by Betty Walker
There was a dark-haired man standing a few feet away, deep in earnest conversation with George Cotterill, the kindly fellow who’d agreed to give her and the girls a job. Violet could only see him in profile, but she’d recognised him at once, and felt her heart rate suddenly accelerate.
It was Joe Postbridge, the man from the beach at Penzance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hazel moved past Violet, who was still rooted in the middle of the corridor, a flush in her usually pale cheeks. What on earth was wrong with the East End girl today? She had seemed lost in her memories outside, her mind elsewhere while Hazel was talking. Either that or she had been bored rigid by all her talk of cookery and ration books, and hadn’t bothered responding. Now her eyes were wide and her mouth was partly open, and if Hazel hadn’t known better, she would have said Violet was panting …
Then she saw George Cotterill up ahead, and the question died on her lips. If he’d been looking harassed earlier, he now looked positively furious.
Whatever could be wrong?
He was talking to a man she knew vaguely, Mr Postbridge’s nephew. His name was Joe, and he’d just moved in to Swelle Farm, not far from Eastern House. Joe’s uncle Harold, a widower, had passed away earlier that year, and Joe had inherited the farm from him. Which was quite a step up in the world for a lad who had lived most of his life in a tiny two-up, two-down, terraced house in Penzance with his mother, his father having died of pneumonia some years ago.
The young man was lucky to have such an inheritance, she thought, especially given the dreadful bombing of his ship, which had cost him a leg and sent him home early from the war. A man with only one leg would always struggle to find work, and Joe had been his uncle’s favourite as a boy, a frequent visitor to Porthcurno over the years.
Now he was here, leaning on a stick and talking to George in his low, deep voice, and whatever he was saying appeared to have rattled George no end.
‘Come on!’ Hurriedly, she dragged a stiff-legged Violet by the arm past both men, giving George and his visitor a polite smile, and hoped he wouldn’t notice they’d been slacking in their duties. ‘Mr Cotterill. Mr Postbridge.’
George merely nodded at them both without speaking, his face preoccupied. But Hazel knew she was not imagining the quick glance that flashed between Violet and Joe.
In the kitchen, Mr Frobisher was out of sight in one of the side pantries. But he could be heard instructing the two girls in the correct stacking of dishes in the china cupboard, while they chorused, ‘Yes, Mr Frobisher, sir,’ in docile tones after every command.
Hazel put her hands on her hips, staring at Violet. ‘What was all that about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For goodness’ sake! I saw the way he looked at you.’
Violet’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Who?’
‘Joe Postbridge.’
‘You know him?’
‘Of course I know him, I’ve lived here my whole life. I know everyone. Though Joe and his mother live in Penzance. Or rather they did, until quite recently.’
‘You mean, Joe lives here in Porthcurno now?’ Violet’s voice was squeaky.
‘He just inherited his late uncle’s place, Swelle Farm, a mile or so up the road. He was really close to his uncle, especially after his dad died. I think they only moved in last week, because of the bombing raid in Penzance. I heard it was really bad.’ Hazel looked at her friend, churning with curiosity now. ‘Come on, spill the beans. How on earth do you know Joe?’
‘Why do you think he knows me?’
‘Because I saw his face. He was surprised to see you, I can tell you that. Surprised … and pleased too.’
Now Violet’s cheeks were a deep rose-pink. ‘Oh, really? You think so?’
‘I’m waiting.’
Violet bit her lip, looked at the open door to the side pantry, then whispered in a low voice as though worried her nieces would overhear, ‘All right, all right. I met him on the beach at Penzance a little while ago. Such a gent. And so good-looking.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. We chatted for a bit, then I had to take the girls to catch the bus back to Porthcurno.’ Violet shrugged. ‘That’s all.’
Hazel was disappointed. ‘Nothing else?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘The way Joe looked at you, I thought he must be on a promise, at least.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ But Violet giggled, suddenly looking five years younger. She touched her hair, self-conscious. ‘He did give us a good looking over though, didn’t he?’
‘I’ll say.’
‘And I did like him. Such a nice way of talking. And that Cornish accent. He must charm the birds out of the trees, that one. I could listen to him all day.’
Hazel wondered if that was why she had been so far away this morning, but merely said, ‘You don’t mind about his leg, then?’ If Bertie came home from the war with an injury, she wouldn’t think any the less of him. But they were married. ‘I mean, Joe’s a looker, for sure. Always has been. But it don’t put you off none?’
‘Why would it?’ Violet’s eyes were shining. ‘He served his country, didn’t he? As far as I’m concerned, the man’s a bloody hero.’
‘And you aren’t worried by the other thing?’
‘What other thing?’
‘Well, his shortness.’ Hazel hid a grin, baiting her friend a little. ‘What is he, five foot five?’ She looked Violet up and down. ‘You’re a little mismatched.’
Violet stared at her, then sucked in her breath when Hazel burst out laughing. ‘You effing tease! You’re bloomin’ pulling my leg, ain’t you?’ She laughed too. ‘As if it matters that I’m taller than him.’
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’
‘What on earth do you two squawking hens think you’re doing?’ Mr Frobisher had emerged from the side pantry with a gigantic tureen in his hands. He glared at them disapprovingly. ‘You ought to be setting an example to the younger women. Not behaving like a pair of cackling fishwives on market day.’
Behind him, Alice and Lily peered at them, both girls bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, hands clapped over their mouths as though to stop themselves from laughing. They had seemed overawed on first meeting Frobisher this morning. But no doubt they’d heard plenty more choice comments like that from him, and were having trouble not openly sniggering at him now.
Violet went quite red herself, as though this insult were the last straw. Her voice shook as she stuttered, ‘F-Fishwives? Why, you—!’
Hazel caught her arm, shaking her head in warning. ‘Shush,’ she mouthed.
He shouldn’t have said that, it was true. But if Violet antagonised him, they might both find themselves out of work. And Hazel needed this job desperately.
She turned to Mr Frobisher, a quick apologetic smile on her face. ‘Sorry, sir. We were just letting off steam. It’s nasty work, cleaning up in them tunnels. And in this heat too. It won’t happen again, I promise.’
‘Hmm.’ Mr Frobisher walked in a stately fashion to the table and deposited the tureen there, then whirled to fix them both with a beady-eyed look. ‘Well …’
‘What can we do to help with lunch?’ Hazel asked.
‘Wash your hands first. Thoroughly, mind, with hot water and soap.’
‘Yes, Mr Frobisher.’
‘Then you can finish laying the tables out in the mess. You’ll see the girls have already cleared the breakfast things away, and scrubbed down the wood to my satisfaction.’ He turned to Alice and Lily, whose giggling faces fell into docile lines at once. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but all he said was ‘Hurry about your chores, then. You know what to do.’
‘Yes, Mr Frobisher,’ the two girls chorused demurely, and scurried to their separate stations, Lily stirring today’s soup, which smelt like pea and ham, and Alice peeling and coring apples for dessert.
Hazel and Violet took turns washing their hands with strong-smelling tar soap, then changed their damp apron
s for clean ones, and carried the large cutlery and condiments baskets between them into the mess.
Slamming knives and forks down higgledy-piggledy on the well-scrubbed tables, Violet muttered a few choice insults about Mr Frobisher that meant nothing to Hazel, thankfully. Probably some East End slang. But after a few minutes her friend seemed to calm down, going back and straightening the place settings.
‘Do you really think he likes me, then?’ Violet asked, stretching across to position salt and pepper shakers in the middle of one table. ‘Joe Postbridge, I mean.’
‘It looked to me like he did, yes.’
A slow smile crept across Violet’s face, and again she looked years younger. ‘Well, I like him as well. Mind you, we only got five minutes to speak on the beach. And I was too shy to say much. Proper tongue-tied, I was.’
‘Sometimes words aren’t what’s important.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing here.’
Hazel thought about it, adjusting the knives and forks she’d just laid out. ‘Probably something to do with his farm. With all the new soldiers arriving, I expect George is looking for fresh sites for them to set up camp.’
‘Talk of the devil,’ Violet muttered in warning.
With a start, Hazel realised that the door into the mess hall had just opened. She raised her head from her work only to find herself looking into George’s serious eyes.
He crooked a finger at her.
‘A minute, Hazel?’
She put down her cutlery basket, and followed him outside into the echoing corridor. Her heart was beating fast, and she had to focus on not seeming flustered. Had she done something wrong?
But what he said took her completely by surprise. ‘I’ve found you a car,’ he said, and jangled a set of car keys from his fingers. ‘I need you here on time, and I know you don’t have enough bicycles to go around.’
Hazel stared at him in astonishment. ‘A c-car?’
‘It’s an old van, actually. It was round the back of the stores. Nobody seemed to be using it. I cleaned it out and got it running again.’
‘Oh, George!’
‘It was the least I could do, given your transport issues. Though don’t tell any of the other domestic staff, or they’ll all want a car.’ It was a joke, but she could tell he was half-serious. ‘You know what people are like. I don’t want to be accused of favouritism.’
‘I won’t say a word.’
‘You know how to drive, I suppose?’
‘I’ve passed my test.’
‘Excellent.’ George glanced over his shoulder as though worried someone might be listening, but the corridor was empty. There were still about forty-five minutes until first sitting for luncheon. He lowered his voice, standing a little closer. ‘Look, I’m going to run you ladies back to the house myself tonight, then walk home on foot. Just to reassure myself the car’s in good working order.’
‘There’s no need,’ she began, but George held up a hand.
‘I insist.’
Hazel felt a glow inside at the warm look in his eyes, the protective tone in his voice. And then hated herself for feeling like that. What was wrong with her?
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, smiling.
He smiled too.
For a moment, there was an odd silence between them. His serious gaze met hers, and for once she did not look away.
‘See you outside at the end of your shift, then,’ George said, and strode away.
Hazel watched him go, and could not decide what to do, twisting her fresh apron in her hands until it was horribly creased.
What she felt for George Cotterill was wrong, plain and simple. Yet she could not help liking him. Even loving him, perhaps, as she had loved him once before, though without really understanding the meaning of the word back then. She did not love Bertie anymore. That was becoming more obvious with every day that passed. She rarely even thought of him now, except with a sense of fear and loathing. But she was still his wife, and moreover, was carrying his child.
Some things mattered more than love, especially in times of war.
Like duty.
She would do her duty, of course, and steer clear of George Cotterill.
Yet somehow that promise rang hollow this time. She had smiled at him just now. And spoken softly. And George had smiled at her too. The way a man smiles at a woman when they have a secret understanding.
Something had shifted between them. Hazel wasn’t sure exactly what or why. But she was in deep trouble, and she knew it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Eva almost forgot to meet Hazel during the lunch break, but dashed out of the tunnel and over to the front lawn just in time to catch her getting up to leave. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I got caught up with work. You’re not off, are you?’
Hazel was with the new woman, Violet, and two fresh-faced girls, who got up from the striped deckchairs they’d been occupying and studied her with undisguised interest. They were clearly both relatives of Violet, because all three shared the same pert, turned-up nose and thin, mobile lips. Not to mention the same sharp-eyed watchfulness.
The younger girl crammed a rough-cut sandwich triangle into her mouth, staring at Eva, but at least knew enough manners not to eat with her mouth open.
‘Sorry, girls, have I spoiled your lunch break?’ Eva pumped their hands heartily up and down in turn as Hazel introduced them. ‘Hello, Lily. Hello, Alice.’ She grinned at their startled looks; no doubt they weren’t used to being greeted so enthusiastically. ‘I’m Eva, and I need your help in organising a dance. You game for that?’
The older girl brightened at once, her sulky expression turning to enthusiasm. She was astonishingly pretty, Eva decided, with lovely flaxen hair and huge eyes. ‘Just try and stop me!’ she exclaimed, her East End accent strangely at odds with her beauty. Then she faltered, looking sideways at the two older women. ‘If Aunty Vi will let me, that is …’
‘Oh yes, please, Aunty Vi,’ the younger one agreed, swallowing the last of her sandwich before continuing with a disarming honesty, ‘I mean, it’s not bad being ’ere instead of at the farm. It beats pulling up taters all day long, that’s for sure. But a dance would be … Well, better than taters, anyhow!’
Eva laughed at her pleading expression. So, these two charmingly outspoken girls were Violet’s nieces. She wondered fleetingly where the mother was, but decided not to ask. They were from the East End, not from around here. And she had lost too many people in the nightly bombing in and around London not to realise that stupid questions like that, more often than not, led to horrific answers.
‘Well, Aunty Vi?’ Eva asked Violet instead, as brightly as she could. ‘What do you say? In or out?’
Violet seemed to be in a daze, not quite listening. Instead, she was looking at Lily. ‘I s’pose so. If you girls want to have a dance, then yes, why not? Though Hazel’s the one who knows what’s what.’
‘Hazel?’ Eva turned to her hopefully.
‘Well, there is a church hall to the west of here, about a two-mile walk.’ Hazel looked dubious. ‘If we can get permission from the vicar, that is.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Eva said, pleased by the idea of a venue so close to the camp. ‘And perhaps you should leave the vicar to me.’ She tapped a finger against her lips, thinking hard. ‘Hmm. Does this vicar have a wife?’
Hazel nodded. ‘Mrs Clewson.’
‘Then I shall pay Mrs Clewson a visit. Though it might be a good idea if you were to come with me, Hazel.’
‘Me?’ Hazel’s eyes widened.
‘Of course. I’ll need you to make the introductions.’ She tipped her head to one side, regarding Hazel curiously. ‘What’s the matter? Is the vicar’s wife a bit of a dragon?’
The girls giggled, but Hazel looked even more uncomfortable.
‘No, it’s not that. But Porthcurno … It’s a small place and people gossip.’
‘About you? Surely not.’
Hazel seemed embarr
assed. ‘My husband Bertie hasn’t always behaved in a respectable fashion – let’s put it like that. And we’ve never been big churchgoers. I’m not sure I’d be welcome at the vicarage.’
‘Nonsense.’ Eva gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I need you there. You know the area, I don’t. But if you need support, maybe Violet and the girls would like to come too?’ She looked at them. ‘How about it, girls? Do you fancy a walk to the vicarage one day soon, see if we can squeeze a biscuit or two out of the vicar’s wife?’
‘Yes, please,’ Lily and Alice chorused, grinning with pleasure.
Violet darted a quick glance at Lily’s shining face, and said to Hazel, ‘That does sound like a nice day out. Maybe on our next afternoon off?’ There was a pleading note to her voice. ‘I’ll come along to back you up.’
‘Oh …’ Hazel rolled her eyes. ‘Very well, then.’
‘Excellent, thank you.’ Eva gave Hazel a hug, squeezing her tight. ‘Then it’s as good as done. Soon, we’ll all be dancing our feet sore and having a whale of a time at the old church hall.’
‘You don’t know much about the Cornish if you think that,’ Hazel said drily. ‘We tend to do things dreckly.’
Eva frowned, not understanding. ‘What does dreckly mean?’
‘Only that we like to do things in our own good time.’ Hazel straightened her white headscarf, which had become lopsided during Eva’s hug. ‘Or never.’
‘Oh, nonsense! Tell you what, once we’ve decided on a date for the dance, I’ll design a poster, and do a few copies. Maybe you girls could stick them up here and there. Church porch, bus stops, lamp-posts …’ Eva came to a halt, looking round at their laughing faces. ‘What? Have I said something funny?’
‘Bus stops? Lamp-posts? This isn’t a big town; this is the countryside,’ Hazel explained gently. ‘The bus stops where it always has, or where you ask it to. There isn’t usually a bus stop. And we don’t have many lamp-posts out here in the middle of nowhere.’
‘So, how on earth do we tell people there’s going to be a dance?’
Hazel grinned. ‘Word of mouth, of course. People have a way of knowing what’s going on round here, even without lamp-posts and bus stops.’ She chewed thoughtfully on her lip. ‘Though we could put a poster up in the mess, if Mr Cotterill or the colonel don’t disapprove.’