by Ellie Dean
‘And you probably have been,’ Peggy laughed. ‘I learned long ago never to negotiate with Cordy. She always got the better of me.’
Jack laughed, and Cordelia joined in. ‘You’d better go up there and see what you’ve agreed to buy,’ she said. We can sort out the legal paperwork later.’
Jack took possession of the key. Peggy fetched the half-empty sherry bottle and after toasting the purchase, Jack and Rita went off on the motorbikes to inspect the bungalow.
Peggy saw the mischievous gleam in Cordelia’s eyes. ‘What did the agent really advise you on the price, Cordy?’ she asked quietly.
Cordelia tapped the side of her nose and giggled. ‘Now that would be telling, Peggy dear. Can I have another sherry?’
Lunch was over and it was almost time for Cissy to catch her train. The kitchen was deserted apart from Daisy who was curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire, pretending to read a picture book. The morning’s adventure had clearly tired her, and Peggy was still worried that she might be going down with something.
Jack had been full of beans when he’d returned from the bungalow, and now he’d gone off to see some government official at the factory estate to arrange the rental of one of the small units that were almost ready for occupation. Rita had left to see Peter who’d been discharged from Cliffe and was billeted in a boarding house the other side of Tamarisk Bay. Cordelia had finally been persuaded to go upstairs for a snooze; Jane and Sarah were in their bedroom reading the latest of their mother’s difficult letters, and Danuta was out having afternoon tea with Solly and Rachel.
Peggy was curious about the friendship the girl had struck up with the Goldmans, but then it was understandable as they too had ties to Poland. She just hoped they wouldn’t encourage Danuta’s wish to return to Warsaw, for by the sound of it there was utter chaos throughout the region as refugees and the survivors of those evil camps tried to find their relatives and rebuild the ruins.
She took Cissy’s hand as they sat at the kitchen table. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t manage to have much time to really talk, what with all the comings and goings this morning,’ she said as Daisy abandoned her book and clambered onto her lap.
‘I’m used to it after all this time,’ replied Cissy, giving her fingers a squeeze, and blowing a kiss to Daisy. ‘But I’m glad things are working out for Jack. He deserves it after all he’s been through.’ She glanced up at the clock on the mantel. ‘I’d better get a move on, or I’ll miss my train.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Peggy, lifting Daisy off her lap.
‘I’d rather we said our goodbyes here,’ Cissy replied gently. ‘You’ve done your bit today with Ruby and Mike, and I don’t think I could bear seeing you in tears.’
‘I promise not to cry,’ protested Peggy. ‘It’s not as if you’re going far away – or that I’ll never see you again.’
Cissy enfolded Peggy in her arms. ‘I know you’ll do your best not to cry, Mum, but if you do, then so will I, and completely ruin all my make-up,’ she replied, trying to make light of this emotional parting. ‘I’ll ring and write and come home to visit when I can, I promise,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, darling,’ Peggy breathed, holding onto her tightly. ‘Please be careful up there, and don’t let city life go to your head.’
Cissy kissed her cheek before stepping back and hugging Daisy. ‘I’ll make you proud of me, Mum. You’ll see.’
‘I’m already proud of you,’ Peggy managed through a tight throat. ‘I love you, Cissy.’
‘I love you too, Mum,’ Cissy replied, her eyes suspiciously bright as she set Daisy on her feet, tugged at the hem of her smart suit jacket and then turned away to pick up her two cases and handbag.
Peggy hoisted a clinging Daisy onto her hip and followed Cissy down the concrete steps to stand in the doorway as her beloved daughter walked purposefully down the path and through the gate.
She and Daisy returned her brief wave – and then she was gone down the alleyway with her head high, already focused on the bright lights of London.
20
Somerset
Martin couldn’t stay in the farmhouse any longer and strode out across the fallow field, determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the others. It had come as a nasty shock to discover the German farmhand was still working there, and although he knew he’d had nothing to do with the treatment meted out to him by his countrymen, and not all Germans were evil, he’d done his best to avoid him.
Martin had been at Owlet Farm for three weeks now, and although the calm silence away from house and yard was peaceful, he found that the unfamiliar fields and wide open spaces made him feel more isolated than ever – but at least he could breathe out here, and avoid the hurt and worry in Anne’s eyes and his children’s wariness.
He reached the rickety wooden bridge which spanned the narrow flow of water that rushed towards the sea, and stood there, lost in thought. This homecoming had been a disaster in so many ways – not least because it wasn’t really his home, and he longed to be back in Cliffehaven, close to the airfield and his pal Roger. These past three weeks had been a torture, for he’d found it almost impossible to be a proper husband to Anne, and the noise of the children hurt his head. And yet it was the way they’d begun to avoid him that hurt his heart, for he hadn’t wanted to frighten them.
He couldn’t blame Rose and Emily, who were still under five and must have heard him crying out from his nightmares, and seen their mother’s tears despite all her efforts to hide them. But he simply hadn’t been able to form any meaningful relationship with any of them; shooing the children away when they pestered him with their babyish chatter; virtually ignoring Sally, Bob, Charlie and young Ernie; shying from the well-meaning, motherly Violet – and turning his back to Anne as they lay in that bed night after long night. He knew it was wrong, but couldn’t help himself, for the nightmare images stayed with him day and night, and filled him with such rage and despair he was frightened that if he let his guard down, he might suddenly explode with it all and terrify the life out of everyone.
Martin stared down into the clear water rushing over the gravel and swirling around the dark rocks, and saw the faces of those who’d shared the horrors of Buchenwald before being liberated by that Luftwaffe officer to the dubious delights of Stalag III, and the consequent forced death march halfway across Germany.
There was Freddy Pargeter with mischief in his eyes; and young Allan Forbes who’d saved his life and gone on the run with him through enemy territory after they’d been shot down; and Roger Makepeace who’d been his wingman – and had remained so throughout their ordeal. Then came the Aussie fliers, Billy Stokes the joker, and Jock Cannon his grizzled mentor and laconic drinking partner. They were followed by the Americans, Andrew Pearce, Randy Stevens and the drawling Willy Hurst who always seemed to be half asleep. And last but not least, the most senior of them all, the Anzac marine, Colonel Fuller, with his bristling beard and the obstinacy of a mule.
Martin’s vision blurred as the ghostly parade slowly faded into the water until all that was left was the echo of their voices in his head. The nine of them had formed a tight group in the camp until Freddy and Randy had tried to escape once too often and were imprisoned elsewhere. He’d since learnt from Anne that Randy had survived, but of the original nine there were now only five left, and he wondered if they too were being tormented by the things they’d witnessed.
He thought of those who hadn’t made it with a deep sorrow that was laced with intense hatred for those who’d pitilessly snuffed out their lives. Freddy had been laid to rest in Argentina; Colonel Fuller had died from gangrene during their last days in the camp and now shared a communal grave in the woods behind it. Allan Forbes was buried somewhere on their route to the other side of Germany, and First Lieutenant Andrew Pearce had survived the ordeal of that murderous march only to die within hours of being liberated by his fellow Americans.
Martin reached for the brandy flask in h
is pocket and drank deeply. He’d found that alcohol blotted out the memories if he drank enough of it, but it was a short respite, for when it wore off they flooded back with even greater force. He shoved the hip flask back into his coat pocket and gripped the rough wooden rail until his knuckles turned white in his desperation to talk to someone who could understand what he was going through. But there was no one who knew better than Roger, and he was on the other side of the country.
Martin pushed away from the railing and continued his walk. He’d thought of approaching George Mayhew, Anne’s headmaster, who’d been shot down and still bore the life-changing scars of the burns he’d suffered. But he’d shied away from doing so when he realised the man had come to terms with what had happened to him and found love and contentment with his new wife. It would have been unkind to stir up old memories and ruin the man’s peace of mind.
Anne had tried to persuade him to talk to the vicar, but upon meeting him, Martin knew immediately that although he seemed kindly enough, the man had little experience of real-life traumas and was incapable of doing more than dish out platitudes and offers of prayer.
Martin gave a deep sigh. It was at times like this that he wished he could speak to his father, who’d come through the last years of the First World War and might have some understanding of what was troubling him. However, he was estranged from his parents, who hadn’t approved of his marriage to Anne and hadn’t shown the slightest interest in either of them since their wedding – even when his girls had been born.
The bitterness seared through him, making him clumsy so that he almost stumbled as he climbed the stile and had to grab onto one of the posts. His damaged hand sang with pain as he knocked it against the hard wood, but he welcomed it, for it fleetingly overrode his inner torment.
As he stood there on the well-trodden shepherd’s track that led down to the next village, he became aware of the beautiful song of a robin, the sough of a gentle breeze fluttering the leaves on the trees, and the clear blue of the early summer sky. He’d barely noticed the weather, or his surroundings, so intent had he been on his thoughts and memories, and now he lifted his face to the welcoming warmth of the sun, feeling it slowly sink into him until his tense muscles eased and the anger and hurt faded.
The persistent bleating of the nearby flock of sheep drew him from that peaceful moment, and he opened his eyes to find he was being watched with some curiosity by a weather-beaten old shepherd. ‘What a lovely day,’ he blustered in embarrassment.
‘Aye,’ the old man replied, leaning on a finely carved crook, his clear gaze piercing beneath thick brows. ‘’Tis a foine day to thank the Lord for being alive, soir,’ he added with a rolling local burr.
‘It is indeed,’ replied Martin awkwardly.
‘There be peace to be found by these here meadows,’ the old man said as Martin hesitantly made to move on. ‘You’ll not be finding it in the bottom of no glass, soir, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Thank you for the advice,’ said Martin politely, now desperate to escape the old boy. ‘But a cold pint on a day like this will go down very well.’
The shepherd nodded and reached into his ragged jacket pocket for his briar pipe, his steady gaze still on Martin. ‘Good day to you, soir. May the Lord go with you and comfort you.’
Martin lifted his hand in acknowledgement and hurried down the track towards the village pub he could see nestled in the fold of the hill. The meeting with the shepherd had unsettled him, for although the old chap had meant well, he was clearly a bit soft in the head to be spouting all that religious nonsense to a stranger. As far as Martin was concerned, the Lord had abandoned him and his comrades at the gates of Buchenwald, and had certainly not been with them on that march. It was only through luck, comradeship and strength of will that any of them had survived, so he certainly wouldn’t be seeking comfort from Him when there clearly was none to be had.
He continued down the hill until he reached the rickety fence which marked the boundary surrounding the pub. He’d come across this place during a long walk in his first few days here, and it had become a refuge of sorts, for no one would think of looking for him in what was essentially a farmhands’ and shepherds’ local.
The Lamb was a crumbling building of ancient heritage, with a leaking thatched roof, and windows so small they barely let any light in. It was surrounded by an untended garden, and its one redeeming feature was the clambering rose that smothered the walls in glorious blood-red blooms as if in defiance of the neglect. There was always a wood fire smouldering in the inglenook which filled the small room with smoke if the wind was blowing down the chimney. However, as Martin discovered, that didn’t seem to bother the old boys who took up residence beside it to linger over their beer and smoke their pipes.
He ducked his head to avoid the heavy beam above the low doorway and stepped down into the single room which reeked of spilled beer, dirty clothing, sheep shit, wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Coming from the bright sunlight, it took a moment to get his bearings, and as he stood there on the hard-packed earth floor, he heard the familiar pause in the low rumble of chatter before it started up again.
He was no longer a stranger or a curiosity, he realised, and barely earned a glance as he headed for the bar. They would ignore him from now on, and that was the main reason he liked it here. Digging out his wallet, he ordered his usual pint of bitter with a whisky chaser from the enormously fat landlord whose heavy jowls and bloodshot eyes reminded him of a disgruntled bloodhound.
Carrying his drinks to his preferred seat beneath one of the tiny windows, Martin lit a cigarette and then sipped the beer. For all his looks and surly manner, the landlord kept an excellent cellar, and clearly had contacts on the black market, for there was always a bottle of whisky under the counter. Good whisky, too, he thought appreciatively, and not watered down like in some pubs.
He tuned into the conversations going on around him, but found it hard to understand the thick local accent, so tuned out again and let his thoughts drift back to Anne.
He knew she was struggling to cope with him along with her duties at the school and at home and, instead of confiding in her mother, had pretended everything was fine and thrown herself into the preparations for the forthcoming election. Martin acknowledged that it was probably her way of escaping the bleak reality of their failing marriage, just as his was to find his way here each day. At least he agreed with her choice of candidate, for she was supporting Victor Collins, the Conservative candidate for Taunton.
Politics had never been of much interest to Martin, but he suspected Anne was backing the winning side. The Conservatives were still riding high on Churchill’s reputation, and leading the polls by a vast margin despite Labour’s promises of a radical departure from the past with a comprehensive social security system, a free national health service and the nationalisation of major industries. To Martin’s mind it was all pie in the sky, for the country was almost bankrupt after the war and such ideas would cost millions.
He drained his beer, chased it up with the rest of the whisky and went back to the bar to get the same, but with a double whisky this time. He was set for the rest of the day until it was still just light enough to find his way back to the farm, for the landlord didn’t believe in closing his pub as long as he had at least one customer in it.
Peggy was determined to enjoy the sunshine of that late June Saturday as she sat in a deckchair on the promenade to watch Daisy making sandcastles with another little girl of similar age. The tide was out, the sea as calm as a mill pond, and even the gulls seemed to be enjoying the warm thermals as they hovered almost lazily overhead.
However, Peggy found she couldn’t dismiss her worries entirely for they kept nagging at her. Cissy had telephoned shortly after arriving in London and seemed to be having such a thrilling time with her smart friends that she hadn’t bothered since, and Peggy wondered if she would ever come home again. And then there was her sister Anne who really was a cause for concern.<
br />
Peggy had managed to have several unsatisfying conversations with Anne over the past few weeks, and although her daughter insisted everything was all right down in Somerset, Peggy had a suspicion she was keeping back more than she was saying. She knew only too well from her visits to Briar Cottage that Roger was still haunting the airfield and drinking himself into oblivion at the Officers’ Club, and unless Martin was made of stone, she suspected it was the same story with him.
Peggy’s worries over Anne were more serious than the ones she had over Fran, but that didn’t make them less vexing. The fact that Fran had replied only very briefly to her letter and told her nothing about her trip to Ireland was proof to Peggy that the girl had had a rough time of it. She wished she would write again and tell her what had happened, but then she was probably busy settling into the London apartment and her new life with Robert, and needed time to come to terms with things.
Beach View was emptier than ever now that Rita had moved into the bungalow with her father, but she called in most days to tell her how they were getting on with setting up the new motor repair shop on the factory estate. All the units had been leased now to small independent businesses, and she and Jack were quickly building up a good number of customers as cars were being brought out of storage. But the girl was anxiously waiting for Pete’s official permission to get married, and was worried that if it took too long in coming, the war in the Far East would be over and he’d be sent home without her.
On the brighter side, there was no such hold-up for Ivy and Andy. Their wedding was to take place next weekend – and none too soon to Peggy’s mind, for that had been an extended weekend she’d spent with Andy at the flat and, most unusually, she’d been off her food these last few days.
Pregnant or not, the girl appeared far too calm and relaxed about it all in Peggy’s opinion, and apart from going into mysterious huddles with Rita, and dashing back and forth between Doris and Gloria, she didn’t seem to have organised anything. And yet she’d flatly refused to let Peggy arrange so much as a small party on the eve of the wedding, and all she could do was hope it didn’t end up a total disaster.