by Ellie Dean
‘No such luck, Peg. She’s making a beeline for you.’
Peggy took a deep breath, kept her head down and carried on packing her box before passing it to the next table where it would be sealed. She could see Doris now, resplendent in the WVS uniform of dark green skirt and jacket and rather silly hat. The suit fitted far too well to have been taken from stores, and Peggy suspected she’d had it tailor-made, and hoped that little Sally Hicks had not been bullied into taking less than the usual charge for such detailed work.
‘Margaret. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
Peggy pulled another box in front of her and reached for a pair of socks. ‘Hello, Doris,’ she said. ‘I thought it was time to get stuck in again.’
‘Well done,’ said Doris, as she shifted the long strap of her tan leather handbag over her shoulder. ‘It’s rather fortunate that I’ve bumped into you, actually,’ she said quietly. ‘I wonder if you could leave that for a moment? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.’
Peggy looked at her in alarm. This was most unlike the usual rather hectoring Doris, and now she looked at her properly, she could see there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, which couldn’t quite be masked by the heavy layer of face powder. ‘Of course,’ she stammered. ‘Let’s go in the canteen and have a cup of tea.’
Doris curled her lip. ‘If we must, but I was rather hoping we could go to Plummers.’
‘I’ve got Daisy with me and I can’t be long; there’re too many comfort boxes to pack and not enough hands to do them.’ Not waiting for Doris to reply, Peggy led the way through the crush to the canteen which had been set up in the smaller of the two council meeting rooms.
Doris took a sip of tea and raised her severely plucked brows in surprise. ‘Good heavens,’ she breathed. ‘It’s proper tea and every bit as good as Plummers’.’
‘What did you want to talk about, Doris? Only I don’t have much time.’
Doris regarded her evenly. ‘I was quite hurt not to be invited to your party the other week,’ she said. ‘It comes to something when one learns of such things from your butcher.’
‘That was none of my doing,’ said Peggy hastily. ‘Martin organised it as a surprise.’
Doris’s nostrils narrowed and her eyes hardened. ‘I also understand that my son was there – fraternising with that Suzy.’
‘You make it sound as if she’s the enemy,’ said Peggy as she blew on the hot tea. ‘Suzy and Anthony weren’t “fraternising”, as you put it, they were having a bit of fun at a family party.’ She knew immediately that she’d said the wrong thing.
‘A family party to which I had not been invited,’ said Doris coldly. ‘But as Suzy and Fran and Rita were there, along with the butcher and fishmonger – and probably Uncle Tom Cobley and all – one can only surmise that you have a strange idea of the meaning of the word family.’
‘I’m so sorry, Doris,’ she said with genuine regret. ‘But I didn’t do it on purpose.’
Doris eyed her for a long moment before she reached into her handbag for her cigarette case and gold lighter. She blew smoke and returned her steely gaze to her sister. ‘But then you didn’t make any attempt to make reparation either. You could have telephoned. I was at home all that evening.’
Peggy didn’t know what to say. She was genuinely ashamed of not wanting her sister there, and for not phoning her – but then Doris wasn’t exactly easy to have around, especially at a party where Jim and Ron got merry and started fooling about. ‘I’ve already apologised,’ she said quietly. ‘Please believe me when I say it won’t happen again.’
Doris smoked her cigarette, her eyes narrowed against the smoke as she watched the women working behind the canteen counter. ‘It seems my family is determined to cause me hurt,’ she said. ‘Edward spends his weekends on the golf course and his evenings at the club; you don’t invite me to family parties; and Anthony seems to prefer spending his precious few hours of leave with that Suzy person instead of with me at home.’
She curled her lip as she stubbed out the cigarette in the tin ashtray. ‘Suzy,’ she muttered in disgust. ‘One would have thought she had grown out of such a ridiculously childish name. But then I’ve always said she’s a wishy-washy kind of girl with only half a brain, and far too easily led on by that Irish flibbertigibbet, Frances.’
Peggy realised that her sister was harbouring all sorts of hurts, and for the first time in her life actually felt rather sorry for her. ‘Anthony and Suzy get on rather well, and she’s much brighter than you give her credit for,’ she said reasonably. ‘She’s a ward sister now, and often works in the theatre alongside the surgeons. Don’t dismiss her, Doris,’ she warned. ‘Suzy is quite a tough character, and it’s clear that Anthony’s smitten.’
‘She isn’t at all the sort of girl I want for my Anthony,’ Doris retorted, ‘and I have made that very plain to him.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Peggy said carefully, ‘because the more you try to keep them apart the more determined they will be to stay together.’ She leaned across the table and stilled Doris’s fingers, which were rapping out a tattoo on the table. ‘I know you’re ambitious for your son; we’re all ambitious for our children – but there comes a time when we have to let them go so they can find their own way in the world.’
‘Just like you did with Cissy,’ hissed Doris nastily. ‘I understand she’s no better than she should be, carrying on with all those men at the airfield.’
Peggy pushed back from the table. ‘Don’t take your anger out on me, Doris,’ she said evenly, ‘or get spiteful about my children. See to your own – and ask yourself why Ted prefers the company at the golf club instead of coming home.’
She left the table before her sister could reply and headed for the other room, rather ashamed at how catty she’d been – but then Doris had no right to say such things about Cissy. Her daughter might flirt a bit, but she certainly wasn’t a tart as Doris had suggested.
Still cross with herself and Doris, she checked on Daisy, who was fast asleep despite all the noise, and went back to her place at the packing table where she snatched up an empty box and began to fill it.
‘Blimey,’ said Gladys with a knowing expression, ‘if looks could kill, I wouldn’t want to be in your sister’s shoes.’
Peggy had a sudden, dark suspicion that there was far more to her sister’s unhappiness than she was letting on, and she wondered if it was something to do with Ted. ‘Neither would I,’ she murmured thoughtfully.
Chapter Sixteen
Another week had passed since Jim and Frank had left for training camp, and it was fervently hoped they would be granted a short leave. Ron was still finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that his two sons could soon be in the thick of it somewhere. What with the Japs rampaging through the whole of the Far East and even managing to attack Australia, and Hitler doing his best to annihilate Europe, there seemed little chance that his boys would be stuck somewhere safe in England for the duration.
He left Beach View dressed in his Home Guard uniform, the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife well hidden in the depths of his canvas bag of supplies which he carried over his shoulder to see him through the long night. Instead of heading for the platoon’s headquarters in the centre of town, he struck out along the back alleyway and headed for the hills. This twice-weekly walk was always undertaken in the dark, his destination one of utmost secrecy, and his absence at the Home Guard meeting would be explained if necessary by his commanding officer, who had also been recruited into the GHQ Special Reserve Battalion 203.
Very few people knew about these specialised battalions, or of the covert activity they’d been preparing for over the past two years. Like the others, Ron had signed the Official Secrets Act shortly after he’d first been approached by Colonel Gubbins.
After the fall of France in May 1940, Gubbins was ordered by Churchill to create a force of civilian volunteers, recruited primarily from the ablest members of the Home Guard. The ideal candi
dates were farmers, foresters, gamekeepers and poachers whose knowledge of their particular area was indisputable, and who could be trained in the necessary skills for guerrilla warfare and the silent kill. Their task was to operate from secret underground bases, and if Britain was invaded, to be the front line of defence and carry out attacks and sabotage against enemy targets such as supply dumps, railway lines, convoys and enemy-controlled airfields – and to harry and disrupt supplies and lines of communication. Each man was equipped with a revolver and Sten gun, as well as the fighting knife and a silenced .22 sniper rifle.
Keeping to the shadows of the trees and away from the skyline, Ron skirted the gun emplacements and fire-watch positions that were dotted over the hills, and walked down into the valley, past the ugly wire fencing that encompassed the Cliffe estate and further into the dense woodlands where the gorse grew in thick clumps beneath the gnarled old trees and brambles deterred walkers. He trod carefully through the clinging goose grass and ivy, making sure he left no trace of his passage as he followed the path that only he could see.
The operational base was constructed of preformed corrugated iron segments, sunk into the ground with concrete pipe access and a maze of escape tunnels. Well hidden beneath a tangle of brambles, wild honeysuckle and rose, goose grass and sprawling gorse, it had been built deep into the ground so the roof was simply a low mound beneath this natural camouflage, the air vents disguised as old bits of drainage piping. The Royal Engineers who built the bases were told they were to be for emergency food storage.
Ron edged around it until he came to the trapdoor that was cunningly set in the earth and hidden by yet more greenery. He rapped three times on the door so the man inside didn’t shoot him, pulled the hidden lever and went down the moss-covered concrete steps. Another lever drew the trapdoor shut above him.
‘The owl is flying tonight,’ he said.
‘Then the sun must be out,’ came the reply.
Ron grinned. Some of these passwords were ridiculous. He switched on his torch and made his way along a short, narrow concrete tunnel. After a right-angled turn, this led into a large, dimly lit cavern which had been fitted out with wooden bunks, heating, ventilation and enough rations of food and water for fourteen days, should the invasion come. Another tunnel led to a second bunker about a mile away, and this held hundreds of cases of ammunition, plastic explosives, timing devices, detonators and grenades. This secret arsenal had been prepared by the end of 1940, and would remain there until Hitler was defeated.
‘Evening, Maurice,’ he said cheerfully to the Rear Admiral, who was drinking tea from a tin mug as he sat in a deckchair beneath the hurricane lamp. ‘You’ve beaten me to it tonight.’
Maurice Price was a tall, well-built, vigorous man in his late sixties, with a weathered face and a shock of thick white hair. ‘I thought I’d get settled in early,’ he said in his educated voice. ‘My wife was threatening to find me yet another job around the house.’
Ron grinned. ‘Aye, the women will do that to you, to be sure. ’Tis better to keep one step ahead.’ He put down his canvas bag and pulled out his thermos flask and wickedly honed knife before settling into the second deckchair, which was close to one of the air vents. ‘Any orders tonight?’ he asked, glancing at the army radio set up in the corner.
Maurice shook his head. ‘We’ll hear soon enough if there’s a flap on,’ he said comfortably. He passed Ron a packet of bourbon biscuits, which were a rare treat. ‘I found them in Harrods when I went up to town,’ he explained.
Ron munched a chocolate biscuit, savouring each crunchy, creamy bite before washing it down with the strong tea. ‘What’s it like up there?’
‘The shops are almost empty, the prices are high and there’s hardly anyone about – except in the Criterion Brasserie, where one had to wait for ages to get served – but they did do a very good breakfast. Poor old London’s suffering,’ he added with a sigh. ‘So much of it is rubble, and it’s difficult to find one’s way around now so many of the landmarks are gone.’
Ron nodded. He could just imagine it, though he hadn’t been to London in years. ‘St Paul’s is still standing though,’ he said, remembering a photograph in the newspaper after the Blitz. ‘Hitler didn’t get that.’
They sat in silence for a long moment, sipping their tea. If the Germans did carry out their threat to invade, then Ron and Maurice and a thousand other men like them would be the front line of defence. Although the majority had learned their skills in the first war and were now retired, they’d been passed fit and perfectly able to do the job after a rigorous two weeks at a special training camp in Wiltshire. Ron and his comrades had learned to smile at the jibes about Dad’s Army, even though it galled them – for the image that derisive description brought actually served to disguise the real force that lay beneath.
‘While I was in London, I managed to talk to someone about the Monarch of the Glen,’ said Maurice eventually. ‘It seems she was attacked just after leaving Singapore, but escaped unscathed.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said Ron. ‘So why was she late to her first port of call?’
Maurice shrugged. ‘Perhaps she had to take evasive action; no one knows. But she reached Ceylon only a day late, and arrived in South Africa on time. She’s quite a fast ship, you know, which is why she’d been seconded to carry troops and supplies quickly to the troublespots.’
Ron grinned. ‘That’s good news they’re on their way. Cordelia will be delighted.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Maurice as he reached for his pipe. ‘There’s no guarantee of that, actually.’ He glanced at the huge sign which forbade them to smoke and, with a sigh, stuck his unlit pipe between his teeth. ‘The people in South Africa tried to persuade the women with young children to stay there for the duration, and so far there hasn’t been a list of those who took up the option. Cordelia’s relatives could well be among them.’
Ron followed suit with his pipe and sank lower into the deckchair. ‘At least they’re still alive,’ he muttered.
‘Absolutely,’ Maurice agreed. ‘The chap I spoke to at Admiralty House said that with communications as they are, it’s almost impossible to get exact passenger lists and keep tabs on all the women and children fleeing the Far East. But he could tell me that the Monarch joined a convoy of merchant ships to come up the Atlantic, and a good many of the women with particularly young children had been transferred to an even swifter ship, the Laetitia. I believe the Laetitia has already reached Glasgow, and the rest of the convoy is due to arrive any day.’
‘Thanks, Maurice. You’ve helped no end, and no doubt Cordelia will feel much easier about things now.’
‘Glad to help, old chap.’ He grinned as he pulled a bottle out of his kitbag. ‘How about a drop of rum to liven up the tea while we play a hand of cards to pass away the time?’
Chapter Seventeen
The Monarch of the Glen
Sarah and the other women had heard the Japanese radio announcement of the sinking of their ship, and realised immediately what a devastating effect such a statement would have on their menfolk back in Singapore. Like everyone else on board, Sarah had fretted over her inability to send some kind of reassurance that they were still alive and well – and had to accept the fact that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. There was no communication with Singapore now it had fallen into Japanese hands, and she could only pray that her father and Philip would recognise the announcement as a nasty piece of propaganda.
They had sailed on from Ceylon to Durban and around the Cape of Good Hope to Cape Town, where Sarah and the other women were faced with an unexpected dilemma. The South African authorities had put forward a tempting and very persuasive offer for the women with young children to remain in Cape Town for the duration. They pointed out that they hadn’t yet been touched by the war, that the climate was closer to that in Malaya, and that food, housing and jobs would be plentiful. They had painted a very grim picture of England, with the cold, wet climate,
the food rationing and air raids – and the fact that women with small children couldn’t do their bit for the war effort, and therefore would become a burden on the country and be made to feel unwelcome.
Sarah had been sorely tempted, and Jane was quite excited by the prospect. But Sarah knew that their parents expected them to be in England, and to change their plans now would merely complicate things. It would be awful if their mother arrived in England only to find herself alone and still thousands of miles away from her daughters.
It seemed that the majority of the other women felt the same way, and once all this had been carefully explained to Jane, she accepted they wouldn’t be staying in Cape Town, and began to look forward to arriving in England.
The temperature had dropped swiftly once they’d left the coast of Africa, and sitting on deck had soon become a thing of the past. The rough passage up the Atlantic with their escort of merchant ships was spent indoors, huddled on their mattresses cupping their hands round hot mugs of Marmite or Bovril – which were an acquired taste, but one they’d both come to rather like. Few of them had any warm clothing, and Sarah had raided their suitcases and emergency bundles so that when they arrived in the calmer waters of the Clyde that morning, they were wearing just about every stitch of clothing they possessed.
‘We must look like refugee waifs and strays,’ murmured Sarah as the ship dropped anchor late that afternoon at a place the Captain had told them was called Gurroch. She felt grubby and unkempt, for her hair needed a good wash and trim, and the jackets she’d used to make the bundles were horribly creased and stained.
‘I think it’s rather fun to be gypsies for a bit,’ said Jane as they stood by the railings. ‘But I do wish it wasn’t so cold. Do you think it’s always like this in England?’
‘I hope not,’ said Sarah, her teeth chattering. ‘But this is Scotland, and we’re still very far north, so Cliffehaven might be a bit warmer,’ she said hopefully.