by Ellie Dean
Ron grimaced, for in her panic, Rosie had gone to see her arch rival, Gloria Stevens, at the Crown – but even Gloria with all her black market contacts was unable to oblige. He’d tried to ease the situation by telling her that any champagne would do, or failing that, a good white wine, which he could easily get.
That suggestion had gone down like a lead balloon, so he’d sought advice from his old friends Fred the Fish and Alf the butcher as to what on earth he could do to calm her down. They hadn’t been a lot of help, merely pronouncing that women were inclined to throw a wobbly at times like this and the best way of dealing with it was to turn a blind eye and get on with something sensible – like organising an evening out with the boys before he tied the knot.
He liked the idea of a bachelors’ night out but knew it would only lead to trouble with Rosie, and she’d kill him if he turned up with a massive hangover and stinking of drink on their wedding day. Perhaps he’d organise it for Thursday, which would give him a day and a half to recover.
Glad that he’d made one good decision today, Ron checked his watch. He still had some time before he had to leave to meet Rosie at the Anchor where he’d ordered a taxi to take them up to the club, but he was reluctant to go upstairs where he’d no doubt get roped into some job or other. The hurrying footsteps and excited chatter from up there signalled that Peggy, Danuta, Cordelia and Sarah were busily preparing the children’s tea party whilst trying to keep an overexcited Daisy occupied.
He sank onto the bed next to the dozing Harvey, who’d also sought refuge from the chaos, and reached for the letter that had arrived yesterday morning from Jim, which he’d already read twice.
Ron had managed to get to the post before Peggy, and was very glad he had, for Jim had written it on his last night in India, and had given a fairly graphic account of his time on leave – why his recovery had taken so long, and how close he’d come to death through the combination of septicaemia and malaria as he’d waited in the field hospital on that jungle battle zone to be airlifted out.
Ron unfolded the letter and skimmed over the bits he didn’t want to read again, for he could imagine all too well how helpless Jim must have felt as he’d waited at death’s door for that life-saving airlift. He paused at the bottom of the page and read the last paragraph.
I’m telling you, Da, that second bit of shrapnel was so close to my spine that one careless move could have had me crippled for life. For the love of God, will you get the doctors to do something about yours before it does real damage? I know you regard it as a reminder of all the pals you lost, but it’s clearly getting more painful every year, and at your age, it can’t be doing you any good. In fact, Da, Frank and I agree that you’d be much better off without it – especially as you’re about to marry the lively Rosie.
Ron turned the page. He didn’t like the reference to his age and certainly had no intention of letting some half-baked quack muck about with his back.
The letter continued in a much more light-hearted way with accounts of Jim’s time off in India. There had been heavy drinking sessions in the bars and hotels with his friend Big Bert, which had usually led to a jolly good punch-up and finished with them all being pals. He and Bert had rarely made it back to their hotel during those two weeks, often waking the next morning sprawled on a beach with a blinding hangover that only another drink could cure.
Ron smiled at that, for it brought back memories of some of his leaves in which he’d enjoyed getting drunk and hitting someone before becoming pals and drinking together in seedy foreign bars lining even seedier waterfronts. But soldiers were soldiers the world over and clearly nothing had changed. He returned to the letter.
Despite the brawls, which were more about letting off steam than anything, there was great camaraderie between us and the Yanks, for we Brits had all witnessed the hair-raising heroics of the USAAF pilots and crews which had come in repeatedly under heavy enemy bombardment to deliver equipment and carry our wounded to safety.
I’d made a promise to myself during one of those airlifts that I’d buy a very large drink for the first Yank pilot I came across – and so I did just that, to thank him and honour his courage. I must have laid it on a bit thick, for he was a bit embarrassed by my enthusiasm. But I knew that if it hadn’t been for the brave men like him, I would not have made it out of that jungle.
Ron was pleased that Jim had thoroughly enjoyed his two weeks at the seaside, and not at all surprised that it had come as a bit of a shock to have to return to the discipline of the retraining camp where alcohol was forbidden and a strict curfew was in place. It was a shame he hadn’t been able to catch up with Staff Nurse Fitzpatrick, but she’d been transferred to a field hospital close to the border with Burma, so it was unlikely he would see her again. Which was probably a good thing; because Ron had a sneaking suspicion his son had formed rather a soft spot for that Australian nurse.
I shall be leaving here at dawn tomorrow to rejoin my regiment, which I’m pleased about, because it means I’ll be with Bert and the others again. Though I dread to think how my mates will feel about the promotion.
Officers, however lowly, are considered to be beneath contempt, so me and Bert will have to prove to them that you don’t have to speak with a plum in your mouth and go to Eton, Oxford and Sandhurst to make a good officer, and I’m looking forward to getting stuck into the fighting again. The men are a good bunch who work extremely well as a team. I know how they think, and where their strengths lie, and as all the lessons I learned in the first shout came flooding back, I have no fear of being able to lead them.
We get Forces Radio and the BBC World Service, and by the sound of things the tide is beginning to turn on the war in Europe, and with the Yanks beating the hell out of the Japs in the Pacific, there is real hope that this damned war will soon be done and dusted and we can all come home. Although you probably won’t recognise me. I’ve spent so long out here, I’m darker than the natives, and if it wasn’t for my uniform, I’d probably be mistaken for one!
I hope Daisy and Cordelia got their birthday presents, and there should be more to come for Christmas. Give Daisy an extra hug and kiss from me, and tell Cordelia she’s still my best girl after Peggy.
I’ve written to Anne, Cissy and the boys as well as Peggy, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t show this to her. Unlike you, she’d get upset about things and certainly wouldn’t understand about the drinking and fighting – and would only imagine that girls were involved – which they weren’t. My Peggy is enough for me, as I’m sure Rosie is enough for you.
Good luck for your wedding, Da. I so wish I could be there to give you a proper Reilly send-off, but I’m sure Frank will do the honours just as well. Just for goodness’ sake don’t turn up hungover on the day.
I love you, Da.
Jim.
‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Peggy suddenly appeared in the doorway.
Startled, Ron stuffed the letter into his trouser pocket. ‘Just a letter from a pal,’ he said blithely, reaching for the fedora.
‘But it was an air letter,’ she persisted. ‘Who’s been writing to you from abroad, if it wasn’t Jim?’
‘Jack Smith,’ he fibbed, trying to follow a skulking Harvey out of the room.
She barred his way, arms folded, expression determined. ‘And why would Rita’s dad be writing to you?’
‘He wanted me to know how it was going over there,’ he blustered. ‘Just drop it, Peggy.’
Peggy wasn’t about to drop anything – neither was she going to budge from the doorway. ‘And how are things going over there?’
‘It’s no picnic,’ he replied, putting on the fedora. ‘I’m sorry, Peggy, but it was a confidential letter from one man to another, and not the sort of thing his daughter needs to know about. Now I’m going to be late picking up Rosie, so if you wouldn’t mind shifting …’
Peggy didn’t shift but regarded him evenly. ‘Is it a common thing? This sending of letters between men? And why is
it necessary to hide them from us women? Don’t you think we’re entitled to know what’s going on?’
Ron opened his mouth to reply, but she carried on, her steady gaze penetrating. ‘Have you been keeping Jim’s letters from me?’
He’d tied himself up into knots by lying and it was clear that Peggy wasn’t about to leave the subject alone. He blew out his cheeks and caved in. ‘When a man goes to war he sees and experiences things which he can only speak about to someone who’s been through the same thing and can truly understand. He knows his wife and family are already on edge and imagining all sorts of things, so what good would it do to tell them about the stark reality of what he’s going through?’
He took a breath and decided he couldn’t pussy-foot around the subject any longer. ‘War isn’t pretty, Peggy. It’s violent and bloody and cruel – as we saw only two weeks ago when that V-2 came down. Just imagine that duplicated a thousand times over with machine-gun fire, heavy artillery booming, and enemy planes swooping down over you. It’s no wonder a man needs to let it all out – and he can only do that with another man.’
He paused, realising he was frightening her. ‘I bet you didn’t tell Jim about that V-2 and its aftermath in your last letter, did you?’
She bit her lip. ‘I did mention it,’ she confessed. ‘But I didn’t go into any detail because I didn’t want him worrying about us.’ There were tears in her eyes as she looked back at him. ‘It seems we’re all guilty of glossing over the truth, so I can hardly blame Jim and Jack for keeping things back. Is it truly so awful out there they can’t bear to tell us?’
Ron put his arm about her. ‘The whole damned war is awful, wee girl. And there’s no escaping it wherever we are. But you and Rita don’t need to know what was in those letters. They were never meant for your eyes, and I’d be breaking my word if I showed them to you.’
She nodded against his chest and then drew herself back and squared her shoulders. ‘As long as I know he’s alive, that’s all that matters – and the same goes for Rita and Jack. I’m glad they both have you to confide in, Ron. You’re a good man, and I’m sorry I gave you the third degree.’
She kissed his cheek and moved into the narrow hallway. ‘Go to your Rosie, Ron, and enjoy a peaceful day.’
‘Aye, I’ll do me best.’ He regarded her with deep affection and a niggle of concern that he was being selfish by running out on her today. ‘Will you be able to cope with all those children?’
‘I’ve got Sarah, Danuta and Cordelia to help me, along with some of the mothers, so we’ll be just fine.’
Ron grinned and grabbed his umbrella, then cheerfully headed for the door with Harvey at his heels. Peggy might look delicate with her slight figure, big dark eyes and elfin face, but she was made of steel. His Jim was a very lucky man.
Peggy heard the back door slam behind him, and sank onto the bed. She needed a few minutes to herself to think about what he’d said, and to gather strength for the afternoon’s party which was bound to be chaotic.
She idly smoothed the counterpane and brushed away dog hairs as she listened to the wind howling around the house, and Daisy’s excited chatter upstairs. She didn’t blame Ron for trying to protect her, for she’d always suspected that Jim had written to his father in a very different tone to the way he’d written to her.
At first she’d felt quite put out that neither of them seemed to trust her with the unvarnished truth, and had even gone to some lengths to try and ferret out those letters so she could read them. She never had found them, and as the war had dragged on and the newsreels at the cinema had shown graphic evidence of what the men were going through, she no longer had the desire to know more.
Peggy stretched her back and gave a deep sigh. If Jim or Jack needed someone to confide in, then Ron was the ideal candidate, for he’d experienced war on the front line and witnessed things that he’d never spoken about, but which she knew still haunted him. He’d been so right when he’d said war was ugly, cruel and bloody, and she was grateful that he and Jim wanted to shield her from it. But after the doodlebug and V-2 rocket attacks she’d had her own taste of what war could do, so she wasn’t entirely incapable of imagining how bad it must be for the men caught at the very heart of the conflict.
Peggy stood and regarded the basement room which was already looking abandoned. Ron had lived here all her married life and it would feel very strange without him. There again, he was about to begin a new life with Rosie, and it wasn’t as if he was moving very far – she’d still see him most days. But she would miss him. Miss his humour and wise counsel – miss the tall stories and the mess he and Harvey made – but most of all she would miss his very male presence in this house of women.
She cocked her head towards the ceiling to listen to the hurrying feet upstairs and Daisy’s excited chatter, and as she did so she spotted something at the very back of the top of the wardrobe. Ron must have forgotten about it when he was clearing out his things to take to Rosie’s.
She grabbed the chair and stood on it, scrabbling to reach what she discovered was a shoebox. It was covered in dust and had clearly been there for some time. Intrigued, she plumped back on the bed, blew off the worst of the dust and opened it, expecting to find shoes or perhaps old letters.
What she found made her gasp. There were four velvet boxes nestled in yellowing tissue paper alongside a jumble of loose campaign medals and a pay book dated 1918. With her hands trembling in excitement, she opened the velvet boxes one by one and stared at the contents in utter amazement. Ron had always told good stories about his war – had even made light of it at times – and the family had always taken them with a pinch of salt. But these … These were proof that Ron’s stories must have been true, and far from being an ordinary soldier, he’d been an honoured hero.
She reverently picked up each box and gazed in awe at the Distinguished Service Order medal, the Military Cross, the Legion of Honour and the Croix de Guerre. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Put them back, Peggy, and forget you saw them.’
Peggy whirled round as Ron came into the room and gathered up the velvet cases to toss them back into the shoebox. ‘But why, Ron? These are something to be proud of. The family should know what a true hero you were.’
‘There’s no need for all that,’ he replied gruffly, shoving the shoebox back onto the wardrobe.
‘But there is,’ she protested. ‘Those medals are the highest honour that can be given, and you must have done something very brave to have been awarded them.’
He turned to face her, his expression grim. ‘I did no more than my duty, Peggy. Better men than me died doing the same thing, and fancy bits of metal will never make up for their loss.’
‘But you can’t just ignore the fact those medals were awarded to you because of your bravery and the service you gave to this country and France.’ Peggy was on the brink of tears. ‘You’ve always been our hero, Ron, so why hide those medals away when so many others wear lesser ones with such pride?’
Ron let his breath out on a deep sigh and took her hand. ‘Because I have reminders enough of that war,’ he said quietly. ‘They come in my dreams and in the twinges in my back – and now in the letters that Jim and Jack write to me from the Front. Those medals will stay where they are, and I want your solemn promise to say nothing to the others.’
Peggy grasped his rough hand, her love and pride for him making it almost impossible to speak. ‘Of course,’ she managed.
He kissed her forehead and began to rummage in the dresser.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d gone to the Officers’ Club with Rosie?’
‘I forgot my damned chequebook,’ he muttered, chucking old sweaters and vests onto the floor as he delved into the drawer.
‘What on earth do you need that for?’
‘To pay the balance for the wedding breakfast,’ he replied, waving the chequebook at her in triumph.
‘You’d better make sure there is a cheque left in there,’ she advised, eyeing the suspiciously thin blue book.
He flicked through it in panic and then grinned in relief. ‘There’s one left, so I’ll not be in trouble with Rosie. She warned me I’d need this today, but in all the excitement it went out of me head.’
Peggy gave him a hug. ‘You’ll never change, will you?’ she asked fondly.
‘To be sure, I’ll try not to,’ he replied. He eased away from her. ‘Just remember that promise, Peggy.’
She nodded and followed him to the back door. Watching him hurry down the path under the large umbrella, she smiled. Ron was a reluctant hero, but a hero all the same. She would keep his secret warm in her heart for as long as he wished.
12
Now the Allies were making excellent advances into Europe, the threat of invasion was considered to be over, so the Home Guard was stood down, much to the disappointment of those who’d relished being in a position of authority and wearing uniform again.
The King had broadcast a message of praise and thanks to these volunteers who’d given their time, and sometimes their lives, to defending their own small corners of the country. On Monday evening, there had been a short ceremony outside the Town Hall for the Cliffehaven participants, in which Ron had refused to take part unless Harvey could accompany him. This caused a bit of a stir amongst the army bigwigs, but as Ron was one of the senior officers they’d reluctantly had to give in.
The presence of his dog might have ruffled a few official feathers, but the people of Cliffehaven were delighted, for Harvey had become a local hero at finding and helping to dig out people buried in rubble after a bombing raid, and as they’d paraded up the High Street behind the brass band, he was given enthusiastic applause which he positively lapped up.