Polly's Angel (38 page)

The angel episode had shaken Deirdre, though. When Polly had told her about the girl with the raggedy shawl who had appeared in the dark stairwell, smiling at her, she had felt terrified. Did this mean that Polly was going to start remembering that other, darker life which she had lived before she came to Dublin? She had told Polly that the girl must be her guardian angel . . . Then Polly, when taunted by the little friend who had been with her at the time, had said that the angel's name was Jess . . . it could still turn Deirdre's skin to gooseflesh thinking about it, for had not Polly's sister, who had kept the little girl alive, been called Jess?

But right now, there was Peader's question to be answered. She sighed, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, shook her head. ‘I can't tell them, Peader. I just dare not. We
stole
that baby, there's no two ways about it, stole her from her rightful parents. If we were still in Ireland, now . . . but we aren't, we're here, in Liverpool, in the very city where it all happened nigh on eighteen years ago. I
dare
not tell 'em, not yet, not whilst the war's on, and there's all this uncertainty.'

‘Well, it's up to you, so it is,' Peader said equably. ‘But don't say I didn't warn you, alanna. There's a likeness, I'm tellin' you.'

‘I can't see it, meself,' Deirdre said obstinately. ‘Why, our Polly's pretty as a picture and though I love Grace dearly . . . well, her hair's mousy, she's tall as a stalk and thin too, and she's shy, there's no – no
glow
about her. I can't see anyone thinkin' them alike, honest to God, Peader.'

‘It's not the hair colour, nor the height, nor the figures of 'em that's alike,' Peader said slowly. He scratched his thick, greying hair. ‘I couldn't put me finger on it no matter how hard I tried, but I – I'm
aware
of it, me love. Still, mebbe it's only because I'm close to the pair of them that I notice. Mebbe it's that.'

Deirdre opened her mouth to say, pretty sharply, that she was closer to Polly than anyone else could possibly be, and then closed it again. No, she couldn't say that, or Peader would expect her to notice this mythical likeness which she honestly could not see, though she had tried often enough. She did think that from Polly's description it was quite possible that Grace and Jess had been rather alike, but Jess had been dead a long time now, and she doubted very much whether Grace could remember the older girl at all, let alone clearly. So she would let sleeping dogs lie, for the moment, at any rate.

Finishing her breakfast and beginning on the washing-up, she said as much to Peader, who nodded resignedly. ‘Oh aye, alanna, I thought that's what you'd say and mebbe you're right. Anyway, it doesn't look as if Poll's due for any leave for a while, not now she's been posted. So it can wait.'

‘I know you're right, Peader, I know we've got to tell Polly one of these days,' Deirdre said, eager to agree with her husband now that the immediate danger seemed to be over. ‘Only I've – I've got to prepare meself before I can work out how to do it.'

‘Sure, I'm after knowin' you'd tell Poll, all in good time,' Peader said with all his usual good humour. ‘And now let's wash up the delft and clear it all away so's we can go shopping!'

Chapter Twelve

It was a warm June day with the sky blue as a blackbird's egg and the breeze coming off the land for once, and smelling of the country, instead of the sea. Polly had soon settled into her new life, though it was very different from the life she had lived on her Scottish island. She had always loved the sea and the beach, and she found Anglesey an enchanting place. Unlike her Scottish island, where it had seemed to be dark nine-tenths of the time and cold and rainy ten-tenths, here she had come straight into spring, into peace almost, you could say.

Not that peace was all that obvious, since the island swarmed with uniformed members of the armed forces. So far, she had just acted as a messenger here, taking documents from the naval headquarters at Llys-y-Gwynt down Llanfawr Road and on to Turkey Shore, from whence it was flat pretty well all the way to the quay where the ships were moored. She and a dozen other WRNs were billeted on London Road, in a tall, elderly house overlooking the railway line so that washing hung out in the narrow garden was apt to come indoors a good deal dirtier than it had gone out. However, a great many items of uniform could be laundered, and stockings and collars, issue brassieres and the respectable knickers which they were supposed to wear were taken into the kitchen of the rambling old house where they could be hung on a drying rack which was hauled up to the ceiling so that wet clothing was out of the way. An elderly woman called, predictably, Mrs Jones, acted as part-housekeeper part-chaperon to the twelve girls, but she was only on duty from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon, which left the WRNs pretty free to look after themselves.

Not that they minded. In fact, they much preferred it that way, for Mrs Jones was a tight-mouthed strait-laced little woman who thought that a girl in uniform was heading fast for hell anyway. Today Polly walked slowly along Lands End, looking alternately at the tall houses which lined it on her left and the blue water in the harbour on her right. It was her afternoon off and since she and Diane, her best friend in the WRNs, were going to a dance in the old lifeboathouse on the promenade that evening, they had planned to go up and down Market Street to see if anyone was selling lipsticks. Both girls had long ago used up the small amount of make-up which they had managed to acquire before the shortages reached epic proportions, but everyone knew that it was the early bird which caught the worm, and most WRNs went into town at least once a week to see if the shops had got supplies in whilst they were not looking, so to speak.

‘Not that I care much about lipstick, if I'm honest,' Polly had told Diane the previous evening as they ate mashed potatoes and a rather grey-looking stew in the canteen. ‘But I could do with some face-powder. It 'ud cover my freckles; no sooner does the sun come out than freckles pop up all over me.'

Diane had looked at her friend critically. She was older than Polly by a couple of years and a good deal more sophisticated; in fact, Polly thought, they were an ill-assorted pair. Diane came from a rich county family, the male members of which were all something very high up in the Navy. She had a beautifully tailored uniform and never lacked silk stockings or pretty underwear and was on nodding and smiling terms with every officer in the place. She was very pretty, with shoulder-length black hair, china-blue eyes and the very white skin which frequently goes with such colouring. She was also easily the most disruptive element in the wrennery, always getting herself – and others – into trouble and falling into absurd scrapes from which she somehow managed to extricate herself just before news of it got through to the hierarchy under which they lived. She and Polly had formed what the other girls called an unholy alliance from the first day they had met and stood by one another through thick and thin. They followed each other's lead and enjoyed a deep and satisfying friendship which not even their many boyfriends could spoil.

‘I don't want a permanent relationship until the war's over,' Diane said, and Polly agreed with her – though this did not stop either of them from going to every dance which they could get to and giggling over the lovesickness of their many swains.

The trouble was, the other WRNs told them severely, that they were both spoilt. One by having everything she wanted from the day she was born because she was the only girl in a family of boys, the other because her parents had all the money and position anyone could desire and doted on their youngest child.

‘You're two of a kind,' the other girls said gloomily. ‘You get away with murder just now, but it won't last. You'll get your comeuppance, the pair of you.'

So far, however, Polly concluded, they had not got into any trouble from which they could not extricate themselves, or each other. And tonight they would go to the weekly dance held in the old lifeboathouse and have a marvellous time. If they were a little late getting home, they would climb up on to the roof of the scullery and from thence to the landing window, which was always left a little open for just such an emergency. Then before anyone had realised they were out after hours they would be padding quietly up the long flight of stairs to the attic room which they shared as the two newest members of HMS
Bee
.

In the end, Polly and Diane couldn't find a single lipstick in their whole afternoon of shopping, but the dance to which the girls had so looked forward was as good as they had anticipated and led, in fact, to a new friendship for Diane. Polly noticed that her friend was spending a good deal of time dancing with one of the local lads, and rather wondered at it; uniforms were what most of the girls went for and usually Diane was no exception. What was more, there were some American Air Force men and everyone in the room knew that they came over with their pockets full of nylon stockings and chewing gum and bars of chocolate which they insisted on calling candy. But Diane was sticking mostly with a tall, dark-haired Welshman called Meirion, and turning down what appeared, on the surface, to be more attractive offers.

When the dance ended, Polly waited for Diane and got quite annoyed with her friend when she was still hanging about at past midnight. The doors of the wrennery would have been locked a good while, and a wind had got up, coming straight off the Irish Sea and making Polly clutch her jacket round her and rather wish she had brought her lovely warm overcoat. What was more, a strong wind made climbing the slate roof of the scullery extension rather fraught, especially when the slates were wet, and there had been a shower just before the wind got into its stride.

In fact, it was a quarter past twelve and the streets were deserted as the two girls made their way back towards London Road. All the available buses had gone long since and taxis, though they might meet the ferries and the London trains, did not hang about in order to give WRNs a ride back from the harbour to their nest. So it was foot it or sleep on the beach and accordingly, the girls set out at a brisk pace.

‘What was so fascinating about Meirion?' Polly shouted rather resentfully as the two of them bent their heads against the force of the wind and began to slog up Victoria Street. ‘And why didn't you come straight out after the dance was over? It's not like you, Di.'

‘He's nice, but it wasn't just that,' Diane said breathlessly. ‘Oh Lord, if you want the full story we'd best stop in a doorway; this wind is trying to get back down my throat and blow my lungs up until I burst!'

‘Better not, we're late already,' Polly shouted. ‘Tell me once we're indoors.'

So they used all their energy to battle against the wind and were delighted to find themselves turning the corner into the backs of the houses on London Road.

‘We should have come back at the same time as the others, Di,' Polly said breathlessly as they gained the shelter of the high wall which separated their houses from the railway sidings. ‘It'll be pretty horrid on that roof in this wind . . . and the rain makes the slates slippery too. Shall I go up first?'

‘Perhaps you'd better,' Diane said, then gave a squeak of dismay. ‘Oh, dear heaven, where's the box?'

In order to gain the roof of the scullery the girls stepped first on a solid wooden box and then scrambled on top of the rainwater butt and from thence to the roof. Now, one glance was enough to tell them that the box had been blown away by the wind, and the most careful look around the back yard did not reveal its whereabouts.

‘Unless it's that pile of broken slats in the corner it must have blown out over the railway sidings,' Polly said. ‘Oh, isn't that just our bleedin' luck! But you can make me a back, I suppose?'

For answer, Diane crouched beside the water butt and Polly, giggling, climbed nimbly on to her friend's back and then sprang to the top of the barrel with such suddenness that Diane was knocked clean over, landing on the cobbles on all fours whilst giving vent to the sort of language which nice little WRNs, Polly told her, should not even understand, let alone use.

‘I'm wounded, you horrible little bogtrotter,' Diane moaned, tottering to her feet whilst Polly clung to the edge of the gutter and braced herself against the wind. ‘First you kick a great hole in my back, then you knock me on to the cobbles – my lovely stockings are in shreds, you toad – and it's just occurred to me that I've given you a bunk up but who's going to do the same for me?'

‘I'll sneak down and unlock the kitchen door,' Polly said. ‘See you in a minute,' and with that she began to scramble up the roof, not daring to stand up but clinging grimly on to the roof ridge. And presently she looked up and saw, to her horror, that the landing window, always left a little ajar, was closed. Someone must have thought the wind would slam it shut and shatter the glass, she supposed bitterly, sitting astride the scullery roof ridge now and reaching up to give a half-hearted tug to the clearly closed window. Oh dear God above, now what should they do? They could not possibly hope to wake anyone, not with the wind shrieking and moaning the way it was, and besides if they woke some of the more hidebound girls they would be in as much trouble as if they had handed themselves over to an officer.

But . . . Lilly Sumner slept in the bedroom nearest to the landing and she was a sport all right. If Polly knocked on the glass, was it possible that Lilly would hear, and come to her rescue? Polly got so close to the glass that her face was almost resting on it and raised a hand to knock. The blackout curtains were drawn across, of course, but if only Lilly woke, and realised that someone was still out . . .