by Ellie Dean
She looked up at the sky and the numberless twinkling stars. There was a bomber’s moon tonight, and it cast a golden glow over the town, gilding rooftops and chimneys, the shadows beneath the trees and in the hollows of the hills made deeper still where it couldn’t reach.
May was excitedly telling Gladys about the training she would be starting in two days’ time, and Rita felt a pang of sadness. Her best friend was already prepared for leaving her behind, her mind set on the excitement of starting a new life, her gaze settled on a very different future to the one they’d thought they’d share.
‘What about you, dear?’ said Gladys. ‘Have you had confirmation about the Dispatch Riders’ Unit?’
Rita shook her head. ‘It’s probably a bit soon yet,’ she replied, ‘and there’s no guarantee they’ll take me on.’
‘Never you mind, dear,’ Gladys said comfortably. ‘If they turn you down, you could always apply for a full-time paid post with the fire service. John Hicks was only talking about it the other day, and with so many raids over the town, he’s desperately short of good drivers.’ She cocked her head. ‘I assume you can drive?’
‘I used to drive cars in and out of the garage, but I’ve never really learned properly.’ Rita shifted on the uncomfortable bench and tucked her hands under her armpits to try and garner a bit more warmth.
‘I don’t suppose it would matter much,’ said Gladys. ‘You could learn on the job, as they say and . . .’
The wailing siren had them on their feet even before it reached its highest pitch. Gladys killed the lights from the lantern and heater, and wound the radio into life, settling the earphones over her head and twiddling the knobs so she could get the best reception. Rita grabbed the night-sight binoculars and leaned on the sandbags next to May to begin a trawl of the skies as yet more RAF planes hurried to fend off the attack.
The searchlights were going on all over town, along the seafront and the crests of the surrounding hills. They were pale at first, growing stronger into blinding blue-white, reaching into the sky, converging on the watery horizon like giant illuminated fingers.
The radio crackled into life. ‘Incoming at six o’clock,’ came a distorted voice from the Observer Corps bunker, which was situated some distance away on another cliff. ‘Enemy approaching. Enemy approaching.’
They didn’t need the warning; they could see and hear for themselves. The black swarm on the horizon was still out of range of the big guns, but it thundered ominously nearer, the heavy-bellied drone of the bombers accompanied by the lighter buzz of the fighter planes echoing across the water, filling the air with their menace.
Then, high up and coming in fast, was a single enemy plane – the leader of the pack, the bellwether leading his demonic flock towards their target. The night sky was suddenly rent with blinding blue stars that illuminated the huddled town beneath. Swaying, drifting, dancing across one another, these tiny chandeliers were marking the path for those that followed.
The earth shook as the big guns boomed, and within seconds there were bursts of bright white stars punching holes in the night sky, their explosions rolling over the water in waves, the echoes repeated in every cliff and bay until distance faded them.
The searchlights converged on the lone enemy plane, catching it like a moth in their beams as it twisted and writhed to escape. The guns boomed and rattled, making the very skies tremble as tracer bullets stitched through the blackness.
And then the searchlight beams lost their target.
As Rita and May searched the skies, a bright red flame blossomed beneath the searchlights, growing into a spiralling comet that plunged into the sea and was extinguished forever.
Rita shivered as the vibration of those guns and the rumble of the fast-approaching enemy planes trembled in the sandbags and the ground beneath her feet. Her ears rang with it as the ominous black swarm came towards the headland, the guns boomed and the Spitfires became embroiled in desperate dogfights. The sheer number of planes was daunting, and now they seemed to stretch right across the town, blacking out the moon and the stars, casting their evil shadow over everything.
Rita felt quite helpless as she watched the blizzard of white explosions follow the enemy planes, the arcs of red tracer bullets climbing towards their targets, the blossom of pom-poms lighting up the sky above the town as shrapnel from the guns whistled through the air.
She ducked her head, plastering herself tightly against the wall of sandbags as shrapnel thudded all around them. She was sweating despite the cold, her ears were still ringing, her hands shaking as she put the special binoculars to her eyes and scanned the town below her. This was no time for fear, no time to forget the important job she was here to do, for the people of Cliffehaven depended upon her staying alert.
She breathed a sigh of relief. There were no fires – not yet. It seemed Cliffehaven was not to be their main target tonight. But they would return from their raid and dump the last of their deadly arsenal over the town so they could outrun the RAF boys. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Nine
‘I’LL NOT BE pushed about in that t’ing,’ protested Ron. ‘I’m no cripple.’
‘You will do as I say, Mr Reilly.’ Matron Billings shoved the wheelchair against the back of Ron’s legs, forcing him into the seat. Before he could complain or catch his breath, he found himself being wheeled out of the air-raid shelter and into the dawn at determined speed, up the ramps and along the endless hospital corridors.
Ron had to admit it was quite fun – he hadn’t moved this fast in years – but it was a bit daunting to be crashed through the swing doors of the ward in such a way. ‘Bejesus, woman,’ he snarled. ‘Is it me legs you’ll be wanting to damage now?’
‘Be quiet, Mr Reilly, and get into bed.’ A strong hand grabbed his arm and virtually lifted him out of the chair. She quickly divested him of the hospital dressing gown and was about to hang it on the hook by the bed when something in the pocket clanked against the corner of the bedside locker. ‘What have you hidden in here?’ Her tone was ominous.
‘Nothing to do with you,’ said Ron, making a grab for it.
She held it out of his reach, her hand slipping into the pocket. She pulled out the almost empty bottle of brandy, her narrowed grey eyes regarding it with distaste. ‘Any more of that sort of thing and I’ll have you put on the isolation ward where visitors are barred,’ she said coldly.
‘Anyone would think this was a prison,’ muttered Ron.
Matron ignored him as she handed the bottle to one of the nurses. ‘Pour it down the sink,’ she ordered.
‘That’s good expensive brandy,’ Ron protested.
‘Get into bed, Mr Reilly.’ Her tone brooked no argument.
Ron slumped on the bed and glared up at her. She was worse than any of the hard-faced nuns who’d taught him at the convent school back in Ireland. ‘I thought nurses were supposed to be angels of mercy,’ he muttered. ‘To be sure, ye’re the devil’s handmaiden.’
‘And you’re the worst patient I’ve ever had to deal with.’ Matron Billings’ expression was stony as she finished searching his locker and then deftly imprisoned him with tightly tucked blankets and sheet and placed the oxygen mask over his face. ‘Go to sleep,’ she ordered.
Ron grimaced at her retreating figure and shook his fist.
‘Go to sleep, Mr Reilly, and stop behaving like a five-year-old.’
Matron hadn’t even looked at him on her way out of the ward, and Ron gaped in amazement at the swinging doors. ‘The auld witch has eyes in the back of her head, so she does,’ he muttered, ripping off the hated mask.
‘You’re not wrong there, mate,’ said the man in the next bed. ‘Proper tartar and no mistake.’ He leaned on one elbow, ready for a bit of a chat. ‘You should have heard what she said to me when I had the audacity to ask for another pillow. Blimey, I thought, it wasn’t as if I were asking for a gold-plated chamber pot.’
Ron grunted in reply and tried to find a w
ay of loosening the damn sheet and blankets. ‘Where’s a nurse when you need one?’ he grumbled.
‘They’re on shift changeover,’ the man replied. ‘But you can guarantee that the minute you doze off one of them will wake you up to give you a sleeping pill.’ He flopped back onto his pillows. ‘I’ll be glad to be going back to the tool factory next week, and that’s a fact,’ he said on a sigh. ‘Anything’s better than being stuck in here.’
Ron agreed wholeheartedly as he gave up trying to free himself and sank back into the pillows. He wished he had the strength to get out of this blasted bed and walk out of here, but just the effort of trying to free himself of the bedclothes had been enough to exhaust him.
Closing his eyes, he turned his thoughts to the cluttered basement at Beach View Boarding House where Harvey and all his precious possessions would be waiting for him. It would be wonderful to smell damp dog and gun-oil again; to put on his old poaching coat and boots and tramp about in the hills, free of Matron, the stench of disinfectant, and the cloying heat of this blessed hospital.
Ron realised he must have fallen asleep, for as he opened his eyes and caught sight of the clock above the doors, he was disconcerted to find he’d missed breakfast and elevenses. It was another hour until lunch and his throat felt parched.
He wriggled up the bed, hoping to catch a nurse’s eye and charm her into getting him a cup of tea. But they seemed to be occupied with their charts and their gossip at the far end of the ward, so he had to make do with a glass of water from the jug on the bedside locker.
Ron lay there feeling sorry for himself as he idly watched the nurses tend to one of the more seriously injured patients. He could smell boiled cabbage and fish – not the most appetising offering for lunch, but at least the meal would fill in a bit of time.
He heaved a great sigh which only made him cough. The boredom was getting to him, and that was a fact. He’d read the newspaper and magazine Anne had brought in, had borrowed a book from the WVS lady who did her rounds of the wards once a day, found it not to his liking, and abandoned it. Visiting wasn’t for ages yet, and the long day stretched before him without a glimmer of hope.
He was about to reach for the newspaper he’d read twice before when the doors opened to reveal an extremely elegant and attractive woman swathed in an ankle-length mink coat. Her fair hair curled away from her lovely face in what the women called ‘victory rolls’ to reveal pearl studs in her ears, and a pheasant feather wafted gaily from her nifty little hat as she spoke to one of the nurses.
‘Blimey,’ breathed the man in the next bed. ‘She’s a sight for sore eyes and no mistake. I wonder who she is.’
Ron still had an eye for a pretty woman, even though he was incarcerated in this bed with a mask over his face. He gazed at her appreciatively, taking in her slender legs, shapely ankles, and the way she seemed to glide down the ward in her high-heeled brown leather pumps. He watched in fascination as she stopped at each bed, exchanged a few smiling words and moved on. If Ron hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she was visiting royalty.
‘How do you do, Mr Cooper? I understand you are to be discharged tomorrow. Well done.’
She had reached the man in the next bed, and Ron could hear her well-modulated tone as she asked about his work and his family. It was the voice of a real lady, and her smile was warm and genuine – perhaps she was indeed royalty.
As she began to move away from the next bed, he quickly straightened his pyjama jacket and ditched the oxygen mask before smoothing his hands over his hair.
‘Good morning, Mr Reilly,’ she said, taking off her leather gloves to reveal sparkling diamonds as she offered him her hand and gave him a beaming smile. ‘Sylvia Anstruther-Norton, but you must call me Sylvia.’
Ron wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. He cautiously took the elegant, soft hand in his great rough paw, and wondered if he was supposed to kiss it like the toffs did in the films.
But she rescued him from the dilemma by withdrawing her hand so she could unfasten her coat.
‘Good morning,’ he managed. She smelled lovely – like a garden of freesias, and her eyes were the colour of wild violets.
‘I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here,’ she began. She slipped the mink from her shoulders and let it pool round her as she sat on the edge of his bed. She was dressed in a beautifully cut heather-coloured tweed jacket and skirt, the collar of a crisp white blouse revealing three strings of pearls at her neck.
Ron’s eyes widened. Women like her didn’t perch on the bed of an old ruffian like him, but he was too dumbstruck to answer her.
She gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Reilly. You obviously haven’t a clue as to who I am. I’d better explain before that ghastly matron catches me here.’
‘Aye, it would be wise,’ he said, stifling his own chuckle as his gaze shot down the ward to the door. Every man in the place was watching them and he felt horribly uncomfortable.
‘You saved my son’s life, Mr Reilly,’ she said, her beautiful violet eyes misting with tears, ‘and there are not words enough to express how very, very grateful I am.’
‘You’re the boy’s mother? But you don’t look old enough.’
Her laughter was soft and musical. ‘Bless you, Mr Reilly. They told me you had the Irish gift of a silver tongue.’
He reddened. ‘There’s no need to thank me, Mrs Anstruther-Norton,’ he said gruffly. ‘I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.’
She pressed her warm, soft hand over his as it lay on the blanket. ‘You carried my Christopher to safety, disregarding your own health and the dangers during that bombing raid.’ She blinked rapidly to clear the onset of tears. ‘My thanks seem meagre compared to what you did for me and my husband that night.’
He regarded her uneasily. He hated it when women cried – he never knew what to do or say. And this woman was like no other he’d ever met. He cleared his throat and awkwardly patted her hand. ‘How’s the boy doing? They won’t let me visit him yet.’
She opened her handbag and pulled out a pristine handkerchief with the initial S embroidered in one corner, and delicately dabbed her nose and eyes. ‘He’s making a very good recovery, thanks to you,’ she replied. ‘The surgeon expects him to be up and about within a few weeks, and after some physiotherapy, he’ll be as good as new.’
‘That’s good,’ he murmured. ‘I’m glad he’s pulling through, and once I’m allowed out of this bed, I’ll be going to see him.’
‘He’ll be delighted,’ she replied softly. ‘He asked me to find a nice juicy treat for your dog as soon as I settle in. Harvey, isn’t it?’ At his nod, she continued. ‘We have dogs at home, and I think Christopher found Harvey such a comfort.’
‘Aye, he’s a good old dog, so he is, and he’ll be glad of a bit of a treat, so he will.’
The swing doors crashed open, they both turned, and the atmosphere on the ward was suddenly electric with alarmed anticipation.
‘Oh, dear, she muttered. ‘It looks as if we’ve been discovered.’ She swiftly gripped his hand. ‘Leave me to do the talking,’ she said urgently. ‘I know how to handle women like Matron Billings.’
Ron lay back on the pillows as Sylvia Anstruther-Norton stood to meet the woman who was determinedly marching towards them. This could be interesting.
‘Lady Anstruther-Norton,’ boomed Matron. ‘You should have told me you wanted to visit the wards, and I would have escorted you.’
‘My dear Matron,’ replied Sylvia with a beaming smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your important schedule when I am quite capable of finding my way round your hospital.’
So, she was royalty, thought Ron – or as near as damn it – and Matron was clearly flustered. He settled back comfortably to enjoy the show.
‘Of course you are,’ said Matron, her hands tightly clasped at her waist, ‘but these general wards are hardly suitable for . . .’
‘For people like me?’ The p
heasant feather waved as she laughed. ‘You’re too kind to think of any discomfort I may encounter, Matron. But I assure you I am quite safe in Mr Reilly’s delightful company.’
Matron threw Ron a glance of sheer venom. ‘Mr Reilly and the others on this ward are not permitted visitors outside the appropriate times, Lady Anstruther-Norton.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Sylvia chuckled. ‘How naughty of me to break the rules.’ She placed her hand on Matron’s arm. ‘But I’m sure you understand that it was imperative I see Mr Reilly as soon as I could. After all,’ she went on, ‘he did save my son’s life, and Lord James is frightfully grateful to you and your staff for looking after them both so well.’
Matron was clearly struggling to make up her mind what stance she should take in the face of this charming, titled lady who seemed to be getting the better of her. ‘Of course,’ she said with as much grace as she could muster. ‘But Mr Reilly needs to rest, and I understand you have yet to arrange accommodation for your stay in Cliffehaven. May I suggest we retire to my office so we can discuss the most appropriate accommodation over coffee?’
Sylvia turned to Ron and winked. ‘Are you tired, Mr Reilly?’
‘To be sure, I’ve never felt more awake,’ he replied and gave her a wink back – which elicited a furious glare from Matron. He decided to play the devil’s advocate. ‘If it’s accommodation you’ll be wanting, then my family has a boarding house and we’ve a spare room at the moment.’
‘I don’t think Lady Anstruther-Norton—’
‘I’m sure it will be just perfect,’ interrupted Sylvia. ‘Thank you so much, Matron, for taking the time to come and see me. But you must be terribly busy, and Mr Reilly and I have several more things to discuss before I have to go and see Christopher again. Perhaps you could arrange for Mr Reilly and me to have coffee here?’