by Ellie Dean
Jim and the other men worked on until three, and then in a haze of exhaustion crossed the Chindwin for the last time. Having wrecked and sunk the boats and outboard motors so the Japs couldn’t use them, they loaded up the few mules and horses with the heaviest of the stores and equipment while an advance party went to reconnoitre the steep and barely discernible path that wound its way along the face of the cliff to the top.
Jim festooned himself with carbines and extra ammunition and then staggered beneath the weight of his overladen pack. He was at last getting some insight as to why the mules were always so bloody-minded – and could perfectly understand it.
He glanced across the river to see 40 column disappear into the sand dunes with the rest of the mules, and then began the awkward climb up the rough and winding cliff path, which he suspected was home to poisonous snakes and biting insects. The heavy pack threatened to drag him backwards as he negotiated tree roots and used vines as thick as his arm to cling to and steady himself, not daring to look down into the deep ravine where jagged jaws of rock waited to catch the unwary, and the river thundered over vast boulders, sweeping all before it.
He gained the top, and as the others scrambled up beside him to wait for the mules, horses and handlers to arrive, they took in the view – and it did nothing to raise their spirits.
The trees were over a hundred feet high, the dark, dense jungle stretching for miles beneath the setting sun and gathering storm clouds. Rocky, jungle-clad ridges soared above the canopy, which meant there would be plunging valleys, swift rivers and Burmese villages hidden within them, as well as the Japanese, who had been sighted twenty miles to the north, and whose gunfire could already be heard.
Jim steadied his breathing, eased his tight leg muscles and adjusted the straps of his backpack, which he’d padded with his spare shirts to stop them rubbing his sunburnt shoulders. He hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours and could have dozed off right there and then, but he tipped the brim of his hat low over his eyes to cut out the glare of the sinking sun and exchanged a knowing glance with Ernie as the Gurkhas drew their machetes and began to hack a way through the jungle. They were in for a very tough few hours.
A flash of lightning and a deep crash of thunder were swiftly followed by a deluge of warm rain which battered down on them, drenching them in an instant and making their loads even heavier. But at the commanding officer’s hand signal they fell into line and purposefully began to make their way once more into the familiar realms of the lethal unknown.
9
Rosie returned to the Anchor just before the Town Hall clock struck one in the morning. She unclipped the leash from Monty’s collar and wearily kicked off her high-heeled shoes before padding up the short flight of rickety stairs to her rooms, frowning at the darkness, certain that Ron would have been waiting for her. And yet there was no sign that he’d been here at all, which came as a bit of a shock.
Having closed the blackout curtains before she’d left, she switched on the light and hunted for a note – but there was nothing more than the hessian bag of the day’s takings on the dresser. She wondered if he was playing some sort of cruel game with her to get his own back. It was unlike him, but if he was, then she really didn’t have the time or patience to play along. She took off her coat and scarf, shook the damp from them and left them draped on the back of the armchair before going into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.
Monty hurried after her and began to push his empty bowl towards her with his nose.
‘You’ve already eaten very well this evening,’ she chided softly, reaching for his special biscuits. ‘But you’ve been a good boy all day, so I suppose you’ve earned an extra treat.’
Monty made quick work of the biscuits before noisily lapping at his water, and then sprawling on the couch for a snooze.
Rosie smiled wryly. She envied him, for there was a great deal to do before she could snatch an hour or two’s sleep and be prepared for what would surely prove to be yet another exhausting and emotional day.
She made the tea and went into her bedroom, still puzzling over Ron’s absence and lack of communication. She’d been so certain that he’d come into the pub tonight, for he’d promised to help out, knowing her usual two barmaids were off sick. If this was his idea of a game then it had backfired, for she’d expected better of him and was singularly unimpressed.
Taking her case from the top of the wardrobe, she began to pack everything she might need for her time away, and as she folded her best suit and silk blouse and hunted out her good patent leather shoes, she felt the weight of sadness settle in her heart for what might have been.
With her suitcase packed and ready at the bottom of the stairs, she finished the cup of tea, slipped on her sturdy shoes and thick coat, and had a last cigarette as she waited for Monty to stop messing about in the garden. He seemed agitated and wary, constantly darting towards the outside lav and then jumping away with little yips and yaps.
She breathed an exasperated sigh, turned on her torch and went out to see what was causing such excitement. ‘Has that blasted cat got locked in there again?’ she asked.
Monty gave a sharp bark and danced on his toes, his tail going like a metronome.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she muttered, yanking open the door, ready to give the cat a boot up the backside to send him on his way. But there was no flying bundle of hissing ginger fur shooting out, just two pairs of gleaming eyes watching her from the deepest shadows behind the toilet bowl.
Rosie’s heart thudded at the thought of rats until she dared to shine the torch into the corner and saw Ron’s two ferrets looking anxiously back at her. ‘Oh, lawks,’ she breathed. ‘You’re all I need tonight.’
She hesitated momentarily as she thought about what to do, and how the heck they’d got into her garden in the first place – then saw they were edging out of their hiding place towards the open door. She swiftly closed it, made sure the latch was firmly in place and then hurried inside, Monty loping along with her.
Digging about in the cupboard under the stairs, she unearthed the old cat basket she’d once used when her long-deceased Sooty had needed to be taken to the vet. Lining it with one of Ron’s old sweaters which he’d left on the coat rack in the hall, she put a spoonful of dog food on a saucer before shutting an over-excited Monty in the kitchen.
She returned to the outside lav, then paused for a moment to remember how Ron handled his ferrets. Flora and Dora were nice enough when Ron was holding them, or they were behind the bars of their cage and docile, but the thought that they were probably hungry and frightened made her nervous. She shuddered. She’d seen their claws and teeth and knew what damage they could cause to unprotected flesh.
‘You can’t dither about out here all night,’ she muttered, steeling herself to open the door. ‘Neither can you leave them where they are.’
With the basket open and almost filling the doorway, Rosie squatted down and softly called to the frightened animals. ‘Come on, Flora, Dora. Come into this lovely basket so I can get you home.’
The ferrets eyed her suspiciously, their whiskers twitching as they sniffed the air and cautiously advanced on the scent of Ron drifting from the sweater, and the temptation of the dog food in the saucer.
‘Good girls,’ Rosie crooned, ready to grab them by the scruff should they suddenly take it into their heads to make a run for it.
Flora and Dora slowly squirmed into the basket and began to eat ravenously. Rosie fastened the straps as quickly and quietly as she could and then carried them carefully into the bar, surprised at how heavy they were. She picked up the keys Beryl had dropped through the letter box after locking up, and went outside.
It was now past two in the morning and the streets were deserted, the blackout intense, but at least the fog seemed to have lifted, which augured well for the journey she would be making later. She cautiously switched on her torch and slowly made her way past the shuttered shops towards Beach View.
‘And wh
ere do you think you’re going at this time of night?’
Rosie nearly jumped out of her skin as Sergeant Albert Williams loomed out of the deep gloom of a shop doorway. ‘Good grief, Bert,’ she gasped, clutching at her thudding chest. ‘You almost gave me heart failure. Don’t you ever go home?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ he replied, eyeing the cat basket and the torch. ‘The wife’s a far harder taskmaster than my inspector.’ He nodded towards the torch. ‘You’re breaking the blackout, Rosie. By rights I should fine you.’
‘Please don’t do that, Bert. I’ve had a bad enough day as it is, and I need to get these ferrets back to Ron. He must have mislaid them when he came serenading the other night, and is probably frantic by now.’
‘Aye. I reckon Ron mislaid a good many things that night – including his dignity,’ the policeman replied with a smile. ‘Why don’t I deliver them to Beach View for you? It’s too late for you to be roaming about on your own – you never know who might be lurking about and up to no good.’
‘That would be very kind of you, as long as you don’t mind.’
Bert took the basket. ‘It’s a bit early for house calls, so I’ll take them back to the station and deliver them once it’s light.’ He grinned broadly. ‘It’s been a while since I had my own ferrets, so it’ll be a pleasure to keep them company.’
‘Thanks, Bert.’ Rosie hesitated, wondering if she should ask him to pass on a message, and then decided not to. Albert Williams knew everyone’s business, and his wife had a way of getting it out of him so she could spread it all over town – and what she had to tell Ron was very private. ‘Goodnight then,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, Rosie,’ he replied, his curiosity about what she was doing out and about at this time of the morning still clear in his expression.
Rosie wasn’t about to enlighten him, so she quickly made her way back to the Anchor, locked the door behind her and glanced at the clock. The time had flown and now there was no chance of getting any sleep before she had to leave again.
With a weary sigh she plodded back upstairs, released a howling Monty from the kitchen and sat down to write a short note to her most reliable barmaid, Brenda, in the hope she’d run the pub during her absence. Slipping the front door key into the envelope, she sealed it and set it aside to deliver later. The letter to Ron was far harder to write, for she knew it would be difficult for him to read, no matter how she penned it – but she owed him an explanation, and wasn’t about to simply disappear without a word. To avoid any confrontation, she would give it to Stan to pass on after she’d gone. She could rely on Stan.
It was barely five in the morning when Rosie hurried down Camden Road to slip the note with the key through Brenda’s letter box in the certain knowledge that if Brenda was still not well enough to take over the pub, she’d organise someone else reliable to stand in.
She had just returned to the Anchor to pick up her case when the chauffeur-driven car purred to a halt at the kerb. Not waiting to be handed in, she climbed into the back where Henry Radwell was waiting for her, and ordered Monty to sit on the floor. She smiled at Henry, who was looking very smart in a beautifully tailored civilian suit, and far too chipper for this unsociable hour.
‘I see you’re embracing your first day as a civilian,’ she said lightly. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Rather strange,’ he admitted ‘But now I have your company, I’m coping remarkably well.’ He eyed her affectionately. ‘More to the point, Rosie, how are you?’
‘I’ve had better nights,’ she replied with a wry smile. ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way. But would you ask the driver to stop at the station for a minute? I need to speak to Stan before we leave.’
The driver duly stopped and Rosie hurried to the platform where a troop train was starting to pull away. Her heart sank, for unusually, there was no sign of Stan – just Ethel, fag in her mouth as usual and looking distinctly sour. Rosie felt a pang of concern that Stan must be ill for his wife to be on duty at such an early hour, but she had other, more pressing things to worry about and didn’t really want to get into any sort of complicated exchange with Ethel.
Rosie didn’t like Ethel and the feeling was mutual, even though they’d had little to do with one another. Rosie suspected Ethel was jealous of her – though goodness only knew why – and she considered Ethel to be coarse and uncouth, and not nearly good enough for darling Stan, who’d been a mainstay of this town for most of his life.
Rosie clutched her letter and wondered if she could trust the woman to deliver it without steaming it open to read the contents. It would be a gamble, but one it seemed she couldn’t avoid, for Ethel had spotted her and was eyeing her and the car with curiosity.
And then, to her relief, Rosie saw Peggy’s snooty sister Doris emerging from behind the WVS tea and sandwich wagon to close the shutters. Rosie didn’t like her either, for she was a complete cow to Ron and Peggy with her hoity-toity ways, but she suspected Doris was more reliable than Ethel, and not half as nosy.
‘Would you mind delivering this to Beach View?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘It’s rather urgent, so I’d be very grateful if you could do it today.’
Doris eyed the letter that was being held out to her and then glared coolly down her nose at Rosie. ‘This town has a perfectly good postal service. The letter box is over there.’
Rosie bit back a retort and managed to keep her tone reasonable. ‘I’m very aware of that, but this needs to be delivered today.’
Doris raised a severely plucked brow. ‘Then I suggest you do it yourself. I’m far too busy, and certainly don’t have time to go out of my way to Beach View.’
Rosie shoved the letter at her, making Doris automatically clutch it to her chest. ‘Please deliver it for me,’ she said anxiously. ‘I have to go away for a while, and it’s really important Ron gets this today.’
Doris held her gaze for a long, cool minute and then pocketed the letter. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, ‘but I have a great many important tasks ahead of me today, so it might not be until later.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ breathed Rosie. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
She turned and hurried back to the car, unaware that Ethel had joined Doris on the platform and they were watching her departure with great interest – and that within minutes of her departure, Rosie’s letter had changed hands again and was now buried deep in Ethel’s trouser pocket.
Ron was just emerging from the outside lav after his morning constitutional, and a lengthy peruse of yesterday’s newspaper, when he heard heavy footsteps approaching along the alleyway, so went to investigate.
‘Hello, Bert, you’re out and about early. What can I do you for?’
‘I’m returning lost property, Ron.’ Bert hefted the cat basket aloft.
Filled with joy, Ron hurried to relieve his friend of the basket and check on his precious ferrets. ‘Where did you find them?’ he breathed. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Rosie found them in her back lav, so I said I’d bring them over.’
Ron frowned. ‘But why not bring them herself? Surely she’s not so cross she can’t even face me?’
Bert measured his reply. ‘It was a bit late when she found them, and she didn’t want to wake up the house,’ he said solemnly. ‘So I kept ’em overnight. Fine creatures, Ron. Made me wish I could have my own again, but the wife won’t hear of it.’
Ron eyed him suspiciously. He’d known Bert since they were in short trousers and could always tell when he was hiding something, for his ears went pink – but he said nothing, for he’d get whatever it was out of him soon enough.
‘Ach, Bert, ’tis a wonder they’ve come to no harm. Will you be coming in for a cuppa so I can thank you properly?’
‘I should be going home,’ Bert replied reluctantly.
‘I insist,’ said Ron, giving him a nudge towards the scullery door.
Bert stood firm. ‘No, really, old chum. I have to go home. The missus will give m
e earache as it is, and if I stay out much longer she’ll come to find me – and you know what that can lead to.’
Ron certainly did, for despite his size, Bert was terrified of his harridan of a wife who probably weighed less than six stone soaking wet, but possessed a voice akin to a chainsaw and a steely determination to make Bert’s life a misery. ‘Before you go, Bert, can you tell me when Rosie brought you the ferrets?’
‘Late last night,’ he replied, his gaze drifting beyond Ron’s shoulder as he edged towards the gate. ‘Too late for visiting, that’s for certain.’ He reached behind him for the latch and fumbled it open.
‘Rosie went out yesterday lunchtime,’ said Ron. ‘You seem to know everyone’s movements in this town, so where did she go?’
‘I don’t know,’ spluttered Bert, at last able to get through the gate and into the alley. ‘Stop badgering me, Ron, and just be thankful she found Flora and Dora and that they’ve come to no harm.’
‘But—’
‘No more, Ron.’ Bert waved a meaty finger at him. ‘You’re getting to sound like the wife.’ With that he turned on his heel and almost broke into a lumbering run as he made his escape.
Ron stood deep in thought at the gate for a long while, and then took his ferrets indoors. He’d go to see Stan later, and ask him for some of his special roses from his allotment to give Rosie as a peace offering and to thank her for finding his ferrets – and then he’d find out just what she’d been up to. But in the meantime he would tend to Flora and Dora, who must be very unsettled after their long ordeal.
10
The planes had been very noisy all night, and Peggy could only assume that as soon as the fog had lifted, the heavy bombardment of the northern coast of France was on again. Her hopes were high that the invasion had begun as she bathed and dressed herself and Daisy, but when she went downstairs to the kitchen, it was to discover that there’d been no mention of it on the wireless, so she had to conclude it had yet to happen.