Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  Pip had pulled herself up sharply. She mustn’t give way. The suit was ruined as far as Peter was concerned, but the rest of the material had been far too good to waste. Pip had never tried making anything tailored before, and although the jacket collar was a little off centre, the suit looked quite good. Georgie, who had no idea that his mother had made it, was very proud of it.

  The visit of the group captain and his wife coincided with a gift to the nation of twenty-two million eggs from Canada. With the promise of six to ten eggs per ration book, Pip was able to make a Victoria sponge cake in the traditional way. She’d virtually spring-cleaned the house and waited nervously for his arrival.

  They arrived on time, and after a few shy and awkward moments, it was as if they’d only parted yesterday. In no time at all, her father had delighted Georgie with first-hand stories of the Battle of Britain and its heroic pilots.

  ‘We had a Heinkel come down here,’ said Georgie.

  ‘Did you really?’ said his grandfather, even though Pip had already told him the tale.

  Pip, Elspeth and Hazel left them swapping experiences to attend to things in the kitchen.

  ‘It looks as if things are finally coming to an end,’ said Pip, settling Hazel down at a table in the hallway first. Her grandparents had brought her a doll’s house. It wasn’t new, but it had absolutely everything. Elspeth explained that it had been in her family for years.

  ‘Are you sure you want Hazel to have it?’ Pip had asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Elspeth. ‘I have no children of my own and it’s time to pass it on.’

  Although it was the end of April, it was far too cold to sit in the garden. The radio said that there had been as much as six inches of snow on the Kent coast. Worthing, protected by the South Downs, had only had a sprinkling, but coupled with some sharp frosts, it had been enough to damage the new season’s potatoes, runner beans and soft fruits. Stella’s parents-in-law had been devastated to see their plum tree, which was in blossom, totally decimated and the strawberry beds completely ruined.

  Once they were alone in the kitchen, there was a chance to speak more freely. Elspeth helped to load the tea trolley with the sandwiches and cakes Pip had made.

  ‘There’s a rumour going round that Hitler is already dead,’ said Elspeth. ‘They haven’t said as much on the news, but Stanley is convinced that it’s true.’

  ‘I don’t usually wish anybody dead,’ Pip said with a sigh, ‘but let’s hope so.’

  ‘Where are the children from your little nursery?’ asked Elspeth.

  ‘I gave myself a holiday,’ said Pip. ‘This is a special occasion. It’s not every day you get to entertain the father you’ve only seen once in twenty years.’

  Elspeth gave her a grin. ‘Will you carry on with the nursery if the war ends?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Pip, ‘and I have plans to expand.’

  Elspeth looked around. Pip didn’t have a lot of space as it was. Where would she expand?

  ‘I’m hoping to create a purpose-built nursery,’ Pip went on. ‘I’ve just sold some land, and now I’m in the process of buying a property to convert.’

  ‘My word,’ said Elspeth, clearly impressed.

  ‘You see, I think times have changed,’ Pip said as she poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘The war has given women a taste of freedom. They’ve had their own money and so I think that even when the men come back, they’ll want to carry on working, or maybe they’ll have to go out to work. In any case, they’ll want somewhere to put their preschool children. Hence yours truly.’

  Elspeth smiled admiringly. ‘You’re an amazing girl,’ she said. ‘Most men think women are too stupid to run a business.’

  ‘Ha!’ Pip cried. ‘Since Peter has been gone, I’ve been renting out two shops, running a small nursery from my own home, and I’ve got my finger in a couple of other pies as well.’

  Elspeth chuckled. ‘You’re definitely your father’s daughter.’

  Just as they were about to push the laden trolley towards the sitting room, Georgie came running into the kitchen. ‘Look, Mummy. Look.’ He was holding up a picture of an airman.

  Pip glanced at the photograph. ‘Ooh, that’s Ginger Lacey, isn’t it?’

  In the photograph, the flying ace who was credited with bringing down the Heinkel responsible for bombing Buckingham Palace was receiving a parachute and scarf especially made for him by the women of Australia. Pip turned her attention back to the trolley.

  ‘You’re not looking properly, Mummy,’ Georgie complained.

  Pip looked again at the man with the beaming smile in the foreground; then her eye strayed to the back of the picture and the knot of people behind. There, in the background, were her father and Elspeth.

  ‘My goodness,’ cried Pip, glancing up at Elspeth. ‘You were there!’ She took in a breath. ‘That means you met the King! How wonderful.’

  ‘And that’s not all, Mummy,’ Georgie cried as he held up a life jacket with Mae West’s picture on the front. ‘Grandfather says I can have this!’

  The pub door swung open and Gordon walked inside. He had forgotten the weird licensing laws and had been standing outside for ages. Public houses in England and Wales were open from noon until two-thirty. They closed until six-thirty and then opened again until nine-thirty. He glanced up at the clock. It was thirty-one minutes past six.

  ‘Ah, here he is,’ said a voice at the bar. ‘Better late than never, lad.’

  Ron Knight had a pint waiting for him on the counter.

  ‘How did you get in?’ said Gordon.

  Ron thumbed his nose and pushed the glass towards Gordon. He drank it greedily. All he wanted was oblivion.

  Gordon wasn’t the only ex-POW in Worthing, but he was the only one who had Lillian for a wife. Whenever people found out who he was, he was regaled with stories about how wonderful she was. People recalled the early days when she was one of the Sussex Sisters and how she’d put down some sleazy git in some factory who wouldn’t leave the girls alone. They told him how she’d raised hundreds of pounds for the Red Cross and Worthing Hospital. He heard that she’d held the hand of some dying old man and comforted his wife after the old boy had gone. They reminded him of how brave she’d been when their little girl had been burned by the fire when Reydon was hit in 1942. As he listened, Gordon squirmed inside. Little did they know that this same woman was somebody else behind closed doors. While he was being pushed away from the marital bed and humiliated in his own home, his own child still ran from the room when he came in. Dorcas said it was only because she was a bit jealous that she was no longer allowed in her mother’s bedroom. His mother-in-law told him that given time, she’d come round, but they had no idea how much it hurt him, and being a man, he couldn’t tell anyone, of course. They’d think him a wimp and a cissy. They’d tell him to give her a slap and take what was rightfully his, but Gordon wasn’t the sort of man to take anything by force, especially not a woman. Only the drink helped. It dulled his senses. It made him everybody’s pal. All they had to do was keep the beer coming.

  ‘She was a little gem all through the war, that wife of yours,’ said Ron. ‘I kept a weather eye on her while you were away. I never once saw her misbehaving.’

  He wondered if he should tell Ron about the poison-pen letters he’d received while still in camp. He’d spent days brooding over them. He’d been angry and bad-tempered, but he’d finally come to terms with them. It was sour grapes on somebody’s part. Whoever wrote them was probably jealous, so one night he’d burned the lot, but they kept on coming. They always started the same way, Dear Gordon, I’m very sorry to have to do this, but I thought you should know . . . and ended, Signed, A well-wisher. Letters full of accusations and innuendo. He should know that she wasn’t faithful. He deserved better. They poisoned his mind and filled his nights with thoughts of revenge. Perhaps they were right. She hadn’t let him touch her since he’d got back. That was no way for a dutiful wife to behave, now, was it?
r />   Ron had once confided in Gordon that his wife had been unfaithful. She had run off with some actor or some such when he’d got back from France. Apparently, she’d left him a note saying she didn’t want to live with a one-eyed whelk. Gordon had sympathized with him, but he hadn’t told him how things were with Lillian. Ron seemed to think Lillian could do no wrong. He desperately wanted to tell someone how things really were, but he wasn’t sure his newly found friends would believe him.

  Another pint appeared in front of him. The barman indicated that it had come from a woman in the ladies’ bar. Gordon leaned forward to peer behind the wooden partition and saw Betty waving her hand. He nodded his appreciation and lifted the glass. Betty Shrimpton followed Ron everywhere like a devoted sheepdog. He glanced over at him. He was smiling, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Gordon frowned. If by his own admission, Ron had been to all Lillian’s concerts, could she have been unfaithful with him? It was a possibility. Ron never stopped talking about her. There were times when Gordon had wanted to shout, ‘Shut up. You don’t know anything about her. She’s my wife.’ He reached in his pocket for his cigarette packet, but Ron got there first. He was holding out his cigarette case. Gordon took one.

  While Ron searched for his lighter, Gordon decided that he was letting his imagination run away with him, but then the thought of Lillian staring up at Ron all doe-eyed filled his mind. He could just imagine her parting her lips, and Ron’s mouth covering hers. His breath became faster as he could almost physically feel his body becoming aroused at the thought of Ron’s hand creeping from her waist to her bottom. Gordon’s eyes narrowed. Yes, that was it. Ron was the sod who was having an affair with Lillian. All this pally-pally stuff was just a smokescreen, and for all he knew it was still going on.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ said Ron. He held the lighter towards him, and at the same time a swarthy-looking man bumped into them and Ron spilled his drink onto the bar and all over his sleeve.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Ron irritably as he came back to the bar to sup his beer.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said the man. ‘Here, let me get you another one.’

  Gordon lit his cigarette and Ron put the lighter away. ‘It’s about you and your missus,’ he went on. ‘I don’t think you’re treating her right.’

  Gordon stared at him, his nostrils flaring slightly as he balled his fists.

  The barman had poured another pint and the man paid up. Pushing it towards Ron, he said, ‘Who are we talking about?’

  ‘Lillian Harris,’ said Ron. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Plucky little cat’s meow that one. Lovely knockers too,’ said the man, just before Gordon’s fist hit him in the mouth.

  Lillian and Dorcas glanced nervously at each other. It might only be teatime, but the person banging on the door was doing it loud enough to wake the dead. Dorcas grabbed a saucepan and stood a little to the left as Lillian opened the door. She gasped. It was Pip.

  She burst into the kitchen, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘I’ve heard from him,’ she cried. ‘Peter has made contact.’

  A second later, they were all dancing around the kitchen, laughing and smiling. ‘Of course, it’s not a proper letter,’ said Pip, ‘but at least I know he’s alive.’

  She produced a grubby-looking card. It wasn’t much, and the message had obviously been written by someone who had a poor knowledge of English, but Peter’s signature was at the bottom.

  Our precent quarters and work is good. They rains have finished, it is now beautiful weather. I am working healthily. We receive newspapers printed in English which reveel world events.

  We had joyfully received a payment of some milk, tea, margarine, sugar and cigarettes from kind Japanese authorities.

  We are very anxious to here from home, but some prisoners have received letters or cables.

  Everyone is hopful for speedy end to the war and with faith at the future we look forward to happy soon reunion.

  With best wishes from

  Peter Sinclair xx

  Although overjoyed, Pip was under no illusions, but after more than three years of silence, it was something to celebrate.

  The boys in the DD Gang were awestruck. Georgie’s Mae West life jacket had to be the most amazing war trophy ever. Georgie was bursting with pride.

  ‘And you say this was actually worn by Ginger Lacey himself?’ Billy said as he stroked it reverently.

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgie. He could feel his face heating slightly. He didn’t know that this particular jacket had been worn by Ginger Lacey, but his grandfather had shown him the photograph and then given him the life jacket. He hadn’t thought to ask if the two went together, but it was perfectly possible, wasn’t it?

  The day before, the boys had been told that the Germans had surrendered. The war was over. Today and tomorrow were holidays. When the news came, the whole town had gone mad. People were dancing in the street until late last night. Respectable men and women were kissing each other all over the place. Today, just about everybody else’s mum or dad had a hangover, so the boys were left pretty much to themselves. Georgie’s mum was busy making stuff for the impromptu street party tomorrow, and Auntie Lillian’s husband was in the police cells for starting a brawl in the Thieves’ Kitchen. Georgie didn’t much like Uncle Gordon. He smelled of beer and he never seemed to be able to walk straight. He and Auntie Lillian shouted a lot, and Flora told him and his sister that he frightened her. Still, he was locked up now, and Hazel and Flora were playing together in the garden, so he’d snuck off to the house for one more time.

  The smell in the old house was worse than ever, and they were all aware of the creaking timbers. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as it had been, so nobody wanted to stay long.

  ‘You know we always said we would give Goliath a bang when the war was over,’ said Gideon. ‘Well, I think I’ve worked out a way to do it.’

  The boys listened bug-eyed as he told them his plan and they all agreed that it was an absolutely brilliant idea and that they would do it. After that, they cleared everything else from the den and took it home.

  ‘The party starts at three,’ said Gideon, ‘so everybody needs to be here in their place at two-thirty.’

  The boys parted, their eyes bright with excitement.

  CHAPTER 33

  Betty Shrimpton glanced up at the clock and tutted to herself. She had told him six o’clock and here it was a quarter to seven already. It really was too bad. If he was much longer, the pie in her oven would be spoiled beyond redemption. As it was, it was difficult keeping everything warm without overcooking. She’d done everything possible to make this meal special. She’d even managed to get a bit of beef. It had cost her an arm and a leg, and of course it was black market, but she was so looking forward to it. It was ages since she’d eaten beef. She’d cooked it slowly with onions and gravy; then just before six, she’d put a pie crust on the top. The plan was that she would offer him a drink in the sitting room (she had a lovely fire in the grate) before the meal. That way, he’d experience all the home comforts, but that part of the plan wouldn’t happen now. They’d have to eat straight away. She looked at the clock once again. Five to seven. For goodness’ sake, where was he?

  Today was Ron Knight’s birthday, which made it the ideal occasion to ask him over for a meal without looking too forward. She’d even bought him a lovely wallet, but she couldn’t make up her mind whether to give him the present as soon as he came in or after they’d eaten. She’d got it in the market. The trader had told her it was genuine imitation leather, so she’d paid a fair sum for it, but she didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. She was a respectable woman and she’d trailed after him for long enough. She might be too long in the tooth for chasing rainbows, but she wanted to settle down to married companionship.

  She put some more coal on the fire and went back into the kitchen to check the pie. It was getting a bit too brown, so she turned the oven down and put a sheet of greas
eproof paper over the top. The sound of the doorbell came as a great relief. She almost missed it. It was one of those wind-up bells, and after a few uses, the cap became loose. The sound should be high-pitched and loud, but now it was more like a low clunk. Her little dog, Dilly, shut away in the bedroom, barked like mad.

  Ron Knight stood on the doorstep dripping wet. She hadn’t realized it was raining.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Betty,’ he began. A stream of water ran from the edge of his hat. ‘And I hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought someone else along.’

  Mind? Of course she minded. She minded terribly, but what could she say? It was then that she noticed that Ron was sporting a black eye and his bottom lip was swollen. ‘What happened to you?’ Betty gasped.

  Ron didn’t answer, but as he moved to one side, she saw Gordon Harris standing on the step behind him. It took all her willpower to stick a smile on her face and say, ‘Oh, Gordon. Do come in. You’re most welcome.’

  ‘He was in the pub when I popped in for these,’ said Ron, thrusting two bottles of milk stout into her hands. ‘He’s had a bit of a rough time and I thought he could do with some company.’