by Pam Weaver
‘You’re in fine voice today, Georgie,’ said his mother. ‘You sound very happy.’
‘That’s because I like parties,’ he said. ‘When I grow up, I shall have one every day.’
‘Silly boy,’ Pip chuckled. ‘The reason why parties are such fun is because we don’t have them very often.’
When they reached Sarah’s house, Pip parked the pram by the wall and hauled Georgie and his sister out. With the brake on, the rolling noise stopped.
‘Wait here,’ said Pip.
‘You’d better not leave Hazel here with those balloons,’ said Georgie, doing his best to sound helpful. ‘I bet she’ll let go of the strings.’
‘Will not,’ said his sister indignantly.
‘Georgie’s right,’ said Pip. ‘You’d better come with me, darling.’
‘I can hold on to them, Mummy,’ said Hazel. ‘Really I can.’ But much to her brother’s relief, her mother led her away.
Georgie glanced around. He was alone, but he’d have to be quick. Shoving the food to the top of the mattress, he fished about and pulled up one of the three boards that lay over the bottom of the pram. Pushing his hand into the well underneath, he felt around. It wasn’t there. Taking out his hand, Georgie leaned heavily on the handle and heard it roll towards him. When he put his hand under the mattress and lifted the board a second time, the jagged edge of something almost broke the skin on his fingers. He grabbed the first piece of shrapnel and stuffed it into his pocket. The second piece was a lot smaller, but he had it in a trice. As his fingers touched something hard and cylindrical, he could hear his mother coming. A second later, Goliath was in his pocket. All he had to do now was put everything straight. As he wiggled the false bottom into place, one of the plates on top of the mattress shifted sideways and a couple of sandwiches slid off.
‘Oh, Georgie,’ said a cross voice behind him. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’
‘Sorry, Mummy.’
‘Why don’t you leave things alone?’ said Pip, exasperated.
Georgie widened his eyes and with an innocent expression said, ‘I was only trying to help, Mummy.’
‘Hello, you two.’
Thankfully, they were interrupted by Auntie Lillian’s cheery call, and a second later, the two women headed into the house carrying the plates of sandwiches. Georgie patted his pocket. After a whole winter being locked up in his father’s shed, he’d finally got Goliath and the shrapnel back.
While Mrs Hollick played pass the parcel with the children in the kitchen, Pip and Lillian were sent to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, and it was here that Lillian asked Pip what she thought about her going solo.
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea,’ cried Pip, secretly relieved. ‘And if Nigel is willing to play the piano for you, why not?’
‘It’s only until Stella is well again,’ Lillian cautioned.
‘Of course,’ said Pip.
‘And you’re really sure you don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Pip.
The kettle was boiling and they searched for cups. ‘Have you seen anything of Stella lately?’
Pip shook her head. ‘Not for a couple of weeks,’ she said, laying a tray, ‘when I took the children over on the bus for the day. Have you?’
‘I went a couple of days ago,’ said Lillian. ‘I told her about going solo and she was all right about it. I must say she looks a lot better.’
‘Any sign of her coming back?’
Lillian shook her head. ‘Her house has been requisitioned as a billet, so she says she might as well stay with Mrs Elkins for the duration. She says being away from Worthing helps.’
The kettle whistled and Pip poured the water into a teapot.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Lillian, getting a bottle of milk from the cold-water bucket in the larder. ‘She took Johnny’s death very hard, and she gets on well with Mrs Elkins. In fact, I’d be surprised if she ever came back to Worthing. I wish this damned war would end soon.’
‘You and me both,’ said Pip.
When the party was over, the two women walked home together.
‘Tell you what,’ Pip suddenly said. ‘I’ve got a couple of evening dresses in my wardrobe. I haven’t worn them in years. If you fancy borrowing one of them, you’re most welcome.’
Lillian beamed. ‘Thanks, Pip.’
Flora and Hazel were tired and glad of a lift, but Pip had let Georgie walk beside them. She stared at his pockets. They were bulging. ‘What have you got in your pockets, Georgie?’
‘Nothing, Mummy.’
‘Yes, you have. They’re sticking out. Come here.’
Her son dragged himself reluctantly back to his mother. Pip put her hand in one pocket and pulled out two jagged pieces of shrapnel. ‘Georgie!’
‘It’s all right, Mummy. It can’t hurt you.’
‘No, but it can make a nasty hole in your trousers,’ she scolded. Lillian turned her head and tried not to smile. Pip frowned. ‘What’s that in the other pocket?’
‘Only my hanky,’ said Georgie, holding it up.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ said his mother, ‘but I’m keeping this until we get home.’
Stuffing his handkerchief back in his pocket, Georgie walked on ahead. Phew, that was a lucky escape. Good job she hadn’t taken the hanky as well. Goliath was wrapped up inside and he was sure she would never let him have it back.
Back at Pip’s house, Lillian followed her upstairs and into her bedroom. Neat and tidy, the dressing table was dominated by a picture of Peter. Pip was already looking in the wardrobe, but Lillian hesitated by the door. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your Peter yet?’
Pip’s face clouded as she shook her head.
‘It must be awful for you,’ said Lillian. ‘I don’t know how you keep going.’
‘I have to,’ she said, ‘for the sake of the children.’
‘How long has it been since you heard from him?’ Lillian began again.
‘Almost two years,’ said Pip. ‘He was captured in February 1942.’ Lillian shuffled her feet awkwardly. ‘It’s all right,’ she went on, her tone flat and expressionless. ‘I’ve got used to it.’ They regarded each other for a moment or two; then Pip added, ‘What about you? Your Gordon has been a prisoner a lot longer.’
Lillian shrugged. ‘He’s all right. Apart from losing his freedom, he’s having it cushy.’
Pip looked a tad surprised.
‘Think about it,’ said Lillian. ‘No bombing, no queuing; he gets Red Cross parcels from just about everywhere, and from what I can gather, they put on shows and play cricket all the time.’
‘It must get a bit boring,’ said Pip.
‘I wouldn’t mind swapping with him,’ said Lillian.
Pip giggled. ‘I bet you wouldn’t. You’d be in your element with all those men.’
Lillian pretended to be shocked. ‘Why, Mrs Sinclair, I don’t know what you mean.’
There was always something to do on the farm and Stella was beginning to love it. It felt as if she had, or was, emerging from a very long tunnel. She had arrived in Pulborough just after Christmas, but she hardly recalled a single day. All she remembered was the pain in her chest. It was physical and it was deep. At times, it was so bad she could hardly breathe. She was exhausted, and as weak as a kitten. She had experienced grief before, when her father died, but this gnawing emptiness was nowhere near the same.
When she had visited the farm way back in the summer, the days were long, with up to seventeen hours of daylight between sunrise and sunset. With her arrival in the winter, the days were much shorter, with only eight and then nine hours of daylight, and yet there was always something to do. Silted ditches were cleared, fences repaired and some farm machinery given a good overhaul. Once the really bad winter weather set in during January and February, Mr Elkins and the Italian POWs seconded to work on the farm spent their time caring for the animals. With frost and snow on the ground, the cows, horses and
pigs had to be housed and fed inside, which meant a lot more work keeping them clean. The advent of spring took the workload up a gear. Lambing was in full swing by February, and at the same time several sows farrowed. Although Stella helped on the farm and in particular helped Mrs Elkins in the house, she had another string to her bow.
It began when she took a walk into Pulborough. Her thoughts were all over the place, albeit mostly on Johnny, but when she passed the place where she, Pip and Lillian had shared afternoon tea with Brenda, she couldn’t resist going in.
She’d sat in the same window seat and enjoyed sandwiches and cake. Brenda had been moved over to Horsham, but they still kept in touch, and Stella thought it would be nice to invite her back on her day off. The room was much the same, except that the piano was silent.
‘What happened to your pianist?’ she’d asked the waiter.
‘He got called up.’
Stella gave him a sympathetic nod and carried on eating. As time went on, she began to feel the pull, and before long her fingers were itching to touch the keyboard. She looked around. The waiters had momentarily left the room and all at once she found herself seated on the piano stool and lifting the piano lid. She chose something soothing and restful – part of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ – and as the notes filled the air, a reverent hush spread over the room. Stella quickly became totally absorbed in the music and found herself drifting on a haze of lovely memories. As she played the last note, she realized her cheeks were wet. Hastily she brushed the tears away with her hand and made to stand up. It was only then that she realized everyone in the room was applauding. She bowed her head in acknowledgement of the sea of smiling faces, and after listening to their pleas, she placed her hands back on the keyboard. Since that day, Stella had played the piano in the hotel every afternoon except Sunday. Her music not only gave pleasure to the hotel guests but it somehow helped her to find healing.
Lillian, Pip and their children travelled over to see her, as did her mother and Desmond and Judith, but Stella couldn’t bring herself to return to Worthing. It would be like picking at a scab. The memories were too painful, too raw.
‘Are you going to Lillian’s show?’ Betty asked. She and Iris were in the cafe washing out the teapot and emptying the urn at the end of another day.
‘I can’t,’ said Iris. ‘My sister is coming from Winchester tomorrow. I haven’t had a minute to myself and I’ve got to get the place straight.’
‘Oh,’ said Betty, clearly disappointed.
‘Why not talk to Mr Knight?’ said Iris. ‘He’ll take you.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ said Betty, her face colouring. ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve.’
‘Why ever not?’ said Iris. ‘It’s not as if you’ve got a silly schoolgirl crush on him, is it? You’re just supporting a work colleague.’
‘Well, if you put it like that,’ Betty said.
As it turned out, Betty had a wonderful time. She and Mr Knight had caught the bus to Lancing and walked along the seafront. Lillian had given their names to the guard on the gate, and once they’d produced their identification cards, they were in. The show was in the canteen, and almost as soon as they’d arrived, they’d blended in with the workers.
Mr Knight bought her a cup of tea and they sat fairly near the front. Betty felt very spoiled. It was a long time since she’d felt so happy. She knew they weren’t on a date, as everybody called it, but she enjoyed the company of this man. He made her feel comfortable and she knew she could make him happy, she was sure of it. There were a couple of supporting artists and then Lillian was announced. She glided across the stage in a pale blue full-length evening dress with a sequinned neckline. It hugged her body and showed off her trim figure. She looked every inch the star. Mr Knight’s eyes shone, and along with everyone else in the canteen, he applauded enthusiastically. Her pianist played an introduction and Lillian began with ‘Miss You’, a song made famous by Dinah Shore.
At the end of the show, a hooter sounded, and late as it was, it was time for everyone to go back to work. The Lancing carriage works worked a twenty-four-hour day in three shifts. Mr Knight wanted to hang around with the hope of speaking to Lillian, but their ‘minder’ escorted them back to the gate.
As they waited for the bus to return them to Worthing, Mr Knight hummed to himself. Eventually, he glanced at Betty, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Magic,’ he whispered. ‘Wasn’t she magic?’
By May, Stella had made a whole set of new friends. She had no desire to continue with the Sussex Sisters, and it seemed she wasn’t alone. Lillian had embarked on a solo career, with that nice man from the Lancing carriage works playing the piano for her. Stella wondered vaguely if there was anything going on between them. Lillian was certainly looking a lot happier, but Stella didn’t like to ask. As for Pip, after that rather unsavoury business with her twin sister, she seemed to have settled back down. Her children were a credit to her, and although it would have been nice for her to get a letter from Peter, she apparently had no problem in keeping the faith that one day he would come back to her.
Stella’s walk to the hotel was particularly pleasant today. As the sun grew stronger each day, everything had that fresh, green, bursting-from-the-bud look about it. In the hedgerows, blackthorn was in flower, primroses danced beside the ditches, and she spotted the blue haze of bluebells in a little copse. A blackbird sang in a willow tree, and in the fields, newborn lambs frolicked and played.
The hotel receptionist, Mr Grant, greeted her as she walked into the lobby. ‘Ah, there you are, Stella. Mr Wingate wants to see you.’
‘Before or after I play?’ Stella asked as she took off her hat and gloves. Although spring was well under way, there was still a nip in the air, and it would be a bit chilly by the time she walked home at four-thirty.
‘Now,’ said Mr Grant. A dapper little man dressed in his usual suit with waistcoat and watch chain, he was usually serious-faced and businesslike with her, but today his face was lit up. He was actually grinning. She couldn’t recall ever seeing him like that before. She stood for a moment, simply staring. With a flick of his hand, he waved her on her way, and as she turned into the corridor, she could have sworn she heard him chuckle. What on earth was all that about? And why would the hotel manager want to see her?
As she headed for the office, she became aware that she was the object of some curiosity. Hotel guests huddled together in small groups and turned away as she approached. The odd thing was, their actions didn’t seem to be malicious. They were pleased, happy, smiling.
Stella knocked politely and pushed open the office door. Mr Wingate, who was seated at his desk, rose as she walked in. ‘Ah, Stella,’ he beamed. ‘We have had a telephone call from your mother.’
For a second, Stella’s heart almost stopped, but then it occurred to her that he was still smiling.
‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘we have had a deluge of telephone calls. Your father-in-law, your friend Mrs Sinclair, Mrs Elkins . . .’
‘Mrs Elkins?’ Stella said faintly.
‘They are all desperate to get hold of you.’
‘But why?’
Mr Wingate came round the desk. ‘I’m pretty sure why they want to talk to you, but first I want you to come into the staff rest room. There’s someone I want you to meet.’
He took her arm and they crossed the corridor together. He pushed the door open and indicated that she should go in ahead of him. The room was unusually tidy, and there were fresh flowers on the table. Someone was standing looking out of the window onto the formal gardens. A man in uniform. Her heart began to thump. Stella heard the door closing softly behind her and the man turned round. She gaped at him open-mouthed.
‘Hello, Freckle-Face.’ Then he opened his arms and she ran to him with a cry of delight.
‘Johnny! Oh, my darling Johnny.’
CHAPTER 25
‘I thought you were dead.’ Stella’s first words of greeting reverberated round and round his head. A
s soon as he had arrived, Johnny had booked a room, but when Mr Wingate discovered who he was, he had put them in the bridal suite at no extra cost. It was very plush, with a big double bed and a comfortable sofa overlooking the water meadow. At first, he’d headed for home. The officers billeted at Salisbury Road had given him quite a shock when they’d told him they had no idea where Stella was. From there he’d gone to his parents’. As soon as he’d found out where Stella was staying, he’d wanted to leave straight away, but it didn’t seem fair to his mother. After a few agonizing hours, he’d set out for Pulborough. He’d told them not to tell her. He wanted to surprise her.
They had been shy at first, like new lovers, but gradually, as they lay in each other’s arms, they rediscovered each other. He had a lean, hungry look as they made love. The first time was much too quick. Johnny was apologetic.
‘I’m sorry, Freckle-Face. I’m a bit out of practice. It’s been too long.’
Putting a finger over his lips to silence him, she snuggled into his arms. ‘They sent me a telegram saying you were missing, believed killed.’
‘I escaped,’ he said.
‘Was that when you wrote the letter telling me that you had a plan? I wondered what that was all about.’
‘That was the first time I escaped,’ he said. ‘I didn’t last long on the outside. Have you got any cigarettes?’
She shook her head. ‘But there should be some complimentary ones in the box on the table.’ He got out of bed and went to get one. He was naked, but she watched him, conscious that he was very thin. He lit a cigarette and came back to bed with the ashtray.
‘We got sent to Benghazi until Monty came back to finish the job,’ he said. ‘The first time I had a go at getting away, Nobby Clarke and I found some Italian uniforms and a motorbike. We didn’t last long, and when they caught us at a checkpoint, they said we were going to be shot.’