Keep Smiling Through (27 page)

Rita had no answer, for she was still mourning the loss of her own home and the garage where she and her father had shared so many happy hours. The memories would remain with her for always, but the pain of losing everything still ran deep and she longed for her father’s quiet consolation and reassuring embrace.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ she replied a little unsteadily, ‘and neither did anyone else who lost their homes and their livelihoods last night.’ She took Louise’s hand, feeling its tremble and its chill. ‘But we have each other, Mamma. We aren’t alone.’

Louise snatched away her hand as she turned her tear-streaked face to Rita. ‘But you’ll be leaving after Christmas,’ she said bitterly, ‘and then I shall be left with no one and no place to call home. It would have been better to die in the shelter than endure such an existence.’

Rita knew she’d been beaten – that it would now be impossible to pursue her dreams and leave Louise behind – had realised it when she’d found Louise standing helplessly beside the rubble of the collapsed shelter. ‘I’ll go to the recruitment office tomorrow and see if it’s possible to do my training here and fulfil my duties locally. If not, I’ll withdraw my application,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Louise’s tears dried almost instantly. ‘You’re a good girl, Rita.’ She squeezed Rita’s hand, her smile a little unsteady. ‘I knew you wouldn’t desert me.’

Rita battled with her mixed emotions as they stood hand in hand among the choking weeds of the gravel drive and stared up at the gloomy building that was to be their billet until they could find something less daunting.

Shielded by a high wall and surrounding trees, the Victorian asylum stood in large, unkempt grounds that isolated it from the westernmost heights of Cliffehaven. There were no houses nearby, and the little-used cart track leading up to it from the seafront meandered steeply through clumps of gorse, brambles, wild apple trees and stinging nettles.

It was quite a climb, and even the Norton had had trouble carrying them to the top, but Rita suspected the view would have been quite spectacular if the town hadn’t been shrouded in the remains of smoke and ash which still rose from the ruined buildings.

She regarded the asylum warily, remembering the stories she’d heard as a child about this place being haunted. She no longer believed in ghosts, and the poor insane souls who’d once been incarcerated here had all been evacuated at the outbreak of war. But despite the weak sunlight streaking through the clouds, she could feel the dark, disturbing aura of their madness which seemed still to linger in the grey ivy-clad walls, turrets and barred windows.

Rita shuddered at the thought of actually having to sleep within those walls, but they had no other choice and Louise was feeling fragile enough without her voicing her childish fears. ‘Come, Mamma. We have to make the best of things, and I’m sure it’s much nicer inside.’

They carried their bags of precious belongings up the steps to the sturdy, iron-studded front door. The woman at the Town Hall had told them there would be no one to meet them and to just let themselves in.

The door creaked ominously as Rita pushed it open and they stepped into an echoing, marble-floored entrance hall. A once-grand staircase swept off to one side, the red carpet worn through, the brass stair-rods tarnished with age and neglect. There were faded patches on the walls where large pictures had been taken down, and the chandelier that must have hung from the ornate plaster rose in the high ceiling had been replaced by a single unshaded light bulb. There was no furniture, and it looked as if it had been many months since the place had been dusted and polished.

Rita and Louise moved further into the hall, their footsteps echoing in the silence as they explored their new home. Several rooms led off the square hall, each of them numbered, and, behind the staircase, a passageway led to a vast kitchen with an ancient range, scrubbed wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Unlike the hall, this room was as neat as a new pin, and still held the aroma of last night’s supper. There were pots and pans hanging above the range, plain white china sat on deep shelves or in the wooden drainers above the sink, and a huge stack of logs had been placed in a corner to feed the fire. Several wooden clothes driers were strung from pulleys across the huge ceiling, bearing a collection of underwear, sheets, towels and nappies.

‘The woman at the billeting office did say we weren’t the only ones here, but I was beginning to have my doubts,’ muttered Rita. ‘The place feels deserted.’

‘What you doing ’ere?’

Rita whirled round in horror to face Aggie Rawlings. ‘We were bombed out last night,’ she stammered.

‘This place ain’t fer the likes of ’er,’ Aggie snarled, eyes flashing with anger as she glared at Louise. ‘There’s camps for bleedin’ Eyeties.’ Her venomous glare settled on Rita. ‘And for the likes of you an’ all,’ she added, folding her arms beneath her pendulous bosom. ‘You don’t fool me, Rita Smith. You’ve got more than a drop of Eyetie blood in you, I’ll be bound.’

Rita could feel Louise cowering beside her. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Aggie,’ she said, ‘but I warn you – if you say or do anything to hurt Louise, you’ll have me to answer to. And I fight dirty, Aggie. Especially when my family’s threatened.’

‘You wait till my old man finds out you’re here,’ Aggie retorted. ‘You won’t be so big for yer boots then.’

‘Drop it, Aggie. There’s enough trouble without you making things worse. None of us want to be here, but we have to make the best of it.’

Aggie sniffed and stomped off into the hall, her heavy footfalls ringing out until they heard the slam of a door.

‘Who
was
that horrible woman?’ Louise shivered and pulled her coat collar to her chin.

‘No one important. Just ignore her and don’t let her get to you. She’s mostly hot air, and not everyone thinks the way she does.’ Rita gave Louise a smile of encouragement. ‘Come on, Mamma, let’s find our room and settle in.’

They checked the numbers on the doors and began the long climb up the stairs to discover their room was at the very top of the house in one of the round turrets. Louise was exhausted by the climb, and Rita was sweating in the heavy fire service overcoat that she’d worn over her old leather flying jacket since the night before. But when she slotted the heavy key in the lock and opened the door they were both drawn instantly to the broad bay windows and the amazing view.

Setting aside their bags and the box of rations, they looked through the sturdy iron bars which had been cemented into the frames. Far below them the smoke had cleared enough for them to see the leafy green hedges and red roofs of Havelock Gardens. The little white kiosk on the seafront that had once served afternoon teas and ice creams to the holidaymakers had survived the raid, as had the roofs and chimneys of the big hotels at the western end of the promenade. They could see very little of the rest of the town from here, but the pier was in ruins, the tail of the enemy plane sticking grotesquely out of the charred skeleton of what had once been the ballroom.

‘The room’s bigger than I expected,’ said Rita with determined cheerfulness, ‘and certainly not the padded cell I thought we’d get. This must have been one of those private asylums where the rich hid away their embarrassing relatives.’

She took off the coat and leather jacket as she eyed the two narrow iron bedsteads, the thin mattresses and the stack of clean linen, pillows and blankets which had been left on top of the old-fashioned dresser. The only other furniture was a heavy old wardrobe, a badly upholstered chair and a rather dilapidated oil-fired heater which had definitely seen better days.

Rita regarded it dubiously. ‘It’s probably best not to light it,’ she warned Louise. ‘Put a match to that and it’s likely to blow up – and I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough explosions for one day.’

‘But it’ll get very cold up here at night,’ Louise protested.

‘If it does, then we’ll push the beds together and sleep in our coats. I’m not risking that thing.’

Louise sank onto the worn, thin mattress, her face lined with fatigue. ‘How did you know that awful woman, Rita? Who is she?’

‘She’s just a very unpleasant old battleaxe who works at the factory,’ Rita replied airily. ‘I’ve learned to ignore her, and so should you.’

‘You never told me you were having trouble at work,’ said Louise accusingly.

‘You had enough to worry about. I’m a big girl now, Mamma. I know how to look after myself.’

‘You used to tell me everything,’ muttered Louise.

Rita was too tired and distraught to get into yet another argument. She looked at her watch. It was too late to go to the recruitment office or to see what had happened to the factory, but too early to start cooking their evening meal. ‘You stay here and rest while I find the bathroom and somewhere to store the motorbike safely. I’ll also see where the shelter is – we might need it before the night’s out.’

‘Will it be safe here, Rita? What if that woman causes trouble?’

‘We’ll be as safe here as anywhere, and as long as we don’t rise to the bait, Aggie will soon find she has nothing to fight against.’ Rita kissed Louise’s cheek. ‘The door’s sturdy enough and we have a key to keep out people like Aggie. Rest, Mamma, and leave everything to me.’

The hours had dragged interminably, and Anne’s fears multiplied as lunchtime came and went with still no sign of her father or news from the airfield.

The three nurses were still at the hospital, no doubt dealing with the many casualties, and Lady Sylvia hadn’t been seen since she’d left in the Rolls-Royce this morning. Ron had refused to stay indoors and rest and, after makeshift repairs to some of the front windows, had taken himself off to the Anchor to check on Rosie. After that he planned to see if he could glean any news from his pals in the Home Guard, and track down his son. The telephone was still dead, and it was unlike Jim not to come home as soon as his fire-watch shift ended.

‘He’ll turn up, dear, don’t fret,’ said Mrs Finch as she wrung out the dishcloth. The water and electricity were back on, and she and Anne had spent the last three hours cleaning away the dust and debris that had floated in through the shattered windows. ‘I expect he’s got involved in helping to board up everyone’s windows.’

‘Then I wish he’d see to ours,’ muttered Anne. ‘It’s freezing in here, and once night falls it’ll get even worse.’

She carefully carried the bucket of dirty water down the cellar steps and tipped it into Ron’s water butt which he used to water his vegetable plot. Standing in the gathering gloom she pulled her cardigan more firmly round her as she looked up at the sky and took a trembling breath. It was still and silent, the calm after the storm, but inside her heart it was still raging, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until her loved ones had returned home.

‘Anne, dear,’ called Mrs Finch rather sharply from the kitchen window. ‘Can you come inside? Quickly now. I need you.’

Anne’s heart skipped a beat and an awful dread settled in the pit of her stomach as she hurried through the back door and up the steps into the kitchen. There had been an urgent edge to Mrs Finch’s voice which could only bode trouble.

He was standing by the range, his broad shoulders slumped, his face grey and lined with weariness and pain beneath the bruises and the bandage wrapped round his head.

‘Martin,’ she gasped, and burst into tears.

He gathered her to him awkwardly, hampered by the sling on his plastered arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘Looks much worse than it really is – I promise, my love.’

She clung to him, the anguish turned to joyous relief that was still tinged with fear. ‘Thank God you’re all right,’ she breathed, ‘but where’s Cissy?’

‘I’m here, Anne.’ Cissy appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking very much the worse for wear. Her uniform was filthy, her face was bruised and covered in grime, and she too had one arm in a sling. ‘We’re a couple of old crocs,’ she said with a rueful grin, ‘but we’ll survive.’

Anne held out her arm for her younger sister and the three of them stood in that tight embrace as their tears of thankfulness spilled and mingled. There were no words to express the joy of being home – of being safe and warm and loved.

Mrs Finch dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief and hurriedly put the kettle on the range as Lady Sylvia followed Cissy into the room and sank into a chair.

‘It’s been quite a day,’ Sylvia sighed. ‘The hospital was in chaos and, for once, I felt a modicum of respect for Matron. That woman is superb in a crisis. She’d have made an excellent army officer.’ She took off her hat and shrugged out of her mink coat. ‘I came across these two looking rather sorry for themselves in casualty, and once I realised who they were, I was able to drive them home.’

Anne kept tight hold of Martin, never wanting to let him go, needing his warmth and sturdiness to bolster her. ‘Has anyone seen or heard from Dad?’

‘He was at the hospital earlier,’ said Lady Sylvia. ‘I saw him working with the ambulance crew.’ She gave Anne a reassuring smile. ‘He’s unscathed, Anne, and told me to tell you he’ll be home for his tea.’

Martin gently prised Anne’s arms from his waist and sank into a kitchen chair. ‘That cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,’ he said wanly to Mrs Finch. ‘I suddenly feel rather shaky.’

Anne touched his face, noting the bruises and the black eye, the heavy bandaging round his head, and the lines of weariness. ‘We heard about the attack on the airfield,’ she murmured, ‘and were all so worried. Was it very bad?’

‘Cissy could tell you more about that,’ he replied, nodding his thanks to Mrs Finch as she set the large mug of sweet tea before him. ‘I was a bit preoccupied at the time with two Messerschmidts on my tail.’ He took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes with a sigh of pleasure.

Tears welled as Anne regarded him. He looked exhausted. ‘But you obviously got back to base safely,’ she managed.

‘In a roundabout sort of way,’ he said almost nonchalantly. ‘The Spitfire had more holes in her than a strainer. The engine had cut out and I’d lost the landing gear, so I had to put her down wherever I could. I could see the damage at the airfield, the runways were destroyed, and the only place I could find was a field.’