by Rachel Ennis
One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. ‘Old Mrs Carveth from Chywoon.’ Jess smiled and continued dishing up. ‘It’s been sat in her garage for years. The tyres are OK. Jimmy’s going to check it over and put it through MOT. Chris is home with a pizza and his music going while he do his college coursework.’ He shook his head. ‘How can they think with that noise?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Jess set filled plates on the table. ‘I had two of them and they liked different music. But they passed their exams, did well at uni and have good jobs. Chris is a good lad. He won’t let you down.’ They both sat.
‘I aren’t worried for myself. But if he’s thinking to take over the yard one day –’ he shook his head. ‘Running a business is a hell of a lot more complicated now than when I started or when Father was doing it.’
‘Your dad nearly lost it,’ Jess reminded. ‘You were thrown in at the deep end and had a long hard struggle to bring the yard back into profit.’
‘You remember.’ His gaze was warm.
‘I do. Come on, while it’s hot.’ They sat down and began to eat.
‘Oh,’ Tom chewed, swallowed and closed his eyes. ‘That is just ‘andsome.’
Jess grinned. ‘The best thing about it is that you didn’t have to cook it yourself.’
‘No, that’s the second-best thing.’ He forked up a couple more mouthfuls. ‘The best thing is you made it and I’m here with you enjoying it. How did the magazine meeting go?’
Jess told him, feeling her eyes prickle as she described Annie’s revelation.
‘She’s rare, going into nursing after all that.’ Jess nodded and swallowed hard. ‘Here, changing the subject,’ Tom said and she knew he understood. ‘After you asked about the Breton boat, I had a look through the ledgers for 1940 to 1943.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘More than I expected.’
‘Do you want dessert?’ Jess asked as he put his knife and fork together.
‘Have it later shall we?’
‘I’m glad you said that. I don’t think I’ve got room now.’ Jess carried the plates to the sink and quickly washed up. Tom lifted a ledger off the top and put it on the coffee table, put another log on the woodburner, and waited for Jess to join him on the sofa.
‘You remember me saying about Roy Nichols, Frank’s brother, being a fisherman?’ Tom opened up a ledger where he’d marked several pages with folded strips of newspaper.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Roy used our yard when he needed work done on his boat. Gramps was running it then. Thomas Henry Peters. Born 1905 he was, so in 1940 he’d ‘ave been thirty-five. Roy’s friend, Yann Tiersen, was a Breton fisherman. He picked up a British airman whose plane had been shot down. They was heading for Cornwall when weather turned bad. Yann ripped a sail and broke a couple of spars so he brought her into our yard. Did you know Concarneau means Bay of Cornwall?’
‘No, I didn’t. But I remember Nan telling me that some of the Onion Johnnies who used to come over from Brittany didn’t speak English, yet they could understand Cornish dialect.’
Tom nodded. ‘Tis all Celtic, see? I’ve heard a Welshman speaking Welsh to a Breton speaking his own language, and they understood each other fine. Yann’s boat was called Gwennel. It means swallow – that’s the bird – in Breton and Cornish. Go on, shall I?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
He leaned over and kissed her. ‘That’s all right, my lover. It was trade with the Breton farmers that started Brittany ferries.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that either. Though it’s obvious when you think about it.’
‘How about that?’ he grinned. ‘Tidn often I know something you don’t. Anyhow, when Yann’s boat was fixed and he left to go back to Concarneau, he took four Free French fighters.’ He tapped the ledger. ‘All in here it is, but disguised. Gramps knew he had to keep what they was doing a secret.’
He flipped to the next marked page. ‘Next time Yann come over, he brought two more airmen. Their plane was too badly shot up to make it across the Channel. They was brought down-river from Pont-Aven hidden in a sailing boat. It looks like he talked to Roy about joining him. Yann had lost three of his crew but it don’t say why. Could be they didn’t want the risk and left to join other trawlers.’
‘Does it say who the rest of Yann’s crew were?’
Tom ran a finger down the page then nodded. ‘Right, we got Roy Nichols as mate –’
‘Hang on.’ Jess got up to fetch a notebook and pen. ‘OK’ she sat down again and flipped the pad open to a fresh page.
‘Thomas Henry Peters, that’s Gramps; Des Olds –’
‘Will’s grandfather?’
Tom nodded. ‘Des’s son, Michael – always known as Mick he was – he married Lizzie Webb and they had Will.’
‘I remember now. Mick worked on George Eathorne’s boat before the accident.’
‘Father was some upset over that.’ Tom shook his head. ‘Mick went overboard and drowned and George died trapped in the wheelhouse. Don’t bear thinking about. Jon Laity stayed afloat long enough to be picked up by Janner Laity’s boat and he told them what happened. But three weeks later he had a heart attack from the stress of it all.’
‘Tom, I wouldn’t ask anyone else, and I don’t mean to sound critical, but when the nets snagged and the weather was blowing up rough, why didn’t George tell the others to cut the ropes?’
‘They nets would be worth hundreds of pounds,’ Tom explained. ‘It was hard enough making a living when catches were good. He’d want to try and free them if he could. By time he realised the danger it was too late.’
Jess rested her hand on his thigh offering silent comfort. ‘Who else?’
‘George’s father, Benji Eathorne. The last two were Bert and Cecil Collins. Twins, they were, worked in their uncle’s market garden when they weren’t fishing.’ He turned to another marked page. ‘Yann brought over canvas trousers and the blue or brown smocks Breton fishermen wore, so they would fit in proper. Gwennel crossed from Cornwall overnight. She had a small diesel engine to use if there wasn’t enough wind. At daybreak she joined the fishing fleet and waited until nightfall. Then under cover of darkness she’d slip into a quiet cove to hand over radio equipment for the Resistance and pick up people needing to get out of France. Gramps says those people often had useful information about German troop movements.’
‘How did Yann know where to pick them up from? Did the agents signal from shore, like the old smugglers used to?’
He shot her a droll look. ‘Gwennel had a radio on board. It was the same kind as the agents used.’ He turned to another marked page. ‘One time Yann was bringing back an agent. Thirty miles off the French coast they was caught in a searchlight.’
Jess gasped. ‘Germans?’
Tom shook his head. ‘A Wellington bomber looking for enemy submarines. Normally if they saw anything suspicious they’d drop depth charges. Because it was just a fishing boat they didn’t bother. But another time the boat was a few miles off Cornwall when a German plane fired on them. It was a miracle no one was killed. Des and Benji was hit by wood splinters, but they was only flesh wounds, thank the Lord. Painful enough, but at least it wasn’t an artery. They made it back to Polvellan then had to spend a couple of days patching up the sails and digging shrapnel out of the deck and masts.’
Jess gazed at him in awed amazement. ‘You must have been up half the night to have found all this.’
‘I was. Once I started – it gets a hold of you, you know?’ He grinned. ‘Course you do. I tell you, Jess, my eyes was sore, my head was thumping and I still didn’t want to stop. I promised myself just a couple more pages. But they two pages led me on to something even more interesting. It was after two when I got in the bed.’
‘Tom!’
He raised his hands, palm out. ‘Don’t go onto me, my sweetheart. Learned a lot I have.’ His wry smile held real pleasure. ‘I never realised – it’s like a treasure hunt. You got me hooked
now.’
‘What did you find that was so interesting?’
‘One of the agents Yann brought out was a Frenchman. His code-name was Michel. He came over to London to talk to General de Gaulle and try to get more money for the resistance. But his wife and two children were still in France. After the meeting, Yann took him back so Michel could help set up a network of agents who would work all along the Brittany coast. Six months later – that’d be the end of March – Yann had a message from Michel saying he needed to get his family out.
‘The pick-up was arranged for Wednesday April 8th. Gwennel was in Polvellan after bringing back another agent who had got hold of a copy of German troop movements from a painter and decorator working in some grand house the Germans had commandeered. Some brave risk that was. Anyhow, Gwennel left Polvellan and two days later early in the morning she slipped in among the fleet.
‘From afternoon on they was watching but there was no sign of the contact boat. No message come through on the radio neither, and Yann didn’t dare send one. Night passed and still nothing. By next morning Yann, Roy and the others was worried sick. They didn’t know whether to hang on, or go back to Cornwall. In early afternoon a Heinkel flew over on patrol. Just after four, three German Corvettes steamed past heading north.
‘Not long after they’d gone, Yann noticed a small sailboat that had been tacking in among the fleet heading directly for Gwennel. As she come close, Yann recognised Michel. The sailboat was made fast alongside. Roy, Bert and Cecil hauled up Michel’s wife, two children and their luggage. Michel was last one aboard. While Des and Benji hustled them down the trawler’s hatch, Thomas and the twins handed down petrol, oil, and equipment to be passed on to the agents. The exchange only took a few minutes then the lines was cast off, the sailboat turned towards land and Gwennel headed out to sea just as another Heinkel came over. Could have been the same one, keeping an eye on the fleet.’
‘That was too close for comfort,’ said Jess.
Tom nodded. ‘Michel and his family had been hiding in a cramped sail locker for sixteen hours. The poor kiddies was awful seasick. But they had to stay below for another day and a half until the trawler reached English waters. Yann put them ashore at Falmouth.’
‘They must have been so grateful.’
‘I should think so. Yann sailed Gwennel round to Polvellan and up the river to our yard. It turned out to be their last trip. Gramps had a visit from someone in SOE to say they weren’t needed any more and were forbidden to ever talk about what they’d done.’
Jess gazed at him, appalled. ‘They had sailed to and from Brittany in all weathers, at risk of being captured or sunk, knowing if they didn’t arrive it could mean death for the agents and their helpers. And that was that?’
Tom shrugged. ‘It was war, Jess. They did it because they wanted to help. Each time they brought someone out or took agents over and came home safe was a victory for them and a poke in the eye for the Germans.’
‘I know they didn’t do it for medals or recognition. But –’ she sighed then glanced at him. ‘Is it all right with you if I type all this up? I’ll include all the BMD details for each of the men because most of them have descendants or relatives living in the village. I’ll give a copy to Frances. Knowing her uncle Roy was a hero might help make up for her father.’
‘Course I don’t mind. But I got one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You make a copy for me.’ He closed the ledger.
‘Tom, without all the work you’ve done, I wouldn’t have anything to type.’
‘Like I said, once I started it pulled me in. I’ve never known time go so fast.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have the crumble now.’ She started to get up, but he caught her hand and gently pulled her back against him.
‘I got a powerful need for a hug first, if you don’t mind?’
Smiling, she slid her arms round his neck. ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.’
Chapter Nine
Waking at 7a.m. on Saturday morning, Jess stretched then relaxed, revelling the warmth and comfort as she relived her evening with Tom. His surprise and pleasure at what he had discovered, and his deeper understanding of the enjoyment she gained from helping people find answers had brought them even closer.
She threw back the covers and went to the window, hopeful as she pulled back the curtains. Last night’s forecast had promised a fine day. Puffball clouds sailed on a breeze across a forget-me-not blue sky. If the weather held, the rally would be crowded and that meant more money for local charities.
By half past eight she had showered, dressed in jeans, shirt and sweater, made her bed, eaten breakfast and washed up, cleaned out the ashes and re-laid the fire with paper, kindling and logs of dry apple-wood. By nine she had packed all her cake tins, plus six clear plastic bags of ginger fairings fastened with plastic ties, into a large cardboard box. On top she placed a lidded tin containing five pounds’ worth of change.
She made a last trip to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and put on some makeup. With the box at her feet, she put on her holly-green fleece and zipped purse, comb, lip gloss and a packet of wet wipes into a pocket. That would save the bother of a handbag. She opened her front door as Viv’s little yellow car pulled up at the end of her path.
Picking up the box, she was locking her front door when Elsie peered out.
‘All right, bird? We’ll be up dreckly.’
‘Have you got a lift?’
Elsie nodded. ‘Don’t you worry ‘bout us. Annie’s coming here and Jase will take the three of us up in his van. He’s lending us his pasting table and Annie found another folding chair to go with my two.’ She looked skyward. ‘Nice bit of sunshine. That’ll bring people out.’
‘See you later.’ Jess hurried down the path, put the box on the back seat beside a similar one Viv had packed with plastic tubs then climbed in.
‘Going to be a perfect day,’ Viv beamed, typically colourful in bubblegum pink top and indigo jeggings, her high-piled hair held in place by a tortoiseshell plastic bulldog clip decorated with two sunflowers. ‘Jimmy was up there till nine last night helping with the marquee and tents. Four traction engines and a steam roller come in. The working section brought their stuff in too but left it till this morning to set up. Jimmy was gone again by seven this morning.’
‘How are things with your mother?’
‘That Dr McFarlane come. Lovely she was. Stayed nearly two hours. Mother started off polite then lost her rag and was cursing and swearing. I tell you, Jess, I could have died of shame. The doctor just sat there.’
‘I expect she’s used to it.’
‘She’ve given Mother tablets. But all they’ll do is slow it down.’
‘It is dementia then?’
Viv nodded and Jess saw her swallow. ‘Now we got to decide what to do. Father can’t stay home with her all the time. Well, he could. But she’d make his life hell. So either I got to have her down with me, if she’ll come. Or I got to spend half each day up her place and cook dinner. She can’t be left on her own. She might burn the place down.’
‘Viv, I’m so sorry.’
‘So’m I. But we just got to get on with it. Jimmy’s promised to help, dear of him. He’s good as gold.’
As they approached the junction with the road leading up to the rally fields, they joined a slow-moving queue. Marshals in hi-vis lemon jackets stopped lorries and low-loaders carrying tractors and other machines to check their passes and direct them to correct field.
‘There he is now,’ Viv pointed. She had stuck her pass to the lower edge of her windscreen, and Jimmy bent to look in.
‘Know where you’re going do you?’
‘Course we do,’ Viv retorted then turned to Jess, eyebrows raised in silent query.
‘Stalls round the parade ring,’ Jess called across. ‘Ours is number twelve.’
‘Next gate up and ask again.’ He waved them through with a grin.
They drove slowly past the first field and a sign in large black printing on orange card stating this was the public car park. The gate had been removed and the opening widened for easier access. Jess saw Tom’s son, Chris – a neon-orange waistcoat over his fleece – directing drivers towards three similarly dressed lads who showed them where to park. One row was full, the one behind filling up fast. Though the official opening wasn’t until 11a.m., Val had told her that the stallholders and concession stands would be doing business long before that.
Reaching the second gateway, Viv clicked her indicator to turn right. The hedge was low with drainage ditches on either side. This allowed them to see across the two huge fields. The first was divided into sections by bright orange tape strung between waist-high metal posts. Vintage cars, motorbikes and tractors were slowly starting to fill each section. Lorries and low-loaders bringing more trundled up the lane and entered the showground by a third gate at the top. Some were already parked nose-in along the hedge on the far side. The unloaded vehicles were being driven slowly to join others in their display area. The throaty roar of engines was punctuated by greetings and banter carried on the breeze
Another volunteer came forward, checked Viv’s car pass then the two passes Jess held up.
Resting a hand on the top of the car he bent to ask, ‘Where ‘ee going, bird?’
‘Number twelve, cake stall,’ Viv said.
‘In along the track past the marquee, turn left, uplong a bit, then left again. Mor and Ben is already up there.’
‘Thanks, Billy.’ As Viv’s little car bumped along the uneven track skirting the field edge, Jess saw men carrying folding tables and stacks of plastic chairs into a big marquee open down most of one side. More people laden with cardboard boxes and trays bustled in and out of a smaller one next to it. A wooden sign painted in green and red script above the door read ‘Crafts.’
‘That’s some great tent they got for the bar’ Viv observed.
‘According to Val,’ said Jess, ‘the company running it pays a lump sum and a percentage of the takings. They go to all the rallies and they know that giving people somewhere comfortable to sit means they’ll stay longer and spend more money.’