by Ellie Dean
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Ellie Dean
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Map
Family Tree
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Copyright
About the Book
Cliffehaven May 1944
The tension is rising for Peggy Reilly and the inhabitants of Cliffehaven as the planes continue to roar above the town. There seems to be no end in sight of this war, which has scattered her family and brought conflict right to the door of Beach View Boarding House, and its toll is beginning to weigh on her slender shoulders.
Meanwhile, Peggy’s father-in-law, Ron Reilly, has landed himself in hot water with his sweetheart, Rosie – and this time, his Irish charm will not be enough to get him out of trouble.
The war has forever changed the lives of Peggy’s loved ones, but with the promise of an Allied invasion comes the hope that her beloved husband and family will at last be coming home. It will take an enormous amount of spirit to keep that hope alive and bring harmony back to Beach View.
About the Author
Ellie Dean lives in a tiny hamlet set deep in the heart of the South Downs in Sussex, which has been her home for many years and where she raised her three children. She is the author of the eleven Beach View Boarding House novels. Until You Come Home is the twelfth in this series.
To find out more visit www.ellie-dean.co.uk
Also by Ellie Dean
There’ll be Blue Skies
Far From Home
Keep Smiling Through
Where the Heart Lies
Always in My Heart
All My Tomorrows
Some Lucky Day
While We’re Apart
Sealed With a Loving Kiss
Sweet Memories of You
Shelter from the Storm
Until You Come Home
The Waiting Hours
Acknowledgements
People often think that being an author is a solitary pursuit, and to begin with it is just that, but once my story leaves my office a whole team of wonderful people help to make it even better.
I would like to thank Viola Hayden for being such an understanding and joyous collaborating editor during her time at Arrow. It was a huge pleasure to work with you and although I shall miss our chats, I wish you the very best in your new job.
The team at Arrow is always supportive, imaginative and very helpful, and although I can’t list everyone here, I’d like to thank Susan Sandon, Becky McCarthy, Emily Griffin, and my new editor – and fellow Aussie – Cassandra Di Bello for their continued and much valued support and advice. You’ve helped me realise my dream!
No acknowledgement is complete without mentioning my agent, Teresa Chris, who’s been my travelling companion on this life-changing journey ever since she got my very first book published back in 1995. She has been unfailing in her energy and enthusiasm to see my career flourish, and thank you is not enough – for without her, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
A Map of Cliffehaven
The Cliffehaven Family Tree
I dedicate this book to the brave men who fought in India and Burma, and the stoic women who kept the home-fires burning as they waited for them to come home.
1
Cliffehaven, May 1944
It was Saturday morning and all was quiet at Beach View, except for sounds of activity in the scullery. Peggy Reilly was attacking the last of the mound of washing that had accumulated over the past week. Her evacuees, or her chicks, as she liked to think of them, had seen to their own and the elderly Cordelia’s laundry the day before, but having changed the beds and gone through her father-in-law, Ron’s, tip of a room in search of discarded underwear, dirty towels and shirts, there had been as much as ever to get through, and half the morning was already gone.
She filled the stone sink with hot water from the copper boiler, added a spoonful of soda crystals, and, having waited for them to dissolve, began to rinse out the sheets before feeding them through the wringer and into the basket. Each dip of her hands into the hot water and every turn of the wringer’s handle reinforced her yearning for a proper twin-tub washing machine. Her older sister Doris had been lucky (and rich) enough to buy one before the war. Peggy knew for a fact that once it was loaded it made short work of a week’s washing, and then all one had to do was transfer it into the second tub where it was rinsed and spun, ready to be hung out on the line. Yet, as she and Doris had fallen out yet again, there was no chance of using it, even occasionally.
Peggy switched off the copper boiler, dumped the last sheet into the basket, hauled it onto her hip and carried it into the back garden. She’d thought that by earning her own money at Solly’s uniform factory she could have put down a deposit and paid it off weekly; but it turned out that things like washing machines, electric kettles, fridges and irons were as rare as hens’ teeth, and so here she was, once more forced to carry on the weekly ritual which ate into her precious weekend off.
The two washing lines were strung across the width of the garden from poles attached to the neighbouring fences. Long, forked wooden props stood at intervals underneath the line, keeping the laundry from dragging across Ron’s vegetable beds, which had replaced the lawn beyond the paved area beneath the kitchen window. There was a good stiff breeze which snapped and flapped the washing already pegged out, and the sun was bright when it appeared intermittently between the scudding clouds, so at least everything would be dry and ready for ironing before teatime.
Peggy’s gaze drifted over Ron’s sprouting vegetable plot and the ugly corrugated iron Anderson shelter, noting that Queenie the cat had found a sunny spot by the flint wall, and was curled in a tight knot, fast asleep. The few chickens that had so far escaped the cooking pot were scratching about in their run. The cockerel, which they’d nicknamed Adolf because of the way he strutted about, was sitting on the roof of the coop surveying his harem with a proprietorial glint in his eye. He was a ruddy nuisance with his crowing at all hours, but as the hens laid a good number of eggs and he was often drowned out by the sound of the planes going overhead, Peggy could almost forgive him.
She let her mind wander as she wrestled with the sheets, vaguely aware of the familiar background noise of the wireless coming from the many open windows of the neighbouring houses as well as her own. Every shop, pub, factory, office and home kept the wireless on now, but Peggy didn’t take much notice of it unless it was time for the news, and then the whole of Cliffehaven stopped what they were doing and gathered round in the hope that the growing rumours of an Allied invasion into France had become reality.
It was now almost the end of May, and the number of air raids over France and Germany had increased dramatically. As the news of Allied victories in Italy and the Far East came through, the time seemed right to push their advantage and get rid of Hitler and his thugs once and for all. Yet those in charge appeared to have other ideas, and the waiting was getting to Peggy, just as it was for everyone, for there was still no clue as to when the invasion might happen. But it would – it had t
o if this war was ever to end.
She looked up as several squadrons of bombers and fighter planes roared overhead. They’d recently been taking off and landing at nearby Cliffe aerodrome day and night, the bombing campaign over the northern shores of France and into Germany increasing in strength and regularity. Her heart swelled with pride as the heavy-bellied roar of the huge British bombers rattled the window panes and sent a tremor through the walls of the old Victorian terraced houses and in the ground beneath her feet. ‘God speed and bring you home safely,’ she murmured.
Picking up the empty basket to carry indoors, she took a quavering breath as she thought of her darling Jim who was fighting the Japs in Burma; her nephew, Brendon, who’d be returning to duty with the Royal Naval Reserve tomorrow; and her son-in-law, Martin, who’d been shot down and was now a POW in Stalag III along with many of his fellow RAF officers. They were so brave, every last one of them, and all she could do was pray that this war would soon be over and they could return to their loved ones and enjoy the blessed peace which they’d all been denied for too long.
Her thoughts automatically went to Matthew Champion, Rita’s lovely young pilot who’d lost his life some months ago in that awful raid over Berlin which had seen so many die or taken prisoner. Rita was putting on a brave face, throwing herself into her work as a mechanic at the fire station and spending every spare moment raising money for the local Spitfire fund – but the sadness and awful loss could still be seen in her wan face and haunted dark eyes, and Peggy’s heart ached with the knowledge that there was very little she could do to ease the girl’s suffering, except to mother and console her.
With a tremulous sigh, Peggy stowed the basket away in the scullery, then went up the concrete steps into her deserted kitchen. Ron had done his usual vanishing act with his dog Harvey straight after breakfast; Rita, Ivy and Fran were at work; and Cordelia had gone with Sarah and Peggy’s little Daisy into town to see if there was anything worth queuing for in the shops – a faint hope, but one that sprang eternal regardless of the stark reality of empty shelves.
She bustled about, clearing the last of the dishes from the drainer and tidying away Daisy’s toys. It was a relief to be able to get on without being hindered by her two-year-old daughter, who’d lately become rather demanding when she thought she wasn’t the centre of attention – an unfortunate result of her being so well entertained by Nanny Pringle and her assistants at the factory nursery.
Peggy regarded the shabby kitchen fondly, her gaze drifting over the faded oilcloth on the large table, the mismatched chairs and battered old dresser which was covered in all sorts of clutter and no doubt gathering dust and cobwebs. The wireless was burbling away to itself, but a glance at the clock told Peggy it would be an hour before the twelve o’clock news came on – unless of course there was a special bulletin.
She went to the larder in the corner of the kitchen and took out the bowl of pigeon breasts Ron had prepared the night before. He’d been out on the hills at dusk and lain in wait with his shotgun for the pigeons to return to their regular roosts, and had bagged a dozen or more as they’d flown in low on the buffeting wind coming off the sea. There wasn’t a lot of meat on a pigeon and the shotgun pellets had made a bit of a mess of them, but getting meat of any sort was a minor miracle these days, and as Ron had assured her he’d retrieved all the pellets, they would make a fitting farewell meal for Brendon on his last night home. Peggy had offered to host the dinner, because Frank and Pauline’s cottage over at Tamarisk Bay wouldn’t quite stretch to the occasion.
Brendon had had four short days of leave having recently returned from Devon, and his mother, Pauline, had been ecstatic, fussing over him and hardly letting him out of her sight. Peggy feared the inevitable histrionics which would follow his departure, and could only hope that Frank could keep Pauline calm and focused on the need to carry on and remain positive. And yet, Peggy reasoned, perhaps she was being harsh, for Pauline and Frank had already lost two sons to this war, which made Brendon extra precious – and if she’d been in a similar situation, she would probably have felt just as on edge and terrified.
With all the rumours of an Allied invasion, none of them had a clue as to where Brendon would be posted – and he wouldn’t enlighten them. But Pauline had refused to even contemplate the idea that he might be involved in the fighting again, and was adamant that he’d be sent back to the London docks. Ron, Frank and Peggy didn’t have the heart to disagree with her, even though they thought it was highly unlikely with so many servicemen pouring into every nook and cranny of the south coast.
Peggy also doubted he’d go back to Devon. Something must have happened down there, for she and Ron had noticed how Brendon and his father, Frank, had been grim-faced and tight-lipped on their return. And surely any invasion would leave from Dover, as it was the shortest route to France, and the Pas-de-Calais had been repeatedly bombarded by the Allies recently.
She gave an exasperated sigh at her jumbled thoughts and speculations. The trouble with this war was that no one said anything definite about what was happening, and even the newspapers and frequent radio bulletins couldn’t be relied upon to tell the whole truth in case it affected morale. It seemed that all anyone could do was make an educated guess at the state of things, and try to read between the lines.
Peggy determinedly put these thoughts aside as she seasoned the pigeon meat and placed it in her large stewing pot. She then set about chopping the garden vegetables she’d picked earlier. Adding the rich stock she’d made from boiling a ham bone Alf the butcher had slipped her from under the counter, she popped on the lid and put the pot in the range’s slow oven. There would be eleven of them round the table this evening if she counted Daisy, so she’d planned to cook new potatoes with fresh mint to go with the stew, followed by an apple and rhubarb crumble. The apples had been stored since last autumn in the basement, the rhubarb picked this morning, and she had just enough plain white flour to make a decent crumble.
Peggy added a pinch of salt to the sifted flour and crumbled the tiny knob of margarine and teaspoon of sugar into the mix and then set the bowl aside. She would top the softened fruit with the mixture nearer to teatime so it didn’t go to mush, and serve it with the last tin of condensed milk she’d kept hidden right at the back of her larder. Ron was renowned for digging about in there looking for something tasty, and things like condensed milk, sugar and digestive biscuits had a nasty habit of disappearing.
With everything set for supper, she plumped herself down at the table and took off her knotted headscarf, then shook out her dark curls and ran her fingers through them. With the lack of decent shampoo, they felt lifeless and straggling, and she wondered if she should use some of her wages to treat herself to a trip to the hairdresser’s in the High Street – then dismissed the idea immediately. Fran was very skilled with curlers and scissors, and happy to do it for nothing. Wasting money on herself was too indulgent when there were other, more important things to buy. The head on her floor-mop needed replacing for a start; Daisy was growing out of everything, especially her shoes; and her own underwear was falling apart and beyond mending, so that if she was ever involved in an accident and had to be taken to hospital, she’d die of embarrassment.
Peggy dug into her apron pocket and pulled out her packet of Park Drive. Lighting a cigarette, she glanced at the clock. It was now almost midday, but as she wasn’t due to meet Kitty and Charlotte at the Red Cross distribution centre until two, she had time to relax, read her letters from Jim again, fix her hair and catch her breath. She let her gaze linger on the photographs she’d lined up on the mantelpiece and was drawn, as always, to the one of Jim. He smiled roguishly back at her, looking tanned and fit in his tropical-issue uniform, and at first glance appeared younger than the man who’d left Cliffehaven all those many months ago – but on closer inspection she could see there were deeper lines etched around those dark blue eyes which now held the shadows of stark experience and knowledge. Whatever he’d wi
tnessed or been involved in had lent him an air of strength and gritty determination which had been lacking in the Jim she knew and loved. He was no longer the scallywag with a roving eye, a carefree nature, and a nose for a shady deal, but a man honed by vigorous training and imbued with pride for what he’d become.
Peggy bit her lip, wondering what he’d seen and done, and how he would settle back into his old life again once the war was over. Cliffehaven might prove too tame for him after all the excitement of Burma, and he could find it impossible to pick up the threads of hearth and home again – especially as the cinema had been blown up along with his job as a projectionist.
She knew he loved her; knew he was longing to come home, but he wasn’t the only one to have changed since they’d parted, and their separate experiences must surely have widened the gulf between them. And then there was his little Daisy and the grandchildren growing up with only photographs and stories to remind them of who he was. He would be a stranger to them – and maybe even to her – and that thought made her shiver.
Peggy swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away her ready tears, cross with herself for being so pessimistic. They would find a way to get through, for they were strong and invincible as long as they had each other, and she had to keep faith in that, and never let it waver.
She reached for the scruffy letters that had arrived earlier, and read the few, hastily scrawled words Jim had written. The ink was blurred from his sweaty fingers, and although he wrote that he loved and missed her and treasured all the letters he’d received from everyone, he gave little hint as to where he was in Burma, or what the conditions were like. Even so, it was clear he had little time to write, that the jungle heat was as bad as ever, and he was probably involved in the skirmishes that the newscaster was now talking about on the wireless.
Peggy folded away the letters and turned up the volume on the wireless as the news continued. The Japanese were retreating at last, forced back by the advancing Allied soldiers at Kohima and Imphal, the imminent monsoon threatening their supply chains and closing off their escape routes. A number of Japanese ships had been sunk in the Pacific and the islands of New Guinea were now under Allied attack.