Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  Violet felt genuine rage, then, and understood how it would be possible to kill someone out of pure fury.

  But she could not kill him. That would not help the girls.

  ‘Come with me, love.’ Ignoring her uncle’s blustering protests, she took Lily by the arm and helped her out of the barn, discreetly tidying her clothes and hair. To her relief, he did not follow but stood watching them in silence. ‘That’s it. Of course it’s not your fault. It’s your uncle’s fault.’

  But Lily merely shook and continued to weep, incoherent now.

  Carefully, Violet avoided the kitchen, leading her niece through the side door and into the quiet back room where she did the accounts. ‘Here, sit down.’ She arranged a blanket over Lily’s knees, and gave her cold arms a rub. ‘I’ll make you a hot sweet cup of tea, dearie. That will help with the shock.’ She gritted her teeth at the lost look on Lily’s face. ‘That vile perverted man. He should hang for this. His own bloody niece!’

  ‘He never … He didn’t … I mean …’

  Violet peered into Lily’s tear-streaked face, and then took a deep breath, secretly relieved. ‘He didn’t manage to do it?’ she whispered in the girl’s ear. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say?’

  Swallowing hard, Lily nodded.

  ‘Well, thank God for that.’ Violet took a handkerchief from her pocket and dried her niece’s face as best she could. ‘Not that he doesn’t still deserve to hang. Or lose his man parts.’ She smiled at Lily’s strangled sob of laughter. ‘But that’s a mercy, at least.’

  She was furious. But it would not help them if she attacked her uncle and got arrested for assault – or worse. And the last thing her niece needed was a policeman asking her horrible, embarrassing questions and making her feel even worse than she probably did right now.

  But the man did need to be confronted for his crime.

  Confronted and shamed.

  ‘I’ll fetch you a cuppa, love. You stay here and don’t fret too much.’ Violet straightened. ‘Aunty Vi’s going to fix this.’

  She found Alice coming downstairs, and after a brief explanation that skirted the worst facts, sent her in to look after Lily.

  Uncle Stanley had returned from the barn and was speaking to his wife in the kitchen. Loudly and bitterly. Some ludicrous tale of how Lily had ‘come onto’ him and then claimed he had tried to touch her. None of which was true, he was explaining.

  Fuelled by outrage, Violet paused on the threshold to the kitchen, rolled up her sleeves, and then marched in with her head held high.

  ‘Your husband just tried to rape Lily,’ she announced to her aunt in a voice that shook with emotion. ‘Don’t listen to his barefaced lies. You and I both know what he is. So no more of this nonsense. The only reason he didn’t succeed is because Lily put up a fight, good sensible girl that she is.’ She met her aunt’s shocked stare with folded arms and a piercing glare of her own. ‘Now, what are you going to do about it?’

  Stanley hunched his shoulders and looked away, dark red staining his cheeks.

  To her surprise though, Aunt Margaret did not even blink. ‘I’m going to do what I should have done days ago, and throw all three of you out on your ears.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me.’ Margaret stood in front of her husband, as though protecting him. ‘You, and that tramp Lily, and her nasty little sister, can all find somewhere else to live. Think you can come down here with your filthy London ways and seduce my husband … Oh yes, I’ve seen the way you look at him. You and those dirty girls. And Lily … She’s a tart, let’s face it. Making out she’s shy, like butter wouldn’t melt … But all the time, waiting to sink her claws into my man.’ Her aunt pursed her lips, a cruel smile on her thin lips. ‘I’m doing you a favour. Plenty of trade in Penzance. I daresay you three could make a small fortune on your backs there.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Go on, upstairs and pack.’ Her aunt pointed to the door. ‘And no stealing anything. Or I’ll have the police on you, you hear me?’

  ‘Call the bloody police,’ Violet said, hot-cheeked and shaking, unable to hide her anger now. ‘I think they’ll be interested in what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Constable Black, you mean? He plays cards with Stanley at the Cross Four Ways pub.’ Her aunt gave a short laugh. ‘Go ahead and tell him whatever you like. It’s a young girl’s word against Stanley Chellew’s. And I doubt the constable will believe an East End tart like her over a proper Cornishman.’

  Violet was furious; she wanted to slap her aunt. But it was clear that Margaret was serious. She would cheerfully dub the whole family liars rather than see her husband get into trouble with the law. And given that they were outsiders to this small, close-knit community, the chances of the local police believing Lily’s word over Uncle Stanley’s were remote. Instead, Lily would almost certainly find herself branded a liar – and promiscuous, too. Awful though the alternatives were, she couldn’t put poor Lily through such a terrible ordeal.

  ‘And what do you think Mum will have to say when she hears about this?’ she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.

  Margaret hesitated. ‘I don’t care what my sister says.’ But she looked a little afraid at last. ‘Besides, London’s a long way off. What happens down here is none of her business.’ With bared teeth, she added defiantly, ‘And this is my house, young lady. You three are not welcome anymore. So you’d better pack up your things and get off our property.’

  ‘Who’s going to do all your chores?’

  ‘Three mouths less to feed sounds like a good deal to me,’ Margaret said shrilly. ‘Besides, we can get half a dozen girls like you off the Land Army, and do far better for it from the government. I’ve been telling Stanley for weeks to join the scheme. Now he’ll have no choice.’ She snatched up a potato off the table to throw at her. It missed and rolled harmlessly away, but Violet could see Margaret glancing about for something else to throw. Something bigger and more painful, no doubt. ‘Go on, get lost!’

  Violet turned on her heel and left the kitchen. She collected a shocked Lily and Alice from the back room, and took them upstairs to pack their things. They had not brought much to Cornwall with them, so it didn’t take long. There were a few odd items still lying about the house, but as she told the girls, there was no time to look for them.

  They were being evicted, and that was an end to it.

  ‘Are we really, truly, leaving the farm, Aunty Vi?’ Alice whispered as they crept down the stairs, bags in hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, trying to hold herself together until they were out of the house, at least. ‘Grab your coats and hats off the hall stand, and let’s go.’

  She listened at the kitchen door, but there was no sound from inside.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. I’m so sorry, Aunty Violet.’ Lily was dragging her coat on, red-eyed and subdued now that her crying fit was over. ‘Th-this is all m-my fault.’

  ‘Don’t let me hear you say that again,’ Violet told her bluntly. ‘You understand? This is not your fault. It’s Stanley’s fault. And I’m going to make him pay for what he’s done to you, mark my words.’

  But Lily looked away, blinking miserably.

  Gathering all her strength, Violet pushed open the kitchen door and stared across the room at her aunt, who was standing by the table with folded arms and pursed lips.

  There was no sign of Uncle Stanley.

  ‘I’ll be needing our ration books back,’ Violet told her bluntly.

  Her aunt shuddered, then pointed to the Welsh dresser. ‘Behind the best teapot. And mind you only take your own. I won’t stand for no thieving.’

  Violet repressed a desire to shout a very rude word at her.

  Extracting their ration books, she stomped out of the kitchen without a word of goodbye to Margaret.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ she said cheerily, like they were going to the park, not leaving the only roof they had over their heads. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
r />   They slipped out through the front door, laden down with bags and cases, and trudged across the cobbled farmyard to the road. It was a good day to be thrown out, Violet thought with a touch of irony, the ground reasonably dry and the sun shining brilliantly over the sea. A downpour would have added considerably to their woes.

  All the same, she stood motionless on the road for a moment, peering up and down with absolutely no idea which way to turn.

  Left or right?

  ‘Which way, Aunty Violet?’ Alice asked, shifting her heaviest bag to the other hand. ‘Where are we headed?’

  I don’t know, Violet thought wretchedly, her heart pounding. But she could not let her uncertainty show. Not to these two helpless girls who were both looking to her for guidance.

  Turning right would lead them to the listening post at Porthcurno, a half hour’s walk if they didn’t dawdle. There might be work there, Hazel had said. Maybe work for all three of them.

  On the other hand, a left turn would take them to the bus stop and the resort town of Penzance. Except she barely had enough money for the bus fare, and what would they do once they were there? Where would they spend the night? She had a sudden terrible vision of them all sleeping under a hedge, or on a town bench under newspaper, and begging for food tomorrow, while she racked her brains for how best to raise three train fares back to Dagenham and her mother.

  Except the enemy were bombing both Penzance and London. It was no safer anywhere else than here. And something might yet turn up for them.

  Violet forced a brave smile to her lips. No point crying over spilt milk, she told herself. ‘Right,’ she told them firmly. ‘We’re going to Porthcurno.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Hazel?’

  Startled by the echo of George’s deep voice right behind her, Hazel jumped round, dripping mop in hand, and stared at him wide-eyed.

  She had been tasked with mopping floors once she’d finished clearing the tables after lunch, and still had several rooms and corridors to go. The soldiers in particular tended to traipse in and out of the house with mud on their boots, and without a thorough cleaning once a day, the place soon looked like a mess. It wasn’t her usual job, of course. But it gave her a chance to escape the steamy heat of the kitchen, where Mr Frobisher was preparing several large summer fruit puddings for tonight’s meal.

  ‘You gave me a fright!’

  ‘Sorry,’ George said awkwardly, and stood looking at her, jingling some loose change in his trouser pocket. ‘I seem to be making a habit of that.’

  ‘Maybe if you stopped creeping up on people …’

  ‘Not sure I do much creeping,’ he said, glancing ironically at his large feet. ‘Maybe you were mopping so loudly, you didn’t hear me.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She gripped the mop handle tightly, trying not to appear too friendly. ‘Can I help you, Mr Cotterill?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I wondered if you … erm …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘More of a request, really, but I wondered if you …’ George frowned, cutting himself off. ‘Hang on, what have you done there?’ He gestured to her knee, and she blushed under his scrutiny, horribly embarrassed. ‘That looks painful.’

  ‘I took a tumble, that’s all.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘A van driver nearly ran me off the road yesterday morning, driving like a maniac. In the rain too. I came off my bike.’ Hazel made a face, tugging at the hem of her skirt to cover the cuts and bruises. ‘It’s nothing, really.’ She managed a half-smile. ‘The bike looks worse.’

  ‘Do you know who the driver was? Not one of ours, I hope? Or I’ll have someone’s guts for garters, knocking you off your bicycle like that.’

  ‘It wasn’t an army van. Please don’t make a fuss.’

  ‘But you could have been killed.’

  ‘Only I wasn’t.’ She stuck her mop back in her steaming bucket of hot water, and sloshed it about a bit, staring at the soapy water instead of at him. Her tummy was turning somersaults at the look in his eyes and she dreaded him knowing how she felt. ‘It was just an accident. Sorry, I’ve a mountain of work to do. This is usually Amelia’s job. But she’s still off sick, and there are so many rooms to clean …’

  ‘I’ll sort out a cleaning detail to help you. Three men be enough?’

  ‘Soldiers? Cleaning?’

  ‘Why not?’ He grinned, instantly looking younger without that worried frown. ‘It’s part of the job. Plenty of young men out there with little to do but hang about in the sun, smoking and pretending to be on guard duty. They might as well give you a hand.’

  ‘I couldn’t! I wouldn’t know what to say to them.’

  ‘Mop here, mop there?’

  Hazel laughed reluctantly. ‘What was it you wanted to speak to me about, anyway? Since this water’s going cold now, might as well be a reason for it.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I … erm …’ His eyes met hers at last, and she felt a jolt at the intensity of that stare. ‘I wondered if you might be free to go out for a drink one night. At the pub.’

  She stared, not sure she had heard him correctly. ‘A d-drink? With you?’

  ‘That’s the general idea, yes. To catch up properly, you know. Have a good chin wag about old times.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Cotterill, I really can’t—’

  ‘George, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t possibly go for a drink with you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Hazel avoided his gaze, horribly uncomfortable at the confused note in his voice. If he knew about the baby she was carrying, she thought miserably, he would not be so interested. Well, he would know soon enough. And then she would lose her position, like as not.

  ‘I didn’t take this job on to … to be able to see you again, George. I took it on to earn some housekeeping money. For Charlie, you know.’ Her cheeks felt flushed. ‘I know you want to be friends. But I’m a married woman.’

  ‘Can’t a married woman have friends?’

  She gave him a direct look, then. ‘Not men friends, no.’

  Not men friends like you, she was thinking. Not men friends she fancied.

  ‘That brute doesn’t deserve you,’ he said grimly.

  His straight talking shocked her.

  ‘Maybe not, but that brute is still my husband.’ She slopped the mop back onto the floor, and began cleaning again, swishing the water about furiously. ‘Better move now, Mr Cotterill, before your feet get soaked. Thanks for the offer of some help, but I prefer to manage on my own.’

  ‘So I see,’ George said, and strode away without another word.

  Later, Mr Frobisher came to find her, a sour expression on his face. ‘I need you in the kitchen again. To prep for tonight’s dinner service and … and to clean up.’ With lips pursed as tight as if he were sucking a lemon, the cook gave a bitter little shake of his head. ‘One of my puddings exploded. It’s made a right bloody mess. Strawberry mush all over the floor, like half a battalion died there.’

  Hazel bit her lip rather than laugh. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Come on.’ He nodded to her bucket of dirty water. ‘And make sure you empty that before someone trips over it.’

  She had almost finished the mopping anyway, so nodded and followed him wearily to the kitchen, mop in one hand, heavy bucket in the other.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss? Are you Hazel?’

  She turned in surprise, and found a heavy-set, grey-haired soldier peering down the corridor after her. The man looked almost anxious, his brows drawn together in a frown, and her first horrified thought was that Charlie had been hurt.

  ‘Yes, I’m Hazel.’ She licked dry lips, her heart thudding. ‘Why … Why do you want to know?’

  ‘There’s someone asking for you. Down at the checkpoint.’

  With a small cry, she dumped her bucket in the middle of the corridor, ignoring Mr Frobisher’s remonstrations, and ran past the soldier to the side door.

  But when she hurried down to the c
heckpoint in hot sunshine, she found not Charlie, nor some teacher from the school come to give her dire news, but three bedraggled-looking young women waiting at the guardhouse, appearing wretched and tired, and laden down with bags and suitcases.

  Well, one woman about her own age, and two girls, she corrected herself, staring at the three of them in blank astonishment.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the soldier on the gate, a little gruffly. ‘This woman won’t go away. She claims to know you. But she hasn’t got a pass. Only her identity papers.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Hazel said dubiously. She turned to the woman, her tone cautious. ‘It’s Violet, isn’t it? From Chellew Farm.’ She gave them a half-smile, not wanting to seem rude but not sure what this was about. ‘What are you doing up here? And why did you ask to see me? I was in the middle of work, I could get in trouble for coming out …’

  She stopped, seeing tears well up in Violet’s eyes, and noticing the miserable expressions on the faces of the two girls beside her. Her nieces, as she recalled.

  ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened at the farm?’

  ‘Mrs Chellew, my aunt, has thrown us out. We’ve nowhere to stay.’ Violet paused, a red spot of embarrassment burning in each cheek at having to admit her misfortune in front of the soldiers, then added in a wavering voice, ‘And no money for food, or the fare back to London.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘You said there might be work going here.’ Violet glanced at the soldiers behind the roll of barbed wire, guarding the tunnel into the cliff, then studied the dripping mop that Hazel belatedly realised she was still clutching. ‘We’re honest and hardworking, and we’ll do anything, me and the girls. Mop floors, clean tables, cook food. Whatever’s needed.’

  Hazel did not know what to say.

  ‘Please,’ one of the girls said plaintively. The youngest one, she guessed. ‘We can’t go back to the farm. My uncle attacked Lily, and then my aunt threw us out. Like it was our fault!’