by Milly Adams
She was used to this, as requisitioning was increasing. ‘Yes, I work at the nursing home.’ She reached for her exemption slip. He nodded. The soldier’s eyes were cold, and he was nothing like Hans.
She continued home. Cheryl was in her bedroom, but came downstairs in her dressing gown, calling, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Me, who do you think?’
Cheryl called, ‘It’s all right, Bobby.’ She was tucking some money into the pocket of her dressing gown. Hannah did wish she wouldn’t, because Sigmund might come home early but she said nothing. Bobby had stolen her uncle’s wine, knowing she could be blamed, but not caring. When she had bearded him he had just smiled. ‘Let me know what else he gets up to, there will be something in it for you. Otherwise never cross me.’ He was frightening.
She unrolled the old women’s sketches on the kitchen table, and used charcoal to alter the figures with dotted lines, changing the organisation of the scale and distance in the drawing to make a better visual sense. Cheryl came to stand beside her. Her cigarette ash dropped on the paper. Hannah tutted, and blew it off.
Cheryl laughed. ‘This is the work of the old trouts, is it? Not the ones who didn’t like your make-up, for heaven’s sake? Hannah, get Hans to give you money, then you won’t have to work.’
Hannah rolled up the sketches, and took them up to her room. Hans had never offered, but one day he would. This evening she would show him the sketches, and he could write to his parents and soon her life would become much easier.
She lay down on the bed, tired. She held up her charcoal-smudged fingers. The last time they had looked like this she’d been sketching with Peter, and had shown her mother the result on her return and her mother had been so impressed. The sketches must be at the farm, but it didn’t matter, because she could do more now, and this time she’d show them to Hans. She brushed aside the ache. She’d get used to her mother’s death, she just needed to ignore it for now and concentrate on herself for a change, because being an orphan was hard.
Chapter Nineteen
March 1941
It was a cold, damp day in Scotland when Bryony and Adam managed to get to the head of the queue to make a telephone call to Combe Lodge, where Eric had said he’d be waiting to hear from them. It was ten in the morning, and Eric confirmed he had brought the Sunflower out of dry dock and round to the nearby cove, having removed the cabin in its entirety. ‘Adam said we needed to be low lying in order to meld in with the sea. Less chance of being spotted,’ he almost whispered.
She said, ‘Why are you whispering, April’s the only one there, surely? The children are at school.’
‘Eddie’s here, and April doesn’t want him to know, or he’ll come too, and she says the ATA can’t afford to lose two bloody idiots. She wanted you to know her exact words, Bryony. She’s not amused.’
‘Keep whispering, then.’ She tilted the receiver to share the conversation with Adam, who had one arm round her and had been trying to listen, his head resting on hers. They were waiting at the aerodrome for the lift they were hitching with Andrew Burcott, an RAF transport pilot on his way to Taunton. They were making the call from the village, because they didn’t want anyone at all to hear their Jersey plans. From Taunton, a friend of Andrew’s would drive them on to Exmouth where he had business, in the form of a blonde beauty he had met at a dance.
Bryony’s two days’ leave started at 6 a.m. the next morning, when she would normally arrive back at Hatfield by train. She wouldn’t be expected to report until Monday morning. Adam had two more days than she did. It should be enough to get to and from Jersey.
Eric whispered, ‘I’ve the map, and balaclavas as Adam suggested. I managed to get camo-cream, felt-soled boots and dark clothes, just don’t ask me how. They’ll be on the Sunflower. Meet me at the cove – don’t go to the Lodge, because Eddie could be pottering about. I have a Goatley collapsible boat for getting into the Jersey bay, and again, don’t ask how I “released” it. My contact doesn’t want to be named, and he does want it back into stores. He was once on the trawlers and is now into something more interesting. The forecast was right. The weather is appalling, the visibility low, and will be for at least two days. Perfect for us.’
Adam said, ‘You’re a pal, but maybe not “us” after all. I’ve been thinking, and we could be blasted out of the water, or shot as spies once we hit Jersey.’
‘Shut up,’ Eric muttered. ‘The home front has a limited appeal, you know. I’ve got to do something worthwhile.’
‘You already have, and are,’ Bryony insisted. ‘What was Dunkirk if not worthwhile, and the Home Guard? Adam’s right, we can manage, no need to risk three of us. Your dad would never forgive us.’
‘Don’t be patronising, Bee. I can’t keep up on land, so I’ll stay with the Sunflower, and make ready for when you bring Hannah back.’ The line went dead. They had not run out of money, but Eric had run out of patience.
They sat as close to each other as they possibly could on the floor of the transport plane, each second together too precious to waste in sleep. Adam’s arm was around her, and their hands clenched tightly together. It was only the second time they had met up since the party. The last time they had shared a room in a damp Scottish hotel which had been utter heaven, and Bryony thought of the feel of his body on hers, his lips, his hands. It wasn’t just now she thought of it, but most of the time.
Trixie had raised her eyebrows at Joyce on her return that time. ‘Uh-oh, look at that face. Something’s happened that’s going to keep her nice and warm as she bats through the sky in the Maggie.’
Ah, the Maggie. Yes, they’d been busy delivering Miles Magisters, the two-seater monoplane being used as a basic trainer, and very necessary it was too as the rate of destruction of both planes and pilots increased. Bryony buried her head in Adam’s shoulder, and sped the images of the poor young beggars away. Nothing mattered but these minutes and hours until they were separated again.
He murmured into her hair, so that no one else in the aircraft could hear, including the burly marine who sat alongside them, supposedly asleep. ‘I won’t mind if we’re blown out of the water, as long as we’re together.’ It was what she had been thinking ever since speaking to Eric.
Finally, having changed the aircraft for a well-used Austin motorcar, they were driven to Exmouth by Tony Bertram, and waved him goodbye on the coast road. While he roared off to his blonde, they headed across the fields to the cove, slithering down the path on to the sand, which was so far not mined and had no coiled barbed wire.
By three, they had changed into their dark clothes, and their uniforms were stowed in a bag which Eric stuffed into a cleft of rocks, swapping it for the black haversack Bryony had asked him to bring. Into this she put the tobacco and soap that she had managed to acquire. Eric shoved the Sunflower out into the water, and heaved himself over the side on to the deck. The drizzle created visibility so reduced that Adam navigated by compass, which he’d done many times. They had two boathooks with them, and while Adam steered, Eric and Bryony each took a side, their eyes straining through the dense mist, seeking mines.
‘The seas have probably been swept, but magnetic mines are on timers, and will bob up when you least expect it.’ Adam was whispering because sound carried more easily in the damp air. He was driving the Sunflower hard, and she was smashing her way through the waves like a battering ram; time wasn’t on their side. In the distance, a foghorn wailed. It was the sort of weather Bryony hated flying in. Eric came to her side, saying into her ear, ‘Change over, Bee. After a while I can’t see anything. It might jerk me back into action.’
She had been feeling the same, and as the Sunflower juddered through a cresting sea she lost her footing. Eric grabbed her. ‘Steady the Buffs.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
Adam swung round, ‘Don’t get hurt again, darling. Do you hear me? I won’t have it. It’s enough that we’re . . .’
He stopped, their eyes met. She nodded. ‘I won’t.�
�� He had been about to say, it’s enough that we’re going to get the wretched girl, and risk our lives for her without that. He whispered, ‘Getting blown out of the water is one thing, putting up with your bad temper while you heal is quite another.’
They all laughed, but quietly.
Eric muttered, ‘Don’t forget there’ll be a curfew, so you’ve got to stay alert once you land, and the cove might be mined. Stick to the rocks. They’ll have built gun emplacements along the coast.’
She nudged Eric. ‘We’ve been through all this. Don’t worry, just keep your eyes on the sea, your ears peeled. Let’s at least try to get there. How’s the Home Guard, by the way?’
Eric smiled. ‘Makes me feel better about myself, and they’re a grand bunch of grandfathers who’ll go down fighting, you can bet on that.’
By the time Bryony heard the alteration in the sound of the sea, it was 8.30 at night. It meant they were close to shore. Adam reduced speed, puttering towards the roaring of the waves crashing against the cliffs. All around, the mist swirled in the darkness. Were they at the right cove? They strained to see, and there, in a brief window, they saw the outline of the soaring folly that someone had built above the cove. He chugged almost silently into the lee of the cliff, setting down the sea anchor and saying quietly, ‘Spot on. Who’s a clever boy then?’
Wearing their felt shoes and balaclavas, they made no sound as they erected the Goatley, the collapsible, wooden-bottomed rowing-boat-cum-canoe with canvas sides. ‘Just room for four, if your mother wants to come too,’ Eric breathed. ‘I’ll stay, guard the boat, and be ready to take off the moment you’re back.’
Adam lowered the Goatley from the stern, holding it tight in with a paddle as the Sunflower rose and fell in the choppy sea. Bryony hitched on the black rucksack, and hurried down the ladder, the spray catching and drenching her. ‘Watch for mines,’ she whispered to Eric. ‘Mind your own business,’ he muttered. ‘You watch for the damn things, and the Nazis, and everything else that’s likely to bite you in the bum.’
Adam was in the Goatley now, and they paddled towards the shore, straining over the waves as the roaring and crashing became louder. Now they were almost on Jersey soil, Bryony felt the danger in a way she had not allowed in her imagination. Was the cove guarded? Or would the Boche think it was impassable as the path was little known? In fact it wasn’t really a path, just a narrow ridge that they had skipped down as children, heedless of danger. Would she find it again? The surf was running fiercely and she could hear the suck and surge of the sand.
Adam turned, and pointed to the rocks to the left. She dug in the paddle, and they headed for them. Adam leapt on to the rocks, holding the hitching rope. She joined him. Together they hauled the Goatley close and lifted it on to the rocks, lodging it high up, then she led him in a circular direction towards the path, staying on the rocks to avoid any mines, picking her way, sometimes on all fours. The wind plucked at her saturated clothes. She could hear Adam’s teeth chattering above the sound of her own. She peered ahead. There was the ledge. She pointed, and hearing him behind her she headed onwards and upwards.
As Bryony approached the top she paused, only her head visible over the cliff edge. She waited for Adam. They breathed through their mouths, listening, and looking. Nothing. But then a German voice barked out something. There was a laugh, a cough, over to the left about fifty yards from the folly. Adam squeezed her shoulder. Was it a patrol or a gun emplacement? They waited for the sound of men moving. There was nothing.
Bryony adjusted her balaclava and scrambled over the edge, dislodging a stone. It tumbled to the base of the cliff. She froze. Nothing. She lay on her stomach and waited for Adam. When he joined her she led them forward, almost sure of the way to Haven Farm in the dark. They had decided they’d head for it first because that would surely not have been requisitioned, as houses could have been.
She used the fields, sometimes upsetting the sheep, but couldn’t find the stile. In the heavy mist she stood still for a moment, trying to think. She tracked back along the hedge, and found a gate where the stile used to be. They climbed over, the sheep gathered and baaed. She set off across the field, ankle deep in mud, and found the farm. There were no lights showing in the blackout; perhaps everyone was in bed. Thomas kept nature’s hours.
Bryony crept around the farmyard, listening. No dog barked, so no Rosie. Were Olive and Thomas still here or had they had to leave after all? There was a spare key under the flowerpot, as always. She eased it into the back door, turning it, and entered the passageway. Light was showing beneath the kitchen door. Bryony listened. There was someone moving. Crockery crashed, Aunt Olive swore. ‘Damn.’ Bryony smiled, and opened the door. Aunt Olive spun round, a broken cup at her feet. She screamed, and backed against the dresser.
Bryony and Adam snatched off their balaclavas. ‘It’s us, Aunt Olive.’
Adam said, ‘We’ve come for Mrs Miller and Hannah, at last. Better late than never, eh?’
Bryony almost ran to her aunt: she had lost weight, and had dark sunken eyes. She hugged her, murmuring, ‘Will you come too, both of you? We can make two trips in the Goatley, but we have to hurry.’
Aunt Olive, who still smelt of lavender, enfolded her in a hug, almost squeezing the air from her lungs. ‘Oh darling girl, you’re too late. Your mother died before New Year.’ She was weeping now, her sobs shaking her body, as Bryony’s arms fell to her sides. Her mother, dead?
Adam was just behind her, rubbing her back. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but we need to get Hannah. We’ve got to get back to Devon before the darkness lifts, and the mist.’
Uncle Thomas’s voice reached them now, from the passageway. ‘Who’s that? What the hell is going on?’
He entered, and saw them both. ‘Bloody hell.’
Bryony smiled at him, over her aunt’s shoulder. ‘Yes, we’ve come for anyone who needs to escape. What about you, Uncle Thomas? Is Hannah in bed, or still at the cottage?’
He held out his arms, ‘Come and give your old uncle a kiss and then get yourselves back to the cove. I ’spect that’s where you came in?’
She did, feeling his strong arms around her, the smell of a strange tobacco. ‘What on earth are you smoking these days?’
He grimaced. ‘This and that. Nettles at the moment.’
Bryony pulled back, removing her backpack and taking out a tin of pipe tobacco, and soap for her aunt. ‘I thought you and Mum – well, you – would enjoy the soap. Was it TB?’ She felt strange, detached, almost as though a burden had been lifted.
Aunt Olive shook her head. ‘A stroke. Perhaps for the best.’
There was a silence. ‘Why? Where’s Hannah?’ Bryony asked.
A girl’s voice spoke from the doorway. ‘I’ll take you.’
She was blonde and slight, and carried a book she’d been reading. Aunt Olive explained that Sylvia had moved in to look after Bryony’s mother, and stayed on. Hannah was at the cottage, with her German beau.
Adam hung his head, then dragged his hands through his hair. ‘All this way?’ Suddenly he sounded exhausted.
Aunt Olive said, ‘She might just be looking for a chance to get away, you never know. But let Sylvia go with you. If you really wouldn’t mind, Sylvia my dear? You’ll be breaking the curfew but how will they find it, without a guide? Bee darling, let Sylvia enter the house first because you don’t want to come face to face with trouble. Thomas would go, but . . .’
Thomas was shaking his head. ‘No, never, not even for Bee.’
Soon they were heading down the track in Sylvia’s wake. Bryony saw that the young woman carried a large haversack on her back. Adam tugged at Bryony’s arm. ‘What’s that all about?’ he whispered. Bryony caught up with Sylvia. ‘Are you going somewhere, Sylvia?’ she breathed.
‘Back with you, and Hannah, if you’ll have me. I want to nurse, I want to get away from all of this. I’d rather have the bombs, and even if the Germans invade I’ll be with my own kind. My mum and dad are g
one, but I’m English not a Channel Islander, so who is to say what they’ll do with us eventually. They could send the Brits to Germany, or so some of us think.’
‘Sssh,’ Adam whispered. ‘Keep your voices down or none of us will be going anywhere but a cell.’
At last, as they crept along the back lanes, Sylvia pointed through the mist. ‘There. I’ll go in, and get her to come to the door, then I’ll nip out to the gate and wait for you. I don’t trust . . .’ she paused. ‘I’ll wait by the gate. Be careful, be prepared to run.’
Adam and Bryony stepped into the shadows as Sylvia tried the door. It was unlocked. She whispered over her shoulder to them, ‘Hans might not be here but if he isn’t, keep an eye out for him coming in.’
She entered. Bee and Adam pressed back into the shadows, listening for the sound of this German called Hans coming along the path, as they waited for Hannah. Somewhere within the house, a dog barked. Bee leaned into Adam. It was Rosie. At least she had survived. Still she felt nothing about her mother.
The back door opened, and Sylvia slipped out. ‘She’s coming, but Hans is here. His unit had an exercise and he’s washing.’ She was whispering.
She vanished into the darkness, and then Rosie was there, barking, whining and licking, her paws up on Bryony’s shoulders. Bryony hugged and stroked her, murmuring, ‘Sssh, sssh.’ Adam dragged the dog over to him, as Hannah came to the door. Bryony couldn’t see her face, as everywhere was in darkness but she heard her sister’s petulant voice. ‘Why’ve you come? Mum’s dead, and that’s your fault. If you’d persuaded her to leave she’d be all right. Anyway, I don’t want to come. I’m happy. I’ve got someone who loves me.’
Bryony’s eyes had become adjusted to the gloom and she held out her arms to her sister, but Hannah crossed hers and stepped back into the house. A dim strip of light showed beneath a door at the end of the hall. ‘You’ve got to go. If Hans knows you’re here, you’ll be in trouble.’