Shelter From the Storm

by Ellie Dean

The chief Wren sat behind a polished desk on which lay a leather-edged blotter, a buff-coloured service record folder, a fancy silver inkwell and pen and a tortoiseshell-framed photograph of her husband – a rather stern rear admiral. She was an imposing woman in her late forties, with a no-nonsense expression and unfriendly blue eyes. Her uniform was immaculate and her hair had been pulled back from her hawkish face into a very tight bun. This was clearly not the sort of woman who would show clemency.

  ‘Wren Wilton, you have been found guilty of breaking one of our most stringent rules. Therefore I have no option but to dismiss you from the service with immediate effect.’

  ‘Please, ma’am,’ she blurted out. ‘I can still work for a while yet.’

  The blue eyes became arctic as they bored into April. ‘I did not give you permission to speak, Wilton.’

  April flushed hotly and fixed her gaze on a distant point over the woman’s shoulder.

  ‘You will take this chit to stores and they will provide you with civilian clothing, as circumstances have led to HMS Firefly being out of commission. You will then take this chit to the accounts department and collect wages owing to you, new identity papers and ration books. The navy is very charitable, regardless of any unseemly behaviour by its personnel, and therefore will grant you a train ticket home and an extra month’s pay to help you settle.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief Wren. That’s most generous.’

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Wilton. You had the makings of a first-class Wren, and I thought you had more sense than to get yourself into this unseemly mess. Dismissed.’

  April took the chits, saluted again and left the room. She was still churning inside as she walked unsteadily down the deserted corridor towards the entrance hall, and she kept her gaze focused ahead of her determinedly, aware of the girls in the typing pool whispering behind her back and the glances of disapproval coming from the officers who watched her pass from their offices.

  Closing the front door behind her, she stood for a moment to catch her breath and take gulps of fresh air in an attempt to steady herself. Her body was aching, the migraine was returning and her left eye was so swollen she could barely see through it. The only glimmer of light on this awful day was the fact that it had stopped raining, and the sun was trying to come out from behind the dark clouds.

  She hurried towards the large naval stores, her teeth chattering with nerves at the thought of having to face her mother before the day was out. The last place she wanted to go was home, and she could only hope and pray that someone in accounts would take pity on her and give her a ticket to somewhere else. But where? There was no other family to turn to except for an uncle she’d only met once when she was a very small child, and she didn’t even know if he was still alive.

  She arrived at the store and handed over the chit in silence. The girl glanced at it, shot her a look of sympathy and then went off for several minutes before returning with an armful of clothes that had definitely seen better days.

  ‘They’ve all been laundered after they were donated to the seaman’s mission,’ she said, ‘but the underwear is new. You can change over there,’ she added, indicating a curtained-off cubicle.

  April dumped the clothes on the narrow bench and struggled one-handedly to strip off the overalls, the bell-bottom trousers, shirt and sweater for the very last time. Refusing to allow herself the luxury of self-pity, she unlaced the boots and tucked the socks inside them along with the service-issue bra and knickers.

  The second-hand clothes had been of good quality once upon a time, and to her relief, she discovered that the underwear was indeed new, and by some miracle the bra actually fitted her. She pulled on the woollen skirt, the cotton blouse and knitted cardigan, fumbling awkwardly with the buttons, and then slipped on the plain black shoes. There were no stockings or socks and the shoes were a bit tight, so she suspected she’d end up with a blister before the day was out – which in the scheme of things hardly mattered.

  The mackintosh was gabardine and apart from an amateurishly repaired tear in the lining, it didn’t look bad at all. She struggled into it and covered her injured arm, leaving one sleeve dangling. She picked up the gloves and woollen scarf and then carried her navy-issue clothes through the curtain and laid them regretfully on the counter.

  ‘I thought you could do with this,’ said the girl, handing over a black umbrella. ‘Someone left it behind, and there are at least a dozen others out the back.’

  April was barely clinging on to her emotions in the light of such thoughtfulness. ‘That’s very kind, thank you,’ she managed.

  ‘It’s rotten luck, Wilton. I hope things turn out all right for you.’

  April nodded her thanks and headed for the door. She stepped outside, and after a moment of hesitation made her way to the accounts office.

  It hadn’t taken very long to sign the forms which would bring her naval career to an end, and to collect her ticket, new ration books and identity papers, and within the hour she was standing on the station platform waiting for the train that would take her to the cold comfort of a loveless home.

  She breathed in the scent of the sea as she gazed out to the fleet of battleships that were anchored on the horizon, and the flotillas of MGBs and MTBs which were moored in the harbour. Other girls would be servicing them now and enjoying those heady rides across the choppy waters of the Solent – would they even notice that she and Paula were no longer amongst them?

  Seagulls mewled and shrieked as they hovered and swooped against the leaden sky, and April could hear planes taking off from nearby and the rattle and clang of rigging against masts accompanying the shouts of sailors and the distant rumble of ships’ heavy engines as they prepared to set sail.

  She turned from the scene she’d come to love at the sound of the approaching train. Her navy days were over. It was now time to say goodbye to Portsmouth, and to the work she’d found so rewarding and fulfilling, and begin again.

  April blinked back the tears and swallowed hard as she climbed aboard the train. She would have to dig deep to find the courage to face her mother and deal with whatever happened next. And although the prospect was daunting and would take every ounce of will to achieve, she was determined not to fail.

  12

  The train eventually arrived in Royal Tunbridge Wells, having been delayed several times by damage to the tracks caused by the previous night’s enemy raid. April’s headache hadn’t improved despite the two aspirin a kindly lady had given her during the journey, and the bruising on her hip ached in competition with the throbbing pain in her left eye. She knew she looked a fright, and at first had shied away from the curious looks of the other passengers. Now she was so tired and dispirited, she didn’t really care what they thought.

  She stepped down from the train and followed the long line of people to the gate where she handed over her ticket to the stationmaster. The entrance to the station was guarded by great stacks of sandbags, and the moment she stepped onto the pavement she was forcefully reminded that her home town had had its own share of bombing raids.

  There were bomb craters where there had once been elegant houses and smart shops, and several roofs had been covered in tarpaulins to keep out the weather. Boarded-up windows and doors and ruined possessions lay abandoned in overgrown front gardens, and there was a sense of gloom as darkness fell and the rain blew down the hill on the wind.

  April opened the umbrella, pulled up the collar of her mackintosh and crossed the road. She was heading for the narrow cobbled lanes that would take her to Rosemary Cottage. Tucked away in a tiny back lane, with whitewashed wattle and daub walls and a peg-tiled roof, it was a charming example of the period cottages which had once been a delightful attraction for the tourists who’d come to the historic town to take the waters from the famous spring.

  There had been little damage to these alleyways and lanes and she slowed as the cottage came into view. Pausing, she regarded the small, heavily taped windows, the sturdy wooden front door a
nd the steep steps leading up to it from the cobbles. Rosemary Cottage had been her home all her life and it looked as neat and fresh as ever despite the war. Mildred Wilton was clearly determined to keep up her high standards even in these trying times.

  April stood in the shelter of the umbrella as the rain pattered down, the memories of her childhood flooding back. There had been rare occasions of fun and laughter in that house when her father was alive, and April had had a glimmer of how good life could have been if only her mother had been less absorbed in herself. April had found an escape at school where she’d made friends and slowly learned that other families talked to one another, that other mothers were interested in their children and always ready to kiss and cuddle them. She’d envied her friends, and had basked in the reflected glow of their good fortune before returning to the brittle atmosphere of Rosemary Cottage for the holidays.

  April’s sigh was one of longing. It was at moments like this that she yearned to see her father again, to have him by her side as she faced her mother with this terrible thing she’d done. But would her father have understood? Would he have forgiven her and stood by her? She didn’t know, for he’d been an old-fashioned man who rarely had very much to say for himself, let alone get emotional about things. Even so, it was a comfort to think that he might have done.

  April heard the clock on the nearby church chime seven. The hat shop in the Pantiles would be closed now and her mother should be at home – there again, she could be at one of her Women’s Institute or WVS meetings. Mildred was very community-minded when it suited her – and being an intrinsic part of such organisations gave her a certain kudos as well as the chance to rub shoulders with what she considered to be the right sort of people.

  She wondered briefly if perhaps she should have telephoned to warn her she was coming, but then dismissed the idea. The reason for her being here was not something to be discussed on a telephone, and even if she’d said she was coming for a visit there was always the chance that Mildred would find some reason why it would be inconvenient.

  Without allowing herself to dither any further, April climbed the steep stone steps and, although she had a door key, rapped the horseshoe-shaped knocker. Her pulse was racing and her mouth was dry as she heard the familiar tap, tap, tap of her mother’s high-heeled shoes on the polished hall floor, and she took a trembling breath for courage.

  The door opened and Mildred’s welcoming smile faded into a stare of astonishment. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come home to recuperate,’ she replied, taking in the freshly set hair, the immaculate make-up and the beautifully cut black skirt and jacket and cream silk blouse.

  Mildred fingered the twin rows of pearls at her neck as her gaze trawled from April’s battered face to her plastered arm. ‘Yes, I can see you’ve been in a spot of bother,’ she said distractedly. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

  April left the wet umbrella outside before she closed the front door behind her and followed her mother into the drawing room which overlooked the lane. The chintz covers on the chairs matched the curtains and there were fresh flowers in a cut-glass bowl on a side table where glasses and bottles had been laid out on a silver tray. The cushions were plumped and perched on their corners like soldiers along the couch and there was a welcoming fire in the hearth. ‘This looks very cosy,’ she said, unbuttoning her mackintosh. ‘Are you expecting company?’

  ‘I am, as it happens,’ Mildred replied, glancing at the ornate gold clock on the marble mantelpiece. ‘It’s all a bit inconvenient really, April. I do wish you’d telephoned to warn me you were about to descend like this.’

  April shrugged off the mackintosh and sank into the softness of the armchair closest to the fire. ‘I didn’t have the time,’ she said as the warmth of the fire slowly thawed her cold hands and face, ‘and you’d only have found some excuse to stop me from coming.’

  ‘That’s hardly fair,’ Mildred retorted. She checked her appearance in the mirror above the mantelpiece and patted a strand of hair into place. ‘You know how busy I am, April, and now I’ve had to take in two evacuees, things are even more difficult. Really, you have been rather thoughtless.’

  April was stunned by her lack of care. ‘Most mothers would have asked what happened to me, and welcomed me with open arms and comforting words. Thoughtlessness clearly runs in the family.’

  Mildred’s brown eyes narrowed momentarily – she clearly didn’t appreciate April turning the tables on her. ‘Of course I’m concerned,’ she snapped. ‘You just caught me at a bad time and I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.’

  It was always a bad time, thought April sadly. ‘Well, I’m here now, so can I stay for a while?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mildred reached for her cigarettes and lighter. ‘It will be a bit of a squash, but the evacuees are in the third bedroom so your own room is free, and you can help about the house, which will be an enormous relief. I’m just not used to having to share my home, let alone with strangers, and I’m finding it frightfully trying.’

  So much for a warm, caring welcome, April thought in despair. But at least she hasn’t shown me the door. ‘I’ll do what I can to help, of course, but with my arm in a cast it might be a bit difficult.’

  Mildred sat down and regarded her through the cigarette smoke. ‘I have to say, April, you do look ghastly. Your eye – and those awful clothes. What on earth happened?’

  April told her about the raid and being trapped under the house. ‘Paula didn’t make it, and I didn’t have a chance to even say goodbye to her,’ she finished brokenly.

  ‘Oh, dear, poor you,’ said Mildred, who was clearly giving scant attention to what April had been saying.

  ‘Look, Mother, I realise you never really liked Paula, but she was my best friend and I miss her terribly.’ April was swept by a sudden wave of giddiness which made the room swim. ‘Actually, I don’t feel at all well. Do you think I could have something to eat and drink, and perhaps an aspirin, before I go up to bed?’

  Mildred fished in her handbag and passed over two pills before pouring a glass of water from the cut-glass jug on the side table. ‘You’re welcome to what you can find in the larder,’ she replied. ‘But there isn’t very much as I haven’t had time to stand in all those awful queues, and I don’t trust Mrs Stavely with my ration book.’ She saw April’s frown. ‘Mrs Stavely is my new evacuee from London, she came with her sister last week.’

  April swallowed the tablets and finished the glass of water. She would have liked more, for she was very thirsty, but in the light of her mother’s frosty welcome, she didn’t feel inclined to just help herself.

  Mildred’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you wearing those awful clothes? They look as if they’ve come from some jumble sale. I thought you Wrens had to be in uniform at all times?’

  April felt a pang of dread and her heartbeat quickened. ‘The clothes came from a seaman’s charity because I lost everything in the raid,’ she said hesitantly. ‘And . . . and . . .’ She licked her lips and couldn’t meet her mother’s steady gaze. ‘I’m not a Wren any more,’ she finished quickly.

  Mildred’s gaze sharpened. ‘Why on earth not? I thought you were very settled and enjoying your work.’ She regarded her daughter suspiciously as April remained silent. ‘You haven’t been dismissed, have you?’

  April took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘I see,’ Mildred said darkly. ‘And why was that?’

  April stared at her, transfixed by her glare, but still retaining the tiny spark of courage she needed to see this through. ‘Because I broke the rules,’ she replied.

  Mildred stubbed out the cigarette and folded her arms, her lips forming a thin red line. ‘You must have done something very serious to get thrown out at a time like this. What have you done, April?’

  ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Only I’ve got the most awful headache, I haven’t eaten properly for over twenty-four h
ours, and I need to go to bed.’

  ‘You’ll do all that when I have a satisfactory answer out of you,’ said Mildred, rising to her feet and looming over her. ‘What did you do to get thrown out of the Wrens?’

  April couldn’t tell her. The words simply refused to come out even though they were echoing round and round in her head. She placed her hand over her stomach and looked up at her mother, silently pleading with her to understand.

  ‘Good God,’ breathed Mildred. ‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

  April looked back at her through unshed tears, her continued silence confirming her mother’s suspicions.

  Mildred’s slap resounded in the quiet room, leaving a searing impression on April’s already bruised cheek and sending shock waves of pain into her aching head and swollen eye. She cupped her cheek and stifled a whimper of distress.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl,’ Mildred shouted. ‘How could you? How could you do this after everything I’ve done for you?’

  As she raised her arm to slap her again, April jumped to her feet and grabbed her wrist. ‘Hitting me won’t solve anything,’ she said flatly. ‘I know I was stupid – and I don’t need reminding of it. It’s done, and I’ve lost everything because of it.’

  Mildred twisted her arm from April’s grip. ‘So you thought you could bring your shame home to me,’ she snapped.

  ‘Yes, I’m ashamed – of course I am. And believe me, Mother, I didn’t want to come home and have to face you – but I had nowhere else to go, and no one to turn to. All I ask is for some understanding, or at least a bit of help. Or is that simply too much for you to comprehend?’

  A flicker of something too fleeting to identify flashed in Mildred’s eyes. ‘I understand well enough that you’ve brought disgrace on both of us, and now you expect me to house and feed you and tell you it’s all right. Well it isn’t,’ she rasped. ‘You’ve been a fool; a stupid little fool.’

  April’s head was spinning and she sank back onto the couch. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ she said bitterly.