by Ellie Dean
‘I’m glad you told me,’ said Peggy. ‘At least now I know what he’s been up to, and can deal with him when he gets home.’
‘Olive’s a terrible gossip, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if half of Cliffehaven knows by now,’ Gracie said. ‘Poor Ron. I don’t fancy his chances when Rosie gets hold of him.’
‘It’ll serve him right if she gives him an earful,’ said Peggy firmly. ‘Rosie has enough to put up with, without his shenanigans.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Brendon’s due to go back on duty tomorrow, so they were no doubt drowning their sorrows, but why in the Crown when they could have done it at home? I wouldn’t have minded.’
Gracie shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Peggy. Who knows what goes on in men’s minds?’
‘Well, they’ll get a piece of mine when they come rolling in tonight, I’ll tell you that for nothing,’ Peggy said before once again breaking into giggles. ‘I do wish I’d seen the ferrets running amok and Gloria threatening Ron like that – it would have brightened my day considerably.’
Rosie Braithwaite had been rushed off her feet over the last two hours and she was ready for a stiff drink, a sit-down and something to eat before she had to prepare for the evening session, which would probably prove just as hectic. With both her middle-aged barmaids off sick, she could have done with Ron’s help this lunchtime, but knowing it was his grandson’s last day of leave, she’d accepted he had more important things to do, and had knuckled down to running the Anchor’s bar single-handedly.
The one bright spark in her day had been Major Radwell, who, despite having lost most of one arm during the battle for Tunis, had collected dirty glasses, brought a crate of brown ale up from the cellar and changed the barrel when the bitter had run out.
Rosie smiled at him as he stood at the bar quietly drinking his gin and tonic, once more noting how handsome he was with those startling grey eyes and dark hair which held only a hint of silver. He was in his late forties, she guessed, and had lovely manners, and as he’d become a regular over the past few weeks and was probably feeling at rather a loose end, she’d made a point of chatting to him during the infrequent lulls between serving, and found him to be most pleasant company.
She glanced up at the clock and was about to ring the bell to call time when Olive Grayson shoved her way up to the bar and asked for another glass of beer. Rosie didn’t like Olive, well aware that she was a malicious gossip, and none too wholesome into the bargain. ‘Sorry, Olive. I’m calling time,’ she said briskly.
‘But you haven’t yet, and I’m still thirsty,’ said Olive, purposefully shoving the glass across the bar.
Rosie didn’t feel like getting into an argument, for it would merely prolong things, and her high-heeled shoes were making her feet ache. ‘Just a half, then,’ she conceded.
‘Ron not helping out today?’ the woman asked, her pale eyes glinting slyly beneath the grubby knotted headscarf.
‘He’s busy with his son and grandson, if you must know,’ said Rosie, placing the glass on the counter and taking the woman’s money. ‘You’ve got five minutes to drink that, Olive, then I’m locking the door.’ She tugged down on the bell pull to signal time.
Olive’s unpleasant smile revealed teeth that probably hadn’t seen a brush for years. ‘So you know where they are, then?’
Rosie took a shallow breath and eyed her evenly. ‘If you’ve got something to say, Olive, then get on with it. I haven’t got time to play your silly games.’
Olive slurped down some beer and wiped her mouth on her dirty sleeve. ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, I won’t bother telling you about Ron and Gloria Stevens.’
Rosie felt a dart of alarm but managed to hide it by keeping her expression blank. ‘Then I won’t bother listening to it, Olive. Finish your drink and take your gossip with you when you leave.’
She turned to put the money in the till and serve Major Radwell, who was at the other end of the bar patiently waiting for a refill. ‘Sorry about that, Major. Another gin, is it?’
‘Gloria chucked him out of the pub and sent him off with a flea in his ear,’ Olive announced gleefully. ‘His ferrets ran riot and I reckon they did at least a fiver’s worth of damage, which he offered to pay for with a couple of dead rabbits.’
It took all of Rosie’s will power to finish pouring the gin without spilling a drop before she took the Major’s money and rang it up on the till. She would not be drawn into Olive’s spiteful gossip, let alone react to it. She’d learnt over all the years of running a pub that ignoring remarks like that was the best way of dealing with them. The last thing she needed today was to get into a dust-up with the odious Olive.
And yet as she began to clear glasses and wipe down the bar she couldn’t help but hear Olive regaling the last few customers with what Ron had been up to at the Crown and how the sparks had been flying between him and Gloria Stevens. Olive’s stories were often embellished, and slanted by her bias, but there was always some truth in her tittle-tattle, and as her story was being corroborated by one of her other customers, Rosie had little doubt that Ron had definitely gone into the Crown and had some sort of altercation with that tart Gloria.
She felt cold with fury that he’d gone against her express wishes, but she was damned if she’d let Olive know how deeply her words had cut, and how hurt she was by Ron breaking his promise never to go into that pub again. Turning back to Major Radwell, she murmured, ‘Take your time with that. It’s good gin and shouldn’t be rushed.’
Olive finished her beer and glared at Rosie, then grabbed her ratty coat and stomped out, muttering that it was hardly surprising Ron spent his time with Gloria Stevens when Rosie clearly had her eye on a bigger catch.
Rosie slid the bolts home after she’d gone, kicked off her tight shoes and returned to the bar. Pouring a large gin for herself and topping up the Major’s glass, she wished him luck and downed the fiery liquid in one. Catching the amused glint in his eyes, she shot him a grin. ‘It’s been one of those days,’ she explained. ‘One in which I could have done without Olive Grayson and her poison.’
Major Radwell smiled. ‘I think you handled the situation very well, Mrs Braithwaite, but I suspect she’s out there now spreading gossip about us. Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t linger.’
Rosie laughed. ‘If you’re worried about my reputation, it’s far too late, Major. The very fact I’m on my own and run a pub is enough to brand me a scarlet woman. But this is my pub and I choose who I drink with. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Braithwaite. I’d be delighted to keep you company as long as Ron doesn’t take objection.’
‘I think you can leave Ron’s sensibilities out of it,’ she said crisply. ‘He’s not my keeper, and it’s become perfectly obvious that I’m certainly not his.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said ruefully. ‘I get the feeling he’s in rather hot water.’
‘Up to his neck,’ she replied, and then grinned. ‘And please call me Rosie, Major Radwell. There’s no need to be so formal after all the weeks you’ve been coming in.’
‘Very well, Rosie, and you must call me Henry.’
They drank in companionable silence and Rosie tried very hard to put aside all thoughts of Ron’s presence in the Crown. ‘When will you get your final discharge from the hospital, Henry?’ she asked.
‘They’ll be letting me go any day now,’ he replied, ‘and I have to think about what I’ll do after that.’ He drained the glass and placed it on the bar. ‘My army career is over, and there are precious few jobs for a man of my age with one arm.’
‘It’s not like you to be defeatist,’ Rosie protested. ‘You’re still a young man and I’m sure there are lots of things you could do.’
He shot her a wry smile. ‘Please don’t think I’m courting sympathy, Rosie, but I have to be realistic. The army has been my life since I left university, and it will feel strange not to be a part of something which ha
s provided me with comradeship, work, home and order.’
‘I can understand that,’ she replied. ‘But there must be something you can do. You’re clearly an intelligent man with a good education. What about your family? Can’t they help in any way?’
He twisted the glass between his fingers. ‘I come from a long line of soldiers, Rosie, and was married to the service, which meant my wife left me long ago. My father was a brigadier in India before he passed away, and my brother is out there now fighting with the Chindits. My mother has moved in with her sister to a bungalow in the Cotswolds, and being army widows, both of them are now industriously working for the WI and WVS. I’m afraid there’s no family business to step into.’
Rosie poured some more gin, even though it was difficult to get hold of these days, but she felt sorry for him and rather helpless to offer any sensible advice. ‘I’m sure things will turn out all right,’ she murmured. ‘You have experience of leading men, of making difficult decisions and handling problems. Have you thought about trying some sort of managerial position – or becoming a schoolmaster?’
He grimaced. ‘Perish the thought. I’d rather face the German guns than a room full of inquisitive schoolboys.’ He sipped the gin and then gave a sigh. ‘Those long weeks in the hospital have given me time to really think about what I wanted to do, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I must look at what’s happened to me in a more positive way. See it as an opportunity, not a disaster.’
‘Good for you,’ she encouraged. ‘And what has that inspired you to do?’
His sudden smile made him look younger, wiping away the hospital pallor and smoothing the lines of stress which had been so apparent only moments ago. ‘I’ve always been an avid reader, which was why I got my degree in English Literature at Oxford – and’ – he dipped his chin as if embarrassed – ‘it’s been my long-held dream to write a book.’
‘Goodness,’ breathed a wide-eyed Rosie.
He glanced up at her with a shy smile. ‘I have no idea of whether I’d be any good as a writer, but I do have a story in mind – in fact I have several.’
‘Then you must do it,’ urged Rosie. ‘It sounds a marvellous idea.’
‘But what if I prove to be hopeless at it? What do I do then?’
‘You try and get a job at a publishing house where you can read to your heart’s content,’ she replied firmly. ‘But don’t give up before you’ve even started, Henry, or you’ll always regret not giving it a go.’
Henry chuckled. ‘You’re a real tonic, Rosie. That’s the best advice I’ve had today.’
‘Glad to have been of service,’ she replied, grinning back at him. ‘Now, I really do have to get on.’ She slid from the bar stool and had to look up at him as he got to his feet. ‘Will I see you again this evening?’
‘That is a definite possibility,’ he replied, ‘but would you think it impertinent if I asked you to have lunch with me? I should enjoy your company very much.’
Rosie dismissed all thought of Ron’s defection to the Crown and smiled. ‘I should like that Henry. But aren’t we a bit late? Everything will have closed by now.’
‘The dining room at the Officers’ Club is always open, and it’s not far to walk.’
Rosie had heard the food in the exclusive club was top-notch and was quite excited at the thought of finally seeing what the place was like inside. ‘That would be lovely. But first I must make sure the dog’s all right, so if you wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes?’
‘I’m sure any wait will be worth it,’ he said, his grey eyes twinkling with merriment.
Unusually flustered, Rosie retrieved her abandoned shoes, hurried out of the bar and ran up the short flight of stairs to her rooms.
Monty possessed the same enthusiasm for life as his sire, Harvey, and although smaller and more delicate in build, his shaggy, brindled coat and intelligent eyes were the image of his father’s. He’d been stretched out on the couch and now he leapt off to greet Rosie, his tail wagging furiously as he jumped up and down.
Rosie made a fuss of him and he followed her eagerly into the tiny kitchen. ‘Ron’s gone a step too far this time,’ she muttered to him, ‘and when he does decide to show his face he’ll get a right earful and be shown the door, so you’re not to make a fuss of him, do you hear?’
Monty cocked his head, more interested in the food Rosie was tipping into his bowl, and the moment it was set at his feet, he gobbled it down with alacrity.
Rosie left him to it and hurried into her bedroom to refresh her make-up and change into something smarter than the black skirt and white frilly blouse she always wore behind the bar. The Officers’ Club was very posh, and she didn’t want to let Henry down by turning up in anything less than her smartest clothes.
She slipped into a navy linen dress and matching heels, added a string of pearls and ear-studs, and then found some clean white cotton gloves. Placing a fetching little navy and white hat at a rakish angle over her platinum curls, she grinned at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror and nodded in satisfaction. It was amazing how a simple invitation to lunch had wiped away her weariness and bad mood, bringing colour and light to her face and eyes.
‘Not too bad for your age, Rosie,’ she muttered. ‘Not too bad at all.’
Not stopping to wonder if it was the thought of being escorted by the handsome major, the chance to show Ron she could be just as independent, or the opportunity to see inside the Officers’ Club which had brought about this change, she grabbed her coat and hurried back down the stairs to the bar and the waiting Henry.
3
Peggy wheeled Daisy’s pushchair through the distribution centre barrier and stopped on the pavement to say goodbye to Gracie. Daisy and Chloe were reluctant to be parted and there was a bit of argy-bargy from both of them until Gracie firmly carried a struggling Chloe away and headed for her rented rooms close to the recreation ground. Daisy wriggled and kicked at the foot-plate of her pushchair, yelling after her little friend.
Peggy tried to ignore her as she turned to Kitty and Charlotte. ‘It was lovely to catch up with you,’ she said, raising her voice to combat Daisy’s tantrum. ‘Why don’t you pop in tomorrow afternoon for a cuppa? Gracie’s bringing Chloe, so at least the children will keep each other amused so we can have a good chat.’
‘We’d love to,’ said Kitty. ‘I managed to get hold of the makings of a cake, so I’ll bake it this evening and bring it round.’
Peggy kissed both girls goodbye, and as they set off for the little cottage in Briar Lane, Daisy fought to escape the pushchair straps and yelled even louder. ‘Stop it,’ Peggy said crossly. ‘Behave yourself, or you’ll go straight to bed when we get home, and miss out on Brendon’s party tonight.’
Daisy eyed her belligerently and then slumped back with her thumb in her mouth, her tantrum spent – or at least postponed in her mother’s withering glare.
Peggy wheeled Daisy down the hill, hoping she’d drop off for a bit of a sleep so she’d be in a better mood by the time they got home, for she had enough to do without having to deal with any more nonsense.
She glanced down to the station platform and caught sight of Ethel gossiping with the two WVS ladies who were running the tea stall. Peggy was about to hurry on when Ethel looked up just at that moment, called out and beckoned her down. Not wanting to appear rude, but disinclined to get caught up in Ethel’s thirst for scandal, she checked she could spare a few minutes for a quick chat, and reluctantly made her way through the remains of the booking hall and onto the platform.
Ethel’s husband, Stan, was the stationmaster, and had been since his father retired from the post at the end of the last war, and although Ethel worked at the munitions factory with her daughter Ruby, she also helped out at the station when time allowed. Stan had had a heart attack during their wedding reception the previous year, and Ethel’s stubborn determination to get him well again had seen him lose most of his excess weight – which made him look much healthier, and had earned
Peggy’s grudging respect.
Peggy had never really taken to Ethel, for she was rough and opinionated and spoke her mind before thinking, which often caused offence. She’d not been very nice about April, Peggy’s one-time evacuee, until she’d got to know her properly. Ethel had accepted that the girl was Stan’s niece and had mellowed somewhat once April’s illegitimate baby had come along. Peggy was delighted that April had found a warm and loving home with Ethel and Stan. To give Ethel her due, she’d proved to be a stalwart supporter of the girl and a terrific surrogate grandmother to little Paula.
Yet there were things about Ethel that niggled Peggy, and although Stan was a lifelong family friend, Peggy still couldn’t think of her as the sort of woman she could confide in and fully trust, for Ethel took umbrage at the slightest thing, was light-fingered, and a salacious gossip with a spiteful tongue.
Peggy greeted the WVS women, who she knew from her time working at the Town Hall – relieved that her sister Doris was not amongst them – and then turned to Ethel, who was wearing a knotted headscarf, dungarees and an oversize railway uniform jacket. ‘Stan deserted you, has he?’ she asked.
Ethel took the ever-present roll-up out of her mouth and grimaced. ‘He went up to’ is allotment two hours ago and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’ She grinned. ‘Reckon ’im and the others are finishing off all that booze they brought back from the Crown.’
Peggy sighed. ‘So, you’ve heard what happened, then?’
‘It ain’t difficult in this place,’ said Ethel with a shrug. ‘Cliffehaven might be swelling by the day with so many people pouring in to work in the factories, but it’s still a village when it comes to gossip.’ She eyed Daisy, who was now asleep. ‘Aw, don’t she look sweet?’
‘You should have seen her five minutes ago,’ Peggy replied dryly. She plonked herself down on the bench next to Ethel and lifted her face to the weak sun, glad of its meagre warmth after the chill of the warehouse. ‘How’s my April and little Paula? We do miss having April around, and she’s so busy these days I hardly ever see her.’