The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  He’d almost reached the brow of the hill when he saw the gathering of old men and boys walking towards him armed with World War I rifles. The practice must be over, but he couldn’t see his father or Ron amongst them, so he kept on going.

  It was Harvey who spotted him first and came galloping towards him, ears flapping and tongue lolling, to fling himself against him. ‘Whoa there, boy,’ he chuckled, making a fuss of him and trying to ward him off at the same time. ‘You’re all muddy and these are my best number twos.’

  Harvey didn’t care about uniforms; he was just delighted to see Brendon, and did his best to climb into his arms so he could lick his face.

  ‘Will ye be getting down, ye heathen beast,’ roared Ron, emerging from behind a thick entanglement of gorse and brambles armed with two snared rabbits, to grab the dog’s collar. ‘Now,’ he said firmly, ‘you will sit down and behave.’

  Harvey slumped to the ground in defeat, his eyes liquid and beseeching, his tail twitching in supplication.

  ‘Poor old boy,’ said Brendon, feeling sorry for the dog as he squirmed on his side, edging ever closer until his nose rested on Brendon’s shoe.

  ‘Ach, you don’t want to be encouraging him,’ said Ron, putting the rabbits in his coat pocket. ‘’Tis a fine act and one he’s perfected over the years.’ He eyed the muddy paw-prints on Brendon’s uniform. ‘And to be sure he’s made a mess, but I’m afeared I’ll only make it worse if I hug you,’ he said, glancing down at his filthy poaching coat.

  Brendon threw his arms about his grandfather and held him close. ‘To hell with that,’ he said, kissing him soundly on both bristled cheeks. ‘It can be sponged off.’

  ‘Brendon!’

  He turned and was immediately swamped in his father’s arms, and the three big men stood there tightly embraced, slapping backs, kissing cheeks and revelling in the fact they were together again as Harvey circled them and barked joyously.

  ‘Mum and Peggy are waiting for us at the Town Hall and I promised them I wouldn’t be long,’ Brendon said rather breathlessly emerging from the bear hugs. ‘It’s so good to see you both again. I’ve really missed you.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve missed you too, wee boy,’ rumbled Ron, his eyes suspiciously bright beneath the shaggy brows. ‘But why aren’t they waiting at Beach View?’

  ‘I’m taking everyone to lunch at the British Restaurant as a treat.’

  Frank’s great hand clamped hard on his shoulder. ‘Then lead on, son. I could do with a decent bite to eat after gallivanting all over these hills since the crack of dawn.’

  ‘So could I,’ said Ron, ‘but I’ll have to stop off home to get rid of the rabbits and ferrets.’ He shot them both an impish grin. ‘I’m thinking they’ll not be welcome in their fine restaurant.’

  Brendon stilled them as they made to leave. ‘There’s something I want to tell you before we go back into town.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ said Ron warily.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Frank with a frown. ‘It’s not bad news, is it?’

  ‘That depends on how you view it,’ said Brendon, stroking an adoring Harvey’s silken ears. ‘This is my last leave for a few months. I’m being posted out of London.’

  They stared at him in horror and it was Frank who broke the stunned silence. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘I can’t tell you, Da, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Will you see action?’ Frank demanded.

  ‘Not in the sense you mean,’ he replied carefully.

  ‘What other sense is there?’ said Ron. ‘You either are, or aren’t. So which is it?’

  ‘Grandad, I’d trust you and Da with most secrets – but this time it really is highly classified and I’d be risking prison. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Then you’d’ve been better to say nothing,’ Ron grumbled.

  Brendon put his hand on his beloved grandfather’s broad shoulder. ‘You would have questioned why I couldn’t come home, even for a few hours like today, and I thought you should know and be prepared when Mum and Peggy start fretting.’

  ‘Aye, it’s best to keep such a thing from the women,’ said Ron, clenching the stem of his unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘They only get to imagining all sorts and worry themselves to a frazzle.’

  ‘Especially your poor wee mother,’ said Frank. ‘She’s borne enough these past years without the added worry of you being posted to God knows where.’

  ‘That’s why I’m not telling either of them,’ Brendon replied. ‘But I wanted you to know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get back before they send out a search party,’ he said with a lightness he didn’t really feel.

  As they slowly made their way down the hill he wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t have told them about his posting, for it had only added to their responsibilities and their worries. And yet he’d wanted them to know, for it was the first time since he’d been released from his duties aboard the minesweeper in the Atlantic that he’d felt he would be doing something important towards the war effort. Sitting on a rusting old warship keeping the guns prepared for attacks that rarely came, and occasionally manoeuvring MTBs and MGBs to their new assignments, was hardly exciting – and he was looking forward to going to sea again.

  Ron came to a sudden halt, his gaze piercing as he regarded Brendon. ‘There are things going on in the West Country,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be playing any part in that, would you?’

  Despite his surprise, Brendon managed to return his grandad’s gaze steadily. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Aye, maybe not,’ said Ron. ‘But should you ever be down that way, watch your back, wee boy. The Americans might have the cash, dash and flash, but they’ve yet to learn what war is really all about, and are inclined to get gung-ho.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Brendon dug his hands into his coat pockets and carried on walking as Ron headed towards Beach View to unload his pockets of rabbits and ferrets. His grandfather was an amazing man with a real nose for secrets. How the heck he’d cottoned on to what was happening in Slapton, he had no idea, but he’d certainly hit the nail on the head this time. Brendon’s ship, HMS Saladin, would be leaving tomorrow for Plymouth, and within hours of arriving, he would take up his post as an officer on the British corvette, HMS Azalea, to join the rehearsals for the Allied landings into France.

  The three-course lunch at the British Restaurant cost nine-pence and served only things that weren’t rationed. But the portions were generous, and the cooking was of a high standard despite the faded oilcloth on the rickety tables, the mismatched chairs, the elderly and rather dithery waitress, and the cheap cutlery which bent out of shape at the slightest pressure.

  With Harvey out of sight under the table, and Daisy in a high chair, they caught up on their news as they ploughed their way through the rich mushroom soup, a delicious vegetable curry served with mashed potato, and an apple crumble with a spoonful of custard. When the very last morsel had been devoured, they sat back and lit cigarettes as Peggy poured out the tea and Harvey mopped up the few bits that Daisy had dropped on the floor.

  Peggy quietly drank her tea and smoked her cigarette as the talk turned to Anne and her husband, Station Commander Martin Black, and the boys up at Cliffe Aerodrome where young Cissy was stationed, and then to Carol down in Devon, Dolly in Bournemouth, and Jim out in India. Letters had gone back and forth between them all, but it was good to catch up on the things their own letters hadn’t included.

  Everyone was surprised to hear that Brendon had met Dolly in London for tea at the Ritz, for they didn’t think she had connections there now she’d moved to Bournemouth. But then Dolly never had done what was expected of her, and her life was a bit of a mystery to all of them.

  Peggy slowly became aware of how Pauline clutched at Brendon’s arm as if terrified he’d disappear and not come back. It was little wonder he didn’t come down very often, she thought. Pauline smothered him, and it mu
st make him feel very awkward at times – rather like Doris with her son Anthony. She’d smothered him too, but the moment he’d married Suzie, he’d made his escape to another town in the Midlands, and didn’t encourage her visits. Peggy was reminded of the old adage of a son being a son until he got him a wife, and hoped it didn’t hold true with Brendon, for Pauline’s sake.

  As the hands of the clock relentlessly marked the time, they all realised that this lovely day would soon be over and they’d have to say goodbye to him again. Brendon paid the bill, refusing to let his father or grandfather chip in, and once Daisy was firmly tethered into the pushchair, they slowly walked up the High Street towards the station, Pauline clinging even more tightly to his arm as Harvey trotted alongside him.

  Stan was there, pocket watch in hand as his wife Ethel pulled levers and rang bells up in the signal box. He’d known Brendon since he was a baby, and he grasped his hand and pumped it hard. ‘Glad to see you, boy, even if it was only for a minute or two. Now you look after yourself, and come back as soon as you’ve got those Jerries on the run, you hear?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Uncle Stan,’ he replied as the signal clattered down to warn them the train was on its way.

  ‘When will you be home again?’ asked a tearful Pauline.

  ‘Next year,’ he replied, taking her into his arms and giving her a hug. ‘Please don’t cry, Mum. You have such a lovely smile, and that’s what I want to take with me.’

  She hastily pulled herself together and stood back as Frank and Ron wrapped him in their embrace, murmuring things in his ear that neither she nor Peggy could catch.

  Peggy eyed the men and wondered what was going on. There was something between them, she’d felt it all through the afternoon. Yet she said nothing as she hugged her sturdy, handsome nephew and wished him a safe journey and a swift return.

  Brendon squatted down to say goodbye to Daisy as the train pulled into the station with a sigh of steam and a screech of iron wheels, and then made a fuss of Harvey before kissing everyone again and gently disentangling himself from Pauline’s clutches.

  ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said cheerfully.

  Frank wrapped his arm around Pauline and they stood in a miserable huddle as their son walked down the platform and stepped onto the train, slamming the door behind him. He opened the window and leaned out, and they all plastered on smiles and waved, but he was soon lost in the billowing smoke as the train slowly pulled away and chugged out of sight.

  Peggy caught the look between Ron and Frank, but said nothing. She’d tackle Ron once they were alone – although from past experience Ron had proved to be as tight-lipped as a clam with things he didn’t think she needed to know – but tackle him she would.

  18

  Slapton

  It was Carol’s last day in Slapton. The village was eerily silent as the wind sifted the leaves along the deserted lanes and ruffled the grass in the cemetery. Thirty thousand acres of land had been cleared of not only stock and crops, but over three thousand men, women and children in less than five weeks – a task no one had believed could be achieved so swiftly or efficiently.

  Now the water, gas and electricity had been turned off, and the information centre was closed down. There were so few people to help move out, the soldiers billeted in the chantry had gone on manoeuvres with their fellow troops, leaving Constable Betts, Mildred Ferris, and only a couple of artillery men on duty.

  There had been no sign of General Addington since the day of the funeral, and when Carol had casually mentioned his absence in the hope it might lead Dolly into a conversation about him, she’d been disappointed. Dolly had merely shrugged and continued packing up the last few boxes in tight-lipped silence.

  His name never came up again, and it was clear that Dolly had no intention of revealing anything, which only served to intrigue Carol more. General Addington seemed very approachable; perhaps she would get a chance to talk to him again, to find out just what had gone on between him and her mother. For Dolly might be a consummate actress, but she couldn’t hide the shadows of something painful in her eyes, despite her bright smiles and bustling determination to clean the house from top to bottom. Carol was certain that she’d been deeply affected by their meeting.

  However, in the short time she’d had following the funeral, Carol had other, more important things on her mind, and as the sun had struggled to rise through the lowering clouds of her final day in Slapton, she’d come to the churchyard to contemplate all that had happened in the past year.

  Walking through the grass, which was still damp from the previous night’s rain, she passed the stack of sandbags protecting the stained-glass window in the belfry and was about to head towards the plot by the war memorial when she saw the vicar pinning something inside the notice-board box to one side of the church door.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Porter,’ he said shyly. ‘I see you’ve taken charge of Nipper. Friendly little chap, isn’t he?’

  Nipper put his front paws against Samuel’s knees and yapped in excitement as the vicar made a fuss of him.

  ‘I never really wanted a dog,’ Carol confessed, ‘but he’s proving to be very good company.’ She eyed the sheet of paper which was flapping in the wind. ‘What’s that all about, Vicar?’

  He smoothed the paper flat and firmly tacked the final two corners down before closing the glazed door and locking it. ‘The Bishop of Exeter has ordered these to be put up outside all the churches within the exclusion area.’ He stood back and regarded it with a sigh. ‘I do pray they heed the message, but I fear that their minds are on other things.’

  He looked at her dolefully. ‘I’ll see you again, I hope, Mrs Porter, when all of this wretched business is over,’ he said, and raised his hat to her before hurrying away.

  Nipper got up on his hind legs at the end of the lead in an attempt to follow the vicar, but Carol tugged him back and ordered him to sit while she read the message.

  TO OUR ALLIES FROM THE USA

  This church has stood here for several hundred years. Around it has grown a community which has lived in these houses and tilled the fields ever since there was a church.

  This church, this churchyard in which their loved ones lie at rest, these homes, these fields are as dear to those who have left them as are the homes and graves and fields which you, our allies, have left behind you.

  They hope to return one day, as you hope to return to yours, to find them waiting to welcome them home. They entrust them to your care meanwhile and pray that God’s blessing rest upon us all.

  Charles, Bishop of Exeter

  To Carol, it seemed to encapsulate the essence of how everyone was feeling to be forced out of their homes in the fear that all they treasured might come to harm, and she turned away, almost blinded by tears at the thought. She would sit for a while with David and their baby and try not to think about having to leave them behind.

  She had no flowers to put in the stone urn beneath the marble cherub on her baby’s grave, and the grass was too wet to sit on, so she stood with her hand caressing the headstones as she told them why she had to leave and promised to return as soon as possible. It was silly talking to them, she realised, for if they were keeping watch on her they would know what was happening – and yet it brought her a modicum of comfort to voice her thoughts.

  She was looking at the fresh mound of earth in Edith Rayner’s family plot, noting that the holly and ivy wreath was already looking weathered, when she heard the sound of an engine and the slam of a car door, swiftly followed by the familiar halting footsteps of her friend Betty. She rushed to greet her with a hug.

  ‘I had to come and see how you’re coping today,’ said Betty, ‘and thought I might find you here.’ Her sweet face was full of concern.

  ‘Bless you, Betty, but I’m holding up much better than I thought I would,’ Carol confessed. ‘Mum’s been an absolute brick, and now the cottage is empty, I feel quite ready to leave.’ She took her friend’s arm and t
hey moved out of the wind into the lee of the sandbags by the church wall. ‘And how are you managing out at Beeson?’

  Betty dug her gloved hands into her coat pockets and dipped her chin into the thick scarf she’d wound round her neck. ‘The headmistress is a bit of a bossy dragon, and with all the extra children crammed into those two tiny classrooms it will soon get quite chaotic.’

  She smiled. ‘But Mrs Claxton at the Welcome Inn is lovely – a really homely sort who’s done her best to make me feel welcome.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re settled,’ said Carol, squeezing her hand. ‘I was getting very worried that you’d end up miles away in some horrid billet with no job.’

  Betty grimaced and tried to make light of the anxious weeks she’d been through until Mildred Ferris had come up trumps. ‘I was beginning to wonder where I’d end up after being turned down for so many positions,’ she admitted. ‘It’s my stupid leg, you see. They take one look at this blessed brace and see a cripple – not an experienced primary teacher.’

  ‘Oh, Betty, that’s awfully unfair. You’re such a good teacher. What fools they were not to snap you up when you’ve worked so hard and proved yourself. Thank goodness you had Mildred on your side.’

  ‘She’s been a Godsend, and I count myself very lucky, even though Ken’s been a bit half-hearted about it all and isn’t too happy that I’ve been billeted in a pub.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘He doesn’t approve of women in pubs unless they’re like Molly Jelks.’

  ‘Then he’s being very short-sighted,’ said Carol firmly. ‘He should be glad you’ve got a decent billet and another post so close to Slapton.’

  Betty nodded, her expression wistful. ‘I had rather hoped he’d pop the question when he saw the situation I was in.’ She gave a sigh. ‘But if we’d got married I’d have had to give up work altogether, because he doesn’t approve of working wives – even though he knows how much I love my job.’