by Ellie Dean
Peggy understood how keenly Cissy and Anne worried about their men and she wished she could offer her daughters some comfort – but having to rely on letters and the occasional telephone call to do so was highly unsatisfactory and left her feeling frustrated and tearful.
She opened the back gate and contemplated the garden which Ron had turned into a vegetable plot. The Anderson shelter huddled by the flint wall, the turf on its roof sprouting spring vegetables; the chicken coop and outside lav were to the right of the back door, along with the almost empty coal bunker and the tarpaulin strip which covered the bicycles. Thankfully, Ron had retrieved her bike from the factory estate after the awful bombing which had almost killed Ivy, but having Daisy in tow most of the time, it was rare for Peggy to use it these days.
She wheeled the pram into the basement scullery, hoisted Daisy out and climbed the concrete steps to the kitchen. What she needed now was a lovely cuppa and a bit of a sit-down before she started on the laundry.
3
It was lunchtime, so Stan locked up his Nissen hut and plodded down the hill to the chemist. The next train wasn’t for another two hours, so he had time to get something for his indigestion and nip into the Crown for a pint and to see Gloria.
The Crown Hotel was large and sprawling, with three bars, a function room and bedrooms to let upstairs. It was usually quiet at this time of day, for most of the servicemen and women were on duty and the factory shifts wouldn’t change until after Gloria had closed for the afternoon. He shot a hasty glance up and down the High Street to make sure no one was watching him and then stepped into the gloom of the saloon bar with its dark panelled walls and dim lights.
He nodded a greeting to the two old men who were sitting by the fire nursing their pints as they puffed tranquilly on their pipes, and doffed his hat to the group of elderly women who were gossiping in the corner over bottles of milk stout. The furniture was scarred, the ceiling yellowed by years of tobacco smoke; the stained-glass windows had been heavily taped, which only added to the gloom, and the piano was so battered, it was a miracle anyone could get a tune out of it. But in the lull of the quiet lunch hour, it had a welcoming, warm atmosphere, helped enormously by the friendly smile of the landlady, Gloria Stevens.
The Crown had a bit of a reputation for being a rowdy place at night, when fights often broke out, and most things could be purchased on the black market if you knew who to approach. Gloria had run the place for years without the aid of her husband – a feckless rogue who’d run out on her and their baby son for another woman. Gloria certainly didn’t seem to miss him, for it was rumoured that she spread her favours about when the fancy took her – although just lately she’d been downcast and not herself. Stan had heard that her only son had been killed in the Far East, and something like that could defeat the strongest person – even the redoubtable Gloria Stevens.
Gloria was originally from the East End and stood no nonsense from anyone. She was as sharp as a tack when it came to spotting troublemakers or girls touting for business, and sorted both out swiftly and efficiently. She was a tall, rather forceful-looking woman with large breasts that swelled like ripe melons above her low-cut dresses and blouses, and her hair had been bleached to within an inch of its life. She had surprisingly good legs for a woman her size, and a voice that could drown out an air-raid siren and give the thundering Luftwaffe a run for its money when she bellowed for order from behind her bar. With her cheap jewellery, heavy make-up and tight clothes, she was the epitome of everyone’s idea of a pub landlady, and she seemed to relish the role, thumbing her nose at the less charitable women in Cliffehaven who considered her to be no better than she should be.
Stan had always liked her, for under all that brassiness was a heart of gold, and he knew that not only was she looking after her widowed daughter-in-law and two grandchildren at the moment, but she was keeping an eye out for her nephew, Andy, who’d just started at the fire station. Gloria was also a generous and enthusiastic participant when it came to charities and fund-raising, and there was always a tin on the bar for donations to something. Today it was for the Red Cross.
He smiled as he approached the bar. ‘Good morning, Gloria, and how are you today?’
‘A bit bored, if the truth be known, Stan. I hate it when it’s this quiet.’ She reached for the beer pump. ‘Your usual, is it?’
Stan nodded and watched admiringly as her sturdy arm wielded the pump up and down, which made her breasts do rather delightful things above the low-cut neckline of her dress. Ethel would kill him if she could see him now, but he was only human and a look did no harm.
Gloria smiled knowingly at him as she placed the frothing glass on the bar and took his money. ‘Fancy something to eat with that, Stan? I’ve got a nice bit of ’am in for a function this afternoon, and they won’t miss a slice for a sandwich.’
A bit of ham was tempting, but Gloria would be closing soon, and the thought of sitting on his own with her made him a bit hot and bothered. ‘Better not,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m supposed to be on duty.’
‘You mean Ethel wouldn’t like it,’ she retorted without rancour. She tossed back her candyfloss hair, which made her earrings swing, and then proceeded to vigorously wipe down the bar as her other customers drank up and left. It was almost two o’clock.
He grinned sheepishly and concentrated on drinking half of his pint before speaking again. ‘How’s your Betty getting on?’ he asked. ‘It can’t be easy for her with the children and everything.’
The shadows beneath Gloria’s eyes seemed to darken. ‘She’s bearing up, Stan. But yer right, it ain’t easy for neither of us.’ Her eyes became glassy and she blinked rapidly before continuing. ‘Our Andy’s found ’er a nice flat in Camden Road, so she’ll be moving in there next week. Can’t say I’ll be sad to see ’em go,’ she said on a sigh. ‘Them two kids are holy terrors, and it’s the devil’s own job to keep ’em out of the bars and guest rooms.’
Stan had seen the two little boys about the town and they were certainly too lively for their poor, grieving mother to control. ‘Still, she’ll be close enough for you to be able to pop in and keep an eye,’ he said comfortably. ‘And with Andy across the road at the fire station, she’ll feel right at home.’
‘It’ll be easier for Betty when them kids start school,’ said Gloria. ‘But they need a firm ’and, and no mistake.’ She gave a deep sigh, and suddenly, for all the make-up and bright jewellery, she looked every one of her forty-eight years. ‘It’s a cruel world, Stan, when mothers lose their sons and kids have to grow up without their dad.’
Stan nodded and reached for her hand. ‘But you managed on your own, Gloria,’ he said consolingly. ‘And Betty will too, you’ll see.’
Gloria sniffed and shook back her hair in an effort to dispel the dark mood that had overcome her. ‘Yeah, well, when the going gets tough, the tough get going as they say, and Betty will ’ave me to help her along, never you mind.’
She folded her arms and shot him a brittle smile. ‘So, Stan, you don’t often pop in ’ere for a drink at lunchtime. What can I do you for today, then?’
His returning smile was wry. He might have known she’d realise he was here for more than just a pint and a chat. ‘I was wondering if you’ve got a special bottle of something under that counter,’ he said hopefully. ‘Only me and Ethel – well, we’re going to celebrate tonight.’
Gloria raised a fiercely plucked eyebrow. ‘Blimey, Stan. Don’t tell me you’re going to make an honest woman of her at last?’
He went red and puffed out his chest. ‘That’s the idea.’
She laughed uproariously. ‘There ain’t no accounting for taste, but good luck to the pair of yer. I’ll see what I’ve got.’ With that she slid a key out of the till, turned on her heel and went through to unlock the back room, which Stan knew was like an Aladdin’s cave filled with all sorts of things the authorities would frown upon if they ever got the chance to see them.
He was a bit put out by her
remark, not knowing if it applied to him or to Ethel, but knew better than to probe, for the answer would have been unsettling either way.
She returned to the deserted saloon bar just as the clock struck two, and triumphantly placed a bottle of champagne on the counter. ‘That do yer?’
It was a very posh bottle with gold foil over the cork and French writing on the label. ‘How much?’ he asked warily.
‘Seeing as it’s you, two quid. That’s proper stuff, that is – all the way from France.’
Stan blanched. Two pounds was a bit steep. ‘Where’d you get it?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. D’ya want it or not?’
Stan hesitated. ‘I can give you one pound ten for it,’ he said hopefully.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Two quid, Stan – and that’s a bargain. I can sell it for a fiver to anyone else.’
Stan eyed the bottle with its fancy label. He’d never tasted champagne and it would be a real treat for Ethel – and as it was for such a special occasion, he supposed he should just pay up and not try to haggle with someone like Gloria, who could tie him in knots with the bat of a false eyelash. ‘All right,’ he said on a sigh. ‘But can you wrap it up or something? I don’t want half of Cliffehaven seeing me carrying that back to the station.’
‘Bloody hell, Stan. What you think this is – bleedin’ Harrods?’ She clucked her tongue and went off again, her heels clattering on the bare floorboards. She returned with a large brown paper bag and fastened it round the neck of the bottle with a length of string. ‘There. Satisfied?’
Stan opened his wallet and took out two pound notes, which were swiftly whisked away and stuffed in her black lace brassiere.
‘Keep that under yer coat, Stan, and go out the back way. You know what the nosy parkers are like round ’ere.’
He nodded, finished his pint and pushed back from the bar. ‘Thanks, Gloria.’
‘Nice doing business with you, Stan,’ she replied with a cheeky grin as she returned from locking the front door and leaned on the bar, giving him an eyeful of burgeoning breasts. ‘See you again soon.’
Stan tore his gaze away. Clutching the bottle to his chest beneath his jacket, he turned towards the back door just as it opened.
Harvey came rushing in, closely followed by Ron.
The two men froze and regarded one another in a tense silence. They both knew they shouldn’t be in here – and that if their women found out they’d be for the high jump – and yet to question the other’s presence was not something close friends did in such circumstances.
Stan was the first to break the silence. ‘Hello, Ron. Nice day, isn’t it?’
Ron glowered from beneath his thick brows. ‘Aye, for some, maybe,’ he growled. ‘Haven’t you got a station to run?’
Stan frowned, for it was clear he’d caught Ron on the hop – and if ever a man looked shifty it was his old friend. ‘You know me, Ron,’ he blustered. ‘Always finding something to do between trains.’ He leaned closer so Gloria couldn’t hear. ‘We’ll keep this to ourselves, eh?’
Ron still looked uneasy. ‘Mind you do, ’cos your Ethel is about as discreet as the Cliffehaven Clarion.’
‘My Ethel won’t hear about it, Ron,’ he murmured, aware that Gloria was watching them keenly as she headed towards them. ‘You can be very sure about that.’
They nodded in tacit agreement and Stan slipped outside into the yard. He hurried down the narrow alleyway and then turned up the High Street towards the station, his thoughts in a whirl. If Rosie got even a hint that Ron was visiting Gloria after hours there would be hell to pay. It was definitely not something to tell Ethel, for she liked Rosie and would make sure her friend was made aware of Ron’s secret visit. But what on earth was Ron doing there in the first place?
Stan fretted over the situation as he put the bottle of champagne in a bucket of water to cool. He hated secrets, especially when they could cause trouble between the people he was fond of, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Ron was up to.
Rosie Braithwaite was thinking much the same thing as she locked the Anchor’s door behind her last customer. Ron always popped in to help her change the barrels after the lunchtime session, or at least he had until recently. This was the third time in the past week that he’d gone missing, and there had been other unexplained absences of an evening too – but when she’d questioned him about it last night, he’d given her the old excuses and shrugged off her concern with his usual blarney.
She swept back her platinum curls and stared out of the heavily taped window into the street, wondering if her intuition was proving wrong for once. She knew he had lots of commitments with the Home Guard as well as at home in Beach View, but they had never encroached on their private time before, so why the difference now?
She had wondered if he was getting frustrated by her keeping him at arm’s length, but he’d seemed to accept the situation and they’d rubbed along cosily enough these past few years. The thought that he might be playing around with someone else just didn’t sit right. For all his banter and dodgy ways, Ron had always been honest with her, and she couldn’t find it in her heart to believe that he was playing her false.
She gave a sigh and eased out of her high-heeled shoes. The old, uneven flagstones were lovely and cool beneath her aching feet, but her troubled heart was not soothed. She took one last look out of the window at the empty street and headed past the bar to the stairs which led up to her private rooms.
Monty, her brindled cross-breed pup, climbed off the couch and greeted her joyfully, so Rosie fondled his ears and made a fuss of him before going into her tiny kitchen to make a cup of tea. Ron’s lurcher, Harvey, had sired Monty during a tryst with a pedigree whippet. Needless to say, the owner of the whippet had not been best pleased and had dumped the pup on Ron and Peggy. It had all proved too much for Peggy, and as Rosie had instantly fallen in love with Monty, she’d taken him on. She was glad of his company, especially once the doors were locked and she was alone – glad too that having to walk him regularly meant she had a proper reason to get some fresh air and exercise away from the smoky, noisy atmosphere of the Anchor’s bar.
Monty was dancing on his toes with little whining encouragements to be fed, so she filled his bowl with the leftover scraps from last night’s supper and then made herself a Spam sandwich to go with the tea.
She took her meal into the sitting room and plumped down on the chintz-covered couch, all too aware of how quiet it was apart from the clang of Monty’s collar tag hitting the metal dog bowl. It was at times like this that she wondered why she held so fast to the vows she’d taken in church all those years ago, for the loneliness she suffered was no real life at all – and if she ever lost Ron, it would become unbearable.
As she finished her tea and Monty came bounding back into the sitting room to clamber up on the couch beside her, she once again felt a great wave of sorrow. She loved Ron so much, and he’d been so very patient, but he was after all a lusty man – and lusty men had needs.
‘Oh, Monty,’ she sighed as he rested his long nose on her lap and looked up at her with trusting amber eyes. ‘Why can’t I just ignore my Catholic upbringing and build a proper new life with the man I love?’
Monty whined as his tail thumped on the cushions.
‘Darling Monty,’ she murmured. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are not to have such things to worry about.’ She stroked his brindled coat and silently answered her own question. She couldn’t ignore the Catholic teachings that had been drummed into her since infancy and make a life with Ron, because she could never live with the guilt and the sense of betrayal she’d feel. It would cast a cloud over everything. And as long as her poor, sick husband James was incarcerated in that asylum she too was a prisoner – not only of her guilt, but of the laws of the land which forbade divorce in such circumstances.
‘It’s not an easy situation for either of us, and I couldn’t blame Ron for strayi
ng.’ She took a quavering breath. ‘But if I discover that he has, then I don’t know what I’ll do.’
Monty licked her hand in sympathy and then began to sniff at her untouched sandwich.
Rosie pushed him away and carried the sandwich back into the kitchen. She was no longer hungry, and poor Monty had been shut up here all morning. ‘Come on, little man, let’s go for a walk and see if we can’t blow these old cobwebs away.’
Railway Cottage had miraculously escaped the firebomb attack which had flattened almost everything around it back in 1940. It stood beside the railway line, surrounded on three sides by beds of vegetables, its old stone walls covered in tendrils of honeysuckle and roses. A sway-backed peg-tiled roof hung low over the four diamond-paned windows and single wooden door, and a brick path led to a gate in the picket fence that surrounded the plot.
There was a large butt to store rainwater from the iron guttering, a wooden outside lav and a dilapidated lean-to which housed logs for the fire and Stan’s bicycle. A few chickens scratched about in the sturdy pen that Ron had helped to build, and the stray cat that had adopted Stan at the start of the war now lay supine in front of the range.
The cottage had been Stan’s childhood home, and although it was a bit shabby now, and rather cramped for a man of his size, it was nonetheless cosy and full of memories. He’d returned home from the First World War and moved back in with his young bride when his father retired as stationmaster, and he and Barbara had been very happy here. The only thing to overshadow this happiness was their inability to have the large family they’d so longed for – but as it turned out, it was probably for the best, for Barbara had died during the devastating flu epidemic in the twenties, and it had been heart-breaking enough for him without having to deal with grieving, motherless children.