The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  ‘What’s Ida done now?’ Carol asked with amused affection.

  ‘Answered back,’ muttered Pru. ‘Silly cow never did learn to keep ’er gob shut, and if she don’t watch it, she’ll be out on ’er ear.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Carol. ‘They need us more than we need them.’

  ‘Yeah, but the harvest’s almost over and there’s only the barley seeding and mangold picking to do before winter sets in,’ said Maisie. ‘I do wish Ida wouldn’t argue all the flaming time. It makes life very ’ard for the rest of us.’

  ‘There’ll always be the herd to look after,’ Carol soothed. ‘I’m sure our jobs are safe enough.’

  ‘Stop this fiddle-faddle and get on with you’m work,’ barked Jack who was hitching Hector’s stablemate, Harriet, to the high-sided wagon which would carry the harvested sugar beet. ‘More trouble than you’m worth, the lot of you – yet I’m expected to house and feed ye and …’ His grumbling faded as he stomped off to check that the enormous thatched haystacks dotted about the far field hadn’t been damaged by the night’s heavy rain.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Maisie grimaced. ‘I’ll ’ave a word with Ida, and that’s a fact.’

  With Hector rubbed down and happily munching his bag of oats, Carol grabbed a quick cuppa and then joined the other girls who were standing, arms folded, expressions blank, pretending to listen to Millicent as she once again went through the correct way to harvest the beet. This would be their third harvest and they knew the drill well enough, so there was a collective sigh of relief when she finally left them to get on with their work so she could go and bully her husband.

  ‘Poor bloke,’ muttered Ida, pulling down the hem of her thick sweater and rolling up the sleeves before digging her hands into the pockets of her dungarees. ‘I reckon it’s a flamin’ miracle he ain’t done ’er in. Any other man would’ve by now.’ She was clearly still disgruntled from her earlier ticking-off.

  Carol paused in the act of drawing a reluctant Hector away from the yard. ‘But despite the pair of them, you all like it here, don’t you?’ she asked, concerned they might decide to throw it all in and return to London.

  Ida squinted into the bright sunlight that had pierced through the heavy layer of cloud. ‘Yeah, it’s blindin’ after the smog and noise of London where you didn’t know if you was about to be bombed to bits along with ’alf the neighbourhood, or trapped down some ’orrible tube station for hours on end.’ She looked appreciatively at her surroundings and gave a sigh. ‘You wouldn’t know there was a war on ’ere, would you?’

  Pru must have seen Carol’s expression falter, for she dug Ida in the ribs and shot her a furious frown. ‘Gob almighty,’ she hissed.

  ‘Oh, lawks,’ the girl squeaked. ‘I done it again, ain’t I?’ She reached out a grubby hand to Carol. ‘I’m sorry, mate. Me and me big mouth. It always runs off with me.’

  ‘It’s all right, Ida. I know what you meant.’ Carol squeezed the girl’s hand then turned away. ‘Let’s get on, shall we? It looks like we might have rain before the day’s out, and the ground’s already claggy.’

  Carol’s mood was sombre as she led Hector into the field and hitched him to the tilling machine so the rich red earth could be turned around the beet, making it easier to harvest. The peace of the rearing hills and plunging valleys was deceptive, for although there was little evidence of the war here, the echoes of it had touched all their lives in one way or another.

  It was past seven o’clock and the long working day was finally over. The beet was already on its way to the processing factory in Kingsbridge, the stalks and leaves stored for winter fodder or crushed into compost bins as fertiliser for the barley crop that would be planted within the next few days. Having helped with the evening milking, Carol sat with the silent old farm labourers and the other girls in the farmhouse kitchen and ate the rabbit stew which was hot, filling and surprisingly delicious. Millicent might be a harridan, she thought with a wry smile, but her cooking was sublime, which was probably why Jack hadn’t ‘done ’er in’.

  With the meal over and the old men leaving for their homes in Beeson village, the girls helped Millicent with the clearing and washing-up as Jack sprawled in a chair by the fire contentedly smoking his pipe. ‘I reckon things are about to change round here,’ he said to no one in particular.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Carol, putting the last of the clean dishes away in the dresser.

  ‘Can’t rightly say,’ he muttered. ‘But you’ll find out soon enough.’

  Carol exchanged glances with the other girls who rolled their eyes and shrugged. Jack was fond of coming out with these enigmatic pronouncements, and they usually meant nothing.

  ‘You’re not about to give us all the sack, are you?’ Maisie asked with a light-heartedness that didn’t quite disguise the worry in her eyes.

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ he replied moodily. ‘Reckon we’m be stuck together for a good while yet with all that’s going on in these parts.’

  ‘That’s enough loose talk, Jack Burnley,’ snapped Millicent. ‘Smoke your pipe and be still.’

  Carol and the girls beat a hasty retreat into the cobbled yard, unwilling to witness what would surely be another heated exchange between Jack and his awful wife. ‘What on earth were that all about?’ asked Ida. ‘It didn’t sound like Jack’s usual ’ot air.’

  ‘Goodness only knows,’ said Carol. ‘No doubt we’ll find out soon enough if it’s anything important.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to the pub with us?’ asked Pru, changing the subject. ‘It can get quite lively if someone starts a sing-song – and we still have to have that last game of darts if we want to win the competition.’

  ‘Thanks for asking, but maybe another night,’ Carol replied, too tired and really not in the mood for anything more than a long hot bath and a good night’s sleep.

  The others wished her goodnight, then she fetched her bicycle from the lean-to beside the farmhouse, checked that her torch was in her pocket, and was soon pedalling down the hill towards home. The farm work had made her much stronger and fitter, and being out in the fresh air all day was good for her spirits after those years of working in the Dartmouth office of an elderly solicitor, but every muscle was aching after having spent hours bent over the seemingly endless lines of beet, and she was looking forward to that bath and maybe even a glass of the sherry she’d been hoarding since last Christmas.

  There wasn’t a glimmer of light coming from any of the windows in the village, but the pale, hooded beam of her bicycle lamp showed her the way, and she could smell woodsmoke coming from the chimneys, and could hear a heated discussion going on in the saloon bar of the Queen’s Arms.

  There had been rumours for days that something was afoot, but as no one knew anything for certain, Carol hadn’t joined in the gossip and speculation. But perhaps Jack Burnley, who was a member of the local council, knew more than he’d let on – which would explain Millicent’s admonishment about loose talk. Carol was unsettled by it all, for she’d lived in Slapton long enough to know there was always a seed of truth in every rumour.

  Cycling along, she caught sight of a large notice pinned on the board outside the village hall, which she was sure hadn’t been there this morning. Curiosity got the better of her, and she got off her bike to read it. Looking furtively around, nervous of breaking blackout regulations, she dug her torch out of her pocket, switched it on and was immediately transfixed by the stark message.

  IMPORTANT MEETINGS

  The Area described below is to be REQUISITIONED urgently for military purposes, and must be cleared of its inhabitants by 20th DECEMBER 1943. Arrangements have been made to help the people in their moves, to settle them elsewhere, and to advise and assist them in the many problems with which they will be faced.

  Carol skimmed through the list of public meetings to be held over the next two days down to the final devastating paragraph.

  THE AREA AFFECTED

  ALL LAND AND BUILDI
NGS lying within the line from the sea at the east end of Blackpool Bay in Stoke Fleming parish to Bowden; thence northward along the road to the Sportsman’s Arms; thence west along the Dittisham-Halwell road to the crossroads ¼ mile east of Halwell village; from this crossroad along the Kingsbridge road to Woodleigh-Buckland crossroads. THE VILLAGES OF FROGMORE, BEESON AND BEESANDS ARE EXCLUDED FROM THIS REQUISITION ORDER.

  Carol switched off the torch and stood immobile in the darkness, shocked by what she’d read and deeply troubled by its implications. She understood now what Jack had been hinting at earlier, and why there was currently such an altercation going on in the bar of the Queen’s Arms, for deep within that requisitioned zone lay the village of Slapton and all that she held most precious.

  She cycled down the hill away from the Queen’s Arms and that life-changing notice, just wanting to get home to the comfort of her little cottage. Her mind was whirling with questions, for how would it be possible to evacuate every man, woman and child from the area before the twentieth – and where would they all go? She certainly didn’t want to leave her precious cottage for a shared billet at Coombe Farm, but it seemed that was probably her only option.

  She reached the sanctuary of Thyme Cottage and felt some of the tension ease as she closed the gate and looked at her beloved home. The cottage was whitewashed, with thick, rounded walls and deeply inset diamond-paned windows which she’d crisscrossed with tape to protect them from any bomb-blast, despite the fact there had only been two air raids over the area in the past four years. Set back from the narrow lane behind a picket fence, it was central in a row of five, the front gardens uniformly planted with vegetables for the kitchen.

  She wheeled her bicycle up the cinder path to the front door, which sat beside the sitting-room window and led into a narrow hall and the kitchen at the back. With two tiny bedrooms nestled beneath the eaves of sheltering thatch, it had been modernised by David, who’d used his carpentry and plumbing skills to convert the old lean-to scullery into a brick extension housing a fully equipped bathroom, which was an absolute luxury in a village where the lavatory was usually outside and baths were taken in tin tubs before the fire. There were few telephones and no electricity or gas in most of the dwellings, but the fire in the cooking range heated the boiler for water, and with kerosene lamps and candles, the cottage was cosy during the long winter nights.

  She propped the bike against the wall and grabbed her gas mask from the basket. Glancing at the thickly entwined branches of the wisteria, she could picture them blossoming into purple droplets in the spring. The thought that she might not be here to see seemed unutterably sad.

  Slamming the front door behind her, she pushed her way past the heavy curtain she’d hung over it to hide any light and then bent to pick up the post from the mat. Easing off her muddy boots, she padded along the dark hall in her socks to the kitchen. She’d kept the blackout curtains drawn over all the windows when she’d left the house at four this morning, but the glow of the range fire was welcoming. She plumped down on a stool and stared into the flames, and with terrible clarity, the full impact of what she’d learned this evening began to sink in.

  This mass evacuation would bring about the most terrible upheaval for everyone, especially the farmers, the elderly – like her neighbour Mrs Rayner, who was in her nineties – the pregnant and the sick. For her personally it would mean leaving the home she and David had made together and – worst of all – abandoning him and their baby in the churchyard.

  Carol shivered despite the warmth radiating from the fire. There had been no indication of when they might be allowed to return, but if the army was moving into the area, then what guarantee was there that there would be any homes to return to? She’d heard from Pauline and her sister-in-law, Peggy, about what happened to requisitioned land and properties; how they were used for training purposes and shot to pieces with almost careless abandon by the troops who had little respect for the deserted homes where they’d been billeted.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of her home being invaded; of heavy boots tramping down the lanes of this peaceful village, the rich farming lands and silent reaches of the bay scarred by tank tracks and echoing with bomb-blast and gunfire.

  The images these thoughts evoked brought her slowly to her feet. There was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. There was a war on, a requisition order was to be obeyed, and no doubt the meeting on Saturday would explain more fully the reason behind it. For now she had to bathe and sleep. Regardless of everything, the cows would need milking in the morning, and she would have to face Jack and Millicent and ask them if she could move in with the other girls.

  2

  Cliffehaven

  Peggy Reilly sat in her kitchen with her knitting lying idle in her lap and Queenie the cat curled tightly on the mat at her feet. The fire in the Kitchener range glowed warmly now the long-awaited delivery of anthracite had arrived, and the house was peaceful with Daisy finally asleep in her cot. Her little girl had been in a rotten mood all day, but then she was teething and had a cold, so Peggy understood how miserable she must be feeling – but it was a blessed relief to have her tucked up and not grizzling.

  Peggy sighed and decided to give up on the knitting, for the central light bulb was so weak she couldn’t see very well, and her eyes were tired after a long, busy day. She rested her head back on the old chair that needed upholstering and regarded the line of photographs on the mantelpiece. Her husband, Jim, looked down at her with that twinkle in his eyes which always set her heart racing and she smiled back at him. He looked so handsome in his army uniform, but now he’d been sent to India it was doubtful she’d see him again before this blasted war was over.

  Her gaze moved on to her daughter Cissy in her WAAF uniform before trawling along to the photograph of Anne, her eldest, with her husband Martin and their two little girls. Anne probably wouldn’t come home from Somerset before peace was declared either, and she felt the usual weight of sadness settle around her heart at the thought of her granddaughters growing up far from Beach View. And then there were her young sons, Bob and Charlie, maturing rapidly down on that Somerset farm, the snapshots Anne had sent showing they were barely recognisable from the little boys she’d waved goodbye to all that time ago.

  The yearning to have them all home again made her want to weep, but she knew that at least they were safe in the West Country – and that she hadn’t had to bear the tragedy of losing any of them as her poor sister-in-law Pauline had done. Peggy felt ashamed of her momentary self-pity, for there were many who were far worse off than her, including Pauline’s younger sister Carol, all alone down there in Devon. She really should pull herself together and stop being so feeble.

  Accepting that she was merely tired after a long, fraught day, she got out of the chair and went to make a fresh pot of tea. Having queued half the morning for the quarter-pound packet of tea, she felt she’d earned the right to enjoy a decent brew for once. Waiting for the kettle to boil on the hob, she listened to the creaks and groans of the old Victorian villa and was comforted by their familiarity. This boarding house had been her home since childhood, and once her parents had retired, she and Jim had taken over and raised their own children here. Then war had been declared and the visitors stopped coming to the seaside, so Peggy had gone to the billeting office and signed up to take in evacuees.

  The elderly Cordelia Finch and the four girls who now lived here had become part of her family, and she regarded each and every one of them as her chicks, to be loved and watched over and kept safe within the shelter of these old walls. They filled the silence of the echoing empty rooms left by her departed children and husband, and gave her something important to focus on as she battled with rationing, endless queues and the dilemma of how to feed everyone.

  She made the tea and settled once more by the fire. It was rare to have the house to herself, but all the girls were out, Cordelia was being wined and dined by her admirer Bertie Grantley-Adams, or Bertie Do
uble-Barrelled as they called him, and her father-in-law, Ron, was at the Anchor with his dog Harvey, helping the love of his life, Rosie Braithwaite, pull pints behind the bar.

  Poor old Ron, Peggy thought, sipping her tea. He’d been courting Rosie for years, but with her husband in an asylum and the laws of the day forbidding her to divorce him, their romance had reached stalemate. But her father-in-law seemed determined to hang on in there, and she admired him for that. She gave a sigh. Ron and his dog were laws unto themselves with their shaggy appearances and their wilful ways, but Beach View wouldn’t be the same without them, and if nothing else, their hearts were in the right place.

  Peggy finished her cup of tea, and was about to re-read the letters and airgraphs that had come this morning when there was a knock on the scullery door and the sound of footsteps coming up the concrete steps.

  The door opened and Pauline stood there with a holdall, her face pinched with the cold, her eyes red and puffy. ‘I’m sorry, Peggy, but I couldn’t stand being alone in that house a minute longer,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Would you mind if I stayed the night?’

  Peggy rushed over and held her close. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’ She touched the other woman’s cold face and drew her towards the fire. ‘I’ve just made a fresh pot, so you sit there and thaw out while I get you a cup.’

  As she hunted out the china and poured the tea, she threw a surreptitious glance at her sister-in-law, who was now huddled by the fire, and her soft heart ached for her. Married to Jim’s older brother, Frank, who’d also been called up, Pauline now lived alone in the fisherman’s cottage down in Tamarisk Bay where Frank and Jim had been raised by their father, Ron, after their mother had died shortly after Jim had been born. Pauline was older than Peggy by only a couple of months, but this war had taken its toll on her, for her once pretty brown curls were lifeless, and there were shadows of grief beneath her hazel eyes, and in the hollows of her wan face.