by Betty Walker
She was alive. But what had happened to them?
‘Was anyone k-killed in the blast?’
‘Seven dead at least, others seriously injured. They’re still digging through the rubble, in case there are other bodies.’ He saw her horrified expression, and paused. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Friends of yours, were they?’
‘I can’t stay here. I must get up, I need to find someone …’ She tried to swing her legs out of bed, but her body was wobbly and the room began to spin. ‘Oh, my head!’
‘Don’t try to get up, silly girl.’ Her uncle gestured her to lie down again. ‘That’s the ticket. Now, who do you need to find?’
‘There was an RAF pilot called Max,’ she said, blinking away tears, ‘and … and all my friends from the club. Dancers, you know?’
‘I’ve no idea about them, I’m afraid.’ Edward shook his head at her. ‘Eva, you make me despair. You run off, leaving only the barest of notes, and drop me right in it with your father. For weeks, I’ve had people on the lookout for you. When I finally get a report, it’s because you’re in a hospital bed.’ His tone became stern. ‘What on earth were you doing at that dive of a night club, besides getting yourself blown up?’
She turned her head away, nettled by his disapproving tone, and looked longingly at the covered jug of water on the cabinet next to her bed.
Edward correctly interpreted her gaze, and poured her a glass of water. ‘There you go, my dear,’ he said more gently, helping her to sit up again. ‘Just a few sips, mind. No gulping it down. You’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘Th-thank you,’ she whispered.
He waited while she drank, then took away the glass.
‘Come on then, missy,’ her uncle said, and wagged a finger at her. ‘Let’s hear the whole sorry tale.’ He adjusted her pillows, and sat back down. ‘What’s your excuse this time for nearly getting yourself killed? You’ve done nothing but get into scrapes since your mother died. Now this …’
She flinched at the mention of her mother, who had died of tuberculosis when Eva was only fifteen.
‘You can’t blame this on me,’ she exclaimed, stung by the accusation. ‘It was an enemy bomber. I didn’t stand in the road and wave my arms about, begging to be hit.’
‘You might as well have done, wandering the streets of London at that time of night. My God, have you never heard of curfew? That bomb missed you by a few feet, Eva. You were damn lucky not to be crushed to death, or lose a limb, instead of just getting knocked out for a couple of days with a bloody bad headache. Though the doctor says you should take it easy for a while. Concussion, and all that.’
‘But I need to find out what happened to Max and the others.’
She was getting agitated again.
‘You’re not going anywhere for a few days at least,’ her uncle said firmly, and stood up to call a nurse. ‘In fact, you might as well know, I’ve been in touch with your father, and he’s come up with a plan to keep you out of trouble for a while.’ She groaned in despair, but he paid no attention. ‘Look, Gerald may be on the other side of the country but he deserves to know his daughter is safe. He asked me to watch out for you, and I haven’t exactly done a bang-up job of that, have I? Every time I take my eye off you for five minutes, you give me the slip and end up somewhere completely unsuitable.’ He paused. ‘So, your father and I have decided on a change of tactic.’
She stared at him, already feeling mulish. ‘Whatever it is, you and Daddy can forget it. I’m a grown woman now, Uncle Teddy. I don’t belong to anyone but myself.’
‘Now listen, kitten,’ he said, and patted her hand. ‘Your dad’s not been himself these past few years. Not since your mother passed, in fact. And you know what it would do to him to lose you too. So, why not just play along for a bit? Until this blasted war is over and life can go back to normal.’
Eva looked at the ceiling and rolled her eyes, waiting to hear whatever the men in her family had decided was best for her – while determined to do the exact opposite.
Her uncle started to ramble on about some top-secret facility in Cornwall where her father was now based, part of a new communications task force, and that they’d jointly decided she should head down there too, rather than stay in London at the mercy of the menacing German Luftwaffe. It was all she could do not to swear and toss a pillow at her uncle’s head, though in truth she was feeling a bit too weak even for pillow-throwing.
When would her family realise she wasn’t a child anymore and didn’t need them telling her how to live her life, however well meant their interference was?
She wasn’t really listening to Uncle Edward anymore. What had he said? Seven dead at least, others seriously injured. All she could see was the face of that brave pilot, careless of his own safety, pushing her out of the bomb blast …
CHAPTER SEVEN
More accustomed to the noisy streets of London’s East End, with its powerful smells and constant bustle, Violet was entranced by the peace and sheer beauty of the Cornish countryside. The farmhouse was close enough to the coast for them to see the Atlantic, a deep blue glittering all the way to the horizon.
She had visited Southend as a child on a family holiday, so it was not her first glimpse of the sea. But Lily and Alice had never been to the coast, let alone seen an ocean. Both girls had got up on their first morning in Cornwall and stared out of the bedroom window, speechless with astonishment and delight.
‘Goodness,’ Lily had murmured, her eyes wide. ‘All that water …’
‘Can we go to the shore? Can we learn to swim?’ Alice had been incandescent with excitement. ‘Can we take rods and nets, and catch fish?’
Violet had laughed, pleased to see the girls happy for once. ‘One thing at a time. First, we need to unpack our bags, and find out if your great-aunt has any jobs for us. Remember, she and Stanley only agreed to take us in if we’d help out around the farm. But I’m sure there’ll be time to go to the beach one day.’
‘And swim?’
‘Well …’ Violet had bit her lip, suddenly unsure. ‘I can’t teach you, Alice. I don’t know how to swim myself. But maybe you could paddle.’
Alice had looked disappointed.
Their first week at the farm had flown by. And not for a good reason. It turned out that Margaret had plenty of jobs lined up for Violet and the girls, and it would have been awkward to refuse. So each day was filled with relentless, back-breaking activity: mucking out pens and stables; carrying water in heavy pails and mopping stone floors; feeding chickens – the only job all of them loved – and helping out with the daily milking of Stanley’s dairy herd, which included walking alongside the cows as they trudged the half-mile between their field and the milking shed. The fields were muddy, despite the dry weather, and Lily was scared of the cows. There had been a lad who’d helped out before, but Stanley had resented the cost of his weekly pay packet, and they – as Margaret had pointed out with relish – only needed the cost of bed and board.
Violet seemed to have been lumbered with most of the indoors work, which meant she rarely got to wander outside in the glorious, bee-rich fields and meadows. The girls, on the other hand, got more fresh air and hard work than ever before, falling exhausted into bed every evening, footsore and pink-cheeked.
Seeing their situation without rose-tinted spectacles, Violet guessed their extended family had only taken them in as refugees in order to use them as unpaid servants. It was a punishing regime. She watched the girls struggle to stay cheerful and uncomplaining, and wondered if she had made the wrong choice, bringing them to Cornwall.
But the alternatives were unthinkable.
Violet herself was used to hard work and long hours from helping her mother out in the café, and she was determined to keep on Aunt Margaret’s good side by not complaining. Assuming she had a good side, that was.
If her aunt and uncle threw them out, they’d all be in serious trouble, stranded without money or any way of returning to
London.
She was still suspicious of her uncle, however. She feared Stanley might be the kind of unscrupulous man who would make a pass at her or even young Lily, despite being their relative, even if not by blood. Not that he had made a move on her, or said anything tasteless. It was more instinct at first, just the sidelong way he looked at the girls at meal times, his eyes narrowed as he chewed his meat.
Violet might not be very experienced with men, but she could tell a lecherous man when she saw one. Still, she consoled herself that while the two girls were out all day, working around the large farm, they should be safe enough from interference.
Unfortunately, her aunt and uncle soon realised that Alice was the smartest of them all, and a bit of a whizz with numbers, as the winner of her year’s coveted Maths Prize. She was summoned into the barely used dining room after their evening meal one night, and told she could leave the farmwork for a while and help out with the accounts instead.
‘Me?’ Alice looked surprised. ‘But I’m only just sixteen.’
‘You mind your manners, girl, and pay proper heed to your great-uncle,’ Margaret said sharply. ‘Or it’ll be the worse for you.’
Violet stiffened, exchanging an outraged look with Lily. But she said nothing. She felt sure her aunt was all mouth; she couldn’t be suggesting she’d seriously punish Alice for disobedience.
‘All right,’ Alice sighed. ‘What exactly is the problem?’
‘The problem is, I can’t make head nor tail of them figures for the bank,’ Uncle Stanley whined, shoving a dirty old ledger under the girl’s nose. ‘You done well at school. You have a look through that damn book, and tell me where I been going wrong. It shouldn’t take more than a few days.’
‘A few days?’ Lily echoed, sounding shocked.
‘It’s a big book,’ he pointed out.
Alice opened the ledger dubiously. ‘Very well. I’ll try.’
‘Excuse me? You’ll do more than try, young lady!’ Margaret surprised Violet by suddenly turning sour. ‘Here we are, feeding you greedy lot, and keeping all three of you under our roof for no payment in return but your help about the place, and you give me that mealy-mouthed look when we ask for a little extra help.’ She mimicked Alice’s voice, only in a more ungrateful tone. ‘I’ll try.’ Then shook her head. ‘It’s downright unchristian.’
Alice stared up at her, clearly astonished and unsure what to say.
Angry and upset for her niece, and sensing possible danger ahead, Violet put what she hoped was a reassuring hand on Alice’s shoulder, and felt her thin body quiver.
‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Alice,’ she said firmly.
‘You mind your own business!’ Margaret snapped.
Violet stiffened, trying not to snap back at her aunt. Without warning, Margaret had suddenly become as unpleasant as Uncle Stanley.
Before they left London, Mum had warned her to beware Margaret’s manipulative nature. But Violet had not completely believed it until this moment. After all, her aunt had been nice as pie at the beginning. Had it all been an act, intended to make them feel safe and settled at the farm, so they wouldn’t leave when the real demands started?
‘This is my business,’ Violet told her aunt, chin up. ‘Alice is still a minor, and she’s under my charge, not yours.’ Margaret’s eyes widened at this mutiny, and she opened her mouth to respond. But Violet pressed on regardless, trying to find a compromise. ‘Young people her age need to be outside in the fresh air. Not cooped up in a stuffy room, looking at figures all day. She can keep working on the farm, like we agreed when we arranged to come here.’
‘That was before I knew she could add up,’ Stanley growled.
Violet forced herself to smile at him in a placatory manner. It would do none of them any good to scream at the man, much as she longed to.
‘Perhaps Alice could set aside some time every evening after dinner. Then we could sit with her, and help her together.’
But Stanley screwed up his face in stubborn lines. ‘They need this book at the bank by Friday afternoon, or else I won’t get my loan for breeding costs. And if I don’t increase the herd, the farm could go under.’
It was Tuesday evening.
‘A loan?’ Alice, who had been running a finger down the uneven columns of figures in the ledger, looked up sharply.
‘Um, I see your problem, Uncle Stanley,’ Violet continued warily, ‘but Alice is a bit young to help you apply for a bank loan.’
She strongly suspected he wanted Alice to make his accounting look better than it was, maybe even falsify some figures, so the bank would look more favourably on his loan application. Which would be illegal, of course. She couldn’t allow him to coerce her innocent niece into something like that.
‘Perhaps …’ Violet herself knew very little about maths and accounting. But what else could she do? ‘Perhaps I could help you instead.’
Stanley studied her suspiciously. ‘You know about accounting and so on?’
‘I’ve helped Mum out at the café with her books from time to time.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. It wasn’t quite a lie, more of a massaging of the truth. Her ‘help’ with the accounts had mostly been moral support and lots of piping hot tea. But he wasn’t to know that. ‘I’m sure it can’t be much different.’
Stanley said nothing.
‘Very well.’ Margaret also looked unconvinced, but she nodded. Maybe she too did not quite trust her husband to be on his own with the girl. ‘That’s settled then. You can look at the farm books in the mornings, and Alice can check your working in the evenings.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Upstairs with you now, Alice. It’s past your bedtime!’
Violet sat down with the farm ledger the next day, and struggled to understand the figures. The book was a mess, numbers crossed out and columns added up incorrectly. But it was clear to her that any substantial loan was unlikely to be repaid in a hurry, going on the prices paid for beef in the previous few years. With the war on, everything had become very stretched, and although the farm had received a subsidy from the government at one point, it had not been spent very wisely.
On the same grounds though, she doubted the bank would refuse a small loan for breeding costs. People needed meat more than ever now, and increasing the size of the dairy herd would help with that.
That evening, Uncle Stanley came into the kitchen while Violet was making dumplings for a stew, and put a hand on her bottom. Casually, as though it meant nothing.
Violet jumped away at once, wiping floury hands on her pinny.
‘’Ere, what you doing?’ she demanded, copying the strident tones of Thelma, the cleaning woman at her mother’s café. Thelma’s shrieks always worked on the hard-faced working men in the East End, so she felt fairly certain they would work on a Cornish farmer. ‘You keep your hands to yourself!’
Stanley shrugged, unconcerned by her fierce reaction. He merely helped himself to a piece of chopped carrot and wandered out of the kitchen without another word.
Violet stared after him in despair. It had only been a gut feeling before. But now she knew for sure that she couldn’t trust Uncle Stanley alone with her sister’s girls. Not if he could behave like that and show no shame whatsoever when called to account for it. The man was a predator.
But how could she keep Lily and Alice safe without causing her aunt offence?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hazel did not know when she had last felt so bone-weary.
Two of the soldiers guarding Eastern House had fallen sick – something they ate, a fellow soldier had suggested – and had vomited in the entrance hall, an hour apart. Just as she had finished mopping up the first lot, feeling pretty sick herself at the stink, the other soldier on guard had thrown up too, all over her neat, shining floor.
It had been enough to make her weep.
But she had smiled cheerfully as the soldier was helped away. ‘Not to fret,’ she’d told the young man, who was apologising profusely, ‘I’l
l soon get this cleaned up.’ And she had hurried away to fetch a fresh bucket of steaming hot water and disinfectant.
Before the end of her shift, three more soldiers had fallen sick. But luckily they had made it to the lavatory in time, and she had not been needed for mopping duties.
Mr Frobisher angrily dismissed rumours that something he served had caused the sudden epidemic of sickness. ‘My kitchen is perfectly clean, and all my meals are made with good healthy food. I’ll take issue with any man who says otherwise.’
In the afternoon, George came and had a stern look around the kitchen, pantry and store cupboards, which were all spotless as always. He talked at length to Mr Frobisher, and they both decided it must be a tummy bug, and not the food, that was to blame.
Hazel scrubbed her hands well after each clean-up, and again before going home, and hoped that would be enough. She was a little disappointed that her work at Eastern House was not more exciting, as she had hoped it would be when George first approached her about a job. But it was better than not working at all, like many of the other wives and mothers she knew, and at least there was some satisfaction in helping the war effort at one of the most important secret facilities in the country.
It was raining when she cycled home, head down against a stiff wind, and she was drenched by the time she reached the little row of cottages, most of them already with lit windows. The sky was gloomy with heavy rainclouds, and her own cottage was dark, no lights on inside.
‘Charlie? I’m home, love,’ she called through the curtain that hung between the kitchen and the sitting room to keep out the draughts.
There was no answer.
She went upstairs, but his bedroom was empty.
‘Charlie?’
She stood on the silent landing and wondered where on earth he could be. School had finished long ago, and the bus would have dropped him off at least an hour before.