by Pam Weaver
*
It was May 8th. There were four of them sitting at the table in North Farm: Aunt Bet, Uncle Lorry, Frankie and Mr Webley, their solicitor. Now it was official. Frankie was a landowner, something which was unusual for a working class woman. They had just finished signing the last of the papers when Uncle Lorry glanced up at the clock.
‘They said Churchill was going to make a speech this afternoon,’ he said, switching on the radio and twiddling the knobs. After a minute or two, the announcer’s voice rang out loud and clear.
‘The Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, has officially announced the end of the war with Germany. In a message broadcast to the nation from the Cabinet room at Number Ten, he said the ceasefire had been signed at 0241 yesterday at the American advance headquarters in Rheims.’
Uncle Lorry switched off the wireless. It was finally over. It was an odd feeling. After all this time – six long years – peace had come and this was VE Day. They’d prayed for it, worked for it, sacrificed the best years of their lives, suffered for it and some had died for it. Now that it had come it almost seemed an anti-climax.
Mr Webley shuffled his papers. ‘Have you got sons in the forces, Mr Cavendish?’
‘One boy in France,’ Uncle Lorry said stiffly. ‘The other one is at Bletchley Park.’ He paused. ‘You?’
‘My boy was killed at Dunkirk,’ Mr Webley said soberly.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Uncle Lorry awkwardly.
They stood and shook hands. Frankie sighed. Peace was wonderful but it would be tinged with sadness for a lot of people, herself included. They walked Mr Webley to the door and as he got in his car, they could hear the church bells at St Botolph’s in Heene in the distance.
‘Lovely sound,’ said Mr Webley closing the door. ‘I wish you well.’
‘You too, sir,’ said Uncle Lorry with feeling.
As the day wore on the celebratory mood grew stronger. Frankie, Barbara, and Aunt Bet took the bus into Brighton with the baby for the afternoon. In the centre of the town there was a lot of flag waving and hordes of happy people walking through the streets. Frankie and Barbara were kissed by strangers as they headed for the pier. They bought ice creams and Barbara bought a Kiss Me Quick hat. They took turns in pushing the baby’s canvas pram. Lillian Rose seemed unperturbed by the noise and the jostling. Their celebrations were interrupted by rain but not even that could dampen their spirits. Just before they caught the bus back, Aunt Bet treated them to afternoon tea in a little tea room near the Pavilion.
‘Have you given Norman’s offer of marriage – as impetuous as it was – any thought?’ Frankie asked Barbara when Aunt Bet left the table to go into the ladies.
Her friend shrugged.
‘He’s a lovely man,’ said Frankie, ‘and he obviously thinks the world of you.’
‘I know,’ said Barbara. ‘but I keep thinking that now that the war’s ended, Conrad will get in touch soon.’
Frankie was so frustrated but she resisted the temptation to have a go at her friend. How could she be so stubborn? ‘I admire the fact that you’ve stayed so faithful,’ Frankie said as gently as she could, ‘but don’t you think it’s rather a long time since you heard from him?’
‘He’s been travelling all over the world, Frankie,’ Barbara said defensively. ‘He probably doesn’t have time for letter writing. After all, he’s famous now.’
‘Yes, but where there’s a will there’s a way,’ said Frankie with a sigh. ‘I just don’t want you to waste your whole life waiting for him. I know you won’t want to hear this but for all you know, he may even have been killed in action.’
Barbara gave her a stricken look. ‘His agent would have told me.’
Aunt Bet was coming back, threading her way through the tables. ‘Promise me you’ll think about it,’ said Frankie.
Barbara pulled the corners of her mouth down and rolled her eyes.
‘Ready to go home?’ said Aunt Bet cheerfully and they both nodded.
*
Frankie spent every moment she could on her parcel of land, determined to get it ready for the Whitsun bank holiday. While Aunt Bet looked after Lillian, she cleared brambles, tidied the paths and worked out where to pitch the tents to the best advantage. For a while it would be a bit basic but at least she could open to the public. She’d advertised North Farm Camp Site in the paper and created a large roadside sign to put next to the gate. She had worked out a competitive rate and now she was cleaning out the bike barn so that she could put a few grocery items for sale in there. She’d have to start with only a small amount of stock but she could build on her success and eventually create a decent camp shop. Uncle Lorry had laid on a cold water tap and cleaned up the old toilet block.
On May 17th she pitched four tents and waited with bated breath. By the evening of May 18th she had rented out five pitches and three tents to eight sets of campers. North Farm Camp Site was open for business.
Forty-Two
Worthing, 1946
Sidney Knight had been ill for some time but in denial. The cough he’d developed in prison some years before had become progressively worse. It began with a tightness in his chest soon after VJ Day, but rather than waste money with a doctor’s appointment, he dosed himself up with cough mixture and Friar’s Balsam and went to the race meetings as usual. At the beginning of 1946, he collapsed in the street and was taken to Worthing hospital. An X-ray and a doctor’s examination changed his life in more ways than one.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that you have lung cancer,’ said the consultant. He was standing at the end of Sidney’s bed with the clipboard in his hands and surrounded by a bevy of junior doctors. ‘I’m afraid it is very advanced and there is little we can do. We will do all we can to make you as comfortable as possible.’
Sidney lay staring at the ceiling for some time after the doctor had gone. It was hard to take it in. ‘There is little we can do …’ He knew a bloke once who had a lung removed. Why didn’t they do that? Sidney asked the nurse when she came round to take his temperature.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Knight,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you hear what Mr Hermes said? It’s too late.’
After a couple of weeks in hospital, they moved him to a nursing home. Desperate to get back home, he tried to make his escape but collapsed before he made it to the front door. That was when Sidney finally understood that he was dying. A lapsed Catholic, he asked for a priest to hear his confession. When the priest came, Sidney hardly knew where to start. Maud Parks, a cleaner who had worked in the Home for more years than she cared to remember, was deeply shocked by what she’d overheard as she tidied the linen cupboard in the corridor. By the time the priest left the nursing home, Sidney felt a whole lot better but the priest was a man with a burden on his shoulders. The rules of the confessional meant he could say nothing even though he knew about the mail bags and the fact that Sidney had been stealing his ex-tenant’s cheques for years. He also knew another secret – something truly terrible. All he could do was pray that in the course of time, the God who knows all things would make it known. Maud felt equally bound. If she spoke about what she’d heard, they’d sack her for sure.
Sidney Knight died in October 1946. He had no money in his bank account, his last few pounds being put on a dead-cert at Newmarket. The horse came in fourth but Sidney never knew. By the time the result was made public, he had lapsed into a coma. The priest came back to give him the last rites and he died later that night. With no relatives, the state gave him a pauper’s funeral and the speculation about who would inherit his house began.
‘Here they are!’ Frankie’s excited cry as she looked out of the kitchen window brought everyone running. A Ford Ten Model trundled up the driveway and came to a halt just inside the gate. Frankie was already rehearsing her knowledge of the car. It was in excellent condition, probably laid up throughout the war, 1172-cc with a side-valve Four, if she remembered correctly, and a three-speed gearbox. Standard colour black.
The others had raced her to the door. ‘Come in, come in,’ cried Aunt Bet. Barbara was already helping Thérèse out of the front passenger seat. Alan was on the pathway with Uncle Lorry pumping his hand. ‘Good to have you home again, son.’
Alan had married Thérèse in France just before he’d been demobbed in September 1946. It was impossible for Alan’s family to travel to France and Thérèse’s father wasn’t about to let her go without a wedding ring on her finger. They’d had a simple wedding. Food and luxuries were in very short supply, even more so than in England, but her family had given her a good send-off and now she was in Worthing, ready to begin a new life in England.
They all piled into the house, everybody talking at once. ‘How was the crossing?’ ‘Have you eaten?’ ‘You must be tired after your journey.’ ‘This is my friend Doreen and her new husband Terry. You remember Doreen, don’t you?’ ‘Put the kettle on, Mother. They must be parched.’ ‘Sit here, dear, and make yourself at home.’ In the distance an infant wail told Frankie that Lillian Rose was awake after her afternoon nap. She hurried upstairs to change her nappy and bring her down.
The war had been over for eighteen months but still the vestiges remained. The shortages were just as acute and now bread was rationed, something which hadn’t happened all through the hostilities. The summer had been a dismal one and the harvest poor. June had been wet, in July there were severe thunderstorms and August was unsettled. Fortunately the weather hadn’t interfered too much with Frankie’s camp site. The stoic British holiday-maker wasn’t about to let a bit of rain put them off and the pitches were usually all taken. She hadn’t been one to rest on her laurels either. Frankie had bought three caravans, the bike barn was now a well-stocked shop (as well stocked as dwindling supplies would allow), and Uncle Lorry had created a children’s play area near the trees with a rope swing – a rope which swung out over the small pond – and a wooden seesaw. North Farm Camp Site was proving to be very popular.
Frankie had also looked at other sites. She had bought ten acres of land in Durrington at the knock-down price of five pounds an acre. The ground was cheap because it was waterlogged and unsuitable for building or growing – or so they said. Frankie called upon the services of old John Appleyard, an old-fashioned water diviner who discovered the source of a spring using a stick of willow. Once she knew where the water was coming from, Frankie hired a builder to dig down and pipe the water into the nearby stream. The ground dried out and she had another place to set up a camp site. This one was within easy reach of Highdown Hill, Titnore Woods and Patching Woods, all local beauty spots and ideal for walkers.
The year had been busy in more ways than one. Doreen had married Terry in the spring; a lovely wedding held in the same Sompting church where Lillian Rose had been christened, followed by a reception in the village hall. Doreen had already been demobbed and Terry only had a month to go. They planned to set up home in a brand new house in Dominion Road and Terry had already got a job as a salesman in a local estate agents lined up.
Now that Alan was back home, he had got a job as chef in the Beach Hotel along Marine Parade. It was a prestigious hotel which had been trading since 1867 and had just been refurbished after the war. Despite the shortages, Alan had been taking lessons with his French family and was confident that his French cuisine would rival any hotel in Brighton. He and Thérèse had rooms in the basement.
When Frankie appeared at the kitchen door with Lillian Rose everyone went into a kind of meltdown. ‘Is this Lillian?’ ‘Aaah, she’s lovely.’ ‘Hello, sweetheart. Did you have a nice sleep?’ ‘Come to your granddad, darlin’.’
She was a pretty child with a coffee coloured skin and a happy disposition. She loved the attention, of course, but she wasn’t spoiled. Uncle Lorry was her special favourite and she held out her arms to go to him. Frankie put her down and she tottered towards him. He swept her up on his lap and smothered her with kisses as she snuggled into him, her thumb in her mouth and from there she regarded the friends and strangers all around her.
‘Ah, she is so beautiful,’ said Thérèse, clapping her hands.
They had gathered at the farm because Barbara Vickers was finally getting married the next day. She had waited throughout the whole of 1945 for a letter from Conrad but it never came. Norman still adored her and after the turn of the year, he courted her more fervently. At Easter she finally consented to be his wife and he was over the moon. Frankie felt Barbara was still hoping for rescue but she was very unhappy at home and she saw Norman as a way of escape. It was hardly ideal but Norman seemed keen to take her on and he was confident that eventually she would forget Conrad.
This was also the last weekend before Ronald and his friend Eric left for Rhodesia. It was proving to be a popular destination for a lot of ex-RAF personnel because the country was in the middle of an economic boom. Ronald and Eric had bought two neighbouring farms, one tobacco and the other for much needed vegetables including potatoes and onions. The new vegetable dehydration system meant that Rhodesia could export such products to far flung places such as the British Isles and be confident that they would arrive in mint condition.
Aunt Bet was passing the teacups around as everyone caught up with what they’d been doing since they’d last met.
‘Frankie has some news,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘Go on, love. Tell them.’
With every eye looking in her direction Frankie suddenly felt overwhelmed. ‘I had a letter from the London hospital where Romare used to work,’ she began hesitantly. ‘They want to honour his memory. They’re naming a ward after him.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Alan.
‘And they want her to go up and cut the ribbon,’ Aunt Bet said proudly. She reached up to the mantelpiece where a grainy picture taken by Lorry’s box Brownie on Frankie and Romare’s wedding day stood in a silver frame. It was the only picture Frankie had of her husband. Aunt Bet handed it to Thérèse. ‘That’s him.’
Frankie could feel her eyes smarting. She mustn’t cry now. This was a happy occasion: Alan and the lovely Thérèse here in Broadwater; Barbara’s wedding tomorrow; no, she couldn’t cry.
‘Can anyone come?’ asked Doreen. ‘I’d like to see you do that.’
‘We never met the chap,’ said Alan, looking at his wife to acquiesce, ‘but I think Thérèse and I would like to come with you too. When is it?’
‘Why don’t we all go?’ said Terry. ‘Make a day of it.’
Frankie could hardly see for the tears standing in her eyes. Apart from Doreen, only her aunt and uncle had met Romare but it seemed everyone wanted to honour her husband. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked. ‘It’s a week on Saturday.’
Doreen squeezed her hand. ‘Then we’re all coming for a jolly.’
‘Who’s coming for a jolly?’ They were interrupted by Ronald as he walked in the door and once again the hugs and handshakes began.
*
A week later, they all waited outside the ward doors as Frankie wielded a large pair of scissors. ‘I now declare Delaney Ward open.’
As she cut the red ribbon, a camera bulb flashed and everybody clapped. She was wearing a two-piece suit in red with a hand knitted, cream short-sleeved jumper underneath. Her hair had been washed and set in the local hairdresser’s the day before (Doreen’s treat) and she had on some brand new plain black court shoes. Lillian Rose was at home being looked after by Sally, a local girl they sometimes used as a baby sitter when Frankie was serving in the shop. Everyone thought the journey would be too tiring for an eighteen-month-old.
Frankie walked through the doors with the dignitaries and the ward sister. It was a men’s ward with fourteen beds. A nurse’s station stood in the middle of the room and as they all came in, three nurses stood to attention. The poor patients seemed held down by their starched sheets and Frankie remembered how that felt. The room itself was light and airy and Frankie walked the length of the ward, smiling as she went. It was all rather surreal but at the same time, she was delighted that Roma
re was being given some vestige of respect and honour after all this time.
There was a small reception in a room near the main body of the hospital and Frankie and her family were treated as the guests of honour. She met up again with the doctor who had given her the money at Romare’s funeral. She had forgotten that his name was Trent-Ellis but this was Frankie’s opportunity to thank him. Even as she began he waved his hand away. ‘We all wished we could have done a lot more,’ he said. ‘Did they ever catch his killers?’
Frankie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Shocking,’ Doctor Trent-Ellis muttered. He took Frankie’s arm and led her to the buffet table. ‘Please, do help yourself, Mrs Delaney.’
‘When we were at my husband’s funeral,’ Frankie said quickly before he disappeared again, ‘you told me you’d sent me a letter.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Romare knew he was going to France so he wrote you a letter that I was to give you in the case of his being killed in action. I know his death wasn’t quite like that, but I reasoned that he would still have wanted you to have it.’
‘Doctor Trent-Ellis, I never received that letter,’ said Frankie.
The doctor looked surprised. ‘You didn’t?’ he said. ‘But I definitely sent it.’
‘Can you remember the address?’ Frankie asked. ‘I moved around quite a lot back then. I was a dispatch rider, you see. Perhaps it went to one of my old billets.’
Doctor Trent-Ellis shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a billet,’ he began. ‘Oh dear, it’s a long time ago and I hardly noticed.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It was a farm. Yes, that’s it. A farm.’
Frankie’s blood ran cold. ‘North Farm?’
‘Yes, that’s it. Now let me see, Broad river I think.’
‘Broadwater,’ said Frankie.
‘Yes,’ said Doctor Trent-Ellis with a broad grin. ‘Do you know it?’
Frankie nodded. ‘It’s my home,’ she said quietly.