Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  ‘I did it a couple of times after he got back,’ Mr Knight went on.

  ‘Gordon?’ said Pip.

  Mr Knight nodded glumly. ‘I heard the rows they had. Terrible, they were. It wasn’t right.’ He paused. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Her head was battered,’ said Stella. ‘She’d obviously been sick in the night and choked on her own vomit. When we found her in the morning, she was quite cold.’

  Pip watched as Betty’s eyes grew wide and she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. All at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. ‘You were there too, weren’t you, Mrs Shrimpton?’ she said. ‘At Lillian’s place.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Betty haughtily.

  ‘Don’t deny that you were in the house,’ said Pip. ‘I know you were. You left a calling card.’

  Betty’s hand trembled as she looked around helplessly. ‘She was alive when I left her,’ she protested loudly. ‘She was a bit dazed, but she was talking to me.’

  The room had gone very quiet.

  Betty began twisting her handkerchief in her hand. She turned to Pip and Stella. ‘He thought the world of that girl and there she was, playing around with other men, acting like a tramp and behaving like some sort of prima donna on the stage. Well, I wasn’t having it. Somebody had to tell her what’s what. It was disgraceful.’ She looked helplessly at Mr Knight. ‘I only did it for you.’

  ‘Exactly what did you do?’ asked Pip.

  ‘I went in the back way so that I didn’t draw too much attention,’ said Betty. ‘She invited me in, but then she saw the mud on my shoes, so we only stayed in the kitchen and I told her off.’

  ‘Then you hit her,’ said Stella.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ cried Betty. ‘That pulley thing fell down. It gave us both a shock. It was all skew-whiff, so when it fell, it hit her on the side of the head and she slipped on the floor. She went down with such a whack, and she hit her head on the handle of the oven door.’ Betty looked from one to the other. ‘I helped her up and she said she’d be all right.’

  Timothy Michael began to stir. Stella went to rock the pram.

  ‘You should have got a doctor,’ said Iris.

  ‘I was going to,’ Betty protested, ‘but she said, “Just help me to bed and I’ll be fine.” So that’s what I did.’

  ‘And you dropped your brooch on the stair,’ said Pip.

  Betty’s hand automatically went to her lapel and her face reddened. ‘She was fine when I left her,’ Betty insisted.

  ‘Tell us what happened next,’ said Stella from the back of the room. ‘When you left the house.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear to go back out through the kitchen,’ said Betty, ‘so I opened the front door. Trouble is, it’s got a funny catch and it wouldn’t close properly.’ She plonked herself down on a chair and burst into tears. ‘I never laid a finger on her, I swear.’

  Nobody moved.

  ‘All she had was a bump on the head,’ Betty protested. ‘She said she’d have a bit of a sleep and then get undressed, so I pulled the eiderdown over her shoulders and left her to it.’ Her gaze went back to Mr Knight. ‘I never meant her no harm. I admit I was angry, but I never touched her. I just wanted her to know how much she’d upset you.’

  ‘Mrs Shrimpton,’ said Stella, ‘you have to tell the police.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ said Betty. ‘I just couldn’t.’

  ‘But you must,’ said Pip. ‘Gordon Harris has been accused of her murder. They’ll hang him for sure if they find him guilty, and in that case, poor little Flora will have lost both her mother and her father.’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything,’ Betty wailed.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Mr Knight snapped. ‘All you have to do is tell the truth, you silly woman.’

  ‘I only did it for you,’ she complained.

  ‘I don’t need looking after,’ he said stubbornly as he stood to go.

  ‘Gordon Harris is a good man,’ said Pip. ‘He doesn’t deserve this. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough?’

  Once again the room went quiet.

  ‘I’ll go with you, if you like,’ said Stella.

  Betty wiped her eyes with her sodden handkerchief.

  Nobody spoke, but a couple minutes later, Iris was alone in the cafe. She locked the door one more time and turned back to the counter. No one had drunk so much as a mouthful of the tea she’d poured, so she tipped it all away and washed up the five cups. She emptied the washing-up bowl and hung the dishcloth on the hook to dry. Then taking a deep breath, she turned to face the wall and allowed her tears to fall.

  CHAPTER 40

  Worthing, 1995

  ‘We can’t find it, Granny Pip.’

  Pip tilted her head back and called to the ceiling, ‘It’s in the big chest of drawers, bottom drawer.’ She listened as her great-grandchildren ran to the other side of the bedroom; then she heard the heavy drawer opening. ‘Under the old siren suit.’

  The door to the sitting room opened and the children’s mother came into the room with some coffee cups. ‘I think I’d better go and give them a hand,’ Susan said, putting the tray onto the low table, ‘before they wreck your bedroom.’

  Pip grinned. She still enjoyed it when everyone came to her house for Sunday roast, but because cooking the whole meal by herself was a bit much these days, the whole family now chipped in with the preparations. Pip put the joint in the oven, while her daughter-in-law, Margo, brought the roast potatoes and the vegetables. Susan always brought pudding, usually from Iceland. It was a system that worked well and reminded Pip of the days when she and the Sussex Sisters pooled their meagre resources to make a feast.

  Georgie handed her a coffee cup and Pip smiled up at her son. It was odd to think that her little boy was now a grandfather and she a great-grandmother. When did she become so old? Georgie had married Margo in the late 1950s and they’d had two sons, William and Bob. Bob had emigrated to Australia, while William had married Susan and they’d had Josh and Angela.

  Settling back in her chair, Pip felt cosy and relaxed. These occasions might be a little tiring, but Pip loved to hear the sound of children’s voices in her house again. The children’s footsteps thundered down the stairs, and a few seconds later, Josh and Angela flung themselves into the room. She’d never seen them quite so animated before. This school project had certainly fired up their imagination.

  This year, 1995, marked the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War and the school had given each pupil a project. Josh’s class had to write an accurate account of an incident in Worthing during the war. He had been researching in the library and happened to mention what he was doing while the whole family were sitting by their beach hut.

  ‘I remember when the Heinkel 111 came down on a house at the end of my old street.’ Pip’s remark had been casual, but it had begun a chain of events that seemed unstoppable. Granddad George remembered the same incident from a child’s point of view, and the children listened with open mouths as he and Pip told them the way each of them had seen the same event. He recalled finding Goliath, and later on, taking it to the secret den. She talked about the wartime friendship between Lillian, Stella and herself that had begun that very night.

  Angela’s class had been asked to find out how people amused themselves during the war years and what was being done to boost morale. The story of the Sussex Sisters was the perfect answer. Pip shared memories of things she hadn’t thought about for years. The family was so interested that Susan, the children’s mother, decided to research the family tree, and Georgie’s son William, the children’s father, planned to write a play that could be performed in the community.

  ‘We need to make a proper record of things before it all gets lost,’ William told her, so Pip was given free rein to recall anything and everything she could. That had been weeks ago and the whole project had culminated in today’s family gathering at her home. Pip had never been one to hark back to ‘the good old d
ays’. She cherished her memories, but life was for living in the present. Even so, this had been an enjoyable experience.

  They were all gone now – all except her. Her father, for all his generosity, had never heard from Marion again, although she’d cashed his cheque. Pip could only hope that the five hundred pounds had made a real difference to her life. It had certainly changed her own in more ways than one. Did Marion and her mother take a holiday, perhaps? She would never know, but she had long since forgiven them for the way they had treated her. Pip refused to allow bitterness to blight her life the way it had her mother’s, but she did sometimes wonder what had happened to them. Their paths had never crossed again, but then real life, she told herself, doesn’t always have a storybook ending.

  Pip had not long had her seventy-seventh birthday, a vast age and one she couldn’t quite believe, but she was fit and healthy. She still walked her little dog, Chalky, twice a day, though he didn’t get long hikes on Highdown Hill any more. She told herself that it was because Chalky was too old for such excursions.

  Georgie (even though everyone called him George, she could never think of him as anything but Georgie) could remember the collapse of the old building and the tragic loss of his friend Gideon, but he was a little short on detail, especially when it came to Gordon Harris.

  ‘As soon as Betty told the truth of what had happened that day,’ Pip told him, ‘he was released from prison.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ said Georgie. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He came back to live with Dorcas for a while, but a few years later, he and Flora became one of the first of the ten-pound Poms.’

  The expression was lost on Josh and Angela.

  ‘The Australian Government were desperate for people,’ their father interjected, ‘so they offered anyone and everyone a passage to Australia for ten pounds.’

  ‘It was a wonderful way of having a new start after the war,’ Pip went on. ‘Gordon married a girl he met on the boat going over and they all settled in Sidney. We exchanged Christmas cards for a few years, but,’ she added with a shrug, ‘you know how it is.’

  Susan was keenly interested to hear Pip’s personal experiences as a wife during the long years of separation, but it wasn’t until she’d talked about how she’d felt that Pip realized how hard it had been. Somehow, with everyone else going through the same privations, it didn’t really register at the time. Susan had been shocked to hear about the constant queuing for food, the lack of a proper toilet in the house (‘What? You had to go outside? Even in winter?’), hand-washing sheets and bedding, sooty fireplaces, scrimping and saving and sometimes going to bed hungry, but for Pip, it was normal life, so you just got on with it.

  She explained that although Peter had made it home, he was never the same man. The horrors of Japanese internment were just as bad as she’d imagined, if not worse. He’d been released in September 1945 but had been too ill to come home with the first of the POWs. He had to be sent to Australia and nursed back to a measure of health and strength before beginning the long passage home. Although their reunion was delayed, Pip considered him one of the lucky ones. Some of his companions who were sent home immediately hadn’t survived very long. When a person’s stomach had been reduced to the size of a plum for years through malnutrition, they had to be gently weaned back on to nourishing food. There were stories of men tucking into a much-desired steak and dying.

  She still had one letter Peter had sent her. She never did get round to asking him exactly when he wrote it, but it must have been before they moved him to Australia. He was at a point of despair.

  My darling wife,

  After three years of living hell, now release is in sight, I am feeling pretty rotten. I feel I only have a small chance of making it home. I have left several letters to you with different people in the hope that you will at least have something to remember me by. I don’t expect to survive much longer.

  These past three years have been an absolute nightmare, my darling. With the exception of you, everything I once held dear has been taken from me. My whole world, our whole life is gone. If I ever reach home, it will be a miracle, and how will I pick up where I left off after all the terrible things I’ve seen?

  Our life together seems like a million years ago, but, Pip, I love you, my darling, just as much as I loved you on the day we got married. When the Yanks landed in the Philippines, I received the precious letters you sent me. I am only sorry that I was not permitted to write to you until now. They only let me send typed cards. How thoughtful of you to send photographs. How the children have grown. Georgie looks a sturdy fellow, and everyone thinks Hazel is a sweetie. I am so proud of you, sweetheart. You have brought them up so well. I wish you had sent a photograph of yourself.

  I did my best to do my duty and help to relieve the suffering of some of my fellow prisoners. I have not been paid since May 1942, so everything I have or own, all money and allowances owing to me, I want you to have in order that you can take care of our children.

  I will say goodbye now, my darling. I pray every night that I will see you again, but in case it is not to be, thank you for being such a wonderful wife to me. The happiest days of my life were those I spent with you. I’ll always love you, my darling. God bless you and keep you.

  All my love,

  Peter xx

  When he finally made it back to Worthing in time for Christmas 1945, Peter was still terribly thin. He had returned by ship, a six-week voyage, but the medics on board had made sure that he’d had a carefully controlled diet. After a period of convalescence, Peter was deemed too frail for manual work, but by then Pip was already making a good living. She’d shelved the idea of running a nursery to care for her husband, so as soon as he’d come home, she’d sold the pile of rubble and the land on which it stood for three hundred pounds more than she’d paid for it. This led to a series of property deals, which brought in a steady income of rents and sales, an absolute boon while Peter was ill.

  After a year or two, he’d got a desk job, but he didn’t make old bones. His body had been seriously weakened by his terrible ordeal and every winter he became susceptible to chest infections. He died in 1969, aged fifty-three, a man old before his time.

  When she’d told the family about the Sussex Sisters, they could hardly believe their ears. Georgie was aware of them, but he hadn’t appreciated the contribution they’d made to the war effort or how famous they’d been. It was then that Pip remembered the old tin in the bottom drawer and sent the children upstairs to look for it.

  When Josh laid it on her lap, Pip ran her hand over the lid. She hadn’t looked inside for years. As soon as the lid came off, she was transported back to the war years. The programmes, the flyers and the newspaper cuttings were all there. She pulled a photograph from underneath and there they were smiling up at her. Stella at the piano had been a staunch friend for nearly forty-five years until cancer took her. She and Johnny had moved into the Knowle after his parents died. They’d brought up four children. Timothy Michael became a doctor, Sally a musician, Penny kept a smallholding in East Preston, and Andrew worked at Shoreham Airport. Johnny still rattled around in the Knowle resisting all attempts to persuade him to sell up and move into a smaller place.

  ‘Is that you, Granny Pip?’ Angela was pointing to the middle person of the trio. Pip nodded.

  ‘Wow,’ Josh breathed. ‘You were a real babe.’

  Pip chuckled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’

  ‘You wore funny clothes,’ Angela remarked.

  ‘Siren suits,’ said Pip, and followed up with a brief résumé of the whys and wherefores.

  ‘Was that your siren suit on the top of the tin?’ Susan asked, and Pip nodded.

  ‘Oooh, can you put it on, Granny Pip?’ asked Angela.

  Pip laughed. ‘I’d never get into it, darling. Not now.’

  ‘Mummy would,’ Josh blurted out.

  ‘I expect it’s too precious to Granny Pip,’ said Sus
an. ‘After all these years, she wouldn’t want it to get torn or something.’

  ‘Do you know what?’ said Pip. ‘I think it would be a really good idea if Mummy put it on.’ She turned to Susan. ‘I was about your size back then. If you put it on, William can take a photograph.’ She turned back to the children. ‘I’m sure you’d be the only ones in your class to have something like that in your project book.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Susan cautioned.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Pip, ‘but have your coffee first.’

  Pip turned her attention to the photograph in her hand. The girl on the end was Lillian. She ran her arthritic thumb lovingly over her face. How pretty she was, and how young they all were. Of course, poor Lillian would stay that way forever. Should she tell them what happened on the day of the street party? At the time, she had softened the blow for her own children, but children of the 1990s were so much more resilient.

  ‘There’s something else you should know about the Sussex Sisters,’ she began.

  Lillian’s story was exciting, fascinating and different. Everyone listened in rapt attention. There was one other picture in the tin. It was from a newspaper cutting about their concert at the Lancing carriage works. The Sussex Sisters were flanked by their greatest followers, Mr Knight on the left and Betty on the right.

  ‘Is that her?’ Georgie asked. ‘The one who did it?’

  Pip nodded. ‘Her confession to the police was enough to make them re-examine the evidence. After Lillian had died, Dorcas had had the pulley taken down. It was tossed into the garden ready for the bin men. When the police arrived, they found traces of blood on the iron rests. They also found minute specks of blood on the oven door handle, and strangely enough, there was a skid-mark on the linoleum floor where she’d fallen. Dorcas told the police that no amount of scrubbing would get rid of it. We all thought it was a bit creepy, as if Lillian herself wanted the truth to be told.’

  Pip fished through the papers in the tin. ‘And this was the brooch I found on the stair.’ She held it up for them all to see, a lurid parrot on a tree branch. It was only a cheap old thing, mass-produced and not very well made. ‘Half the women in Worthing bought one from that stall in the market,’ Pip went on. ‘I can’t recall anyone who didn’t have trouble with the pin.’