by Lizzie Lane
She understood. Worry was weighing them down: the war, being apart, Lily, and now not having a place to call home. This night in a hotel was supposed to be by way of respite, a time to take stock and gather every bit of courage they had. Hopefully it might recharge their batteries.
Ray winked at her as he signed them in. The manager, a weasel of a man with receding hair and a pencil-thin moustache, handed them the key. His expression betrayed no suspicion that they might not be married, though he stiffened when Ray paid him in cash, winked and said, ‘Keep the change. And the secret.’
Meg blushed. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’
‘Why not?’
‘You did it. You signed us in as Mr and Mrs Smith,’ she whispered.
‘You cannot know for sure.’
‘Yes I can. He didn’t ask if we were married.’
He whispered close to her ear. ‘There’s a war on.’
Meg gritted her teeth. ‘I’ll be glad when that particular statement is dead and buried!’
Despite everything – Lily being sick, having no home and an uncertain future – she couldn’t help smiling in a girlish way as though they really were two lovers away for a night of passion.
The room was large and full of light thanks to a bay window overlooking Hammersmith High Street. Meg walked over to it, trying her best not to let her mind wander away to Lily and what would happen to them next. The scene outside was windswept; the few people walking along were fighting with their umbrellas. Leaves roughly torn from trees skipped in waves along the wet pavements.
She felt the warmth of his body as he came up behind her.
‘Cold out there. Very unseasonable.’
Meg wasn’t thinking about the weather. Her whole body heaved with sobs and her tears poured on to his shoulder, releasing the tension she had felt prior to his visit.
He hesitated before enfolding her in his arms. Normally he would have stroked her hair. He’d always loved her hair.
‘I look terrible. My hair …’
‘Damn your bloody hair! You’re alive.’
His outburst surprised her. She looked up at him through her tears. When had that strained look come to his face?
‘Will you always come home, Ray?’ She didn’t quite know why she said it; perhaps a premonition that for some reason he would not. Her fingertips discerned the tension in his jaw. His smile was guarded. His fingers folded over hers and he kissed her palm.
‘Why wouldn’t I come home?’ His eyes bored into hers.
As far as Meg was concerned there was only one answer to that. ‘Don’t get shot down, Ray. Please don’t get shot down.’
‘I will do my best not to.’
She buried her head against his shoulder. He kissed a patch of singed hair. She pushed him away. ‘Don’t do that.’
He frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘I look awful.’
‘No, you don’t. It’s just hair. It’ll soon grow back. You were lucky – lucky you didn’t go to the shelter as it turns out.’ He paused before asking the question she knew would come. ‘Why didn’t you?’
Meg narrowed her eyes in an effort to hold back the tears and the guilt she was feeling. ‘The torch went out and I couldn’t see our way to the Anderson shelter. It was so dark and the planes were so close.’
‘Hey!’ Ray took hold of her chin and raised her face, his eyes looking steadfastly into hers. ‘No need to take on like that. You did the right thing as it turns out. My favourite girls came through it.’
‘But our house … !’ Tears escaped the corners of her eyes.
Ray cupped her face with his hands. ‘It’s no good going over and over it. Meg, surviving this war is all about getting through it whether we make the right decisions or not. I have to tell you right now that even the commanders only get it half right, but you’re not to blame for what happened. Get back to your old self and take care of Lily.’
‘You’re right. The sooner we get back to some normality, the sooner she’ll be well again.’
Ray’s face clouded. ‘Meg, you do realise she may never get over it. She may never remember us, let alone the life she had before.’
Meg shook her head. ‘I refuse to accept that. She will get better.’
‘Meg, we’ve already been told that there are no guarantees.’
‘So we can be as patient as you like and she might still not recover?’ Meg’s voice rose almost hysterically.
‘It’s early days.’
Although her concern for Lily gnawed at her inside, it was reassuring to feel Ray’s arms around her. She closed her eyes. ‘I’ll make sure she recovers. I promise, Ray, I will make sure she recovers.’
‘Of course you will,’ he said gently, as he stroked her hair. ‘Of course you will.’
Their lovemaking that night lacked the impatient passion they usually shared when Ray was on leave. There was a nervous hesitance about it and, although Ray was as considerate as ever, the tension never fully left her body.
In the morning they had toast for breakfast with just a scraping of jam, plus a pot of tea served by a waitress who had the air of having better things to do.
‘Sorry, we’re out of everything else,’ the waitress told them. ‘First come first served at mealtimes. Eggs and bacon go first, then butter. We do have marge though.’
‘Shame. I would have liked eggs and bacon,’ mused Ray.
‘It can’t be helped. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
‘Really? I wondered why I was wearing this uniform.’
Miss Sniffy Waitress shoved her nose in the air and stalked off.
They both laughed. ‘As if we didn’t know!’
Ray began fiddling with the cutlery, a sure sign that he was on the point of stating something serious. ‘Meg, I think it’s going to benefit Lily to live in new surroundings. I’ve had a few thoughts and there’s one particular idea I think would work beautifully. Away from London, of course. It won’t help her recovery being among all the debris and air raids. She has to be away from all that, and on that note … Look, do you remember my Aunt Lavender? She’s gone to stay with her daughter up north but I’m going to ask her if we can rent her cottage while she isn’t there.’
‘In the country?’ The country was a foreign place to Meg. There were no buses, no taxis and Underground, just acres of fields and lots of animals. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she murmured, hanging her head and studying her cup of tea as if it were a crystal ball capable of telling her the future. She had heard of the cottage but had never gone there. It was too far from London, and why would she want to enjoy a cottage garden when she had a perfectly lovely garden at home? Only there was no home. Not now.
Seeming not to notice her demeanour, Ray battled on with his suggestion. ‘Give me a few days and I’m sure she’ll agree that you and Lily can live there. It’ll be good for both of you.’
Before the bombing, Meg would have procrastinated, but that was when she’d had a comfortable home. Nothing could compare to 7 Andover Avenue. The solid reality of her old home was hard to shift from her mind. She had to forcibly remind herself that it no longer existed.
‘So Bluebell Cottage it is,’ stated Ray with an air of finality.
Deciding she had no choice, Meg nodded, without enthusiasm.
‘I’ll come and visit you there and I’ll bring Rudy.’
‘Not the dog again! I’ve already told you …’
‘No more of that!’ Ray winked. ‘He’s a man’s best friend and although the boys at the base have adopted him as mascot –quite usual for an animal captured from the enemy – his true place is with us. Lily will love him.’
‘Ray! There is no good reason for having the dog live with us. We must think of Lily.’
Ray eyed her thoughtfully. ‘That’s who I was thinking of. The dog might hasten her recovery.’
Meg folded her arms defensively and turned away. ‘I can’t see that.’
Ray felt a volcano of tension build up inside. His w
ife being waspish was something Ray had experienced right from the start of their marriage. At first he’d stood his ground but after a period of time he’d accepted defeat. Meg’s mother had made her what she was. He should have seen that before they married. It would take a special kind of man to make his wife happy. He wasn’t sure he was that man.
‘I won’t argue with you but would ask you to keep the dog in mind. In the meantime, I’ll set the wheels in motion and arrange everything. Once Lily is better, get out of here and down to Bluebell Cottage. Promise?’
She accepted she had no option but to move to Bluebell Cottage. ‘I promise.’ This time she meant it.
The only thing they both regretted was that Ray could not get extra leave in order to see them settled in. Meg and Lily would have to travel alone, just the two of them moving into the cottage.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was the end of June when Lily was finally discharged from hospital. She stood with Meg on the platform at Paddington Station waiting for the train to the West Country. The signs saying it was Paddington Station had been taken down – as if anybody could mistake it for what it was. Everyone knew where it was!
Keeping a tight hold on Lily’s hand, Meg headed for the correct platform. In the other hand she carried a brown leather suitcase she had bought from a bombed-out shop in the West End. It was very smart, which at least in her opinion was more than could be said for its contents. The clothes packed inside it had been chosen from similar racks she’d first come across in the Methodist church hall, most second-hand but some donated by stores and shops. It irked her pride that she had nothing left of her own, though she had noted that some items were in good condition if a little dated. Other children growing out of their clothes meant that Lily did fairly well.
‘We all have to make do with what we can,’ the almoner at the hospital had stated. ‘People have been so kind.’
Meg feigned agreement but inside promised herself that in time she would purchase new clothes for both herself and Lily. She had never had to resort to cast-offs before the war and she was adamant she would only do so now while she had no choice.
Although feeling far from amenable to this move, Meg had chatted merrily all the way to the station, trying as best she could to elicit some response from the silent girl. There was none and Meg was exasperated. Lily remained silent for the whole journey, staring out of the train window at cornfields and pastures where cows and sheep grazed. Meg conjured up a game of counting the animals. Lily did not respond. Meg did all the counting.
Lily didn’t speak and rarely moved. She was like Loulou, thought Meg, the rag doll she used to love that had been left behind in the ruined house. She didn’t do anything.
‘Here we are,’ said Meg brightly as the train pulled alongside a single platform on the up line. Tubs of colourful flowers decorated the station and more flowers trailed from baskets attached to lamp posts. It struck Meg that the countryside was far more cheerful than the city.
Her voice reflected her own uplifting of spirit. ‘This will be our new home. Just smell that fresh air.’
Lily looked as if she hadn’t noticed they’d arrived anywhere, as if she was seeing the same surroundings she’d left behind, though the village couldn’t have been more different. Upper Standwick had snuggled for centuries in Somerset’s Avon Valley, the river meandering like a silver ribbon beside the straighter aspects of the eighteenth-century canal and the nineteenth-century railway line. The houses were older than either the canal or the railway and built of the same honey-coloured stone as the nearby Georgian city of Bath. Bath and its hot springs became famous in Roman times and reached its zenith during the Georgian period when men wore tight britches and women gossamer gowns.
Each village around the city huddled around its own village church, green or even duck pond. Upper Standwick was no exception. Situated on one side of the village green, Bluebell Cottage was approached over a flagstone path where tufts of speedwell and pimpernel pushed up between the cracks. A family of swallows had set up house beneath the eaves. The windows were small and square, and the trailing flowers of a climbing wisteria cascaded like amethyst teardrops over a trelliswork porch.
Meg stood dumbly at the door feeling half inclined to turn around and get the next train back to London. I don’t want to be here, she said to herself, until Lily tugged at her hand. The little girl was looking up at her with soulful eyes. Even though she said nothing, Meg knew this was her signal for needing the lavatory.
‘All right, Lily. Just hold on a moment and we’ll get you inside.’
Her gaze alighted on a huge iron key hanging from a nail at the side of the door. So old. So heavy. Not neat and tidy like my front door, she thought to herself before the truth hit her like a hammer, as it had so many times before. Her house was no more. Bluebell Cottage was her new home.
The key crunched in the lock and the door opened. Leaving her suitcase on the step and clutching Lily’s hand, she stepped inside. ‘I think it must be out the back,’ she said to Lily and immediately went to the back door. The catch opened easily. The door had not been locked. How crazy is that, she thought to herself, locking the front door but not the back?
She took Lily to the outside privy where a moss-covered back door opened on to a surprisingly clean lavatory. ‘Can you manage by yourself?’
Lily’s response was to enter the square-built structure and firmly close the door behind her.
Meg made her way back to the house, on her way passing a zinc bath hanging from a nail. There was no bathroom. Her heart sank. How would she manage?
The day was hot but inside the cottage was cool and shady. Meg stood and took stock. There was only one large room on the ground floor that served as both kitchen and living room. She wouldn’t have thought it possible that her heart could sink further, but it did. At Andover Avenue she’d had two reception rooms and a kitchen. There had also been a bathroom on the first floor.
Yes, the room was large and there was a pretty view of the garden from both the back and front windows. But further inspection revealed there was no gas cooker, no oven and only a deep butler-style sink with a single cold tap hanging over it. A cast-iron range sat in an immense inglenook fireplace, a clockwork trivet hanging just in front of it alongside a metal spike. She couldn’t think what the spike was for but noted a large kettle hanging on the trivet.
Surveying her surroundings with increasing despair, the only thing she found in its favour was its cleanliness. Apart from that, it bore no relation to the house she had once lived in. Heavy beams hung low over a faded Turkish rug lying upon a flagstone floor. The windows were small and the curtains were of a dark tapestry style that only served to further obscure what little light managed to squeeze through. Overall, Bluebell Cottage could not hold a candle to her house in London.
The springs squeaked as Meg sank into one of the old-fashioned armchairs at the side of the fireplace. She wished with all her heart that she could turn the clock back but what would that achieve unless she could wish the bombers had bombed somebody else.
Lily had returned from the lavatory, standing like a statue in the middle of the room. She showed no interest in her surroundings, not looking at anything, just staring as though she’d lost her way, as she always had since the bombing.
Meg closed her eyes. It’s no good, she said to herself. This is all you have. You’re dependent on the generosity of other people. First clothes and now this house. Correction, cottage. Opening one eye then the other, she took in the bumpy walls, the uneven floor and shivered. Mice probably lurked in those walls. Flinging back her head, she blinked away the tears, forcefully reminding herself of the doctor’s advice that Lily needed a change of scene, as far away from London as possible. It was all about Lily. She had to make the effort. Could she make the cottage look better than it was?
I suppose I can do something to improve it, she thought, while gazing critically at the dark fabric of the curtains. They would be first to go.
Lily appeared not to have heard her, standing there, staring into space, looking but not really seeing. Not until Meg took hold of her hand did she allow herself to be led to the narrow spiral staircase and up to the next floor. Two bedrooms led off the small landing at the top of the stairs. Meg pushed open the door to her right.
‘This will be your bedroom. Isn’t it pretty?’
The floorboards were whitewashed and creaked beneath her feet. A pink and beige rug lay between the bed and the window. A cast-iron single bed overlaid with a patchwork quilt dominated the room. A painted blue chair and chest of drawers were the only other pieces of furniture. Pink flowers dotted the wallpaper and a pair of pink and pistachio-coloured curtains hung at the window.
At least it will keep you occupied, she told herself. You can improve on what is here. Aunt Lavender won’t mind. ‘Not that I care,’ she muttered to herself, her finger chasing a wandering spider along the stone windowsill.
Oh, Ray, what have we come to? She needed him and envied his being apart from all this, in comfortable quarters at the base and not relegated to living in what to her was little better than a rabbit hutch.
The view from the bedroom window was of green fields fading away to fields of corn stalks left bristling in the sun. The pastures were dotted with black-and-white cows, beyond which was a field of sheep.
For Lily’s sake she made the effort to sound cheerful. ‘Look at those cows, Lily. Do you see them? And sheep. And I can see people in the field helping with the haymaking. See? Just think of the fun we’re going to have here. Everything is so green and fresh, and there are so many animals.’
Meg’s heart ached for London, but it was imperative to get Lily to engage with their new surroundings. There was no traffic noise, just the sound of birds. ‘Listen. Do you hear the birds singing?’ For a moment she thought she caught a blink of acknowledgement but couldn’t be sure.