Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  Hazel hesitated, looking furtive. ‘Erm, just down the road a bit,’ she said reluctantly, removing her wet coat so that Violet could hang it to dry by the range. Underneath the coat, she had a curvy figure, the kind Violet had always rather envied, and was wearing what looked like a domestic uniform. ‘Another couple of miles.’

  Violet had not been that way since arriving at the farm, so wasn’t sure where Hazel meant. She had only taken the bus into Penzance, which they’d caught by following one of the narrow lanes in the other direction.

  ‘Well, you won’t get anywhere fast pushing that bike,’ Violet said, wondering why she was being so secretive about where she was going. ‘Maybe my uncle can give you a lift. He’s probably about the farm somewhere.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but I’d rather not bother him.’ Hazel bit her lip, examining her cut knee. ‘Ouch, this is worse than I thought.’

  Violet filled a bowl with hot water from the kettle that stood permanently heating on the range, then took a clean cloth from the drawer. She sat down next to Hazel and gave her a soothing smile. She knew what it was like to be hurt and sitting in a stranger’s house; there had been several close calls during the bombing in London, when she and the girls had fled after nearby houses had been demolished. Though this was hardly on the same scale, the woman did seem rather shaken, and definitely worried about her job.

  ‘This work of yours, what is it you do?’

  Again, that tiny hesitation. ‘Cleaning and cooking, mostly. I … I’m not supposed to talk about it. Sorry.’

  Violet was intrigued now. ‘War work, is it? Well, bless me. I didn’t know there was much of that going on down here.’ Then she considered the troop trucks she had seen driving past, and the occasional heavily guarded convoy. She’d assumed they were heading to some kind of training area further up the coast; it had never occurred to her that tiny Porthcurno itself might be concealing a military base. ‘Sounds very hush-hush.’

  ‘That’s r-right, it is.’

  The woman sucked in a breath as Violet dabbed at her bloodied knee with the damp cloth. ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Best to get it clean.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Violet kept wiping the wound as gently as she could until all the mud and grit had gone, then she bathed it with clean water, dried the whole knee, applied one of her aunt’s medicinal creams, and tied a bandage around it.

  ‘I won’t tie it too tight or you won’t be able to bend your knee at all,’ she said, and went to wash her hands at the sink. ‘Feel better?’

  ‘Much, thank you.’ To her surprise, Hazel was already halfway across the kitchen, heading for the range to collect her coat. She dragged it on and hobbled to the door, peering out into the rainy yard. ‘The rain seems to be slowing. I’d best be on my way.’

  ‘What difference can five minutes make? Let me try and find my uncle. He’s got a truck, he could put your bike in the back.’

  ‘No, honestly …’

  Her aunt bustled into the kitchen at that moment, arms full of washing, and stopped dead at the sight of a strange woman in her kitchen. Only apparently the woman was not as strange to her as she was to Violet, because her face darkened and her lips pursed up in instant dislike, and she gave a fierce squawk-like cry.

  ‘Hazel Baxter! What are you doing here?’

  Frozen in the doorway, Hazel looked back at her with a hunted expression. ‘H-Hello, Mrs Chellew. Sorry to disturb you. I was just leaving.’

  ‘So I should think,’ Aunt Margaret said sternly.

  ‘Thank you again,’ Hazel said awkwardly to Violet, and then ran out across the yard, pressing her wet hat back on.

  Aunt Margaret shook her head, then turned her attention to Violet, an angry light in her eyes. ‘And what,’ she asked in glacial tones, ‘was that Awful Woman doing in my home?’

  ‘Awful Woman?’ Violet stared at her aunt in surprise. ‘She had a nasty accident on the road, and I offered to help, that’s all. Some fool in a van nearly hit her bicycle, and she came a right cropper, bloody knee and all.’

  ‘Very Christian of you, I’m sure. Only next time, leave the woman to fend for herself. Hazel Baxter is not welcome in this house. Her or her family.’

  Violet stood by the open door, watching Hazel outside in the rain as she picked up her battered bicycle and began pushing it along the road in a slow, jerky fashion. She had seemed a polite enough woman, if a little nervous, and clearly very countrified, her hair cut in a dowdy style and not wearing any make-up. Though here in Cornwall it hardly seemed worthwhile bothering with lipstick. Not when cows were the only ones to see it most days.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because of the Awful Man she married. Bertie Baxter.’ Aunt Margaret deposited her armful of washing in the wicker basket by the door, ready for the next sunny day, her voice full of loathing. ‘The man’s a drunkard and a liar and a thief.’ To this list of serious defects, she added more darkly, ‘And an adulterer.’

  ‘Sounds like his poor bloody wife needs our pity, not our contempt.’

  ‘What did you say?’ her aunt demanded, staring.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘How dare you use such language under my roof?’ Margaret exploded, and pointed a bony finger at her. ‘Why, you’re lucky I don’t toss you and your lazy nieces out on your ears, talking to me like that.’

  Violet folded her arms, her temper rising sharply. ‘Like what, exactly?’

  ‘Like the East End guttersnipe you are.’

  Well, what a bloody cheek, she thought angrily. It was all she could do not to throw something at the unpleasant woman. But Margaret was still her aunt, and it was true she did not want to risk the girls’ safety by saying something she would regret.

  Instead, she snatched up an old sheet from the washing basket and ran out into the rain, covering her head to avoid getting drenched.

  The road outside was empty. But Hazel had not gone far. She was about five hundred yards down the road, a misty figure under the drizzle, limping as she pushed her bicycle.

  ‘’Ere, hang on a minute,’ she called after Hazel, splashing through puddles as she hurried after her. ‘Do you need a hand?’

  Hazel looked round in surprise, stopping. ‘No, thank you.’ She glanced back at the farmhouse, half-hidden behind high banks of grassy hedgerows. ‘I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. Are you one of those Land Girls? Do you work for Mrs Chellew?’

  ‘God, no, nothing like that. She’s my aunt, the old dragon. She and Uncle Stanley have been putting us up at the farm while the Germans are bombing London. But they’re driving me mad.’

  ‘You’re from London?’

  She grinned at the woman’s wide-eyed stare. ‘What, don’t you know what an East Ender sounds like?’

  ‘I knew you weren’t a local. But I’ve only heard London accents at the pictures in Penzance, and I wasn’t sure …’

  ‘Well, pay no attention to what Aunt Margaret says. I was happy to help. And your old man sounds like a right sod.’

  Hazel looked flustered. ‘Oh, did she … I mean … How embarrassing.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that spiteful cow.’ Violet realised the rain had almost stopped, and rolled up the sheet that had been covering her head. ‘Look, yours is the first friendly face I’ve seen since we arrived. Maybe we could meet for a cuppa sometime. Not at the farm though,’ she added quickly, seeing Hazel’s horrified expression. ‘At yours, if you like. Maybe when your husband’s not at home.’

  ‘Bertie’s a soldier. He’s away fighting.’

  ‘Nothing to stop us, then. I miss having a good gossip over a cup of tea. And I’d do anything to escape the farm for a few hours.’

  ‘Did you bring family with you from London?’

  ‘My sister’s two girls are with me.’ She paused. ‘Betsy died in the bombing.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Violet nodded her thanks, and squeezed her new friend’s
arm. There was a sudden lump in her throat. ‘There’s a war on, these things happen,’ she said gruffly, and changed the subject before she could embarrass herself by crying. ‘Look, let me know where you live, and I’ll pop round for tea one afternoon. If you ever get a day off, that is.’

  Hazel explained where she lived, and Violet nodded, having a vague idea where she meant.

  ‘They work us pretty hard, but I’m usually free on Thursday afternoons,’ Hazel said, then added hesitantly, ‘You know, they might be looking for new domestic staff where I work. One of the women just left because she was expecting, and another is moving to Exeter at the end of the month.’

  Violet stared. ‘You’re saying there’s a job going at this place?’

  ‘Maybe, I’m not sure.’

  Her heart swelling with excitement, Violet did not know what to say. But her mind could not help skipping ahead to a new future. She had been so miserable since leaving London, she felt almost sick with it. This could be her chance to escape the farm. But what about Lily and Alice? She couldn’t just abandon them.

  Hazel shot her a harried smile. ‘I’ve got to go, but I could ask someone on your behalf if there’s work available. It’s all top secret though. They don’t just take anyone.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘We can talk more on Thursday.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Violet said, and let her go. ‘Take care of that knee, love.’

  Walking back to the farm, she could not get rid of the notion that a job at this top-secret place could save her from working on the farm. Perhaps save all three of them if there was more than one job available. With at least two wages coming in, they might be able to find a room to share nearby, or even two rooms. Then they could escape the farm altogether.

  Her aunt was waiting in the kitchen to give her a stern tongue-lashing. Her uncle appeared too and gave her a dressing-down for having spoken rudely to her aunt.

  But nothing either of them said could dampen Violet’s spirits. She went off whistling under her breath, and it was hard not to let her rebellious thoughts show on her face as she finished her chores that evening. She was bursting to tell Lily and Alice of her encounter with Hazel, and the possibility that there might be a job going elsewhere. But she didn’t want to raise the girls’ hopes only to dash them.

  After all, what if she applied for work, but was turned down on account of her missing brother-in-law being a suspected spy?

  That would be too awful.

  It was a thought that kept her awake most of that night, suddenly unsure what to do. Perhaps it would be safer to stay at the farm and put up with her aunt’s mean behaviour and her uncle’s occasional leering. Better the devil you know, she thought unhappily.

  Her brother-in-law was not a spy, she felt sure of it. But she doubted anyone would bother to ask her opinion. They would be more likely to suspect her too. They were at war with Germany, and anyone who fell under suspicion of working against Britain was considered guilty from the off, and that included their families.

  Down here in Cornwall, that dangerous business with Ernst had seemed so far away, like another world they had left far behind. But she knew these family secrets had a way of coming out eventually, however well hidden.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Eva was running, newspaper held over her head against the pelting rain, when she bumped into a woman pushing a bicycle up the slope to Eastern House, and nearly sent her flying. ‘Oops, sorry!’ She grabbed at the handlebars, righted the bike, and threw an apologetic smile at the woman, who had stumbled sideways with a startled cry. ‘Gosh, you’re drenched. Come on, I’ll help!’

  Wheeling the bike together, they ran the last few yards to the covered area near the side entrance to Eastern House, where a couple of soldiers were standing about, smirking as they dragged on their roll-ups just out of the rain. Beyond them were rolls of barbed wire and a gatehouse, guarding the entrance to a tunnel that ran under the cliff.

  Eva’s father had pointed out the doorway on his brief tour of the campus, and told her the area was strictly forbidden, which had of course made her instantly curious to know what they were hiding inside there.

  ‘Need a hand, ladies?’ one of them called out cheekily, giving Eva a knowing wink. ‘I’ve got two here I could lend you.’

  The soldier got a fierce glare from Eva for his trouble.

  ‘Watch out, mate, that’s the colonel’s daughter,’ his friend muttered, and the men fell silent, shuffling their feet.

  The woman was looking uncomfortable, and not because of the soldier’s suggestion. Eva studied her quickly, her eye falling on a rip across the hemline of her skirt, barely concealed by the sodden, clinging raincoat. There was a bloodied bandage under there, wrapped about her knee.

  No wonder she had been pushing the bicycle instead of riding it. And now that she had a chance to examine it, Eva could see that the front wheel was in a bad way too. She doubted it was even roadworthy.

  ‘That knee looks bad,’ she said briskly. ‘Taken a tumble on the road? I can have a look if you like. I’ve got some training.’

  Her father had insisted she took a course in basic nursing at finishing school, and though she had not yet needed it except for the occasional cut and graze, it always made her feel more confident when people were hurt.

  The woman did not look very grateful for the offer though.

  ‘I’m not supposed to use this entrance,’ she said breathlessly, removing her soggy-looking hat and wiping damp hair out of her face. Her accent was thoroughly Cornish, rich as a cream tea. ‘And I have to put this old thing away in the bike shed, or I’ll be in hot water for sure.’ She looked Eva up and down, and then added awkwardly, ‘Thank you ever so, but my knee’s just fine. And I … I’m terribly late as it is.’

  ‘You can blame me. Tell them it was the colonel’s daughter’s fault.’ Eva stuck out a hand. ‘That’s me, by the way. Eva’s my name.’

  ‘Hazel Baxter.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Where’s this bike shed, then?’ Eva gave her a friendly smile. ‘I only arrived two days ago, I’m still learning my way around. Dad gave me the guided tour but only the official stuff. Which didn’t include bike sheds or which door I’m supposed to use.’

  ‘It’s round here,’ Hazel said, wheeling her bicycle along the back wall of Eastern House to a narrow lean-to.

  Rain poured off the roof and splattered on the ground as Hazel pushed her bike inside, then hurriedly led Eva further along to a door that opened onto an echoing corridor. They banged inside the house and slammed the door against the downpour, both stopping just inside to wipe their wet shoes on the coarse matting that passed for a door mat.

  ‘Look,’ Eva said, stamping her feet, ‘you’re a local girl, you must know the answer to my question.’

  ‘Wh-what question?’

  ‘Is there any dancing to be had round here? A pub with an upper room, maybe? Or a night club?’

  ‘Dancing?’ Hazel looked at her blankly, sodden hat still clutched in her hand. ‘I … I don’t think so.’

  ‘What? You’re saying you Cornish lot never get your glad rags on and dance the night away?’

  ‘At a wedding party, maybe. Or a Church Friendly.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sometimes the local church will run a dance to get the community together, maybe to raise some funds for repairs too. We’re quite isolated out here, and the bus doesn’t usually run late enough for a dance in Penzance. Though on a Friday, you can catch the bus back after the pictures. Well, you could, until the Germans started bombing them. I don’t think the picture house is open anymore.’

  ‘A Church Friendly sounds promising.’

  ‘Except now there’s a war on, they’ve stopped the Friendlies too. Because we can’t go out after dark. Not unless it’s an emergency. Lights aren’t allowed.’

  ‘You don’t need lights if you’re walking.’

  ‘True,’ Hazel said dubiously.
/>   ‘Is there a church nearby?’

  ‘In the valley. It’s not too far, I suppose.’ Hazel made a face. ‘Not sure what the vicar would say to a dance though. He’s a bit of a … well, a curmudgeon, my dad used to call him. And he might object if it risks his church getting blown up!’

  ‘There can’t be much bombing round Porthcurno, surely?’

  ‘Not too much, no. But they reckon the Germans know about the listening post now. Only they don’t know where exactly.’

  ‘Hence all the camouflaging on the buildings and cliffs.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Hazel nodded sombrely. ‘Probably not a good idea to hold a dance, not with all the bombing in Penzance lately. Don’t you think?’

  ‘It should be fine, so long as we keep the blackout curtains up.’ But Eva found herself instinctively fingering the scar along her jawline.

  ‘What happened to you there?’ Hazel’s curious gaze lingered on the faded cuts and bruises that still showed under Eva’s face powder, then she blushed. ‘Sorry … None of my business.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no secret. I nearly got myself blown up in London.’

  ‘Blown up?’ Hazel looked shocked.

  ‘Yes, bit of rotten luck. But not as rotten as some. I lost friends that night.’

  ‘How dreadful.’

  They were still standing just inside the back entrance, dripping all over the floor. What would have been the servants’ entrance a few decades back, Eva guessed, before the Great War. Everyone was more equal now, and quite right too. She set the wet newspaper she’d been using as an umbrella on the floor to dry, and straightened, realising too late that they were being watched.

  There was a group of clean-cut young men in dark suits huddled in conversation in the corridor. Some of them, she noticed, were rather dishy. Though a bit youthful for her tastes.