Far From Home (9 page)

She pushed back from the table and began to clear the dishes. If there was one thing she knew for certain about her youngest daughter, it was that she found it impossible to keep things to herself. At some point in the busy day she had ahead of her, Peggy was determined to find the time to sit her down and find out just what it was that was worrying her.

The bombing raid had left several long sections of railway line impassable, and the final leg of Polly’s journey to Cliffehaven had proved as difficult and frustrating as the rest of it. She’d lugged her bags off the train and on to one of the buses that had been provided to get her to the next station, only to have to repeat the exhausting process once again within a few miles of her destination.

When the bus finally set her down outside Cliffehaven station, she wanted nothing more than to rest and have a cup of tea. But even that was proving impossible, for the station buffet was shut and there was no sign of a welcoming WVS canteen.

The gulls shrieked and circled overhead as she looked down the steep hill of what appeared to be Cliffehaven’s main street to where the sea glittered at the bottom. She had only been to the seaside once before, her parents taking her and her sister to some tiny bay in Wales. She’d been eight or nine, and she remembered huddling beneath a big umbrella each day in her knitted swimsuit, shivering with cold as the rain lashed down, and the sea and sky melded into an unappetising grey. Their picnics had been gritty with sand, and her dad had insisted upon rolling up his trouser legs and tying a knotted hanky on his head.

She smiled fondly at the memories, although, at the time, she’d hated every minute of that holiday. Bringing her thoughts back into order, she took stock of her surroundings. With a name like Beach View, her lodgings had to be down by the seafront somewhere. But as she looked round she realised there were an awful lot of places with sea views – some of them right up in the surrounding hills – and, as it was clearly a fairly large town, she didn’t have the energy to walk for miles only to get lost. It was time to ask for directions.

A very pleasant elderly gentleman directed her to the trolleybus stop, which was halfway down the hill. He doffed his hat and wished her luck. Polly thanked him and, with a deep sigh of weariness, lugged her bags to the stop.

She waited for what felt like an age before the trolleybus arrived. Confirming that it would drop her close to Beach View Boarding House, she clambered on board, paid her fare to the young girl who didn’t look old enough to be out of the schoolroom, and stowed her big case at the back before sinking gratefully into the nearest vacant seat.

The bell clanged as the engine whined, sparks flew from the overhead electricity lines, and the wheels rattled over the rails that were set in the middle of the main road. She gazed out of the window at the bombed-out shells of buildings and the still smouldering craters the firemen were hosing down. Servicemen strolled along in groups, appreciatively eyeing the local girls who pretended not to see them, and a gang of workmen were busy trying to fix a telegraph pole that had come down on someone’s roof. There were piles of sandbags stacked outside the town hall and various official-looking buildings, and long queues had formed outside the few shops that were still open.

Polly noted that the Odeon cinema was showing
Goodbye, Mr Chips
, with Robert Donat and John Mills. She and Adam had enjoyed going to the pictures every Saturday night, and she would have loved to have seen it; John Mills was one of her favourites. But the thought of going without Adam, and the knowledge that there would be little time for such pleasures, made her dismiss the idea completely.

The trolleybus reached the bottom of the hill and turned east along a promenade heavily armoured with gun emplacements. The sea glittered with sun-diamonds beyond the coils of barbed wire and around the huge barricade of concrete blocks that effectively cut off the sand and shingle bay from the Channel. The pier looked sad and rather lonely, cut adrift from the beach, and the white cliffs at the end of the promenade appeared rather daunting as they towered over the fishing station.

Cliffehaven was nonetheless far removed from the Welsh beach of her childhood, and was clearly a bustling, busy town. The sunshine had brought people out to enjoy the fresh air as they strolled along what was left of the promenade, and although many of the big houses had been boarded up for the duration, one or two of the grander hotels along the seafront had been commandeered by the forces. There appeared to be countless numbers of servicemen enjoying the warm day, sitting, walking, watching the girls pass by or playing football and French cricket on the grass strip that ran in front of their hotels.

Polly could just imagine it in peacetime, with colourful deckchairs and parasols, a band playing on the pier, flashing lights exhorting people to put a penny in the slot and try their luck at winning a soft toy. She could almost hear the hurdy-gurdy music, could almost smell the candyfloss and toffee apples and the lovely aroma of vinegar on hot fish and chips.

Her daydream was shattered by the sound of the conductress’s voice.

‘This is your stop,’ she said as the trolleybus pulled up beside the fishing station. She pointed up the steep hill. ‘It’s a bit of a climb, I’m afraid. You’ll find Beach View Terrace three streets up on your right.’

Polly thanked her and hauled her suitcases off the trolleybus. She stood on the pavement for a moment to breathe in the lovely crisp, clean air, then sorted out the straps of her handbag and gas mask and began the long, slow climb.

She was soon out of breath and her arms ached as she swapped the heavier case from hand to hand, and it was only through sheer bloody-mindedness and a determination not to be beaten, that she finally reached Beach View Road. Setting the cases down, she took a long hard look at where she would be living for the duration.

Beach View Boarding House was halfway down a side street that looked the same as all the others she’d passed. The steep hill she’d climbed from the seafront went on and on, and it seemed the Victorian designers and architects of this part of town had decided that long terraces of villas were the most pleasant way of giving everyone a glimpse of the sea. It was within walking distance of the local shops in Camden Road and conveniently close to the hospital, which was a relief.

Polly stepped back to get a better view. The area had suffered quite a bit of damage, and she could see a huge crater at the end of the road, where she guessed there had once been a continuance of the terrace. Like the other villas, the boarding house was tall and fairly narrow, with three storeys and a basement, the window of which she could see beneath the broad white steps that led up to an impressive portico. This ornate piece of Victorian artistry sheltered the front door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, but sadly was missing most of the coloured panes surrounding it.

The house looked a little battle-scarred despite the polished brass and pristine white nets at the windows. The white stucco was smoke-stained and chipped in places, some of the window panes in the bays had been replaced with hardboard, and the elegant lamps cemented into the ends of the sweeping balustrades had been mangled and shattered beyond repair. But Polly could imagine how nice it must have been before, and had high hopes that her room would prove comfortable and that the landlady would be pleasant. She carried the bags up the steps and rapped the knocker.

DANUTA HAD RUN
all the way to the hospital, but she was still almost two hours late for her shift. She stood, out of breath and frantic, wondering where on earth she was supposed to go to fetch her uniform, when she caught the terrifying sight of Matron approaching like an ominous man-o’-war in fully starched sail.

‘Why are you standing about here? Your shift began two hours ago.’

‘There was an air raid,’ Danuta replied, determined not to be cowed by this woman. ‘I couldn’t come any earlier.’

‘This hospital does not grind to a halt because of air raids,’ said Matron, puffing out her formidable bosom. ‘It is your duty to make sure you arrive on time.’ She eyed Danuta’s clothing with disdain. ‘Where is your uniform?’

‘That’s what I was trying to find out, but …’

‘Really, Chimpsky, it is your duty to find out things like this beforehand so you don’t waste valuable time.’

‘My name is Chmielewski,’ Danuta said stonily.

Matron’s glare hardened. ‘Go down those stairs to the basement, find Stores and put your uniform on. You will work an extra two hours at the end of your shift to make up for the time you have lost.’ She looked down her long nose. ‘If you are late again,
Chimpsky
, you will be dismissed immediately.’ She turned on her heel and bustled away, every step making the starched apron crackle.

Danuta balled her fists and resisted the urge to walk right out of this hospital and keep going. Matron was a
kurwa
– a bitch – and it was clear she’d taken an instant dislike to Danuta. If this was a foretaste of what life would be like working here, then it certainly wouldn’t be easy.

She ran down the steps and headed for the basement stores. Perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t on the wards, and beneath that woman’s constant glare, for sooner or later she would tell her just what she thought of her. At least, down here in the bowels of the hospital, she could escape her and get on with her work until she could find something better to do with her skills.

‘Staff Nurse Brown?’

Polly smiled at the neat little woman who stood in the doorway, wrapped in a floral apron. ‘At last, yes. But please call me Polly, Mrs Reilly.’

‘I’m Peggy. Come in, dear. You look as if you’ve had the most awful journey. I expect you’d like a nice cup of tea and something to eat while you put your feet up for a bit. I’ll take you to your room later.’

The thought of tea and something to eat made her stomach rumble and, as Polly hoisted the cases over the doorstep and dumped them in the hallway, she remembered she hadn’t eaten since the previous lunchtime. A swift glance took in the faded paint and wallpaper, and the worn carpet on the stairs – but Peggy Reilly was clearly a pleasant little woman, and she could smell furniture polish and the homely scent of cooking.

‘I’d love a cup of tea and a sandwich,’ she said, taking off her coat and scarf and shaking out her hair. ‘And a minute to sit down and enjoy it,’ she added with a grin. ‘It feels as if I’ve been travelling for days.’

Peggy grinned back. ‘Come on into the kitchen. The kettle’s boiled, and there’s a comfy chair just waiting for you.’

Polly followed the bustling little figure through the hall and into a cheerful and homely kitchen where an old lady was quietly snoozing beside the black Kitchener range.

‘Don’t worry about Mrs Finch,’ Peggy said cheerfully, ‘she’s had a busy morning making fish pie, and she always has a nap around this time of day. Her hearing aid is switched off, so we won’t disturb her.’

Polly took in her surroundings. There was a large framed portrait of the King hanging above the mantel, which was clearly the depository for ration books, leaflets, calendars and lists. Shelves housed pots, pans and crockery, the wireless took pride of place on a highly polished dresser, and in the centre of the room was a big table with at least six chairs round it. The square stone sink was beneath the only window, the wooden draining board covered in freshly washed crockery. Everything from the lino on the floor to the oilcloth on the table was faded and rather shabby, but it felt welcoming – felt like home.

‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ said Peggy, swiftly gathering newspapers and magazines from the table, and stuffing Mrs Finch’s knitting bag out of the way. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens today, what with the raid last night.’

‘I got into London just as it started,’ said Polly.

‘How is it up there?’ Peggy was plumping the cushion in the other chair that sat by the range. ‘Sit down, dear, and I’ll get you that tea and sandwich. It’ll only be a bit of spam, I’m afraid.’

‘Spam sounds lovely,’ she replied, sinking into the chair with a sigh of gratitude. ‘As for London – it was awful, and I pity all those pour souls who have to sleep in the underground every night. I don’t know how they do it.’

‘My sister Doreen is up there,’ murmured Peggy, running her hands down her floral wrap-round apron. ‘I do worry about her, but she seems to be coping admirably as always.’

Polly didn’t really know what to say to this. ‘We’ve been lucky in Hereford, with no raids at all as yet, so it was a bit of a shock getting caught in the middle of it all. But the Londoners seem to have become inured to it and made themselves quite at home underground.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve come down here if Hereford’s so safe,’ said Peggy as she hastily spread a thin layer of margarine on some bread and added sliced tomato to the spam. ‘We’re being called “bomb alley” by the press, and I suspect you’ve seen some of the damage our town has suffered on your way up here from the station.’

‘I did indeed,’ Polly acknowledged. She took the sandwich and cup of tea Peggy handed her and realised there would be little chance of quietly relaxing, for the other woman was settling down on a kitchen chair preparing for a good gossip.

‘The crater at the end of our road was due to a gas explosion,’ explained Peggy. ‘We’ve been quite lucky, considering.’

Polly sipped the welcoming tea and munched the sandwich as she glanced at the old woman who was softly snoring in the other chair. She found she had to make a concerted effort not to fall asleep herself.