Shelter From the Storm

by Ellie Dean

  Warmed by this thought, he reached the end of the alley. ‘Stay low, Harvey,’ he murmured, stilling the dog. ‘There could be nosy parkers about.’ He glanced up at the many windows that overlooked the narrow alleyway, but could see very little evidence that anyone was watching him, so he shot a quick look out into the street. The last thing he needed was to bump into anyone he knew.

  The coast was clear, so he tucked his chin into the collar of his poacher’s coat and pulled the brim of his cap low on his brow.

  Harvey began to head for the Anchor, but Ron clicked his fingers and pointed in the other direction. Confused by this unusual behaviour, the dog cocked his head in puzzlement and then trotted along beside him as he strode up the hill.

  ‘We could both do with some fresh air,’ Ron muttered to him. ‘And I need time to think, so get on with you, ye heathen beast.’

  Despite his newly found energy and all the excitement his latest adventure had brought, Ron’s happy mood was tinged with guilt over Rosie. He hadn’t given her much time lately, and that was careless, for he was experienced enough in life and in the ways of women to realise that his unusual behaviour was making her suspicious.

  In the rare moments when they had managed to exchange a few words, his mind had been somewhere else and he’d used his many home guard duties as an excuse for neglecting her – after all, he was a busy man and that had always been the way of things. However, lying to Rosie didn’t sit easily with him, and he knew he had to get things back to their usual routine and Rosie mollified before her suspicions hardened and caused him real problems.

  ‘But not today,’ he muttered to himself. ‘There’s too many things on me mind today.’

  Harvey raced on ahead, nose to the ground, tail windmilling in delight as they reached the lower slopes of the hills and he scented rabbits and voles in the long grass.

  Ron tramped up the hill behind him, his thoughts whirling. He was playing a dangerous game in more ways than one, and it had been a nasty shock to bump into Stan the other week. It was that sort of surprise that could make everything swiftly unravel and cause untold complications. Yet Ron knew that his old friend could be trusted with a secret. After all, they’d both had them over the years, and the bond they’d forged in the trenches during the first shout was strong enough to withstand anything – even a suspicious Rosie.

  As he reached the top of the cliffs he saw that the early mist had cleared and now the sky was duck-egg blue, the sun sparkling on the sea as gulls hovered and mewled overhead, and the light wind whispered through the trees. He reached into the pocket of his poacher’s coat and pulled out his pipe, gazing at the town which spread out from the horseshoe bay.

  He’d once thought he knew everything he needed to know about the people who lived there, but he’d since learned that beneath those many roofs lay innumerable secrets – some of no real importance, but others – like his – that had far-reaching consequences should they be revealed.

  He filled his pipe and lit the tobacco, the smoke curling away on the breeze as he shook off the dark thoughts. Breathing in the salty air, he headed for the high wire-mesh fencing that surrounded the Cliffe estate. It was time to do a bit of poaching.

  6

  Following the distressing conversation with Rosie, Peggy monitored Ron’s movements more closely over the next two weeks. Not that she could do much about it when he left the house, of course, but his long absences were usually explained by the rabbits and pigeons he brought back. However, she kept an eye on how he dressed, and looked out for other signs: the smell of perfume about him when he returned home late, or smudges of make-up on his collars, or if he’d suddenly taken to talking about anyone in particular. But Ron was his usual untidy self despite the haircut and eyebrow trim, and when he wore his best shirts, it was to go and see Rosie.

  Peggy was delighted to report to Rosie that her suspicions had proved to be unfounded, and was very relieved when her friend decided to forgive him his minor lapse, for it seemed that Ron’s old routine was re-established and harmony between them restored.

  Peggy had accepted that Ron might have become frustrated and a bit put out by Rosie’s refusal to commit to him, but she also knew him well enough to realise that if he had been playing about with another woman, he’d have faced up to the fact that it was over between him and Rosie and found a kindly way of telling her.

  Even so, as she pushed the pram along Camden Road, her thoughts were still troubled by the disquieting suspicions that simply wouldn’t go away despite all the evidence to the contrary. If, during his lapse, he had been seeing another woman, then he’d been very clever about it, for she hadn’t heard a whisper of it in the town – and the local gossips could usually be relied upon to have seen or heard something they couldn’t wait to pass on.

  There again, Ron had been part of an elite force during the First World War, and was an expert in covert operations. He was a wily old so-and-so, and no one knew what he got up to on those nights when he didn’t come home – or during those long daylight hours in which he said he was out on the hills – and there was something intangible about his demeanour recently that really niggled her. She couldn’t identify what it was, but the difference was there, and it was unsettling.

  She had thought about asking Stan if he knew anything, but had rapidly dismissed that idea. Ron and Stan were as thick as thieves and she knew from past experience that she’d get absolutely nothing from him – or from Fred the Fish or Alf the butcher – they were old comrades who’d survived the Somme, and their loyalty to Ron could not be shaken, however dire the threats.

  Peggy gave a deep sigh of frustration as she turned into the High Street. She hated feeling this way about the man she’d always admired and loved – hated what it would do to her friend Rosie should her suspicions prove true after all. Her womanly instincts told her to heed those worrisome doubts, for Ron was clearly up to something. All she could do really was pray it had all been a storm in a teacup, that Ron hadn’t been unfaithful, and if he had, that it was a moment of madness that he’d bitterly regretted and swiftly brought to an end.

  She steered the pram round the long queue that was waiting outside the Home and Colonial general store. She had no need to join it today, because her brother-in-law, Ted Williams, who managed the shop, had already brought over two tins of fruit salad the night before, and they’d all enjoyed this treat with a fair dollop of tinned evaporated milk on top.

  Acknowledging the greetings from the women in the queue, she hurried on. She was already late for her shift with the WVS at the town hall, and she’d get it in the neck from Doris, who was one of the local leading lights of this worthy institution and made it her business to let everyone know how very important she was.

  At the thought of her older sister reading her the riot act and bossing her about for the rest of the day, Peggy hurried past the town hall and parked the pram outside the tobacconist’s shop. She was out of cigarettes and she would need one with her cup of tea if she was to survive the afternoon.

  A packet of Park Drive was tuppence ha’penny in this particular shop, whereas they were a ha’penny cheaper in Camden Road, but the extra cost was her own fault. She should have been concentrating when she walked past the shop and not worrying over Ron and Rosie.

  It was as she came out of the tobacconist’s and was putting the packet in her handbag that she saw Ron’s retreating figure up ahead. He had Harvey with him as always, and was striding up the hill like a man on a mission. Intrigued, Peggy watched his progress, for it was just after two and he usually went to the Anchor to help Rosie with the barrels and crates – so what was he doing going in the opposite direction?

  She lost sight of him as a group of soldiers and airmen poured out of the Crown and swarmed towards her, clearly having enjoyed a very liquid lunch. By the time they’d passed her, Ron and Harvey were nowhere in sight – which was odd, because she hadn’t thought he’d been walking fast enough to make it over the humpbacked bridge in suc
h a short time.

  With all her senses on alert, she nudged the brake off and pushed the pram a little way up the High Street, wondering if he’d gone into a shop, or disappeared down one of the alleyways that threaded through the built-up streets of terraced houses which lay to the east of the main road and eventually would take him to Camden Road and the Anchor. But there was no sign of him still.

  Having reached the Crown, she glanced through the heavily taped windows into the deserted, gloomy bar without really expecting to see him. Ron knew how Rosie felt about Gloria Stevens, and he wouldn’t dare step one foot over her threshold – it was more than his life was worth.

  With a sigh of frustration, she realised she was on a fool’s errand, which had now made her very late for her WVS shift. She turned the pram and headed back towards the town hall, unaware that her every step was being watched by Ron from behind the curtains of Gloria’s bedroom window.

  It was late afternoon and Stan was tending his allotment, trying very hard to ignore the heartburn that had been plaguing him all day. He probably shouldn’t have had that fried egg, potato and Spam for his lunch, but it had looked so appetising and he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Ethel after she’d made such an effort to cook it for him.

  He leaned on his hoe and regarded the neat rows of vegetables before silently admiring the roses he’d trained up the mellow brick wall. He had the best, most sheltered spot on the allotment, and his roses had won prizes at last year’s annual fete. There were three months to go before this year’s, and he was hoping to win again, but it was an ongoing battle to keep everything clear of greenfly, slugs, leaf rust and black spot.

  Stan thudded his chest with his fist and gave a deep, satisfying belch which seemed to ease the acid burn in his throat. Feeling more cheerful, he winked at the bright-eyed robin which was watching his every move from the top of an overturned flower pot, and continued to hoe the weeds.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here. Any chance of a cuppa and one of Ethel’s buns?’

  The robin fluttered off and Stan grinned as he straightened his back and eyed his old friend. ‘I dare say I could manage that, Ron.’ He patted Harvey and plodded towards his shed which was comfortably kitted out with everything a man might need for a bit of time away from work, women and war. He dragged out the two deckchairs, lit the primus stove and placed the tin kettle on top before hunting out biscuits for Harvey and a rock cake for Ron.

  Ron eyed him from beneath his brows. ‘Not joining me in a bun?’

  Stan shook his head and rapped his fist against his chest. ‘Got a bit of indigestion, so I’m not that hungry.’

  Ron’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Never known you to turn down food, Stan,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You must be lovesick.’ He sank into one of the deckchairs and made short work of the rock bun while Harvey sat and gnawed on a hard dog biscuit.

  Stan didn’t reply, for although he was over the moon that Ethel and he were engaged, he was getting a bit concerned that he couldn’t get rid of this indigestion. Ethel had suggested he go to see the doctor, but Stan thought it would be wasting the man’s time – after all, flatulence never killed anyone and the poor doctor was run ragged as it was with so many patients to deal with.

  He made the tea in the old brown pot, hunted out two fairly clean tin mugs and plumped down next to Ron, the deckchair creaking under his weight. This was the first time he’d actually been alone with Ron since the day they’d bumped into one another at the Crown, and Stan could feel the unusual tension between them – it was almost as uncomfortable as the heartburn.

  Ron seemed to feel it too, for he fidgeted in his chair and kept fiddling with his freshly lit pipe. ‘Thanks for not saying anything about the other week,’ he said eventually.

  Stan regarded him as the many questions which had plagued him since churned in his mind. ‘You can always rely on me, Ron. You know that.’

  ‘How did you explain that bottle of champagne to Ethel?’ Ron’s blue eyes were twinkling.

  Stan felt the deep blush suffuse his cheeks and he looked away. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I told her you’d got it for me,’ he admitted.

  ‘Aye, to be sure she’d understand that, me old friend.’

  They sat in silence as the robin dared to return to pluck a worm from the softened earth and Harvey went to investigate the possibility of more biscuits and titbits from the other gardeners. Stan wanted to ask Ron why he’d been at the Crown in the first place; if he was having a fling with Gloria – and what on earth possessed him to do such a thing when he already had the lovely Rosie. And yet, as one of Ron’s oldest and closest friends, he was disinclined to pry unless Ron decided to enlighten him.

  ‘Ach, Stan,’ Ron sighed. ‘To be sure ’tis a lovely day, so it is, and far too pleasant to be worrying about things that really don’t concern you. Just keep the faith, me auld friend. Just keep the faith.’

  Stan gave a wry smile. Ron could always read his thoughts, but he did wish he wouldn’t talk in riddles. ‘If by that you mean keep my mouth shut, then you’ve got it,’ he replied. ‘But if Rosie gets even a hint of what you’re up to – and I can only guess what that is – then you’re on your own. Ethel’s enough of a handful, and I don’t think I could withstand an onslaught from Rosie as well.’

  Ron examined the burnt contents of his pipe and tapped them out onto the ground. ‘Aye, I can understand that,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m thinking it’s wee Peggy who must be minded. She’s far too sharp for her own good.’

  Stan was startled. ‘Why? Has she said something?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Ron replied, hauling himself out of the deckchair, ‘but I can tell she’s suspicious, because she’s been watching me like a hawk.’

  ‘Then why not end it?’ spluttered Stan. ‘It’s sheer madness to be carrying on with Gloria like that. You’re bound to get caught, and then there will be hell to pay.’

  Ron eased his cap low over his brow and grinned. ‘Ach, to be sure, Stan, ’tis a bit of excitement, so it is, and I’ll not be ending anything until I’m good and ready.’

  Stan sat and watched as Ron strolled away to round up his dog and head for . . . where? Beach View? The Crown, or Rosie and the Anchor? He shook his head in bemusement and felt a burst of admiration for his old pal. Ron was playing with fire, but if he could handle Gloria and Rosie at his age, then fair play to him. For himself, it was as much as he could do to keep up with Ethel.

  7

  April and Paula were deep in the sweltering confines of a motor gun boat’s hull, struggling to unscrew a bolt that seemed determined not to budge. They’d oiled it, hit it, used every ounce of strength they possessed to try and turn it, but it was stuck fast, and it was with a sense of frustration that they had to accept it had defeated them.

  ‘Now what?’ April brushed her filthy hand over her forehead to clear the sweat, knowing she was probably leaving a great smear of grease behind, but not caring.

  ‘I don’t know,’ sighed Paula, slumping against the hull. ‘But if we don’t get that loose, we can’t finish the service – and those plugs definitely need changing.’

  April could feel the sweat beading her top lip and she smeared it away. ‘We’ll give it one more go and if that fails, I suppose we’ll have to get a man to do it,’ she said wearily.

  ‘If we do that we’ll never hear the end of it,’ muttered Paula, attacking the bolt with sturdy pliers.

  ‘I know they’re only teasing,’ said April, ‘but it does do their ego a lot of good when they have to help us poor, feeble women out.’ She placed her hands over Paula’s and they both tugged as hard as they could.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ muttered Paula, giving it a hefty whack with the pliers. ‘Move, damn it. Bloody well move, will you?’ she snarled.

  ‘What seems to be the problem down here, sailors?’

  Paula and April exchanged frustrated glances as the boatswain blocked out the light and came down into the hull to glare at them. He was a big man, as wide as he was t
all, with a fierce black beard and bushy eyebrows. All the girls were wary of him, for he was inclined to roar his displeasure and loom over them.

  ‘We can’t get this bolt to shift, sir,’ said April reluctantly.

  The man rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘That’s the problem with getting women to do a man’s work,’ he grumbled. ‘Not enough muscle.’

  He snatched the wrench from Paula and with two short twists had the bolt out. He dropped it into her hand and smirked. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t so hard, was it?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ they replied in unison, although it was shaming how easily he’d managed it after they’d spent at least half an hour trying to shift the blasted thing.

  ‘Get on with your work then,’ he barked. ‘We need this boat tonight – not in a week’s time.’

  April glanced at Paula and they quickly returned to the task in hand, both aware of him leaning against the bulkhead and watching their every move. It was a tight enough squeeze in here without his great body taking up so much room, and both of them knew that his critical eyes would miss nothing.

  They did their best to ignore him and finished cleaning and changing the plugs, checked the wiring, the fuel lines and the level of oil, then bolted everything back in place. The sweat was running freely down their faces and soaking their hair and their overalls, but with him standing there smirking, it was a matter of pride to ignore the discomfort and get on with their job.

  ‘All finished and ready for inspection, sir,’ said April, wiping her filthy hands on an equally filthy rag.

  He nodded and without a word went up the ladder to the wheelhouse.

  April and Paula grabbed their gas-mask boxes, tool-bags and caps and swiftly followed him, eager to get away from the heat and the stink of oil and high-octane petrol fumes. The air on deck was clean and fresh and they both took great gulps of it as the bosun turned on the engine and listened to its steady burble.