With Hope and Love

by Ellie Dean

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  About the Author

  Ellie Dean lives in a tiny hamlet set deep in the heart of the South Downs in Sussex, which has been her home for many years and where she raised her three children. She is the author of the Cliffehaven Series.

  To find out more visit www.ellie-dean.co.uk

  Also available by Ellie Dean

  There’ll be Blue Skies

  Far From Home

  Keep Smiling Through

  Where the Heart Lies

  Always in My Heart

  All My Tomorrows

  Some Lucky Day

  While We’re Apart

  Sealed With a Loving Kiss

  Sweet Memories of You

  Shelter from the Storm

  Until You Come Home

  The Waiting Hours

  With a Kiss and a Prayer

  As the Sun Breaks Through

  On a Turning Tide

  Acknowledgements

  This book would never have been completed if it hadn’t been for the wonderful care from my GP, Dr Brierley, the staff at the Eastbourne District General Hospital, and the stroke team who visited me every day once I got back home. Because of their swift reaction and diligence I’m fully fit, and I am extremely grateful for their care.

  To my husband and children, for all their love and concern over what had been a traumatic time for us all. Your love helped me through in more ways than you could ever imagine. And to my publishers, Arrow, for their understanding and patience when this book was delivered a little late. This was the first time in over twenty years that I’ve not met a deadline, and I’m determined not to do it again!

  Last, but never least, thanks to my agent, Teresa Chris, for fighting my corner and always being there. We’ve been down a long, tough road together over the years, and I could never have come so far without you.

  Dear Readers,

  It has been a strange year, and one in which I’ve come through with great relief and gratitude to NHS nurses, doctors and the stroke team at Eastbourne District General Hospital. Some of you will have read on my Facebook page that I had a minor stroke following a stressful few months and a long, exhausting journey to Australia and back. I am extremely lucky that I’ve come through virtually unscathed, and the targets I had set for myself have been conquered. My left hand lost all feeling, so typing was a trial, and cryptic passwords and Sudokus were beyond me until I managed to retrain my brain and my hand! But my first priority was to finish this book, and I’m delighted for you to be reading it now.

  As you will discover, things are changing at Beach View now the war in Europe is over, and Peggy is having to come to terms with the fact her chicks are starting to leave home. I’ve taken huge delight in planning lots of weddings for With Hope and Love and, like Peggy and Cordelia, I’ve shed a tear or two of my own as these young girls have begun their new and exciting lives.

  Cliffehaven too, is slowly getting back onto its feet as the holiday makers return, new homes are built, and the men start to come home. But the war is still raging in the Far East, and Peggy is once more forced to call upon her inner strength to maintain hope that Jim will eventually come home.

  I hope you enjoy With Hope and Love. It is not the end of the series, for the problems besetting Peggy and her remaining chicks are yet to be resolved. Now my brain and my hand are working properly again, I’m busy writing Homecoming which is due to be published in January 2020.

  With my very best wishes to you all,

  They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

  Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

  They were staunch to the end against the odds uncounted,

  They fell with their faces to the foe.

  They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon (1914)

  1

  Burma

  8 May 1945

  The monsoon heat and humidity had risen swiftly during the day, the rain bucketing down through the jungle canopy in a ceaseless deluge which turned the soft earth to thick, cloying mud that ran in rivers right through the makeshift respite camp. The conditions made the exhausted soldiers’ lives a misery, for clothes didn’t dry, boots and feet rotted, and there were several instances of men having mould growing in the folds of their skin from being constantly damp.

  It was now late afternoon, and although there was a canvas roof and thick matting spread over the floor of steel sheeting in the motor maintenance area, Second Lieutenant Jim Reilly was soaked to the skin with sweat and mud as he lay cursing beneath the three-ton truck. He was struggling to remove its broken exhaust pipe before darkness fell, but the bloody thing seemed to be welded with rust to its moorings, and he couldn’t shift it.

  The wrench slipped from his wet hand for the third time and, as he dodged to avoid it landing on his face, he cracked his head on the differential – an unforgiving great lump of metal beneath the truck. Spitting out a string of oaths, he impatiently yanked on the thick leather gloves he’d previously discarded because they made him even hotter and, taking a deep breath to keep his temper at bay, started work on the stubborn bolt again.

  His task would have been simple enough in ordinary circumstances, but he was in a hurry, and what with the rain and the draining heat, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t taken over from the young sapper. However, he’d missed working on the tools, and after the past four months of almost constant fighting with the Japanese, he’d hoped the familiarity of the task would help him banish the memories of what he’d witnessed during the liberation of Rangoon.

  Jim blinked away the stinging sweat and brushed the muck off his face which sifted down from the underside of the truck as he attacked the bolt with added vigour, but the images of what they’d encountered in Rangoon still haunted him.

  After the battle for Pegu was won in March, Jim and his men had arrived in Rangoon to mop up any resistance, only to discover that the city had been abandoned by the Japanese who’d fled by land and sea, resulting in nine of their eleven convoy ships being sunk by the British Destroyers anchored offshore.

  Before the Japanese had left the port, they’d looted and destroyed it, going as far as bombing the convent which had served them as a hospital, killing four hundred of their own men, before locking the Burmese prisoners in their wooden huts and burning them to the ground.

  The thousand Allied POWs Jim and his men had found had escaped this terrible fate, for the Japanese had planned to take them with them as slaves, but soon realised that in their desperately weakened state they’d slow them down. As ammunition was in such short supply they didn’t want to waste bullets by shooting them, so they’d abandoned them to the lawlessness of the dacoits and a city which was already starving and rife with disease.

  The POWs had been held in the city jail for several months and were so emaciated and weakened by starvation, slave labour and disease they were barely living skeletons in their filthy rags. As they waited to be loaded onto a requisitioned sampan to be
taken upriver to the safety of an Allied air lift to hospital, Jim had remembered how desperate young Sarah Fuller was for news of her father and fiancé, who’d been captured after the fall of Singapore, so he’d asked if any of them had come across a Jock Fuller or Philip Tarrant.

  None of them had, and Jim wasn’t really surprised, for he knew there were thousands upon thousands of prisoners in numberless camps spread right across Burma, Malaya and Thailand, to the islands in the East China Sea and even on the Japanese mainland. God only knew what they were going through if these thousand men were an example of how the Japs treated their prisoners.

  Jim determinedly turned his thoughts from what he’d seen and heard that day and concentrated harder on his task. He could hear the burbling of the Forces’ Radio broadcast coming from the mess tent, and didn’t want to miss Prime Minister Churchill’s speech, which everyone suspected would come sometime today.

  The news from home had lifted the spirits of the Brigade, but the tension had mounted as they waited for confirmation that peace in Europe really was at hand. He’d heard the reports on the radio of people decorating their houses and shops with bunting and flags and pictures of the King and Queen as well as Churchill; and how they were already gathering in their homes and on the streets to cautiously celebrate. He could just imagine Peggy joining in with alacrity. Darling Peggy always did love a good knees-up, and there would certainly be a party to end all parties if the rumours of peace proved to be true.

  His smile was soft with love as he thought of how thrilled and excited his Peggy must be to at last be able to believe that the family was to be reunited after so long, and it made him yearn to be with her when they all came home. But he was realistic enough to know it could be months before he saw any of them again. The Japs might be on the run, but there were still thousands of them in Burma, and they’d fight to the death rather than surrender.

  He was rewarded with a mouthful of rust and spat it out just as the bolt loosened and the exhaust pipe came free. With a grunt of satisfaction, he tossed it aside and began to attach the replacement.

  He was actually on leave for a few days following the liberation of Rangoon, but in less than a week he’d be back in action to rout the retreating Japs from the Mawchi Road. As good as it was not to be shot at or ambushed, or have to witness the blood and guts of the suicidal Japs that were lying everywhere, he’d soon become restless and bored at being confined to this jungle camp on the Indian border where there was little to do but swim in the river, play endless games of cards, drink and watch the rain teem down.

  The fact was, he missed Big Bert who’d been killed in action during the battle for Hill 170, and not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought of him. The other blokes in the Brigade were good company, but none of them – apart from Jumbo McTavish – had the large presence or personality that Bert had possessed, and his absence left a gaping void in Jim’s life.

  Jim finished attaching the exhaust and thankfully rolled from beneath the truck, grabbed his ever-present carbine, and got to his feet. It was almost five-thirty and the sun would soon set, plunging them all into darkness with the swiftness they’d become too familiar with over the past three years. He stretched and yawned before heading to the tent he shared with five others to fetch his wash-kit.

  He collected his washbag, took off his watch and emptied his pockets onto the truckle bed, and went back out into the rain and the gloom. With the rain drumming on his hat, he sloshed through the mud past the cookhouse and mess tent, which was already filling up with men eager to hear what the day’s news would bring. Jim reckoned that, with the time difference, they wouldn’t hear the three o’clock news from London until about eight-thirty that evening, so he had plenty of time to wash, eat, and down a few very welcome beers.

  He hurried down to the river, took off his slouch hat and leaned his carbine on a nearby rock before throwing himself in, boots and all. The mud and sweat were washed away and he scrubbed himself thoroughly with a rough flannel and bar of Wright’s Coal Tar soap that Peggy had sent from home. The water was almost as warm as a tepid bath and therefore not really that refreshing, but he enjoyed feeling clean for once, and because the river was fast-flowing it was free of leeches, so he splashed about at leisure.

  He eventually clambered back out, shook himself like a dog, and retrieved his hat and carbine just as the swift tropical night descended. There was no point in trying to dry off or change into clean clothes for the rain was still hammering down in the torpid heat, and his shorts and shirt were already steaming. But his feet would rot even further if he didn’t take care of them, so he went back to his tent, drained the water from his boots, wrung out his socks and dried his feet before pulling on fresh socks and his second – relatively dry – pair of boots.

  It was only a short dash to the mess tent, and as he shook the rain from his hat and used the scraper to get the worst of the mud off his boots, he could see it was packed solid with men eating, drinking, smoking and talking. But above all the noise and the continuous drumming of the rain on the canvas, the wireless could be heard very clearly. Jim couldn’t help but grin when he realised it was transmitting Woman’s Hour, with its usual mix of singing, comic turns, household tips and fashion advice. No doubt Peggy was also listening to it back home at Beach View, and that thought brought her closer somehow.

  It had been ordered that half-rations should remain in place so the transport planes could carry more arms and ammunition into the battle zones, and although there was a lot of grumbling about this, every man knew it was sensible. The more firepower they had, the quicker they’d get rid of the Japs and be on their way home.

  Without much pleasure, Jim eyed the lump of bully beef and the rehydrated mashed potato the cook had dumped on his tin plate, then took two slices of coarse bread, shoved a bottle of beer in each pocket of his shorts and filled his tin cup from the vast tea urn. At least fags, beer and tea weren’t rationed – there would have been a riot if they had, but Lieutenant General Slim was wise enough to realise as much, which was why they all admired him.

  The tables and benches in the vast mess tent were placed in sections for the different ranks, and it was only the senior officers who had chairs and a tablecloth. Jim sat down on the bench with his fellow junior officers and greeted his mate, Lieutenant Hamish ‘Jumbo’ McTavish – an enormous Scotsman with fiery hair and fierce eyebrows, large ears and very blue eyes in a strong-featured, ruddy face.

  Jumbo reminded Jim of Big Bert in a way, which was why he’d been drawn to him. But for all his size and colouring, Jumbo was a quietly spoken, even-tempered man who’d worked as a gamekeeper on the remote Isle of Skye before joining up. He always had a well-thumbed book in his back pocket and was easy with his own company – but in battle, he was fiercely committed to wiping out as many of the enemy as he could, and performed this task with icy thoroughness. It was only when he’d been at the whisky that the other side of his personality came through, and he’d become garrulous and the life and soul of every gathering.

  Jumbo possessed a small set of bagpipes which went with him everywhere, and when in his cups or feeling homesick for the tranquillity of his island’s glens and mountains, he was unfortunately inclined to play them, regardless of the fact no one but the other Scots in the Brigade could appreciate the noise. To Jim it sounded as tuneful as a cat being strangled.

  ‘Any news on Churchill’s speech yet, Jumbo?’ he asked before stuffing in a mouthful of food.

  ‘Och, he’ll not be talking just because we want him to,’ the big man replied in his soft Highland accent. ‘Ye ken what those English politicians are like – tied down with red tape and paper. He’ll be waiting for it all to be signed and sealed afore he lets us lesser folk know what’s going on.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Jim. He took a slurp of tea and winced as he burnt his lip on the scalding tin mug. ‘We know Hitler’s dead, and the Allies are now swarming through Europe, so what’s the point of keeping us all in suspens
e?’

  Jumbo shrugged and shovelled in the last of his food, making further conversation impossible.

  Jim ate in silence, praying that if it really was the end of the war in Europe, Jumbo wouldn’t take it into his head to serenade them all on the bagpipes. But it was a forlorn hope, for there was a quarter bottle of whisky on the table, and he could see the familiar instrument of torture to the ears beside him on the bench.

  The tension grew as the time for the broadcast approached, and the level of conversation dropped to a murmur as cigarettes and pipes were lit, beers glugged and games of cards and chess abandoned. All attention became focused on the radio and even the youngest and rowdiest sapper fell silent as the announcement came from London that Churchill was about to address the nation.

  Jim stiffened with anticipation as the familiar gravelled voice echoed into the stillness of that jungle tent.

  ‘Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Dönitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command.

  ‘General Bedell Smith, Chief of Staff of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and General François Sevez signed the document on behalf of the Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and General Susloparov signed on behalf of the Russian High Command.

  ‘Today this agreement will be ratified and confirmed at Berlin, where Air Chief Marshal Tedder, Deputy Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and General de Lattre de Tassigny will sign on behalf of General Eisenhower. Marshal Zhukov will sign on behalf of the Soviet High Command. The German representatives will be Field-Marshal Keitel, Chief of the High Command, and the Commanders-in-Chief of the German Army, Navy and Air Forces.