Wartime with the Cornish Girls

by Betty Walker

  There was a penknife on his bedside table.

  Breathing fast, Eva picked it up and began to cut the secret pocket open.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Looks like the old barn got the worst of it,’ Joe said, straining to see through the gathering dark. He had wound down the window, and leant out now, staring ahead. ‘That’s where we kept the spare gas canisters. They must have exploded. The house looks untouched though.’

  ‘That’s a blessing,’ Violet said, holding on for dear life as the truck bounced violently up and down over the farm track ruts.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, but he still looked tense.

  ‘Edna will be right as rain,’ Violet said, trying to reassure him. ‘Your mum won’t have been out in the barn at this time of the evening.’

  ‘But the shelter’s dug in right beside the barn. If she heard the plane coming over, she might have run out there for safety.’

  Violet wanted to say something cheery, to keep his spirits up. But she had too much experience of neighbours in the East End who’d thought themselves safe in their cellar or Anderson shelter, only to be found dead in the rubble the next day – or never found at all. Nothing and nobody could survive a direct hit from a Jerry bomb.

  But she could hardly tell him that, could she?

  As soon as the truck drew up outside the smouldering ruins of the barn, Joe jumped straight out. He ran to where the colonel and a small group of soldiers were trying to explore the wreckage. ‘Where’s my mother?’ he called out. ‘Was she here when the bomb fell?’

  He sounded half out of his mind, Violet thought, following him with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The soldiers were all looking down at their boots in an unhappy manner she recalled from bombings in Dagenham. Nobody ever wanted to be the one who had to break the bad news to a grieving relative.

  ‘Somebody talk to me, for God’s sake!’ Joe insisted.

  ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Joe,’ Colonel Ryder said grimly, and put a hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘Best prepare yourself. The shelter was destroyed along with the north end of the barn. Not much left. My men are digging there … We couldn’t find anyone in the house.’ His voice tailed off, his expression compassionate as Joe let out a groan. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Joe turned away, shrugging off his hand. ‘Why here?’ he demanded hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Why my farm? What use was it to the Jerries, bombing this old place?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘It’s because of Eastern House, isn’t it?’ Joe answered his own question, bluntly voicing the thought that was running through Violet’s head. He turned on his heel, pointing up into the black sky. ‘The Germans flew up the coast with some garbled intelligence, probably looking for “a large white house near Porthcurno”, and bombed Swelle Farm by mistake.’

  ‘You’re upset,’ the colonel began awkwardly, but was interrupted.

  ‘I only brought my mother up to the farm to keep her safe. She was happier down in Penzance, wanted to stay there, despite the bombing. I told her that I couldn’t cope without a woman about the place. It was the only way to get her to come with me. She … she called me selfish. And she was right. If I’d left her in Penzance like she wanted …’ Joe ran a hand across his forehead. ‘This is all my fault.’ Then he straightened, shaking his head as he turned back to the colonel. ‘No, it was your fault.’

  ‘Now, son …’

  ‘I’m not your son. And you’re not my superior officer. I’m not in the forces anymore. I’ve done my time and paid my price.’ Joe banged his metal leg furiously. ‘Or so I thought. You set up camp in a quiet Cornish village, knowing it made us a target for the enemy. Yet you’ve done sod all to protect the locals. And now this … my mother is the one who’s paid for what you’re doing at the listening post.’ He drew in a sharp breath, his voice uneven. ‘Get off my land! You and your bloody men. She’s my mother, I’ll dig her body out myself.’

  As Joe finished, another shadowy figure loomed up out of the dark night, lit up by the faint light of the moon, rising slowly behind Violet. A young soldier whose pinched, familiar face made her shudder, her stomach queasy with apprehension.

  ‘’Ere, you watch what you’re saying to the colonel!’ Patrick Dullaghan said, squaring up to Joe and punctuating each word with an insolent jab of his index finger. ‘You ain’t got no right to speak to ’im like that, all right?’

  Joe stared at the young soldier, speechless.

  ‘We’ll get your mum out of that bleedin’ mess, no fear. But there ain’t no amount of yapping will bring ’er back to life.’ Patrick Dullaghan pushed him backwards. ‘So just you shut yer gob, sit down out the way, and let us work.’ Abruptly, his gaze swivelled toward Violet, and she shrank back, appalled by the cruel glint in his eyes. ‘Though if you want to blame someone for that Jerry bomb, you might want to start wiv your lady friend there.’

  Violet sucked in her breath in horror.

  He was going to accuse her of being a spy.

  This was precisely what she’d feared the moment she’d clapped eyes on that nasty piece of work. It was all lies. But would they realise that? He was so good at twisting words, making a lie sound like truth. If they asked him what he meant …

  Shaking her head in instinctive denial, Violet put a hand to her mouth. ‘No,’ she tried to say, but no sound would come out.

  At this, the colonel rapped out, ‘Private, that’s quite enough! What in God’s name …? Who gave you permission to speak?’

  ‘Sorry, Colonel.’ Patrick took a few steps back and saluted, his back very straight. ‘Don’t know what come over me, Colonel.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. Explain yourself.’

  Patrick flashed her a vengeful look. Though what he might have to feel vengeful about, Violet could not imagine. He’d always had it in for her – that was all. Perhaps because her mum ran a café, and his family had nothing, like so many others in the East End. She was sorry for him, but that didn’t excuse his reputation for petty pilfering and telling whoppers. Nor for him wanting to dob her in with the colonel, who was listening intently.

  ‘She’s not to be trusted, sir. Her whole family neither. They had dealings with the enemy, that’s what we used to say back in Dagenham.’

  ‘What?’ the colonel thundered.

  ‘That’s where I know her from, sir,’ Patrick said hurriedly. ‘The East End. Nobody with any sense spoke to Violet back there. Well, what do you expect, with a bleedin’ Jerry for a brother-in-law?’

  The colonel turned to her, his face unreadable in the darkness. ‘Does this private know you, Violet?’ He paused. ‘I apologise, I don’t know your surname.’

  ‘Y-yes, sir,’ she stammered, her knees fairly knocking at the steel in his voice. ‘He knows me and I know him, more’s the pity. That’s Patrick Dullaghan, and I bet them in Dagenham are glad to be shot of the nasty little sod, if you’ll pardon my French.’ She saw what looked like the suspicion of a smile on the colonel’s face, and added with more bravado than actual courage, ‘And I’m Violet Hopkins.’

  ‘Is any of this farrago of nonsense true, Miss Hopkins?’

  ‘I d-don’t rightly know what a f-farrago is,’ she said, struggling to get the words out, her chest was heaving so much with hurt and indignation. ‘But what he said … It’s not true, Colonel Ryder.’

  ‘What about this brother-in-law of yours?’

  ‘He’s half-German, sir. But Ernst joined up soon as war broke out. He wanted to fight for King and country – that’s what he kept saying. They shipped him out to the front straightaway. As he talks the lingo, I expect the army thought he could be useful.’

  ‘Yes, I rather imagine they did.’

  ‘Only he … Well, he’s gone missing in action.’ Violet wrung her hands together. ‘I know it looks bad, sir. But Ernst is a good bloke, sound as a pound. He’s not a Jerry spy, I swear!’

  ‘Hmm.’ The colonel considered her, then called one of the other soldiers o
ver. ‘Drive Miss Hopkins home, sergeant.’

  The sergeant saluted, and gestured to her to follow him. ‘This way, Miss.’

  But Violet was looking at Joe.

  Joe had been staring at her since Patrick Dullaghan’s first horrible accusation; she had felt his tormented gaze on her face the whole time. And she badly wanted to explain herself, to protest her innocence. Only he didn’t give her the chance. Without saying a word, Joe turned to stumble away towards the ruins of the old barn.

  Poor Joe, she thought wretchedly, watching him go. To have lost his mother in such an awful way, and all through a misunderstanding, the white farmhouse mistaken for Eastern House, the Germans’ real target … He must be in pieces. And she wanted to comfort him, to hold his hand again, like she’d done during the drive over here. But she could see her sympathy was not wanted, that Joe needed to be alone right now.

  Besides, the sergeant was waiting and Patrick Dullaghan was sneering at her, like he knew he’d won.

  What could she do?

  Nothing, she thought bitterly. Nothing at all.

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  The colonel cleared his throat. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ he told her, though his tone was a little distant now, as though he half believed the accusations against her. ‘I’ll need to investigate this properly. Make a full report to headquarters.’

  Violet allowed herself to be led away by the sergeant to a waiting vehicle. But all the time her gaze was following Joe as he dropped to his knees beside the bombed-out rubble that had been his barn, now covering the shelter where poor Edna’s body lay. Her own pathetic troubles were nothing in comparison. His life would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Charlie and the girls had already taken themselves off to bed by the time Hazel heard a car in the distance. She jumped up, her heart beating fast, hoping that was Violet back from the farm at last. She’d been sitting in the kitchen for several hours, reading a magazine in a distracted way, trying not to think about kissing George at the dance, but cast it aside as the car drew to a halt outside the cottage.

  Outside, the engine died. A car door opened and shut, but she couldn’t hear Violet’s familiar clacking heels approaching the house.

  ‘Is that Aunty Vi come home?’ a voice said from the top of the stairs, and she turned, schooling herself to look unconcerned.

  ‘I expect so. You should be in bed, Alice. You must be exhausted after tonight. All that work we did to get the hall ready in time. Not to mention the dancing.’ She tried to smile. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see the two of you having a twirl!’

  ‘My feet hurt, for sure. But I can’t get to sleep.’ Alice gave her an unhappy look. ‘I keep thinking about Joe’s mum. I hope she’s all right.’

  Alice and Lily had met Joe Postbridge and his mum on the beach at Penzance, they had told her on the drive home, and liked both of them instinctively. They were sad that the farm might have been bombed. But there had been weary resignation in Lily’s voice when she expressed a hope that the bomb had missed ‘Joe’s nice mum’. That was how they had lost their own mother, of course.

  ‘I know, it’s awful. But with any luck—’

  Someone knocked at the cottage door.

  Alice came down a few more steps, wide-eyed. ‘That can’t be Aunty Vi. She wouldn’t knock.’

  ‘No.’ Hurriedly, Hazel opened the door, which was unlocked, and felt winded when she saw who was standing there. ‘G-George!’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you so late.’ He stumbled over the words, his gaze fixed on hers. There was a strange light in his eyes. ‘But I had to speak to you. If you don’t mind, that is.’ Removing his hat, George ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, and then tugged at his crumpled jacket, as though trying to pull himself together. ‘I can come back tomorrow evening, if it’s more convenient.’

  ‘What’s happened, Mr Cotterill? We ain’t heard nothing and it’s been driving us mad.’ Alice scrambled down the stairs, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was barefoot and wearing a too-short nightie, which was hardly appropriate in front of visitors. ‘Where’s Aunty Vi? Is it true Joe’s farm got bombed? Was his mum hurt?’

  George looked dazed, perhaps unsure which question to answer first. ‘Swelle Farm was hit in the raid, yes. But I haven’t seen the damage first-hand, so I’m afraid I don’t know anything beyond that.’

  ‘Poor Joe,’ Alice whispered.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ Hazel told George firmly, then turned to her young guest. ‘Alice, perhaps you should try and get some sleep. I’d like to speak to Mr Cotterill alone.’ Her smile was placatory. ‘As soon as your aunt’s home, I’ll send her up to you, I promise.’

  Alice cast her a frustrated look, but did not argue, sighing and heading back upstairs without another word. She was a good girl at heart, if a little eccentric at times.

  George turned towards the sitting room, but she caught him in time, signalling him to be quiet. ‘In the kitchen is best. I don’t want to disturb Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie?’ He looked confused.

  ‘He sleeps in the sitting room now. Gave up his room to Violet and the girls.’

  ‘Of course.’ George put his hat on the table, then drew up a chair. ‘He’s not a bad lad, your Charlie. Running away like that wasn’t the cleverest thing to do, besides scaring you half to death. But under the circumstances …’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t found him. Thank you for—’

  ‘You already thanked me, Hazel.’

  She loved the sound of her name on his lips. But she couldn’t think like that. It was madness. And far too soon to be proper.

  ‘Shall I … make a brew?’ Uneasily, she turned to put the kettle on the stove.

  But he stopped her with a swift, ‘No, I didn’t come for tea. I came to talk to you.’

  She sat down at the table next to him, suddenly tongue-tied. It didn’t help that she had been pushing away memories of her and Bertie all evening. Her late husband. How strange it seemed to think of him as being dead. Though, awful as it was, she couldn’t pretend to be genuinely mourning. She was sad for him. But not distraught, as people might expect her to be, especially once it became known that she was carrying his child.

  It had been a long time since she’d felt any love for Bertie. But the shock of his death was so recent and raw, she wasn’t sure she could manage these feelings for George on top of that emotion.

  He took her hand. ‘Hazel,’ he said, speaking her name so lovingly that she did not know where to look, ‘I know it’s probably too soon. What with Bertie, and all …’ George seemed as awkward as her, his usual professional air replaced by something more like desperation. ‘But I want you to know that I’m here for you. Whatever you need, you only have to say the word.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘I’m not saying that out of kindness.’ He drew her hand towards him, then raised it to his lips, amazing her by kissing the back gently. ‘But out of love.’

  Her lips parted in astonishment. ‘S-Sorry?’

  ‘I’m in love with you, Hazel.’

  She stared at him, pulling her hand back.

  ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ George asked gently. ‘We’ve been friends since school days, and I think you know that if you hadn’t married Bertie … Well, no point crying over spilt milk. You did marry him, and what I’d hoped for never happened.’ He smiled at her bewilderment. ‘What, did you think I was only after one thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t sure …’

  ‘Oh, Hazel.’

  She looked down, unable to find the right words for the feelings sweeping over her. Sadness? Joy? Tears pricked at her eyes. Yet she was happy. She shouldn’t be. It was wrong to be happy at such a bleak time. But she couldn’t help the love in her heart.

  ‘Do you remember when we ran off to the woods together after school one day? We can’t have been more than nine or ten years old.’ He
smiled when she nodded. ‘We’d been learning about the Wild West in school, so I made a wigwam for you with twigs and fallen branches.’

  ‘I made mud pies for us,’ she said with a shaky laugh, remembering how they had pretended to keep house together, even sheltering inside when it started to rain. ‘My mother gave me such a scold when I got home, I was covered in dirt.’

  ‘Did she?’ He shook his head. ‘I only recall how beautiful you looked, kneeling in the opening to that wigwam.’ George ran a hand through his hair. ‘I know it’s too soon,’ he added. ‘Far too soon.’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to croak, overcome with emotion.

  ‘And if things were different, I wouldn’t have said anything. I’d have given you a year to get over your loss. God knows I’ve waited long enough, another year wouldn’t have made much difference. And there’s a war on. Not the best time to be tying the knot.’ Seeming troubled, his gaze dropped to her belly. ‘But ever since I heard your news, I’ve realised we can’t wait. If you want that baby to grow up with a father, that is.’

  Hazel could hardly believe what he was saying. ‘You want to …?’

  ‘I’m asking you to marry me, yes.’ He paused, frowning when she didn’t say anything. ‘I’m not love’s young dream, I’m the first to admit it. But I’ve got a steady job, and you’re going to need someone to take care of you and the baby.’

  George knew she was carrying Bertie’s child.

  And it hadn’t put him off.

  In fact, he wanted to marry her. And as fast as possible, by the sound of it. So her new baby could grow up with George Cotterill as his or her father, instead of as the child of a lonely widow.

  ‘Oh!’

  He dropped her hand and stared at her, clearly taken aback. ‘Hazel, what is it? You’re crying. Have I upset you?’

  Hazel rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘No, I just thought … At the dance tonight, when you kissed me, and then … and then left …’

  ‘That I was only flirting?’

  ‘How could I have known you wanted to marry me?’