We'll Meet Again (31 page)

‘I’m not doin’ your dirty work for you no more, so clear off.’

His answer was a sharp blow to his face which sent him reeling backwards. He dropped his presents and the torch to put his hand to his stinging cheek. ‘There’ll be more of the same if you don’t get a move on.’ His arm was pushed up behind his back, making him squeal.

Ronnie thought quickly. ‘I can get what you want without going up to the big house. It’d be safer too.’

Gerald Barlow picked up the torch. ‘Go on.’

‘I’ll show you.’

There was nothing for it but to make the sacrifice. He led him to the bunker, brushed off the leaves and opened the trapdoor.

‘What’s down there?’ his father demanded, shining the torch down the hole, revealing the makeshift ladder.

‘It’s where I hide my loot. There’s a lot down there.’

Ronnie had hoped his father’s greed would make him rush down the ladder ahead of him, but the man was wilier than that. He made Ronnie go first.

Once down, he shone the torch at the shelves put up to take Home Guard equipment. ‘It’s all there,’ Ronnie said. ‘Help yourself.’

Cyril found the whisky and made a start on it, swigging from the bottle as he poked about, fetching out things he thought would be useful or saleable. ‘I need a box.’

‘There’s one at the back there.’ The torch beam was directed to the back of the bunker where the men had started on the tunnel but which was now filled with loose earth and stones. Ronnie had always been careful not to disturb it.

Reg went to investigate. ‘I can’t see no box.’

‘It’s right at the back. Maybe it’s under some of that dirt. It keeps falling.’

While the man bent to poke about in the rubble, the boy turned and scrambled up the ladder. His father heard him and swung round. ‘Hey, where are you off to? I need you to help …’

Ronnie was out. He pulled up the ladder and slammed the trapdoor back in place. It wouldn’t hold his father for long, but the lack of a ladder might deter him for a little while. He looked round and saw the boulder. He could hear his father shouting and swearing as he manoeuvred it into place. It nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets, but he managed it at last and stood panting for breath. What now? He couldn’t just leave him there, could he? In any case, he might get out, then his own life wouldn’t be worth living. And if he couldn’t get out, he would die, and that would be murder, wouldn’t it?

He wandered out onto the driveway. The fog was thicker than ever, but he knew that to his left lay the railway, the Potts’ empty house and his bed, to his right Longfordham Hall and a crowd of people. Most of the people he knew, many of them had befriended him. He could hear his father shouting. If Pa died in that hole, his ghost would haunt the wood.

He began to walk up the drive. He was overtaken by a man in a sailor’s cap and greatcoat. ‘Is this the way to Longfordham Hall?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It’s up there.’ He pointed.

‘Is that where you’re going?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mind if I tag along?’

‘If you like.’ What else could he say?

He went round to the kitchen where Mrs Potts was working in the kitchen. ‘Ronnie, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed? And who is this?’

‘Christopher Jarrett,’ the sailor said. ‘I’ve come to see Sheila Phipps. She is here, isn’t she?’

Ronnie stared at him. ‘I know you now. You lived in West Ham. You’re supposed to be dead.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ He turned to Mrs Potts. ‘Is Sheila here?’

‘I’ll go and tell her you’re here.’

‘But, Auntie Jean,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’ve got something important to tell you.’

‘It’ll have to wait.’ She disappeared through a door at the back of the kitchen. Ronnie turned to Chris. ‘What happened to you?’

‘It’s a very long story.’

There was the sound of running feet and Sheila burst into the kitchen. She stopped at the sight of the sailor. He was thin and gaunt, standing there twirling his hat in his hands, but it was
definitely Chris. She made no move to go to him, simply stood and stared as if he were an apparition.

‘Sheila,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know me?’

‘Don’t be daft. Of course I do. I’m flabbergasted.’

There were people crowding behind her, people dressed like toffs. They
were
toffs and so was Sheila in that lovely long dress with its cowl neck and narrow waist, and high-heeled shoes. Her auburn hair was elegantly waved with a sparkling comb holding it in place. All this he noticed as he stood, unspeaking, before her. This wasn’t the girl he had left behind. His mother was right and he should never have come. ‘She’s got above herself,’ she had said. ‘She looks down at the likes of us since she got in with those toffs and singing on the stage an’ all.’

He turned and blundered back out into the freezing fog.

Sheila ran after him. ‘Chris, come back. Where are you going?’

‘Home. I wish I’d never come. I wish …’ He shook off her hand.

‘Why?’ She grabbed his arm again and forced him to stop and face her. ‘Why come, if you are going to turn round and leave before even talking to me?’

‘You’ve changed.’

‘We all have. It’s been a long time. Come back inside, Chris, it’s freezing out here. My arms are all goosebumps. You will be made welcome, I promise you.’

She started to pull him back towards the house, but he resisted. ‘I’m out of place in that lot.’

‘Oh, Chris, you idiot.’ She grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him. ‘I cried buckets when I was told you were dead, and when I read the letter you left me and the ring. See, I’m wearing it.’ She held up her right hand in front of his face. ‘Please come inside where it’s warm and tell us what happened to you.’

Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led back to the kitchen.

The guests had gone back to the drawing room. Ronnie was dancing from foot to foot, trying to get Mrs Potts to listen to him, but she was more interested in gossiping with the others in the kitchen about this strange turn of events. ‘That girl will catch her death of cold out there in that flimsy dress,’ she was saying.

Mrs Stevens laughed. ‘No doubt he’ll keep her warm. Who is he anyway? One of Miss Phipps’ admirers?’

‘I don’t know. Ronnie, stop pulling on my arm. I’ve got to pour this soup into the tureen. You’ll make me spill it.’

‘But, Auntie Jean, it’s very important.’

‘Go home to bed, it can wait until the morning. If you aren’t asleep by the time I come home, Father Christmas won’t come.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t be daft, there’s no such thing.’

‘Oh, so you don’t want any Christmas presents then?’ She picked up the tureen, just as Sheila and Chris came back inside. They followed her to the dining room where everyone was waiting to begin their meal. Ronnie crept along behind them.

They all turned as Chris came in, incongruous in his navy greatcoat which was damp with fog. The butler hurried forward to take it from him. Mrs Potts set the tureen down on the sideboard, but serving it had to wait while Sheila went round introducing Chris to everyone. He exclaimed in surprise when he came to Charlie. ‘You turned up after all. Sheila was always sure you would.’

‘You too,’ Charlie said.

‘I gotta tell you,’ Ronnie shouted at the top of his voice.

There was sudden silence and everyone turned towards him. Now he had their attention. ‘In the woods,’ he said. ‘There’s a man in the bunker. He’s escaped …’ Jean seized his arm to drag him away.

‘You’re are a very naughty boy, coming up here …’

‘Let him be, Mrs Potts,’ his lordship said quietly. Then to Ronnie, ‘A man, you said?’

‘Yes. Come quick. He might get out.’

‘Ronnie,’ Jean warned. No one took any notice of her.

Marcus stood up. ‘Mrs Potts, please take the soup back to the kitchen and ask Cook to hold dinner back for a few minutes while I investigate.’

‘Not on your own.’ Fear made Ronnie bold. ‘He’s violent.’

‘I’ll come too.’ Gilbert put down his napkin and stood up. He was followed by Hugh and Johnnie. They stopped in the gunroom to pick up shotguns, all cleaned and ready for the Boxing Day shoot. Jean Potts went back to the kitchen to tell Edith Stevens and the rest of the staff, who were not pleased that the dinner they had so lovingly prepared was going to spoil.

‘I reckon it’s my old man’s ghost,’ Edith said. ‘He can’t rest.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Cook said, emptying the soup back into the saucepan and giving the tureen to the scullery maid to wash up.

Those left behind in the dining room looked at each other. ‘What an evening of excitement,’ her ladyship said. ‘I have never experienced anything like it. And we still haven’t heard your story, Mr Jarrett. Please, do sit down.’

Sheila sat down and pulled him down into the seat vacated by Gillie.

He had not wanted his reunion with Sheila to be so public. It reminded him of that faltering proposal made in front of the man at Bletchley Park, and he was equally tongue-tied. He didn’t know how to begin. He had been warned on pain of being locked up for the duration not to say a word of how he had been rescued.

‘Where have you been all this time?’ Sheila asked. ‘Couldn’t you let us know where you were? Your mother said you had gone to the bottom of the ocean.’

‘I very nearly did. My ship was sunk and I found myself in the
sea. I remember thinking that if I didn’t get out of the water double quick I’d freeze to death and looking round for a piece of flotsam to get onto. The next thing I remember is being in a bunk on a small boat and men all round me. They had stripped off my clothes and were heaping me with blankets to try and get me warm. They talked but I couldn’t understand a word they said. They took me to Norway and hid me from the Germans. I was ill for a long time. There was no way I could let anyone know I was alive.’

‘How did you get away?’ Sheila asked.

‘I was helped. I’m not at liberty to say any more.’

Gunnar and Lief had found him hiding in the forest when the Germans finally gave up searching. He had tried to find his way out to Sweden but he kept coming back to his own ski tracks and knew he had been going round in circles. He had been cold, wet, hungry and exhausted. They took him back to the hut and gave him hot soup and boiled cod. He could tell by their broad grins that they had good news for him. He was guided down to the village and stowed away on their boat without having any idea where they were taking him. There was still a German guard post down by the jetty and they had to beware of that, but he was dressed as they were in thick trousers, an oiled wool pullover, thick socks, and a jaunty cap. They passed unnoticed and the boat was soon chugging its way out into the lead and from there to the open sea.

They had taken him to a place called Traena where they drew alongside another vessel at the jetty. He transferred from one to the other and said goodbye to Gunnar and Lief, with much laughter and back-slapping.

The boat on which he found himself was larger than the
Gabbi
, had a crew of five and a dozen passengers. Some of these were Norwegian refugees, fleeing the Germans, but two were British, though they spoke Norwegian. It was from them he learnt that
the boat and its crew had made several trips from the Shetland Islands to places on the Norwegian coast, taking supplies to the Norwegian Resistance and bringing out refugees and agents. It was mostly done in the winter when the nights were long and they could go under cover of darkness. There had been delays in assembling everyone for the trip and he had only been included when Lief had spoken on his behalf and vouched for his integrity.

A day out from land they had encountered vicious storms and the engine failed them. They set sails while the engine was being repaired, but these were soon in tatters and the boat had been at the mercy of the storm. Two days they had drifted, tossed about like flotsam and he had begun to wonder if he had been saved from the destroyer only to perish within a day or two of safety. He had offered to help with the repairs and together they had at last got the engine going again and arrived at Lunna in the Shetland Islands a week overdue.

That wasn’t the end of it. He was subjected to an intense debriefing and refused permission to contact his family until it was over, and then he had been sworn to secrecy about the fishing boats which went back and forth across the North Sea and were referred to by those in the know as The Shetland Bus.

‘We understand,’ Esme said. ‘We won’t ask any more questions, will we?’ She looked round at the company.

‘No,’ Prue said. ‘You are here now and it is going to be the best Christmas ever.’ She looked at Sheila. ‘You are quiet, my friend.’

‘I’m overwhelmed.’

‘So you must be. You could do with a few minutes’ privacy. Take Chris into the breakfast room. I’ll come and call you when the men return and dinner is served.’

Sheila took Chris’s hand and led him away.

‘Chris, this is like a miracle,’ Sheila said, turning to face him with her hand in his. ‘I can’t take it in. Are you real or am I imagining things?’

‘I’m real all right. Here, feel.’ He put her hand against his swiftly beating heart. ‘Believe it now?’

‘Yes.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her long and hard. He was no longer the fumbling boy she remembered, but a grown man and it was evident in the way he went about it.

‘Oh, Chris, I am so pleased you are back safe and sound.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m sorry I treated you so badly, I really am. I was sorry almost at once and wrote to you several times but you didn’t answer. But then I heard you had gone down with your ship. I felt so guilty. But here you are.’ She laughed. ‘Prue said, “If it is meant to be, he’ll be back.” And she was right, wasn’t she? But how did you know where to find me?’

He laughed. ‘As soon as I had been kitted out again and was free to go on leave, I went home. I was there two days, wondering whether to try and see you, when I found your letters. Ma hadn’t sent them on. I might not have got them anyway, but it still made me angry. She said it was for my own good. She said she had given you my last letter because it was my dying wish and dying wishes had always to be complied with. When I read what you had written, I went to Bletchley. There was no one at Victoria Villa, but a neighbour said you had gone away for the holiday. I could only think of one place where you’d go, so I went straight back to town and called on Mrs Bennett. She knew where you were.’