by Ellie Dean
Rosie was busy pouring pints, but he could see she was flustered and, as he passed, she shot him a look that held a world of meaning. He nodded that he understood, shrugged on his coat, rammed on his cap, and went out into the rain. He would go back this afternoon after she’d shut the pub and seen Findlay off the premises. And then perhaps he’d learn why Findlay was hanging about, and what hold he had over Rosie.
Major Patricia had been very understanding when Rita had asked if she could stay on at the factory. She’d listened as Rita had explained her predicament, sympathised with her and swiftly welcomed her back.
Rita was in the canteen eating a lunch of mince, boiled potatoes and cabbage when one of the Major’s secretaries came to find her. ‘You’ve got a telephone call,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Major Patricia says you can take it in her office.’
Rita pushed back the chair in alarm. She’d never had a telephone call before, and it could only bode trouble. ‘Who is it?’
The girl grinned. ‘It’s your dad.’
Rita rushed out of the canteen and into the Major’s deserted office, slamming the door behind her. The receiver was lying on a pile of papers and she tentatively picked it up. ‘Hello?’ she shouted. ‘Dad?’
His voice sounded distant and unfamiliar through the static. ‘Rita? Rita, is everything all right with you and Louise? I heard about the raid the other night.’
‘We’re both fine,’ she hurried to assure him. ‘But the house is gone, Dad. The gasometer finally did for the whole of Barrow Lane and most of the other streets surrounding it.’
‘Dear God,’ he breathed. There was a long pause as he tried to take this in. ‘Is there nothing left?’ he asked finally.
‘I found one of your shoes, but I haven’t had the chance to go back and look through the rubble. They closed the whole area off because the gas was still leaking.’
‘Thank heavens you and Louise weren’t there,’ he said. ‘I can’t bear to think how close you must have come to being killed.’
She decided not to tell him about the collapse of the Brook Street shelter, or the risks she’d taken during her nights of fire-watching. ‘We’re both fine, Dad, really.’
‘But where are you living now? Have you gone to Beach View? Is Peggy looking after you?’
Rita told him about the situation at Peggy’s and hurried on to explain about the asylum, keeping her tone light and cheerful so as not to worry him further. ‘It’s not too bad,’ she said breezily, ‘and most of the others are from round our way, so we’ve got plenty of good company. Louise and I are back at work today, so life will soon get back to normal.’
‘I want you and Louise to get out of Cliffehaven,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re right in the thick of it down there and it’s not safe. Major Patricia can arrange travel warrants for both of you, and I’ll find you a billet up here.’
Rita blinked away her tears. It would be lovely to see him again, and just the sound of his voice gave her such comfort. But leaving Cliffehaven was fraught with difficulty. ‘We both have jobs here, Dad, and Louise still hasn’t heard from Tino. She won’t leave – and I can’t desert her now she’s lost everything.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he stormed. ‘Tell Louise I’m ordering her out of there. I have to know you’re both safe, and the only way to do that is to get you up here where I can keep an eye on you.’
‘I’ll try,’ she sighed. ‘But you know how stubborn she can be.’
‘Stubborn or not, she should be thinking of your safety – not dithering about waiting to hear from Tino,’ he said crossly. He gave a great sigh. ‘It’s frustrating being so far away, but all leave is cancelled until further notice, and getting to you would take too long. You have to talk some sense into her, Rita.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘but getting Louise to agree to leaving Cliffehaven is only the start of it. The train lines have been blown to smithereens, and the bus depot took a direct hit. Unless you want us to steal a car or walk, there isn’t any other way of getting out.’
‘The railway is an important lifeline. It will be fixed soon enough,’ he said obstinately. ‘Look, Rita, I don’t have long to talk, the Sergeant Major is already pacing outside the door and looking at his watch. Work on Louise and make her see sense, and I’ll ring you again as soon as I can. Once you’ve persuaded her, ask Major Patricia to make the travel arrangements. She’s already said she’ll help any way she can.’
A great wave of longing swept over Rita. ‘I miss you, Dad,’ she said with a catch in her voice.
‘I miss you too, darling,’ he replied, his soft voice almost lost in the hiss of static. ‘And I wish I could be there with you. Christmas was always our special time, and it’s going to be horrible without you.’
Tears rolled down Rita’s face and she smeared them away. ‘We’ll be at Beach View on Christmas Day,’ she managed. ‘Perhaps you could telephone me there?’
‘I’ll do my very best, my darling, and send my letters straight there from now on. Now I’ve got to go. Stay safe, talk to Louise and get up here as soon as you can. Goodbye, Rita. Goodbye.’
She stared at the receiver and slowly set it back into its cradle. Her future plans had turned to dust, she had no real home and no one to turn to but Louise, who was so wrapped up in her own misery she couldn’t see anything beyond it. But the thought of going to live near her father, of beginning again somewhere new filled her with hope, and she left the office with a broad smile. Her father had been so positive about everything it had given her heart, and a new goal. Louise would see reason once she realised Jack Smith would not take no for an answer. She was sure of it.
Ron had decided he couldn’t just sit about waiting for two o’clock, so he took Harvey back home, dried him off and left him asleep by the range in the kitchen. It wasn’t visiting hours, but as Christopher was in the private wing it didn’t matter – and if Matron Billings crossed his path, then she’d better watch out. He was just in the right mood to tell her a few home truths.
Ron had visited Christopher several times before. The lad certainly looked a much better colour today as he slept peacefully against the soft pillows. Ron tiptoed in and smiled at Lady Sylvia, who’d been reading a book at his bedside. ‘He looks well, so he does,’ he murmured, dumping his sodden coat over the iron bars of the radiator. ‘What does the doctor say?’
She smiled warmly and tucked the book in her bag. ‘Mr Carling has said he can begin his physiotherapy once the plaster cast is off – which should be in about six weeks. And that if he continues to improve he can come to Beach View for Christmas Day.’
‘That’s good news. I’m glad he’s on the mend.’ He fidgeted with his pipe, decided against smoking it and shoved it back in his pocket. Leaning back in his chair he surveyed the room for a moment and then shifted about, trying to get comfortable.
Lady Sylvia folded her hands in her lap and regarded him evenly. ‘You seem restless,’ she said quietly. ‘Is it too hot in here, or is something bothering you?’
Ron eyed the steam rising from his coat and rescued it before the lining got singed. ‘These places are always too hot. Perhaps, as the boy’s asleep I’ll leave you to it and come back tonight.’
‘Sit down, Ron, and tell me what’s got you in a lather,’ she said firmly.
‘You don’t want to be listening to my troubles,’ he muttered.
She reached out and took his arm. ‘I regard you as a friend,’ she said softly, ‘and friends should be able to talk their troubles through.’
He was almost persuaded, for he did want advice on how to get Rosie to talk to him. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘It’s a bit of a cliché, Lady Sylvia.’
‘That it might be,’ she replied, ‘but it does hold true.’ She looked up at him. ‘My time is yours, should you want to discuss anything, and I promise that whatever is said in this room will go no further.’
Ron sat down and spent some time filling his briar pipe wi
th sweet-smelling tobacco. He didn’t plan to smoke it, but it gave him something to do as he thought about what he should say.
He didn’t really know where to begin. He was worried that she might find his story distasteful, and it took him a while to decide how to convey his deep affection for Rosie and his very real fear that Tommy Findlay would bring trouble to her door, but, having started, he was surprised at how easy it was to confide in her, and found himself telling her everything.
As the time ticked away and she quietly began to question and counsel him, he realised there was a great deal more to this charming young woman than mink coats and diamond rings. She was a woman with experience far beyond those high walls of her stately home – a woman who, he suspected, had had to learn many a harsh lesson before she’d become Lady Anstruther-Norton.
The rain had eased, but the sky was still leaden, the wind even stronger as Ron made his way out of the overheated hospital room and into the street. He could hear the roar of the sea as it crashed against the cliffs, clawed its way over the shingle and boomed against the concrete shipping-traps that had been placed across the wide mouth of the bay. Gulls called fretfully as they wheeled and swooped and clattered over the loose tiles on the roof of the Daisy Tea Rooms and tried to find shelter and purchase beside the chimney.
He pulled up his coat collar, tucked in his chin and headed down the narrow side alley for the back door of the Anchor. Stepping inside he closed it behind him and listened. He could hear light footfalls upstairs, but no voices. Was Rosie alone, or had Tommy refused to leave? Either way, he was going up there to find out.
‘Rosie?’ he called from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Come up, Ron. I’ve just put the kettle on.’
She sounded cheerful enough, and that gave him heart, so he checked that his boots hadn’t brought half the street in with him and hurried up the stairs to the large room above the bar that was Rosie’s sanctuary.
It was a feminine room, with chintz upholstery and curtains, lace antimacassars on the backs of the couch and armchair, and china ornaments on every flat surface. A large, ornate mirror had pride of place over the fireplace, and a bowl of dusty dried flowers sat in the hearth. The whole place was a bit overblown for his taste, and there were too many cushions on the chairs, but Ron had come to appreciate its comfort over the past months, and enjoyed sharing the quiet lull with Rosie between opening hours.
‘Sit down and relax,’ she called from the small kitchen. ‘I won’t be a jiffy.’
Remembering Lady Sylvia’s advice, he made no mention of Findlay and kept things simple. ‘A cup of tea certainly wouldn’t go amiss,’ he said, taking off his coat and cap. ‘It’s filthy out there.’
She emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with china. She’d kicked off her high heels and put a thick cardigan over her frilly blouse and tight black skirt. ‘I’ve managed to get some scones as a special treat. They’ll be lovely with the blackberry jam Peggy gave me.’ She set the tray down on a low table and fussed with the china. ‘How is Peg?’
He made no comment on her red-rimmed eyes, although it hurt to keep silent, and plumped down in the overstuffed chair, wriggling his way round the cushions until he could get comfortable. ‘She phones when she can,’ he said gruffly. ‘They’ve had no raids so far, and it sounds as if she’s having the life of Reilly down there with the boys.’
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’ She gave him a weary smile. ‘She is a Reilly after all.’
He grinned back at her. ‘She is that, to be sure, and it’s the very divil keeping our latest adventures from her. The questions that woman asks are a minefield – so I leave most of the talking to Jim. He’s better at circumnavigating than I’ll ever be.’
‘So she knows nothing of your heroics, or your stay in the hospital, your escape on the back of a motorcycle – or that you have an illustrious lodger?’
‘Lady Sylvia answered the telephone one day when we were out – but all Peggy knows is that she’s staying while her son recovers.’ He grinned. ‘Lady Sylvia is a rare woman, so she is. Knows when to keep her mouth shut.’
She raised a finely plucked eyebrow. ‘Goodness, Ron. That’s high praise from you.’ Her gentle smile was teasing. ‘The lovely Sylvia has certainly got you where she wants you, hasn’t she? Do I smell romance in the offing?’
Ron didn’t want her to think she had a rival for his heart. ‘She’s a nice woman and happily married,’ he muttered, ‘and I’m me own man. We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Mmmm.’ She was still smiling as she poured the tea and handed him a scone liberally spread with butter and jam. ‘There’s no cream, unfortunately, but I could spoon the top of the milk over it if you’d like.’
He shook his head. ‘This is just fine,’ he murmured.
For all her bright talk and teasing smiles, he’d caught the fleeting shadows in her eyes, and the way she kept chewing at her lip. She was trying very hard not to let him see how on edge she was, and his need to comfort and console her was a gnawing pain deep in his heart. But Lady Sylvia had made him see that he must be patient, give her time – let her be the one to broach the subject of Tommy Findlay.
‘Sit yourself down, Rosie, girl, and stop mithering. You’ve already had a busy lunchtime, and tonight will probably be even busier.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed, as she sank into the corner of the couch opposite him. ‘I could do with a bit of a sit-down. My feet are killing me.’
Ron ate his scone in silence. He was sure it was delicious but he couldn’t taste a thing, for it was agony not to blurt out his concerns. He watched her sip her tea and nibble at the scone. The silence was stretching now, becoming awkward.
‘I know you don’t like Tommy Findlay,’ she said finally, ‘and I have to admit that I’m finding his frequent visits a bit of a trial. But it can’t be helped.’
Ron’s pulse jolted. ‘He’s not staying here, is he?’
She gave him a soft, genuine smile. ‘Of course not. Give me some credit, Ron.’
He ate the last of the scone and set the plate aside, his thoughts churning. ‘Are you doing business with him then? ’Cos if you are, you need to watch out, Rosie. Findlay’s a spiv, and if you’re caught dealing with him the police will nab you as well, and you’ll lose your licence.’
‘We’ve done business in the past,’ she murmured, her gaze on the loose thread she was slowly drawing from the upholstery. ‘But not this time, Ron. I’ve had my fingers burnt before.’
‘Then why do you even give him the time of day when you clearly can’t stand the sight of him?’
She reached for the packet of Park Drive, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a match. ‘We go back a long way,’ she replied, blowing a stream of smoke, ‘and a friendship that enduring deserves a certain loyalty.’
‘Loyalty?’ spluttered Ron. ‘That weasel wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit him.’ He cocked his head and eyed her closely. ‘What’s he got over you, Rosie? How come you put up with him when you’ve proved in the past that you don’t suffer fools or people on the make?’
She regarded him with a look that told him he’d probed too far. She tapped the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray and changed the subject. ‘I was wondering if Anne needed any help preparing the Christmas food now she’s got so many to feed? She’s very welcome to my ration of extra dried fruit and sugar if she wants to make a cake.’
Ron knew then that Rosie would say no more about Tommy Findlay, and that if he persisted in questioning her it would ruin their friendship. All he could do now was bide his time and hope she’d come to trust him enough to confide in him very soon. He just prayed that it wouldn’t be because Findlay had hurt her.
‘I don’t care what your father said. I’m not leaving Cliffehaven.’
The argument had been going on for at least half an hour. Rita’s impatience was rising and she was finding it almost impossible not to grab Louise and shake some sense into her. ‘We can get the post
office to forward any mail,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘and leave our new address at the police station so the authorities can get in touch. Tino will find us, Mamma, wherever we are.’
‘You can’t be sure of that, and I’m not prepared to risk it.’
‘But Cliffehaven’s already seen some terrible raids, and you can be certain more will follow. Please, Mamma, think about it. Dad just wants us to be safe.’
‘I’m not going – and that’s an end to it.’
Rita finally snapped. ‘Then I’ll go without you,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll pack my bag and leave you here with Aggie.’
Louise slapped her with such force Rita staggered in shock.
‘You don’t speak to me like that,’ she shouted in rapid-fire Italian. ‘You are a wicked, selfish girl and I’m ashamed of you.’
The stinging slap had obliterated Rita’s jag of temper, but Louise’s accusation pierced her to the heart. She cupped her cheek and fought back blinding tears. ‘Don’t you dare call me selfish,’ she stuttered. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me and more, and yet you keep on demanding – keep on pulling those apron strings tighter and tighter until I can hardly breathe.’
‘You’re a black-hearted girl to say such things after all I’ve done for you,’ shouted Louise.
‘And what about all the things I’ve done for you?’ Rita dashed away the tears, determined to stay in control of her emotions. ‘I gave up my dream for you, Mamma.’
Louise’s lip curled. ‘I didn’t ask you to,’ she snapped.
‘Not in so many words,’ Rita replied, ‘but with all those long silences and emotional outbursts you made it impossible for me to see it through.’
‘I was simply trying to make you see how foolish you were being,’ she retorted. ‘Girls like you need to know your place. And it is with me – your mamma. Not on some airfield.’
Rita’s frustration was burning again. ‘What about my need to be with my father? Isn’t that important? Or can’t you see anything beyond your own needs?’