Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  Violet said nothing, though. What was the point?

  But her aunt wasn’t finished. ‘Your sister managed to catch herself a husband, God rest her soul. She was a good girl, and pretty too. Such a tragedy, that bomb. I cried when I heard. But then there was all that fishy business with her husband.’ She shook her head in disapproval. ‘That’s what happens when you marry a Hun. I sent your sister a letter, warned her not to do it. But some people won’t be told.’

  Violet restrained herself from saying something rude in response. She was usually the type to speak first and apologise afterwards. But she had to think of the girls now. Lily and Alice were depending on her to keep them safe and with a roof over their heads.

  Aunt Margaret paused, thinking. ‘Hold on, you were engaged once too, weren’t you? I remember your mother sent a letter about him years ago, though she’s never mentioned him since. Some young man you met at a dance. Whatever happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her aunt blinked. ‘What of?’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it, if you don’t mind. He died, that’s all.’ She felt the old agony rise inside her and pushed it away with a supreme effort, saying grimly instead, ‘But I don’t do a lot of dancing these days.’

  Her aunt stiffened. ‘You know, your cheeky East End ways aren’t needed down here. We don’t talk to each other like that here in Cornwall.’

  ‘Who’s being cheeky?’

  But her aunt merely huffed away in a mood, muttering something under her breath about ungrateful relatives and how they ought to be put out on the street.

  Violet wanted to break down and weep. Or shout after her aunt angrily. Probably both at the same time, giving how up-and-down her moods were at the moment. But she did neither, because she wasn’t free to express her pain and distress at being reminded of Leonard’s death. Not here in her aunt’s home. Instead, she merely gritted her teeth, put her head down, and continued to peel potatoes for supper.

  Some young man you met at a dance.

  That dance seemed so long ago now. In fact, she realised, it was five years since she’d lost her handsome, laughing Leonard – and not in heroic action abroad, but to something as commonplace as the flu. Though she was confident he would have enlisted if he had lived to see the war.

  At the time, Betsy had insisted she would get over it eventually. ‘Grief doesn’t last forever,’ her older sister had assured her.

  Yet five years later, Violet was still grieving, waking with a heavy heart most days. Or was it sadness over Betsy’s own death she was feeling? Perhaps she’d seen too many deaths and too much unhappiness lately, and it had become muddled in her heart.

  All she knew was that she would never fall in love again. This was her life now, a lonely spinster looking after her sister’s children, and it would never get any better.

  And here she was, unable to tell a soul how she felt.

  Inside, she was desperate, wishing there was something, anything, she and the two girls could do to escape this wretched place …

  She did eventually manage to escape a few days later, but only for a short period, to take her nieces on the bus to the nearby town of Penzance. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stanley did not try to stop them, though they grumbled horribly about having to do all the chores themselves. But Violet made a point of saying she was writing to her mother about their time in Cornwall, and waving the letter in the air several times as she talked. Her aunt peered at it without saying much, then shrugged and left them to it. Obviously she was happy treating them like unpaid servants when nobody knew about it, but she didn’t fancy her sister knowing what she was up to.

  It was only a ‘very occasional’ bus service to Penzance, she had been warned by a smiling lady at the bus stop, and not terribly reliable. Having been told the last bus would trundle through the town at about six o’clock, she decided they would return to the main Penzance stop by half past five at the latest, which should be plenty of time.

  In Penzance, they were surprised to see so many buildings in ruins.

  ‘Don’t tell me the bloody Jerries have been at it down here too,’ Alice sighed, peering over a wall at what was left of an old warehouse. ‘Is nothing sacred?’

  ‘Language,’ Violet warned her niece automatically, though she too felt dismayed to see so much evidence of bombing on the quiet Cornish coast. ‘It does look like it though. I suppose no towns are safe these days.’

  They spent a few pennies in the tiny row of shops along the High Street, where Violet sighed over fabric rolls in the dressmaker’s window, wondering if she could afford a yard or two to make new summer dresses for the girls, though her dressmaking skills were not as good as Betsy’s had been. Later, they helped themselves rather extravagantly to three ices, which they devoured on a bench on the seafront, staring out at the shining blue waters.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lily asked in an awed tone, pointing at the strange craggy landmass out in the bay, covered mostly in trees, with a turreted castle-like structure on top.

  ‘That’s St Michael’s Mount,’ Violet said, looking over. ‘They’re selling postcards of it in the High Street – didn’t you see them?’ When her niece shook her head, she continued, drawing on old stories her mother had told her and Betsy when they were kids, ‘I think it used to be part of the mainland. Only the sea rose in a terrible storm one night and it was drowned.’

  ‘Some Cornish people say it’s the last remnant of a magical land,’ Alice said knowledgably, ‘that was swallowed by the sea centuries ago, because of a spell put on it by a wicked fairy.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lily stared at her for a moment, then blinked. ‘That can’t be true!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t true, you goose,’ Alice told her older sister in scathing tones. ‘I didn’t say it was true, only that’s what some people believe. Some very silly people, if you ask me.’

  Violet grinned to herself.

  ‘You do say some blooming odd things,’ Lily accused her sister.

  ‘Language,’ Violet murmured.

  ‘Sorry, Aunty Vi. But she can be so aggravating sometimes.’ Lily paused, peering at the shimmering horizon, one forearm raised to shield her face from the bright sunlight. ‘What’s on the other side of this sea?’

  ‘America, if you go the same way as that ship and turn right towards the Atlantic,’ Alice replied at once, nodding towards the misty outline of a large ship far out to sea. ‘Or down towards France, Spain, and North Africa that way,’ she added, pointing vaguely in the other direction, past the mysterious crag of St Michael’s Mount.

  Violet slipped off her shoes and wiggled her hot, aching toes in the sunshine, hoping nobody would mind. ‘I wish we could see it without all the barbed wire and stone blocks.’ Much of the beach had been fortified, and in the distance she could see pillboxes along the coast and even on St Michael’s Mount, spoiling the natural look of the place. Such a shame, she thought sadly. But she supposed it was better than leaving Cornwall wide open to an invasion force. ‘The water does look nice and cool, though.’

  Alice looked at her hopefully. ‘Ooh, can I walk down to the water? I could take my shoes and socks off, and have a paddle.’

  ‘Not right here,’ Violet said, studying the heavily fortified beach, dotted with warning signs not to go into the water. She put her shoes back on. ‘There’s probably mines and all sorts here. Let’s walk along a bit, see if we can find somewhere quieter.’

  They walked along the seafront until they’d left most of the houses behind, stopping at a narrow strip where a mucky-looking stream ran down towards the water below the looming cliffs.

  ‘This don’t look too bad,’ she said, not seeing any wardens in sight, ‘but mind you watch your step. And if any soldiers come along, get back up the beach smartish. You hear?’

  Alice stared at her. ‘We can’t go down there on our own.’

  Violet peered dubiously at the beach. It looked to be mostly rock and shingle. But it was also hot and she was temp
ted. It had been such a long time since she’d had a nice paddle, and that had only been on the foreshore of the Thames.

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘Well, we are.’ Lily dragged Violet down the shingle. ‘You’re coming too, Aunty Vi. And no arguments.’

  Laughing at their fierce expressions, Violet allowed the two girls to haul her across the narrow, rocky strip of beach to the water’s edge, where pretty scallops of white waves were rippling in. There, the three of them pulled off their shoes and bared their feet for paddling.

  The water was freezing at first, and they giggled and half-screamed, running back and forth in the shallows with their dresses held up to prevent the hems getting wet, though they still got splashed. Violet stared out at the misty horizon and wondered what lands really did lie that way.

  ‘That looks refreshing,’ a man’s voice said from close behind her.

  Embarrassed, Violet spun round, and found a sun-browned, dark-haired man watching her from only a few feet away. He smiled at her confusion, and touched his cap.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ he said, his voice deep, his accent dreamily Cornish. He had such large, dark, liquid eyes with long lashes, it was hard not to stare into them. Especially given that he was five foot five or maybe six, and she was tall for a woman, so they were almost eye-to-eye with each other. ‘I didn’t mean no harm. I was only admiring you three young ladies having such a good time in the sea. Almost as though there wasn’t a war on.’

  Three young ladies …

  She was hardly young, Violet thought, hot-cheeked and thrown by the unexpected compliment, though she was clearly younger than him. She reckoned him to be about thirty, perhaps, while she was only twenty-seven. But she had been brought up in the East End, and knew that men had to be treated carefully. Even the friendly ones could mean trouble.

  ‘Is it off bounds, this part of the beach? We didn’t see any warning signs down this end.’ She glanced around, half-expecting to see other angry strangers condemning them for trespass. But the man was alone, leaning on a walking stick. ‘Sorry if we disturbed your walk.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Miss. I wasn’t so much walking as taking my time with a slow stroll along the seafront. Until I saw you three, that is, and decided to come down and see what was going on.’ The dark-haired man paused, looking past her at the other two, who had come mincing out of the shallows with raised skirts to stare at him. ‘Besides, it seems to me that people don’t have a good time often enough these days. What with this war on, and all.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she agreed warily.

  ‘Would you like to paddle too?’ Alice asked the man with her usual boldness. ‘You can join us if you like. It’s wonderful and cooling, just right for hot feet.’

  ‘Alice!’ she hissed.

  ‘What?’ Alice blinked at her, surprised, then glanced at the man. ‘You’re not offended, are you?’

  ‘Not a whit, Miss,’ he said politely, but to Violet’s shock and dismay, he tapped his left leg with his walking stick, and it clanged like metal! ‘But I’ve only the one leg these days, and I wouldn’t want to unnerve you with such a sorry sight.’

  Violet did not know where to look. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m sure my niece didn’t mean to upset you.’

  His smile was slow but sad. ‘I’m not upset. It is what it is.’

  ‘But I’m sorry too. That’s my younger sister, Alice. She’s got a right mouth on her; she’s always making people feel uncomfortable.’ Lily came inching up the beach towards him, twisting the damp hem of her dress between her hands. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how … how did you lose your leg?’

  ‘Lily!’

  But the man did not seem offended by that question either. ‘I was in the navy when war was declared, and proud to serve my country. Only our ship got hit in the night by one of them sneaky German U-boats, and down it went to the bottom like a stone. Only a few dozen of us survived, and I lost my leg.’ He shrugged. ‘Lucky to be alive, the doctors said.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’ Lily asked, her eyes wide.

  ‘Not much for a one-legged man to do when there’s a war on,’ he said, without sounding even slightly sorry for himself. ‘I do my bit. Volunteering for this and that, and some training for the Home Guard. But I’d be no good if the Germans landed, would I?’

  ‘You look pretty strong to me,’ Alice said helpfully.

  He smiled again, though this time the smile did not quite reach those large, dark eyes. ‘My mother’s happy that I came home from the war, even if not in one piece.’ He nodded up the beach to where a middle-aged woman in a wide-brimmed hat sat watching them from a bench. ‘So I try not to complain.’

  ‘What about your wife?’ Violet asked impulsively, and saw from the quick narrowing of his eyes that this time he was offended.

  She was so embarrassed, she could have thrown herself in the sea there and then.

  ‘I’m not married,’ he said quietly. ‘That is, I was engaged when I went away to war. But not when I came back.’ Again, he tapped his metal leg. ‘If you see what I mean.’

  ‘You mean, your fiancée wouldn’t have you once you’d lost your leg?’ Alice’s voice was high with outrage. ‘But that’s bloody awful.’

  ‘Language, Alice,’ Violet muttered, but nobody paid her any attention.

  ‘Can’t say as I blame her,’ the man replied with a shrug.

  ‘You should blame her, trust me,’ Alice retorted, earning herself a stern look from Violet, who was trying to think of a way to drag the girls away without making it obvious they were fleeing the beach.

  There was something about this noble, suffering man that stirred her so much, Violet felt quite uneasy in his presence, fearing he must be able to see her feelings in her face. He was nothing like Leonard, for instance, who had laughed and joked constantly. Perhaps almost too much, she now wondered. It had been hard to talk to her fiancé about anything serious, and certainly he had never made her fear he could read her thoughts.

  But poor Leonard had only been in his early twenties when he died; this man was older, and had seen far more of the world.

  ‘Yes, sounds like you was well shot of that one,’ Lily said naively, in agreement with her sister for once.

  ‘Girls, we ought to go,’ Violet said, having thought of a polite enough excuse. ‘We don’t want to miss the bus.’ She made for the dry spot higher up the beach where they had left their belongings.

  After a short hesitation, the girls followed her up the beach, both grumbling under their breaths but not daring to openly defy her. Not in front of a stranger, anyway.

  To her dismay, the man was still behind them.

  She pulled on her shoes in a hurry, not even bothering to dry her feet properly with her handkerchief.

  ‘Bus?’ He stood a few feet away, studying her partly bare legs with obvious interest. Something in his own face made her sure he’d spotted her high colour and drawn his own conclusions. She lowered her eyes, quickly jumping up again and pulling her dress down to cover her legs. ‘Whereabouts are you staying? Evacuated from London, were you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Lily asked, staring at him astounded.

  ‘Those aren’t Cornish accents,’ he pointed out gently, then grinned when she bit her lip, his whole face changing. ‘You’re not living here in Penzance, I take it?’

  ‘We’re staying with our aunt and uncle on a farm near Porthcurno,’ Alice said before Violet could stop her.

  ‘And how d’you like that?’

  Alice pinched her nose contemptuously. ‘Whole place stinks of cow poo.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s the country for you.’

  Lily made a face, clearly wanting to join in with the conversation. ‘And they work us like slaves, all day long! This is the first time we’ve managed to escape.’

  ‘Work you like slaves?’ he repeated, his smile fading. ‘That doesn’t sound too good. Safer than London though, I guess.’r />
  Violet met his eyes shyly, as that last comment had been directed at her. ‘We’re glad to be out of the city,’ she agreed, ‘but it’s harder work than what my sister’s girls are used to. Still, I suppose they’ll soon build up their muscles. We all have to pull our weight in this war, don’t we?’ Lily had finally got her shoes back on, so Violet picked up her bag and shot him a quick smile. ‘Well, we’d best be getting back to the workhouse. It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too.’ He stepped back, taking off his cap as though in respect. ‘The name’s Joe, by the way. Joe Postbridge.’

  ‘I’m Violet Hopkins.’ She introduced the girls too, as it would have been rude not to. And she even shook his hand when he offered it.

  He had a firm grip, but not a threatening one. It was the hand of an outdoors man, she thought, very aware of how his fingers curled about hers momentarily before he released her. Strong fingers, sun-browned and calloused.

  And a warm smile to go with the handshake.

  His mother drifted towards them, her face in shadow under the wide brim of her hat. ‘Hello,’ she said in a deep Cornish accent, when Joe had introduced them. ‘How do you do? I’m Edna.’ She seemed like a nice woman, her smile especially warm towards the girls when she heard they had lost their mother. ‘Oh, you poor dears.’ Perhaps seeing how uncomfortable they were with her quick sympathy, she changed the topic. ‘But what lovely fair hair you both have. And such charming manners. Are you enjoying Cornwall?’

  As the girls replied to her questions, Violet realised with a start that Joe Postbridge was watching her, not listening to his mother.

  Suddenly, she felt embarrassed and overheated, tucking her hair behind her ears and not knowing where to look. She was behaving like a schoolgirl!

  As soon as it felt polite to do so, Violet said a hurried goodbye and shepherded her nieces up to the main road without looking back, damp feet squelching in her shoes, her heart beating uncomfortably fast.

  ‘Aunty Vi, your face is awful red,’ Alice said as they waited for the bus back to Porthcurno, gazing at her innocently. ‘You must ’ave caught the sun.’