A Selection of Recent Titles from Madge Swindells
HOT ICE
RIPPLES ON A POND
SHADOWS ON THE SNOW
SONG OF THE WIND
SUMMER HARVEST
TWISTED THINGS
STRING OF PEARLS
Madge Swindells
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Madge Swindells.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Swindells, Madge
String of Pearls
1. World War, 1939–1945 – England – Dorset – Fiction
2. World War, 1939–1945 – Evacuation of civilians – Great
Britain – Fiction 3. War brides – Fiction 4. Love stories
I. Title
823.9′14[F]
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-126-2 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6663-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-144-7 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
With grateful thanks to my daughter, Jenni, for her valuable plotting ideas, and to Peter for his help with the research, to Shelley for her editorial assistance and Anna Telfer for her meticulous copy-editing.
‘If we are together nothing is impossible. If we are divided all will fail.’
Winston Churchill
One
Mowbray, Dorset, August, 1942.
On a sunny August afternoon, Helen Conroy, housewife, mother, riding teacher and war worker was halfway home when she stopped cycling to watch a skylark singing its heart out as it hovered over a field, then swooped and rose, trilling loud and shrill. She had just completed her five-hour morning stint packing explosives at an armaments factory, a tense and tiring job. Cycling home along a narrow country lane, bordered by oak and elm trees, between fields of ripening wheat and barley, brought her joy and the chance to unwind.
The air was hot and sultry under a hazy sky. The buzz of insects reverberated in her ears, midges swarmed, rooks circled and squabbled. How wonderful to have escaped that noisy, stuffy factory where she’d been stooped over a bench, her clothes sticking to her, never relaxing for a moment for fear of blowing herself and others to smithereens. It was lovely here. She was tempted to sit on the bank and enjoy the morning. She could scent honeysuckle, wet grass and warm, damp earth, reminding her of their last summer holiday in Devon. Damn! Why did she think of that? Her eyes burned as she remembered.
Eric is lying on his back, almost hidden by dried grass and wild fennel, with the sun shining on his face, his eyes glinting with fun. ‘Come on. Don’t be a baby. There’s no one around for miles.’
‘There are the cows.’ She is trying to make light of her reluctance. She stares down at Brixham’s tiny fishing harbour and the rows of houses straggling uphill. The sea is a translucent blue, but she can see the dark shadow of the wreck her husband is salvaging. Today the sea is deceptively calm, but sometimes it terrifies her: when Eric is down in the smashed hold.
‘What’s the good of coming here for a holiday if we don’t enjoy ourselves? I haven’t seen you for months.’
She takes off her coat awkwardly and kneels amongst the fennel, the strong, acidic scent wafts around her. She presses her hand flat on the ground, feels the dew that will penetrate the only coat she has with her and maybe stain it. She turns her coat inside out and rolls it up. Sitting on the grass, she feels the dampness penetrate her skirt and then her panties.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just look at your expression!’ Eric jumps up and brushes the burrs off his trousers in sharp, angry gestures, his face sullen and disappointed. ‘You hate sex.’ He walks away.
‘I do not. It’s just that the grass is damp,’ she calls after him. Hadn’t they made love for hours last night and briefly this morning? But by now Eric is almost out of sight, striding towards the lane. She climbs to her feet and picks up her coat. As she expected, there is mud on the hem. It is all she has to wear to dinner tonight. She will sponge it lightly when she reaches their hotel. He’ll get over it, she tells herself, unaware of the approaching danger.
Helen frowned, regretting her lack of control. That was over a year ago. She had promised herself not to keep going over the past. She had taken the children to join Eric for the summer holidays. Miro and Daisy were turning sixteen and they loved it at Brixham. Until the last evening she had happily imagined that they were having fun. Since then she had fought to protect her marriage.
Suddenly she wanted to get home. She cycled faster, skidding around the corners. The sight of her father’s rambling Victorian home, with the ivy creeping over the red brick walls to the eaves, always comforted her. It stood well back from a broad, gravel lane and at the back of the garden it overlooked the sea. They had always enjoyed their private bay, which wasn’t theirs at all, but there was no way to get down to the sea except by boat or else from the zigzag path which her great grandfather had constructed, leading from the bottom of their garden. Their eight acres were spread around the bay, which was enclosed at both ends by cliffs jutting out to sea. It was low tide and she could see the ragged bows of a wreck breaking the calm surface of the sea. This was a fairly recent addition to the bay: a Greek owned, Liberian registered freighter, carrying a cargo of copper from Zaire, which had foundered on the rocks one foggy night in 1939, just after war was declared. The crew had been saved by the local lifeboat from Poole, which set out as soon as her father had called them.
They shared their lane with three houses and all the gardens were substantial, but since the war began only parts of them were cultivated. Hardly anyone had time to tend the gardens. Most of the lawns had become meadows where wild flowers were sprouting while the flower beds were covered in weeds and the hedg
es were running to wood. Their garden looked better than most because Helen’s father was an enthusiastic gardener and his war work consisted of only three nights a week in the ARP – the Air Raid Precaution service.
Cooper House stood three miles from Mowbray village and only a short drive away from the New Forest, if you had petrol to waste. Three generations of Coopers had lived here. This was where she had been born and brought up until she left home at seventeen to study dress designing in London. She’d met her husband at a party in London. He had fascinated her with his tales of underwater daring in the world of salvage, his travels around the world, his wavy black hair and blue eyes and he had danced her off her feet. Oh God! Now she was back to Eric again, but it was only three months since he’d left her and her wounds still hurt.
She found her father working in the stables. ‘Hi Dad.’ She forced a smile.
‘Ah, there you are Helen.’ Bent over a sack of feed, John Cooper peered over his shoulder before grabbing hold of a strap to pull himself up. When he stood straight, which wasn’t often, he was six foot tall, a strong, wiry man with no excess fat. His hair was grey, but his grey eyes were as youthful as a young man’s so that you didn’t notice his wrinkled skin or his arthritic hands. She knew that he was too old to take on all this work. She had been selfish to start their riding school, but her father had been keen and the additional income came in handy. Dad had offered them his home and himself as cook, stable hand, char, adviser, gardener and odd-job-man. He was seventy-five and very fit, but lately his back was acting up with the strain. Once the financial director of a ceramics plant and later, when her grandfather died, the proprietor, he had retired seven years ago, but he still retained an air of command which worked well with the children. Her father’s kindness and dependability had helped Helen through all her problems, but even he was unable to help her now.
‘You do too much,’ she said.
‘Nonsense. Exercise keeps me young.’
He turned and looked towards their fields where their twelve horses had been put out to graze. Daunty, their black stallion, had been Eric’s. He had insisted on having him even though she and Dad had wanted a gelding. A stallion in a riding school didn’t make any sense, particularly since they kept six quiet mares for their younger pupils.
John seemed to read her thoughts. ‘We should sell Daunty; don’t you think so?’
‘Maybe later.’
John didn’t argue. He never gave unwanted advice. That was one of the great things about him. He understood that she was not yet able to let go.
‘Helen,’ John called after her. ‘You’re running out of time.’
‘Heavens!’ She hurried to change into her jodhpurs and a T-shirt. Glancing out of the window she saw a few children arriving. Most of the youngsters in her class came from the local farms. Today they were going to have their first lesson in jumping. They were smart, unafraid and easy to teach. She enjoyed the lessons and it took her mind off her hurt. The afternoon went faster and better than she had expected.
Later, Helen bathed and changed into her old corduroys and a blouse, which she wore for her evening stint at the NAAFI canteen. She hurried to the kitchen to prepare the family supper.
Miro came home first. ‘Where’s Daisy?’ he called from the hall.
‘She said she might be late. Extra gym practice.’
‘Perhaps I should go and fetch her.’
‘Why? She’s all right. It’s light and safe.’
Sometimes Helen worried about Miro’s excessive concern for Daisy, but when you thought about what he’d been through it was understandable that he should find the world such an unsafe place. He was exactly the same age as Daisy and sometimes people took them for twins. Whereas Daisy had ash-blonde hair like hers, and the same blue eyes and milky white skin, Miro had startling dark eyes, light brown hair and a sturdy, square face that was vaguely Russian in appearance. She had a sudden memory of seeing him for the first time on a rainy morning at Dover station. He had been so thin and gangly and his features seemed too large for the rest of him, but now everything fitted together perfectly and he was becoming a very good looking boy.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘That smells great.’
‘Oh, Miro. You made me jump.’ She turned round for her customary kiss on either cheek. This had never been a family habit, but they were learning from Miro. ‘There’s a big bowl of jelly in the larder, Miro. The stew will be ready by seven, although it’s a tough old bird. I swopped it for—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Miro said. ‘Your precious clothing coupons. You should have taken Cocky.’
‘Eat Cocky!’ She gaped at him in astonishment, but saw from Miro’s grin that he was teasing her.
‘Cocky wakes me every morning at dawn when I want to sleep,’ he grumbled.
‘It’s a great way to start the day. Don’t you think so?’
Miro shrugged. ‘If it makes you happy. I’m going to study.’
By six p.m., Helen was sitting in the lounge with John listening to the news. It was all bad: the German army had encircled Smolensk, capturing 300,000 Russian soldiers, and over 3,000 tanks, a shattering defeat for the Red Army; Churchill had accused the Nazis of ‘merciless butchery’ in Soviet territories where whole districts were being exterminated; there was growing unease over Japanese expansion in Indochina; and Pétain had imposed fascist rule on France.
It was a relief when the news finished and they could listen to ITMA (It’s That Man Again) with Tommy Handley, on the radio. As usual, Mona Lot was complaining, this time about the colour of their bread.
‘Of course, she’s right.’ Helen laughed. ‘The bread’s a dirty beige colour nowadays. That’s why I always toast our sandwiches.’ Helen sipped her tea and munched her toast. Margarine was entirely out until they started on the next page of ration coupons on Monday. The jam was insipid, mainly flavoured gelatin without much fruit or sugar, but that was all she could get. No one complained. The enemy’s U-boats were trying to starve them into submission, too many supply ships were torpedoed and their merchant navy boys were dying in order to bring them food. They were truly grateful for whatever they had.
The doorbell rang, startling her. ‘Damn!’
‘I’ll go,’ John said.
‘No, no. You stay there. You need a rest.’ Helen hurried to the front door as Enid Warrington rang again. Flushed and sweating, she leaned against the wall. Enid had joined the council last year and she was doing the job of two men who had been called up.
‘Have you come to check the meter, Enid?’
‘Not this time. I have to find billets for soldiers and it’s urgent. We’ve had a memo from the War Office. Rooms are needed as of now. I need to look around.’
‘Help yourself.’ Helen went back to ITMA, leaving Enid to tramp through the house and the grounds.
Ten minutes later Enid knocked on the door. ‘Are all those fields behind the stables yours?’
‘Yes. And the wood. You look exhausted. Come in and have some coffee.’
‘Thanks, but I haven’t time. I reckon they’ll want the fields.’
‘I hope not. We run stables here with twelve horses. We need the grazing.’
‘I’ll mention that.’ She scribbled in her notebook.
‘So, the Yanks are coming at last,’ John said. ‘Just in time, I might add.’
‘What makes you think so?’ Enid looked up nervously. Perhaps this was classified information.
‘The War Office has enough land for all its needs. The Yanks will have to set up camps and they’ll want space for training and stockpiling their equipment.’
‘I might as well break the bad news, Mr Cooper. You’re bound to get one of them billeted on you. The War Office insists on a bedroom, a bed, linen, towels, a table, a wardrobe and a chair. Your place is ‘officer class’. You’ll probably have to find alternative grazing for your horses because they’re bound to want those fields.’
‘Do we have to provide food?’ Helen ask
ed her.
‘No.’
‘Well, thank heavens for that.’
Enid looked around enviously. ‘I bet you’ll get one of those sexy Yanks who look as if they’re straight out of Hollywood.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be a pain whatever he looks like,’ Helen said, as she showed Enid out.
Daisy was coming up the driveway. ‘Hi darling. Where were you?’
Daisy shrugged and tried to push past her, but Helen stood firm. ‘What is it with you, Daisy? For goodness sake lose this antagonism. Where were you?’
‘Studying with a friend,’ she muttered. Pushing Helen’s hand aside, she walked into the lounge and made a point of hugging her grandfather.
‘But where will the horses graze all day?’ Daisy wailed when her grandfather told her about the probable loss of their fields.
‘I guess we’ll have to give them the run of the garden,’ John replied.
Daisy looked horrified. ‘They’ll ruin the lawn.’
‘For goodness sake, Daisy.’ Miro sounded agitated. ‘Have you ever considered what our lives would be like if we lost this war?’
Then the bleak look they knew so well came into his eyes again. It was like pulling down the shutters. ‘Sorry.’ He stood up ready to flee.
‘Miro!’ Helen’s voice was sharper than usual. ‘You’re entitled to your say, like the rest of us and what you said was very much to the point. Please don’t go.’
He sat down looking guilty. Helen hated him to look like that. All the love she had lavished on him had not been able to erase that expression.
‘We’ll have to grow our own vegetables in the front, and the horses can have the back. Lawns will be a thing of the past and we might as well get used to it. Plus, we must sort out the bedrooms,’ John said.
Chaos erupted as no one wanted to give up an inch of their space.
Two
Swaying to the tango, in an exclusive nightclub in Buenos Aires, with the best looking girl in the room in his arms, Captain Simon Johnson should have felt great.
This was a nightly ritual and Uncle Sam was picking up his tabs, so why wasn’t he laughing? The truth was he felt a heel. He’d been tiptoeing around every proffered friendship since he arrived and in the process he’d become an accomplished liar. But the focus of his guilt was the woman in his arms. He hadn’t actually lied to Maria, he argued with himself. He’d merely omitted to tell the truth. He’d learned to get by with the magic word ‘maybe’ Compassion surged as he imagined her distress when she found he had gone. He had used her, but he had never imagined that she would fall in love with him.
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