Sweet Memories of You (Beach View Boarding House) (23 page)

‘The same as always.’ Ivy sat down at the kitchen table, smiled at Cordelia and made a fuss of Daisy, who was standing rather unsteadily against her leg. ‘I was hoping to finish early and meet Rita at the station to give ’er some moral support, but the supervisor wouldn’t let me. Was she very upset?’

Peggy nodded. ‘It was to be expected, Ivy. But I went there for the same reason and she seemed fairly accepting of the situation by the time we reached the fire station.’ She poured the boiling water over the remains of the stewed tea and gave it a vigorous stir. ‘She’ll be feeling a bit lost for a while, though, so it’s good that you’re sharing the room. There’s nothing like having a friend to confide in at times like these.’

Peggy poured the tea and handed over the two letters that had come for Ivy that morning. ‘Why don’t you take the tea upstairs so you can read your letters in peace?’ She lifted Daisy from the girl’s lap and put her on the floor. ‘Are you hungry, Ivy?’

She shook her head. ‘Once I knew I wouldn’t catch Rita I stayed on and ’ad something in the canteen.’ She picked up her letters along with the cup of tea. ‘I’m off nights on Monday, so if Rita’s up for it, we could go to the dance at the drill hall. That should ’elp cheer her up a bit. I’ll see you all later when I’ve ’ad a bit of a kip.’

Peggy decided she’d calmed down enough to enjoy reading her own letters, so she placed a protesting Daisy in the playpen and sat down by the range fire. There was one from Anne, which was chatty and full of baby Emily and little Rose Margaret. Sally had moved into one of the empty farm cottages with her two, and Bob and Charlie were knuckling down and being a real help on the farm.

Doreen’s letter had been written almost two weeks ago, and was full of her plans for her leave in London with Archie. She couldn’t say anything about the work she was doing, so her letter was quite short, describing only the occasional trip to the cinema with her friend Veronica, and the lovely countryside nearby. She thanked Peggy for posting comics and colouring books to her girls, sent her love to everyone and hoped that Jim was coping out in India.

Peggy set the letter aside and opened Jim’s airgraph. He was suffering from a bad stomach as well as a cold, the poor man. The heat and the teeming rain were beginning to get him down, but the work in the repair shops was satisfying and his new commanding officer seemed to be pleased with him. He mentioned that he and his pals had had to kill several very poisonous snakes they’d found in their bashas, and that he’d caught a huge lizard which he was planning to take to a cobbler to get a pair of shoes made from the skin.

Peggy shuddered at the thought and continued to read. Jim was working mainly on American vehicles like the Studebaker and Chevrolet trucks, repairing them and going out to rescue them after accidents and breakdowns. He described one incident where a Studebaker had gone midstream into a raging river, and he’d had to wade in, fighting against the torrent of water to reach it with tow ropes. As he and his Indian helper struggled to attach the ropes they were threatened by tree trunks and telegraph poles hurtling down the swollen river at them. He’d managed more by luck than judgement to avoid being hit, but he did lose his swimming trunks during the effort, and had been forced to climb out of the water stark naked, which all his mates found hilarious.

His second airgraph told her he was still suffering from a bad stomach although his cold was a bit better – but at least he didn’t have malaria like so many of his mates. He wrote that he was thinking of her every day, and that it would feel really odd not to be with her on their wedding anniversary next week, but that, like him, she had to stay positive. He then went on to describe a series of dances he’d been invited to where there were English nurses. The sight of the fair hair and blue eyes had made him horribly homesick, and there was hardly an hour when he wasn’t thinking about her and the rest of his family.

Peggy felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of Jim cavorting about at some dance with pretty nurses, but all she could do was hope that he remembered he was a married man with children and grandchildren – not England’s answer to Errol Flynn. She gave a sigh, for she’d married a handsome man who was the most shocking flirt, with a bucketful of charm and all blarney and twinkling eyes every time he was within a few yards of a pretty girl.

She snapped out of it, realising it would do no good to think like that. She had to trust Jim to remain faithful – and if he wasn’t, then she didn’t want to know about it.

She finished reading the letter and tucked it away safely before reaching for a pen to write one back. Having done so, she dressed Daisy and put her in the pram, collected Cordelia’s library books and pulled on her hat and coat. She would go to the post office and send Jim a telegram wishing him a happy anniversary – although what would be happy about spending it hundreds of miles apart, she didn’t know.

Doreen had managed to get through the long afternoon by concentrating on her work and not giving herself time to think. She returned to her billet very late, relieved that the others were already in bed and therefore could be avoided.

Locking the bedroom door behind her after she’d put away her shopping and used the bathroom, she didn’t put on the light, but walked across to the window. The moon was bright in the star-studded sky – a perfect night for an enemy raid. She felt a shiver of apprehension as she looked out at the gilded lawn and the deep shadows beneath the trees. The RAF heavy bombing campaign was having repercussions and it seemed there was always tension in the air – waiting for the sirens, waiting to see if their area was the chosen target for the night.

She turned from the window and prepared for bed, the luminous glow from the dial of Archie’s watch a small comfort in these dark hours. Climbing into bed, she held the ring to her lips and stared out at the moonlit garden, afraid to close her eyes in case those terrifying images came to taunt her. If there was a raid then she would be forced to join the others in the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden – and she knew it would take all her courage to do so, for it would be cramped and claustrophobic with so many crammed inside, and once the door was shut she’d be in utter terror.

‘You have to pull yourself together, Doreen,’ she muttered. ‘If you go on like this you’ll end up in the loony bin.’

She turned over and gazed at the luminous watch dial and forced herself to think about Archie and all the memories they’d collected over their four-year courtship. And as the watch ticked and her heartbeat returned to a steadier pace she remembered his kiss and the touch of his hand, and the way his eyes lit up when he smiled. The tears of heartbreak welled up and soaked the pillow as it sank in that she would never experience those wondrous moments again.

Ron left the house very early that Sunday morning, for it was a long way to the smallholding where they’d kept the pig, and it had been agreed between the three of them that it wouldn’t be wise to travel in Alf’s van, which was emblazoned with his butcher shop sign. There were too many nosy parkers in Cliffehaven, and someone had already tipped the wink to Doris, so it was better if they all made their own way there.

He tramped through the back streets towards the factory estate and then bypassed the dairy and headed west. It was a steep climb which took him north of the ruins of the lunatic asylum and he envied Harvey his energy as he galloped on ahead, leaving him way behind and out of breath.

He finally made it to the top, his lungs wheezing like a pair of old fire bellows, and took a moment to get his breath back. Cliffehaven sprawled beneath an ethereal mist which shrouded the horizon and lay glittering over the rooftops, revealing only the tips of the remaining church spires and the crowns of the tallest trees. It was a pretty view, and he admired it for a while as Harvey chased things in the long grass, and then turned his back on it and plodded onwards.

The smallholding was deep within a fold of the hills and set apart from the tiny hamlet of Villiers Cross that nestled in the next valley. It consisted of a ramshackle wooden cottage and a series of dilapidated sheds, all surrounded by row upon row of neatly planted vegetable crops. There was a chicken coop, and a few ducks puttered about in a small pond, while cats of all colours wandered about or lay supine on the warm brick path that ran between the cottage and the sheds.

Ron knew from past visits that these sheds were mostly used as a dumping ground for old farm machinery, bits of unwanted furniture and Alf’s car, which had been put on blocks for the duration. However, behind the largest shed, through a concealed door, was a small, windowless extension which housed a vast iron bathtub and a sturdy, much-scarred butcher’s block.

He began to descend the steep decline, following the ancient track which had been carved into the landscape by the monks who’d built the tiny abbey in Villiers Cross and who’d come this way over the cenr the local Home Guard and turies to take their grain to the mill which had once stood proudly overlooking the coastline. The abbey was deserted now and the windmill was long gone, but Ron could remember seeing the rotting building and broken sails as a boy of seventeen, for even then he’d been drawn to walking alone in the hills.

There was a ribbon of smoke coming from the cottage chimney and steam was rising from the shed. As Ron came closer, he could see the old man sitting on the bench outside the front door, busily sharpening his knives. Fred White – or ‘Chalky,’ as everyone called him – was retired now, but in his day he’d been a master butcher and had taught his young apprentice, Alf, everything he knew.

Harvey shot down the hill, tail wagging in delight at the sight of his old friend. The cats scattered with a chorus of loud hissing, the fur on their backs bristling with fury as Harvey squirmed and yipped with pleasure at the fuss Chalky was making of him.

Ron waved and shouted hello as he descended the final few yards and then plonked himself down on the bench. ‘To be sure ’tis a good day fer it, Chalky,’ he said, lifting his face to a shaft of early sunlight. He sniffed the air as another fragrant cloud of steam drifted out from the barn. ‘It smells like our pig’s already having his bath.’

Chalky nodded, his snow-white hair ruffling in the light breeze, his blue eyes bright in his weathered face. ‘Killed it at dawn. Stan’s keeping watch over it to make sure it doesn’t boil for too long.’ He grinned to reveal a set of magnificent false teeth. ‘We’ll be giving it a good shave before long.’

Ron filled his pipe as Chalky returned to sharpening his wicked-looking knives, reminding Ron of the years he’d spent gutting fish. Harvey went to investigate the one cat which had decided to stand its ground and swear at him, ginger fur bristling, tail fluffed out to three times its usual size. Ron watched the performance, knowing that Harvey only wanted to play, but would end up the loser if he got any closer. Sure enough, he couldn’t resist – the ginger tom’s paw whipped out and a set of needle-sharp claws flashed across Harvey’s nose.

With a yelp of pain Harvey decided retreat was preferable to valour and came to slump at Ron’s feet, feeling very sorry for himself.

The tom stood squarely and defiantly on the path for a moment as if to emphasise its victory and then sat down and began to lick its bottom.

Ron stroked Harvey’s head and ears, noting the beads of blood on his dog’s nose. ‘Ach, ye stupid beast,’ he said softly. ‘You know that always happens.’

Stan came out of the shed, his shirt and trousers covered in a long white apron, his ruddy face beaded with sweat. ‘The pig’s done. I’ve taken it out. Where’s Alf?’

Chalky tipped his chin towards the hill. ‘On his way,’ he rumbled. ‘I’ll put the kettle on for a brew before we get stuck in. The wife’s over at her sister’s, but she’s left a tin of currant buns which will go down with the tea quite nicely.’

Stan sat next to Ron and they both watched as Alf made his way carefully down the steep slope. Alf was a big man who didn’t get much exercise, and he was clearly finding the trek a bit of a struggle. He arrived red-faced and panting, and when he virtually collapsed onto the old wooden bench it groaned and creaked in protest. ‘Whew. That’s one heck of a walk.’

Ron and Stan grinned. ‘You should do it more often and get some of that weight off your belly,’ teased Ron. ‘Riding about in that van all day does you no favours.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ he replied, mopping his scarlet face with a large handkerchief. ‘The missus is always complaining that I make the bed dip so much she spends half the night clinging onto the edge so she doesn’t roll into the middle.’

Chalky brought the mugs of tea and plate of fruit buns out on a tin tray, along with a bowl of biscuit and bacon bone for Harvey to chew on. The four old friends slurped their tea and munched their way through the buns as the sun rose a little higher in the sky and the air was filled with birdsong. Ron, Alf and Stan were well past retirement age now, but they’d met as young men and enlisted together back in 1914. They’d survived the Somme and the struggle to knuckle down to ordinary life again afterwards; now they were finding a sense of rejuvenation as they did their bit to keep the home fires burning while the next generation had to fight yet another war.

As the talk petered out, Ron decided it was time to tell them about Doris. He reddened at their disgust, feeling guilty that he could be even remotely related to such a grasping, conniving woman.

‘She’ll get her pork, all right,’ growled Chalky. ‘But it won’t be what she’s expecting.’ He got to his feet and collected his knives. ‘Come on, let’s get this beast shaved and butchered.’

They left the barn door open so the fresh air could clear the steam and give them some extra light. The pig was thoroughly shaved until every bristle and patch of colour was erased. The trotters and head were chopped off and set to one side, then Alf used a blow-torch to singe off the last of the bristles before Chalky began to carefully and expertly gut it. It wasn’t long before there were neatly butchered joints, fillets, chops and shanks lined up on the block and the men stood back to admire their handiwork, their mouths watering at the thought of the feast they would have tonight.