by Ellie Dean
Once she’d found her lipstick and applied it to her satisfaction, her thoughts turned to Ivy and the ghastly news about her family. Cissy hadn’t taken to Ivy at all, finding her loud and coarse and extremely irritating, but she couldn’t begin to imagine what the girl must be going through at the moment. The thought of losing her own mother and baby sister made her shiver. They’d come too close to being killed several times over the last six years, and it was a miracle that Cissy hadn’t found herself in Ivy’s situation.
She pulled a thick cardigan on over her silk blouse and linen slacks. It was chilly in the basement, but she liked the solitude and privacy it afforded her until things were resolved and she had a clearer sense of where her future lay.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror she’d placed on the battered chest of drawers, not really understanding why she bothered to fuss with her hair and put make-up on every morning, for there was nowhere to go but the Anchor, the Officers’ Club, or for a stroll along the seafront or through the few decent shops that were still standing in the High Street. However, as her glamorous friend Clarissa had said, it was a matter of pride to always look one’s best at all times for one never knew what was round the corner. And as she admired Clarissa very much and made a point of emulating her sophisticated style, she’d carried on making the effort.
She sank onto the sagging mattress and gave a deep sigh of longing. Despite the terrors of the enemy raids and the seemingly endless losses among the flying crews, life had been exciting and fulfilling at RAF Cliffe, and now that everything had come to a grinding halt and she had no real reason to get up in the mornings, she’d have given anything to have those days back again. With each passing day it felt as if she was stuck in limbo as she heard from the other girls about their exciting new lives and jobs in London, and waited to hear from Randy. It was hugely frustrating that no one in authority would tell her anything, and she was beginning to wonder if Randy was still alive, or if he’d simply forgotten about her.
She lit a cigarette and contemplated both options – neither of which sat easily with her, for she hoped what they’d shared was too special for him to forget, and certainly didn’t want him dead. It had been a very long time since he’d crash-landed and been captured, and back then she was in the throes of love, swept away in his enthusiasm and all the dreams he had of a future with her in America.
She’d been enthralled as he’d talked about his wealthy family, and the comfortable life they could have in Los Angeles once he’d completed his interrupted degree and joined his father’s law practice. From his descriptions, she’d been able to imagine the sandy beaches, the palm trees and endless sunshine of that land of opportunity, which had only made her want it even more.
She’d certainly had stars in her eyes then, but the war had brought ugly experiences to them both, which had changed her, and certainly must have changed him. The long separation and lack of communication had undeniably dulled her fervour and caused the dreams to fade, and although she’d determinedly kept those hopes and memories alive, she now wasn’t really sure how she actually felt about him. She had no photograph to remind her of what he looked like, and as she tried to conjure him up, the image was hazy – a mere impression of a tall, dark-haired, vigorous figure in uniform.
Was it the same for him? Did he even think about her as he endured the POW camp, or had he been too occupied with trying to stay alive to remember the girl he’d left behind?
Perhaps her mother had been right when she’d gently warned her not to look at the future through rose-tinted glasses – to realise that absence might make the heart grow fonder, but it could also distil the passion and urgency, turning what had been vital and all-consuming into fading, bitter-sweet memories.
Cissy stubbed out her cigarette and, with new-found clarity, wondered if she’d been as foolish as April Wilton who now lived in the station cottage with her daughter, Paula, and worked at the telephone exchange. April had been a Wren before she’d arrived at Beach View, homeless and penniless, and she’d believed the GI’s lies and been left literally holding the baby.
‘At least I made certain that didn’t happen,’ she muttered thankfully. ‘But I might very well have let my stupid heart rule my head.’
She wrapped the cardigan around herself and leaned against the pillows as she coolly appraised her situation. She’d always dreamed of going to America, especially in the days before the war when her rather ridiculous ambition had been to be plucked out of the chorus line into the starry world of Hollywood films. Had Randy picked up on that, and fed her fantasy just to get her into bed? Or had his heart been true and he’d really meant all the things he’d said?
There again, was it the dream of America that had made her so enamoured with him, or had she genuinely loved him for himself? He’d been very dashing and terrific company as well as an exciting lover, but looking back on those heady days, were those reasons strong enough to tie herself to him for the rest of her life?
Cissy burned with frustration and confusion, and she got to her feet, unable to be still any longer. If only someone would tell her what had happened to him, then at least she’d know where she stood. As it was, she was stuck here, unable to make her mind up about anything. Should he turn up tomorrow – and she really hoped he would – then maybe they could pick up the pieces and go ahead with their plans, but if the silence went on, and it became clear he wasn’t returning, then she’d have to swallow her pride and think again.
Clarissa and Philippa had begged her to join them in London where, in partnership with three other girls from Cliffe, they were running a highly successful limousine taxi company that Clarissa’s father had helped to set up. It had been decided right from the start that their clients would be exclusively female of the well-heeled sort who needed ferrying about the city.
Cissy had saved enough to buy a share in the company, and although it would leave her almost penniless, Clarissa had assured her she’d soon recoup her investment as the money was pouring in, and Cissy could move into her spare room rent-free until she’d got enough together to find her own apartment. The hours were sometimes very long, and some of the clients could be tricky, but there was always time for parties and dancing with the social set they’d known before the war.
It was enormously tempting, though what her parents would say about it, Cissy didn’t dare think. She could leave tomorrow, shake off the dust of Cliffehaven and throw herself into a new life where she could use her driving skills, have a share in a business venture and mix with the sort of people she’d become used to. And yet still she hesitated, for the war had only just ended; Europe was in turmoil, and a great many men were still to come home. She owed it to Randy to stay and wait for him a while longer.
‘Stir your stumps, Cissy. Lunch is ready, no thanks to you.’
Peggy’s rather brisk command brought her from her muddled thoughts, and she left the basement bedroom determined to mend her ways and be pleasant for the rest of the time she was here, and to be more helpful to her mother, who worked far too hard, worried too much, and deserved better from her.
Doris hadn’t slept well and was now in a terrible fluster as she waited for John to return from the station where he was meeting his son off the twelve-thirty train. She’d risen at dawn and cleaned the bungalow from top to bottom before rushing into town to have her hair and nails done at Julie’s Salon in the High Street. Now she was anxiously watching the clock as her carefully prepared lunch sizzled away in the oven.
She turned the heat off beneath the vegetables, basted the roasting chicken and wished for the umpteenth time that she hadn’t insisted upon cooking here instead of them all going to the Officers’ Club as John had suggested. Her fresh hairdo was going limp in the steamy kitchen and her nerves were making her clumsy, so she burnt her finger on the roasting pan.
‘For goodness’ sake, Doris,’ she hissed, dowsing her finger in cold water, ‘pull yourself together. It’s just a late lunch.’
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sp; But it wasn’t just any old late lunch – it was a meal to welcome Michael home, and having decided she wanted their first meeting to be a private affair and not conducted in the full glare of the Club bar, she was desperate to make a good impression.
Glancing at the clock again, she saw it was almost two. She’d reckoned on serving the meal at half-past to give them plenty of time to have a quiet drink and chat, before walking home. But if they were very much longer, it would mean dishing up the minute they walked in the door. And that wouldn’t do at all. She wanted her first meeting with Michael to be unrushed over a glass of sherry, not while she drained vegetables and made gravy.
Doris checked that the small kitchen table was correctly laid, the cutlery polished and gleaming, the napkins ironed to perfection, and the glasses crystal clean. John had opened the red wine so it could breathe before he’d left for the station, and Doris had placed the new bottle of sherry alongside three glasses on a tray in the sitting room.
It was on occasions like this that she wished she had a proper dining room, for eating in the kitchen felt far too informal – if not rather common. She rapidly dismissed the notion, for it was opinions like that which had caused rifts with her sister Peggy and the rest of the family. Gone were the days of her big house in Havelock Road, with its two elegant reception rooms and uninterrupted views of the sea, and she was damned lucky to have a home at all. Peggy, whose kitchen – like their mother’s – was the heart of the home, had set a fine example, and if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for anyone. Should Michael turn his nose up at the idea, then there wasn’t much she could do about it.
Doris took off her apron and went into the bedroom to check on her appearance. The pale cream sweater and tweed skirt were of good quality and sensible for such an occasion, and with the fake pearls in her ears and round her neck, she looked quite presentable. She patted her hair and dabbed some powder on her rather shiny nose, then nodded at her reflection and went into the sitting room.
John had lit a fire in the hearth, for although the sun was bright, there was a chill wind, and they’d be cold after the long walk up the hill. She needlessly plumped cushions, checked the water in the vase of irises, then straightened the pile of magazines on the coffee table. Finding nothing else to occupy her, she nervously lit a cigarette and looked out of the window.
There was no sign of them yet and Ladysmith Road was deserted, but on this clear, bright day she could see every detail of the town spread across the valley between the hills, and the horseshoe bay, where a couple of sailing boats leaned with the wind to race across the sparkling sea.
Peggy was down there in Beach View welcoming Jack and Jane home, but Doris suspected that behind her bright smiles and chatter, her heart would be heavy over the recent loss of Freddy, and the tragedy that had struck poor little Ivy. It had come as a terrible shock when Peggy had telephoned earlier to tell her the news, for Doris had come to like Ivy despite her raucous ways and rather suspect sense of humour, and although their relationship had not started well, they’d formed a surprisingly close bond over the past year or so.
Doris had been with the girl during the bombing raid that had flattened a good deal of the factory estate, and learned that Ivy had survived a similar experience earlier on in the war when another raid had entombed her in the vast underground shelter. She’d found love that day when the firemen had come and Andy had pulled her out, and although she’d been through a great deal, Ivy’s fighting spirit had never deserted her, and Doris admired her tenacity. But to learn such awful news so long after the event, would surely dampen even Ivy’s spirits, and Doris decided she would go and see her tomorrow to offer any help she could to ease that awful burden.
Doris was so deep in thought she didn’t hear the key in the lock, and she started as John called out, ‘Hello? Doris, we’re back.’
Her heart thudded, but she determinedly took a deep breath and went into the narrow hall to find John standing there with a tall, slender young man whose blue eyes regarded her with undisguised curiosity.
‘Hello, darling,’ murmured John, briefly pecking her cheek. ‘This is Michael.’
The blue gaze didn’t falter, but his smile transformed and softened his gaunt face as he quickly took off his hat and shook her hand. ‘Father’s told me a lot about you in the past couple of hours, Mrs Williams. I’m delighted to meet you.’
‘It’s lovely to have you back safe and sound,’ she replied, noting how bony and cold his hand was, and how his clothes couldn’t disguise the slenderness of his frame. The years in the POW camp had certainly left their mark.
‘Something smells delicious,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘I do hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble on my account.’
‘Not at all,’ she fibbed. ‘You must think it rather odd that we’re eating here and not at your father’s, but I know where everything is here, and find his oven difficult to get on with.’
‘Doris is a wonderful cook, so you’re in for a treat,’ said John, hanging up their hats and coats on the rack and shooting Doris a loving smile. ‘Come on in, Michael, and warm yourself by the fire while we have a glass of sherry to welcome you home properly.’
Michael regarded the room appreciatively, took the glass from his father and stood awkwardly by the fire as John moved to Doris’s side. ‘I have to confess that it does feel very strange to be in a real home again after so long in the camp. It’s the small things that stand out, like the rugs, the fire in the hearth, and the flowers in vases. All sound seems muted somehow, and the scent of cooking and furniture polish definitely beats the stink of the hut.’ His words were spoken lightly, but his eyes told a different story.
‘Was it very bad?’ asked John anxiously.
Shadows of something raw and indefinable flickered across Michael’s face and he dipped his chin. ‘Bad enough, Father, but at least we weren’t force-marched across Germany like so many of the other poor blighters.’
His hands trembled as he drained his sherry and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes which he passed round and lit. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he added into the difficult silence, ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
John nodded his understanding and then turned to Doris. ‘I’m sorry we’re a bit late, but the time ran away with us as we caught up on things, and then we popped in next door so that Michael could dump his bag and see where he’ll be sleeping. I do hope lunch hasn’t been spoilt.’
‘It must almost be ready,’ she replied, glad of an excuse to escape Michael’s continued scrutiny. ‘I’ll check and give you a shout when I need you to carve.’
She abandoned her sherry and hurried out to the kitchen to stand for a moment to smoke the cigarette and stare out of the window into the garden. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Michael had been through, but seeing how thin and sickly he looked and having heard rumours and whispers of what had happened to the likes of Freddy Pargeter and Martin Black, she understood why none of them wanted to talk about their experiences.
Doris shivered despite the warmth coming from the oven. Michael tried to hide it, but he was clearly puzzled and curious about her, and the relationship she had with his widowed father. He would find this homecoming extremely difficult, for not only had his father moved from the family home to a different town and new way of life out of the army, but he was also involved with Doris. It was a lot to take in, and if it had been her son, Anthony, in that position, she’d have moved heaven and earth to help him deal with it.
Thinking of Michael as a son instead of a threat, Doris suddenly didn’t feel nervous, for it made her realise that all Michael needed was time to orientate himself and the assurance that although things had changed, his father’s feelings for him were as strong as ever. And as long as Doris didn’t try and force things, he’d eventually come round to accepting her, and the loving relationship she shared with John.
Doris emerged from her thoughts and concentrated on getting the chicken and roast potatoes
out of the oven. The aroma of the food soon drifted down the hall, drawing John and Michael into the kitchen, eager to help. With the meal on the table and wine in the glasses, the awkwardness disappeared, and they began to talk and relax.
Ruby had returned to the bungalow in Mafeking Terrace after her lunchtime shift at the Anchor, determined to give the place a thorough spring-clean before she had to hand it back to Cordelia. Not that it was dirty, for she’d become quite house-proud over the time she’d been living here with her friend Shirley, and had made sure they both kept the place neat and tidy. But the bright sunlight had shown up the smears on the windows, the few cobwebs that had escaped her notice and the fact that the rugs needed a good beating to freshen them up, and the curtains could do with a wash.
Cordelia’s bungalow was a haven of tranquillity after the slums of London where everyone lived cheek by jowl and no amount of scrubbing could get rid of the dirt or the stench of the communal lavatories. Set almost at the top of the hill to the north of the town, the front window afforded a magnificent view of Cliffehaven and the sea. It had two small bedrooms, a bathroom, sitting room and kitchen, all of which had been scoured and painted before she’d moved in. The furniture had belonged to Cordelia’s sister, so it was old and battered, but she’d polished it to a gleam, and Ron Reilly had mended the leg on the heavy bedstead so she didn’t have to keep shoring it up with a pile of bricks.
Ruby changed out of her skirt and blouse into a threadbare jumper and the dungarees she wore to work at the tool factory. Knotting a scarf over her hair, she exchanged her good shoes for her disreputable slippers and then went into the small paved back garden to the brick outhouse to switch on the copper boiler so she had plenty of hot water to do the washing.