A Place to Call Home

by Tania Crosse

  Meg tiptoed down the stairs with her mother-in-law to the middle floor. While Mary hurried along the connecting corridor to rejoin Gabriel and Ed up the other stairs on the far side, Meg followed more slowly past Nana May’s room and then along the corner to the larger guest room where Penny was snoring loudly. The sound brought a smile to Meg’s face. She wondered how it didn’t wake the comely woman’s children, but she supposed little ones would sleep through anything, which was a blessing nowadays. Then she put her head around the door to the other guest room where Doris had squeezed in with Joyce and Maureen as she didn’t want to be alone. But thankfully all three girls appeared to be sleeping soundly.

  It felt strange to Meg, wandering about the spacious house alone at night, with just a torch to see her way. Was the bombing raid to cover up the expected invasion? Was there a German soldier lurking in every shadow? Meg had to steel her nerves. It didn’t help that Thimble was pressing against her legs, trembling. No doubt the young dog’s hearing was ultra-sensitive to the distant bangs.

  Meg eventually followed up the stairs to the male servants’ quarters. Once it had been forbidden territory, but with the twins sleeping up there alone now without Bob and Ralph, it had become more familiar. Mary had doubtless checked on the two boys as she went to try to get some sleep herself, but Meg thought she’d look in on them anyway. They must have been watching together from Leslie’s room until they couldn’t stay awake any longer, and she smiled as she found the brothers slumped down on the one bed, gangling arms and legs all over the place.

  Meg knew the best view over London in the entire house was from the three male servants’ bedrooms, and so she went into Cyril’s room and walked over to the window. It wasn’t necessary to strain her eyes. The livid orange glow in the far distance was like a shimmering golden curtain. It reminded Meg of the night they’d watched Crystal Palace burn to the ground nearly four years ago now, except that this was further east and a hundred times bigger. The whole of the East End of London must be on fire, all the dockyards and warehouses that helped feed the nation, the houses where the dockers and their families lived, the factories, the shops, the schools. Meg’s blood ran cold. It must be a raging inferno. Collapsed, burning buildings. How could anything – or anyone survive? No wonder Mrs C had turned white, clamped up like a shell. There’d been no word from Mr W, no reassuring telephone call. But then, the telephone system would have been destroyed, too, wouldn’t it? Meg wondered if poor Mrs C was getting any sleep at all.

  The room was warm and stuffy, and Meg opened the window as she continued to stare towards the capital. She could still hear distant explosions. There must have been hundreds of bombers, unless the same ones were returning to their bases in occupied territory just across the Channel, reloading and then flying back with another deadly cargo. The monsters, they deserved…

  Meg pulled herself up short. In that instant, she knew what Mr W had meant when she’d argued with him over the ethics of his factory. War was a terrible machine. You got sucked up into it whether you liked it or not. Mr W making bombs, Bob having fought in the army, Doris’s dad in the navy now, and Ralph… destined to fly in lethal bombers himself.

  Meg’s vision blurred as she stared blindly at the flaring dazzle on the distant horizon. She had the most appalling sensation that this was just the beginning.

  Fifteen

  Meg’s fears were proved right.

  Wave after wave of German bombers roared up the Thames every night, week after week. Every evening, Meg prayed for rain or cloud cover to make an attack less likely. She scoffed whenever the moon shone brightly, her mind jumping back to the evening of Christmas Day a few years back when she and Ralph had stood in the snow down by the lake, gazing up at a waning moon. She had explained to him how her mother always used to say it was good luck to watch the moon when it was on the wane because it meant it had been sprinkling its lucky dust on the earth below. But now it hurt Meg so deeply to think that her dearest mother had been so utterly wrong.

  The newspapers published photographs of each night’s destruction, interiors now open to the elements, suspended staircases, doorways leading into nothingness. Tall, tottering walls that had once been the fronts of department stores, flats or warehouses, now with a vast emptiness behind them. Burnt-out buildings, their hearts exploded away, their metal girders a tangle of twisted limbs. People standing in stunned shock among the pile of rubble that had once been their home. Bloodied and crushed survivors being pulled miraculously from beneath tons of brick and masonry. Raging infernos being tackled by brave firemen directing pathetic-looking hoses onto towers of flame. And then, in the morning, the ghostly remnants of an alien planet.

  Meg forced herself to blank out the agony of the civilians, innocent women and children, crushed, burnt alive, and wondered how there could possibly be anything left of London to bomb. And yet still the dragons came, breathing their clouds of flame and dropping their cargo of death. And as the weeks went by, the evil began spreading to other towns and cities, bringing terror to everyone in the land. And in return, the RAF had started bombing first military targets in Berlin and Essen, and then Cologne. Where would it all end?

  By some miracle, Wig’s factory had escaped any damage, but unsurprisingly, fear had turned poor Clarrie into a fragile ghost. Meg, too, was worried about Mr W, although she tried to keep her concerns hidden for Mrs C’s sake. Despite the reassurances she had heard Nana May giving Mrs C on the evening of the first attack, Meg knew very well that Mr W was an ARP warden for his own factory. If an incendiary landed on the roof, he and his team had to put it out using a stirrup pump, before it could do any damage. So far, it had worked.

  On the rare occasion Mr W managed to come home for a few hours, Meg couldn’t help but see how strained he looked, his hair turning rapidly to grey. Mrs C, so thin she resembled a stick insect, would cling to him when it was time for him to leave, and Nana May had to drag her away. Meg appreciated how Mrs C felt. But at least the older woman saw her husband more often than Meg saw Ralph. For weeks, all she’d had were his letters to console her.

  At Robin Hill House, they kept to the same routine as that first night, although they created a rota so that each adult was on duty every other night. Sometimes the attacks seemed worse or longer than others, sometimes the children slept, while at other times they lay awake, torn with concern over members of their families left in the capital. And now there was the added worry of Bob and Sally. Oh, how Meg wished the happy-go-lucky girl would come back, but she refused to abandon her new husband. ‘You sort of get used to the raids. Hitler and his bombs won’t scare me!’ she’d laughed down the phone, but Meg was convinced it was all bravado. People were calling it the Blitz spirit, claiming defiantly that they’d show Hitler. But how could you do that if you were dead?

  It was while she was roaming the house during one of her night-time vigils that Meg caught the sound of stifled sobbing coming from the main suite. Meg tiptoed up, holding her breath. The door was open just a crack. It had a habit of doing that. And because, on the other side, there was a short corridor passing the bathroom and dressing room, the occupants of the bedroom itself wouldn’t realise the latch had slipped.

  Meg pushed the door further open. Mrs C was weeping exhausted tears that cut Meg to the quick. So often had she done the same thing after her parents had died. Should she try to offer some comfort? She knew she wanted to. Mrs C had been so strong for her in the past, and for the evacuees in her charge, but lately she seemed to have crumbled. Not surprisingly, Meg considered, given the circumstances.

  Meg padded silently along the passageway and popped her head around the corner. Mrs C was curled up on the bed in her dressing gown, crying like a baby. Meg felt her chest squeeze with compassion. She had to help. It was the only thing to do.

  ‘Mrs C, are you all right?’ she whispered.

  She crossed the carpet to the bed while Mrs C attempted to gather herself together. By the time Meg reached her, she’d sat up,
but Meg could still hear her sniffing. She set the torch on the bedside table, but didn’t want to blind Mrs C by turning on the light. Besides, even though they checked the blackout blinds nightly, there was always that fear. Who knew if a stray bomber returning from London might drop anything it had left on a glimmer in the blackened countryside? After all, those bombs had fallen on Edenbridge back in the summer, and that wasn’t far away.

  Mrs C turned her ghostly face to Meg, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘Oh, Meg,’ she croaked.

  She reached out, her features a macabre study of fear and misery. Meg responded as only one woman can to another, a moment when the joining of two souls in torment is the only way forward. Meg rocked Mrs C in her arms, tears trickling down her own cheeks.

  The older woman’s heaving shoulders gradually stilled and she drew back, gulping hard. She attempted a watery smile, and a trembling hand reached out to hook a stray strand of hair behind Meg’s ear.

  ‘Oh, my dear little Meggy,’ she sighed distractedly. ‘What a comfort you’ve always been to me. I’m just so afraid. I can’t lose Wig as well.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Meg rubbed Mrs C’s arm, something she’d never have thought appropriate before. Being called little Meggy made a smile tug at her lips. She had recently turned twenty, was a married woman, and an inch taller than Mrs C. Hardly little any more. But what did Mrs C mean, she couldn’t lose Wig as well?

  Meg didn’t have the chance to ponder further as Mrs C pulled herself together and said, ‘I shouldn’t be behaving like this when we’ve all got someone to worry about.’

  ‘But sometimes it just gets too much, doesn’t it? I know. That’s why we women all have to stick together. And we should never be afraid to show how much we need each other.’

  ‘Oh, how very wise you are, Meg.’ Mrs C used the heel of her thumb to wipe away her tears. ‘And here I am, when you’ve got Ralph to worry about.’

  Meg’s thoughts clouded. ‘Yes. His training’s over. That’s why they’ve given him an extra-long leave so he can come home for a few days before he starts on missions.’

  ‘It’s Tuesday he’s coming, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ll pool our rations and make a cake. Everyone’ll have some, anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs C.’

  ‘And let’s forget the formalities, shall we?’ Mrs C took Meg’s hands and smiled. ‘If Mrs Phillips can become Ada, then I can be plain Clarrie. It’s about time. We’re a sisterhood now.’

  Meg lifted her eyebrows. A sisterhood. Yes, she supposed they were.

  A sisterhood at war.

  *

  ‘Telephone for you, Meg!’ Nana May winked, hurrying into the kitchen as quickly as she could since she used her stick all the time these days. ‘Seems he can’t wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Ralph?’ Meg skated down the corridor with a whoop of joy and snatched up the receiver. ‘Ralph! Oh, how wonderful! I can’t wait until tomorrow, either!’

  ‘Meg? Oh, my darling!’ He sounded so far away. ‘It’s fantastic to hear your voice!’

  ‘And you, too! What time d’you think you’ll get here tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, Meg, I’m so very sorry. That’s why I’m ringing. They’ve cancelled my leave. It seems my night navigational skills are exceptional and I’ve been drafted into something special. It’s highly secret. I don’t know any details yet, and I couldn’t tell you if I did. But we’re being taken off for briefing tonight.’

  Meg felt her insides rupture. ‘Oh, but—’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Meg, darling, really I am. But there’s one good thing. I won’t be flying bombers. I won’t be killing hundreds of innocent people. My conscience will be clear.’

  A spear twisted in Meg’s side. She wondered if conscience mattered any more. She reared away from the terrible, shameful thought. ‘Does… that mean it won’t be dangerous?’ she faltered, for perhaps there was some other good in it, too.

  ‘Nothing’s without its dangers, love. Let’s just say, pray for some of that moon dust, eh? They’ve told us this is really important stuff.’

  ‘Ralph—’

  ‘What? Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. They say I’ve got to get off the line. I’ll ring again the minute I can. I love you, my darling!’

  ‘Ralph? Ralph!’ Meg screamed down the phone as there was a dull click and the line went dead.

  Slowly, her hand went down to replace the receiver, and then she stood stock-still, unable to move a muscle as her mind trawled back through the conversation. Ralph was going to be flying secret missions at night. That’s what he’d meant, wasn’t it? Not bombers or fighters, but something else. Something special. Was that why his training had seemed to go on for so long? He’d said before that he and a couple of others in his class had been creamed off for special instruction. Was that why?

  She walked back to the kitchen as if in a dream, suddenly recalling the amazingly accurate map Ralph had drawn from memory when he’d been explaining the situation in Europe to Jane. Like Meg herself, in his youth Ralph had won a scholarship to attend grammar school. But whereas she had declined the opportunity as all she wanted to do was farm, Ralph had welcomed it. But he wasn’t just more educated than some; he had a gift for interpreting maps. Had that natural talent been spotted during his RAF training? Was it good news? Bad news? She had no idea. All she knew was that the old emptiness had screwed down in her stomach again.

  ‘So what time’s he coming?’ Jane beamed innocently.

  Meg blinked at her friend, utterly dazed. ‘He can’t come,’ her bloodless lips articulated, and then she burst into tears.

  Sixteen

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas, everyone!’

  Wig raised his glass to all those who’d squeezed around the dining table. Large as it was, it had been difficult to accommodate everyone present in the house, even with the servants’ hall overflowing as well. Wig’s brother, Peregrine, had managed to persuade Sofia that life was safe at Robin Hill House now that the Battle of Britain had been won. He kept quiet about the fact that Sevenoaks had been targeted by bombers on numerous occasions on the way to or from London because of its proximity to several airfields. So much so that local children had been offered evacuation to Devon, although at just ten miles away, Robin Hill House was deemed out of the danger area. Fortunately Sofia hadn’t discovered that her husband had been a little economical with the truth, and she had agreed to travel up for Christmas.

  They’d arrived a couple of days earlier, having set out the day after Boris and Max had come home from their boarding school for the holidays. Not having seen them for so long, the boys seemed to have grown up so much. The elder one, Boris, seemed almost like a young man now.

  Peregrine, unusually for him so Wig claimed, had possessed the foresight to organise his petrol ration so that he’d been able to motor up with his family. Perhaps the last time he could do so for the duration.

  ‘God knows how difficult it might’ve been by train, and it would have been ghastly!’ Sofia had pronounced dramatically on their arrival. Now she waved the flimsy, diaphanous scarf about her bare shoulders. ‘Wiggy, darling, it’s freezing in here. Is the heating broken?’

  ‘Haven’t been able to get any more oil for the boiler, I’m afraid,’ Wig answered cheerfully, ‘and we can only get enough coal to keep the range going. So we have to rely on log fires for our heating. Fortunately we had several dead trees in the woods that we cut down back in the summer, and they should see us through this winter. And we’ve started felling others to season for future years. But you must have the same problem.’

  ‘Yes, but at least we only have small rooms, so an open fire’s sufficient. I suppose there are compensations for being poor.’

  Peregrine gave a wry smile. They were hardly poor, but the rooms in their thatched cottage were small compared to those in Robin Hill House. ‘Couldn’t you put on a jumper, my angel?’ he suggested mildly. ‘Like the rest of us?’

  ‘A jumper? For Christ
mas dinner? Well, I suppose I do have that pretty pink cardigan with the Peter Pan collar. Meg, dear, you wouldn’t like to fetch it for me, would you? It’s hanging over the back of the chair in the bedroom.’

  ‘Meg’s not a servant anymore,’ Clarrie put in gently. ‘No one is. Not while the war’s on. You can see how we live here now. We all have our household duties, even yours truly, especially since we lost Sally. We just all pitch in together.’

  ‘Yes, and I think it’s delightful. We can have a proper knees-up later. Show old Hitler he can’t keep us down. Perry, would you mind—?’

  ‘No, it’s OK, Sofia. I don’t mind going. Won’t be a jiffy, only don’t start without me.’ Meg slipped on her duffel coat before traipsing through the deep snow to what was still considered as her and Ralph’s cottage. Peregrine and Sofia were sleeping there since their two boys had bagged the empty room in the attic. Meg suspected that being tucked away up in the male servants’ quarters with the twins, they were all having a whale of a time! And Sofia for her part had declared that the little cottage was quite romantic.

  Meg didn’t mind Peregrine and Sofia taking temporary possession of her home. Ralph couldn’t get leave over Christmas anyway. In fact, Meg hadn’t seen him since he’d been flying these secret missions. She still didn’t know what they were. In his letters, he simply put things like had a bit of bother, but back safely.

  It was a relief for Meg to have a few moments to herself, to send a mental message to Ralph winging across the miles that separated them. But it was equally good to return to the dining room where the lively chatter was a distraction for her heavy heart.

  ‘To absent friends and families,’ Wig went on, resuming his toast. ‘And to those who’ve perished or been injured, or lost loved ones or their homes in London and all the other cities Jerry has seen fit to bomb. And above all, to victory!’