The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  Carol chuckled. ‘I’m happy where I am, but once I can move back home, perhaps I’ll come and visit you in Bournemouth. How would that do?’

  It wouldn’t do at all, thought Dolly, for once the invasion had been achieved there would be even more work to do at Bletchley.

  Kingsbridge was heaving with servicemen, the trains disgorging hundreds at a time, the trucks and jeeps roaring down the steep hills and rumbling over the stone bridge on their way to the different bases that had suddenly sprung up all along this southern coast.

  Carol and Dolly soon managed to finish their business in town, and having grabbed a cheap but filling meal in the British Restaurant down by the river, they were soon faced with the torturous journey back to Slapton.

  They had less than five miles to go when Dolly rounded a bend and had to almost stand on the brakes. An enormous crane machine faced them, leading what looked like an endless convoy of long trailers loaded with tanks and massive guns.

  Dolly had had enough. She got out of the car and marched towards the driver of the leading vehicle. ‘You’ll have to back up and let us through,’ she said, adopting the bossy tone of Mildred Ferris.

  He leaned out of his cab. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but the United States Army takes precedence. It’s you who’ll have to back up.’

  Dolly folded her arms. ‘And if I don’t?’

  The GI grinned and pointed to the arm of the crane which hung above him. ‘Then we’ll do it for you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she snapped.

  He just kept grinning and began to lower the enormous arm of the crane.

  Dolly quickly got back into the car, furiously slammed it into reverse, lifted her foot too quickly off the accelerator and stalled the engine. ‘Bugger,’ she breathed, wrestling to get it started again and making it kangaroo-hop backwards as she’d forgotten she’d left it in gear.

  ‘Mum! That’s not very ladylike,’ said Carol, trying hard not to laugh, while Nipper charged about in the back seat barking hysterically at everything.

  ‘I don’t feel ladylike with that great brute grinning and threatening me with his enormous machine. And will you please shut that dog up? He’s not helping.’

  Carol tried to calm Nipper, but he was having none of it. ‘Would you like me to drive, Mum?’ she offered.

  ‘I can manage,’ Dolly replied through gritted teeth as she twisted in the seat to look behind her, accelerated too hard, and promptly drove into an unforgiving drystone wall. She looked at Carol, her jaw working as she forced back even ruder swear words. ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’

  Dolly ground the gears and pressed her foot to the accelerator. The wheels spun, there was a tortured scream of wrenched metal and the car didn’t budge. ‘Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger,’ she spat. ‘Now wha—?’

  Her sentence was cut off by the realisation that while she’d been trying to move the car the Americans had firmly tied thick rope cables around it and looped them into the jaws of the hook dangling from the crane. She grabbed Carol’s hand and stared, open-mouthed, as the crane gently and expertly lifted them into the air.

  Nipper was going berserk; the GIs were grinning like Cheshire cats and the two women clung to each other in a confusion of emotions as the car hung in the air on a level with the laughing driver, who had the absolute cheek to salute them before he swung the car over the hedge to lower it gently into the muddy field.

  ‘Y’all have a nice day, ladies,’ came the cheerful voice from the other side of the hedge as the ropes were released from the hook. ‘Someone will come to help – but as you Limeys keep telling us – there is a war on, so don’t hold your breath.’

  They heard the convoy rumble past, the shouts and whistles of the men and the cacophony of hooters and horns simply adding insult to injury.

  ‘I will kill him,’ snarled Dolly. Then she caught Carol’s eye and they both fell about laughing while Nipper looked at them in confusion.

  ‘Now what?’ spluttered Carol. ‘How the heck do we get out of here?’

  ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea,’ replied Dolly, tears of laughter running down her face.

  ‘We could be here until nightfall,’ said Carol more soberly, ‘and the doctor is due in a couple of hours. Perhaps we ought to get out and push it to the nearest gate? I thought I saw one just back there.’

  Dolly looked out of the window in horror at the thick mud and slime on the ground that had recently accommodated a herd of cattle. ‘You’re wearing stout shoes. Go and check there is one before we start pushing.’

  Carol returned a few minutes later to discover that her mother had taken off her expensive shoes, stockings and skirt along with her jacket, overcoat and fur wrap, and was sitting behind the wheel in her sweater, suspender belt and silk knickers. She collapsed with laughter and had to sit down until she’d recovered.

  ‘It’s not elegant, I know,’ said Dolly, fighting her own giggles, ‘but God help that Yank, because if I ever see him again, I will stuff that crane into a very dark and uncomfortable place.’

  She warned Nipper that her clothes on the back shelf were out of bounds, and then switched on the engine. ‘Let’s see if we can move the car without having to push,’ she muttered. ‘How far’s that gate?’

  ‘About a hundred yards back. But there is a bit of a slope, so we might be able to let the car just roll down once we give it a helping hand.’

  Dolly put the car in gear, took off the handbrake and carefully pressed the accelerator. The wheels turned, the tyres slithered and spun and it was soon very clear that the car was going nowhere without help.

  ‘There’s nothing for it but to push,’ Dolly said crossly as she opened the door and gingerly put her bare feet into the sludge. She shuddered with horror at the feel of it seeping between her manicured toes and then braced herself for worse to come.

  Nipper thought this was a great game and bundled out of the car to race round it barking in encouragement.

  Carol got out the other side and once they’d moved the rope out of the way Dolly grabbed the steering wheel in one hand and the sill of the door in the other. They began to push. The wheels turned, the tyres splattering muck and mud everywhere.

  They pushed harder, grimacing with the effort and the foul stench rising from the filth that was now clinging wetly to them.

  The tyres finally found purchase on tufts of grass and the car slowly began to move towards the gate. It reached the downward slope that ended in a water-filled ditch and started to roll towards it, so Dolly leapt into the car and yanked hard on the handbrake.

  Carol climbed in beside her and Nipper swiftly followed. He’d clearly rolled in something foul and taken a dip in the ditch, so when he vigorously shook himself Dolly and Carol recoiled in horror at being splattered even more.

  ‘Do I look as awful as I feel?’ Carol asked, touching her mud-streaked face and looking down at her filthy clothes and shoes.

  ‘We both look an absolute fright, and probably stink to high heaven,’ said Dolly, avoiding the mirror as she drove the car through the farm gate. ‘I can only pray no one sees us before we get home.’

  ‘It will take hours to get the car clean,’ Carol said woefully.

  ‘Perhaps I should send a bill for dry-cleaning and car valeting to the general,’ said Dolly waspishly. ‘It’s about time the Americans paid for the damage they’re causing.’

  They didn’t speak much on the way home, for they were both feeling wrung out, cold to the bone and worried that the doctor might already be at the cottage waiting for them. However, they were lucky, for the village was eerily deserted, and there was no sign of the doctor.

  With Nipper bundled under her arm, Carol and her mother scuttled inside and slammed the door behind them on what had been one of the strangest days of their lives.

  14

  Cliffehaven

  ‘Are ye sure about this, son?’ asked Ron.

  ‘Aye,’ Frank replied gruffly. ‘It’s the best chance we have of putting something
decent on the table for Christmas.’ He looked at his father and grinned as he turned up the collar of his oiled hunting coat. ‘What’s the matter, Da, losing your nerve?’

  ‘Ach, it’s not that,’ Ron grunted. ‘I just don’t feel right not having Harvey with me.’

  ‘No one takes their dog to a party,’ said Frank firmly. He saw his father was about to argue and carried on, ‘At least, no one but you. I hope you’re wearing decent clothes under that old coat, because this is a posh officers’ do, and they won’t let you in otherwise.’

  ‘To be sure I’m not addle-headed,’ Ron protested, running a finger inside the stiff collar and flexing his neck. He walked beside his son along the deserted country lane lit only by the fleeting gleam of the moon that appeared occasionally from behind the scudding clouds. It would rain again before the night was out – and his best suit was hardly appropriate for a poaching foray through Lord Cliffe’s estate. There would be questions enough from Peggy when he got back, but a ruined suit would cause all sorts of trouble.

  ‘How did you wangle the invitation, Frank?’

  ‘One of their trucks broke down over by the old ruins, and I happened to be passing and managed to fix it. We got chatting, he mentioned the party and here we are.’

  Ron felt a certain amount of pride in his son, for he was certainly a chip off the old block, quick thinking and always with an eye to the main chance. They slowed as the sound of music and laughter drifted out into the quiet night, and before going round the bend to the grand entrance of Cliffe Manor, they slipped off their poachers’ coats and folded them over their arms.

  Frank eyed him up and down with a nod of approval, then smoothed back his own short hair and squared his shoulders. ‘Ready for the fray, Da?’

  ‘Aye, that I am, son.’

  They walked on, showed their identity cards to the armed soldiers on guard, and were soon strolling down the long drive towards the Edwardian house that stood squarely and elegantly at the end. No light shone from the many windows, but they could hear the noise of the party, and see the gathering of jeeps and trucks parked to one side of the marble fountain which stood in the centre of the turning circle in front of the house.

  Ron and Frank slowed and surreptitiously looked beyond the drive into the deep darkness of the surrounding forest. They both knew it well, for it was here that Ron had taught his sons all he knew about the art of poaching. However, there was now a trigger-happy gamekeeper in charge who was neither deaf nor turned a blind eye. His dog was a vicious beast he let free to roam the grounds at night while he sat in his nice warm cottage, but Ron had heard enough stories coming out of the estate to know how to deal with it.

  They paused at the bottom of the broad stone steps leading up to the front door, sheltered by an ornate pair of marble pillars and portico. They exchanged knowing smiles, then opened the door, stepped through the heavy blackout curtain and into the glittering lights of an enormous chandelier and the noise and bustle of a party in full swing.

  Two hours later they’d eaten their fill of the delicious food the Americans had laid on, and drunk just enough beer to enjoy themselves and still keep a clear head. Now they were camouflaged by their coats and moving stealthily through the trees, past the wooden huts that housed the office of the WTC, the clothing store and the camp kitchen, and down towards the other huts in which the girls of the Timber Corps were billeted.

  All was quiet and they continued on to the pools where Lord Cliffe bred the salmon he sold to the posh restaurants and hotels in London. They crouched down in the darkest shadows beneath the trees and regarded the sturdy wire fencing surrounding the pool, and the heavy padlock and chain on the gate. They could hear the electricity humming in the wire, and Frank looked at Ron in dismay, for this was a new innovation.

  Ron put a finger to his lips and winked. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered.

  Before Frank could stop him, he ran in a crouch towards the shed at the side of the girls’ billet, and with a twist of his lethal hunting knife soon opened the lock and was inside. Holding the door shut behind him, he flicked on his torch, found the right switch in the electrical box and cut the power to the fence.

  Easing the door open and peering outside to make sure no one was moving about, he closed and locked it again before returning to Frank. Beckoning his son to follow him, he warily circumnavigated the lake until he was on the far side and well hidden in the thick vegetation that grew right to the water’s edge. With freshly sharpened wire-cutters he sliced through the fence and slipped through with Frank swiftly following him.

  The reeds were thickly massed on the muddy bank, and as the moon briefly appeared, Ron caught a glimpse of the lazing fish just below the surface. He could already feel the cold, muddy water seeping over his boots and up his trouser legs, but paid it no heed. He drew the folds of his large coat round him to protect his good clothes and, without a sound, lay flat within the reeds. Frank followed suit, the thrill of the adventure almost tangible between them as they rolled back their sleeves and then inched their hands and then their arms into the still water without creating a single ripple.

  Tickling salmon was easy if you knew how and the fish were sluggish. Within minutes they both had a wriggling, gasping, silvery prize which they stunned and quickly stuffed into the deep pockets of their coats.

  Father and son grinned at one another as they slithered back out of the reeds and through the fence. Christmas lunch was almost sorted. Ron twisted the fencing wire back into place so the connection would be made when the electricity was turned back on, and then they crept away, their footfalls soft and silent on the damp forest floor.

  Taking a different route to the shed to avoid the main track through the trees, they approached the back of the land girls’ billet. Within minutes Ron had reconnected the electricity and locked the door behind him. No one would guess at a glance that the ponds had been raided, and he could only hope that the break he’d made in the fence wouldn’t be noticed so he could come back after Christmas and bag something for New Year.

  They were following a narrow track through the forest which would eventually take them back to the lane, thereby avoiding the sentries at the gate, thanking their lucky stars that the keeper and his dog were nowhere to be seen. And then they heard a noise behind them, and froze.

  It wasn’t a man’s footsteps going through the drift of fallen leaves, but the soft pad of large paws and the snuffling of a dog following a scent.

  Father and son melted into the profound darkness within a high wall of wild rhododendron. Ron reached into another of his pockets and pulled out the packet of minced offal he’d collected from Alf the butcher that morning. Stealthily opening the packet he wafted it about and waited for the dog to smell it. The panting grew louder, the pad of paws on dead leaves sped up, and when he’d judged the animal was close enough, Ron threw the meat towards him.

  They waited in tense silence as the dog snuffled and slobbered over the mess of meat that was heavily laced with the quick-acting knock-out drops Ron had kept hidden in his shed. He’d found the bottle amongst the litter of a bombed-out chemist some time ago, and had known immediately it would come in handy.

  The dog gave a whine and, as they watched through the camouflage of thick green leaves, it swayed and then toppled over onto its side, legs twitching for a moment before it lay still.

  They waited to make sure it really was comatose, and then lifted it out of sight of the forest path and into the heart of the rampant rhododendrons. No harm would come to it, and within a couple of hours it would simply wake with a thick head and return home wondering what had happened.

  Ron nodded to Frank and they set off again. There was just one more place to go to complete their poaching trip – and then they could make for home.

  Peggy had been extremely suspicious about Ron’s behaviour the night before. He never went anywhere without Harvey – and he’d gone out dressed in his best suit, which was very unusual. She’d finally come to the conclusio
n that he’d probably taken Rosie out to somewhere special that didn’t allow dogs, and so had gone to bed and thought no more about it.

  It was almost noon by the time she’d finished her housework, so she’d quickly bundled Daisy up in her warmest clothes, strapped her into the pushchair and hurried into town to do all the things she’d been meaning to do for days, but hadn’t found the time.

  When the Town Hall clock struck two she’d already done the bulk of her shopping and been to the Post Office to send off her parcels and mail her Christmas cards. She could only hope that her parcel to Jim would get to him in time, for she’d taken an age choosing what to send and there was only a fortnight left before Christmas Day. She used to love shopping for Christmas, but as the war had dragged on it had become a dispiriting experience, for there was no joy in battling through the crowds only to find there was little choice in the shops, and what there was looked suspiciously like old, dowdy stock.

  In the end, she’d decided that it was probably best to be practical. Jim had said in his letters that the heat and humidity was so bad in India that his clothes were rotting, so she’d made him a shirt out of a length of thin cotton she’d found on a market stall, bought two pairs of underpants, two cotton vests, a shaving brush and his favourite hair cream. She’d realised it wasn’t a very exciting collection, so she’d added a roll of tobacco, cigarette papers, handmade cards from Cordelia and the girls, a scribbled drawing from Daisy and a clutch of photographs to remind him of everyone who was missing him.

  She wheeled the pushchair down the High Street, stopping every now and then to chat to a friend or admire a baby in a pram before continuing on. Despite the lack of pretty lights strung across the street, the absence of the traditional dressed tree outside the council offices or any festively decorated shop windows, there was an air of suppressed excitement and expectancy in the town which was only partially due to the Christmas spirit.

  The rumours of an Allied invasion into France were increasing daily, and they seemed to be borne out by the number of troops amassing in hurriedly erected camps on the hills around the town and coming through it in ever-lengthening convoys. More rocket-launching and anti-aircraft guns could now be seen about the place, and Peggy suspected her sister Doris wouldn’t be at all pleased that an enormous emplacement had appeared on the hill overlooking her house, the lethal twin barrels of the mighty guns jutting out towards the Channel.