by Betty Walker
At dinner last night, she had spotted him eyeing Lily sideways at the table, who had returned a few shy smiles. Violet had been unsure at first, and then made up her mind not to worry about it. A little country romance might suit the girl, make her less homesick. But only so long as it didn’t turn serious. Lily was still recovering from that ordeal with her uncle, damn his wandering hands, and the last thing the girl needed was to get her heart broken by a local boy.
Now, Charlie gave a grunt. ‘Better get dressed then, I suppose.’
‘That’s the ticket,’ Violet said breezily, and waved the long-handled fork in his direction. ‘Breakfast is nearly ready, anyway.’
The boy nodded. ‘And your girls? Are they awake too?’ He glanced up at the ceiling as though expecting to see a head pop through the floorboards. ‘Lily up yet?’
Violet smirked, recognising the hopeful note in his voice. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?’ she asked, emphasising the word ‘school’ to remind him he was younger than Lily.
Charlie blushed, and disappeared back into the sitting room.
Hmm, possibly a situation to watch.
Violet lifted the heavy pan of sausages off the heat and went outside.
She found Hazel in the act of leaving the red-brick outside lav, her face a ghastly white, a hand at her belly. It was obvious what had just happened.
‘How far gone are you?’ she asked bluntly.
Hazel did not bother to deny that she was pregnant. And why should she, as a married woman? She whispered, ‘Not too far. Bertie came home on leave in the spring.’ Some women would have been ecstatic at such news. But she was not smiling. ‘I was so shocked when I realised what had happened. I mean, it’s been years since I had Charlie. So I never thought …’
Violet saw the unhappy expression in her eyes, and guessed this surprise pregnancy was far from welcome. What she couldn’t work out was why.
‘What’s the matter, love? Not keen on having another kiddy?’
Hazel hesitated, then shook her head.
‘It shouldn’t be too much hard work for you,’ Violet said firmly, though she was still confused. She gave Hazel a quick hug. ‘You can’t be much past thirty.’
‘It’s not that.’ Hazel bit her lip, and her eyes swam with tears. She lowered her voice even further, until Violet had to bend close to catch the words. ‘Me and Bertie … It’s not been right for a while. He drinks, you see.’
He drinks, you see.
Those four simple words hid years of pain, Violet thought, suddenly angry for her friend. Belatedly, she recalled what Aunt Margaret had said about Violet’s husband – a drunkard and a liar. Spiteful as her aunt was, it seemed she had been right on this occasion. But the little ’un was in there now, and no amount of wishing would get it out. And maybe a new baby would bring Hazel some comfort during this awful war. Though it was clear she couldn’t see the positive side of things just yet.
‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk,’ Violet said, as cheerfully as she could manage. Her tummy rumbled noisily and she grinned. ‘My belly thinks my throat’s been cut. And we must be running late. Best go back inside before the kids start helping themselves to everything in the cupboard.’
‘Thank you,’ Hazel said awkwardly, ‘and I’m so sorry about this. I thought I was over the morning sickness. It was just the smell of frying … It set me off again.’
‘Don’t you fret. I’ll serve breakfast.’
‘Wait.’ Hazel caught her arm as she turned away, her look fearful. ‘Look, you won’t say anything in front of the kids? Charlie doesn’t know. And I’m not ready to tell the world yet. Just in case …’ She sucked in her breath. ‘That is, until I’m good and sure.’
She meant until she was sure she wasn’t going to miscarry, Violet thought. Her sister had miscarried twice in the early weeks, so she knew all about the misery that could bring. Best to spare the boy that knowledge, no doubt.
‘My lips are sealed,’ Violet told her, and mimed buttoning her mouth. Then she added, as an afterthought, ‘So, if you’re not up to eating breakfast today, does that mean one of them sausages is going begging?’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On arriving at Eastern House, Hazel took the two girls and Violet to see George Cotterill first, to make sure their paperwork had passed scrutiny and for them to sign the Official Secrets Act. Violet seemed to find the interview nerve-wracking, chewing on a nail until it was ragged. But George was happy enough with his new employees, shaking all their hands and welcoming them to Porthcurno with a friendly smile.
‘How are you settling in at Mrs Baxter’s cottage?’ he asked Violet.
‘Me and the girls are over the moon, sir. Such a lovely view from the windows, and all as snug as can be,’ Violet said enthusiastically. ‘I can’t thank Hazel enough for putting us up.’
‘She’s a very generous lady,’ he agreed, glancing at Hazel.
Hazel could not help beaming with pleasure. ‘You should come round one evening,’ she said impulsively. ‘Have dinner with us.’
But his smile faded at her words. ‘Sorry, I … I have to go’ was all George said, before picking up a clipboard and hurrying out.
He barely looked at me, Hazel thought unhappily, watching him go. She had spoken above her station and been put in her place. George Cotterill was her employer at Eastern House and she had asked him to dinner as though they were equals. But he’d asked her out for drinks before, so why not? Still, the last thing she needed right now was George on her mind, along with Charlie wanting to enlist and the complication of her unwanted pregnancy …
‘Mr Frobisher next,’ she said with forced cheerfulness. ‘To sort out uniforms for you all, and get your cleaning detail.’
Mr Frobisher had clearly been made aware of their arrival, as he was not surprised when they trooped into one of the pantries in search of him. He seemed deeply displeased by the idea of two young women on his domestic staff, looking Lily and Alice over with pursed lips and a disapproving glare. But he unlocked the staff wardrobe and waited for them to take turns changing in the cramped outside loo, the only ablutions the cleaning staff were allowed to use at Eastern House.
Soon all three of them were kitted out with uniforms like Hazel’s own, a plain white blouse with buff skirt and jacket.
‘Ugh, this feels like sackcloth,’ Lily complained, plucking at the rough yellowish-brown fabric of her skirt. ‘And it smells like it too. I’m wearing a potato sack.’
Mr Frobisher shot her a sour look, but clearly disdained speaking to a Young Person. ‘Buckets’ was all he said, and handed Hazel one, then passed the other to Violet in a forbidding manner. ‘Make sure you add disinfectant as well as soap. One of the men was sick and it needs clearing up.’ He made a face. ‘It’s this nasty thing that’s going round. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the enemy was behind it.’
Hazel blenched, hating this kind of job. Especially when she had only recently been unwell herself. And how embarrassing to have been caught by her house guest!
She avoided Violet’s gaze.
But to her relief, the Londoner didn’t even glance in her direction. Violet was a good sort, Hazel decided. A little rough round the edges, but with a friendly smile. Heart of gold, as her mother might have said.
‘I don’t mind a bit of mess, Mister,’ Violet said cheerily.
Hazel part-filled her bucket from the steaming water-boiler, adding disinfectant as well as detergent, then Violet followed suit while Mr Frobisher, arms folded, watched intently.
‘That’s me done.’ Violet swung her bucket so the hot soapy water spilt over the edge onto the tiled floor. ‘Oops, sorry.’
‘Be careful there,’ Mr Frobisher growled, but Violet seemed unabashed by his tone.
‘Sorry, Mister.’ Violet winked at him. ‘Now, don’t you fret. I’ll soon get the hang of it. I’m glad to have the work.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And no bombs falling. That’s the best.’
‘The listening room? You mean, in one of the underground rooms?’
Hazel was amazed. She had never been asked to clean up in any of the underground rooms before. The area was top secret and constantly guarded.
‘They have their own cleaning staff, ordinarily. But the duty man’s off sick himself. I was asked to provide suitable cleaners from among the domestic staff to fill the gap.’ Mr Frobisher studied them both down the length of his lofty nose. ‘I would say your talents make you two an obvious choice for this job.’
‘’Ere, you calling us scrubbers?’ Violet demanded, her colour suddenly high. ‘Not very complimentary, are you?’
Hazel tensed, expecting Mr Frobisher to issue some stern reprimand. But although his face stiffened, ‘On your way’ was all he said in response to her outburst. Then he nodded to Lily and Alice. ‘You two girls, stop smirking and follow me. I’ve plenty of kitchen work for you to do. You can start by tidying up the store cupboard.’
‘Bye, Aunty Vi,’ the girls chorused as they were led away, looking a little nervous.
Violet waved, then once they were out of sight she blew out her cheeks with a look of exasperation. ‘Bloody rude man.’
Hazel was astonished by her courage. Especially given that she was so new to this job, and to Cornwall. If Hazel were to be shipped off to London and given a job in the city, she would be speechless, or at least very shy. And she certainly wouldn’t have dared give her boss any cheek.
‘I don’t know how you got away with that,’ she whispered to Violet as they trudged away, buckets in hand. ‘I thought he was going to tear a strip off you.’
‘Oh, I’ve met his sort before,’ Violet confided, not bothering to keep her voice low. ‘Loud enough, but they’re all bluster. They only bully you until you stand up to them. That surprises ’em, see? So they scurry off with their tails between their legs. Like that one did.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the kitchen door. ‘Trick is, not to let the nasty blighters get away with it. Soon as they start hectoring, you come back fast. Shuts most of ’em up right away.’
Hazel did not know what to say. But she could not help laughing. And then could not seem to stop, snorting with giggles, her shoulders shaking.
‘What now?’ Violet asked, stopping to gaze at her. Her tone was a little aggrieved, as though she thought Hazel was making fun of her. Which she wasn’t, of course. She thought Violet very brave and rather wonderful too. ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No, sorry … It was just the thought of Mr Fr-Frobisher … scurrying … with his tail … between his legs,’ Hazel somehow managed to reply between hiccupping laughs. ‘Like a scared rabbit …’
Violet laughed too, then also could not seem to stop.
By the time they reached the barbed wire barrier in front of the tunnel that led to the underground listening post, both of them were shaking with laughter, their buckets swaying, steaming water sloshing onto the ground.
The two guards stared at them in blank astonishment. The older one pushed back his helmet to scratch his balding head.
‘You two got a touch of the sun, or what? Only listening post personnel get to go inside.’
‘Sorry.’ Hazel sobered, and hurriedly passed across her identity card. ‘Mr Frobisher sent us. We have to go into the listening post. Apparently someone was sick in there?’
He took her card and studied it, then took the one Violet was holding out. His brows rose. ‘Essex?’ he said with a long whistle. ‘That’s next to London, isn’t it? You’re a long way from home, ain’t you?’
‘I’ve heard that’s going round. You’re not Cornish either, are you?’ Violet held out her hand and he returned her card, clearly taken aback by her pert reply. ‘Ta, love.’
Hazel took back her card and tucked it back into the pocket of her cleaning apron. ‘Everything all right, then? Can we go in and clean up the mess?’
‘I suppose so, if Mr Frobisher sent you. But don’t take too long, or I might have to come in after you.’ The guard gave her a wink, and nodded to his younger companion to move the barrier aside. ‘Best watch your step, girls. It’s bloody dark in there. Takes a minute or two for your eyes to adjust.’
Hazel peered over his uniformed shoulder at the narrow gaping tunnel he was guarding. The army had dug it deep into the rocky hillside, like the entrance to a mineshaft. They had tried to keep it quiet, but people in Porthcurno knew it was there, even if they didn’t know what it was for. The official line had been a shortcut to the other side of the headland, where there was a pub, but nobody had believed that story.
She could understand why its true purpose had to be kept as quiet as possible though. If the enemy ever found out about the tunnels at Porthcurno, fire would rain from the skies every night until they were destroyed, the buildings flattened and everyone here killed. Including her, and possibly Charlie, if their little row of cottages caught a stray bomb. None of them would stand a chance.
And maybe the Germans already knew about Porthcurno, and were merely biding their time, trying to pinpoint its exact location before striking.
Suddenly all the laughter left her, and Hazel felt only apprehensive. She didn’t like the idea of going underground. And not just because this might already be an enemy target, for all she knew. She’d never liked confined spaces, and the thought of going inside the cliff, with all that weight of earth piled on top of their heads …
The idea made her feel queasy again.
Violet seemed to catch her mood, her lips tightening. But she gave Hazel a nudge with her elbow. ‘Come on, then, love. That floor won’t mop itself.’
Hazel nodded silently.
One after the other, heavy metal buckets sloshing with water, the two women walked out of bright sunshine and into the tunnels under the hillside at Porthcurno.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Eva did not know when she had ever been so frightened. Never in her life, she decided. She wasn’t the type to frighten easily, as even her father would admit, and when that bomb fell, killing so many around her, there had been no time to feel fear. Now, though, there was time. Too much time, she realised, glancing up at the relentless ticking arm of the wall clock. What was she supposed to do? Who should she speak to first?
She gazed about the room, but everybody else had gone outside for their morning tea break. She would have joined them, having fallen in love with the tangy sea air and bright Cornish sunshine. But one of the noisy machines had started clacking and spitting out tape just as she was leaving. The young man who was usually on duty during tea breaks had gone pale earlier this morning, and abruptly thrown up, leaving Eva herself feeling a little sick too, just at the vile smell. The sergeant on duty outside had come in and helped him to his quarters, and nobody had been sent to replace him yet.
‘Some tummy bug going round,’ the sergeant had remarked cheerfully, touching his cap as she stepped out of the way. ‘Sorry about that, Miss.’
‘Where’s the duty orderly?’ Templeton had asked the man irritably, making a face at the smell. ‘That mess needs cleaning up.’
‘Orderly’s sick, sir.’
‘For God’s sake!’
‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll get the cleaners sent in, have that gone in a jiffy.’
‘See that you do, Sergeant.’
But the promised cleaners had not yet arrived, and the rank air in the underground tunnels had now grown almost unbearable. No wonder everyone had piled outside for a ciggy at break time, desperate for fresh air. Meanwhile, an important message had arrived, and Eva had been the only one there to intercept it.
Eva read the message again, still unsure what to do.
It was in code.
The cryptic line was followed by a numerical sequence. Fear turned to sudden exhilaration as her brain began to work again. It was an identification number, which she was pretty certain must indicate a vessel in their fleet. There would be a code book somewhere, to check the number against. And though she had no idea what POLLY PUT THE KETTLE ON might mean, it had to be important, otherwise why send the message?
Closing her fist about the precious message tape, Eva dragged open the heavy listening room door, and then rushed down the dimly lit corridor to the outside world. But her passage was blocked by two figures ahead, silhouetted against the sunshine.
She blinked and stopped dead, startled by this unexpected sight.
As they came closer, Eva saw them more clearly. Two women in buff uniforms, each carrying a mop and a steaming bucket that stank of disinfectant.
‘Oh, thank God!’ she exclaimed, recognising one of the women as Hazel Baxter. She pivoted on her heel and pointed back down the corridor. ‘The mess is down there. It smells appalling. Thank you so much, Hazel, and, erm …’ She peered at the other woman, who seemed younger than Hazel, with a pretty, flushed face and shining eyes. She was also slightly taller than Eva, which was unusual enough to intrigue her. ‘I’m sorry, we haven’t met.’
‘No, Miss.’ The other woman gave her a sweet smile. ‘I’m new here – it’s my first day. I’m Hazel’s friend.’ She had a strong East End accent, like several of the club girls she’d known in London. ‘My name’s Vi.’