Far From Home (27 page)

Peggy turned to find Mrs Finch standing by the kitchen table in her dressing gown, her handbag over her arm as usual. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘We’ve had some very sad news, and I don’t think anyone slept very well at all.’

Mrs Finch clearly couldn’t hear a word she’d said but seemed to realise Peggy was struggling to maintain any sign of her usual sunny disposition. She fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘What is it, Peggy? What’s happened?’

Peggy waited until she was settled in a chair before telling her. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘we need to give Polly some time to absorb this terrible news. I don’t know how she’ll be, grief takes us all differently, but I think that as long as she knows we’re all here to help her, she’ll come through in time.’

Mrs Finch nodded. ‘It’s a terrible thing when the young are snatched away,’ she said, plucking at her handkerchief. ‘And doubly cruel that they should all have perished.’ She blew her nose forcibly. ‘Poor little Polly. How on earth is she going to tell her husband? Is he well enough for such news?’

Peggy made the tea and added some precious sugar to it to give them both a bit of a boost. ‘I don’t think he is,’ she murmured, setting the cup and saucer in front of Mrs Finch. ‘Polly says he’s recovering slowly, but I think he’s far from out of the woods yet – and something like this could set him back weeks, if not months. It’s a terrible dilemma, it really is.’

‘Poor Polly,’ murmured Mrs Finch, ‘as if she doesn’t have enough to contend with.’

They sat in thoughtful silence as they sipped their tea. As the clock on the mantel struck seven, they heard the clatter of the newspapers being shoved through the letterbox. The war might have changed many things, thought Peggy, but come hail, rain, shine or air raids, the newspapers and milk arrived every morning without fail. The normality of it was comforting in these troubling times.

Peggy dragged herself out of the chair, traipsed into the hall and drew the papers out of the new wire-mesh basket that hung below the letterbox. She liked the
Daily Mirror
, Ron and Jim preferred the
Mail
, and Mrs Finch would only read
The Times
.

As she shuffled back towards the kitchen, Peggy glanced at
The Times
’ headlines with little interest. There were the usual reports of heavy bombing over London, and RAF retaliation over Berlin, and a follow-up article from the previous day about America’s promise to increase the current monthly delivery of two hundred Flying Fortress warplanes they were manufacturing for Britain. She handed it over to Mrs Finch, wondering if, at last, the Americans would play a bigger part in this awful war.

Mrs Finch settled her reading glasses on her nose, switched off her hearing aid, and became happily immersed in the news, oblivious to everything else.

Peggy was about to set the other two papers on the kitchen table when she caught sight of the headline screaming across the front page of the
Daily Mirror
and froze in horror.

83 CHILDREN DIE AS HUNS SINK

LINER IN STORM

Peggy’s legs seemed to turn to water and she sank on to the kitchen chair and stared at those awful words. Polly must have been one of the last to have been informed of the tragedy, and the press had clearly wasted no time once the government ban had been lifted.

Hands trembling, she finally reached for the paper and began to read. The article wasn’t very long – but it painted a terrible and tragic picture.

EIGHTY-THREE
out of a party of ninety children being taken to Canada died along with 211 other passengers and crew when a British liner was torpedoed and sunk by the Huns in an Atlantic storm.

Seven out of nine adults who were escorting the children were also drowned. A U-boat committed this crime against civilians when the liner was 600 miles from land. The ship sank in twenty minutes. Huge seas swamped some of the boats which the crew managed to launch. In other boats, people sat waist deep in water and died of exposure. Many of the children were killed when the torpedo struck the ship. The disaster was revealed late last night when it was stated officially that the number of missing was 294.

‘Dear God,’ breathed Peggy. ‘It sounds as if this happened days ago. Why did it take so long to come out?’ She riffled through the pages, but there were no further details.

Setting the
Mirror
to one side with a cluck of exasperation, she found herself staring at the headline across the
Mail
.

Mercy Liner Torpedoed

83 out of 90 Children are Drowned.

Boats Swamped in Heavy Gale.

Peggy raced through the short article which chilled her to the bone.

Some of the children
were trapped in the ship or killed by the explosion. Others suffered from exposure in life-boats and on rafts, which were swept by wind, waves, rain and hail for hours before they could be picked up by a British warship.

A full list of the lost children is given on page 5, and stories from the survivors are on page 6.

Peggy flicked through until she found that terrible list. And there they were, in stark black against white – William and Samuel Walters aged 7; Alice Brown aged 5.

She looked at those names for a long time before quickly trawling through the survivors’ stories. All she could do was thank the Lord that Churchill had had the compassion to keep this out of the papers until all those concerned were informed. She couldn’t imagine what it might have done to Polly, or to any of the other parents, if they’d come across this without warning at the breakfast table.

Peggy returned to the articles and read them more slowly. The
City of Benares
hadn’t been mentioned by name, and there was nothing to say where the survivors had been taken. Six hundred miles from land could mean they’d been taken to Canada or were back in Britain. The news was so horrifying, she was amazed it wasn’t splashed across
The Times
as well.

She sat and mulled this over as she smoked a cigarette. At the sound of footsteps overhead, she quickly bundled the papers together and hid them away in the dresser. The last thing Polly would need today was to see those, she decided.

Hurrying to begin preparing breakfast, she found her thoughts wandering and managed to break a plate as it slipped out of her fingers. Close to tears, she swept up the shards of china and dumped them in the waste-bin under the sink. ‘This won’t do at all,’ she muttered crossly. ‘Pull yourself together, Peggy. That girl needs you to be strong.’

She hurried down the basement steps to the shed to discover Ron was already building a coop and run for the chickens the Australians had given them. She told him quickly about the newspaper reports and Ron shook his head, his face drawn and pale.

He dredged up a weary smile as he carefully put the fresh-laid eggs in her bowl. ‘You look as tired as I feel,’ he said. ‘But perhaps these will go some way to cheering everyone up.’

She nodded and carried them back up to the kitchen. It was a lovely idea, and a super treat, but she doubted a few fried eggs would raise much of a smile in anyone today.

There was no sign of Danuta or Polly during breakfast. Conversation was muted as the newspapers were quickly scanned and the fried eggs devoured along with hot, strong, sweet tea. Once read and discussed, the papers were consigned once again to the dresser. Polly might want to read them at a later date when she was stronger, but for now they were better kept out of sight.

When the three girls were preparing to leave for the hospital, Peggy handed Suzy an envelope. ‘Would you give this to Matron, please? Danuta is needed here, and I don’t want her getting into trouble. I’ve also suggested it would be better if Polly doesn’t come in for at least two weeks. She needs time to get over this.’

Suzy nodded, her little face solemn for once as she tucked the envelope into her pocket and straightened her cloak. ‘We’ll see you after our shift,’ she said quietly.

Peggy returned to the dining room once they’d left and sat down, weary before the day had even got going. ‘What about you, Cissy? What are your plans for the day?’

‘I think it’s time I went back to work,’ she said, setting aside her empty plate. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my ankle any more, and the bruising is easily covered in make-up.’

She flashed her mother a woeful smile. ‘In the scheme of things, I admit I was making a bit of a drama out of it all and I feel rather ashamed of myself. But I’ll stay here if you’d prefer,’ she added hurriedly, ‘though I don’t know what I could do really.’

‘You go, darling. It will be good to keep busy, and I know how much you’ve missed doing your shows.’

Cissy finished her cup of tea and began to stack the empty plates. ‘I’ll do the washing-up and clean my room first,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in going too early. No one will be there.’

Polly was wide awake, listening to the noises within the house. Danuta had left the bed some time ago to go to the bathroom, and Polly had pretended to be asleep, not wanting to see the sympathy in her eyes or bear the burden of having to talk. But she knew she couldn’t lie here all day – knew that she would only torture herself if given time to think.

She threw back the eiderdown and, after a moment’s hesitation, got out of bed. She was surprised to discover she was in her underwear, and that her uniform was hanging neatly in the wardrobe. She didn’t remember getting undressed – had been aware of nothing but the awful pain.

‘Don’t think,’ she muttered. ‘Stay busy. Keep moving. There’s work to do, Adam to see …’ She sank back on to the bed. How on earth could she tell Adam? He was far too ill, and something like this could finish him. She felt the onset of tears again at the thought of losing Adam as well as everyone else, and angrily steeled herself against them. She would not cry. She’d shed enough tears, and they would achieve nothing – absolutely nothing.

‘Polly, you shouldn’t be out of bed.’ Danuta was dressed, ready for work.

‘I have things to do,’ she replied, getting to her feet and reaching for her dressing gown.

‘But Polly …’

She gave Danuta a swift hug. ‘Thank you for last night,’ she said, her throat raw from crying. ‘But I have to deal with this in my own way. And right now, I need a bath.’

She grabbed her washbag and fled before Danuta could protest. But once the door was locked and the water was running, she had to battle the awful pain that encircled and squeezed her heart, and the tears which sprang unbidden to burst into sobs.

It was a long time before she felt in control enough to return to the bedroom and she breathed a sigh of relief when she discovered Danuta was nowhere to be seen. The girl had been kindness itself, and she’d felt comforted by her presence during the night, but that very kindness weakened her resolve, and she didn’t have the courage yet to talk – couldn’t begin to voice the thoughts, images and emotions that were beleaguering her.

Still, she had to get dressed and face Peggy and the others before she could escape the house and seek out the freedom of the wind and sun up on the hills, where she could walk in solitude and try to come to terms with what had happened before she had to face Adam.

Cissy stood outside the theatre and looked up at the garish poster advertising the revue. It promised gorgeous dancing girls and splendid singers, along with a cheeky comedian, and several speciality acts.

She felt a little flutter in her stomach as she eyed the photographs in the glass case on the wall beside the main doors. There she was, one of the chorus, long legs and a bright smile staring back at her. She’d wanted to be a star for so long – had believed she could be until the other week. Now she didn’t know what the future held, only that it wouldn’t involve Jack Witherspoon.

‘G’day, Cissy. I thought I might find you here.’

She whirled round to find that Joe was leaning against a lamp post, his long wiry frame looking at ease as he grinned at her from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. She grinned back, feeling foolish but unable to help herself. ‘You’re lucky I decided to come today, then,’ she replied.

He pushed away from the lamp post and sauntered over. ‘Then I’d’ve come to the house.’

‘I don’t think June would be very pleased if you did,’ she said, reddening.

‘But would
you
have liked me to come?’ His eyes were mesmerising as they held her from beneath the hat-brim.

She nodded and dipped her chin.

‘Look, Cissy,’ he began, ‘I’ll be off tomorrow, so I don’t have long to get to know you properly, but would you come for a cup of tea, or a walk – or something?’

‘I’m supposed to be getting warmed up for rehearsals,’ she replied ruefully. Then she looked back into his eyes and saw the way they crinkled at the edges. ‘But I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if I took just one more day off.’

Joe held out his arm. ‘Then let’s get acquainted,’ he said, his smile making the cobweb of lines around his eyes deepen in that tanned face. ‘I reckon we should be able to get a cuppa in the town.’

‘Not so fast, Miss Reilly.’

The dismay was like a heavy weight in her stomach as she looked at Jack Witherspoon who had emerged silently through the theatre doors. ‘Joe’s being shipped out tomorrow,’ she said, her nervousness making her voice tremble. ‘We’re just going …’