Shelter From the Storm

by Ellie Dean

  April felt numbed by the sheer weight of loss. ‘Are you saying they had to amputate both her legs?’ she asked through her tears.

  The nurse nodded. ‘I’m so sorry I had to tell you such awful news after all you’ve just been through.’ Her gaze flitted to April’s midriff. ‘And what you’re about to go through. Life can be very hard sometimes, can’t it?’

  April let the tears flow freely as she nodded and thanked her, and once she’d left, pulling the curtains tightly together, she collapsed onto the pillows and sobbed her heart out. Paula had been her best friend, her staunchest ally and confidante – and now she was gone. She’d never hear her laughter again, never have her to share the joys of a soppy picture or the fun of a dance, or be able to share secrets and dreams and giggle over silly things.

  As her tears slowly dried and it became clear that she was taking up a much needed bed, she began to get dressed. She wondered how her friend would have coped with having both legs amputated. The prosthetics were marvellous now and she’d seen many a man managing quite well with them. But it was different for a girl, especially a lively young one like Paula who loved dancing and sport, and hoped one day to get married and have lots of children. Would she have managed to overcome all the setbacks, and to see a bright future again?

  ‘Yes, she would,’ she whispered fervently. ‘Paula would have snubbed her nose at all of it and soldiered on regardless, for she liked a challenge and wouldn’t have let it defeat her.’ She finished dressing, then collected the corset and tattered remains of her overall, and pulled back the curtains. She had her own challenges to face now, and she would meet them with the same determination and courage that Paula would expect of her.

  10

  Peggy had dreamt that Jim was having a bath in the jungle, with roaring lions and tigers and chattering monkeys surrounding him while the flames of a raging bushfire slowly encroached on the camp and girls in bright saris danced for him. It had been a disturbing, muddled dream, for he’d got out of the bath fully dressed in a dinner suit and black tie, and had begun to waltz a pretty nurse across a ballroom floor. She’d called out to him, but he hadn’t heard her, and she’d woken to discover she was crying.

  She was cross with herself for being so daft, and as Daisy was awake, decided to bath and feed her before the morning rush of breakfast and getting all the girls to work on time. There was no sign of Ron, and she suspected he’d left early to take Harvey and Monty for their morning run over the hills before breakfasting with Rosie. Peggy admired his stamina, for he’d come home very late last night and could only have had a couple of hours’ sleep.

  Once breakfast was over, the girls did the washing-up and tidied everything away, and Ivy hung out her bits of washing on the line before she scampered off to her job at the aeroplane factory. Peggy knew she was blessed with her girls, for they helped around the house without being asked, and often kept Daisy amused so she could get on with the mending or relax over a cup of tea.

  As Cordelia read the morning newspaper, Peggy looked out of the kitchen window and watched Queenie, who was sitting by the back wall transfixed by something in the grass. The only moving part of her was the occasional twitch at the end of her tail, and Peggy was fascinated by the length of time the kitten could keep so still and focused. She watched for a while, hoping Queenie hadn’t found a vole or fledgling that had fallen from its nest – the mouse had been bad enough, but trying to trap a vole in the house would be almost impossible.

  She gave up on Queenie when it was clear the kitten was biding her time, and sat down at the kitchen table to have a second cup of tea and a cigarette. Daisy was pushing her doll’s pram around the room, and it was making a horrid squeaking sound which would drive everyone mad if those wheels weren’t oiled. Peggy made a mental note to ask Ron to see to it.

  Cordelia was looking much brighter this morning after her disappointment of the previous night, and Peggy wondered if she really would refuse any further invitations from Bertie. Peggy rather hoped she would, for Bertie had proved to be an utter cad, and no amount of posh dinners and drives out into the country could change that.

  Peggy heard the slam of the back gate, swiftly followed by a scamper of paws up the concrete steps from the basement. Harvey charged into the room and delightedly nuzzled Daisy before trying to climb onto Peggy’s lap to lick her face.

  ‘Urrgh. Get down, for goodness’ sake,’ Peggy spluttered, shoving him away. ‘You’re filthy and you stink to high heaven.’

  Ron came clumping up the steps and just managed to grab Harvey’s collar before he gave Cordelia the same boisterous welcome. ‘Get down, ye heathen beast,’ he rumbled. ‘Outside with you, you smelly eejit.’

  Harvey hung his head and, with a look of utter despair and shame, slunk back down the steps with his tail between his legs.

  ‘He’s had a good roll in dead badger,’ said Ron. ‘I’ll hose him down after I’ve had a cup of tea.’

  Peggy wrinkled her nose. ‘You could do with a hose down yourself.’

  Ron sniffed his coat and then grimaced. ‘Aye. I had a bit of a tussle with the old fella to get him away from the mess. I must have got some on me too.’

  ‘You certainly did,’ said Peggy, eyeing the smears on his poaching coat.

  ‘Well, I’ll have that cup of tea first, and perhaps a wee slice of toast.’

  ‘Didn’t you eat at Rosie’s?’ asked Peggy.

  ‘She sent me off with a flea in my ear, so she did,’ he said ruefully. ‘Made me promise not to go back until me and Harvey were smelling sweeter – cheeky wee girl.’ He bent down to pick up Daisy and give her a cuddle, but she didn’t appreciate being in such close proximity to that filthy coat and wriggled furiously until he put her down again.

  Peggy poured him a cup of tea, added a half-spoon of sugar and placed the sugar bowl out of his reach. Ron was inclined to over-sweeten his tea, and sugar was now a precious commodity.

  He scowled at Peggy and stirred his tea with some vigour. ‘Ach, to be sure, Peggy girl, ’tis a poor state of affairs when a man can’t have three sugars in his tea.’

  ‘It’ll be even poorer when there’s none left for the rest of the month,’ she retorted, placing slices of bread on the hot plate. ‘And you haven’t exactly earned extra sugar this morning.’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said triumphantly. He reached into one of the many inside pockets of his poaching coat, drew out a brace of pheasant and held them aloft.

  ‘Shooting season finished three months ago,’ said Peggy. ‘Where and how did you get them?’

  ‘I’m thinking they evaded the guns and that gamekeeper and escaped for the good fresh air and freedom of the hills.’ His blue eyes twinkled as he laid the pheasants on the wooden draining board.

  ‘You’ll get arrested,’ she said, trying to be stern.

  ‘They were on common ground,’ he said with all the dignity he could muster. ‘I’ll not be arrested by anyone.’ He grinned and stroked the pretty feathers. ‘Ach, to be sure, Peggy, the birds walked right into me hands, so they did. It would have been foolish not to wring their necks and bring them home for the pot.’

  Peggy giggled and placed his toast in front of him. ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, you old scallywag,’ she teased. ‘But you’d better not leave them lying about for Queenie to get her teeth into.’

  ‘I’ll be hanging them in the shed for a wee while until they’re ready for cooking, so don’t fret yourself.’

  He liberally spread margarine and home-made jam on his toast and looked across at Cordelia, who was making a show of not being impressed at Ron’s prowess as a poacher by pretending to be immersed in her morning paper. ‘I’ll be betting they didn’t have something as grand as pheasant at the Conservative Club last night, did they?’

  Cordelia looked back at him from over her half-moon reading glasses. ‘Certainly not. We had cod roe on toast followed by liver, bacon and onions. There was jam roly-poly too, although I never g
ot to eat any of it,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Bertie was in a hurry to get to some special meeting of the Cliffehaven Gentlemen’s Society,’ said Peggy quickly and went on to tell him about Cordelia’s upsetting evening. ‘Have you heard of that society, Ron? It’s a new one on me.’

  Ron chewed on his toast before he replied. ‘I can’t say I’m familiar with it,’ he said. ‘To be sure, Cordelia, I’m thinking you should give Bertie his marching orders. That’s no way to treat a woman of your advanced years.’

  ‘It’s not the way to treat a woman of any age,’ said Peggy. ‘He’s an utter disgrace, and he won’t be welcome here again, I can assure you.’

  ‘And I’ll have you know,’ said Cordelia waspishly, ‘that I do not appreciate being called old – especially by someone like you, Ronan Reilly.’

  ‘Aye, well, to be fair, Cordelia, you’re no spring chicken, and it’s probably time you stopped gadding about with the likes of Grantley-Adams.’

  ‘I shall gad about as much as I want,’ she retorted rather grandly. ‘And with whomsoever I might choose to escort me. I’m sure Bertie will come round to apologise, and if he does, then I’m prepared to forgive him. As long as he doesn’t expect me to encounter those ghastly people again. We were quite happy in each other’s company before he got embroiled with that set.’

  Ron finished the toast and sipped his tea, his gaze thoughtful as he regarded Cordelia over the rim of the cup. ‘What was it about them that you didn’t like, Cordelia?’

  She shrugged. ‘They were all far too pleased with themselves, and the women were rather fast, with their jewellery and questionable behaviour. Not my sort of people at all,’ she added with a sniff of disdain.

  Ron drank the last of his tea, poked his pipe in his mouth and shoved back his chair. ‘If you want my advice, Cordelia, you’ll give the lot of them a wide berth.’

  ‘For once, Ron, I’m inclined to agree with you,’ she said, and returned to her perusal of the morning paper.

  Peggy was grateful to Ron, for although Cordelia rarely agreed with him on anything much, she did value his opinion in certain circumstances – and this seemed to be one of them. She could only hope that Bertie Grantley-Adams didn’t show his face here any time soon, for if he did she would certainly give him a piece of her mind and show him the door. Yet she was sad for Cordelia. She had so little social life and few opportunities to have fun. It was a terrible shame that Bertie had turned out to be a complete rotter.

  11

  It was almost midday by the time April’s arm had been plastered, and as she stood in the bustling entrance of the navy hospital, she wondered what she should do and where she should go. There was no sign of Petty Officer Rainsworth or any of the girls who’d been trapped in the basement with her and Paula, and with her arm in a plaster cast and the threat of dismissal hanging over her, there was little point in reporting for duty.

  She looked out at the glistening streets, still wet from the earlier rain, and the scudding clouds which promised more to come. The weather matched her mood, for she was downhearted and grieving for Paula, and feeling very lost and alone, the weight of her troubles pressing on her narrow shoulders.

  She dumped the tattered clothing in a nearby waste bin and slowly began to walk through the city streets, heading back to HMS Firefly because she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go – and there just might be a chance she could retrieve some of her belongings from the wreckage. The navy-issue sweater and shirt were not much protection against the chilly wind, but at least she still had her sturdy boots to keep her feet dry.

  Her thoughts meandered as she walked, drifting to memories of Paula and the close friendship they’d had – and on to Daniel who had betrayed her so utterly – and finally to the dreaded interview with her superior officer which would surely come within the next few hours.

  She turned the last corner and stared in shock at the sight that greeted her. HMS Firefly was nothing more than a pile of smoking rubble, the line of terraced housing on either side blasted into extinction. There was a gaping hole in the road and both the pub and the two warehouses on the other side were nothing more than blackened shells.

  April could smell the smoke still lingering in the air, could feel the particles of ash and soot falling softly onto her face as the firemen doused the last of the flames and the utility workers checked that the gas and electrics had been made safe. A group of soldiers were hunkered down around something beyond the ruins of the pub, and as she drew closer, she could see that at the bottom of the bomb crater lay a pool of oily, scummy water.

  She stared at the great piles of rubble which had once been her billet, and it suddenly dawned on her that she’d lost everything, for even the clothes she wore belonged to the navy. The tears threatened again and she began to tremble. She’d never owned anything much in terms of value, but she had treasured the photograph of her father, the gold locket and chain he’d given her just before he’d died, and her one good overcoat. Now they were gone, destroyed for ever in the burnt-out remains of HMS Firefly. The tears ran down her face as she stood there, unaware that it had started to rain again.

  ‘Stay back,’ shouted a warden as he came running towards her. ‘There’s an unexploded bomb.’

  She blinked and stared at him in dumb confusion.

  ‘Didn’t you see the signs?’ he asked, taking her arm and roughly propelling her to the end of the road. She shook her head and his expression softened. ‘It’s all right, ducks,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve had a bit of a nasty do – caught up in that lot, were you?’ At her nod he continued, ‘Why don’t you go to the central office building? They’ll help you there, and probably get you a nice cuppa at the same time.’ He regarded her sympathetically. ‘It looks as if you need it, ducks, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  April thanked him dully and began to tramp back the way she’d come. She had no choice but to do as he suggested, for she had no billet, no possessions, no money, identity papers or ration books – and soon she wouldn’t even have a career.

  The navy’s central administration offices were housed in a forbidding red-brick building that had once been a workhouse and home for destitute sailors and their families. It was even grimmer inside, with battleship-grey paint on the walls and woodwork, cold flagstones on the floors, and windows so narrow they let in very little light.

  April reluctantly climbed the steps and pushed open the heavy wooden door which creaked ominously. Her footsteps echoed as she walked along the dimly lit passageway towards the sound of rapid-fire typing and the chatter of voices.

  ‘There you are,’ said Petty Officer Rainsworth, stepping out from the door ahead and startling her. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

  ‘I had to get my arm seen to and there was a long wait,’ she said, stumbling over the words.

  The older woman’s expression was kindly as she regarded her. ‘You look like a drowned rat, Wilton. A cup of tea, I think, and a bit of a wash and brush-up before I take you in to see Chief Wren.’

  April didn’t have the strength or the will to argue, so she meekly followed the other woman down several corridors until they came to the washrooms.

  ‘You’ll find soap and towels in there, and I’ll get one of the girls to bring you that tea. I’ll come and collect you in half an hour. That should give you time to catch your breath.’

  ‘Paula died on the operating table,’ April blurted out. ‘Has her father been informed?’

  The petty officer nodded. ‘The next of kin of all the deceased have been informed where possible.’ She looked suddenly less efficient and rather downcast. ‘We lost eight Wrens last night,’ she said softly. ‘You were one of the lucky ones.’

  ‘That depends on how you look at things,’ April replied, feeling the prick of tears again – and not wanting to shame herself any further, she pushed through the door into the washrooms.

  It was bitterly cold in here, with nothing to soften the grey walls, stone floor and line
of metal basins. She caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror above the basins and almost smiled, for her hair was plastered wetly to her head, she had a corker of a black eye on her bruised and battered face, and looked as bedraggled and wretched as a street urchin.

  There were piles of clean towels and even a few decent-sized bars of utility soap, so April took one of each and stepped into a shower stall. Having stripped off, she turned on the water, which was hot and plentiful. Wary of getting her plaster wet, she awkwardly washed with one hand and used the soap to scrub the dirt from her hair.

  The needle-sharp jets of water warmed and restored her, and after struggling to get dry and dressed again, she stepped out of the stall to discover that a mug of tea had been left for her on a bench alongside a plate of sandwiches.

  April hadn’t realised how hungry she was, and she sank onto the bench and wolfed down the sandwiches before sipping the scalding and very sweet tea – the one perk of being in the navy was the abundance of lovely brown sugar, supplied by an English company in Africa. Feeling much more able to face the chief Wren, she rubbed her hair dry and tried to tidy it with her fingers. The navy didn’t provide brushes or combs, clearly expecting their personnel to possess their own.

  She had just finished the mug of tea when the door opened and Petty Officer Rainsworth appeared. ‘At least you look a bit more presentable,’ she said. ‘Come on, the chief Wren is waiting for you.’

  April’s heart was thudding as she followed the other woman down another long corridor. She could scarcely breathe as they came to a halt outside a door, and after a discreet tap, Petty Officer Rainsworth indicated she should go in.

  Quaking with trepidation, April marched smartly into the room, saluted and gave her name, rank and number. She stood stiffly to attention and tried not to meet the woman’s eye.