Sweet Memories of You (Beach View Boarding House) (21 page)

She set all those bad memories aside and concentrated on her letters, which she kept cheerful and light and full of silly day-to-day things which she accompanied with little cartoon sketches of the people she worked with, and the animals she saw from her bedroom window. Her children were too young for anything more serious, and she wanted them to be assured that she was well and happy and having a wonderful time here in Kent. But oh, she did miss them, and would have given anything to be able to hold them right now.

Doreen fixed stamps to the envelopes and popped them in her handbag to post on her way to the Fort. She didn’t quite feel up to writing to Peggy about Archie just yet, but perhaps once the funeral was over and she was feeling less fragile, she’d telephone her instead.

Leaning back in the chair she gazed through the window, her thoughts on her childhood home and the sister she loved. She hadn’t been back to Cliffehaven since before the war, and although Peggy kept her abreast of all the news, it wasn’t the same as actually being there. How lovely it would be to see her again, and to meet Daisy and reacquaint herself with dear old Ron and Harvey and Cordelia – to feel the warmth and homeliness of Beach View, and be a part of her family again.

She took a deep breath and berated herself for getting wistful and soppy. It had been her choice to leave home, so there was little point in getting homesick all of a sudden. She looked at her watch, and then at the simple cardboard box that she’d left on the chest of drawers. It was almost eleven now, and although she had some washing to do before she went to the shops and then on to work, there were other, more important things to come to terms with. She hesitated momentarily and then, before she lost her nerve, took the box, sat on the ottoman and opened it.

Archie’s wallet was of a worn black leather which had become moulded to the curve of his hip where it had been kept in his back pocket. She ran her fingers over it, remembering how small it had looked in his big hands. On opening it, she found the snapshot she’d sent him, her smiling, happy face looking back at her – a cruel reminder of how quickly things had changed.

A reluctant search of the wallet produced almost twenty pounds in notes, three stamps, the ticket stubs from the cinema they’d attended during his leave, the receipt for their hotel, and a hastily scribbled note of the last address he’d been given for his parents – which had turned out to be a deserted house waiting to be demolished. Poor Archie, he’d tried so hard to hide his disappointment and his worry, and now Doreen made a silent promise to him that she would do her very best to track down what had happened to them.

She set the wallet aside and picked up the watch which, heartbreakingly, was still ticking away. It was large and heavy – a real seaman’s watch, with an inset chronometer, clear roman numerals and black hands. Fixed to a thick leather strap which bore the scars of age and wear, the back of the watch was inscribed,

Doreen ran her finger over the inscription, remembering how proud and humbled he’d been to have received such an accolade from his men. She listened to the quiet tick of the second hand as it moved relentlessly around the dial, and then carefully turned the winder so it would continue to do so. It was silly really, but she felt that if the watch kept ticking, then some part of Archie would still somehow be with her.

Placing the watch on the eiderdown, she reached into the box and hesitated momentarily before lifting out his signet ring. The gold was dull and scarred, worn thin where it had been rubbed on his finger over the years. His initials were engraved on the flat round face, and she remembered him telling her that he’d had it done when he’d received his first pay packet from the Navy. He’d promised her an engagement ring on his next leave, but this was much more personal and precious, and she would wear it with pride.

She tried the ring on each finger, but it was far too large and heavy, so she took off the gold chain and crucifix she’d inherited from her grandmother and hung the ring from that. Fastening it around her neck, the ring now lay just above her heart, which was perfect.

The box now held only a brown envelope filled with the change that must have been in his trouser pockets; a packet of cigarettes with two missing, a Dunhill lighter, and a neatly folded white handkerchief. Doreen held the handkerchief to her face, but there was no scent of Archie, just the coolness of freshly laundered cotton.

She sat for a long while regarding Archie’s treasures as she caressed the ring and listened to the soft tick of his watch. This was the essence of the man she loved, whose life had been cut so cruelly short. It probably wasn’t worth much to anyone else, but to her it was priceless.

Galvanised by the realisation that she needed to be surrounded by his things, she quickly unpacked his kitbag. She placed his washbag and shaving kit on the top of the chest alongside the photograph he’d sent her only weeks before, and then lovingly folded his sweaters and underwear into one of the drawers. His shoes were neatly positioned next to hers at the bottom of the wardrobe, and his spare shirts and trousers were hung between her dresses.

The watch was placed on the bedside table so she could hear it ticking at night and see the dial that lit up in the dark, and his wallet was hidden away with the lighter in the drawer beneath it. She would use some of the money to buy a headstone, and a small frame for his photograph, but the rest would never be touched.

Leaving the kitbag on the ottoman, she straightened the counterpane, the tremor of grief determinedly controlled. She had to get through the coming days, weeks, perhaps even months, and letting her emotions run away with her wouldn’t help. She had to forget about that tunnel and the awful way he’d died. Had to focus on work and prepare herself for the ordeal of his funeral.

‘Cor, it’s lovely, Peggy,’ breathed Ivy as she dumped her cases and rushed to the window. ‘And I can even see the sea,’ she added excitedly as she stood on tiptoe and peered over the rooftops.

‘It’s the same old English Channel you could see from your bedroom in Havelock Road,’ said Peggy drily as she picked up the cases and put them on the second single bed that she’d made up earlier with fresh linen.

Ivy giggled and her dimples flashed as she turned from the window. ‘Yeah, I know that, but it looks much better from ’ere.’

Peggy laughed and gave her a hug. ‘I’m glad you’re so happy with the move, Ivy, but before you get carried away, I do have some rules, young lady, and I expect you and Rita to remember them now and again. The blackout has to be pulled across before you turn the light on. Don’t try putting farthings in the gas meter instead of sixpenny bits – they get stuck and then I have to get the man in to mend it. You’re both responsible for changing your bedding on Monday mornings and keeping the room clean and tidy. Mealtimes are flexible, because all you girls are on different shifts, but I like to have tea on the table by six because of Cordelia and Ron. If you’re planning to eat out at any time, then let me know – I can’t afford to cook food that won’t be eaten.’

‘Eat out? Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Ivy with a grimace.

‘You never know,’ said Peggy. ‘Some chap might ask you out for a fish supper.’

‘Yeah, and pigs might fly.’ Ivy plucked ruefully at her oversized dungarees. ‘What bloke would fancy me got up like this, I ask yer?’

Peggy smiled. ‘I’m sure you scrub up just fine – and I seem to remember you were very popular with the boys at the Anchor.’ She patted her shoulder. ‘And if you do happen to find one you like the look of, bring him in to meet us – but remember there are no men allowed further than the bottom of the stairs.’

Ivy nodded. ‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Now, why don’t you go and have a nice bath and I’ll rustle you up a spot of lunch before you catch up on some sleep. You must be exhausted.’

Ivy drew off her blanket coat and dropped it on the floor as she began to undo the straps of her overalls. ‘Yeah, I’m knackered, truth to tell, Peggy.’

Peggy eyed the discarded coat which had now been joined by the dungarees and the boots. Ivy was as bad as Rita, and she suspected that before too long, neither of them would be able to cross the floor without trampling on something.

She left her to it and went downstairs to the kitchen to find it deserted. Looking out of the window, she saw Ron and Cordelia arguing about something in the vegetable plot while Harvey was busy digging out her few surviving spring bulbs.

She banged on the window and then ran down the cellar steps. ‘Stop that, Harvey,’ she shouted. ‘Get away from there.’

Harvey scrabbled twice more as if to prove that he wasn’t the sort of dog to heed people who shouted at him, and then set about chewing on an old bone he’d unearthed.

‘Oh, Harvey. Those were my last three tulips,’ she wailed as she picked up the clawed remnants from the path. ‘And they were on the point of sprouting, too.’ She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

Harvey was immediately contrite. He rolled onto his back amid the pile of dirt he’d shovelled onto the path, legs waving in the air, his eyes large and sorrowful.

‘You are the absolute limit,’ she hissed. ‘And don’t think you can get around me by doing that. I have no wish to see your undercarriage.’

‘Now, Peggy girl, that’s no way to talk to Harvey,’ said Ron. ‘To be sure he’s just a dog and digging comes natural, so it does.’

‘He’s not just a dog, Ron – he’s the canine version of you. And the pair of you are driving me potty.’

His wayward brows wriggled above his twinkling eyes. ‘It helps to be a bit potty around here.’ He looked over his shoulder at Cordelia, who was prodding the earth with one of his vegetable canes. ‘Talking of which, that’s the pottiest one of all.’

‘Oh, Lord, what’s the matter now?’

‘She’s interfering in me gardening, that’s what,’ he grumbled. ‘Telling me how to plant the beans properly, and wittering on about mulch and potash and goodness knows what.’

He pulled his newspaper from his jacket pocket and opened the door to the outside lav. ‘I’m going in here for a bit of peace and quiet.’

Peggy grabbed the door before he could shut it. ‘What was in Jim’s airgraph?’

His gaze slid away. ‘No more than was in yours, I expect.’

‘Then why didn’t you show it to me?’

‘You had two of your own, so I knew you didn’t need to see it.’

‘Can I read it now?’

He patted his pockets and then shook his head. ‘I must have lost it somewhere on me walk on the hills this morning,’ he muttered as he attempted to wrest the door from Peggy’s grip.

Peggy held firm. ‘I thought you said you were going to Rosie’s?’

‘I changed me mind. For the love of God, Peggy Reilly, will ye not stop all this questioning and let a man be?’ As Peggy’s grip loosened on the door he slammed it shut and shot the bolt.

‘You can’t fool me, Ronan Reilly,’ she said through the door. ‘I know when you’re hiding something, and I’ll find out what it is, you can be sure of that.’

Ivy was singing to herself as she splashed in the few inches of hot water and washed away the grime of the munitions factory. She’d had a close call with that can of TNT, but that was the risk she’d accepted in return for a very good wage. It wasn’t the nicest of jobs, but at least she could send her mum a decent amount each week and still have plenty left over.

She soaped the sponge with the scented bar she’d nicked from Doris’s bathroom and gave herself a long, leisurely wash before sliding down into the water to do her hair. The shampoo was Doris’s as well, and although she shouldn’t have done it, and Peggy would probably be cross with her for thieving, she felt she deserved something nice after all she’d gone through with the old cow.

Not wanting to dwell on her time at Doris’s, Ivy rinsed out her hair under the cold tap and then clambered out of the bath. She wiped the steam from the mirror on the bathroom cabinet and regarded her reflection as she towelled her hair dry. She certainly looked and felt better, and she knew that once she’d had some food, she’d sleep like a baby.

Returning to the bedroom, she pulled on some fresh clothes and surveyed her surroundings. The furniture was a bit shabby and battered, the rug was worn thin, and the varnish on the floorboards needed stripping and refreshing, but the two iron bedsteads looked comfortable, with thick mattresses, crisp sheets, soft blankets and plump eiderdowns.

Rita’s things were scattered about the place, her family photographs displayed on the narrow shelf above the gas fire and brushes and combs laid out on the dressing table.

The room was larger than the one she’d shared with Mary, the bay window letting in lots of light, and although the place was a little shabby, it was far removed from the tenement room she’d shared with her parents and siblings back in Hackney – the atmosphere a world away from the austere and forbidding one of Havelock Road. This was a real home, warm and welcoming and safe, and Ivy felt a wave of deep affection for Peggy Reilly, knowing that at last she’d found someone she could trust to care for her.

Doreen’s basket was loaded with her shopping, slowing her down as she cycled up the hill to the Fort. She swung off the bike when she reached the sentry box, showed her ID papers and then crossed the quadrangle to the cycle racks. Lifting out her shopping, she gathered up her handbag and gas-mask box and hurried into her office to find Veronica sitting at her desk.

‘You look much better today,’ she said as she turned from the typewriter. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Very well.’ Doreen put her shopping bag in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and took off her jacket and headscarf. She shook out her hair and shot her friend a determined smile. ‘I’m going to the canteen for lunch. Want to join me?’

‘Why not? I’ve been slogging my way through Maynard’s indecipherable writing all morning and I’m on the point of being cross-eyed with it all.’ She reached for her walking stick and gas-mask box. ‘Are you sure you feel up to working, Dor?’