Some Lucky Day (30 page)

Ethel folded her arms tightly, a fierce look on her face. ‘So wot you gunna do if he don’t get his sight back in that eye and ’e’s sent home to Canada?’

Ruby shrugged. ‘I dunno, Mum. It’s too early to make them sort of decisions, but when the time comes, I’ll know what to do for the best.’

‘Well, I ain’t moving to bleedin’ Canada,’ Ethel said with a sniff.

Ruby sighed. ‘I don’t remember you being asked if you wanna go ter Canada. Wind yer neck in, Mum, and ’ave a fag, why don’t you?’

Ethel looked rather disgruntled as she lit a fag and stuck it into her mouth. ‘Gawd,’ she muttered. ‘This flamin’ war’s a bugger, and no mistake.’

Peggy had been so busy she hadn’t even had time to read the letters that had arrived from Jim. She left the girls to clean the kitchen after tea and went to settle Daisy in her cot, hoping she’d go to sleep quickly, for she was impatient to catch up on Jim’s news.

But Daisy wasn’t having any of it, for each time Peggy tucked her in, she wrestled her way out of the bedclothes and pulled herself up on the rails. With giggles of delight, Daisy kept this game going for some time before she got bored with it and finally fell asleep.

Peggy breathed a sigh of relief and went back into the almost deserted kitchen. It would be a quiet evening in, for Ron had already left on one of his Dad’s Army night manoeuvres, Suzy and Fran were on night duty and the other three girls were catching up with their mending and ironing.

Harvey was stretched out on the rug in front of the low-smouldering fire in the range with little Monty curled between his great paws – the pair of them looking as innocent as a new day – and Cordelia was knitting something that defied description, and would, no doubt, have to be unpicked soon and started again.

Peggy took the letters from the mantelpiece and sat down. There were three in all, which was a rare treat – but the numbers Jim had scrawled in the corner of the envelope showed that one of them was the missing letter between the last two she’d got the week before. It was all a bit frustrating, but then there was a war on, and with so many letters to deliver it was hardly surprising there was the odd slip-up or delay.

She scanned them swiftly, and then saw the words she’d been wanting to read for so long. ‘He’s coming home on leave,’ she said joyfully as she waved the letter about.

‘He’s got a reprieve?’ said Cordelia as she fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Why? What’s he done to get himself arrested?’

‘No, Cordelia,’ Peggy said loudly. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s coming home on leave.’

‘Oh, that is good news,’ sighed Cordelia. ‘I’ve missed his wicked smile and winning ways. When’s he coming?’

‘He thinks early in September.’ Peggy read the scrawled writing again and then held the letters to her heart. ‘Oh, Cordelia, I’ve waited and waited for this. I hope he can be home for more than just a few days.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ said Cordelia comfortably. ‘After all, he’s had no home leave since he went away, and even the army must realise that’s not good for a family man.’

‘I don’t think the army gives much attention to such things,’ Peggy replied. ‘But to have him home for just a little while will be wonderful.’

Cordelia put down her knitting and regarded Peggy over the top of her spectacles. ‘It certainly might put you in a better mood,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You’ve been on edge and crotchety for weeks.’

Peggy could feel the shame redden her cheeks. ‘I’ve rather let things get on top of me, haven’t I?’ she admitted softly.

‘It’s only natural,’ said Cordelia. ‘What with everything you’ve had to put up with since your operation, I’m only surprised you haven’t crumbled completely.’ She looked down at Harvey and Monty. ‘That pup’s very sweet, but I suspect he’s the last straw.’

Peggy shook her head. ‘I’m used to chaos, and to Ron’s shenanigans – and I certainly would never get rid of Monty. He’s part of the family now, and I’m sure that once he gets a bit older he won’t be such a nuisance.’

‘Hmph.’ Cordelia picked up her knitting again. ‘That’s what you said about Harvey – and he’s as bad now as ever he was.’

Harvey and Monty looked up at Peggy with big, soulful eyes as if to reassure her that they were deeply hurt by the accusation and completely innocent of such slander.

Peggy chuckled and returned to her letters, knowing full well that she’d give them both a biscuit before too long. A house wasn’t a home without a dog or two by the hearth – and she could forgive them anything now that Jim was coming home.

Jim wrote an eloquent letter, and as Peggy slowly absorbed every precious word, it was as if he was standing beside her and telling her his news in his soft, lilting Irish accent. His new posting was much more comfortable, for instead of being housed in barracks, Jim and the rest of the men in his REME unit had been billeted with local families. It seemed that Jim had fallen on his feet as usual, Peggy noted wryly, for he was living with two elderly spinsters and they were spoiling him rotten.

He was continuing to drive some colonel about, and as he seemed to have plenty of spare time, he’d done some repairs to the spinsters’ cottage, chopped wood and managed to snare a few rabbits for the pot. The exact location of this billet was blanked out, but from the description, Peggy could guess it was a small country village with plenty of woods and streams nearby where, no doubt, Jim found it easy to go poaching.

‘Like father, like son,’ she murmured as she finally tucked the letters back in their envelopes. ‘He and Ron are as bad as each other, bless them.’ But as she placed the letters in the box she kept for just such a purpose, she was thankful that Jim was safe and being well looked after, and not stuck in some horrid desert fighting Rommel.

‘Can you help me with this, dear?’ Cordelia asked plaintively. ‘I seem to have made a bit of a mistake.’

Peggy regarded the tangle of wool hanging from the knitting needle. It was a complete mess, but as she had nothing much else to do for once, she was happy to try and help untangle it.

With the knitting completely unravelled and started again, Peggy left Cordelia to it, stoked the fire to life and began to make hot cocoa for everyone. It was a treat they all looked forward to, and the girls would be down in a minute. But, as she took the pan of milk from the hob, her pleasant thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the front door.

With an anxious glance at the clock, she abandoned the cocoa and hurried into the hall. It was after ten, and visitors at this time of night usually meant trouble. With rising, almost smothering fear, she opened the front door.

Her heart thudded, and the lump of terror in her throat made it impossible to speak as she saw who was standing on her doorstep. She knew for certain now that something terrible had happened.

RON WAS SITTING
comfortably in a deckchair with a tin mug of hot cocoa and an unlit pipe, deep below the ground. Neither his family nor his colleagues in the Home Guard knew about this place, and as far as everyone was concerned, he was on night manoeuvres. And yet this secret bunker and huge armament store was only one of hundreds buried along the south coast, and if there was an invasion, the men guarding these bunkers would be the front line of defence.

He cupped the warm metal in his cold hands, for it was damp, gloomy and chill down here, despite the small paraffin stove and the flickering light from the lantern that hung from the concrete ceiling. At the start of the war, each bunker had been manned by eight men, but as the threat of invasion had waned in the past year, the patrols had been cut to two men on each shift, with a radio line of communication to HQ should there be any alerts.

Ron had been recruited at the very beginning of the war by Colonel Gubbins, who’d been ordered by Churchill to form a force of civilian volunteers from the Home Guard. The recruits were mostly men who knew the surrounding countryside well, and within the ranks of this secret force were fishermen, gamekeepers, farmers, foresters, ramblers and wily old poachers like himself. If there was an invasion – which was looking ever more unlikely – then Ron and the other recruits would sabotage the enemy convoys and their fuel and supply dumps, blow up railway lines, roads and bridges, and make the enemy-held aerodromes unusable.

Ron had experience of sabotage from the previous war, for he’d been behind enemy lines on many occasions to clear the way for advancing troops and, to his regret, had learned to kill swiftly and silently. He glanced across at the sheathed knife which was part of his kit. It was wickedly sharp and could kill a man in an instant – but then so could the rifle which leaned against the upturned crate they were using for a table.

He gave a wry smile, for people thought the Home Guard was a bit of a joke, with the old men and callow boys marching down Cliffehaven High Street in their ill-fitting uniforms and playing at soldiering. How surprised they would have been if they’d known about the secret force recruited from those ranks, whose age and experience meant they could still play an important role in defending their country.

He had just finished his cocoa and was contemplating the unopened packet of digestive biscuits, when he heard the retired Rear Admiral returning from his inspection of the ammunition store which lay a mile away through a maze of tunnels. Maurice Price liked to stretch his legs by taking that walk, and after spending the previous day cooped up at Admiralty House in London, he probably needed the exercise.

‘Everything all right?’ Ron asked rather needlessly, for they’d both know it if something was wrong – the whole place would go up like a giant firework display.

‘No deterioration.’ Maurice placed his rifle next to Ron’s and reached for the flask of hot cocoa. ‘The charges, detonators and explosives are well insulated against the damp and cold in the lead-lined trunks. Nothing has been disturbed.’

He poured the hot drink into a tin mug and warmed his hands in front of the little stove. ‘I wish we could smoke down here,’ he grumbled. ‘There’s nothing like a pipe to while away the time.’

‘I agree,’ said Ron as he examined his own, cold pipe with some longing. It was a common complaint amongst the men who had to stay down here, but regulations had to be obeyed. Cigarette and pipe-smoke could drift out of the air vents and be smelled by anyone who happened to be passing – though that was highly unlikely, for they were buried deep in the hills around the Cliffe estate and well camouflaged by brambles, gorse and fallen trees.

Ron reached for the biscuits. ‘At least we’ve plenty of food to keep us going.’ He opened the packet and eyed the vast number of crates and boxes of tinned food surrounding them. ‘There’re enough supplies down here to keep half the town fed for a month.’

Maurice took a biscuit and bit into it with relish. ‘Emergency rations, Ron,’ he said, ‘but I doubt a few biscuits here and there will make much difference.’

They sat in companionable silence as the retired Admiral finished his cocoa and polished off another two biscuits. Ron liked Maurice, and although they weren’t class equals, they enjoyed one another’s company when they were assigned the same night duty.

Maurice was still a handsome, vigorous man. Despite having retired from the navy some years ago, he was often called to Admiralty House, where his long experience and wise advice was highly respected. He was an old seadog, of a different calibre to Ron, but the pair of them could tell a rollicking good tale to pass away the time.

‘I suppose you’ve heard the rumours?’ Maurice asked after a while.

‘About the raid on Dieppe?’

Maurice’s expression was grim as he nodded. ‘The worst kept secret of the war so far – more’s the pity. A disaster like that is bad for morale.’

‘But with so many people involved, it was bound to get out sooner or later,’ said Ron. He regarded the other man solemnly. ‘Is that why you’ve been in London, Maurice?’

He nodded as he stared into the glowing stove. ‘It was a waste of time,’ he said dolefully. ‘Rather like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’

‘What really happened, Maurice? Or aren’t you allowed to say?’

Maurice tucked his thick woollen scarf more firmly round his neck and ears and pulled on his gloves. ‘Most of the rumours are true,’ he confessed, ‘so I’m probably not speaking out of turn if I tell you it was a total cock-up from beginning to end.’

Ron waited patiently while he collected his thoughts. They both knew that whatever was said down here would not be repeated, and Maurice’s continued connection with the top brass meant that he knew a great deal of what went on behind the headlines in the newspapers – not that Ron expected to be told everything, Maurice was far too careful for that, but at least he’d get part of the truth.

‘The Russians called for a Second Front after the Germans invaded them back in 1941,’ said Maurice thoughtfully. ‘A second call was made by the Americans to do the same, but Churchill wasn’t keen. There had been several small raids on the French coast which had been quite successful, mostly because of the new Commando Force, but these raids were, in actual fact, only mounted for propaganda purposes and to boost morale.’

Maurice leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘In March this year, Admiral Lord Mountbatten succeeded Admiral Keyes as Chief of Combined Operations, and a successful raid on St Nazaire encouraged the Chiefs of Staff Committee to mount a further, much larger attack in early July. Dieppe seemed an ideal target. It’s less than seventy miles from the English coast, would allow the attacking force to approach in darkness, and is also within fighter aircraft range.’

Maurice paused as he reached for his unlit pipe, woefully regarded the empty bowl and then chewed on the stem. ‘I can’t go into the details of the planned attack,’ he said, ‘suffice it to say enemy defences, radar installations, power stations and so on were to be destroyed, and the forty invasion barges thought to be in the harbour at the time were to be captured and put to our own use.’

‘But there was no raid in July, was there?’ asked Ron.

Maurice shook his head. ‘Operation Rutter was cancelled due to bad weather and a German air attack which sank two of our ships anchored off the Isle of Wight. Some military leaders, including General Montgomery, were delighted that this would probably be the end of any more plans to raid France, for there had been serious misgiving over the wisdom of making a dangerous Channel attack using inexperienced and untried troops.’