by Carol Rivers
Unlike his other letters from camp, this one had an ominous undertone and since no mention was made of Christmas, Molly feared that Liz was right.
As the daily wireless bulletins increased in number and Molly listened with the customers in the shop, it was clear to one and all that the war in Europe was reaching a climax.
Which way would it go, everyone questioned? When the conquered Italy decided to declare war on Germany, its once ally, all the customers cheered. But when the sickening news came through of the Nazi capture of a Benedictine monastery at Monte Cassino, transforming it into an impenetrable fortress, everyone stood still, shocked by the reports of the slaughter that was taking place on such holy ground.
Molly felt as though she was living in a surreal world. Daily, the shop became a meeting place for people to come and absorb the latest triumphs and failures of the Allies and Russia, who had fought so long and so hard in the merciless freezing conditions against the German army.
Many customers were still waiting for news of their men scattered not only in Europe but in far-flung places like South-East Asia, Burma, New Guinea and all across the Pacific. Like Molly, none of them had any confirmation of where they were or when they would see them again.
Letters became few and far between. The postal service was erratic. Everyone dreaded the arrival of a telegram.
Molly broke it to the children in December that they were not likely to see their father at Christmas.
‘Me dad’s on a big ship, ain’t he?’ Evie said, at once accepting the fact. ‘He’s gonna teach us to swim when he comes ’ome. Then I can be a sailor too, like ’im.’
Molly expected Mark to correct his sister, as was their usual routine. But this time, at a very grown-up eight years old, he gave no response.
The little boy was becoming a man too early, keenly aware now that the war machine rolled steadily onward, influencing not only his own life and his sister’s, but the life of the father he adored.
BOOK THREE
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Six months later, June 1944
Molly was serving her customers in the shop but her thoughts were on the day, exactly four years ago, when Ted had perished in the bloodied waters of Dunkirk. He was just one of the many thousands of men who had failed to reach the escape provided by the gallant armada of ‘little boats’ from Britain.
But today the nation waited for news, as the long-anticipated D-Day landings were to be confirmed, though no place details were to be given; nothing, said Churchill, that would assist the enemy.
Molly felt it was as if the whole of Britain was holding its breath. Had the Allies successfully stormed the shores of France? Headscarves had even been removed from heads to let their wearers catch every word that was delivered from the old wireless on the shop counter.
After a loud crackle and buzzing, Molly managed to tune in to the station. A terse, low-key voice began to speak.
‘The King and prime minister together with General Smuts, the South African prime minister, have coordinated with supreme commander General Eisenhower at his headquarters. Allied naval forces, supported by strong air forces, have begun landing Allied armies on the northern coast of France. The invasion of Europe has begun.’
There was a united gasp in the shop. Eyes went wide as saucers, then to a chorus of shush! and quiet! the voice informed them that no further information would be given until further notice. But the country should be aware that, on this day, a unique history was in the making.
‘What bloody use is that?’ one voice piped up as yet another series of crackles erupted from the wireless. ‘We want to know if we’re going to win. How our boys are doing. And that it’s not going to be another fiasco like ’40.’
‘ ’Ere, watch what you’re saying,’ someone else returned. ‘Our Molly’s Ted copped it then.’
‘Aw, sorry, Molly, gel, don’t mean no harm.’
Molly shrugged her indifference and a babble of excited voices all began to talk at once. The consensus of opinion was that the Allies, joined with the United States of America, were determined first to liberate France, the stepping stone to Europe.
That night, after the shop was closed, Molly reread the last letter she had received from Andy almost three months ago. It was a letter that went to her heart: shaky handwriting on crumpled blue paper and words that spoke both of his courage, and also his desperation.
There was no mention of the Christmas that had passed without him. Nor was there any clue as to his fortunes. He repeated several times how much he loved her and the children and would forever, no matter what happened in the next few months. This had been too much for Molly and she’d shed many tears, knowing their love had sustained him but also that he now feared more than ever losing a future that was their shared dream.
Later, before Molly checked on the children, she went downstairs to the shop and turned on the wireless. She listened with both relief and trepidation to the late-night bulletin broadcast to reach the whole country.
‘The prime minister, Mr Churchill,’ the voice said solemnly, ‘told members of parliament tonight that our Allied forces, despite sustaining losses, have penetrated several miles inland on the French coast after enemy batteries have been weakened by bombing from our naval ships and air force.’
As Molly stood still, staring at the blackout blind and the pale shaft of moonlight creeping in under the shop door, she suddenly knew that Andy was there, in the midst of battle in France.
It was a feeling like no other. A certainty. An instinct.
She reached out to switch off the wireless and the room spun. Andy was in the very same place where Ted had perished. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that fate could be as cruel as it was kind.
History was repeating itself, she thought, clutching the counter tightly as she went hot and cold, a clammy sweat breaking over her forehead.
All she could do was hope – and pray. And that night, she did both.
‘Get this out, old man, and right away. There’s no time to lose. The bulkhead’s been breached.’
‘Badly?’ Andy enquired.
‘There’ll be no repairs, let’s put it like that.’
‘Are we losing power?’ Andy managed to blurt as he stared up at the sweating senior officer.
‘As soon as the engine rooms are flooded, we’ll have no generator. So get along with it, lad. We have to let the rest of the division know where we’ve—’ He paused, tipping back his peaked cap, and swept his wet forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Where we are,’ he corrected himself, managing a brave grin. ‘And Andy, kit yourself up for the water, right? Don’t leave it too long.’
Andy just stared at the dirtied, round and amiable face of Bruce Jefferson, an officer who had taken him under his wing since he’d boarded in December. Bruce understood that Andy had had to live down the insult of being a part of the Wavy Navy; the contempt for volunteers was widespread – something Andy hadn’t reckoned on.
But he’d turned a deaf ear to the insults and Bruce had advised him always to look every bastard in the eye; he was as good as the next man every time.
Andy admired him for that. But as he looked Bruce in the eye now, he knew their time together was up. He grabbed a strip of paper and scribbled an address. Tearing it from the pad, he handed it to Bruce. ‘If – if anything happens, do me a last favour? Tell her. Face to face. Tell her I love her. And the kids. I love them all.’
Bruce took the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Andy could see on the officer’s face the same gut-wrenching fear he felt in his belly, and he guessed at this moment it was imprinted on every face aboard HMS Avenge. It didn’t matter about rank, or creed, or colour. The sea was master of all.
‘Good luck, old son,’ Bruce said quietly, and then he was gone.
Andy felt the roll and sway of the sinking battleship, and the loneliness of his situation engulfed him. He thought of those days at camp when he’d had suc
h high hopes of bettering himself and making Molly and the kids proud. Of how every night he’d planned a future: a little boarding house, maybe, or even another shop if Molly was of a mind. And maybe – just maybe – in the years to come, a brother or sister for Mark and Evie.
Their names flew around in his thoughts and his eyes filled with desperate tears. But as another forceful listing of the vessel caused him to hold on to his desk, he felt a cold calm come over him.
Regaining his position at a lopsided angle, he tapped a last message on the knob of the key. He had already developed a ‘glass arm’ from hours of sending signals, but that was before – before—
Andy pulled himself together and adjusted his headphones; the tap, tap, tapping fading and then returned with a frightening force.
He glanced once again at the tactical signal passed to him and knew it was imperative to deliver the coded message before the end.
He was fiercely attempting to report the situation, when he felt the first cold fingers of seawater at his ankles.
Another sharp listing, creaking and an almighty surge of water in the corridor outside. He completed his last message, tried to stand and was sucked down in one huge gulp by a filthy whirlpool, too much of a weight to resist.
He bobbed up and gasped for air. Catching hold of a metal bar, he tried to wade forward. Then he realized he was at an acute angle in the upside-down ship. His ears were deafened with the sounds of tearing metal, and his strength began to ebb away in the swirling waters.
Two weeks after D-Day, Molly and the children were back in the Turners’ Anderson once more. They were listening for spluttering engine sounds, the noise of the enemy’s new ‘miracle weapon’: a pilotless flying bomb that dropped from out of the sky like a stone.
‘That bloody Goebbels,’ Jean said, referring to the German propaganda minister, as they cowered on the benches. ‘Telling us we were all doomed. He put the fear of God into everyone.’
‘Our boys have got their work cut out on the ack-ack,’ Dennis said, as he rechecked the security of the steel door once again. ‘Just listen to ’em. Giving them buzz bombs hell.’
‘But why ain’t they stopped them at the coast?’ Jean asked in a whisper as a lethal drone passed overhead and continued on its way.
‘It ain’t for the want of trying,’ Dennis answered as he drew Susie and Simon onto each knee. ‘They’ve got the Spits and Mustangs and Tempests out too, trying to pick them off in the air, but there’s so many of them they still reach us.’
‘It’s when their engines cut out, that’s what scares me,’ Molly said quietly, waiting for the next rattle in the sky. ‘And the silence afterwards.’
Jean nodded, retying her headscarf and picking up the thermos to pour another cup of tea. ‘It’s any time of the day or night as well. Here, Molly, you’ll have to come and stay with us if this carries on. That steel cage you’ve got ain’t no bloody use. You and the kids can sleep in our front room.’
Molly knew that Jean was right. The V-1 bombs were extremely destructive, causing widespread devastation; they also set off a huge blast wave, bringing down everything in the near vicinity. Even this Anderson was really of little use.
‘I’ve shut the shop so many times now,’ Molly said anxiously, ‘that I’m beginning to wonder if I should just close down for the time being.’
‘God only knows how long this is going to carry on,’ said Dennis. ‘Our only hope is that our forces will find where they’re being launched from. It’s gotta be near the coast somewhere.’
Just then, a thud and a rippling vibration went through the shelter. They all fell to the floor, covering their heads. Molly flung herself over Mark and Evie. She knew that her body would be no protection, but it was a reflex action.
As she lay there, the corrugated ceiling rained down dust and dirt and the mechanical noise in the sky grew louder. It was a horrible spluttering and grinding and as they all waited for it to pass over, Molly made a vow that she wasn’t going to let the children out of her sight. School was over for them while these monster bombs were active.
She heard Evie whimper and felt Mark shaking. Jean was kind to offer her accommodation – but against such a powerful weapon, no house or shelter had any defence. Tomorrow, she would shut the shop and go down the tube, for at least there was a chance of survival down there.
Despite the Allies’ success on D-Day, people never knew when the V-1s were going to fly over. Molly decided that her plan to use the tube wasn’t practical. She would never get to the nearest underground in time, and being caught out in the open would be terrifying for the children. The school had shut its doors and so Molly wrote on the sign on the shop door, Closed until further notice.
She had put by some money for a rainy day and hid it under the floorboard together with Dad’s savings. She would use this while there was no business and hope that her nest egg would last until she could reopen.
It was Dennis who solved the problem of shelter, for he remembered that the shed next to the burned-out bicycle factory had been built with a cellar.
They opened the creaky trapdoor, navigated the stone steps and cleaned the cellar below. To make it more cheerful, some of the contents from the Anderson were taken down into the freezing cold room. But even in June the air temperature was so low, they could see their breath.
The children hated it. Molly and Jean did too, but Dennis gave them a lecture that as a member of the Heavy Rescue Squad, he would not be on hand to protect them when the buzz bombs flew over.
So Molly brought down the duckboards from the flat and they furnished the cellar with two old chairs that had lost their stuffing and were to be thrown out from Mr Stokes’s hoard.
The trapdoor above was heavy and shut out all light, so tilley lamps were installed, but they ate up the oxygen and caused the children to cough.
A month passed with constant bombings, and the terror of V-1s became widespread. Mark and Evie had continual coughs from the cellar’s dank and dusty atmosphere; no one wanted to go down there, even for short periods.
On a beautiful day in late August, Molly noticed that people were venturing out on the streets. When Liz, with a beaming smile, knocked on the shop window, Molly knew it was good news at last.
‘They reckon our lads have found and destroyed the V-1 launch sites in France!’ Liz declared as Molly opened the shop door.
‘Really?’ Molly sighed in relief. ‘Thank goodness for that. We hate that bloody cellar.’
‘No wonder. You’ll all catch your death down there.’
‘Like it or not, it’s the best place to be when those buzz bombs appear.’
‘Who’s this coming up the road?’ Liz said, tugging down her grey hat and squinting into the distance. ‘Blimey, it’s a uniform. It ain’t Andy, is it?’
All thoughts of the lethal missiles went from her head as Molly stood very still, her heart thudding with anticipation. She suddenly felt as though she could brave any enemy there was; the cellar didn’t matter, nor did the buzz bombs. Andy was home!
She hurried past Liz and out into the street. But then, as her eyes focused on the tall figure in naval uniform, making his way past the hole in the road, her heart sank.
It wasn’t Andy at all, but a stranger. A man pausing every so often as if searching for the street numbers.
A few feet away, the naval officer removed his cap, tucking it under his arm. His hair had been cut so short she could see peculiar patches of brown on his scalp.
Molly knew then, as he stood before her and said in a low, grim tone, ‘Mrs Swift? I’m Bruce Jefferson. I served with Andrew Miller aboard HMS Avenge,’ that Andy wouldn’t be coming home.
‘Sit down,’ Molly said, standing very still in the front room, as though if she didn’t move, the moment when the senior Royal Naval officer approached her in the street would disappear. As if he had been an illusion.
‘I’m very sorry to have brought you such distressing news, Mrs Swift,’ said Bruce Jefferson, cap u
nder his arm as he chose the armchair by the mantel, folding his long legs and sitting stiff-backed to watch Molly eventually sink down on the settee.
‘What happened?’ Molly asked, her voice so distant it was like a whisper. ‘Do you know?’
‘The last I saw of Andy, he was in the signals room, messaging the fleet that we had sustained a direct hit and giving them the coordinates of the enemy.’
Molly wanted to ask if there had been time – if he’d – if there was a chance he might have survived . . . but she couldn’t find the courage. If she didn’t ask the questions and Bruce Jefferson was not offering any answers then there might still be hope.
It was then the tears crept through like sharp shards of glass through her eyes. Tears that were every bit as agonizing as those she’d shed for her daughter and husband. More so, perhaps, for this time there was a finality written in the officer’s eyes along with the pity.
‘He did say –’ Bruce Jefferson began hesitantly – ‘he asked me to tell you that he loved you and the children. There was no time for more, I’m afraid. It was a case of doing our very best in what limited time we had.’ He bent his head and Molly saw that the patches of brown on his scalp were injuries of some kind that had just begun to heal.
‘He was a good man,’ continued the officer. ‘He was a brave man. And I count myself fortunate to have served with him.’
Molly quickly wiped the dampness from her cheeks with her handkerchief. She didn’t need telling; she knew all that Andy Miller comprised, down to his very core. They had become one, a very special completeness, a once in a lifetime experience that they had both believed – no! knew – would last forever.
‘Did you find him? Did they find his—’
Before she could finish the officer shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, I have no more information. You will of course receive notification from the War Office. Is there any way I can help? This must come as a dreadful shock to you.’