Home for Christmas (9 page)

Dulcie got to her feet, only to sit down again. She kept forgetting she wasn’t really mobile. What she needed was a good night out at the Hammersmith Palais, where she could dance and flirt and have a bit of a laugh. Dulcie wasn’t given to introspection or examining her own thoughts or feelings. Her confidence in herself was absolute and inviolate, because it had to be if she was to armour herself against her mother’s preference for her sister, so it was easy as well as necessary for her to put the sudden feeling of being helpless to do anything down to her broken ankle, and the way it restricted her movements, and to blame that for those feelings rather than the news about David’s accident. The plain fact was that this war was a ruddy nuisance, Dulcie thought to herself, and they could well do without it.

*  *  *

‘I just hope we don’t have another air-raid warning before we finish work this afternoon,’ Clara, who worked with Tilly in the Lady Almoner’s office, sighed to Tilly as they sat side by side filling in forms for the influx of patients the bombings had brought. ‘It was all stop and start on the train getting to work this morning, and my mum will be thinking the worst if I’m late home. She was going to help me re-do my perm tonight. My hair is as straight as a die without it. You don’t know how lucky you are to have them curls of yours, Tilly.’

‘You wouldn’t think that if you had to brush them,’ Tilly assured her fellow worker. Then both of them were grimacing as the wail of the air-raid siren began, quickly reaching for their bags before hurrying to join the trudge down to the basement hospital shelters.

Tilly was still thinking about what Kit had told her that morning, as they made their way along the corridor, and then down the stairs – it was forbidden to use the lift during an air raid – and feeling sorry for him. Secretly she would have liked to have played a more exciting role in the war herself, but dealing with unexploded bombs was more than exciting it was dangerous and surely the very last occupation suitable for someone of Kit’s slightly nervous and defensive temperament.

‘Three more warnings we’ve had today, and one of them was a false alarm,’ Dulcie complained to Olive and Sally as the three of them sat round the kitchen table drinking the tea Sally had made before she left for her night shift at the hospital.

‘At least we’ve got gas, electricity and water here. There was chaos at the rest centre this afternoon when the water went off. Oh, and I heard that Buckingham Palace was bombed today, twice,’ Olive told them, ‘but the King and Queen are all right. How does your ankle feel, Dulcie?’

‘I’m all itchy,’ Dulcie told her.

‘That’s the plaster,’ Sally told her knowledgably, adding in a no-nonsense voice, ‘I hope you’re still wiggling your toes every hour or so, like I told you to do.’

‘Yes, Nurse,’ Dulcie responded with a grin and a cheeky look, before sighing, ‘I’d give anything for a proper bath.’ She’d been told not to get the plaster wet under any circumstances and was having to make do with a soaped flannel and a good scrub.

Itchy
and
bored, by the look of her, Olive thought sympathetically, Dulcie wasn’t the stay-at-home sort.

‘Tilly and Agnes will be going to their St John Ambulance class tonight – why don’t you go with them? There’ll be a lot of young people there and it will be more fun for you than staying here,’ Olive suggested.

Dulcie opened her mouth to tell her that attending a St John Ambulance class was not her idea of fun, and then closed it again. Olive meant well, she admitted, and at least it would get her out.

There was a large public shelter not far from the hall where the classes were held, so Olive had no fears about the girls going.

‘I’d better get on with tea. Agnes and Tilly will be back soon. It will have to be fried Spam fritters tonight with cold boiled potatoes, just in case we get an air-raid alert before I’ve managed to get it ready.’

‘I’d better go,’ Sally announced. ‘I want to leave a bit of extra time so that I’m not late going on duty.’

Sally had always taken her work seriously, but since Matron had told her that she was planning to promote her to the rank of Sister Theatre Sally had been determined to repay Matron’s faith in her. She wanted to succeed for herself, but most of all because she felt that it was something she could do for her late mother: a way of repaying all the love her mother had given her, and of showing the world the gifts her mother had passed on to her. Not that Sally would ever have voiced those emotions and thoughts to anyone – that just wasn’t her way.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Olive agreed as she opened her store cupboard to remove a tin of Spam. ‘There were yellow “diversion” notices on so many roads today that I thought I’d never get us back from the rest centre.’ She paused. ‘Those poor people queuing there, I felt so sorry for them. Some of them were saying that they’d rather trek out to Epsom Forest every night than stay in the city, and others are talking about going down to Kent, to the accommodation they use when they go hop picking.’

Pulling on her cloak, Sally headed for the front door, calling out from the hall as she did so, ‘Don’t worry if I’m late back in the morning. If there’s a raid overnight I may end up having to stay over.’

‘Good luck,’ Olive called back, slicing the Spam, ready to fry it up, her face breaking into a relieved smile as she heard Tilly exchanging greetings with Sally in the hall.

‘It’s me, Mum,’ Tilly called, coming into the kitchen. ‘We were given permission to leave early because of the bomb damage making it difficult for people to get trains and buses,’ she explained. She kissed Olive’s cheek before removing her outdoor clothes, taking her hat and coat back into the hallway to hang up.

‘Dulcie’s feeling bored, cooped up here all day so I suggested that she goes to St John Ambulance with you tonight,’ Olive told her daughter as she removed a bowl of cold boiled potatoes from one of the shelves in her small narrow larder.

‘Oh, yes,’ Tilly agreed, smiling at Dulcie, ‘although we’ll have to make sure that everyone knows you’ve got a real plaster on your ankle so that no one tries to take it off.’

‘Get that jar of relish out of the cupboard for me, will you, please, Tilly? Agnes shouldn’t be long now,’ Olive said, putting the bowl of potatoes on the oilcloth-covered table.

‘I saw Kit this morning, Mum,’ said Tilly, doing as she was asked. ‘And guess what? He’s joining the bomb disposal lot.’

‘What, him? He’d run a mile if he heard a firework go off,’ Dulcie scoffed.

‘Oh dear, his mother will be distraught,’ Olive sighed sympathetically, ignoring Dulcie’s unkind comment. ‘I must go round and see her. It can’t be easy for her, now she’s by herself. Oh, good, that will be Agnes now,’ she announced as she heard the front door open.

Agnes forced a smile as she walked into the kitchen. She’d seen Ted very briefly for only a few snatched minutes when he’d arrived at work, but he hadn’t said anything to her about his mother other than that she hadn’t liked sleeping in the underground, but that he was trying to persuade her to come back because he felt it was safer for them. Agnes hadn’t mentioned her fears that his mother might not have liked her because that seemed selfish when Ted already had so much to worry about, but she couldn’t help worrying, all the same.

Within fifteen minutes of Agnes’s arrival they were all sitting down to their evening meal of Spam fritters, their hotness making up for the coldness of the potatoes, and Olive’s home-made relish adding some flavour to the blandness.

For pudding there were stewed apples from the apple tree in the garden, and custard followed by a fresh pot of tea, whilst they listened to the news on the wireless. Then it was time for the girls to clear the table and wash up before Tilly and Agnes went upstairs to change into their St John Ambulance uniforms.

Knowing the girls would be out, Olive had volunteered to be on WVS duty herself during the evening, at their own local church hall, manning the tea urn, which provided welcome refreshment for all those in the area who worked in the emergency services.

By Sunday morning after church, after a Saturday of almost nonstop day-and-night bombing, people’s sombre and often exhausted expressions showed what they had been through.

Even so, Tilly was making an effort, wearing her best coat, with its pretty velvet collar and cuffs, the rich darkness of the fabric setting off the equally rich darkness of the curls escaping from her hat – trimmed up with a new ribbon and a flower Olive had made from some spare scraps of fabric from her last year’s new coat.

While Tilly looked like a young girl on the brink of womanhood, Dulcie was wearing a far more ‘grown-up’ outfit. Her coat was ‘pretend’ Persian lamb cut in a dashing A-line, the dark grey fabric complimented by a small stand-up black collar and deep turned-back black cuffs. The coat had pockets concealed in its seams, which allowed Dulcie to slip her hands into them to keep them warm, but she had already told the other girls that she had her heart set on a black muff to finish off her outfit, if she could pick one up cheaply somewhere. Where Tilly’s hat was neat and pretty, Dulcie’s, in the same fabric as her coat, was set on her blond curls at a rakish angle.

The leaves on the trees close to the vicarage and the church hall were starting to fall, but their rich colours had been lost, dulled by the ever-present brick dust and ash in the air.

Tilly had just been trying to cheer up Christopher Long, without any success, and was on her way back to join her mother, Agnes and Dulcie when someone tapped her on the arm.

Swinging round, she saw the young American reporter who was staying with Ian Simpson.

‘Hi there, remember me?’ he smiled.

‘Of course,’ Tilly responded promptly. ‘You’re Mr Simpson’s lodger, Drew Coleman.’

‘That’s right.

Dulcie, who had seen the good-looking young man stop Tilly, quickly and determinedly made her way over to them, interrupting Drew’s description of an article he had written for his home-town newspaper, to say archly, ‘I hope you’re going to introduce me, Tilly, and not keep this handsome man all to yourself.’

As she spoke Dulcie managed to position herself so that she was standing directly in front of Drew, whilst Tilly was now to one side of him. It wasn’t that she really wanted to oust Tilly from his attention; it was just that Dulcie couldn’t help herself when it came to claiming the limelight.

‘Dulcie, this is Drew Coleman,’ Tilly obligingly made the introduction. ‘He’s lodging with Ian. He’s a reporter and he’s American. Drew, this is Dulcie Simmonds. I told you about her when Ian Simpson introduced us.’

‘Of course. Delighted to meet you, Dulcie.’

‘That’s a fancy ring you’re wearing,’ Dulcie announced, never backward about coming forward when she wanted to know something.

‘It’s my graduation ring – from Harvard,’ Drew informed her with a smile. ‘It’s an American tradition for successful graduates to wear a ring from their college.’

‘So it doesn’t mean that you’re involved with a girl then?’ Dulcie probed.

‘No, it doesn’t, and I’m not.’

There was no reason for her to feel pleased that Drew wasn’t involved with anyone Tilly told herself, and yet she knew that she was.

Olive, who had been watching the trio, brought her conversation with Mrs Windle to an end and shepherded Agnes over to join them.

‘Mum, this is Drew Coleman,’ Tilly explained. ‘Remember I told you about him?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Olive smiled, extending her hand. ‘Olive Robbins. Welcome to Article Row, Drew.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Robbins.’ The young American smiled politely back.

‘Drew writes about the war for a newspaper in his home town in America, Mum,’ Tilly reminded her mother.

‘Well, you’ll certainly have had plenty to write about these last few days,’ Olive told him sadly.

‘Yes, ma’am. It surely takes some getting used to, seeing what’s happening to you folks over here. The folks back home don’t realise . . .’

‘Which is why reporters like you are doing such a good job on our behalf, in telling them,’ Olive praised him with a smile.

He seemed a very pleasant young man, – good-looking, certainly – but as a mother Olive looked well beyond a young man’s looks, and what she could see in the young American’s gaze and his manner went a long way to reassuring her about his character.

‘If you’re going to attend church here regularly then perhaps you’d like to join us for lunch afterwards one Sunday?’ she suggested, pleased when she saw how genuinely eager he was to accept her invitation.

‘Yes, ma’am, I sure would appreciate that.’

‘And we’ll have to take him dancing at the Hammersmith Palais once I’ve had my plaster cast removed, won’t we, Tilly?’ Dulcie put in, giving the young American a distinctly saucy smile, whilst Olive looked on ruefully, her opinion of him rising still further when he looked more abashed than entranced by Dulcie’s wiles. If anything, it was Tilly he seemed to admire, rather than Dulcie, Olive noticed, although that admiration was mannerly and respectful.

‘I hear that the dear King and Queen have flatly refused to leave the Palace, even though Mr Churchill has pleaded with them to do so,’ the vicar’s wife, an ardent royalist, told Olive as Olive gathered the girls together ready for the walk back to number 13. ‘So very brave and loyal of them.’

‘I dare say that they didn’t want the people of London to feel that they were being deserted,’ Olive answered her quietly, ‘especially when so many of them are having such a dreadful time.’