‘God, but I love you, woman,’ he said huskily. ‘Can you possibly know how much?’
‘Oh, I think I have a rough idea,’ she said with a catch in her voice, because such sweet moments were so rare these days, when other people demanded so much of them all.
‘Then I think I should waste no more time in showing you how much. Let’s—’
The scared voice floated down from the top of the stairs.
‘Mrs Pen, I’ve wet meself. Can yer come quick?’
Skye heard Nick curse. ‘Christ Almighty, she’s nine years old now. Can’t she control herself yet?’
‘She’s only a child, Nick, and this only happens occasionally when something disturbs her. She heard how excited Butch was today, and how he was boasting that he’ll stay here forever if his father will let him, and become a potter. I think it’s unsettled Daphne.’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’ll see to her, and then we’ll go up. I won’t be long.’
But by the time she had consoled the humiliated Daphne, changed her bedding and nightclothes and made her sweet again, Nick was already in bed and fast asleep.
* * *
Wenna had firmly believed she would be travelling all over the world with the ENSA concert party. She had made herself believe that, in the weirdest way, this chance that was brought about by a war was going to fulfil all of Fanny’s dreams for her.
They were her dreams too, of course. She would sing in front of an enormous audience of servicemen, and among them would be all kinds of people, including agents and managers, and entrepreneurs of every kind. Surely at least one of them would see and hear the potential in Miss Penny Wood – although as an ATS private, she was known to her companions by her real name now and only used her stage name for performances.
She had been convinced that future stardom would be staring her in the face through this most unlikely of sources, perhaps on a North African makeshift stage, where even important military men might hear her; or in Egypt; or wherever the army chose to send their little concert party.
Instead of which, the reality was like a cold slap in the face. They were sent to military installations all over England and Scotland, and entertained the troops wherever there was a need for them. It wasn’t exactly what Wenna had imagined, but their troupe kept being assured that these people badly needed cheering up, especially those who had been repatriated due to injuries and were waiting to be sent home.
Knowing what had happened to Sebby by now, she knew that he could well be like them, glad of a soft voice and a welcoming smile, and she swallowed her disappointment at not being sent somewhere more glamorous, and sang her heart out on every occasion.
By now she had received confirmation that Austin had indeed been killed in action, and she had wept her tears over him. Group Captain Mack had written to her several times and the letters had followed her around the country. She had answered them cautiously, knowing that the attraction between them was mutual, but still determined to hold back from becoming involved with anyone else.
‘I don’t understand you, Pengo,’ her accompanist said, using her current nickname. ‘The chap must be crazy over you, and you’re virtually giving him the cold shoulder. It doesn’t add up with the emotional way you sing those songs, kiddo.’
‘My songs are for every serviceman, Rita, and not for individuals,’ she retorted.
They were performing that evening to a group of newly-arrived American servicemen. Real GIs, Rita had told her excitedly, and there were rumours that they sometimes brought chocolates and nylon stockings with them for the girls who caught their fancy. It would be better than painting their legs with gravy browning and pencilling in a dodgy wavy line for a seam, Rita declared.
It didn’t impress Wenna. She turned around from the cracked mirror in their so-called dressing room and faced her counterpart.
‘You just watch that they don’t want payment in kind for their nylons,’ she warned. ‘Soldiers are soldiers, wherever they come from, and you’ve been bitten once already.’
‘I never took you for a prude,’ Rita said, offended.
‘I’m not. I just don’t want any entanglements, that’s all. But never mind all that. How do my lips look?’
She pursed them towards her friend. Cosmetics were in short supply now, and the NAAFI cook was being constantly persuaded to give cooked beetroot juice to the concert party girls for them to colour their lips in lieu of lipstick.
‘Looks good,’ Rita said approvingly. ‘A bit of soot on your eyelashes and you’ll be all set.’
‘I’m not going to bother. It makes my eyes sting, and I don’t really need it, do I?’
Rita sighed. ‘You know you bloody don’t. Who’d bother looking at your eyelashes when you’ve got those great baby blues, anyway?’
‘Which Hollywood flick did you get that line out of?’ Wenna said, glad that their brief spat was over.
But she felt excited too as they faced those GIs in their tailored uniforms that evening, and knew how her mother would approve of her entertaining her own countrymen as she heard their enthusiastic whistles and foot-stamping.
‘They know how to let themselves go, don’t they?’ Rita breathed in her ear a long while later when they had all gone through their routines and the concert party had returned to their base. ‘One of them in the front row was definitely giving you the glad eye, Pengo, even more than the rest.’
‘That was hardly the glad eye. He looked as if he should still be in school.’
‘Don’t they all?’ Rita said dryly.
‘Actually,’ Wenna said carefully, knowing the reaction she was going to get, ‘he sent me a note after the show—’
‘What? What did it say? Did he ask you to meet him? You lucky stiff. I hope you ask him if he’s got a friend for me.’
‘Now hold on a minute, Rita,’ Wenna said, laughing. ‘Actually, I think it’s someone my sister once knew when she lived in New Jersey.’
‘My God, you people get around, don’t you?’
‘I told you my mother and grandfather were American, didn’t I? It seems as though this young GI lives on the farm where my sister once worked. Years ago the place belonged to my grandparents, only it wasn’t a farm in those days. Well, anyway, this Greg Stone knew Celia had a sister who sang a bit, and we’re very much alike in looks, so he took a chance and asked if I could possibly be called Wenna.’
‘And you are.’
‘Of course I am. You know that. Anyway, I said I’d see him in the canteen tomorrow for a chat, if he was free.’
‘As if he wouldn’t be! He’s sure to bring along some of the others to meet you as well, so can I come along?’
Wenna sighed. Rita was so transparent, but she could hardly say no. And since she had absolutely nothing in common with Greg Stone, except a house in New Jersey that once belonged to her grandparents, another girl might be a useful ally if the conversation flagged.
She tried to recall what Celia had ever said about him, and came up with absolutely nothing, except that he was one of the younger siblings of the Jarvis Stone who had developed such an almighty crush on Celia at one time. The crippled Jarvis wouldn’t have been able to enlist in this war, but she guessed that his brother must be about Olly’s age and just about old enough to do so.
She smiled ruefully, thinking that for folk who were normally content to spend their lives working on a New Jersey fruit farm, being shipped overseas because of a war must be the strangest way of meeting people.
Chapter Seven
‘You must tell him that if he’s ever at a loss as to where to spend a leave, he’s to come and visit with us,’ Skye said at once when Wenna related the incident to her over the telephone.
‘His unit is being sent overseas pretty soon, Mom, though I don’t know where, of course. But don’t you think it was a coincidence that he should have been at the concert? He told me a lot about the farm in New Jersey, and the time when Celia was there. It was so odd, hearing him talk about
the house where you were born, and finding out that he knows it so well, when I don’t.’
‘But how lovely that he made sure you knew who he was, darling,’ Skye said quickly, needing to overcome an enormous bout of homesickness at that moment, such as she hadn’t felt in years. ‘I’ll remember to tell Celia the next time I hear from her. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.’
When the call ended, Skye put down the phone slowly. How odd it was, she thought, echoing Wenna’s words, that the endless continuity in this family should stretch out beyond the bounds of land and sea, and even now, should pull the tenuous threads together.
The Stone family had nothing to do with herself, except that this young Greg Stone had been born in the same house as she had. He would know and love the house in the same way she and her brother Sinclair had done. The house where her mother, Primmy, had always been at pains to instil the love of their Cornish roots in her children. The roots that had brought Skye here.
‘Oh Mom,’ she murmured, ‘you would have loved all this. And so would Granny Morwen.’
Even odder was the resolve she now felt to get the history of Killigrew Clay in order. There was no one else with the skill or the urge to record it all, and if she didn’t do it, the intimate knowledge would end with her. She got out her bicycle and rode into Truro the very next day and went into the offices of the Informer newspaper.
She paused in the outer office before announcing herself. The hum of activity was the same as ever, as was the smell of printer’s ink, of newsprint, of bodily sweat, and the indefinable air of excitement that came with a big story.
These days, among the more homely and domestic stories, there were always national and international ones that seemed to be ever bigger, but nonetheless still had their poignant moments. And no matter how dramatic the story, David Kingsley was an expert in sorting out the wheat from the chaff, she thought.
He caught sight of her from behind his office window then, and waved to her to come inside.
‘Good to see you, Skye. Tea? Coffee?’ he said, as busy as ever, but newly apprised of the trend towards coffee as an occasional drink now that the Americans had infiltrated.
‘Tea would be lovely, David. And so would access to the archives, if I may. I’m going to produce some of those booklets we once talked about if it kills me in the attempt. I’ve already made a start on the scheme, but now I want to see it finished.’
She bit her lip as she spoke, as the insignificance of one tin-pot china clay business compared with the worldly state of affairs suddenly occurred to her. To her great relief, David evidently thought otherwise.
‘Well, it’s about time. When this damn war is over, Skye, people will be looking for ordinary pursuits again, and I’ve always said that visitors will discover Cornwall and want to get away from the big cities. The evacuees will have helped all that. They’ll go home and tell their folks about how wonderful the countryside is, and we’ll have hordes of them coming in, you’ll see.’
‘My Lord, how prophetic you are!’ she said with a laugh.
‘Don’t you think it will happen? I’ll bet that some of these kids won’t even want to go back where they came from.’
‘Maybe. Butch keeps saying he wants to stay for ever, anyway,’ she said, realising David could be right. It went with the territory, of course. Being a newspaperman meant keeping your ears to the ground to know what was going on now, and also what was likely to happen in the future.
‘Show me what you’ve done so far,’ he said, when tea was brought in for them. ‘You’ve brought it with you, I take it?’
She produced the folder containing her rough outlines of the time when Hal Tremayne was Pit Captain of Number One pit at Killigrew Clay, and his wife Bess, together with all five of their children, worked for the clayworks. One of those children was Morwen, Skye’s own grandmother, but apart from brief mentions of them all, she had done her best to keep the story centred on the history of the clayworks itself.
David scanned it all, and then slowly shook his head.
‘You’ve lost nothing of your storytelling skills, Skye, but what you’ve overlooked is the personal touch. Because of your family name and your own involvement in the growth of the clayworks, readers will want to know far more about the people than you’ve detailed. They’ll want to know why Morwen’s brother Matt went to America and how he came to be the patriarch of a new family of Tremaynes, and how one of them – you, my love – eventually returned to Cornwall, and stayed.’
‘But that’s exactly what I was avoiding. I thought people would be more interested in the china clay itself, and an industry that is unique to Cornwall—’
He interrupted. ‘You, above all people, should know that a flat account of the way a business evolved is one hundred per cent less interesting that one that has a romantic human story included in it. And what could be more romantic than the son of a clay boss marrying one of his own bal maidens and starting a dynasty? No, you should think again about this, Skye. I know your idea was to keep it as impersonal as possible, but you and I both know that a story about a woman falling for the wrong man, or any kind of scandal, will always touch readers’ hearts. And you have an important artist in the family, for heaven’s sake. You can’t leave out a mention of Albert Tremayne.’
‘He had nothing to do with Killigrew Clay, except to be Morwen’s adopted son.’
‘But think of the readership, Skye,’ David urged. ‘Albert’s parents both died tragically young – Sam, Morwen’s oldest brother, in an accident on the moors, and his mother from the measles. Then the generous-hearted Morwen and Ben Killigrew brought up the three orphaned children as their own – including the aforementioned Albert – until an indiscreet word from a precocious American child tore their world apart again. The child who was destined to be your father, Skye! Think how your old magazine readers would have loved reading that!’
As he unfolded the story like a romantic saga of old, her writer’s mind knew only too well its appeal for readers.
‘It’s private,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s family business – and how the blazes did you know so much about it, anyway?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I’m a newshound, that’s how, and I made it my business to know. I could write the story myself – but it would never have your feminine insight, nor your perceptive and heart-tugging way of writing it, and I wouldn’t presume to do so.’
He could see her indecision, and he was quick to take advantage of it.
‘Don’t decide at once. Spend an hour or so in the archives by all means, and take home any relevant copies. Then discuss it with Nick, and see what he thinks.’
‘It has nothing to do with Nick,’ she said quickly, just as he knew she would. ‘Whatever I decide to do, it will be my decision and no one else’s.’
Just like a true Tremayne woman, she couldn’t help thinking, avoiding his knowing eyes. And by the time she left, armed with a pile of old newspapers to study, her plans for the booklets had taken an entirely different direction.
And although she was quite alone as she rode home through the wintry lanes to New World, she got the weird feeling that someone was hovering at her shoulder and silently approving. It was a comfortable feeling that made her smile.
‘All right, Granny Morwen, you win,’ she murmured to the air, watching her breath leave her mouth in a soft cloud before it was borne aloft on a small, sighing breeze.
* * *
‘Cor, are yer going ter write a book, Mrs Pen?’ Daphne Hollis said in astonishment, gazing at Skye as if she was a creature from outer space.
‘Maybe more than one, but it won’t be a thick book like you read in school, Daphne. It may turn out to be two or three small booklets. They’ll be a history of my family and the clayworks on the moors.’
‘That’s not a proper book then,’ Daphne said scornfully. ‘Wiv hard covers and all that.’
‘Probably not,’ Skye said humbly, seeing how important this was to her. ‘Not that I ever see
you reading one. Your teacher tells me you’re not very interested in books.’
‘I am too! Me Ma gave me one once, borrered it from the penny libr’y and fergot ter take it back – so she said,’ she added with a grin. ‘It had too many big words in it though.’
Her face flushed as she spoke. At nine, Daphne didn’t like to be beaten in anything. Perhaps the teacher at the Truro school had mistaken Daphne’s bolshie attitude, Skye thought quickly. If something didn’t come easily to Daphne, she simply stiffened her aggressive little shoulders and refused to bother with it any more.
‘Perhaps I could help you with that, Daphne,’ she said carefully. ‘We could read something together, if you like, and I could check your spelling with you.’
‘If you like,’ Daphne said, shrugging.
‘We’ll start tonight, and you can go through some of these old newspapers with me. It will make a change from reading a boring old school book,’ she said calmly.
Daphne’s eyes sparkled. ‘I reckon you shoulda been a school teacher, Mrs Pen.’
Or a diplomat, thought Skye.
But helping Daphne with her reading by way of the old newspaper accounts of the daily business of Killigrew Clay was going to be a twofold activity. The booklets wouldn’t be written for children, but she considered that seeing everything that had happened in retrospect and through a child’s eyes might help her to discard the mundane events and stick to the more emotive and important ones. Life – and war – hadn’t sent Daphne Hollis here without a particular purpose after all.
* * *
British Intelligence, like God, worked in mysterious ways, Celia thought, ignoring any thought of blasphemy in the analogy. How, or why, they had chosen her for the job she was now engaged upon was beyond her, but you learned not to ask too many questions of your superiors. For one thing, you were unlikely to get any proper answers, anyway.
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