by Betty Walker
‘I daresay,’ she said, and set her lips tight.
It would not do to think about a man this way. Not even for a moment. Not even in the privacy of her own head. She was here in Cornwall to ensure her nieces’ safety, not go all gooey-brained and dewy-eyed over the first interesting man she had met in years.
When the war was over, she would be taking the girls straight back to London, hopefully to be reunited with their missing father. There could be no future in a relationship with a Cornishman.
And she knew it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hazel wiped her face with a damp cloth, and closed her eyes until the next wave of sickness had passed her by. She stayed where she was, leaning over the kitchen sink for a few minutes, letting her wobbly legs rest. Then she heard Charlie’s feet on the stairs and straightened, hurriedly running the tap on full to clean out the sink and clear the air of that sickroom smell.
By the time Charlie came bursting into the kitchen, she was almost herself again, turning to smile at him as though nothing was wrong.
But her son was not a fool. He stopped on the threshold, staring at her. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Smells like you’ve been sick.’ He nodded at the cloth still crumpled in her hand. ‘You not feeling well? Did you catch that illness from the soldiers?’
‘I must have.’ She threw the cloth in the wash basket, and rinsed her hands. ‘But it’s not so bad. Just a bit of dizziness.’
‘You should stay home. Don’t go to work today.’
She gave a croaky laugh. ‘We need the money, Charlie. You know that. And I’m perfectly fine. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’
His stare was frustrated. ‘Well, I can’t make you stay home. But I bet if Dad was here, he’d be able to stop you.’
She didn’t like where this was going. More and more these days, her son was beginning to sound scarily like his dad, thinking he could force her into things and that, as a male, he had a God-given right to do so.
‘Charlie, look …’
‘Sorry, Mum, I’m already late.’ He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table, dragged his satchel over his shoulder, and headed out of the door. ‘See you later!’
The silence in the house felt heavy and overwhelming once the door had slammed shut behind Charlie. If only she could find a way to get through that defensive armour of his.
But at the same time, Hazel felt a tremendous sense of relief that she was finally alone. It had been so hard to keep the distress and fear out of her face. She couldn’t let him see what was happening deep down, that this queasy feeling, the wobbliness, the light-headed sensations she had felt on rising for the past few days were not down to any sickness she might have caught at Eastern House.
No, this was far worse than any tummy bug.
Hazel had sat down last night and checked through her diary, looking back at discreet red crosses beside certain dates for the past few months, and then done the necessary calculations on paper … and discovered the awful truth.
She was pregnant.
There was no other possible explanation. She had missed her usually regular-as-clockwork time of the month a couple of weeks back, and thought perhaps it was the worry and stress she was feeling over Charlie that had caused her to skip a period. But then her breasts had begun to tingle in an oddly familiar way, feeling fuller than normal, and queasiness had become a problem. Still she had thought nothing of it. Her bosom was often fuller just before her monthlies, and more sensitive than usual, and the sick feeling over the past few days she had put down to this bug going round among the soldiers.
But put together with her absent monthly bleed, and this new uncomfortable feeling of always being on edge, the symptoms could only add up to one thing.
But a baby …?
Carrying Charlie had been hard work. She was not cut out for pregnancy, the doctor had told her. How could she cope with another one, so much older this time around, and struggling on her own without a husband to lean on for help? Especially once she grew too obviously pregnant to hold down her job.
She could hide her pregnancy for a few more months, of course – and she must, to keep the household going. The meagre weekly allowance she received as a corporal’s wife, even with a few shillings extra for a child, was not sufficient for their needs.
But pregnant women were not supposed to go out to work, not even with a war on. George was not blind, and neither were the rest of the staff and soldiers at the listening post. Someone at Eastern House would notice her expanding girth eventually, and then she would lose her position, and with it, their only steady income apart from what she received as an army wife.
It had been so long since she had slept regularly with Bertie, it had not occurred to her that such a thing could happen. She and Bertie had made love – if it could be called that – when he was last home on leave. But it had been a hurried, fumbling event, and she had not even considered the possibility that it could have consequences. Which seemed like the stupidest possible thing now, given the evidence before her.
What on earth was she going to do?
Very late for work by the time she’d pulled herself together, Hazel had to cycle hard through the lanes, puffing up and down the slopes between their row of cottages and Eastern House, barely looking where she was going. It was a damp morning, rain spitting into her face and dripping off her hat brim, a white, clammy mist hanging gloomily over the sea. Her mind was focused completely on the shock she was suffering, this upsetting realisation that a tiny life was growing inside her for the second time – and was not entirely wanted. It was that terrible awareness – that she did not wish to carry Bertie’s child, even though he was her husband – that was causing her the most pain.
She bicycled with more than usual difficulty up the grim incline of Tinker’s Hill, and then whizzed down the other side at speed, grabbing on to her rain-sodden hat as the air snatched at it.
A loud hooting brought her back to reality.
Something large and frighteningly solid loomed out of the mist ahead. It was a van, taking up nearly the entire lane, and to her horror it wasn’t showing any signs of slowing or moving aside.
Hazel jammed her handlebars sideways in a desperate attempt to avoid a head-on collision.
The butcher’s delivery van roared past, young Donald at the wheel, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had nearly run her off the road.
Suddenly, the front wheel of her bike struck a large stone jutting out of the grassy hedgerow, and she came to an abrupt halt. The bike wobbled and toppled over.
She fell with it, crying out in alarm.
For a moment, she lay there on the road, too winded to move. Then the cold of the rain-wet ground began to creep into her bones and she moaned, disentangling herself with an effort from the spinning front wheel.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ came a cry from across the road, in the direction of Chellew Farm. ‘I saw the whole thing through the kitchen window. That idiot nearly mowed you down.’ A woman with smooth fair hair, the light shining through it like a halo, crouched down and stopped the front wheel from spinning, then bent to give her a sympathetic look. ‘You all right? Any broken bones? Cracked ribs? Or a cracked head, maybe?’
‘I … I don’t think so,’ Hazel muttered, though she couldn’t help wincing at the pain in her knee. ‘Thanks, but I have to get back on the bike. I’m late for work.’
The woman studied it dubiously. ‘You sure about that? Front wheel looks awful bent.’
‘Then I’ll push it.’
‘In your state?’ The woman folded her arms, clearly disapproving. She looked to be a few years younger than Hazel. ‘Look at you, your knee’s bleeding. And you could have been killed. Them at work can wait another few minutes, surely?’
‘Sorry.’ Hazel shook her head, stumbling back to her feet with the woman’s aid. ‘I … I can’t risk being given my notice.’
‘I know that feeling.
Here, careful there …’ The woman supported her as she staggered sideways. ‘Look, why not let me patch your knee up, at least? There’s dirt in that cut. And you don’t half look pale.’
Hazel had dragged the old bicycle upright and was staring in consternation at the front wheel. It hadn’t buckled, thank God, but there was a distinct bend to the frame. The woman was right, she couldn’t possibly cycle on it. Charlie could probably straighten it out for her tonight with a hammer. But she would have to push the bloody thing all the way to Eastern House, and then home again this evening, unless she could wangle a lift from someone.
And the rain was coming down harder now, dripping off the end of her nose.
She felt thoroughly miserable.
‘My hat,’ she whispered, and bent to retrieve it.
Her flimsy Macintosh parted, and that was when she saw her knee, muddied and blooming with scarlet just above the hem of her work skirt, the buff fabric bloody too – where it was not stuck to her skin.
The world spun with another wave of sickness, and she nearly fell again, barely regaining her balance as she tried to straighten, hat in hand.
‘That’s it, you’re coming into the house with me,’ the woman said, almost crossly, and slipped an arm under her shoulder, supporting her back to Chellew Farm. ‘I’m Violet Hopkins, by the way.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eva woke up on her second day at Porthcurno almost too stiff to get out of bed. But she could hear a bell ringing below, and knew it meant breakfast was ready. If she missed it, she had been told, there would be nothing more to eat until lunchtime. And she was famished, probably thanks to the fresh country air.
She groaned as she stumbled out of bed, then dragged down the blackout curtain and made a disappointed face at the rain misting up her window, the sea beyond Eastern House a vague whitish-grey today, seagulls circling and crying mournfully over its expanse as though in complaint at the rain.
Where had all the gorgeous sunshine gone? It was like being inside a cloud.
This sudden shift in weather suited her mood though, she had to admit. Every damn muscle in her body ached, and that included her heart.
She had dreamt about poor Flight Lieutenant Carmichael again during the night, and now she could not seem to shake those dark images. They had been walking together down an unlit London street, holding hands and laughing, when suddenly his hand had slipped from hers. She had turned in surprise, but found the handsome pilot was no longer there. And where he had been standing was a deep, smoking hole in the road.
She had screamed in horror, staring down into the blackened crater, which seemed to go on forever into the bowels of the earth, but nobody heard. Or at least nobody came to help her. Then a bright flash lit up the whole sky, and when she looked up, a terrible force swept her off her feet and carried her away into burning darkness …
If only she knew what had happened to her saviour.
It had been lovely to see her father again when she arrived at Porthcurno – she could not deny it. They had been apart too long, mainly because of the war, but also because of a basic clash in their outlooks on life. Her father was a sweetie. But since her mother’s death, he had developed a tendency to disapprove of Eva’s modern lifestyle, always trying to cramp her style by imposing Victorian rules she was frankly disinclined to follow.
It came of being a colonel, she supposed. All those soldiers at his beck and call. But she wasn’t one of his men, she was his daughter, and that meant she sometimes needed her freedom. Because staying with him invariably involved early nights and bracing walks in the country, such as the one he had inflicted on her yesterday afternoon.
But Daddy was trying his best to get closer to her again – she had to admit. Yesterday, he had stridden across the Cornish cliffs in the sunshine, while she struggled to keep up with him. He had not seemed to notice that the wind was whisking her hair every which way, or that her flimsy shoes were not designed for long country walks, nor her body used to miles of tramping up and down steep slopes.
‘Look at that,’ he had boomed in his commanding officer’s voice, pointing his walking stick at armed military outposts, or grim little pillboxes dug into the cliffsides, or yards of barbed wire bristling across sandy beaches far below, sounding every bit as proud as though he had improved the Cornish countryside with such horrid accoutrements. ‘This whole coast is heavily fortified. No chance of the enemy getting even one hairy toe on shore without losing said toe.’ He had nodded with obvious satisfaction. ‘Jolly good, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely lovely,’ Eva kept repeating in a dreary tone, wishing she was back in London, where bombs might be falling, but at least there was fun to be had every night, even in the blackout.
‘What’s up, Miss Moppet? Why the long face?’ he demanded at one point, no doubt catching the ennui in her voice at last. ‘Don’t you like the fresh air?’
‘This air isn’t fresh,’ she replied at once, sniffing in the country smells with vague disgust, having twice almost trodden in some brownish substance he had described as ‘cow dung’. ‘It’s positively reeking. And my feet hurt.’
‘Your feet? But you’ve hardly walked five miles.’
She was aghast. ‘Five miles?’
‘No need to get upset. We’ll soon get you fit out here, my dear. Another month here, your leg muscles will be strong as iron, mark my words.’ He swung his arm wide, indicating the glittering sea and rugged Cornish coast. ‘Now come on, isn’t this a pretty sight?’
She had to admit, it was very pretty. But it wasn’t London.
‘I’m a city girl. I prefer streets and buildings.’
‘But surely this is more satisfying, my dear? Earth and sea and sky. All this greenery everywhere. Human beings were made for exactly this kind of terrain. Not for blasted city streets. You should use your legs for walking long distances.’
‘My legs were made for dancing, not walking,’ she told him tartly. ‘And ladies aren’t supposed to have leg muscles like iron. Trust me, Daddy.’
‘Well, maybe not. But you’ll soon come around. Anyway, your uncle told me on the telephone that you’d had a bit of a rough time in London. We can’t be having any more wild behaviour – do you hear? No more dancing the night away with all sorts, and nearly getting your head blown off in the process!’
Eva rolled her eyes, staring at a herd of lumbering cows in the distance. She could see two girls in drab coats trudging along through a field with them, presumably taking them to or from the milking shed. Land Girls, from their uniforms. She’d heard that the Women’s Land Army had been re-formed, and women from cities and towns were now being encouraged to work on farms instead of in factories.
What an awful life!
But some women liked that kind of thing. Fresh air and early rising, and all that. Not her! Thank goodness it wasn’t compulsory. Though if the war went on much longer, she imagined it soon would be.
Her father glanced at her averted profile, and relented. ‘Now, Eva, don’t look so glum. It’s not the big city, but it’s a marvellous part of the world.’
‘It’s not my cup of tea, Daddy. When can I go back to London?’
‘Never,’ he said shortly, ‘if I have my way.’
Eva glared at him, too furious to trust herself to speak. She was no longer a child. What right did he have to keep her here?
‘Look, you’re not confined to quarters,’ he continued, frowning down at her, ‘but I’d rather you didn’t leave the camp for the time being. Not until I’m sure you’re capable of behaving in a rational manner.’ He shot her a meaningful look. ‘Anyway, I need to find you work here if you’re to avoid being drafted God knows where. You don’t want to end up making bombs in some factory up north, do you?’
She folded her arms, reluctantly aware that he was right. ‘No.’
‘Then be a good girl and do as you’re told.’ With a quick smile, he added, ‘Besides, we have plenty of dashing officers here in Porthcurno to squire you ab
out the place when I’m busy. So you won’t be lonely. I’ll introduce you to a few of the chaps at dinner tonight. How’s that?’
Dashing officers …
She knew the type he meant. Clean-cut, fresh-faced boys straight out of Oxbridge, the kind he wouldn’t mind seeing her settling down with as soon as possible, or else confirmed bachelors with silver streaks in their hair, older straitlaced men who were unlikely to tempt her into any misbehaviour.
Nobody even remotely like her fallen flight lieutenant, in other words.
But she would play his game for now, Eva decided.
The alternative would mean trying to find her own way back to London when she was flat broke. Plus, the room she had rented there would probably have been given to someone else by now, and it was not easy to find new lodgings in a city where half the houses had been reduced to rubble and the other half might follow at any moment.
And she definitely wanted to avoid being made to work in a factory.
‘Sounds absolutely lovely,’ she repeated, following him back along the cliff path to Eastern House, and childishly putting her tongue out at his back.
There were no bars at her window or barbed wire outside her door. But it seemed she was to be a prisoner here at Porthcurno, all the same. As much a prisoner as those unfortunate country girls she’d seen with the cows, in fact.
Well, her father had told her often enough that it was every prisoner’s duty to try and escape. So, he could hardly blame her if she slipped the leash once or twice. And her first act of rebellion was already taking shape in her head. Cornwall or not, there had to be somewhere in these godforsaken parts where people danced and had a good time.
And if there wasn’t, she would jolly well invent one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Violet helped the woman hobble across the muddy yard and into the farm kitchen, ignoring all her protests that she didn’t need her cuts cleaned and that she was going to be late for work. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she told her firmly, and sat her down in the rickety chair at the head of the table. ‘What did you say your name was? Hazel?’ She hunted on the dresser for the tin where her aunt kept bandages, pins, and an assortment of medicinal creams in case of accidents about the farm. ‘I’ll soon get that knee cleaned and patched up, and then you can be on your way. Where do you work?’