Always in My Heart (7 page)

The scene around her was as peaceful and lush as always, and as she reached the flattened clearing in front of the house she stepped from the car and took a deep, refreshing breath of the cooler air. The colours of the birds and wildflowers seemed more vibrant against the dark, glossy green of the wet trees, and despite the humidity and the low rain-filled clouds
that were drifting ever nearer, it was pleasant to be out of the stifling heat of the valley.

Sarah had showered and changed by the time Sybil and Jane returned from the club, and in answer to her mother’s silent, questioning look, Sarah shook her head.

‘We will change for dinner as usual,’ said Sybil with a brittleness that betrayed her worry. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back soon, and there’s absolutely no reason to allow standards to slip.’ With that she went off to her room to prepare for the evening.

Dinner was an almost silent meal, and even Jane seemed to catch their mood, for after chattering about her day at the club, she finally fell silent and then asked to leave the table before pudding was served.

Sarah and her mother moved into the drawing room for coffee and they sat in silence as they stared out of the French doors at the rain that thundered on the roof and drenched the veranda. There was no need to talk, for their thoughts were the same, their fears growing as the time ticked away and the soft-footed servants exchanged worried glances.

When the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, Sybil sent the servants to bed, but there would be no sleep for her and Sarah until the men returned. They continued to sit there, unable to voice their fears as the clock struck one and then two and three.

The drum of the rain muffled all other sounds and they both almost jumped out of their skins when Jock
slammed the front door and came stomping into the room, looking like a drowned and very disgruntled bear.

Sarah kept her gaze fixed on the doorway as her mother hurried to greet him and the ever-alert houseboy scurried about bringing towels, a glass of whisky and a dry shirt. ‘Where’s Philip?’ she asked in alarm.

‘Still down in Singapore,’ muttered Jock as he vigorously rubbed his hair dry, handed the towel back to the Malay servant and drank the whisky down in one. ‘That’s better,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘It’s been one hell of a day and I reckon I earned that.’

He softly kissed Sybil’s cheek and scolded her for waiting up for him, then held the glass out to be refilled. He rejected the dry shirt and offer of food and plumped down into the couch.

‘You do look rather dishevelled, dear,’ said Sybil with admirable understatement as she eyed the sweat-stains on his shirt and the mud on his socks and boots. ‘What
have
you been up to?’

‘Helping to strengthen the beach defences and build extra gun emplacements and pillboxes in KL. Then we were sent down to Singapore to lend a hand with the clearing up after that treacherous Jap raid.’

‘How bad was it?’ asked Sybil, her eyes dark with anxiety.

Jock took a gulp of the whisky. ‘A number of bombs fell on Raffles Place,’ he muttered. ‘The bungalow’s gone, I’m afraid.’

‘A bungalow can be rebuilt,’ said Sybil impatiently. ‘What about casualties? Are our friends all right?’

‘Most of the damage was done at the airfields, the Sembawang Naval Base, and Keppel Harbour. Philip’s yacht was blown to bits, along with most of the other boats in the Marina, and rumour has it that sixty-one died and over seven hundred were injured – most of the casualties seem to have been troops from the Gurkha Rifles and the Indian Infantry.’

Sarah couldn’t stand it any longer and broke in before her mother could ask another question. ‘Why is Philip still in Singapore?’

‘One of our warehouses took a direct hit, and he’s had to stay to sort things out. He sends his apologies for not ringing, but the phone lines are all down. He’ll be back sometime tomorrow.’ His face creased into a warm smile. ‘In the midst of the mayhem he found time to ask me if he could marry you.’

Sarah held her breath and clutched the ring at her neck.

Jock laughed. ‘Well, I couldn’t refuse, could I? Not when you’d already agreed and had the ring to prove it.’

‘Oh, Pops, thank you,’ she said in relief as she went to hug him.

‘He’s a fine young man, Sarah,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m delighted for you both.’ Clearly rather embarrassed by his daughter’s show of emotion, he reached again for the whisky and took a restorative gulp.

Sarah hugged her mother, drew the ring from the
chain, and put it on her finger where it sparked like flames in the candlelight.

‘I wish I was young again,’ Jock sighed as he stared morosely out of the open doors to the rain that was still drumming on the veranda. ‘Seeing all those chaps setting off like that … I tell you, Sybil, I’d be right with them if I could, and that’s a fact.’

Sybil stared at him in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean? What young men? Where are they going?’

Jock continued to watch the rain for a moment. ‘We older men want to muck in as well, you know,’ he grumbled, ‘but it seems we don’t have that choice – not if we have the responsibility of running plantations.’

‘Thank God for that,’ breathed Sybil.

He glared out at the rain. ‘They’re going to need every able man up there, and I feel utterly bloody useless.’

‘Jock, you’re frightening us, and so far you haven’t made one bit of sense,’ said Sybil rather sharply. ‘Will you please tell us what has been happening in Singapore?’

‘I suppose you have a right to know, but what I’m about to tell you is top secret, and not to be repeated.’

‘Do get on with it, Jock,’ snapped Sybil. ‘Can’t you see we’re both on tenterhooks?’

Jock glanced at his watch and then finished the whisky. He carefully placed the empty glass on the nearby table as if he needed those few seconds to mull over what he should say. ‘The battleships
Repulse
and
Prince of Wales
will have left Singapore about half an
hour ago with an escort of four destroyers to engage the enemy in the north.’

Sarah and her mother could only stare at him in horror as the full import of what he said began to sink in, but it was Sarah who voiced their fears. ‘Is it really so bad up there that we have to send battleships?’

Jock must have heard the fear in her voice and seen it mirrored in Sybil’s face, for he rose to take them into his embrace. ‘It’s just a precaution,’ he murmured. ‘Lieutenant General Percival has ninety thousand British, Indian and Australian troops under his command, and with the Allied air forces and the Royal Navy giving support, we’ll soon have those yellow devils routed.’

Sarah and her mother leaned into his embrace and tried to find comfort in his words. But in the sudden heavy silence that followed the abrupt end of the rainstorm, Sarah thought she could feel an ominous tension in the air. It was as if the jungles of Malaya were holding their breath.

England was in the grip of a cold, wet winter, with gale-force winds that howled across the rooftops, rattled the windows and generally made life difficult. It was only just four in the afternoon, but already it was dark outside, and Peggy snuggled further under the blankets, the feather-filled eiderdown tucked up to her chin.

There was something quite primal in the pleasure of being snug and warm while the wind moaned outside and the rain beat on the window. On days like this she was relieved not to have to be out there, standing in the endless queues at the local shops, dashing here and there doing things for her neighbours or battling the wind to reach the WVS centre at the Town Hall where she helped pack emergency rations of food and clothing for the homeless.

And yet, as she lay there, she had to admit she was getting rather bored with it all. She missed her kitchen, and the evenings by the fire – missed the chatter and warmth of being at the heart of the family. It was all very well to have people popping in at all times of
the day, but as much as she loved seeing them, she preferred to be up and doing and in charge of things.

With this thought, she grabbed Jim’s dressing gown and pulled it on before clambering out of bed and stuffing her feet into her slippers. She was feeling much more herself after nearly four days of doing nothing, but despite Alison Chenoweth’s thorough bed-baths, she felt grubby and her hair was sticking to her head in a most unbecoming way. With Daisy asleep and not due for another feed until six, she would have a bath – and to hell with the water rationing.

She found the lovely unused bar of lavender soap she’d been saving for a special occasion, and then rummaged in the wardrobe and drawers in search of some warm and comfortable clothes. Another quick glance to make sure Daisy didn’t look about to stir, and she opened the door.

The house was quiet, and she suspected Mrs Finch was upstairs with her hearing aid switched off, having her afternoon nap. If Jim caught her sneaking up to have a bath there’d be hell to pay, but as he was at work in the projection room of the Odeon Cinema, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. But she still dithered in the doorway, wondering where Ron and the girls might be.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘I’m a grown woman, and if I want a bath, I’ll jolly well have one.’ She closed the bedroom door quietly and crossed the hall to the flight of stairs that went right up to the attic rooms, and, grasping the bannister, she started up.

By the time she’d reached the first floor landing her legs felt decidedly wobbly and she was out of breath, which was silly – a week ago she’d been running up and down these stairs like a spring chicken. Well, she admitted silently, not exactly running – one couldn’t run when nine months pregnant and as big as a barrage balloon.

She stood there for a moment to get her breath back, and then, fearing that Mrs Finch might suddenly come out of her room, hurriedly made use of the lavatory, and then took two towels from the airing cupboard and headed into the bathroom. She locked the door and sank onto the wooden chair that stood by the bath. She felt a bit light-headed, and suddenly wondered if this had actually been such a good idea.

The icy cold of the room cleared her head, and she drew Jim’s dressing gown more tightly round her as she closed the blackout curtain on the dark, gloomy day and switched on the light. She found the matches and, standing well back, turned on the gas boiler and held the match to the pilot light. There was a loud bang and two tongues of flame shot out of the vent – but Peggy was inured to this and simply waited for the boiler to settle down.

Once this was achieved she waited a few more moments before turning the taps. As the steam began to rise and form condensation on the white tiles, Peggy placed the precious bar of lavender soap in the dish at the end of the bath and rummaged in the cabinet for her shampoo.

Eyeing the almost empty bottle with a rueful smile, she realised one or all of the girls had been using it. That was the problem with so many females in the house – shampoo, lipstick, stockings, and even face powder were fair game when left lying about. But she didn’t mind. The girls worked hard and times were tough, and it wasn’t as if she’d not been guilty herself of borrowing the odd dash of lipstick and bit of talc now and again.

Peggy eyed the regulatory two inches of water in the bottom of the bath and decided that having missed out on three proper baths she was due an extra few inches. Minutes later she tested the water, added some cold and then hurriedly slipped out of her nightwear.

The icy cold of the bathroom goosed her flesh and she quickly slid beneath the lovely hot water until it lapped about her ears. Closing her eyes, she lay there, revelling in the luxury. Every extra hour of work and every penny saved for this bathroom had been worth it, she decided.

After some moments she realised she was in danger of falling asleep, so she reluctantly roused herself and reached for the soap. Once she was sweet-smelling again, she clambered out of the rapidly cooling water, wrapped herself in a large bath towel and used the tin jug that always stood by the bath to wash her hair.

Still feeling slightly light-headed from her exertions, she dragged on her underwear and red flannel vest and quickly pulled on the old tweed skirt and warm sweater. She was sitting on the chair rubbing her hair
dry when she heard the low moan of the first call of the air-raid siren.

Leaping to her feet, and regretting it instantly, she dropped the towel on the floor, steadied herself for a moment then unbolted the door. She stumbled to Mrs Finch’s room, which was right next door, and went in without knocking.

Mrs Finch was snoring happily as she lay fully dressed beneath the eiderdown, her discarded hearing aid dangling from the bedside table.

Peggy gently shook her awake.

‘Whasamatter?’ she mumbled as she emerged from her deep sleep.

‘Air raid,’ mouthed Peggy as she handed her the hearing aid, grabbed her gas-mask box and helped her off the bed.

The dear old thing was a bit unsteady on her feet, but then Peggy wasn’t much better, and they both swayed a bit as Peggy handed her the walking stick and tucked her hand into the crook of her arm. The sirens were louder now, reaching their highest pitch, and Peggy was frantic to get Cordelia downstairs so she could reach Daisy, who was now crying.

‘You go,’ ordered Mrs Finch. ‘I can manage perfectly well.’

Peggy was torn between the needs of her frightened baby and those of this frail old lady she’d come to love.

Mrs Finch pushed past her and started down the stairs. Clutching the bannisters, she swayed on each step with heart-stopping regularity, and Peggy rushed
to help her down to the hall. ‘Get the air-raid box from the kitchen,’ she shouted over the screams of the baby and the wailing sirens, ‘but don’t go down the cellar steps. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

‘I know what to do, dear. See to Daisy.’

Peggy tore into the bedroom and plucked the thoroughly agitated Daisy from her cot. Wrapping her firmly in several small blankets, Peggy kicked off her slippers and dug her feet into her everyday shoes, grabbed her gas-mask box and fresh nappies and rushed into the kitchen.