Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  Violet stared the longest, then sat back with a sigh once the house sign and field were both out of sight. ‘It’s so strange to think he lives so close to Eastern House. He didn’t mention he was about to move here, that day we met him on the beach.’

  ‘He’s always been a very private person,’ Hazel turned round to say. ‘And I believe his mother wasn’t too keen on leaving Penzance. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.’

  ‘Listening to village gossip?’ George shook his head, an amused note in his voice. ‘Whatever happened to “careless talk costs lives”?’

  Hazel blushed, and faced front again. ‘Gossip can be useful, sometimes.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway, I doubt Joe’s mother would be of much interest to the enemy.’

  Soon, the row of terraced cottages was ahead, and her own modest home. Hazel’s smile faded as she thought about Charlie, how surly and defiant her son had been recently towards her. She was worried about him. The problem was, he was at that age where lads are trying hard to be men, so don’t like to take a woman’s advice, even their own mother’s.

  But perhaps if a man were to take him aside, find out what was troubling the boy, that might be just the ticket.

  ‘Might I ask you a favour, George?’ Hazel looked at him, twisted up inside with sudden, brutal anxiety. ‘That is, I mean …’

  She didn’t want him to take this the wrong way.

  ‘Anything,’ he said quickly.

  ‘It’s my Charlie,’ she blurted out before she could change her mind. ‘I’ve been having trouble with him.’

  ‘Too many women in the house for him, is that it?’ George slowed, pulling up outside the row of cottages. He lowered his voice. ‘Especially two girls about his own age. Perfectly understandable.’ He called through to the back. ‘We’re here, ladies! You should be able to open the doors from the inside.’

  With wild whoops, Alice and Lily threw open the double doors at the back, clambering out. The ancient ambulance rocked as they jumped down, followed in a more stately fashion by Violet, who kept muttering under her breath about preferring to walk. No doubt being trapped in the back of the lumbering old vehicle all the way home had left her feeling a bit queasy.

  Hazel did not get out. She watched the other three make their way indoors, Lily retrieving the key from under the loose slab as she had been shown.

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ Hazel said, remembering some of the scenes with her son, heated conversations that had left her upset and unsure what to do for the best. ‘Charlie … He’s been talking about joining up.’

  ‘Wants to do his bit for King and country?’ George gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, what lad doesn’t? I wouldn’t worry. He’s still at school. Too young for the armed forces.’

  ‘He’s fifteen, and he says …’ She bit her lip, tears pricking at her eyelids. ‘Charlie says they turn a blind eye at the recruiting office. That he can change the birth date on his identity papers, and nobody will be any the wiser before it’s too late and he’s been shipped out.’ She was finding it hard to keep her voice level, a wobble behind her words. ‘It’s because of his dad not being here. I mean, they don’t get on that well. But a boy needs his father, doesn’t he? And with Bertie at the front, I can’t seem to make him see sense.’

  ‘Hazel, please,’ he said soothingly, ‘don’t get yourself in a state.’

  Hazel.

  He usually called her Mrs Baxter, as though he needed a constant reminder that she was a married woman.

  She shivered, despite the heat in the enclosed space.

  ‘But what am I going to do?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the lad, all right? Put him straight on a few things.’ He hesitated, looking at her uncertainly, then patted her hand with an awkward air. ‘I hate to see you so upset.’

  Hazel said nothing, head down, hunting through her pockets in vain for a handkerchief. Much to her embarrassment, she could feel a tear rolling down her cheek. She hadn’t intended to cry in front of him. She never cried in front of Bertie or Charlie these days, however upset she was feeling inside. In these terrible times, she saw it as a wife and mother’s job to be strong and unshakeable. But George’s quiet sympathy had been the last straw.

  ‘Here,’ he said, producing a clean white hanky. He leant across and dabbed at her eyes, his touch soft as a butterfly’s wings. ‘You can’t go inside like that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  His face was so close, she was looking straight into his eyes. It was hard to ignore the attraction between them, sitting alone with him, only a few inches apart. He was so bloody kind – that was the problem. The complete opposite of Bertie. A man she could rely on, not someone who would let her down time and again.

  Hazel gave a little gasp, struggling against the feelings coursing through her. His lashes flickered down to hide the tormented look in his eyes, as though he felt the same.

  ‘Oh, Hazel,’ he murmured.

  She looked at his handsome face and stupidly did not move away, helpless to resist. Which was when the impossible happened, as she had known it must in the end.

  George cupped her cheek with one hand and leant forward to kiss her, ever so slowly, watching her face, giving her plenty of time to wriggle away or call a halt.

  Only she did not take the chance to escape.

  His lips were gentle but insistent.

  Guilt swamped her.

  This was so wrong, she thought wildly. It was only a kiss, perhaps, but it must count as adultery, and she had made an oath to God in church, never to betray her husband.

  Still, she did not push George away, even raising her head and kissing him back for a brief moment of madness. Bertie had betrayed her often enough, after all. And it was so lovely to be held close and kissed at last, and not out of brute need but tenderness …

  So what happened next was entirely her own fault, and nobody else’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Violet glanced out the front window at the pair still sitting in the ambulance out the front, and was shocked and amazed to see George Cotterill kissing Hazel.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she muttered.

  It was just as well the girls had both gone out the back with her washtub to get the dirty laundry washed before supper. But they’d be back soon enough once they’d wrung the wet clothes through the mangle.

  Then she heard feet thudding on the stairs, and caught a glimpse of Charlie running past at top speed, his face bright red. The front door was wrenched open, then the boy tore across to the ambulance, shouting, ‘Get your filthy hands off my mother!’

  Violet bit her lip, not sure whether to follow him out or leave well alone.

  Charlie must have been up in his bedroom when they came home, she realised, the small room overlooking the front, which they had invaded on their arrival. Getting fresh clothes, she imagined.

  Poor boy – what a thing to see. His mum kissing another man while his dad was away at the front. Though from what she’d heard about Hazel’s husband, he wasn’t exactly an ideal man. And George Cotterill seemed to be a good one, as men went. But she doubted the lad would see it like that. Your dad was your dad, whatever he might have done.

  George Cotterill had stumbled out of the driver’s seat and was facing off against the boy, who was almost as tall as him. He had his hands up and was clearly trying to defuse the situation, but Charlie was yelling insults at him.

  ‘Whatever’s going on?’

  Lily was in the doorway, staring at her, a dripping blouse over her arm.

  ‘Nothing to do with you, missy,’ Violet told her hurriedly.

  ‘But that’s Charlie, isn’t it? And in a right temper, by the sound of it.’

  Sure enough, Charlie’s voice could be heard outside the house, his rage and misery loud as a thunder crack.

  ‘None of your business. You get on with wringing out them clothes, then hang them over the range to dry. And keep Alice with you too.’ Violet bustled to the front door, hoping things wouldn’t turn viol
ent out there. ‘I’ll go see what’s to be done.’

  Some of the neighbours were looking over their gates, drawn out by the boy’s yells. Hazel was out of the vehicle too, reaching for her son, a look of unhappy entreaty on her face.

  ‘Come on, now,’ Violet said firmly to Charlie. ‘Let’s take this inside, shall we? You’ve got an audience.’

  ‘I don’t bloody care who hears me. He was kissing my mum!’

  ‘That’s enough,’ George Cotterill told the boy, a dark red in his cheeks. ‘Think of your mother and keep your voice down.’

  Not exactly very discreet, was he, kissing a married woman right outside her own house? But she supposed they hadn’t really been thinking things through at the time. She’d seen the two of them together earlier, the awkwardness of their stilted conversations, and guessed that had been their first kiss.

  Violet grabbed Hazel by the arm and drew her back towards the house, ignoring her protests. ‘Best leave them to it, love.’ She glanced towards the nearest neighbours, an elderly man and woman who had come out of their front door to stare. ‘No, don’t look back at them. Head up, and smile. Like there’s nothing wrong. That’s the ticket.’

  Inside the house, she left the front door slightly ajar and gave Hazel a hug. ‘There, that’s better,’ she said in a low voice, not wanting the girls to hear. ‘Now, don’t you fret. It’ll all turn out right.’

  But Hazel was clasping her flushed cheeks in horror. ‘I let him kiss me. And Charlie saw us. What was I thinking?’

  ‘We all make mistakes. Your boy will understand.’

  ‘No, he won’t. And he’ll tell his dad next time he writes. Oh God!’ Hazel had gone pale as a pint of milk. ‘Bertie will be so angry. He’ll come straight home and murder George, I just know it.’

  ‘I don’t think they let soldiers come home to kill their wives’ lovers.’

  ‘It’s not funny. You don’t know my husband. Bertie’s …’

  ‘Not a nice fella?’

  Hazel shook her head wordlessly, and then buried her face in her hands, shuddering violently. ‘Oh God, oh God! Whatever am I going to do?’

  ‘First things first.’ Violet shoved Hazel none too gently towards the stairs. ‘You want my advice, love? You go on upstairs. Wash your face, change out of your uniform, and try to calm down.’

  ‘But Charlie—’

  ‘Leave all that to me,’ she told Hazel firmly. ‘Trust me, I’ll get your lad indoors without any more hullabaloo.’

  Truth be told, Violet was worried sick. No point saying that out loud, of course. Not right now. But Violet had thought, when she and the girls found shelter with Hazel, that would be them snug and cosy until the end of the war. Now this trouble had come along, and she could see the husband back on leave next chance he got, kicking them all out. First thing an angry man does in that situation, she thought anxiously – blame the company his wife’s been keeping.

  As soon as Hazel had disappeared upstairs, she checked the girls were getting the table laid for supper, and then hurried out of the cottage.

  Charlie was still yelling at George, who was trying to calm the boy down. ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ he kept repeating raggedly, but she could see in his face that he was worried too. ‘Just a misunderstanding, son.’

  ‘I’m not your bloody son. And there’s no misunderstanding. You were kissing my mum. I saw the two of you.’ Charlie stopped dead and jerked his head round at the sound of someone approaching, and gave Violet a sullen look when he realised it wasn’t his mother. He pointed unsteadily at her, ‘And you can get lost too!’

  ‘Hey, now, that’s enough,’ George told him, frowning. ‘You keep a civil tongue in your head when you talk to a lady.’

  ‘She’s no lady! Her and them East End girls …’

  Violet crossed her arms, struggling to keep a lid on her own temper. Cheeky little sod, she was thinking. What was he trying to say about her dear Alice and Lily? As if they weren’t the hardest working and best-behaved girls in the world …

  But all she said, a little tartly, was ‘No need to be rude.’

  ‘Probably best if you can go back inside,’ George Cotterill said quietly, his gaze shifting to the watching neighbours.

  ‘Probably best if you take yourself home,’ she said in dry response, and saw his eyes widen. ‘Look, I know you’re my boss, and I’m sorry if I’m not tugging my forelock hard enough.’ Now his eyes were like saucers, and fixed on her face. ‘But this here’s my home now too, and I’d just as soon take this business indoors, thank you. Not have it aired in the street where anyone can hear.’

  ‘This isn’t your business,’ the boy began, but she ignored him.

  ‘Off you go,’ she told George, and shooed him away. He hesitated, then threw her the keys to the van, and started to trudge up the hill, presumably heading home.

  Pocketing the keys, she whirled on the boy. ‘Now you. Indoors, if you please.’

  ‘Get lost!’ he growled again, and stared after George, his face still darkly flushed, a martial light in his eyes.

  ‘You listen here,’ Violet said sharply, standing between him and his target, ‘I don’t much care what you think of me. But you’ve upset your mum, and for what? Some little peck on the cheek? Your dad’s not here, true enough, and I suppose you think you should step up, be the man of the house in his absence. But all you’ve done here tonight is make a fool of yourself. In front of the neighbours, and my nieces too.’ She tutted loudly. ‘What must Alice and Lily think, seeing you like this, throwing your weight about in the street like a regular hooligan?’

  Charlie glared at her, fuming silently, hands curled into fists at his sides.

  ‘And speaking about them like that,’ she added, lowering her voice in case her nieces were listening, ‘with so little respect. Is that what those girls deserve?’

  She must have hit a nerve there, because the light in his eyes died, and the boy hung his head at last, shuffling his feet.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ Violet stepped aside, pointing him towards the house. ‘Now, get in there, and wash up before your supper. And no more of this nonsense!’

  After he’d gone back inside, she stood there for a moment, looking back up the hilly road they’d taken from Porthcurno. The sun was setting, bathing their little patch of Cornwall with a soft golden light. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so beautiful as this view, and couldn’t quite take it in; it was so different from the dark, grim, smoky streets she’d been born and brought up in. The road back to Porthcurno bobbed up and down, rising and falling with the land. But several headlands away, she could see what looked like the slate roof of an enormous farmhouse, with a suggestion of whitewashed walls beneath it, all lit up for a moment by the last rays of the sun.

  Was that Joe Postbridge’s farm?

  Oh, she’d so liked the look of him on the beach. It was stupid, perhaps, after only one chance meeting, but she’d spent a few restless hours most nights since then, dreaming about his warm, dark eyes. Not to mention that quick, dry smile, and the easy way he’d had with the girls. She’d taken an instant shine to him, all right.

  Down on the beach at Penzance, Joe had seemed just like her. A little bit broken, a little bit defiant, but definitely an ordinary person from an ordinary family. Someone she might be able to trust, if fate was ever to throw them together again.

  Yet far from being an ‘ordinary’ man, Joe Postbridge owned a whopping great house and a ton of land, and was probably fighting the ladies off with his stick.

  Violet’s shoulders slumped, and she turned away from that gorgeous view. The argument between Charlie and George had left her nerves frayed. She couldn’t help wondering what would happen if she and the girls ended up getting kicked out on the street again, how she would cope …

  She made her way wearily back into the house and shut the door without looking back at that great big farmhouse on the hill. It was just another dirty trick fate had played on her. But she’d had
her fair share of dirty tricks – like the one that had robbed her of a sister, and those girls of a mother – and she knew how to deal with them.

  Chin up, eyes front, and keep buggering on, as Mr Churchill would say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Eva inhaled the warm salt air and stared out across the bay at Porthcurno. The sun was slowly slipping below the horizon in the far west, casting a gorgeous reddish-orange patina across the land and sea.

  ‘I could fall in love with Cornwall,’ she declared.

  ‘Only with Cornwall?’ Professor Templeton asked, and she suddenly realised how close beside her he was.

  Gosh, that was rather a daring question, she thought, and turned with a cautious smile. ‘Hard to think about anything else, faced with this super view,’ she said, and saw his lips twitch at her diplomacy.

  The professor had been the epitome of charm during their clifftop picnic, topping up her glass with a very drinkable white Burgundy, plying her with Cornish cheese and biscuits, and never making a single move in her direction. Playing the gentleman, she had decided, only too happy to take things at a gentle pace. She had still not decided how she felt about him, after all. Sometimes physical attraction was not enough, and only led to trouble later on.

  Now, though, the picnic was over, and he had just finished packing everything away in the hamper. With the sun so low, it would soon be dusk. The perfect time for a seduction, if one were planned.

  And here he was, close enough for her to touch, with his handsome cleft chin and the sun-tipped waves reflected in his glasses.

  It was now or never.

  Eva chewed delicately on her lip. Time for a little push, perhaps.

  ‘Do you need to wear those all the time?’ she asked, perhaps spoiling the moment, perhaps encouraging him to move closer, she wasn’t sure.

  ‘My glasses?’ He shook his head. ‘Not always, no.’ He removed his spectacles, and slipped them into the top pocket of his jacket, which he had worn relentlessly throughout their long picnic, despite the summer warmth. ‘Though if I get too close to the cliff edge, please let me know.’