Keep Smiling Through (10 page)

They slowed as they reached the end of Barrow Lane and just stood there, arm in arm, staring in disbelief at the damage.

The wall that had once run along the far end was all but gone. The coils of barbed wire that had topped it now swung malevolently back and forth in the cold wind, making a grinding, scratching noise that set their teeth on edge. Bricks and mortar were strewn across the narrow street, or piled in a great mound on the piece of waste ground that had once been her father’s service area. There was no sign of the petrol pump, and the chimney was leaning precariously, ready to collapse at any minute. Almost every window in the street had been blown out, doors hung on buckled hinges, chimneys had toppled and slates had been shattered.

‘At least the houses are still standing,’ murmured Louise.

‘I suspect the wall took the brunt of the explosion and absorbed the blast enough to protect them,’ Rita replied, her gaze trawling the narrow lane before searching for the gasometer. It still stood a street away, ugly as always, and seemingly untouched. ‘It’s a miracle that didn’t get hit,’ she said, ‘otherwise there’d be nothing left of these streets.’

Louise nodded, gripped her handbag and gas mask box and began to pick her way through the rubble to the yawning hole in the wall. As Rita joined her, they both stared down the exposed siding to the buckled rails, the mangled goods train and the shattered platforms and sheds. It would take a long time to get the trains moving again, and they were a lifeline for Cliffehaven, for they brought in precious supplies.

‘Come, Mamma,’ Rita murmured. ‘Let’s go and inspect the damage, even though there’s nothing much we can do in the dark. At least we still have beds to sleep in – not like some.’

FOLLOWING THE CLOSE
shave they’d had in Barrow Lane, Rita and Louise now kept their most precious things with them every time they left the house. Rita’s treasures were kept in a holdall in the motorbike pannier.

Over the next three weeks there were other raids but Barrow Lane was spared further damage, for most of the bombs had fallen harmlessly into the sea. The Americans, although still neutral, came in their trucks and diggers and helped to clear the rubble, board doors and windows, and secure Rita’s chimney before it went through the roof.

Their arrival caused a stir among the women, who suddenly found an inordinate amount of time to stand on their doorsteps handing out tea in exchange for packs of Lucky Strikes and some earnest flirtation. It was noted that some of the younger women had started wearing make-up again and having their hair set – and this was fuel for gossip, stoked by the fact that these young women seemed to go out at night much more than they had when their husbands and children were at home.

The tittle-tattle went back and forth as meaty arms were crossed beneath self-righteous bosoms, chins quivered in delicious disgust and gimlet eyes peered through twitching net curtains at every footstep and door slam. It was common knowledge that Vi Charlton at number four was entertaining a Yank most nights, and could be seen brazenly stepping out with him, nose in the air, silk stockings flashing as they headed for a night in the town. The general consensus amongst those who felt it was their duty to keep an eye on such things was that she was no better than she was meant to be – and that when Cyril Charlton came home on leave, it would serve her right if he blacked her eye.

Rita had always liked Vi. She was young and pretty and one of only a handful of neighbours who’d actually offered help and understanding over the past months. Of course the sour old biddies just loved it when she proved them right about her being flighty. But Rita could understand how tempting it must have been for Vi to make the most of her brutal husband’s absence now her three children had been evacuated to Wales, and rather admired the way she ignored the gossips and carried on regardless.

The nightly news at nine o’clock did little to lift the gloom of rationing and air raids. The Axis pact which had been signed by Germany and Italy now included Japan, Hungary and Romania. The city of Coventry had been almost annihilated and the RAF had bombed Berlin and Turin. Enemy planes once again ravaged London and the days and nights were shattered by wave upon wave of Messerchmidts, Dorniers and Fokkers heading for the Midlands.

There had still been no news of Papa and Roberto, and Louise despaired of ever discovering what had happened to them. There had been rumours of a huge internee camp being set up on the Isle of Man, but no one seemed to really know what was going on, and the authorities weren’t telling.

Rita was as anxious as Louise for news, but she also fretted over her father’s safety. The hardest part was the not knowing, for his letters couldn’t even tell her where exactly he was based. One thing was clear from the news broadcasts: the Midlands were suffering as much as they were down here in the south.

It was only two weeks to Christmas, and Rita had a rare day off which she was determined to enjoy. Her eighteenth birthday was only two days away, and although it wouldn’t be the same without her dad and the others at home, she was looking forward to at last being considered old enough to join one of the services and really get stuck in. She still hankered after the WAAFs, but if that meant being confined to a stuffy office all day, then she’d see what the others could offer.

Louise had settled down to work at Goldman’s after a shaky start and seemed much more cheerful now she had other things to think about and new friends to talk to. She still spoke Italian occasionally, but only when they were alone, and now there was a bit more money coming in things were getting easier. Their evenings were less solemn and there had been fewer tears of late, and Rita at last felt more confident about leaving her to pursue her own adventure.

Rita was enjoying her job at the aircraft factory now the sniping had ended, and felt she was really doing some good on her night shifts of fire watching, but she wanted more – an indefinable more that she hoped would soon offer itself.

She ran down the stairs to the garage and wrestled to open the doors, forgetting that one of the Yanks had kindly greased the runners. They shot apart with a clatter and she giggled as at least three sets of curtains twitched opposite. It seemed her neighbours had little better to do than spy on everyone.

Giving them a cheeky wave, she dragged the tarpaulin off the motorbike, carefully filled the tank with the last of the petrol she’d stored and wheeled it outside. With the doors closed and padlocked again she adjusted the goggles and old flying helmet, zipped up the moth-eaten jacket and swung her leg over the broad leather saddle.

The engine roared into life and she tweaked the accelerator, filling the narrow lane with its deep rumble so the nosy neighbours could fully appreciate its power before she drove it over the cobbles and round the corner.

Vi Charlton was waiting to cross the road and Rita returned her wave as she roared past, noting the new winter coat and smart hat that had replaced the worn, sagging cardigans and headscarf of last winter – more fuel for gossip, no doubt, but at least Vi was keeping warm.

The railway tracks had been swiftly repaired but the humpbacked bridge was still missing, so it was a circuitous route into town, but that didn’t matter a jot. Rita could have happily ridden the bike all day if only she’d had enough petrol.

The backstreet terraces were soon behind her as she headed west and then south, down to the bottom of the High Street. The Woolworth’s building, the bank and Plummers, the large department store, had taken a direct hit some weeks before, and the debris had been shifted from the road and the pavement into a vast heap that filled the crater. The trolleybus was in service again after the rails and electricity cables had been repaired, and there were the usual long queues outside the bakery, grocery and butcher’s.

Rita headed down to the seafront and let the engine idle as she took off the goggles and helmet and let the crisp salty wind ruffle her hair and sting her face. The gulls were wheeling and calling as they rode the wind, the sea crashed against the shingle beyond the coils of barbed wire, splashed against the great concrete blocks that had been set across the bay, and swirled round the iron pillars of the abandoned pier which had been cut adrift from the promenade to discourage enemy landings. A closer look revealed viscous clumps of tar and oil which swept in with every wave and clung to the wire, the pier and the pebbles. This offering from the sea was the horrifying reminder that too many ships had been sunk in the Channel.

Rita breathed in the tang of salt and tar, glad to be out of the factory and away from Barrow Lane. It was a beautiful cold, bright day, the white cliffs at the far end of the bay gleaming in the sun, the dark sails of the fishing fleet flapping in the brisk wind as they negotiated their way through the barricade and onto the steeply shelving shingle which had been fenced off from the rest of the heavily mined beach.

There were gun emplacements all along what was left of the promenade, and she could see more up on the cliffs where she and May had often been posted to watch for fires. The big hotels along the front were still acting as billets for allied servicemen, but the smaller guest houses had closed for the duration and were looking a little shabby now.

This had been her childhood playground, and the sight of it invoked memories of how she and May and Roberto used to sneak off to play in the sand at low tide – memories of how they’d hunted for crabs in the rock pools and used special nets to scoop shrimps from the sandy shallows. There had always been music coming from the pier, which had been wreathed in pretty lights, and lines of deckchairs along the prom, stalls selling ice cream and fizzy pop, and Louise’s jam sandwiches which always became gritty from the sand on their fingers, but tasted delicious anyway. She felt a twist of longing for those precious days and gave a deep, regretful sigh. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Closing her eyes, she clung to those memories, praying that Papa and Roberto were safe, and that they would know in their hearts that they hadn’t been forgotten.

On opening her eyes again, she blinked back the ready tears, looked at her watch and quickly donned her helmet and goggles. Peggy and Cissy would be waiting, and she was in danger of being late.

She set off down the seafront, towards the fishing fleet which was now anchored beneath the white cliffs, and then turned left and headed up the hill towards the terrace of Victorian houses three streets up on the far eastern side of Cliffehaven. There was another vast crater where there had once been a row of houses and she negotiated carefully around it before turning into Beach View Terrace.

As she drew up outside the Beach View Boarding House, the front door opened and Peggy came down the steps, covering her ears until Rita had turned off the engine. ‘I could hear you coming half a mile away,’ she said, and gave her a warm smile. ‘My goodness, your face is cold,’ she added as she kissed her cheek. ‘Come into the warm. I’ve got the kettle on.’

Rita clambered off the bike, propped it on its stand and ran up the short flight of stone steps, past the shattered lamps that once stood at the bottom, to the elegant, but slightly damaged portico. The front door had been replaced, she noted, and the lovely coloured glass panes on either side had gone, their place now covered in ugly hardboard. She stepped into the square hall and breathed in the familiar scents of furniture polish and good cooking.

‘Cissy has only just got in,’ Peggy said on her way to the kitchen. ‘She’s having a bath, and you know Cissy, she could be ages yet.’

‘That’s all right,’ Rita replied cheerfully as she dumped the gas mask box on a nearby chair. ‘I’ve got all day.’

‘You might need it,’ said Peggy with a wry smile. ‘I’ve never known anyone sit in three inches of bath water for so long.’

Rita grinned, took off her helmet and goggles and shook out her hair. It was lovely and warm as usual in Peggy’s homely kitchen. She did envy Cissy the luxury of a proper bath where hot water gushed at the turn of a tap. It was like a military manoeuvre to bath in the tin tub at home.

‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Finch, who was sitting by the range with a bag of knitting on her lap. She peered over her half-moon glasses. ‘That is Rita, isn’t it? My goodness, you look like a boy in that get-up. I don’t know what things are coming to, I really don’t.’

Rita could barely remember what her own grandmother looked like, for she lived in Ireland, and had only visited once – but Mrs Finch was the epitome of everything Rita regarded as important in a granny, and she loved her to bits. She kissed the peachy cheek that smelled of lavender. ‘It’s lovely and warm and practical,’ she said loudly. ‘It gets cold on the bike.’

Mrs Finch gave her a wry look. ‘I have no doubt of it,’ she muttered, ‘but it’s not very feminine, is it?’ She plucked at her knitting with a frown. ‘It’s all very different to my day,’ she rambled as if to herself. ‘Young women dash about, paint their legs with cold tea and do the butter-jig and googy-woogy with gay abandon, and seem to forget they’re supposed to be ladies. I don’t know what my dear husband would have made of it all, I really don’t.’

Rita caught Peggy’s eye and they shared an affectionate smile. Mrs Finch was always muttering to herself, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

‘Sit down, and thaw out, dear,’ said Peggy, bringing the teapot to the table. She settled comfortably on a nearby chair, poured the tea and passed round the cups. ‘It’s a bit weak, I’m afraid. These leaves have been used at least three times.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘There are rumours that we’ll get extra rations of tea and sugar for Christmas, but I doubt it.’

Rita sipped the hot tea gratefully and began to warm up enough to strip off the old flying jacket and hang it on the back of her chair. ‘The papers also say we won’t get any more bananas – though I can’t remember the last time I saw one.’

Peggy grimaced. ‘Neither can I,’ she agreed, ‘but I suppose the supply ships have to have room for more important things than bananas – though I have the feeling that a bit of fruit would buck people up no end.’ She puffed on her cigarette. ‘How’s Louise getting on at Goldman’s?’