggy doesn’t think Sybil will be released from the asylum as the doctors think her condition has
got worse. As a last resort they’re giving her special treatment like they give to ex-servicemen who have shell shock.’

Olive sighed sadly. ‘I suppose they’ve got to try something. But if you ask me that woman was suffering from a deep-seated grief for her husband and child that nothing earthly can
cure.’

Just then Sylvie walked in. Her face looked pink as she rocked five-month-old James in her arms. ‘John is fast asleep,’ she told them doubtfully, ‘but James is still restless.
Why does one go off the moment his head hits the pillow and the other scream the house down?’

Connie smiled as she glanced down at the tiny pursed mouth. ‘He’s just letting you know he’s still hungry. Lucky was much better at sleeping when he started on proper food. I
can remember piling all sorts into him when we lived down the Anderson. It must have worked as he began to sleep through the raids.’

‘Don’t mention that awful contraption,’ Olive groaned as she strained the potatoes through the colander. ‘I still have nightmares about Billy and you being blown to bits
inside it. Which, may I remind you, you almost were.’

The Blitz now seemed like a lifetime ago, Connie reflected, as she listened to her mother and Sylvie talking. So much had happened since then that she could hardly believe they were all standing
here in the same kitchen of the same house that had had its roof blown in by a bomb, the house next door wrenched from the adjoining wall and both yards and shelters reduced to rubble. In four
years she had gained an extended family that she had never dreamed could exist. Before the outbreak of the war she and Ada had nothing more to worry about in their lives than where to go on a
Saturday night. Now Ada was living in Kent and had written she’d joined the Land Army. Her letters were full of country life. Surprisingly the fresh, clean air seemed to suit her, as did
weekends down the pub with the hale and hearty country lads.

Connie smiled to herself as she took the knives and forks into the front room and placed them on top of the big gateleg table, opened out for Sunday dinner. Even the buzz bombs and rockets
hadn’t been able to stop this family tradition. Nan and Lofty would be along to tea later that day. A neighbour or two would call in and perhaps Taffy, who always wanted to know how Billy
was. Everyone would stop to admire the twins and be force-fed numerous cups of tea and some of Nan’s cake. And before Connie left for home, the embers of the fire would warm the room, with
all the faces bearing rosy glows. Even the twins would be kept up until she left, handed from lap to lap, the men as much delighted with the two new additions as the women.

The smile flickered slowly from her face. John and James were dear little boys, the apple of everyone’s eye. How she had hoped that one day she would be bringing her own family here for
Sundays. Vic and her, Lucky and his brothers and sisters. Oh yes, she’d had vivid pictures in her mind once, of the happy family they would all make once the war was ended. Now, of course,
that vision had changed.

Her heart gave a frightening tug and she pulled back her mind from the darkness in which her memories of Vic were clouded. She had been given back Lucky. And if the powers above had chosen not
to return Vic, then she, like thousands of other women, would have to make new lives, new dreams, new visions, without their men.

‘If I get one line every six months I’ll be surprised,’ Olive was saying to Sylvie when Connie walked back in the kitchen. ‘Billy’s never been a writer, so
I’m not expecting what I’ve not been used to. As long as he’s safe, that’s all I want to know.’ Her voice shook slightly. Then, lifting her chin, she indicated the
mashed potatoes steaming on a small saucer. ‘Here, give him to me, Sylvie, and we’ll try him with a teaspoon.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without your mum,’ Sylvie sighed as she handed over the little boy and sat down wearily. ‘Delivering two babies at one time was more than
a shock, it was a miracle. There’s no twins in either of the families. Just goes to show you never know what’s round the corner.’

‘And where would we be without them!’ Olive purred as she wrinkled her nose encouragingly at James and tipped the teaspoon to his lips.

Olive was oblivious to everything around her. The look on her face said it all. The little boy was her blood, as was John upstairs. They meant the world to her and Connie was happy that Sylvie
and Kev had brought such fulfilment to her life.

Just as James slapped his lips in appreciation, there was a knock at the door.

‘Who can that be, right on dinner time?’ Olive demanded, sounding annoyed.

‘I’ll go.’ Connie took off her apron.

‘Miss Marsh – Miss Connie Marsh?’ A tall, distinguished-looking man wearing an officer’s hat and an elegant moustache that grew like a butterfly across his lip smiled
down at her.

‘Yes.’

‘May I introduce myself?’ He took off his flat cap. ‘I’m Major Adrian Rees-Duncan from GHO . . . er . . . that is, Government Headquarters Overseas. I wonder if I could
have a word?’

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person?’

‘Oh yes, indeed. I’ve just had a chat with Mrs Grant, who directed me here.’

‘Pat?’ Connie began to be alarmed. ‘It’s not Laurie, is it?’

‘No, no, it’s not.’ He shook his head ponderously and a shock of light brown hair slipped over his forehead. James let out a great bawl from the kitchen and he glanced over her
shoulder. ‘I think we should speak privately, if you don’t mind.’

If she hadn’t felt so worried about what he wanted, Connie would have laughed. Privacy was something you wouldn’t find at number thirty-three Kettle Street, or, in fact, in any other
house still standing on the Isle of Dogs.

‘Perhaps . . . my car?’ the Major suggested as the men came striding up the garden path, politely nodding as Ebbie and Kevin made their way towards them.

‘What’s going on?’ Ebbie demanded as Connie grabbed her coat off the hook.

‘I . . . I don’t know, Dad. I’ll tell you in a minute.’

‘You ain’t going off in that thing, are you?’

‘No. I’m only going to talk in it.’

Connie hurried after the major, who opened the rear door of the big black car. She climbed inside, inhaling the not unpleasant but rather formal smell of cigar smoke and polished upholstery. The
watery November sun played through the big back window, giving the atmosphere an unrealistic quality.

‘What is it?’ Connie stammered as she moved across and he sat beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’

The major smiled. ‘Nothing, nothing at all, but what I have to tell you may come as something of a shock.’

Connie’s mouth felt dry. She clenched her hands in her lap.

‘Miss Marsh, I am pleased to be able to tell you that your fiancé, Lieutenant Victor Champion . . . is alive.’

Connie stared at him. Was he joking?

‘But I must add, after building up your hopes, that he is still in enemy-occupied territory. Italy to be precise.’

‘Italy!’ Connie exclaimed hoarsely. ‘But I was told there were no survivors from his ship.’

‘Yes, and that was what we, too, believed, until our sources discovered that your fiancé was recovered from the sea and taken as a prisoner of war to a concentration camp on the
Adriatic coast of Italy. Here he recovered from the wounds he had sustained and eventually escaped into the foothills. He joined a number of partisan fighters and continues to this day to oppose
the Fascist militia. The longevity of his group, despite unavoidable casualties, is partly due to the fact that the terrain in this area is miserably inhospitable but virtually inaccessible to
German troops. Your fiancé, in effect, is now our number one contact inside enemy lines.’

Connie shook her head slowly. After a moment’s silence, she whispered, ‘Are you
sure
this man is Vic?’

The major smiled again. ‘In August of this year our reconnaissance made radio contact with Italian resistance. We formed strategies in order to penetrate behind enemy lines. Our first task
was to parachute men and arms into Italy under the cover of darkness and this we did successfully, thanks to the support and information provided by Lieutenant Champion and his group.’

Connie tried to absorb the details the major had given her. The only question she could think of to ask was, ‘When will he be coming home?’

‘Sadly, I can’t say.’ The Major frowned. ‘You see, your fiancé remains – voluntarily – in Italy. We could get him out now, if he so wished, but
he’s chosen to stay and help the people who have helped him – and us – in our fight against the enemy.’

Connie felt a stab of dismay as tears sprang to her eyes. Why hadn’t he chosen to come to home to her? Hadn’t he given enough to his country? They had both endured the torment of
being apart and, in her case, even believing he was dead!

‘Miss Marsh, I know how painful his decision must be for you to accept. But may I remind you of something you undoubtedly know? Lieutenant Champion is a very brave man indeed. He is unique
in his determination and strength of character and is now invaluable to British Intelligence. Would you really expect any less of him when faced with such a choice?’

Connie looked into his eyes and knew that she wouldn’t. She was being selfish in wanting Vic’s return, but then she was only human and her heart was aching in a very human way.
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ She quickly wiped a tear from her eye.

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. And all we have discussed must be kept in the strictest of confidence. Lives depend on the fact that nothing is leaked, not even the slightest word.’

‘Did you tell Pat when you saw her?’

‘Only that her brother is alive.’

‘She must be so happy—’ Connie stopped mid-sentence as a thought struck her. ‘You needn’t have told us, need you?’ she breathed haltingly. ‘You could
have let us go on thinking he was dead.’

The major nodded slowly, quirking an eyebrow. ‘Your fiancé had one request, and I vowed to honour it personally. That is why I am here today and have told you all I am able
to.’

Connie’s face suddenly filled with joy. ‘He mentioned me?’

The major smiled but said nothing.

‘Can I tell the rest of my family?’

‘Yes, but not where – or how. Only that he did not go down with his ship. I’m sorry, but in your fiancé’s case, and that of the men working with him, silence is
truly golden.’

Connie looked at the man who half an hour ago had not existed in her life. ‘So I’ll just have to wait until the war is over?

He smiled gently. ‘With God’s grace, we are winning, Miss Marsh. Hold on to that hope.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m very glad – and honoured – to have
met you.’

Connie watched the sleek vehicle glide away into the thickening November mist. She wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh. She wanted to jump for joy and run through the houses telling everyone Vic
was alive. No one knew if the V2 menace would strengthen the sting in the enemy’s tail. No one knew what would happen in Europe or in the Far East. But the major had told her to hang on to
hope. And that was what she was going to do.

After the car had driven away, she walked slowly back into the house. She pushed open the front-room door. Her family gazed up at her from the big oval table where all the dirty plates were
stacked in a pile, knives and forks balanced on top of them. Olive was dishing the pudding into bowls, an unrecognizable pile on to which Sylvie was pouring condensed cream. Kevin and her father
were waiting for seconds, their faces anxious as they stared up at her.

‘Well?’ they all shouted at once. ‘What happened?’

Connie felt tears spring to her eyes once more. Her dad leaped from his chair and hugged her.

‘What’s wrong, love, what is it?’

‘He’s alive, Dad. Vic’s alive.’

Suddenly she was surrounded, the questions coming from all angles. How dearly she longed to be able to share her news. How much she wanted the war to be over when she could shout from the
rooftops that her sweetheart was coming home.

Amidst tears and laughter Connie promised herself she would never lose hope again. She believed that her love had kept him safe and that same love, tenfold in its strength now, would bring him
back safely into her loving arms once more.

June 1954

V
ic took a long, slow breath and leaned his arms on the polished oak rails of the cross-channel ferry. The warm sun played on his neck and burned
into the cloth of his sports coat. The spray that had moistened his face as he’d gazed over port side was drying on his cheeks, highlighting the slim white scar that began in the centre of
his forehead and disappeared under a shock of thick dark hair.

His mind far away, he gazed at the disappearing white cliffs of Dover and his hand went up involuntarily to stroke the pale, twisting thread. Sliding his fingers along to the triangular bump on
the pinnacle of his skull he massaged the hard contours. Immediately pictures flew up before his eyes as they did every time he performed this unintentional ritual. After Georgie had died,
he’d not noticed the shard of metal sticking up from his own crown, not felt a flicker of pain. He’d been too busy trying not to drown, too occupied in clinging to the wreckage of his
little ship and watching it sink before his eyes; listening to the gurgle of water gulp and groan and the metal creak, until nothing was left above the waves. Nothing, that was, of his remaining
crew, of the brave lives they had lived and the courage they had shown.