Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  But in truth, she was simply numb inside. Whatever love she had once felt for Bertie had seeped away years ago, leaving only habit and duty in its place.

  ‘Do you think that makes me … wicked?’ she asked him, terrified he might say yes.

  ‘No, it makes you human.’

  Then George took her in his arms, and kissed her.

  She clung on to him with eyes closed tight, wishing things could be different, that she had never married Bertie – but no, then Charlie would never have been born, and she loved Charlie so much – or that Bertie had not died, and she could have divorced him decently and married George instead.

  He could never possibly want her for his wife. Not after Bertie, and certainly not now she was carrying another man’s child. But perhaps it would be enough just to love him, and take comfort from that.

  Suddenly, he pulled back, and she could see him frowning.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered, bewildered.

  ‘I can hear something.’ George released her and walked out from under the trees, staring up at the milky gold evening sky. ‘A plane. You hear it too?’

  When Hazel said nothing, he pointed to a dot in the far distance, high above the waves, flying towards them along the coast. And now she could hear the droning note of its engine too, and felt her skin turn clammy with fear, her heart thumping.

  ‘There … And there … More than one plane.’ His voice changed. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Run,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Back to the hall, warn the others. We need everyone to get to a shelter.’ George grabbed her hand when she did not move, pulling her along with him. ‘For God’s sake, move. They’re not ours. They’re Jerries!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Violet, seated reluctantly behind the table in Hazel’s absence, hoped to goodness that the vile toad Patrick Dullaghan was not here tonight. She had crept away from the entrance early on, pretending to have a chore to do elsewhere, but in fact hiding out in the ladies’ cloakroom, which was about as large as Hazel’s outdoor lav, so not terribly comfortable, especially now it was full of hats and summer jackets. But she had dared not come out until most people had arrived, in case he and his East End buddies turned up and spotted her.

  The last thing she needed was to be labelled a spy again, here in Porthcurno, where it might be taken seriously.

  She had been sitting as still and quiet as a mouse, not venturing out to dance or even grab a cuppa for herself, though she was parched.

  Now the entrance door opened, and she shrank back, horrified.

  Only it wasn’t Patrick Dullaghan.

  She put a hand to her mouth.

  Joe Postbridge paused in the doorway, leaning on his stick and accompanied by a small group of uniformed, laughing friends. Behind him, she could see the sun setting on a perfect summer evening.

  She froze behind the table at the sight of him, and did not know where to look, not even able to occupy herself with the takings, for she couldn’t see the metal tin anywhere and the drawer under the table was locked. No doubt Hazel had decided nobody else would arrive this late, so had removed the money tin. Either that, or she’d wanted to discourage late arrivals, given how full to bursting the hall was, all the windows open but the air still hot and stuffy.

  ‘Room for a few more?’ one of the soldiers asked as they all piled in, some of them already pretending to dance with each other on the threshold as the band music swelled.

  ‘I … I’m not sure,’ Violet said, suddenly shy for once, carefully avoiding Joe Postbridge’s gaze. ‘By rights, I ought to turn you away, coming so late.’

  ‘But we came specially for the dance. And look,’ the soldier said, nodding towards Joe’s stick. ‘We’ve walking wounded here.’

  ‘Frank, for God’s sake!’ Joe said, a flicker of irritation in his voice.

  ‘See for yerself. There ain’t room to swing a cat.’ Violet met Joe’s eyes, then looked hurriedly away. The Cornishman’s dark gaze had narrowed on her face. ‘But I suppose it won’t do no harm. Go on then, in you go. Though it’s a shilling a head, mind.’

  ‘Even for us brave soldiers?’ The one he’d called Frank pinched his buff uniform and shook it, giving her a broad wink.

  ‘Especially for you,’ she said, unable to resist, and they all laughed at her disapproving tone.

  ‘Don’t worry, boys.’ Joe rummaged in his pocket and dumped a handful of coins on the table, some of them rolling merrily away. ‘That do you, Miss?’

  Violet gathered the coins together without bothering to count them, her eyes on his face. He looked even more handsome than when she’d seen him on the beach at Penzance, if that was possible. Why nobody had nabbed him yet was beyond her. He might have a false leg, but he had the face of an angel. She knew a dozen women in the East End who’d kill for a juicy piece of flesh like Joe Postbridge. Not that she was like that. She had manners.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, aware of heat in her cheeks as he gazed steadily back at her. Trying to distract attention from her growing embarrassment, she pointed through the crowd. ‘You get a sarnie apiece for your shilling, plus a slice of cake and a cuppa. Down the far end.’

  ‘You go ahead, lads,’ Joe told the others, tapping his metal leg with his stick as they moved eagerly away. ‘I’m all puffed out after that long walk. I’ll catch you up.’

  Joe leant his stick against the wall opposite her table, and reclined there too with his arms crossed, watching her pile up the coins.

  Violet dared not look up at him, but bent her head, pretending to count but failing miserably. She kept losing count, too aware of his nearness to concentrate on her task.

  ‘I met you on the beach,’ he said. ‘Down at Penzance.’

  ‘That’s right. I was with my nieces, Lily and Alice.’

  ‘I remember them. Nice girls.’

  ‘They’re here somewhere,’ she said. ‘Been slaving away in the kitchen most of the afternoon, poor things.’

  She smiled, recalling how eager Lily had been to help out, after her constant pleas had finally softened Violet’s resolve to forbid her and Alice from dancing.

  Not that Alice was very keen on the idea of dancing. Too young still, perhaps. But she enjoyed spotting the different uniforms and noting down all the various regiments that had been drafted out here to defend Penzance and Porthcurno.

  Lily, however, was almost beside herself at the thought of dancing with a real partner, instead of her sister. Apart from family weddings, she’d never really had the chance before. And she might end up dancing with a soldier, which probably made it all the more romantic in her imagination.

  ‘You helped organise this do, then?’

  ‘Me and a few mates, yes,’ she admitted, giving up all hope of counting their shillings after starting again for the fourth time. She scooped them up and popped them into her pocket instead, since there was no sign of the takings tin. ‘We thought it would be a nice idea, what with rationing and all. Give people round here a chance for a right good knees-up.’

  ‘Not to mention sandwiches and cake,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Them too.’ She laughed, then could not help her glance flicking down to his false leg, hidden beneath his trousers. He was a dab hand with that walking stick, she thought wonderingly. If she hadn’t known, she would never have guessed that he’d lost his leg. ‘Do you ever …? I mean, I suppose you don’t, but …’ Hot-cheeked, she floundered in sudden confusion, mumbling, ‘Sorry, forget I said anything.’

  His eyebrows arched. ‘I don’t think you did say anything.’

  Violet jumped up at his tone, not knowing where she was going, but only aware of a pressing need to escape. Her blasted tongue …!

  But Joe moved with surprising speed, catching hold of her before she could run away. ‘Hang on a tick. You haven’t offended me, if that’s what you’re getting all flustered about. Yes, I do dance, though no, it isn’t easy and sometimes I can’t get the steps right. But I d
o my best not to make a complete fool of myself.’ He held her gaze. ‘That was what you wanted to ask, wasn’t it?’

  She nodded silently.

  The band came to the end of the dance tune, and for a moment there was a pause as people stopped talking to applaud.

  ‘So, how about it?’ Joe slipped an arm about her waist, taking her breath away with the warmth of his hip against hers. ‘You want to risk it, next tune they play?’

  His smile was so sweet, it could charm the birds from the trees, she thought, gaping at him in astonishment.

  She opened her mouth to say, ‘Yes,’ but suddenly realised he was no longer listening. He had stiffened, his head turned with a frown.

  There was shouting outside, she realised. Loud, urgent shouts. And beyond them, she could hear a deep, familiar, spine-chilling drone.

  ‘Air raid! Get to shelter!’

  Joe released her and tore open the door just as George Cotterill came running up the road, breathless and yelling, ‘Get out, everyone! Enemy bombers are nearly here.’

  The whole hall descended into chaos.

  ‘Where’s the nearest shelter?’ Joe asked her crisply.

  Violet was too shocked to think straight. ‘D-dunno,’ she managed to stutter, before adding with sudden inspiration, ‘How about the vicar? He’s here, he’ll know.’

  But George had entered the hall now, followed by a panicked-looking Hazel. ‘There’s a shelter under the church,’ he shouted, standing aside as people flooded out of the building, soldiers flocking together and making way for the civilians. He pointed behind the hall to where the old church stood, half hidden by trees. ‘Through the churchyard and to the right. There are steps down into the crypt. It’s sign-posted.’

  The Reverend Clewson appeared out of the crowd, sweating and red-faced. He ran ahead of the others, gesturing to everyone to follow him, while his wife bravely stayed behind to make sure the hall was emptied.

  ‘Everyone out,’ she was saying in a posh accent, clapping her hands to get people’s attention. ‘Two exits. One at the front, one at the rear of the hall.’

  Nobody was really paying much attention to her.

  ‘I can’t see Lily and Alice.’ Violet clambered onto a chair to see more clearly as the guests hurried past them. ‘Oh, where the hell have they gone?’ She saw Eva among those leaving, but couldn’t reach her. ‘Miss Ryder, have you see the girls?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ Eva yelled back. ‘They were handing out refreshments last time I saw them. Haven’t you seen them go past?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Though in this crush, it was possible she might have missed them, if they’d got out before she thought to stand on a chair.

  ‘Maybe they went out the back door,’ Eva called reassuringly before she too was swept out of the hall.

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be it,’ Joe said, rescuing his stick as the room gradually emptied. He took Violet’s arm, helping her down from the chair. ‘Come on, Miss, you need to leave too.’

  ‘Just one more minute,’ she pleaded. ‘I need to be sure the girls are out. I promised my sister I’d look after them, and I can’t let her down now.’

  But though they checked the kitchen and the cloakrooms, there was no sign of Lily or Alice anywhere.

  ‘Time to go,’ Joe said firmly.

  The brass band were among the last to leave, by which time the drone of the approaching bombers was so loud, Violet felt quite nauseous. All she could think about were the times she had heard that same noise above the streets and houses in the East End, swiftly followed by sudden, terrible death as buildings exploded, the night sky bright with that horrible, unnatural orange glow as the city burnt all around them.

  Violet clapped her hands over her ears, stumbling as she followed the others out of the church hall. ‘I can’t bleedin’ stand the sound of them Jerry planes,’ she moaned, tripping in her haste. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry …’

  ‘Miss?’ Joe helped her back to her feet. ‘Violet?’

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s just like it was at home, when the bombing raids went over.’

  He said nothing, but she could see from his expression that he understood.

  Violet tried to stay calm as they made for the churchyard, though her heart was thumping. Back in London, she had grown accustomed to the nightly terror of the Blitz. Like everyone else, she’d learned to shrug off the fear of death, and even make jokes about Hitler and the bloody Jerries. The boys had sung rude songs in the street about him, and sometimes she’d joined in with a grin and a little jig. But it had been weeks since she’d had to cower in some flimsy tin-roofed shelter in the dark, listening to explosions nearby and praying to live to see dawn, and somehow she’d lost that armour plating she’d grown over her nerves.

  The sun had not yet set, but it was dim and cool in the shaded churchyard, the sturdy trunks of yews looming over the lichened graves of yesteryear.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find them,’ Joe said, walking as fast as he could, his stick clacking against the stones of the path.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The girls. They’ll be down in the crypt with everyone else – mark my words.’

  Violet gulped, suffering a terrible pang of guilt. She’d been so worried about a bomb dropping on her head, for a moment there she’d clean forgotten about Lily and Alice.

  ‘Of course.’

  Mrs Clewson came running after them, her heels clacking. ‘That’s everyone, I think,’ she said, a tremor in her posh voice. Joe stood politely aside to let her descend the steps, and then gestured for Violet to follow her.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said gravely.

  Inside the crypt, the narrow, low-roofed space was packed with warm bodies, some crouched with hands over their ears, others standing to listen to the planes as they flew overhead, the air shaking with their passage. A very young woman was weeping in the corner, rubbing her eyes with a white hanky, while an elderly gent tried to comfort her.

  Violet gazed about, seeing the same terror she was feeling on other faces.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ she told the woman next to her, as kindly as she could, though she had no idea if they’d even live through this. But what she remembered from air raids in London was that a little white lie could be helpful at times, to keep people’s spirits up and stop them from panicking.

  The woman nodded stiffly and said nothing, her face very pale.

  ‘They’re not used to seeing bombers here in Porthcurno,’ Joe said in her ear, as the Reverend Clewson went up to close the trapdoor. ‘Though we sat through a good few raids at Penzance, me and Mum, down in the shelters. That was one reason I insisted she came with me when I moved into the farm. To get away from the bombs.’ He shook his head. ‘Seems like Jerry’s bombing everywhere now.’

  Probably looking for Eastern House, Violet thought worriedly, but said nothing.

  Once the trapdoor was shut, there was almost no light in the crypt. The noise of the planes was considerably dimmed though, which helped her nerves. But Violet was also aware of her old enemy from the shelters, the fear of small spaces, rising inside her like a tide. She bit her lip, trying hard to push her fears aside. But she could feel her heart beating hard, her breathing fast and shallow …

  A hand found hers and squeezed. Not hard, just enough to be reassuring. She looked into Joe’s eyes and managed a nervous smile.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, and dropped her hand. ‘I don’t know why I did that.’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ She sought his hand again. ‘I like it.’

  He smiled too then, and his fingers laced with hers like he was never planning to let go. It sounded soppy when she thought too hard about it, but it gave her new strength, just having someone hold her hand.

  ‘Lily?’ she called out across the heads of those nearest to her, trying to sound cheery. ‘Alice? It’s Aunty Vi. Are you down here, girls?’

  A slim arm rose above the dark sea of shoulders, right at the far end of the crypt, and waved
a hand in her direction. ‘I’m over here, Aunty Vi!’ Alice’s voice bounced off the low roof, bright as a skylark in this dark, sweaty, underground hole. ‘Lily’s with me too. And Miss Ryder. We’re both fine, don’t fret yourself!’

  ‘Oh, thank Gawd,’ she said under her breath, sagging with sudden relief, and then forced herself to call back jauntily, ‘I can’t get to you, love. But you two mind your manners. No stepping on anyone’s feet, you hear?’

  Heads turned, and there was an uneasy ripple of laughter through the crypt, either at her East End accent or her gallows humour, she wasn’t sure which.

  But she didn’t mind, smiling along with them. That was how they’d always kept their spirits up in the shelters in Dagenham, after all. If you laughed at something terrible and made it ridiculous, suddenly it didn’t seem so bad.

  ‘Who knows a song?’ she said loudly. ‘Might as well pass the time with a bit of music.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  Then one of the band members took the saxophone tucked under his arm and played a few notes before looking at her, grinning. She recognised the popular tune at once as Glenn Miller’s ‘In The Mood’ and began to hum the tune. Several other people took up the humming, including Joe, who was still holding her hand. They were halfway through when a deep rumble shook the walls and the stone-flagged floor of the crypt. The humming wavered, then stopped.

  ‘Jesus, that was a bloody bomb!’ a soldier called out in the stunned silence that followed the explosion.

  ‘Nowhere near us though,’ his mate added quickly as one of the women shrieked in fear. He turned to her. ‘No need to get your knickers in a twist, love. That was a tidy way off. We’re all right down here.’

  ‘It wasn’t that far away,’ the Reverend Clewson said, his head cocked to one side as though listening for more explosions.