‘Malcolm will!’ Charlotte assured her. ‘You know he likes you. He won’t care if you’re wearing your old dress.’
‘He may not,’ Clare said bitterly, ‘but I will.’
‘But you like him, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Clare, ‘you know I do... that’s the point!’
‘Can I give Clare my yellow check skirt?’ Charlotte asked Miss Edie later, when she got home. ‘It’s too small for me really, isn’t it? But it’d fit Clare all right and she hasn’t got anything pretty to wear for the dance.’
‘You could offer to lend it to her,’ suggested Miss Edie. She had found the length of yellow gingham in the market in Wells last summer and had bought it to make Charlotte a summer skirt. She had indeed grown out of it now, but Miss Edie had it earmarked for further alteration.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s not the same. I have to give it to her so that it’s hers.’
Miss Edie could see the point and reluctantly she agreed, so that evening Charlotte took the skirt round to Mrs Prynne’s and gave it to Clare.
‘Everyone’ll know it’s yours,’ objected Clare.
‘Course they won’t!’ Charlotte assured her. ‘I haven’t been wearing it cos it’s too small for me. They won’t remember. And what if they do? Since rationing, everyone’s swapping clothes.’
Billy had called for Charlotte at exactly half past seven. He was waiting in the hallway of Blackdown House when she came down the stairs, pausing at the turn to smile down at him. Billy had claimed her as his girl over a year ago, but as she walked down the stairs, dressed for her first dance, it was as if scales had fallen from his eyes and he were seeing her for the first time. No longer was she the scruffy Charlotte in dungarees and wellington boots who helped him muck out the pig and feed the hens, the Charlotte who, with her dog at her heels, strode out over the hills with him, the Charlotte who wobbled along behind him on his sister’s bike. Now, she was transformed into a new and exotic Charlotte whom he hardly recognised.
Her hair had grown longer over the last months and this evening Miss Edie had helped her put it up for the first time. Swept back smoothly from her face, it was held in place by two tortoiseshell combs, its length coiled at the nape of her neck. The confused and frightened school girl who had arrived from London all those months ago with no memory of who she was, had emerged as a tall and confident young woman with glossy brown hair, warm brown eyes and a generous mouth that curved into a wide smile as she looked down at him. A wave of love surged through Billy, leaving him hot and breathless, and with it he recognised, for the first time, the depth of his feelings for her. Charlotte. His girl. He’d been fond of her, enjoyed being with her, felt the need to protect her, but now, suddenly, he felt awkward and shy. Could this beautiful girl really be his? Could she possibly feel the same about him as he did about her? For the first time Billy felt diffident, hesitant, unsure of what had been so certain before. Charlotte smiled across at him, apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him, and his heart turned a somersault before he pulled himself together and stepping forward said, ‘Charlotte, you look fantastic.’ And there was no disguising the admiration in his eyes.
‘Doesn’t she just?’ agreed Miss Edie, beaming.
‘So do you,’ replied Charlotte, for it was the first time she’d ever seen Billy in a suit, a shirt with a collar and tie, his curly, fair hair smoothed down within an inch of its life. His deep-set blue eyes shone bright from his summer-tanned face and she thought she’d never seen him look more handsome.
‘Midnight,’ Miss Edie reminded them, ‘and not a minute later.’ She watched them walk out into the evening sun and knew a moment of melancholy, remembering how she and Herbert had walked together so many years ago. But her memories were no longer bitter. Herbert had loved her and she him, but he was long gone, and since this strange child had been catapulted into her life and she’d learned to love her, Miss Edie had, at last, been able to revisit her memories without pain and move on.
The hall was hot despite the windows being open and the doors propped wide to allow the thick summer air to circulate. It was almost dusk and when darkness fell they knew they would have to shut the doors and fix the blackout screens, but for just a little longer they were able to continue dancing by the light of the evening sun.
A four-piece band was playing, Paul Rollett thumping away on the village hall piano, Bob Fountain playing his accordion, Andy Hallman blowing mournfully into his saxophone and Dennis Bird beating his drums to keep them in time. Everyone was at the midsummer dance; it was the high spot of the summer and eagerly awaited. Almost every household in Wynsdown had contributed something to the feast and Jack at the Magpie was providing the beer and lemonade.
Some of the senior school children had spent the afternoon decorating the hall with bunting, draping the flags across the ceiling and filling the windowsills with vases of wild flowers gathered from the hedgerows that morning.
It was a wonderful evening. Everyone had managed to find something festive to wear, even if it was only some flowers for a girl’s hair or a jacket from the back of a cupboard, ironed and pressed into uncomfortable service for the evening. Everyone was chattering, sharing plates of food and, of course, dancing. Charlotte grinned across at Clare when she saw her with Malcolm Flint, his arm around her shoulders, and Clare dressed in the yellow skirt and a white lacy blouse that might have once been a net curtain, beaming with pleasure as they walked out on to the tiny space that served as the dance floor.
The vicar and Mrs Vicar were there, as were many of those who had offered homes to the evacuees. Caroline Morrison had come down for the weekend and was being squired by Dr Masters. It was an evening the village was to remember for a long time to come; an evening of good food, good cheer and warmth. Once it grew dark outside, the doors were closed and the blackout shutters put in place. It made the hall unutterably hot and more than one couple slipped out into the warm darkness beyond its walls.
Billy, still a little disorientated by the sudden revelation of his feelings, stood watching the dancing for some time. He didn’t know how to talk to this new, confident Charlotte. For the first time in his life he felt out of his depth.
‘Come on, Billy,’ called Clare from the dance floor. ‘Why aren’t you dancing?’
Charlotte looked up at Billy with a mischievous grin. ‘Why aren’t we dancing, Billy?’ she demanded.
‘I’m not very good at dancing,’ he replied awkwardly, still hesitating.
‘Don’t be silly,’ cried Charlotte, turning to him with a smile that raised his heart-rate. ‘We’ve come to a dance. Let’s dance!’ She held out her hand to him and together they joined the dancers on the floor.
Charlotte was thistledown in his arms, but Billy felt as if he had two left feet.
‘Told you I wasn’t very good,’ he mumbled as he trod on her toe, but Charlotte simply laughed and, holding tight to his arm, refused to let him leave the dance floor.
The band stopped for a well-earned break and with some relief Billy went to the bar to fetch them a drink. Charlotte stood watching the people gathered in the hall, people she’d come to know over the months she’d been in Wynsdown.
‘Hallo, Charlotte.’
Charlotte turned to find Miss Morrison standing beside her, smiling. ‘You look as if you’re enjoying yourself. I saw you dancing!’
‘Oh, I am, Miss Morrison,’ Charlotte cried. ‘We’ve been having dancing lessons at school and I love it.’
‘It’s lovely to see you so happy,’ Miss Morrison said. ‘How’s Miss Everard?’
‘Miss Edie? Oh, she’s fine. I tried to get her to come here tonight, but she said she had a bit of a headache and anyway she’s too old for gallivanting.’ Charlotte looked up at Caroline Morrison and said softly, ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Miss Morrison. I’m very happy with Miss Edie.’
‘Good,’ said Miss Morrison, ‘that’s all I wanted to know. Enjoy the res
t of your evening.’
‘What did she want?’ asked Billy when he came back with their drinks.
‘She just wanted to know if I was all right. She’s always been very kind to me, Billy.’
Billy nodded and handed her a glass of lemonade before taking a long pull at his pint of scrumpy.
‘It’s hot in here,’ Charlotte said as she sipped her drink. ‘Shall we go outside and see if it’s a bit cooler?’
Billy would never have dared suggest this to her on this evening, when suddenly their relationship seemed to have changed, but when the suggestion came from her he turned towards the door and holding aside the blackout curtain, led her outside.
‘That’s better,’ Charlotte said as they sat down on one of the benches set around the green. A three-quarter moon sailed out from behind a cloud, bathing the village in silver, the church tower across the green standing in stark relief against the night sky. It was certainly cooler outside and the change in temperature made Charlotte shiver.
‘You’re cold,’ Billy said.
She looked up at him, her face lifted to his. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘not really.’
Awkwardly, Billy slipped his arm around her shoulders and felt the warmth of her body against his. His kiss was gentle, little more than a brush of his lips against hers, but when she sighed with pleasure, he kissed her again and this time she responded, slipping her arms round his neck to hold him close. After a long moment they broke apart, breathless.
‘Oh, Charlotte,’ was all he could say, but it seemed to be enough as she sighed and snuggled against him.
Other couples had drifted out into the darkness, but as they heard the band strike up again they were returning to the party inside the hall. Suddenly shy, Charlotte got to her feet and said, ‘We should go in.’
It was a magical evening and, floating on a cloud of happiness, Charlotte didn’t want it to end. With Billy’s arms around her she felt she could dance for ever. When the band finally struck up the last waltz, everyone crowded on to the dance floor and there was hardly room to move. Charlotte danced with her head on Billy’s shoulder, enfolded in his arms, so that she felt the steady beat of his heart, beating in rhythm with her own.
As promised, Billy left Charlotte at the door of Blackdown House at a minute to midnight. They had walked slowly home along the lane, arms entwined, complete in their new-found happiness. Outside the gate they paused for one last kiss, before Charlotte slipped from his arms and ran lightly up to the front door. With one hand on the latch she turned for a final blown kiss and then she opened the door and was gone.
Billy turned back down the lane and as he walked home his whole being was filled with Charlotte. His girl. His love. But as he walked across the fields, silvered in the moonlight, he found himself thinking of what he’d recently been asked to do and, for the first time, he wished he’d refused.
Charlotte, safely home at Blackdown House, sat on her bed and relived the evening. Her evening with Billy. The feel of his arms round her as they danced, his cheek against her hair, his breath on her cheek, the pressure of his hand in the small of her back and above all the way he’d kissed her. The evening had been wonderful. The exuberance of the dance in the hall, the laughter and the gaiety, despite the wartime austerity, had lifted the spirits of the whole village. They had raised a collective two fingers to Hitler and his crew and the jollity of the evening had left everyone with a sense of wellbeing as they walked home through the warm darkness of a midsummer’s night.
32
The peace of that summer night was shattered just over an hour later by the howl of the air raid sirens. Most of the people of Wynsdown had fallen into bed, exhausted after the night’s festivities in the village hall, and were rudely roused again by the unexpected warning.
Charlotte jerked awake, pulled from the depths of sleep by the insistent wail that echoed across the hills. Miss Edie, startled from a deep sleep, got out of bed and crossed to her window. Careful to show no light, she pulled aside the blackout and looked out into the night. There was nothing to see, but it was not long before the sound of sirens was overlaid by the throb of aircraft.
A moment later Charlotte was beside her at the window. The drone of the aircraft was quite distinct now and in the distance starbursts of anti-aircraft fire lit the sky.
‘Do you think they’re headed for Bristol?’ Charlotte said as she craned her neck looking for the approaching planes.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Miss Edie, ‘but I can’t see any planes, can you?’
‘No. Perhaps they’re not as close as they sound.’
Major Bellinger and his Home Guards turned out at once to patrol the village and surrounding area, checking for leaking light and manning the prepared observation posts, but there was little more they could do.
Billy had not been asleep when the siren began and he was soon dressed in his Home Guard uniform and following his father out into the night. The moon was still in the sky, gleaming intermittently between rags of cloud, and they quickly made their way to the small stone shelter perched on a rise above the farm that served as an observation post. Once their eyes were accustomed to the midsummer darkness, they found their way across the familiar fields quite easily and were soon ensconced on the top of the hillock with their binoculars, scanning the sky towards Weston-Super-Mare, Wales and the sea. The post was connected by field telephone to Major Bellinger’s HQ at the manor, but though they stayed in the shelter until the all-clear sounded, there was nothing to report.
Other members of the platoon continued their patrols, dark shapes that could be seen prowling the village, keeping their vigil. They could hear distant explosions and vivid flashes of brilliance lit the western sky, too far away to pinpoint the targets, but close enough to fill the night air with the clamour of the raid.
Throughout the village people stood at their windows watching the sky. Few took shelter these days; the raids had fallen off in recent months and few people felt in danger when the sirens went off.
‘Looks as if Weston’s the target tonight,’ David Swanson said to his wife as they and the three children, who had crept from their beds, watched from a bedroom window. Little Val slipped her hand into his.
‘I don’t like it,’ she whispered.
‘No,’ David agreed softly, ‘nor do I. But the bombs are too far away to hurt us here.’
‘But why?’ asked Avril. ‘Why Weston, I mean.’
‘The Oldmixon factory, I expect, or maybe Banwell,’ replied David. ‘Obvious targets, really, aircraft factories.’
‘But how do they know about those?’ wondered Avril.
David shrugged. ‘Reconnaissance flights, I suppose.’
‘And the airfield,’ put in Paul. ‘They’d want to bomb that.’
‘And the airfield,’ David agreed and not wanting to frighten the girls any further said, ‘Come on, all of you, back to bed. You’ll catch cold out here.’ He picked Val up in his arms and, followed by the other two, carried her back to her bed, sitting beside her until she drifted off to sleep again.
When the all-clear finally sounded most of the inhabitants of Wynsdown had gone back to bed and later awoke to a peaceful Sunday morning. News of the attack on Weston reached the village early on. Martha Mason, the village schoolteacher, had a cousin who lived in Weston and she had spoken to her briefly on the phone.
‘There’s an awful lot of damage,’ she reported to those around her as she stood outside the church waiting for morning service. ‘My cousin Angela lives just off Moorland Road and she says there’s lots of damage there. It’s quite dreadful. The civil defence people are out searching for survivors in the ruined houses.’
There was an immediate buzz among the parishioners still gathered at the church gate and Martha became the centre of attention until the vicar came out to encourage his flock inside for the service. He, too, had news of the raid on Weston, where his elderly aunt now lived. She had rung the vicarage to let them know that she was safe and her home
undamaged.
‘Some of the roads are badly affected,’ she’d told him. ‘But don’t worry about me. I’m fine and I don’t need to go out.’
David had been relieved and during the service he offered prayers for those who had been killed, injured or had lost their homes.
Charlotte and Miss Edie, who some months before had been prevailed upon to rejoin the choir, had been invited to the vicarage for lunch, and it was with a certain air of gloom that they all gathered in the vicarage garden in the summer sunshine for an alfresco meal. Caroline Morrison was there with Dr Masters.
‘I’m going back up to London tomorrow,’ Caroline told them. ‘I’m taking over a new children’s refuge in North London. It’s a home that was damaged in the Blitz, but it’s been repaired and is up and running again. It’ll be quite a challenge, but I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Has the bombing stopped in London now?’ asked Miss Edie.
‘Well, there isn’t the blanket bombing like during the Blitz,’ Caroline replied, ‘but there are occasional raids still.’
‘They said on the wireless that Hitler’s turned his attention elsewhere, now. Just bombing towns and cities at random.’
‘You mean like Weston?’ said Avril bleakly.
‘Caro’d come down to get away from bombs for a bit,’ said Dr Masters, ‘and now they’ve started bombing here!’
‘Well,’ said David, ‘let’s hope this was a one-off and we’ve seen the last of them.’
It wasn’t and they hadn’t. That night, soon after midnight, the sirens warned of another raid and once more a flight of enemy aircraft appeared over the horizon, sinister dark shapes in the night sky occasionally fixed for a moment in the beam of a pursuing searchlight. Anti-aircraft guns along the coast pounded away, sending shell after shell to explode among the marauding planes and below, the boom of explosions made clear the toll being exacted on the town.
Once more, the Home Guard were out on patrol. Most of them had had little or no sleep the previous night and several of them were slow to appear on duty that evening. Billy and his father returned to their observation post. From their perch on the hillside they could see across the fields down to the village in one direction and out towards the coast in the other.
The Girl With No Name Page 37