by Erica James
Hope nodded and Romily said, ‘I know of it, it’s near the Angel Hotel, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. I went to have a look at the abbey and cathedral and afterwards called in for some lunch. They provide a jolly good feed there for servicemen and women.’
‘Where’s home for you, then?’ asked Romily, passing him his cup.
‘I’m from nowhere really. My parents moved to Singapore when I was a baby, and then when I was twelve they sent me to school in England, along with my sister. Our holidays were spent mostly with our two aunts in a village just outside Oxford. I joined the RAF to fulfil a boyhood dream to learn to fly; I’ve been very much on the move ever since. I have a small flat in London as a base, but since just before war was declared I’ve been renting it to a couple of refugees from Austria. So for now RAF Larkshall is my home.’
‘Are your parents still in Singapore?’ asked Hope.
‘No. My father died some years ago and my mother remarried and lives in Canada now. My sister and I haven’t seen her in quite a while …’ He paused. ‘She was a lot younger than our father and now that she has a new life and a new family, we’ve drifted apart, you could say.’
‘Families are good at doing that,’ said Hope. Then: ‘My brother’s in Canada at the moment. He was too impatient to settle for being a reservist in the RAF, and so took matters into his own hands and is learning to fly in Winnipeg. From all that we hear, he’s having a ball.’
Romily was just about to offer some cake when the door flew open with a crash and Stanley, Annelise and Bobby came barrelling in with Allegra following behind. They were all in their stockinged feet, their faces flushed from being outside in the cold.
‘Sorry,’ Allegra apologised, ‘I didn’t know you had company, Romily. Oh, it’s you again!’ she said brightly when their guest got to his feet. She smirked at Romily, and Romily flashed her a warning look in return.
‘Hello,’ Tony said politely. ‘How nice to see you again. And who do we have here?’ he asked, bending down to stroke Bobby’s head.
‘He’s mine, mister,’ piped up Stanley, ‘and his name’s Bobby.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘I’m Stanley, and this is Annelise.’
‘Well, I’m very happy to meet you all. My name’s Tony.’
‘Are you a pilot, mister?’ asked Stanley, taking in the uniform. ‘Do you fly them Wellington bombers.’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘Our guest is a commanding officer, Stanley,’ explained Romily.
‘Does that make you important?’
He laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’
‘I wish I could be a pilot.’
Tony smiled. ‘Who knows, maybe one day when you’re old enough you could be one. No reason why not if you work hard enough at school. Do you like school?’
Stanley nodded. ‘I do now. I didn’t in London.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t go much. Me mum weren’t keen on it.’
‘Well take it from me, stick to the lessons and you’ll go far.’
‘Stanley,’ said Romily, approving greatly of Tony’s encouraging attitude, ‘do you think you could fetch another cup and saucer and a plate for Allegra, and if you’d like some cake, bring some plates for you and Annelise.’
When he’d scooted off at his usual breakneck speed, banging the door shut after him, Romily explained to their guest that Stanley was their evacuee.
‘I guessed as much,’ he said.
‘I can’t ever see him going home,’ said Allegra, warming herself in front of the fire. ‘His mother’s all but forgotten about him; she hasn’t been to see him once, she never writes.’
‘He’s lucky to have found such a welcoming home here then,’ said Tony. ‘Is Annelise your daughter?’ he asked Hope as the little girl climbed up onto the sofa where she was sitting.
‘I’m her guardian,’ Hope said. ‘She’s the daughter of my German sister-in-law who lives in Cologne and is married to a Jew. They thought she would be safer with me here in England.’
Tony shook his head. ‘The world’s turned into a very evil place,’ he said quietly, staring sadly at Annelise. ‘God knows how it’s all going to end.’
It was, Romily noted, as she observed their guest over the rim of her teacup, the first time he had shown a more mature and serious side to his personality.
Chapter Fifty-One
29th January, 1940
Dearest Flo,
I’ve been here for two weeks now and never known such cold. It’s freezing, proper brass-monkey weather. Some of the lads who’ve been here since the autumn reckon the cold is better than all the rain and mud they had to cope with when they first arrived. They also reckon we’ve got off lightly because they did most of the digging that had to be done. The joke is when they’re back in Civvy Street, they’ll be the best navvies going!
I enjoyed reading your last letter; it lifted my spirits a treat. It’s a great weight off my mind knowing you’re so much better now and have been well looked after. You landed on your feet when you started work with Mrs Devereux-Temple; she’s a good sort.
Tommy is becoming quite the joker amongst the pack here and regularly has me and Elijah in fits, along with all the other lads. Turns out he has a good ear for mimicking people and can do our sergeant to a T. Everyone says he should go on the stage when the war is over. Funny that all these years I’ve known him, he’s never shown this talent before. Just goes to show, you never really know a person, or yourself.
Thanks ever so for knitting the socks for me; they do a fine job of keeping the cold out. If you have time, I wouldn’t say no to some gloves as well.
I miss you so much more than I can put down on paper, Flo. I think of you every day, just as I always have since the first day we met. I miss your smiling face – and your tough scolding one too!
With all my love,
Billy X
*
3rd February, 1940
My dearest Allegra,
Thank you for your letter and the photograph you included of us on our wedding day. I still can’t believe that we’re actually married, that you agreed to be my wife. Sometimes when I wake in the night and think I imagined it, I look at that photograph and tell myself it really did happen. It’s my most treasured possession and I keep it safe in the pages of a small notebook in my pocket at all times.
I’m glad you accepted Mrs Devereux-Temple’s invitation to stay on at Island House during the cold weather while you wait for the baby to come. You don’t know what peace of mind that brings me. I expect it was only mice in the roof, and not rats as you thought, but maybe get old George Wiggins in to deal with them. Mrs Bunch will know his address.
It’s not so bad here. Some of us have been billeted on a farm and we actually sleep in an old barn, which sounds worse than it is. The farmer’s wife made us a great rabbit stew the other day. It tasted better than anything I’ve eaten in a long time.
We have snow just like you; everywhere is covered with it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much. I wear three pairs of socks at night – don’t suppose you could knit me some, could you?
Last night we went on a march on ice-covered roads. One lad slipped and it wasn’t until we got back to our barn and he took off his boot that we realised he’d broken his ankle. God knows how he marched on it.
Please don’t worry about me, I’m fine. The nearest to danger I’ve come is laughing to death over some of Tommy’s antics when he’s mimicking our sergeant, who has the strongest Yorkshire accent you’ve ever heard.
Write soon and tell me all your news. And don’t forget, a pair of socks would be very welcome!
Longing to hear from you,
Your loving husband, Elijah
PS I hope that RAF bloke who you say keeps calling in isn’t making a nuisance of himself. And yes, I don�
��t mind admitting I’m jealous that he gets to see you and I don’t!
*
25th February, 1940
Dear Romily,
I said I’d do it and I have – I’m now a member of the women’s section of the Air Transport Auxiliary, a second officer no less! I had to do a flight test in Whitchurch in a Gypsy Moth, which, without being big-headed, was no test at all. We’re a small band of determined women and I feel hugely honoured to be one of the group.
You should see the look of disgust on some of the faces of our male colleagues when they encounter us – they’re the sort who think we should be at home cooking dinner for our husbands. Well, in the absence of a husband, I’d much rather be doing what I am. Maybe even if I had a husband, I’d sooner be doing this! I should say that not all of our male colleagues treat us this way; some are all for us.
For now our job is to help ferry training planes – Gypsy Moths – from the de Havilland factory at Hatfield to RAF training bases in Scotland and northern England, but I suspect our remit may well change in the coming months.
On a perfectly superficial note, I have to say I think I look rather good in my uniform, which has a blue service tunic, a pleated skirt and slacks (I much prefer wearing the latter!), black shoes (serviceable rather than elegant!), a black tie and a blue shirt. Our flying suits have a quilted liner and the sheepskin leather flying jacket is jolly useful when flying in the freezing cold, as are the fleece-lined flying boots.
It’s tiring work, but I can honestly say it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done. So come on, Romily, hurry up and finish your latest novel and then apply to the ATA. You won’t regret it, I promise you.
All my love,
Sarah
Chapter Fifty-Two
March 1940
On a lovely mild day nearly two months after her wedding, and fully recovered from her accident, Florence turned out of the drive and set off down the lane towards the village. As she walked along in the March sunshine, swinging the basket in her hand, all around her birds sang and sparrows cheeped happily, fluttering busily in and out of the hedgerow, where fat buds were swelling. Spring was in the air and it couldn’t come a day too soon.
Winter had dragged on for far too long; it had made them all restless for change. Allegra was particularly restless, and very irritable with it. Florence didn’t blame her; being the size she was must be awful. She was having trouble sleeping and Florence often heard her going downstairs in the night to make herself a drink. It worried her, Allegra taking the stairs in the dark on her own, and many a time she forced herself to stay awake until she heard the sound of her lumbering footstep on the stairs returning to bed.
After waving to old Ted Manners from Dawson’s Dairy as he passed by with the milk cart, his horse raising his head in alarm as a noisy oncoming military truck approached, Florence made for the main street. Ted’s brother Bob had recently started work in the garden for Miss Romily. When he’d applied for the job to replace Elijah for the duration of the war, he had freely admitted that though he might lack youthful energy, he more than made up for it in experience and knowledge. A small, wiry man with bandy legs and a bushy beard and protruding ears, he reminded Florence of a gnarled old leprechaun.
As she crossed the main street, observing the shoppers and tradesfolk going about their business, Florence thought, not for the first time, how few young men were left in the village. It was why Miss Romily had taken on Bob Manners; there simply had not been the luxury of choice. Most of the lads who were left were too young to be trusted to tie their own shoelaces, never mind take charge of a large and beautiful garden.
How many more boys would they lose? Florence pondered sadly. How many more mothers and fathers, wives and girlfriends were going to be left to fret? And for what? Still nothing had really happened, and what had gone on seemed too far away to be of real interest. Many people, believing they’d been conned by the government and that they’d never been in any danger, had begun to flout the blackout, letting lights shine through badly covered windows. Gas masks weren’t being carried like they once had been either; even Florence had forgotten hers today. Mrs Partridge would give her hell when she got back; she was a stickler for keeping to the rules.
A thunderous roar that rumbled right through to the pit of her stomach had Florence looking skywards. The source of the noise came from the east: a squadron of Wellington bombers, presumably from over the North Sea. When the shadow of their formation fell across her, she gave an involuntary shiver, out of awe mostly. The sight of such strength and power never failed to stir her, to make her feel proud of the brave men up there flying those incredible machines. Who knew, she thought, one of those pilots could be Wing Commander Anthony Abbott.
In the weeks that had followed his first visit to Island House, the wing commander had become a regular caller, always bringing with him a present of some sort, whether it was flowers, a pat of rationed butter, a box of chocolates, a book about aircraft for Stanley or a toy for Annelise. During one of his visits he’d rolled up his sleeves and unblocked the sink in the kitchen for Mrs Partridge. From then on she wouldn’t have a word said against him. Prior to that day, she had been hugely suspicious of his visits. ‘He’s got his eye on a wealthy widow, that man, mark my words.’
Florence had thought the same thing initially, but seeing how good he was with the children, especially Stanley, she had decided he simply enjoyed time away from the airfield, and being part of a family, such as it was at Island House.
As for her own family, or more specifically her mother, Florence was determined to push her from her mind; her subconscious mind too. She wasn’t a child in need of a mother; she was a married woman with a husband to care for. A husband who she loved with all her heart, and who loved her.
She passed along Market Lane and turned right for the wool shop. Every spare minute she had was spent knitting, and not just for Billy. At Miss Romily’s suggestion they regularly all sat together in the kitchen of an evening knitting socks, gloves, scarves and balaclavas for the troops. Allegra had surprised them all by being the most proficient; apparently she’d been taught to knit in the orphanage as a young child. She had made some beautiful bonnets, bootees and matinee jackets for her baby, which was due in a matter of weeks. Last night Florence had finished knitting a pullover for Stanley as a surprise present for his tenth birthday today.
A fresh batch of wool bought, Florence pressed on towards Minton’s Bakery. Her mother-in-law’s frosty attitude towards her had not improved, but George Minton was always friendly.
To her disappointment, George wasn’t behind the counter when she pushed open the door. Unusually, there wasn’t a queue, and after finishing organising the trays of buns in the window, taking forever over doing so, Ruby Minton finally turned to face Florence as if she were a stranger.
‘Hello,’ said Florence as cheerfully as she could manage. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? It really feels like spring is on the way now.’
‘It’ll be a lovely day when Billy comes home,’ Ruby said coldly. ‘And not before.’
The way Ruby went on, anyone would think she held Florence personally responsible for her son joining the Suffolk Regiment. As though she’d wanted him to go! It didn’t matter what Florence said to her mother-in-law, it would always be met with a caustic response. She was quite used to it now and had learnt the knack of not reacting. If she did ever feel herself rising to one of Ruby’s unpleasant remarks, she thought of the fruit trees planted in the Mintons’ back garden, each one commemorating the loss of an unborn child. Who was to say Florence herself wouldn’t turn into a sad and bitter woman if she ever suffered the same amount of heartache?
‘Have you heard from Billy this week?’ she asked. ‘I had a letter from him only yesterday. He sounded very …’ She broke off, realising her mistake. If Billy had written to his wife in preference to his mother, Ruby would be furious
, especially as it might look as though Florence were crowing about it.
But her mother-in-law appeared not to hear her. Instead she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about your marriage to my Billy.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Florence warily.
‘It isn’t a proper legal marriage, is it?’ Ruby said, pushing her hands into the pockets of her apron. ‘Because you never consummated it, did you, what with being in hospital the night of the wedding? Which means Billy could divorce you if he had any sense.’
The sheer nastiness of the woman’s words was too much; she had gone too far this time. ‘Mrs Minton,’ Florence said, incensed – fruit trees and lost babies be damned! – ‘your pathetic attempts to split Billy and me up won’t work. Billy loves me and I love him, and nothing will part us. Not even your vile tongue. Now if you’ll get on and serve me, I’ll be on my way. I’ll have a large sandwich tin and a crusty white. Thank you.’
Five minutes later, she was back out on the street and making her way at speed across the cobbled, her anger increasing with every step. By the time she let herself in at the back door of Island House, she was thoroughly steamed up. She plonked the shopping basket down on the table and shook off her coat. Mrs Partridge looked up from the pastry she was rolling at the other end of the table. ‘What’s got into you?’ she asked.
‘Ruby ruddy Minton!’ Florence snapped. ‘That’s what! She only went and said my marriage isn’t real because … because Billy and I didn’t … well … you know, because I was in hospital the night of our wedding. Which means in her eyes, Billy could divorce me.’
Mrs Partridge brought the rolling pin down on the table with a sharp bang. ‘What a wicked old bat she is! Will you tell Billy?’
‘No! He’s got more important things to think about than his poisonous mother.’ Florence sighed. ‘Why does she hate me so much?’
‘It’s not you, love. That woman would hate any girl who stole her precious son’s heart. Now sit down and I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea. And don’t you go giving that Ruby Minton another thought. Pay her no heed whatsoever. Billy loves you and that’s all that counts.’