The Waiting Hours

by Ellie Dean

  As she held out her hands and slowly thawed, her thoughts turned longingly to her cosy little cottage. She couldn’t help but fret over the quantity of tanks and heavy machinery rumbling along those very narrow lanes – and the amount of shellfire and mortars that were now being exploded every day. It would be naïve to think the village might escape damage, especially as the troops handling the vehicles and weapons seemed to be mostly inexperienced and frighteningly gung-ho.

  Ida gave her a nudge. ‘Oy, you’ll never guess who’s become a regular visitor to the pub.’

  Carol saw the gleam of eagerness in her eyes and knew she was bursting with gossip, so played along. ‘Churchill? Eisenhower?’ she teased.

  ‘Nah, don’t be daft. It’s that American general and ’is driver, Herbert.’

  Carol was immediately alert, for she hadn’t seen the general since the day of the funeral, and was still very curious to know more about his relationship with her mother. ‘Really? What on earth are they doing over this way?’

  Ida shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I?’ she said, impatient to get on with her story. ‘Probably got some business at the American camp on the other side of the hill. The general’s ever so nice, and bought us a round of beers the last time. He asked how we was managing with the weather and all, and if we ever got back to London for a visit.’

  She chuckled. ‘I told ’im there was fat chance of that,’cos we ain’t got a plane on tap like some. And he laughed and said he was lucky the RAF provided him with one or he’d never get his job done proper. Then he joined in with a sing-song for a bit before he left.’

  Carol grabbed a towel and began rubbing her hair to hide her disappointment at having missed him from the sharp-eyed Ida. ‘It sounds as if you had a good chat,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d been there to join in the fun.’

  ‘I expect ’e’ll turn up again,’ said Ida dismissively. ‘But even if he don’t, Herbert will. Nice bloke is Herbert,’ she said dreamily. ‘Lovely manners, and ever so ’andsome.’

  ‘Oh, lawks, here she goes again,’ said Pru, rolling her eyes. ‘Is no bloke safe from you, Ida Baker?’

  ‘Only the ugly ones,’ she giggled. ‘A gel’s gotta make hay while the sun shines, Pru.’

  ‘As long as you don’t end up rolling in it with some bloke you’ve only known for five minutes,’ retorted Maisie rather primly. ‘I saw the way you was looking at Herbert, cosying up to ’im and batting yer lashes.’

  Ida tossed back her damp hair. ‘Yer only jealous,’ she replied airily. ‘If I was on top form, I’d’ve gone for the general – and got ’im too.’

  ‘She’s lost ’er marbles,’ said Pru to no one in particular. ‘A bloke like that’s way out of ’er league. Besides, he’s old and probably married with half a dozen kids and grandkids back in America.’

  ‘He might be out of my league,’ admitted Ida, ‘but I do know he ain’t married, and that he’s got a big fruit farm right close to Hollywood and the beach in California, so some gel could get very lucky.’

  ‘How on earth do you know all that?’ asked Carol.

  ‘Herbert told me.’

  ‘Then he should learn to keep his mouth shut,’ Carol said. ‘He has no business discussing his senior officer with anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it were only in passing,’ Ida muttered before brightening again. ‘But I been thinking …’

  ‘Watch out everyone, Ida’s plotting,’ said Pru. ‘And we all know that can only lead to trouble for someone.’

  ‘Well, I gotta ’ave something to do to make life interesting, ain’t I?’ protested Ida. ‘And that general’s widowed, good-looking for an old bloke and obviously as fit as a butcher’s dog.’ Her gaze fell on Carol. ‘He were asking after you,’ she said, ‘and I reckon that if you play yer cards right, gel, you could be sunning yerself on a California beach once this flaming war’s over.’

  Carol burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Ida, you’re priceless. Where on earth do you get these mad ideas?’

  ‘They ain’t mad,’ said Ida stoutly. ‘You’re quite posh, and would be a bit of a looker if you bothered with yer ’air and such – and let’s face it, Carol, the pair of you are free and single and it’s about time you got out into the world again.’

  ‘Ida,’ snapped Maisie. ‘That’s going too far.’

  ‘Yeah, watch yer gob, or I’ll shut it for yer.’ Pru glared and balled her fists.

  Ida folded her arms and glared back. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but it ’ad to be said. It’s been almost a year now, and she should be out there ’aving some fun instead of moping about ’ere writing flaming letters every night.’

  Carol could see trouble was brewing and quickly cut in before things escalated into the usual hair-pulling tussle. ‘I can understand why you feel like that, Ida, and I’m grateful you care, but there won’t be any romance between me and the general. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but even if I was ready to step out with someone, it wouldn’t be with one of my mother’s old friends. Besides,’ she added firmly, ‘he’s simply not my type.’

  Ida looked crestfallen for an instant and then she grinned. ‘So, what is your type, Carol? Maybe I can find someone else for you.’

  Carol’s gaze drifted to the photographs she’d placed by her bed. ‘My type of man is tall and brown-haired, with gentle eyes and clever hands. He possesses a wicked sense of humour, boundless energy, and the capacity to love and cherish me without trying to clip my wings.’

  She regarded their puzzled faces with a smile. ‘David was my type – and as I’ll probably never find another like him, you’d be wasting your time.’ She laughed at their cynical expressions. ‘I was lucky enough to find my one true love, and if I end up as an old withered spinster surrounded by cats, then that would be fine.’

  Nipper barked at the mention of cats and got to his feet as the girls shuffled about and looked awkward.

  Carol was still chuckling as she ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Let’s stop all this nonsense and get on with the milking. I’m meeting Betty and Brendon at eight, and will need a wash and change of clothing before I feel even halfway decent.’

  ‘Are those two an item?’ asked Maisie as they trudged back out to the field to get the cows in. ‘’Cos I seen ’im in Beeson most nights since Christmas.’

  ‘I suspect they might be, but I don’t think Betty realises it yet.’

  ‘Well, I’d choose Brendon over that Ken any day,’ said Pru. ‘He’s a right stick-in-the mud and a misery-guts to boot.’

  ‘He’s not very imaginative, I grant you,’ admitted Carol, ‘and since Betty’s moved to Beeson, she’s hardly seen him – which isn’t a bad thing. Betty was in a rut down in Slapton, and she needed to get away from Ken so she could think about what she really wants from life.’

  ‘She’s a lovely gel,’ murmured Pru. ‘It’s a shame about that there leg, but she don’t let it get in the way, do she?’

  ‘Only when it comes to thinking that Ken might be her only chance of marriage and having a family – and I’m rather hoping that Brendon will help her to see that she’s worth far more than a dreary, small-minded farmer who’s been stringing her along for two years.’

  ‘Blimey,’ breathed Pru. ‘You really don’t like ’im, do ya?’

  ‘Not much,’ Carol replied. ‘But keep that to yourself. I don’t want Betty to have to take sides, get upset, and make a hasty decision she’ll regret for the rest of her life.’

  27

  Felix Addington ducked his head beneath the dark oak beam as he led the way down the step into the bar at the Welcome Inn. He and Herbert were greeted by the mixed aromas of beer, cider, old fires and tobacco smoke, and the beaming smiles of the farm labourers at the bar, who raised their tankards in welcome.

  A quick glance told him there were a few British redcaps and gunners in one corner, while a dozen or so GIs from the nearby camp were in another and clearly enjoying the company of some robust land girls. Having returned their salutes, he told them to relax and forget the formali
ties until they were back on duty.

  ‘I’ll have a tankard of your cider, Mrs Claxton,’ he said, acknowledging the other drinkers who were leaning on the bar and eyeing him expectantly. ‘Another round for these gentlemen – and a pint of beer for Sergeant Cornwallis.’

  He waited for the drinks to be poured by the plump, ruddy-faced landlady, and trawled the gathering of chattering girls for sight of Carol Porter. He’d made a concerted effort to come in here ever since he’d returned from London because he was intrigued by Dolly’s daughter, and curious as to why Dolly had been so adamant he should say nothing of their past relationship. Dark suspicions were forming, and he wanted to talk to the girl to see if there was any weight to them. But so far she’d proven elusive, and he’d usually only stayed for a single pint before leaving. It looked as if she was absent again tonight but, he reasoned, it was still quite early, and the other girls from the farm hadn’t yet arrived, so there was still a chance she might come.

  Once the drinks were paid for, he took a sip of the lovely golden cider and looked round for somewhere to sit. ‘Go and enjoy yourself, Herby,’ he said. ‘I can see some of your colleagues over on the far side by the fireplace.’

  ‘Will you be staying long, sir?’ the younger man asked, clearly still puzzled as to why Felix had taken to coming all this way every night, but too steeped in British reserve to ask for an explanation.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Felix replied. ‘But I’ll give you fair warning so you can finish your beer before we leave.’

  He watched the younger man weave his way through the throng and then caught sight of an empty chair tucked away by the window. Quickly sitting down, he returned the nods of greeting from the farmers at the table next to him before they continued their rather heated argument about government quotas, the price of beef cattle, and the effects of the bombing and rifle-fire which was making the animals nervous.

  Felix sipped the cider and listened in without commenting while he watched the shifting, noisy crowd around him. He knew better than to throw his money around, join in arguments or brag about how everything was bigger and better in America, for like every other American serviceman stationed in Great Britain, he’d received the booklet issued by the War and Navy Department in Washington to guide the new arrivals through the pitfalls and misunderstandings they might encounter in this strange but rather wonderful little country.

  Felix had found it quite an amusing read, but then he’d been here before and had learnt the hard way that although English was supposed to be a common language between the two countries, there was much confusion on either side when a familiar word could mean something entirely different over here, and might even cause offence.

  He tuned out of the nearby argument, his thoughts drifting as they so often did to Dolly. He’d gone to London on Christmas Eve to have a serious discussion with the committee in charge of the operations in Slapton about the inadequacy of basic training for the men down here. He’d been horrified to discover that most of them couldn’t swim, got seasick at the mere sight of heaving waves, and were vague about the correct way to wear a life jacket.

  The meeting had become extremely heated and he’d left the office, frustrated and angry that his efforts had come to nothing. To his mind, the men in charge were pompous old fossils who thought they knew best – much like the commanders in the first shout – and didn’t want to hear about what they considered to be very minor concerns. But the lack of those very basic skills could cause needless deaths, and Felix was at his wits’ end to know what to do about it.

  The weather was against them, making swimming lessons impossible in the high seas, and the nearest public baths were in Plymouth. And although he’d had assurances from those in charge of the many camps that their men would be taught how to wear their life jackets, Felix wasn’t totally convinced they would. It seemed that all the focus was on getting men and machinery across the Channel, and the small details that might save lives had been forgotten.

  He’d gone for a long walk down by the Thames to try and cool off, and was on a circuitous route back to the American Embassy when he’d caught sight of Dolly getting out of a car in Baker Street. He’d been so surprised to see her in London that he’d watched, bemused, as she’d shown her identity card and hurried past the guard into the austere grey building.

  There was nothing to show what sort of work went on there, but Felix knew, and his curiosity sharpened. Dolly was clearly involved somehow in the secret side of the war effort – in what capacity, he couldn’t begin to guess, but admittance to that anonymous building was available only to those with the highest level of security.

  He’d hung about for a while, until he realised he was being regarded suspiciously by the patrolling policeman. About to go on his way, he saw Dolly emerge from the building in deep conversation with Sir Hugh Cuthbertson, the former British ambassador in Paris, and now the head of MI5.

  Not wanting to rouse further suspicion in the policeman, or risk being seen by Dolly, he’d hurried away to the embassy. Seeing her again had reinforced the urgent need to speak to her that had been growing since he’d discovered that Dolly had not married again, despite having had a second daughter. Now, if fate lent a helping hand, there was a real possibility that he might get that chance to try again. A quick look through the guest list for the gala Christmas luncheon the next day confirmed she’d be attending, and instead of returning to Slapton, he’d spent a restless evening thinking about how he could get her alone, and what he would say to her.

  To his bewilderment and hurt, their exchange had solved nothing – and yet he’d been so sure that he’d read her correctly and knew what was truly in her heart. It was with profound sadness that he’d walked away – closing the door between them, the finality of the click of the catch reverberating in his head still.

  ‘Hello, General Addington. How nice to see you again.’

  He snapped from his thoughts and shot to his feet, stunned by how very much she looked like her mother. ‘Good evening, Mrs Porter,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to bump into you.’

  ‘This is my friend Betty, and my nephew, Lieutenant Brendon Reilly of the RNR,’ said Carol. ‘I believe you’ve already met the others,’ she added as the three land girls eagerly crowded round.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ he replied, smiling at them. He shook Betty’s hand, remembering her from the day of the meeting, and gave a salute to Lieutenant Reilly, who had to be about the same age as Carol, which was puzzling.

  Brendon grinned at him. ‘People always wonder,’ he said, as if reading Felix’s thoughts. ‘But having such a young aunt has its benefits,’ he continued, his gaze drifting to the bright-eyed Betty who was patting the lively little terrier that Carol had brought with her.

  Carol chuckled. ‘Our family is a little out of the ordinary, General,’ she said lightly, ‘but this is neither the time nor place to go into its complexities.’

  Felix thought it was the perfect time, but not wanting to show his hand too soon, changed the subject. ‘Can I get you all a drink?’

  ‘My round, sir,’ said the young naval man firmly.

  Felix didn’t argue and offered his seat to Betty just as the farmers at the next table got up to leave. ‘I guess we’re all in luck,’ he said cheerfully, making way for Carol and deliberately taking the seat next to her as Pru went to help Brendon, and Ida and Maisie swiftly cleared away the dirty glasses and overflowing ashtray.

  ‘The girls told me you’ve been coming in since Christmas, General Addington,’ said Carol, her eyes sparkling with humour as she made the little dog sit beneath the table. ‘It’s a bit out of your way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Porter, I have to confess it is a bit. But I love your old English pubs, and this one seems to have a happy atmosphere.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ she replied, looking round. ‘I don’t come into the bar very much, but usually go upstairs to visit Betty now she’s billeted here.’ She gave him a cheeky gri
n which made her dimple flash. ‘I was brought up with the strict warning that decent women didn’t frequent pubs, so I don’t really feel that comfortable in one.’

  Felix was surprised to hear this, for Dolly loved nothing better than to sit in a cosy corner of an old alehouse with a chilled glass of wine to hand while a fire glowed in an inglenook. ‘Times have changed,’ he said. ‘It’s the wars that gave women more freedom, and I guess that can only be for the good.’ He smiled back at her, resisting the host of questions that were clamouring to be asked.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the drinks arriving, and the three land girls dashing off, having spotted Herby and his friends.

  Felix noticed Brendon hesitate before sitting down opposite him, and could see that he wanted to say something but wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. ‘Is something bothering you, Lieutenant?’ he asked.

  Brendon took a sip of his dark beer and then looked at him squarely. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir,’ he said tentatively. ‘But you’re the chief liaison officer, aren’t you?’

  Felix smiled. ‘For my sins,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, sir, I know this isn’t really the right place to discuss such things, but I would like a chance to talk to you about certain concerns I have.’

  Felix leaned towards him. ‘If you have a problem, then surely your CO is the one to approach?’

  ‘I tried that, and he wasn’t much help,’ said Brendon flatly. He took another sip of beer and carefully placed the glass back onto the table. ‘I heard you share my worries, sir, and if that’s true, then I think we should do something about them.’

  Felix understood immediately what the young man was talking about and felt a sense of relief that he wasn’t alone in his concerns. ‘We can’t talk now,’ he said, digging into his pocket for his card and sliding it across the table. ‘Come and see me tomorrow evening at that address.’

  The relief on the younger man’s face was telling as he tucked the card into his own pocket. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m off duty from sundown. Would that be convenient?’