Always in My Heart (31 page)

It was certainly a very pleasant area, for there were trees and pretty gardens behind the high walls, and on the other side of the road was the park, which looked very green and tranquil in the swiftly fading light. Sarah looked at the numbers on the houses and came to an abrupt halt. Number thirty-nine and its neighbour had been obliterated.

‘Perhaps the neighbours can tell us if the old lady got out alive,’ said Jane hopefully. ‘I’ll go and ask, shall I?’

‘We’ll do it together,’ said Sarah, trying her hardest not to show what an awful blow it had been. But there was no answer at number thirty-five, and it looked to Sarah as if it had been locked up for the duration, for every curtain was closed, and there was a padlock on the garage door.

The lady at number forty-one was very sympathetic, but didn’t know anyone called Cordelia Fuller. She
knew only that the family at number thirty-nine had lived there for some years and the mother had taken her children to the West Country while her husband was away with the Army.

Sarah swallowed her disappointment and thanked her before asking the way to Mafeking Terrace. It turned out to be some way to the north of the town, beyond the park and right beneath the towering hill that overlooked Cliffehaven. With heavy hearts they began to trudge back the way they had come.

Mafeking Terrace was a narrow cul-de-sac which was almost lost in a maze of similar streets that wound along the bottom of the hill and afforded the residents an excellent distant view of the seafront. Every red-brick bungalow looked the same, with a sloping roof over two heavily taped front windows and a short cinder path leading to a sturdy wooden door in which a circle of stained glass had been embedded. There was no real front garden, just a scrap of lawn and a small flower bed. ‘Sea Vista’ was halfway down.

Sarah took a deep breath, walked up the path and rapped the brass knocker. There was a flicker of movement behind the lace curtains at the nearest window, and Sarah grinned at Jane. ‘At least someone’s at home,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s hope it’s Aunt Amelia.’

But there was no sound of approaching footsteps – in fact there was utter silence. Puzzled, Sarah rapped the knocker again, and after another long moment of nothing happening, dared to push the letter box open just enough so she could see into the hall.

Her pulse began to race as she realised the occupant was standing in an open doorway at the end of the narrow hall. She could only conclude that the old lady must be frightened to open her door to strangers, and peering through her letter box was surely only making her even more nervous.

‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Great Aunt Amelia Fuller? It’s Sarah and Jane Fuller from Malaya. We didn’t mean to frighten you, but do you think you could let us in?’

‘Go away and leave me alone.’ The voice came from the depths of the bungalow and was far from pleasant.

Sarah and Jane looked at one another in shock. ‘She must have misheard,’ muttered Jane. ‘Try again.’

‘Great Aunt Amelia, we’re sorry to disturb you,’ called Sarah. ‘Didn’t you get my father’s telegram? His name’s Jock Fuller, and his father was your brother, Charles.’

There was no response, so Sarah tentatively pushed the letter box open again. ‘We’ve got nowhere else to go, Aunt Amelia. Please let us in,’ she begged.

‘If you don’t leave my property I shall call the police. Now be off with you.’

Sarah stepped back in shock at her vehemence. ‘Will you at least tell us how to find Aunt Cordelia?’ she ventured. ‘Is she still alive and living in Cliffehaven?’

There was the sound of a slamming door. If that old witch really was Great Aunt Amelia, then she clearly had nothing else to say.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Jane fearfully. ‘It’s getting late and it’ll soon be dark.’

Sarah was close to tears, but she couldn’t let Jane see how furious she was with that horrid old woman – and how frightened she was not having anywhere else to go. ‘We’ll go back to the High Street and see if there’s someone at the Town Hall. I seem to remember seeing a WVS sign outside.’

‘Hello, dear. Can I help you?’ They both turned at the sound of the voice coming from the next bungalow’s doorway. The speaker was a pleasant-faced elderly woman who came out to her garden gate to speak to them.

‘We thought our Aunt Amelia Fuller lived next door to you,’ explained Sarah, ‘but we were obviously mistaken.’

The elderly woman shook her head. ‘Oh, that was Amelia all right,’ she muttered, ‘but she’s as mean as they come, and if she thinks you want something then she clams up.’ She eyed their suitcases. ‘I heard you say you’ve just arrived from Malaya.’

Time was of the essence, and Sarah didn’t really want to get into a long explanation, even though this old lady seemed very pleasant. ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘and we’ve been trying to get in touch with Amelia and her sister Cordelia. I don’t suppose you know where we could find Cordelia? Only it appears that her house has been bombed.’

‘I’m sorry, dears, but I don’t get out much any more, so I’ve rather lost track of everyone. I remember Cordelia, though, nice little body.’ She grimaced as she glanced to the bungalow next door. ‘Not like her
sister at all.’ She thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘I seem to remember Cordelia moved into a boarding house with a local family after her husband died,’ she murmured, ‘but I can’t for the life of me remember their name.’

Sarah felt a twinge of hope. ‘What was her married name?’

The old lady frowned as she struggled to remember. ‘Something like Sparrow or Thrush or Swallow.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve not been much help, have I?’

‘You’ve been very kind, thank you,’ said Jane.

‘I’d offer you a bed for the night, but I already have two evacuees living in and simply don’t have the room,’ she said worriedly. ‘I do hope you find Cordelia, and when you do, give her my regards. It’s Olive Farmer.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Farmer, we’ll do that.’ They hastily moved away before she could prolong the conversation and trudged their weary way back to the Town Hall. All the shops were closed now, and when they arrived, it was to discover there was no one from the WVS to welcome them and that every spare inch of space had been taken up with beds, baggage, prams and squalling children.

They stood with their suitcases at their feet in utter despair and bewilderment until a little woman in a wrap-round apron approached them with a screaming baby in her arms.

‘It’s all right, ducks,’ she said after they’d told her their plight. ‘No need to look so down in the mouth. I’ll
find you a couple of blankets and you can bed down in the Mayor’s parlour for the night. He doesn’t need it until tomorrow anyway.’

She gave them a cheerful wink and they followed her to the store cupboard, which she unlocked, and then she handed them two blankets and pillows. ‘You’re supposed to sign for them,’ she confided in a stage whisper, ‘but the office is locked, and I reckon you look honest enough.’

Sarah and Jane took the bedding and followed her into the Mayor’s parlour, which was a sharp contrast to the crowded, echoing room they’d just come from. ‘Thank you so much,’ breathed Jane. ‘You’re a real lifesaver.’

The woman shrugged. ‘In times like these we all need an ’and now and again,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Just remember to be out of here by eight – the Mayor likes to make an early start.’ She cocked her head and looked them up and down. ‘This is a one-off,’ she warned. ‘You’ll have to go to the authorities and get a proper billet in the morning.’

‘Is there anywhere we can buy something to eat?’ asked Jane.

‘Yeah, there’s a chippy just up the road. He’ll do you a nice spam fritter if you ask him with a smile.’

After she’d closed the door behind her the sisters looked at one another and giggled. ‘It looks as if we’re going to have to get used to the awful spam if we’re not to die of starvation,’ said Jane.

‘At least we’ve got somewhere to stay for tonight,’
said Sarah. ‘Come on, help me push these heavy chairs together so we can make them like beds. And look, there’s a gas fire. We can even have a bit of warmth as well.’

They pushed the chairs end to end and placed the blankets and pillows on them before trying to work out how to get the gas fire going. After a bit of experimentation they discovered it took sixpences, and were soon bathed in a satisfying warmth.

Sarah left Jane by the fire and ventured out again to find the mysterious chippy. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, and then she smelled the mouth-watering aroma of frying fat and vinegar wafting towards her and saw the queue of people waiting. The taped window was steamed up but she could see the menu, and it appeared that chips and spam fritters were not the only thing on offer, and her spirits rose at the thought of some lovely fish.

Yet, as she stood patiently in the queue and listened in to the orders of those in front of her, she realised there wasn’t any fish or sausages to be had. Like it or loathe it, spam was her only option.

Having overheard the way to ask for two fritters and something called mushy peas, with tuppenceworth of chips, she clutched the unfamiliar small change in her hand and managed to sound quite confident as she asked for an added splash of vinegar, a bit of salt and a pickled onion. Her mouth was watering so much she could barely speak, and once their supper had been carefully wrapped in newspaper, she put the right
money on the counter and ran back to the Town Hall.

‘It will probably taste better in batter,’ she said to Jane as she unwrapped the newspaper and spread it on the floor.

‘I don’t care,’ replied Jane, her mouth already full of golden potato chips. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat shoe leather.’

The batter was crisp and golden around the thick slice of spam, and they dunked this greasy offering in the little paper twist of lurid green mashed peas, and shared the pickled onion. It was as good as a feast, even though they were eating with their fingers out of newspaper. Their mother would have had a fit if she could have seen them now.

But, in a way, it was all a part of this strange and rather wonderful adventure they were having. Although they were homeless and Aunt Amelia had proved to be a beastly old curmudgeon, they had temporary shelter and warmth and food in their stomachs – and were actually quite enjoying themselves.

‘Oh, do look,’ said Cordelia excitedly, ‘there are pictures in the newspaper of the women and children arriving on the ships in Scotland.’

Peggy spooned a bit of porridge into Daisy’s mouth and scanned the rather blurred photographs. ‘There are certainly a lot of them,’ she replied, ‘and that’s just one ship. But at least it looks as if they’ve been given a warm welcome.’

‘The article says the
Monarch
docked two days ago, but there’s no list of the passengers.’ She put on her glasses and took a closer look at the hundreds of people who were lining the decks and gave a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know why I’m trying to find them,’ she said as she closed the paper. ‘It’s impossible to see any faces, and I have no idea what they look like anyway.’

‘We’ll no doubt get a telegram at some point,’ said Peggy as she finished feeding Daisy and went to warm her bottle of milk. ‘Perhaps we should make a start on their rooms when I get back from the Town Hall?’

‘You do enough,’ replied Cordelia. ‘I’ll make the beds and dust around this morning. If there’s anything heavy to lift, I’ll ask Ron to help me.’ She set the
newspaper aside and sipped her tea, her expression thoughtful. ‘They’re going to find things very different here,’ she mused, ‘what with the weather, the different money and all the restrictions on travel and food and everything. I do hope they don’t get lost.’

Peggy tested the heat of the milk on the back of her hand before giving it to Daisy, but her mind was elsewhere. She’d had a sudden dreadful thought and wondered how on earth neither of them had had it before. The telegrams had gone to Cordelia’s old house and to her sister’s – but Amelia had made it clear she would have nothing to do with her brother’s family, and Cordelia’s house was a bomb site. Sybil and her daughters would have no way of discovering where Cordelia was – for the telegram had been sent to Miss Cordelia Fuller.

‘What’s the matter, Peggy? Why are you frowning?’

Peggy shook off the worrying thoughts and gave her a bright smile. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘just thinking about all the things I need to do today.’ She couldn’t discuss this problem with Cordelia, who didn’t know that her old place had been bombed, or that her sister had already nastily refused to have anything to do with Sybil or her daughters. This was something she had to deal with alone, but where on earth did she start?

‘I’ll clear up everything in here,’ said Cordelia, ‘and then make a start on the bedrooms. If they haven’t decided to stay in South Africa, then they could be here within hours. It said in the paper that they left Glasgow the day they docked and took the night train
to London. I wonder if we telephoned the station, Stan might be able to tell us if they’ve arrived.’

‘That’s a very good idea,’ said Peggy. ‘I’ll ring as soon as Daisy’s finished her breakfast. Stan knows all the locals, so he’s bound to notice strangers.’

While Cordelia began to clear the table and start on the washing-up, Peggy finished feeding Daisy. Putting a clean bib over her clothes, she tucked her into the pram and wheeled it into the hall. Picking up the receiver, she waited for the operator to answer.

‘Hello, Phyllis,’ she said. ‘It’s Peggy. Could you please ring the station for me?’

The ringing tone went on and on, then Phyllis came back on the line. ‘Stan must be working on his allotment,’ she said. ‘D’you want me to try him again in half an hour?’

‘No, it’s all right, Phyllis. I’ll pop up there later.’

She went back into the kitchen. ‘He’s not answering,’ she said, ‘so I’ll go up there before I start at the Town Hall.’ Finishing the lukewarm cup of tea, she was about to help dry the dishes when the telephone rang. ‘Maybe Phyllis managed to get hold of him after all,’ she murmured.

‘Hello there, me darlin’ girl. How’s things in Cliffehaven?’