Sweet Memories of You (Beach View Boarding House) (4 page)

Peggy watched her running down the garden path and through the gate until she disappeared from view along the twitten that led to the hills. If Sarah was in love with the American then she wouldn’t find it easier once he’d left, but would be beset by regrets over what might have been, and guilt over her perceived betrayal of Philip. It would take time for her wounded heart to heal and to come to terms with it all – and Peggy could only hope that, with her love and guidance and the warmth of the people around her, it wouldn’t be too traumatic.

Fran had left for the hospital and Rita for the fire station by the time Cordelia came downstairs, but there was still no sign of Ron, although even Cordelia could hear him snoring.

‘I’m amazed he doesn’t wake himself up,’ Cordelia said crossly as she finished her breakfast and fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘That’s a terrible racket.’

‘It’s time I got him up, anyway,’ replied Peggy, glancing at the clock. She tucked the blanket over Cordelia’s knees and handed her the newspaper, noting how swollen and misshapen the old lady’s hands were. ‘Best you stay in the warm today,’ she murmured. ‘This damp weather isn’t good for your arthritis, and you’re still getting over your cold.’

Cordelia eyed her sharply over her half-moon spectacles. ‘I’m not an invalid, Peggy,’ she said firmly. ‘And if you imagine that I’m staying here and missing out on all the fun, then you’ve got another think coming.’ Her blue eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve organised Bertram to drive us to the ceremony. There’s no point in having a man about the place if he isn’t put to good use.’

Peggy giggled. ‘You are naughty, Cordelia. Are you sure he won’t mind?’

Cordelia sniffed and rustled the newspaper. ‘He’ll have nothing better to do. The golf course will be closed today anyway.’

Peggy was still smiling as she went down the stone steps to the basement. The widowed Bertram Grantley-Adams, or ‘Bertie Double-Barrelled’, as everyone called him, was a frequent visitor to Beach View since he and Cordelia had become friends. He didn’t seem to mind Cordelia bossing him about, and was the epitome of the English gentleman, always ready to lend a helping hand and content to take Cordelia for little drives in his car. Where he got the petrol from was a mystery, for Peggy’s car had been stored away in a garage since rationing began, and petrol coupons were as rare as hens’ teeth.

The basement was chill and smelled damp after all the rain they’d had recently. It ran the length of the house, the only natural light coming from the narrow window which was half-shadowed by the steps leading up to the front door. The blast damage caused two years before had been skilfully repaired by good friends and neighbours who’d turned up without being asked and hadn’t wanted any payment, but the floor was rough concrete as were the steps leading up to the kitchen, which chilled the feet even through slippers.

There was a copper boiler and stone sink with a mangle by the back door, and a wooden clothes dryer hung from the ceiling on ropes and pulleys. This was where Peggy spent most of every Monday doing the washing, and as she eyed the mangle and thought about the hard work involved in that weekly chore, she couldn’t help but yearn for a proper washing machine like the one her older sister Doris owned.

Doris lived in the posh part of town in a detached house with a long back garden that looked over the promenade and the sea. She was the sort of woman who demanded the better things in life and saw their attainment as her right. She was still married to the long-suffering Ted Williams – but only just, as he’d left Havelock Road after confessing to a long-standing affair. The affair had come to an end, but it seemed Ted was enjoying his freedom from his wife’s never-ending demands, and was now happily ensconced in a bachelor flat above the Home and Colonial store which he managed.

Peggy sighed as she studiously ignored the overflowing laundry basket. Doris might have a fine house, an expensive washing machine and smart clothes, but she wasn’t a happy woman, and Peggy suspected she was lonely now that Ted had decamped and her son, Anthony, was married and living away from home. Perhaps, she thought, she should show her a little kindness and pop round there to keep her company.

The idea was quickly dismissed. Doris wouldn’t appreciate a visit, and would no doubt snipe and be catty about Jim and Ron, which would only wind Peggy up – and then they’d have a falling-out. With so many other things to worry about, she simply didn’t have the will or the energy to place herself in Doris’s firing line.

She pushed all these thoughts aside and went along the narrow passageway towards the sound of snoring. Ron had moved in here shortly after she and Jim had taken over from her parents. He’d been widowed by then and was still out most nights with his oldest son, Frank, in their fishing boat. But when he retired and handed over to Frank, he’d plunged wholeheartedly into family life and had proved to be a wonderful, caring grandfather to both his sons’ children – which was about his only saving grace, she thought darkly as the snores reverberated through the closed door.

Peggy hesitated before knocking, for the basement evoked so many memories of how things had been before the war, and she could never come down here without thinking about her boys. Bob and Charlie had shared the second basement room until their school had been bombed and they’d been evacuated to Somerset, and there were times when she imagined she could hear their laughter and the sound of their feet scampering over the concrete floor.

She hadn’t seen them for almost two years now, and although Anne was very good at sending photographs and letters, it wasn’t the same as actually having them home to cuddle and fuss over. They’d left as little boys, but now Charlie was twelve and Bob was sixteen – a dangerous age in wartime when youthful blood could so easily be stirred by patriotism and stories of derring-do.

She swallowed the ever-present fear that if this war lasted much longer, Bob would be called up, and rapped sharply on the door. ‘Ron, it’s time to get up.’

The snoring came to an abrupt, snorting halt. ‘Be off with you, woman, and leave a man in peace.’

‘I’m not moving from here, Ronan Reilly, so you’d better stir yourself. If you’re not out of bed and opening this door in the count of five, then I’m coming in.’

‘Ye’ll not be coming in here, Peggy Reilly,’ he growled. ‘I’m in no fit state for visitors.’

‘You rarely are,’ she replied, and began counting. She reached five and pressed her ear to the door. On hearing nothing, she flung it open, switched on the light, and was met by the sight of Ron and Harvey sprawled beneath the blankets as the ferrets scratched and mewled in their cage under the bed. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of second-hand beer and whisky which mingled with that of dirty socks, damp dog and muddy boots.

Harvey lifted his muzzle and eyed her warily as Ron turned over in bed and dragged the blankets with him.

Peggy’s gaze swept the room in mounting horror. Clothes were strewn everywhere amidst a clutter of fishing tackle, stacked boxes, discarded books and a collection of wellingtons and sturdy boots. Drawers gaped from the chest, disgorging underwear and sweaters that looked fit only for the rag-and-bone man, and the wardrobe door yawned to reveal a jumble of jackets and trousers which no self-respecting tramp would be seen dead in.

She stormed out of the room, opened the back door to let some fresh air in and then filled a large jug with cold water. Marching back into the room she held the jug aloft. ‘You have two seconds to get out of that bed,’ she warned. ‘Or you’ll get this over your head.’

Harvey whined, shot off the bed and headed for the safety of the garden. He’d witnessed this sort of behaviour before from Peggy and knew what was coming.

‘Ach, woman, will you be still and stop your blathering,’ grumbled Ron from the depths of his grubby bedding. ‘To be sure ’tis still the middle of the night.’

‘It’s after nine, and you have to be at the Town Hall by midday.’

‘I’ll not be going to any Town Hall,’ he muttered.

Peggy tipped the contents of the jug over him and he shot upright with a roar of disbelief and disgust as the icy water soaked his pillow, flattened his hair and ran down his neck. He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes as the water dripped from his shaggy brows. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Because you’ve stretched my patience too far,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a disgrace, Ronan Reilly – and so is your room – and if you don’t get out of that bed and sort yourself out, I’ll blooming well soak you again.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he growled.

‘Try me.’

His bright blue eyes were bloodshot beneath the bushy brows, but there was a hint of mischief lighting them as he plastered back his wet hair and rubbed his face dry with a corner of the grubby sheet. ‘To be sure, Peggy girl, you’re a wee fighter so y’are, and I don’t doubt you’ll attack me again. But if you want me out of this bed then you’ll have to leave the room.’

‘Not until I see you up and on your feet.’

Ron let the sheet slip down to reveal a broad, hairy chest and muscled arms. ‘I’m thinking you’ll see more than that if I do as you ask,’ he said, gripping the sheet with menacing intent. ‘But if you’re so determined …’

Peggy went scarlet and shot out of the bedroom. ‘You might have warned me you were naked under there,’ she said as she slammed the door.

‘Well, to be fair, Peggy, you didn’t give me much chance,’ he shouted back.

Peggy bit her lip to stifle her giggles and ran up the stairs to the kitchen, where Harvey was now steaming in front of the range, his head resting on Cordelia’s slippered feet, his paws muddy from digging in the garden. She saw the tracks of dirt on her clean lino and, with a grunt of impatience, grabbed one of the old towels, cleaned his paws and rubbed him dry. It had been clear for years that Harvey and Ron were determined to run rough-shod over her, and she’d just about had enough of it.

Harvey whined, his soulful amber eyes looking up at her as if he was suffering the greatest torture, and Peggy melted. ‘You’re as bad as Ron,’ she muttered as she stroked his silky ears. ‘You always know how to get round me.’

‘They’re both a couple of rogues,’ said Cordelia.

‘You can say that again,’ muttered Peggy.

‘I don’t want to play in the rain,’ Cordelia protested. ‘Why on earth should I?’

‘Cordelia, dear, please turn your hearing aid up.’

‘There’s no need to shout,’ she replied with a sniff. ‘I’m not that deaf, and neither am I daft. Playing in the rain, indeed. What nonsense.’

Peggy decided it was pointless to argue, and got on with hunting out the scraps and bonemeal for Harvey’s breakfast. While he was gobbling this down, she lit a cigarette and plumped into a kitchen chair. She may have won the first round in the battle with Ron, but the war was far from over and she knew that the next two hours would prove to be a struggle.

Ten minutes later Ron stepped into the kitchen, dressed in his usual garb of faded shirt, baggy corduroy trousers tied at the waist with string, a sweater with more holes in it than a sieve, and his favourite stained and ratty cap squashed over his tousled hair. He dumped his long poacher’s coat over the back of a chair and sat down. ‘I’ll have me cup of tea and then I’ll be taking Harvey for his walk,’ he muttered, avoiding Peggy’s gaze.

‘You’ll be going upstairs for a bath, hair-wash and shave,’ she replied. ‘And then you will get changed into your suit.’

He glanced across at this offending item of clothing and then eyed her from beneath his brows. ‘It’s a lot of fuss about nothing,’ he rumbled. ‘And if Harvey isn’t welcome, then I’m not going.’

‘Dogs aren’t allowed in the Town Hall,’ she replied. ‘And it’s not a fuss about nothing. The Mayor is presenting you with a bravery award – and instead of being grumpy and rude about it, you should be proud to be honoured in such a way.’

Ron still wouldn’t look at her as he fussed Harvey who, despite his size, was trying to climb into his lap and lick his face. ‘If this auld fella hadn’t heard that baby crying, we’d have lost her and her mother. It’s Harvey who should be getting the damned medal, not me.’

‘Well, they haven’t got such a thing as medals for dogs, so you’ll just have to accept it for both of you.’ Peggy’s patience had worn very thin. ‘And it would be nice if you could do that with some grace.’

‘Then it’s time they did have awards for animals,’ he countered.

Cordelia took off her glasses and glared at him. ‘You silly old man. It’s time you grew up and accepted how things are,’ she said tartly. ‘People have gone to a lot of trouble over today, and woe betide you if you let them down.’

Ron shifted his gaze back to Harvey, who had found some crumbs on the floor and was licking them up. ‘I don’t see why there has to be such a fuss. Why can’t they just post it to me? They’ve got better things to do than make silly speeches.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Cordelia. ‘But you won’t be the only one there getting an award – and something like this is good for morale.’

Ron slurped tea from the cup Peggy had handed him and eyed them both over the rim as he drained it. ‘Ach, I know when I’m beaten,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll be off for me bath.’

As Ron grabbed his clothes from the back of the door and stomped out of the room, the two women looked at each other and stifled their giggles. They knew Ron had absolutely no idea of how elaborate the plans were for the award ceremony – and if he had, then not even a ten-ton bomb would have got him out of bed this morning.

Peggy had struggled into her girdle, found a pair of stockings that weren’t too heavily darned, and changed into her best skirt and sweater for the occasion, dithering over whether or not to wear a hat. Deciding that she probably should, she pinned the rather shabby dark blue felt hat onto her curls and then set about preparing Daisy.

Once this was achieved, she carried her little daughter back into the kitchen and sat her in the playpen so she couldn’t get hold of anything to dirty her knitted outfit – she’d got into the habit of chewing the anthracite from the coal scuttle – and then set about preparing Ron’s breakfast of porridge and a stack of toast. He would need something warm and filling after all the drink he’d consumed the night before, and perhaps then he might be in a more congenial mood.