Homecoming

by Ellie Dean

  Sarah felt a wave of deep affection wash over her. ‘You’ve come a very long way since Malaya, Jane, and I’m so proud of you. But since when did you become so determined and resourceful?’

  ‘Since I joined the MOD and learned how to get around things from the best brains in this country.’ She smiled and looked into Sarah’s eyes. ‘Try to stop worrying about everything, Sarah. We’re doing this journey together, and together we’ll meet whatever waits for us and deal with it. Now put your lipstick on and smile. We have a party to go to.’

  New orders * not home for Christmas * letter to follow * Jim

  Peggy was on the point of fainting as she read the telegram again, and she only just managed to stumble blindly across the hall to the chair. Her head swam and her heart was plunged into the deepest despair, for her dreams of him coming home within weeks had been shattered.

  She fought back the swirls of darkness in her head, the telegram clutched in her hand, the stark, cruel words still imprinted on her mind. Through the haze of shock she became aware of the bustle and chatter coming from upstairs as everyone prepared for Rita’s party and knew she couldn’t stay here in the hall. Rita was getting married tomorrow, and the last thing Peggy wanted was to make a show of herself and spoil the happy atmosphere.

  It took every ounce of will to force herself off the chair and unsteadily make her way into her hall-floor bedroom. Immensely thankful that her eldest daughter, Anne, had taken the three little girls upstairs and was therefore unable to witness her collapse, she closed the door firmly behind her and sank onto her bed. Desperate to regain her compos ure, she dipped her head to her knees and fought back the great tide of bitter tears that was building inside her.

  Once her head was clearer, she reached for Jim’s silver-framed photograph and held it to her heart as the dam finally burst and all the hurt and disappointment flooded out to soak the pillow. Aware that her anguished sobs might be heard, she forcibly muffled them in the depths of that pillow, until she was barely able to breathe, and she held Jim’s photograph so tightly the sharp corners of the metal frame dug into her. It was a pain she welcomed, for it seemed to override the awful agony in her heart.

  What more did the army want from him? He’d been away from home for years already; survived fierce jungle fighting; been wounded; seen his best friend crippled for life and close comrades killed. He’d come through terrible bouts of malaria and dysentery in the belief he’d be sent home the minute hostilities were at an end – only to discover he was still needed out there. It was the most bitter of blows, dealt to her by a few short words that explained nothing, and left her bereft.

  Peggy lost track of time as she huddled on the bed in abject misery; mourning the loss of her dreams for his homecoming, and raging silently against the army for keeping him from her. It was only the sound of the three little girls running about excitedly in the hall that reminded her she was needed elsewhere and couldn’t hide in here no matter how much she yearned for solitude.

  Glancing at the clock, she took a trembling breath, dried her eyes and put the photograph back on the bedside table. ‘Oh, Jim,’ she sighed. ‘What more do they want of you? Why must you stay on? It’s so unfair.’

  He couldn’t answer her, of course, and was no doubt just as upset about being kept back in Burma, for she knew from his letters how depressed he’d become of late, and how he’d longed for home and family. Realising he didn’t have the luxury of giving in to self-indulgent tears and useless raging against the army, she dragged herself off the bed, determined to get a grip on her emotions.

  She realised she was still holding the telegram in her tightly bunched fist, and that it was now crumpled and smudged by her tears. Smoothing out the creases, she avoided reading it again and swiftly shut it away in the shoe box where she kept his latest letters.

  The sight of so many boxes stacked in the bottom of her wardrobe threatened her resolve to keep the tears at bay, and she had to blink them back, closing off the rising swell of emotion and refusing to yield. Those boxes of letters were testament to the length of time he’d been away, and traced not only the history of his war in the Far East, but the lonely years she’d kept the home fires burning along with the absolute faith that he’d come through it, and return to her the minute it was all over.

  Peggy closed the wardrobe door and turned her back on it to regard her tear-streaked face in the dressing-table mirror. Had it only been half an hour since she’d been happily getting ready for the party and excitedly looking forward to Rita’s wedding the following day? The telegraph boy’s unexpected arrival had swept away all her joy in the instant he’d handed her that brown envelope, and there was little sign of cheerfulness and expectation in her face now – in fact she looked drawn and older than her forty-five years – utterly weary from the toll that this war had demanded of her. The very last thing she wanted or needed was to take part in a celebration.

  Peggy glared at her reflection, then squared her shoulders and reached for the cotton wool and a jar of cold cream. Vigorously applying the cream to wipe away all evidence of her tears, she rallied herself as she’d done repeatedly throughout the war, reminding herself that she had responsibilities to deal with, and must get on with the needs of the day.

  Rita was no relation but had been part of her family since she was a tiny girl. Following her widowed father’s call-up and the fire-bombing of their home, she’d moved into Beach View for the duration of the war. Now her father, Jack, was home from the fighting across the Channel, they’d moved into the bungalow he’d bought from Cordelia, but Rita had come to Beach View for the night so she could share her special day with Peggy and the girls she’d come to regard as sisters.

  Peggy finished cleaning her face of the ruined make-up and began again with fresh powder, mascara and lipstick. It was important to look her best and show nothing of her inner anguish, for like all the evacuees who’d come and gone from Beach View over the war years, Rita was one of her chicks – and always would be, no matter where she was in the world. Regardless of how she felt right now, Peggy was absolutely determined Rita would have her party and the wedding she’d always promised her.

  She took a deep breath to steady her hand as she applied her lipstick, vowing to smile and join in the fun – and tomorrow she would do it all again and give little Rita the warmest and sunniest memories of this special time to carry with her to Australia.

  The tears threatened again as she thought of how soon Rita might be leaving for her new life with Peter on the other side of the world, but she refused to let them fall, realising they were merely tears of self-pity at the thought of losing her. She would miss little Rita as much as any daughter, but she and Peter were embarking upon an exciting adventure and Peggy was immensely proud of them for being brave enough to do so.

  In a way, she admitted silently, she rather envied them the fresh start away from the doom and gloom of a battle-weary and grey England where rationing was tighter than ever and the reminders of war could still be seen in the numerous bomb sites. The idea of such an adventure had made her wonder fleetingly if she and Jim should do something similar once the war was well and truly over.

  However, she’d soon come to her senses, realising Jim had probably seen enough of the world to last him a lifetime – and the reality was they were in their middle years and far too settled in Cliffehaven with their family to go searching for adventure beyond these shores. Adventure was for the young, the ambitious, the energetic and free – and Rita and Peter were made of the right stuff to thrive and make a success of a new and very different life under the Australian sun.

  Peggy dabbed a last puff of face powder on her nose, nodded with satisfaction at a task well done and clipped on her earrings. She’d had her dark, curly hair shampooed and set that morning at Julie’s Salon in the High Street, and the over-enthusiastic application of hairspray meant it had remained rigidly in place throughout her crying jag.

  She regarded the result of her repairs with a
jaundiced eye and knew she could do no more. Ready or not emotionally, it was time to plaster on a smile and join the fray.

  The Anchor was an ancient building squashed between the shops and houses in Camden Road, which ran parallel to the seafront. It had been a hostelry for over two hundred years, its cellars and underground tunnels a perfect escape route and hiding place for the smuggling gangs that used to roam these southern shores. The peg-tiled roof dipped low over the tiny, diamond-paned windows of the upstairs accommodation, and the wattle and daub walls which had slowly begun to lean towards its neighbour were veined with black oak beams. The painted sign hanging over the door was inclined to creak against its iron moorings in the wind, the anchor and lettering now barely discernible from decades of salty air and rain.

  Rosie Braithwaite had rather shocked the more staid residents of Cliffehaven when she’d bought the run-down Anchor some twenty years ago, for it was most unusual for a single woman to take on a pub licence – especially a glamorous platinum blonde, who wore clothes that enhanced her hourglass figure. But she’d persevered despite the prejudice, and had run it almost single-handedly and to great effect until it was now a popular watering hole. Romance had blossomed between her and Ron Reilly, and after a long courtship, they’d finally tied the knot just before VE Day.

  Rosie had reserved the large table by the inglenook for the Beach View party, and had provided plates of sandwiches and packets of crisps to help soak up the alcohol. The pub was open for her usual customers, so she’d persuaded her barmaid, Brenda, to come in to work that evening, giving Rosie a chance to join in the fun.

  However, word must have got out about the party and within an hour the bar was crammed with customers, some of whom were spilling out through the door and onto the pavement. Rosie immediately realised she couldn’t have the evening off after all and, with a shrug of stoic acceptance to Peggy, went to lend a hand to the beleaguered Brenda.

  The party was almost immediately in full swing, for Ron had somehow found a new upright piano to replace the wreckage of the one that had been committed to a bonfire during the VE Day celebrations and, resplendent in a tight red dress and matching high-heeled shoes, Gloria, the blowsy landlady from the Crown, was hammering out a series of favourite music-hall tunes so everyone could sing along. Earrings swinging and bracelets jangling, her raucous contralto rose above the other voices, urging them to greater effort, and making it difficult to conduct a proper conversation.

  Peggy determinedly joined in while keeping a close eye on the elderly Cordelia who was inclined to go overboard on the sherry during such events. But she needn’t have worried, for like all of them, Cordelia seemed to be aware that she needed to pace herself tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding, and was sipping slowly from her glass.

  Peggy’s face muscles were aching from all the smiling she’d done since leaving her bedroom, but she refused to allow herself even a second of weakness, for it could burst through that wall of will she’d constructed to keep her tears at bay. This was no time for self-indulgence. She would enjoy this moment and make the best of it, for it was very special, and far too precious to spoil.

  As Gloria took a brief respite from the piano to down a double gin, Peggy glanced across to the bar and caught Rosie’s eye to share a knowing look. They recognised the signs. Gloria was already well refreshed, and the more she drank the louder she became. She could be the life and soul of any party as long as no one upset her, but the wrong word or look would send her into fighting mode – and that could lead to all sorts of trouble and kill any celebration stone dead.

  Peggy watched Gloria to gauge her mood, which seemed carefree enough at the moment, but like the English weather, it could change in an instant. She then lifted the glass of bitter lemon she’d chosen to keep a clear head for tomorrow and took a sip, wishing it was something stronger that might dull the pain in her heart and lift her spirits. Setting the drink aside, she lit a cigarette and wondered where her sister Doris had got to, for it was most unlike her to miss out on a party. Deciding something must have cropped up over her own wedding, which would take place next weekend, Peggy turned her attention to the girls who sat with her around the large and battered oak table.

  Ivy had travelled down today with her husband, Andy, from their little flat in Walthamstow, and would be staying with Andy’s Aunt Gloria at the Crown – or at least Andy would, for Ivy had insisted upon spending tonight at Beach View with her best friend Rita, so they could share every last minute together before the wedding.

  Peggy smiled, for the rather plain little Ivy had blossomed since her marriage to the young fireman, and now she was positively glowing in the first few months of her pregnancy. It was a delight to see her so happy after all she’d been through lately, and Peggy knew she would look lovely in the bridesmaid’s dress Sally Hicks had made especially for her. Rita’s dress was a closely guarded secret, but Peggy had no doubt it would be perfect and that Rita would make a beautiful bride.

  Peggy turned her gaze to Sally, who’d been her very first evacuee. She’d arrived bewildered, half-starved and afraid from London, in charge of six-year-old Ernie, her frail crippled brother. Their neglectful mother hadn’t even bothered to see them off, and it had been months before she’d even turned up in Cliffehaven, only to flit off again with some new man.

  Away from the slums and the hardships of the East End, and eased from the sole care of her brother, Sally had also blossomed during her time at Beach View, and had gone on to marry the local fire chief, John Hicks, with whom she now had little Harry. Young Ernie still lived with them, but now he was a strapping youth of thirteen and no longer wore the calliper that had been forced upon him following his bout of childhood polio.

  Sally’s gift of home dressmaking had been sorely missed over the years she’d spent down in the relative safety of Somerset with her brother and little boy, but on her return to Cliffehaven, she’d soon been in great demand, and John had turned their front parlour into a workroom for her so she could fit customers in private and work in peace while little Harry was at school. Rita and Ivy had been very lucky to have her make their wedding finery, but Peggy suspected Sally would have done it no matter how busy she was, for she still regarded herself as one of Peggy’s chicks – which she most definitely was to Peggy’s mind – and rather touchingly wanted to repay the love and kindness she’d found at Beach View. Which, of course, she hadn’t needed to do at all.

  Peggy eyed the bitter lemon without much joy and decided a single dash of gin could do no harm. She went to the bar expecting to find Rosie, but there seemed to be no sign of her, so poor Brenda was really struggling. As Peggy patiently waited to be served, Gloria began thumping out ‘Ten Green Bottles’.

  Peggy watched her chicks joining in with great enthusiasm and once again felt her heart contract at the realisation that this could be the last time they were all together. Ivy would return to London on Sunday; Danuta planned to leave for Poland at the end of the month, and Sarah had told her earlier that she and Jane would be on their way to Singapore at the beginning of September. It was still not known when Rita would embark on her long journey with Peter to Australia, but it would inevitably be sooner rather than later now the Japs had been cleared out of those southern waters.

  Peggy’s smile was soft as her gaze drifted to her darling eldest daughter, Anne. At least she’d come home at last from Somerset with her children and young Charlie; yet even she would soon be moving out of Beach View with her husband, Martin, back into the cottage they’d bought at the start of the war.

  Peggy knew things still weren’t really right between Anne and Martin, but they loved each other enough to struggle on, determined to pick up the pieces and repair the damage the war had done to Martin and their marriage. Martin seemed to be coping better with family life, even though Peggy suspected he was still plagued with nightmares from his years in the German prison camp. What he’d experienced there was never mentioned or explained, but he’d found some
one in Roger Makepeace, his wingman and fellow POW, who shared his demons and, according to Ron, the two men still met daily at Cliffe aerodrome to sit in deckchairs and slowly put their worlds to rights.

  As for Charlie, Peggy rarely saw him. He’d joined the local rugby club, spent hours with his grandfather Ron and Uncle Frank, and quite often went out night fishing with Frank, or spent hours on the beach helping to mend the trawling nets or tinker with the engines. The cheeky little boy who’d left Beach View six years ago was now fifteen, and as tall and strong as a man, with a stubborn determination to follow his own path in life that was the very essence of his father, and his grandfather.

  Peggy was roused from her thoughts by Brenda nudging her arm. ‘What can I get you?’ she shouted above the raucous singing.

  ‘A large gin in that, please,’ Peggy shouted back.

  Brenda raised an eyebrow, but the gin was swiftly added to the bitter lemon and the glass returned. Peggy thanked and paid her, still wondering where on earth Rosie had got to – and at that very moment she appeared in the doorway next to the bar that led to her upstairs rooms, her lovely face flushed with some inner excitement, her blue eyes sparkling.

  Peggy’s curiosity sharpened when she caught Rosie tipping the wink to Gloria who immediately began to play ‘Danny Boy’, but before Peggy could ask what was going on, Rosie had moved from the doorway and the most glorious violin music came from behind her.

  Peggy turned, and there was Fran, russet hair glowing in the lamplight, green eyes fairly dancing with mischief as she stepped into the bar and made her way towards the piano.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea and there was an awed silence until Ivy broke it with a joyous screech of welcome before she sent her chair crashing and dashed across to hug her.