She still grieved desperately for Fanny, especially at the thought that she couldn’t even have a proper funeral, since there was nothing left of her to bury. That seemed the most horrible thing of all. A life was over, yet it was as unfinished as if it had never been. It was immeasurably sad, and Wenna had never felt so alone and insecure.
Knowing that her sister needed the security of having her family around her now, Celia still delayed going to Ireland, while briefly toying with the idea of suggesting that Wenna accompanied her. But Wenna had once dreamed of marriage to Ethan, so she didn’t even dare mention it.
With the resilience of childhood and her usual macabre curiosity, Daphne Hollis quickly recovered from her temporary fear of losing all her Cornish contacts at once, and eagerly quizzed Wenna about the bombing.
‘What was it like, miss? Did you see lots of blood and stuff?’ she asked, her big eyes almost popping.
‘Don’t ask such horrid questions,’ Wenna snapped. ‘If you can’t be sensible, then don’t ask anything at all.’
‘I only wanter know,’ Daphne said resentfully. ‘Me Ma always says if I wanter know something, I should go ahead and ask. So what was it like?’
‘If you really want to know, you can read the newspaper, and perhaps it will improve your education as well.’
The last thing Wenna wanted to do was to relive it all over again for this little madam. She didn’t have her mother’s patience with Daphne – nor even Celia’s, she thought in some annoyance. Her sister seemed, oddly, to be marking time about something, and as yet, Wenna had no idea what it was. The old sweet sharing of secrets had temporarily vanished like will-o’-the-wisp, she realised, and knew it was partly her fault for holding everyone at bay.
Each of them had secrets now, that neither was willing to share. Hers was the very real fear of death that had seemed so near on that night of carnage in the Blitz. What Celia’s secret was, she didn’t know, and couldn’t guess, since she was closer than an oyster these days.
She became aware that Daphne was still glaring at her.
‘I bet me Ma’s dead and gawn by now,’ she said suddenly.
Wenna flinched, and stared angrily at the girl.
‘That’s a wicked thing to say, Daphne—’
‘Why? Do you wanter get rid of me and send me back?’
‘Of course not. Well, not while there’s a war on, of course. When it’s all over, you and Butch will want to go back where you belong, won’t you?’
Daphne shrugged. ‘Dunno. Me Ma never liked me much, ’cept to fetch and carry for all the little ’uns. Now they’re all gone, she won’t want me back so I might as well stay ’ere if Mrs Pen’ll have me,’ she said nonchalantly.
She stared Wenna out, and despite the arrogant too-old look in her young eyes, Wenna suddenly saw the pleading there. Good God, she thought. She actually means it. The little madam wants to stay here – unless her Mum wants her back, of course. Daphne was the type to keep all her options open.
‘We’re not so bad after all, then,’ Wenna said casually.
Daphne suddenly grinned. ‘I dunno about you yet. I’ll show yer where me and Butch found some blackberry bushes if yer like, and I’ll let yer know later.’
She switched her thoughts with her usual mercurial speed, and reached for Wenna’s hand. Without thinking, Wenna’s fingers curled around the girl’s. It was a gesture of a kind.
* * *
Celia had confided in her cousin Lily about the phone call from Ireland. She had to tell someone, since she and her father had agreed not to worry Skye or Wenna with Ethan’s information. Lily was as practical as ever, sorting out the As-New clothes in her now thriving second-hand clothes department of the White Rivers Pottery shop in Truro.
‘If you feel you need to see this man, then you should go, though I can’t see why you should want to. Ethan said he wouldn’t be able to tell you anything more – and he’s a German, after all.’ She almost spat out the word.
‘So is Stefan,’ Celia reminded her.
‘But that’s different. He’s part of an old, established family business, not a soldier—’
Celia responded smartly. ‘I doubt that any prisoners of war were born soldiers, Lily. He’s probably some nicely brought up young man who was conscripted into the army, the same as our boys were.’
Lily said nothing for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I simply can’t think that way. War’s a bloody awful thing, anyway. So what are you going to do?’
‘I haven’t really thought, but since Wenna’s still so unsettled, it seems a bit mean to go rushing off to Ireland. Maybe the man could be persuaded to write me a letter with all the details and let Ethan send it on to me.’
‘I’m not sure the authorities would approve of your getting correspondence from a German prisoner of war,’ Lily said doubtfully.
‘Who’s to tell them?’ Celia retorted.
* * *
But as spring merged into summer, another call to Ethan established that the prisoner had been moved on elsewhere, so her chance of finding out anything more had vanished. She cursed her lack of resolve.
Before she could decide if there was anything more she could do, she received two visitors. The women and children were having tea late one afternoon when the men called at the house in an official-looking car bearing a flag.
‘Dear Lord, don’t say it’s bad news,’ Skye breathed. ‘We haven’t heard from Olly in weeks…’
Wenna was still at home, still finding it hard to come to terms with Fanny’s death, and seemingly unable to concern herself with anyone else’s problems. She spoke crisply.
‘We’d be getting a telegram if anything had happened to Olly. They wouldn’t bother sending two stiff-necked officials to deliver the fate of one young airman to his family.’
‘Don’t be cruel, Wenna,’ Skye said evenly.
‘I’m not. I’m being realistic.’
‘P’raps it’s about me,’ Daphne piped up. ‘P’raps it’s ter say me Ma’s bought it. Or Butch’s Dad.’
‘And you’re a nasty, bloodthirsty little brat,’ Wenna snapped at her. ‘I’m getting you out of the way until we find out what’s going on.’
Daphne grinned. ‘I like you when you go all red and shout at me. You remind me of me Ma,’ she said, at which point Wenna grabbed her hand and yanked her out of the room, with Butch following closely behind.
Skye answered the knock on the door, and moments later she returned, with the two men following her.
‘The visitors are for you, Celia. I’ll leave you—’
‘No, please don’t do that, Mom – unless it’s something private?’ she queried the men.
Though for the life of her, she couldn’t see what it could be. The men were portly and grey-haired, with an unmistakable military bearing, and she knew she had never seen them before.
‘Your mother is at liberty to stay and listen to what we have to say, Miss Pengelly. In fact, you may prefer it,’ one of them said solemnly.
Celia felt her mouth go dry. Had she done something terrible? If so, she couldn’t think what it could be. Unless it was consorting with the enemy… The thought was so ludicrous it almost made her laugh out loud. Almost.
‘You’re very young,’ one of the men observed.
‘I’m twenty-two – nearly twenty-three, actually,’ she said without thinking. ‘Not that it’s anyone’s business—’
Skye took charge. ‘Please, won’t you both sit down, gentlemen, and I’ll organise some tea.’
A maid appeared as soon as she had rung the bell, and then she turned to the visitors. ‘Now I think you owe my daughter some explanation of why you’re here.’
The first one cleared his throat. ‘My name is Brigadier Ralph Soames, retired, madam, and this is Major Dennis Beasley. Through our sources, we understand that Miss Pengelly attended St Augustine’s Academy for Young Ladies near Gstaad, Switzerland, before living and working in Germany as a translator for some time
for a Herr Vogl.’
‘That’s correct,’ Celia said sullenly, resenting the fact that these two seemed to know so much about her, and wondering who the hell these sources were who could give so much of her personal details to strangers. It made her feel disagreeably exposed. In the way of interrogators, the men waited for her to say more, and in her nervousness she spoke too fast.
‘Herr Vogl was a friend and business colleague of my mother’s family, as well as my employer.’
‘Ah yes. Your family were once the owners of the china clay business previously known as Killigrew Clay, and also of the associated pottery known as White Rivers, and you did much of your business with the German firm of Vogl’s, I understand,’ Soames said, smiling gratuitously at Skye.
‘Look here, would you mind telling me what this is all about?’ Celia snapped, losing her patience. ‘So you know all about us. Is it a crime for me to have worked for a German firm? I’m sure many people did so in the past.’
‘Quite so, my dear young lady,’ Beasley said smoothly. ‘In fact, with your academic credentials, it’s a definite advantage. You are obviously fluent in the language in a far greater capacity than the use of schoolgirl phrases.’
She didn’t answer. She loathed the pair of them with their snide manners, and when the maid brought in the tea, she childishly hoped it would scald them.
‘Won’t you please come to the point, Brigadier?’ her mother said, with pointed American good manners.
‘We want to offer your daughter an official position, Mrs Pengelly,’ Soames said, turning to her. ‘We have a specialised tracking unit in Norwich, where we are able to monitor incoming calls detailing German military movements. As you might expect, much of this is in code, but with her expertise and knowledge of idiomatic German, we believe your daughter could be of great help to us in deciphering these codes.’
‘I see. Then her expensive education wasn’t entirely wasted after all,’ Skye said dryly, in an attempt to diffuse the suddenly charged atmosphere between them all. ‘And what if she refuses?’
The officials glanced at one another. ‘Madam, it’s no great secret that by the end of the year, if not sooner, it’s highly likely that all young women will be conscripted, either into munitions work or into the Services. This skilled work we are offering is essential to the War Effort, and we would much prefer that Miss Pengelly makes her own choice.’
‘Excuse me,’ Celia snapped. ‘But I am here. I can speak for myself, and I’ll be the one to decide whether or not I would be willing to take up such an appointment.’
‘And would you?’ Beasley asked quickly.
‘Of course,’ she said, without a second’s hesitation.
Chapter Five
‘Why on earth did you say yes, if you don’t want to do it?’ Wenna demanded a couple of weeks later, when Celia was trying to cram yet another item into an already overloaded suitcase, and letting off steam in the only way she knew.
‘I don’t know,’ Celia snapped. ‘I suppose it’s better than feeling I’m useless here. Dad definitely approves, of course. He always thought it was beneath me to be a tram conductress, even though it was quite fun.’
‘So you’re taking on this new job just for his benefit, are you?’ Wenna persisted.
Celia glared at her. ‘Since when did you become so picky over everything anyone else does?’
‘Since Fanny died,’ she whipped back. ‘Since I don’t know where I’m going any more. I haven’t heard from Austin in months and I’m sure he’s missing or dead too, and who would bother telling me, anyway? I’m not his family. I don’t even know if he had one. And since my life has been turned upside down, I’m feeling like the useless one, not you!’
As she raged on in her frustration, Celia paused in her packing, wondering where her soft and gentle sister had gone, to be replaced by this beautiful, brittle shell of a girl. And she could only feel immense compassion. Wenna had seen sights that she had never seen except in newsprint pictures. Her instinct was to put her arms around her and hold her close, but Wenna never invited such familiarities these days. In many ways, their old roles were reversed, she thought.
‘Wenna, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But you were never useless. You were always the star in the family, and you’ve become far too insular since you came home. You’ve hardly moved out of the house, and you need to see other people apart from us and the evacuees. Go and see Lily – or visit Aunt Betsy, if you can’t face Lily’s straight talking.’
After a moment Wenna spoke grudgingly. ‘Oh, I know you’re right. You always are, darn it,’ she added with a twisted smile. ‘And although I don’t want to seem ungrateful for all Mom’s done for me, I do begin to feel stifled here. I don’t know where I’ll go, but perhaps I’ll get out my old bicycle for a start and see if I can still ride it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Celia said, and resumed her packing.
For good or ill, she had accepted this decoding post in Norwich, and there was no going back on it now, although it had taken several weeks of paperwork and further interviews to get things properly organised. But as the stiff-necks had intimated, if she didn’t take the job, she might easily be seconded into it when conscription for young women came in soon, as it surely would.
Despite her collywobbles, she couldn’t deny more than a frisson of excitement too. She had left home before – for heaven’s sake, half her life had been spent away from home, if she thought about it – and she would be doing a job for the War Effort. She would always think of those two words beginning with capital letters now, the way those pompous oafs had said them – but what the heck! Working for the War Effort was something she had wanted to do anyway, wasn’t it?
* * *
Wenna cycled slowly away from New World, wobbling at first, but quickly regaining confidence on the long-disused vehicle. The sun felt warm and sensual on her back, and gradually the healing, fragrant air began to do more for her peace of mind than anything else so far. The sea was a sparkling blue that afternoon, and the forgotten silence of the summer lanes was wonderful.
She had made her home in a hectic world surrounded by show-business people in London, albeit on a minor scale, but now she realised guiltily that she had begun to feel smothered here by all those who wanted to do the right thing by her virtually stepping on eggshells in order not to upset her.
And she had needed Celia’s healthy sibling ranting to show her some direction. She paused to watch some sandpipers race across the edge of the cove far below, and saw how the wash of the waves made their tiny tracks disappear as if they had never been. It was beautiful, charming, and in an instant of time it seemed to Wenna’s heightened senses to symbolise birth and death and everything in between…
…and in her head, she seemed to hear the ghost of Fanny’s voice from long ago, the first time she and Celia had ever met her, both standing open-mouthed at this flashy friend of their mother’s, the echo of another war and another time that they didn’t know. A woman wearing bright clothes and garish make-up, and with a wonderfully wicked way of talking.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell, this effing place is deader than a cemetery, gel. How d’yer ever stick it?’
For the first time since Fanny’s death, Wenna realised she was laughing out loud. Not cruelly, but softly, indulgently, with tears streaming down her face, because although Fanny might be gone, her memory would never fade. She had been too vivid a personality for that.
After a long while of letting herself indulge in pure nostalgia instead of trying to blank it all out, Wenna dried her eyes and got back on her bicycle. She still didn’t know where she was going, but in the distance ahead of her was Killigrew House, where Betsy Tremayne lived all alone now, since her sons had gone to war and her husband Theo had died. But they all had to go on, no matter what, thought Wenna. It was the nature of things…
She thought briefly of the young war correspondent who had stolen her heart, and whom she knew deep inside that she would never see again. If that w
as Cornish intuition, so be it, she thought, but as she cycled slowly and unthinkingly into the grounds of the imposing house, hardly seeing any of it, she had already mentally said goodbye to Austin.
‘Hey, watch out, babe!’ said a voice she didn’t recognise. ‘You need a licence for that contraption.’
She realised at once that she wasn’t alone, and that the grounds of the house weren’t as silent as she had expected. There were more than a dozen young men strolling about, or sitting in the sunshine, and they were all in uniform.
And then she remembered. She had been so wrapped up in her own life and the trauma of recent times, that until that moment she had completely forgotten how, after Uncle Theo died, her Aunt Betsy said she was going to turn this house into some kind of convalescent home for the walking wounded.
None of the family had taken her seriously. It was the kind of thing people said spontaneously, and did nothing about. But Betsy had obviously lived up to her word, and as Wenna skidded her bicycle to a halt on the gravel, she slid sideways and fell straight into the arms of a young man with laughter in his eyes wearing the blue uniform of the Royal Air Force.
‘Now that’s what I call really falling for someone,’ he went on teasingly, while she glared at him and tried to recover her dignity.
‘I’m sorry, and if you’ll excuse me—’ she began frigidly, and then she heard her aunt’s delighted voice and saw her coming out of the house, her plump arms outstretched, her accent still as rich and welcoming as Cornish cream.
‘Wenna, my lamb, ’tis so lovely to see you, despite your recent bad news, but you’m as blooming as ever, and if dear Group Captain Mack will put you down, I’ll introduce ’ee.’
She extricated herself from the man’s arms at once, feeling incredibly foolish as she was clasped in her aunt’s embrace, while the officer held on to her bicycle.
A Brighter Tomorrow Page 8