Far From Home (3 page)

Peggy turned the handle on the mangle with extra vigour, using it to vent her frustration at everything that had happened over the past few weeks. It was bad enough having to cope with the dust and the debris caused by the ever-increasing bombing raids, but rationing was tighter than ever, her husband Jim was absolutely no help at all around the house, and that poor little Polish girl, Danuta, seemed determined to remain isolated in her room with her grief.

She folded the damp sheet into the laundry basket and plunged her arms back into the water to fish out the next. Feeding it through the twin rollers of the mangle, she grasped the handle and gave it a vicious turn, the water pouring into the bucket beneath.

‘You’ll be having that off its moorings if you’re not careful.’

She glared at her father-in-law who’d tramped in from the garden with dirty boots and Harvey, a large, shaggy, Bedlington-cross. ‘Thanks, Ron. But when I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.’

His rough, warm hand settled on her fingers as he smiled at her. ‘Let me do that,’ he said softly. ‘Go and put your feet up.’

‘I haven’t got time to rest,’ she sighed, as she stepped back from the mangle and almost tripped over the dog. ‘The house is filthy, the beds need changing and I’m due at the WVS reception centre in an hour. With so many people being made homeless, I can’t let them down.’

‘D’you not think you’re trying to take on too much?’ He continued turning the handle, expertly folding the sheet into the basket as Harvey plonked himself down under the sink. ‘There’re six other women in the house, including Cissy and Mrs Finch. You should put your foot down and get them to help more.’

‘June, Suzy and Fran work long hours at that hospital. They’re so exhausted when they come in, they’ve barely the strength to eat, let alone get stuck into housework. Cissy does her share when she’s at home, and I don’t like to ask Mrs Finch, bless her. As for Danuta,’ she gave another deep sigh. ‘She hardly knows where she is at the moment, and needs time to grieve for her brother.’

Ron dumped the last sheet in the basket, his weather-beaten face solemn, his blue eyes understanding as he regarded her. ‘A bit of dust doesn’t matter, Peg,’ he said softly. ‘But you do. What would become of us all if you made yourself ill?’

Peggy stared at him. Ron was in his sixties and she’d known him for more than twenty years. She’d never heard him speak like that before, and it was disconcerting to say the least. ‘Hard work never killed anyone,’ she said gruffly. ‘But I appreciate the thought.’

Ron muttered something under his breath, hoisted the laundry basket on to his hip and carried it outside.

The gravel path ran the length of the garden, past the almost empty coal bunker, the shed and the outside lav, which had had to be rebuilt following an earlier bomb attack, and continued through the lines of vegetables to the back gate which hung lopsidedly from the one hinge that had survived on the shattered flint wall. The Anderson shelter squatted at the very end of the garden, the tin roof covered with earth; the stone steps leading down to the rough wooden door were already gathering moss, and despite the lack of rain, there always seemed to be a puddle waiting to catch the unwary.

The aftermath of the recent raids could be seen in the damaged chimneys and roofs of the surrounding houses, and in the crumbled garden walls and boarded-up windows. It had been a miracle that Beach View was still standing relatively unscathed.

Peggy followed Ron down the path to the washing line that was strung across the garden from two wooden poles. He had certainly taken the government directive to dig for victory to heart – the vegetables were flourishing. But her own heart was heavy, for she missed not seeing her two sons playing there, missed not hearing their voices – even missed not having to clear up behind them. This damned war had only just got going, but already it had changed the landscape of Cliffehaven and the very essence of her family life.

It was as if Ron could read her thoughts. ‘Bob and Charlie are well out of it, Peggy, and all that fresh air and exercise down on that Somerset farm can only do them and Ernie good.’

‘I know.’ She began to peg out the sheets. ‘Ernie’s thriving, according to his Aunt Vi’s letters, although the aftermath of the polio means he still gets tired far too quickly.’ She blinked in the bright sunlight as she continued to peg the sheets to the line. It was a beautiful day, with no clouds in the sky, and no sign of the terrifying dogfights that had been fought overhead the night before, but, try as she might, she couldn’t assuage the emptiness that seemed always to accompany her now.

‘Sally’s coming over at the weekend to show me Ernie’s letters and drawings. She misses her little brother even more than we do, and I think it helps her to talk about him with me.’

Ron handed her the tail of the last sheet. ‘She’s a fair wee lass, so she is. Nice that she feels this is her home. You’ve been a good mother to her, Peg. You should be proud of how she’s turned out.’

Peggy turned from the washing line and balanced the empty basket on her hip. ‘Who’d have thought it? We were strangers a year ago, and now it’s as if she’s one of mine. Odd how things work out, isn’t it?’

‘The war does have some compensations,’ he muttered. ‘If she and Ernie hadn’t been sent down here from London, who knows what might have happened to them.’

Peggy felt rather more cheerful. It was wearing to be cross and out of sorts and, frankly, she’d had enough of gloom and doom. ‘Sally and John are getting married in November,’ she said brightly. ‘John’s coming on so well, and he’s determined to walk down the aisle without his sticks.’

‘I always knew that boy wouldn’t let his injuries get the better of him,’ he replied. ‘Sally’s got herself a good man there, so she has.’ He pulled his disreputable cap out of his filthy trouser pocket and rammed it over his silver-streaked thatch of dark hair. ‘If you’re not wanting any more help, then I’ll be off to the hills with Harvey to see what I can get for the pot.’

Peggy stilled him by touching his arm. ‘Thanks, Ron,’ she murmured, and lightly kissed his cheek.

He flushed red and tugged at the cap. ‘There’s no need for all that,’ he muttered, before turning away. ‘Come on, Harvey. Rabbits.’

Peggy stood in the warm sunshine and fondly watched the old man and his faithful hound walk through the gate and along the twitten that ran between the rows of terraced Victorian houses that climbed the steep hill to the east of the town. Ron could be stubborn and opinionated – but he was a stalwart, and Peggy couldn’t imagine this house without him.

She glanced at her watch and hurried indoors. Refusing to look at the now deserted basement bedroom which her young sons had shared, she dumped the basket under the sink and ran up the stone steps into the kitchen to find Mrs Finch busy at the draining board.

‘I hope you don’t mind, dear,’ she said, fiddling with her hearing aid, ‘but I thought I’d help prepare the vegetables for tonight.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Peggy replied, rather alarmed at how close the flashing blade was to the elderly, not terribly steady fingers.

‘What’s that, dear? I can’t hear you.’ The older woman put down the paring knife and fiddled again with her hearing aid, making it whine.

It was clearly one of Mrs Finch’s better days, but that hearing aid was worse than useless. ‘I said you don’t have to do that,’ Peggy repeated loudly.

‘I do, dear,’ she replied. ‘You can’t possibly manage, and I’m beginning to feel rather useless.’

‘But …’

‘But nothing,’ Mrs Finch said firmly, her grey head bobbing. ‘I can’t do much, granted. But I’ll do what I can. We all have to do our bit, Peggy, and I can’t sit idly by watching you work yourself into the ground.’ She walked slowly and carefully to the Kitchener range, her arthritis eased somewhat by the warm weather. ‘I’ve made a pot of tea. Sit down, Peggy, and let me spoil you for a change.’

Peggy had tears in her eyes as the old woman poured the tea and set the cup and saucer on the table in front of her. ‘Bless you,’ she murmured, relishing the almost forgotten taste of strong, sweet tea.

‘What’s that? Do speak up, dear.’

‘I thought we were out of tea,’ shouted Peggy.

‘There’s no need to bellow, dear. I’m not totally deaf, you know.’ Mrs Finch smiled impishly. ‘I knew we were out of tea, so I went out early and managed to get to the head of the queue at the grocer’s. Being old and rather decrepit works wonders sometimes, and I’m not above playing the helpless old woman to the hilt when necessary. It’s amazing what one can achieve with a walking stick and a hearing aid.’ She returned to the carrots.

Peggy sipped her tea and made a concerted effort to relax and not panic over the cavalier way Mrs Finch was using that knife. Cordelia Finch was aptly named, for she was a bird-like little woman, whose cheerful chirruping always lightened the mood. She had become an intrinsic part of the family, and Peggy had noticed how easily the three young nurses had taken to her. It was as if they saw their grandmothers in her, and Mrs Finch had taken on the role with relish, dishing out advice, soothing tears, taking an interest in everything they did. Peggy had no idea how old she was, but guessed she had to be at least seventy-five and, despite her deafness and the arthritis that plagued her, she seemed to have been rejuvenated by the knowledge that she was still useful.

Closing her eyes, Peggy let the hot sweet tea revive her as she mulled over her plans for the rest of the day. She would leave the fresh linen on the beds and they could make them up themselves for a change, she decided. If Ron couldn’t get a rabbit or something for the pot, she had a tin of stewing steak in the larder that would suffice and, thanks to Ron, there were plenty of potatoes to grate up and use as a pastry topping. She let out a deep sigh. Oh, for the days of real puff pastry, so light it melted in the mouth, coming out of the oven all golden and flaky, rich with real butter.

Her daydream was broken by the sound of Mrs Finch’s voice. ‘Have you seen Danuta today?’ She scooped the diced carrots into a saucepan, added cold water and a pinch of salt before turning to face Peggy.

‘I took her up a cup of tea this morning, but I’ve not seen her since.’

‘Poor little thing,’ muttered Mrs Finch. ‘Heaven only knows what she must have gone through to get here all the way from Poland.’

‘She refuses to talk about it,’ said Peggy with a sigh. ‘But I suspect she’s seen more horrors than anyone should at that age – and then to discover her brother was shot down and killed only weeks before she got here. That must have been a cruel blow.’

Peggy lit a cigarette and blew smoke. ‘I tried to tell her as gently as I could, but of course there’s no easy way to impart such awful news.’ She plucked at the edges of the worn, faded oilcloth that covered the table. ‘Alex was such a lovely man, and although he was billeted here for only a short while, I really miss him.’

Mrs Finch poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. ‘Danuta’s only been here a few days, and I know she’s mourning her brother, but life has to go on. She’s a nurse, isn’t she?’ At Peggy’s nod, she continued. ‘Well then, she should be going to the hospital and volunteering her services. It will take her mind off herself and whatever she’s been through and help her recover. There’s nothing like seeing other people’s misery to make one realise how lucky one is.’

‘Is that how you coped after your husband was killed in the last war?’

Mrs Finch nodded. ‘I wasn’t trained or anything, but I helped at the hospital, running to and fro with drinks, helping them to write letters, or read them. It seemed to cheer them up a bit, and seeing them get well again was good for me – made me realise that, in a very small way, I was helping to win the war.’

Peggy nodded. ‘That’s why I’ve volunteered to help with the WVS,’ she replied slowly and carefully so Mrs Finch could read her lips. ‘It cheers me up no end to be able to find all those poor souls housing and clothes, and to see the kiddies tuck into a decent meal. Reminds me of how lucky I am this place is still standing.’

‘Talking of which, shouldn’t you be on your way to the centre by now?’

‘Good heavens,’ Peggy gasped. ‘I didn’t realise what time it was.’ Stubbing out her cigarette, she swiftly dragged the scarf from her head and untied her wrap-round apron, flinging them both on a nearby chair. Running a comb hastily through her dark wavy hair, she snatched up her handbag and gas mask, and slung a cardigan over her sprigged cotton dress. ‘I’ll be back at six unless there’s another raid. You will promise to go into the shelter, won’t you, if there is?’

‘I might be old, but I’m not senile just yet,’ Mrs Finch replied with some asperity. ‘As much as I hate that shelter, I’ll be inside it the minute the sirens go.’ She flapped her hands. ‘Now go, Peggy, and don’t worry about supper. I’m perfectly capable of managing.’

Peggy rather doubted it, and dreaded the state of her kitchen on her return. But she kissed the soft cheek gratefully and hurried out of the kitchen, into the hall and through the front door.

Pausing for a moment on the top step, she eyed the narrow road which was in shadow now the sun had gone behind the terrace of houses opposite. Beach View Boarding House had been in the family for years, and this street had once been her playground, the witness to her wedding day and to where she’d returned when her parents had retired. She’d raised her children here and run a successful bed and breakfast business until the war had stopped people coming to the seaside for their holidays. The neighbours were old friends, their homes as familiar as her own; their lives somehow entwined as they’d survived the first war and the terrible financial depression and flu epidemic that had followed.