Home for Christmas

by Annie Groves

  On the dance floor Dulcie allowed Wilder to draw her close, but not too close, and the hand he had placed rather too low down her body for her liking she firmly removed to the small of her back, giving him a soft look as she whispered, ‘I don’t want to take things too fast. You’ve made me dizzy enough already, with all that dancing, and I think it’s important that a girl keeps her feet firmly on the ground around men in uniform. I wouldn’t want to lose my balance.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about that,’ Wilder whispered back thickly, ‘’cos I’m sure gonna catch you and hold you real tight if you do.’

  ‘Like you’re holding me now?’ Dulcie asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Tighter than that.’ Wilder’s voice was growing more hoarse by the second, his hold on Dulcie tightening and his breath hot against her neck as he bent his head to whisper in her ear, ‘So tight that there ain’t nothing that could come between us, if you know what I mean.’

  And that was supposed to make her feel safe, Dulcie thought cynically, knowing exactly what he did mean and deciding that things were going a little too fast and too far. She adroitly stepped back from Wilder just as the music finished.

  Ten minutes later, after they left the dance hall and were standing outside on the dark street, whilst other dancers hurried past them – some to bus stops, some in the direction of the underground and others obviously intent on making their way home on foot – Drew announced that he intended to find a taxi and escort the girls home.

  Wilder immediately objected. ‘Come on, there must be somewhere we can go to have some more fun: a nightclub or—’

  ‘We’ve got away without any air raids so far tonight, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any. I’d rather get Tilly and Dulcie safely home than risk being caught in one,’ Drew insisted, standing firm, a little bit to Tilly’s disappointment. She’d never been to a nightclub and would rather have liked to see what they were like, but Drew was already flagging down a taxi, and then holding the door open for Tilly and Dulcie to get in.

  ‘Selfridges, you said?’ Wilder called out to Dulcie, grabbing hold of the cab door just as Drew was about to close it.

  ‘Yes,’ Dulcie called back. ‘Ground floor.’

  The taxi driver dropped them off on Fleet Street, not wanting, he said, to risk being caught down a narrow backstreet if the air-raid siren went off.

  Although it was well past closing time for the street’s many pubs, Drew told the girls that in back rooms in many of them, newshounds and print workers would be enjoying an out-of-hours drink, taking refuge in the pub’s cellar, should the siren start, or, in the case of some hardy and reckless individuals, grabbing their notebooks and heading for the newly bombed areas, keen to be the first to get their story.

  The smell of fish and chips wafting temptingly from a blacked-out chippy had Tilly’s mouth watering so much that she tugged on Dulcie’s arm.

  ‘Fish and chips? Well, I’m not going queuing inside for them. I don’t want my hair stinking of eau-de-chippy.’

  ‘I’ll go in,’ Drew offered promptly, so that a few minutes later they were all happily ambling homewards, eating their fish and chip supper as they did so.

  They’d just reached number 13 when the siren started.

  ‘They must have been waiting for us to finish our chips,’ Tilly laughed, before adding, ‘See you Monday, then,’ to Drew, and grabbing Dulcie’s hand so that they could hurry up the front path together, leaving Drew to head off for the communal shelter close to the church hall.

  ‘That’s good timing,’ Olive announced with relief as they came in.

  ‘We stopped off at a chippy in Fleet Street, and we got you and Agnes some, Mum,’ Tilly told her mother, proffering a newspaper-wrapped parcel.

  ‘We can eat them in the shelter. Come on, Agnes,’ Olive urged her lodger. ‘You can tell us all about the film whilst we’re in there.’

  ‘That’s if she actually saw any of it and wasn’t canoodling the whole time,’ Dulcie teased Agnes, making her blush, as they scurried round gathering up everything they’d need for the night ahead.

  ‘I brought your siren suits down just in case you made it back in time,’ said Olive, protesting at the delay when Tilly immediately started to remove her evening dress.

  ‘I’m not risking spoiling my frock by wearing it in the shelter,’ Tilly defended herself, breathlessly, as she hurried to undress.

  ‘It won’t be much good to you here if the house gets bombed,’ Dulcie pointed out, but she too was tugging off her going-out outfit and pulling on her siren suit, before rushing to the back door that Olive was holding open.

  ‘It’s those ruddy Dorniers again,’ Nancy’s husband, Arthur, called over the fence as the Blacks left the house for their own shelter. ‘Want shooting down, the lot of them.’

  ‘The RAF are doing their best,’ Tilly replied, whilst Olive, ever the protective mother, urged her on with an anxious, ‘Do hurry, Tilly, they’re almost overhead,’ only able to relax once they were all safely inside the Anderson.

  The chips Tilly had brought for her and Agnes were good, but Olive knew she would have to air the shelter to get rid of the smell, otherwise it would linger for days. She’d have to wait, though. Nancy was bound to object to her doing something so domesticated on a Sunday.

  She’d had a lovely evening, Agnes thought happily as she snuggled down into her narrow bunk bed. Ted had been ever so pleased when she’d told him about Tilly’s mum wanting to invite his mother and his sisters to the church Christmas party, squeezing her hand, as they queued together to get into the cinema in Leicester Square, and saying that he’d tell his mum the minute he got in.

  It had been a good film, and even better had been sitting in the darkness with Ted’s arm around her and his hand holding hers. But best of all had been during the interval when he’d talked about them getting engaged at Christmas and had said that they’d better look sharp and get her a ring so that she could wear it for the Christmas party.

  ‘I’ve been saving up,’ he’d said, ‘’cos I want you to have a proper diamond ring, Agnes. It’s what you deserve.’

  A proper ring! Agnes’s chest swelled with love and pride as she remembered that moment. She knew that it would be many years before she and Ted could marry, because of his responsibility for his sisters and his mother, but she could accept that, knowing that she had Ted’s love.

  Of course, she’d told him that she didn’t want him spending money on her when he’d got his family to think of, but Ted had brushed her protest aside: he wasn’t having his girl not having a decent ring.

  By the end of the evening, when they’d walked arm in arm to the bus stop, Agnes had been able to think about Ted’s mum without feeling anxious or miserable at all, and tell herself that she’d probably been making a fuss about nothing.

  She wouldn’t act too keen when Wilder came in to Selfridges looking for her, Dulcie decided. He was the sort who had a big enough opinion of himself already. And she’d make sure that when he took her out they went somewhere decent. Perhaps even a nightclub. Dulcie had never been in a nightclub, but she sensed they would be the sort of place where she could get herself noticed, and where the man she was with could see how lucky he was to be with her.

  She couldn’t wait for Monday night. It was going to be so exciting going with Drew to look for stories for his newspaper articles. Not that she would let her mother know how excited she was, because if she did she’d probably only start worrying about the possible danger and change her mind about letting her go, Tilly thought wisely.

  Church in the morning. How many new names of lives lost would be added to the growing list of those already remembered in their prayers? Olive thought sadly. And poor Mrs Lord – they’d perhaps leave here a bit earlier than usual so that they could walk down to number 49 and ask her if she wanted to go with them. She was so much on her own these days, Olive decided.

  Over the city the German bombers discharged their deadly cargo, the four women
at number 13 huddling deeper into their bunks as they heard the thankfully distant explosions, punctuated by the even louder sound of the anti-aircraft batteries firing on them.

  ‘That was only a short run tonight,’ said Tilly with relief, when, later, they heard the bombers turn for home, her voice drowned out by the sound of the all clear.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘. . . and what about that boy who’s been hanging around, Sergeant Dawson? I don’t like the look of him at all. Sly-faced, he is, and up to no good, hanging around the Row where he’s got no right to be.’

  They were standing outside the church after the Sunday morning service, Nancy and Arthur, Sergeant Dawson, Olive and Mrs Lord.

  ‘What boy is this?’ asked Mrs Windle.

  ‘You’d better ask the sergeant . . .’ said Nancy with one of her disapproving sniffs. Nancy was wearing the paisley-patterned silk scarf she had claimed to Olive must somehow have fallen into her handbag when they had been sorting out some second-hand clothes at the village hall. It was a pretty scarf but its plums, cream and grey colouring didn’t really suit Nancy’s florid complexion, or her royal-blue coat, Olive thought ruefully. Nor had the somewhat dubious means of acquiring the scarf dented Nancy’s belief in her own unassailable moral stance.

  Nancy continued acerbically, ‘. . . Since he seems to be encouraging him, giving him food and talking to him when by rights he should be sending him on his way. There’s places for boys like him.’

  It was just as well that Sergeant Dawson had broad shoulders and an equable temperament, Olive reflected, admiring the way in which he responded, calmly explaining to the vicar’s wife, ‘He’s a young lad, who lived with his mother and his gran. They were both killed when the house book a direct hit.’

  Mrs Windle had such a kind nature. Olive really liked her. She and the vicar worked so hard for their parishioners. Mrs Windle’s dull green tweed coat was to Nancy’s knowledge at least five years old, her brown leather gloves thin and worn, her appearance rather like that of the church itself: faded and slightly shabby but in such a way that one could see the genteel elegance they had once possessed.

  ‘So what’s he doing roaming the streets? He should have been handed over to the authorities,’ Nancy was quick to tell the sergeant, tossing her head so vigorously that without its securing hatpin her Sunday best felt hat could easily have come loose.

  ‘His dad’s in the army, and Barney – that’s his name – is worried that the authorities will send him somewhere where his dad won’t be able to find him when he comes looking for him, so every time we pick him up and take him to the authorities, he runs off the minute their backs are turned.’ The sergeant’s voice was polite but firm.

  ‘He should be locked up in gaol, then he wouldn’t be able to run off.’ Nancy was like a dog with a bone.

  ‘Oh, no, Nancy,’ Olive was unable to stop herself from protesting compassionately. ‘That would be dreadful. Poor boy. How awful for him. I’m surprised, though, that his father hasn’t been given compassionate leave to see him.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing.’ Sergeant Dawson rubbed the back of his neck in a slightly embarrassed manner. ‘It seems that the boy’s parents had been estranged, and that has meant—’

  ‘What it means is that the boy’s father doesn’t want anything to do with him,’ said Nancy, her voice sharp. ‘And who can blame him? Shifty, deceitful-looking boy, he is.’

  It was a cold day with a biting wind, that rattled the now leafless branches of the trees, whipping up what was left of the fallen leaves into small flurries – not the kind of day that tempted anyone to remain outside for too long – but Nancy was obviously determined to have the last word. Mind, Olive thought, if the flush on her face was anything to go by, Nancy was too fired up to feel the cold. Her poor husband didn’t look very happy though, his nose thin and pinched.

  ‘Granted he doesn’t look very prepossessing, but there’s no real harm to the lad,’ Sergeant Dawson defended the young boy. ‘To tell the truth I can’t help feeling sorry for him.’

  ‘I saw you giving him some sandwiches yesterday.’ Nancy made the words sound like an accusation rather than an act of kindness. ‘That’s encouraging him to keep coming round here. This is a respectable area. The next thing we know we’ll be having things stolen and sold on the black market. He’s just the type to get involved with that sort.’

  ‘Perhaps arrangements could be made for him to be placed with a family close to where his mother and grandmother lived,’ Mrs Windle suggested. ‘That way, if his father does come looking for him, he’ll be able to find him easily.’

  ‘I’ve tried telling him that, but he seems to think it would just be a trick and that he’d end up being sent off into the country,’ Sergeant Dawson told her. ‘He’s heard from some of the other children, who were evacuated at the beginning of the war and who then came back to London saying how much they hated the country.’

  ‘So where is he living?’ Olive asked with some concern, lifting one hand to secure her own hat as a sudden gust of wind tugged at it. Her reluctance to increase Nancy’s argumentative streak by getting involved was overridden by her concern for the young boy.

  ‘He’s living rough.’ Sergeant Dawson told her. ‘He won’t say where.’

  ‘Oh, poor boy,’ Olive sympathised again, discreetly tucking the curls that has escaped from her hat back under its neat brim.

  ‘A nasty piece of work, if you ask me. Not the sort we want round here at all.’ Nancy repeated unkindly, her expression daring anyone to argue with her further.

  ‘I can’t help feeling that Nancy can be less than charitable at times,’ Mrs Windle sighed to Olive a little later in the day when the two of them were on their own at the vicarage, Olive being the first to arrive for a WVS meeting.

  ‘I don’t think she always realises how unkind she sounds,’ Olive tried to defend her neighbour. ‘She’s got so used to criticising people that it’s become a habit. That poor boy, though. Sergeant Dawson says he’s only twelve or so.’

  ‘Oh dear. As you said, poor boy,’ the vicar’s wife agreed.

  * * *

  ‘I hope you’re going to miss me.’

  Sally had gone to the station with George to see him off and now he was standing up at the window of his compartment, looking very boyish and uncertain in a way that made Sally’s heart melt with affection for him. She was going to miss him, she admitted. She was going to miss him very much indeed. Far more, in fact, than she would have imagined, but she was still glad for him that he had been given such a wonderful opportunity.

  ‘I am,’ she told him simply. ‘I’ve got some leave to take because of the extra hours I’ve worked, and I’m thinking of going to Liverpool. My mother’s funeral was in November two years ago, ‘ she explained, ‘and I thought I’d like to go and see that her grave’s tidy, on the anniversary of her death.’

  ‘You should have said something before. I’d have come with you,’ George protested.

  ‘I only decided to go when I heard I’d got this time off,’ Sally told him truthfully. ‘And you’ve got to start your new job.’

  They’d been early for the train and now the compartments were filling up, four young naval officers filing into George’s compartment, the sight of their uniforms reminding Sally of Callum.

  ‘There isn’t some Liverpudlian admirer you’re going to see as well, I hope?’ George teased her, his unsuspecting manner making Sally uncomfortably aware of how much about herself she’d kept hidden from him, since she knew she’d implied to him that with her mother’s death she no longer had any ties in Liverpool. There’d been no need for him to know, after all. And there still wasn’t. Callum belonged entirely to the past. Talking about him to anyone, but especially to George, could only give him an importance she did not want him to have.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk about admirers,’ Sally teased him back. ‘I saw the look on that VAD’s face the other day when she saw you.’

 
‘What, the tall blonde who looks like a film star?’ George asked her enthusiastically.

  ‘No, the small plump one with the lisp,’ Sally laughed. Being with George always lifted her spirits.

  ‘I am going to miss you,’ she told him fiercely, for once letting her emotions get the better of her, ‘but I’m glad you going. This is a wonderful opportunity for you, George, working with such a brilliant surgeon, doing such marvellous things for those poor brave men.’

  ‘I just hope I’m up to the job, and that I don’t let him – and you – down. I can’t help thinking that he’s chosen me because we’re both Kiwis.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Sally told him in a rallying voice.

  The guard was closing the carriage doors, his red flag tucked under his arm as he made his way down the length of the train. At every window, or so it seemed to Sally, people were clinging to every last second of time they could with those from whom they were soon to be parted.

  ‘I love you, Sally,’ George mouthed above the noise of the steam being expelled by the engine as the guard blew his whistle and waved his flag.

  ‘I love you too,’ she mouthed back.

  The train was starting to move slowly, and then gathering speed.

  George was still at the window, cupping his hands together as he yelled, ‘I’ll write as soon as I get there.’

  Dear George. She was so lucky to have him in her life.

  Sally waited until the train was out of sight before finally turning to leave the platform.

  East Grinstead, and the Queen Victoria Hospital there, where Mr McIndoe, who had become the RAF’s ‘surgeon’ with the outbreak of war, had founded the Centre for Plastic and Jaw Surgery, wasn’t so very far away, Sally knew. But right now, having watched George disappear from sight, it felt like a very long way indeed.