The Soldier's Daughter (36 page)

‘Come on, Sarah, sweetheart. We have to get you out of here,’ Lois coaxed as she clambered across the bedroom furniture that had fallen down into the kitchen from the floor above. In no time at all she had scooped the sobbing child up into her arms and she was halfway back across the room when there was an ominous rumble – and glancing up, Lois saw the back wall tumbling rapidly towards her.

As Mrs Brindley cowered in the shelter clutching her hot-water bottle, she trembled uncontrollably. She had lived through a fair few air raids by now, but never one like this. The explosions were distant but constant – in the direction of Coventry, she judged – although some had been a little too close for comfort and she knew that more than a few people would be losing their lives this night. She just wished that she could have persuaded Lois to come into the shelter with her instead of going off tramping the streets. The raid had been going on for hours, but as yet there was no sign of it abating. Eventually she risked dragging the shelter door open and peeping out. In the distance a huge pall of smoke rose into the air and the sky was red with flames. The clear, crisp, starry night had made the area an easy target. She shuddered and closed the door, dragging Tigger onto her lap. He usually slept through the raids but even he was nervous tonight and kept flexing his claws and arching his back. The bombs made a whooshing noise as the Luftwaffe released them from their planes, followed by loud bangs that were enough to waken the dead. But all the woman could do was sit there and pray that it might soon be over.

At last, early the next morning the all-clear sounded and when she cautiously inched the door open Tigger shot off in search of a live breakfast. The bombsites all over the town were riddled with rats and mice; they were easy pickings and Tigger took full advantage of the fact. Crossing the yard, Mrs Brindley hurried through the filthy air. A fog of smoke shrouded everything for miles around and fires continued to burn.

Once in the kitchen, she fiddled with the dials on the wireless until at last a voice crackled into being and made a terrible announcement. The whole city centre of Coventry had taken the brunt of the raid; even the magnificent St Michael’s Cathedral was gone. It was feared that hundreds, if not thousands, had lost their lives – but as yet it was too soon to know the exact death count. The trams were now no more than mangled wrecks, and hundreds of homes had been razed to the ground leaving countless people with nothing but the clothes they stood up in. The Army were furiously digging amongst the ruins for survivors, and fire engines were struggling to control the blazes which were still burning out of control. The announcer was advising anyone made homeless to go to the nearest church hall, where they would be given food and temporary shelter by the WVS. Already it was reported that there was a mass exodus of homeless people fleeing the city on foot, pushing whatever belongings they had managed to salvage in anything they could find: old hand carts, prams and pushchairs.

As the full horror of what she was hearing struck home, tears began to spill down Mrs Brindley’s cheeks. The poor, poor souls! It just didn’t bear thinking about. She had a feeling that this night would go down in history.

She was dog-tired now, but after making a pot of tea she decided she would take a mug over to Lois and then try to get a few hours’ sleep. God knows, they had all had precious little of it last night. She carried the brimming mug across the yard, trying her best not to spill any, and when she reached Lois’s back door she called, ‘Lois, are yer awake, luvvie? I’ve brought yer a brew.’ She tried the handle and was relieved when it opened at her touch. Stepping into the kitchen, she blinked as her eyes tried to adjust to the gloom. But it was no good; she couldn’t see a thing, so she carefully placed the tea on the wooden draining board and began to open the curtains, letting the early-morning light into the room. She then went to the foot of the stairs and called again. Only silence greeted her, so eventually she climbed the stairs and peeped into Lois’s room. Empty. Lois should have been back by now, surely? Deciding there was nothing much she could do, Martha set off back to the comfort of her own kitchen.

She had barely got inside when she heard someone knocking on Lois’s front door. Dashing along to hers, she opened it to find one of the firewatchers standing on the pavement. He was covered from head to foot in dirt and grime and looked so weary that Mrs Brindley’s heart went out to him.

‘Does Mrs Lois Valentine live here?’ he asked.

‘Aye she does, lad. But she ain’t in at present,’ Martha answered.

‘Then is her nearest an’ dearest here?’

‘No, the kids are evacuated to their grandparents in Cornwall, an’ her old man died some time ago.’ Mrs Brindley was worried now. ‘If there’s anythin’ yer need to pass on to the children, yer can tell me,’ she said weakly. ‘I’m about all they’ve got now, an’ I’ve been keepin’ me eye on Mrs Valentine since the little ’uns went – but as I said, she ain’t in at present. She’s in the WVS and went off to help last night – and she ain’t come back yet. I know ’cos I went round to check not long since.’ Her palms had suddenly become clammy and her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he would hear it.

‘Ah well, the thing is . . .’ The man paused to push his tin hat aside and scratch his head, sending a cloud of dust flying into the air. He was grey from head to foot apart from the whites of his eyes, and even they were red through smoke and lack of sleep. ‘The thing is, I’m afraid Mrs Valentine won’t be comin’ home, missus. She were killed last night, see, tryin’ to rescue a nipper from a house that had been bombed further up the Ford. The blast took the front clean off the place, but accordin’ to witnesses, Mrs Valentine went in there wi’out a thought fer herself. While she were tryin’ to get the child out o’ there, the rest o’ the house came down atop of her an’ she saved the little ’un by throwin’ herself over her. The woman were a true hero.’

‘My God!’ Mrs Brindley’s hand rose to her mouth as she stood there in shock trying to take in what he had told her and wondering what else this bloody war was going to throw at them. Lois might have had her faults, God rest her soul, but she had died making theirs a land fit for heroes.

How on earth was she going to break the news to the children?

A cold hand closed around Briony’s heart the following morning as she listened to the wireless. There had been a terrible raid on Coventry, lasting all night and causing catastrophic damage and loss of lives. Had her home town managed to escape the attack? Was their mother all right? Her first instinct was to race to the station and get a train back home, but that was out of the question. She couldn’t just abandon the children.

‘What’s wrong?’ Howel asked as he came into the kitchen and kicked the door shut behind him. His arms were full of logs and he dumped them onto the hearth. Briony was as white as a ghost and he wondered what could have happened now on top of everything else. She’d certainly had more than her share of bad news to cope with lately, and sometimes he felt that the poor maid was fighting her own war.

‘The Jerries have blitzed Coventry,’ she told him in a wobbly voice. ‘And it’s only a few miles from Nuneaton.’

Without her saying another word he knew that she was thinking of her mother, and crossing to her he placed one arm about her shoulders and gentled the glossy dark hair from her face with the other.

‘Your mother will be fine, if that’s what you’re worrying about,’ he told her soothingly.

She stared into his eyes, willing herself to believe him – but somehow she couldn’t. That awful feeling was back again and she felt sick inside.

‘I have no way of getting in touch with her apart from sending another telegram. What should I do?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ he answered calmly. ‘If anything was wrong, someone would have telephoned here. And you know what they say – no news is good news, so stop worrying.’ Then hoping to cheer her up a bit he asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourself last night?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, as a brilliant smile transformed her face. ‘But I don’t think those two did.’ She jerked her head towards the door leading into the hallway. ‘Your mother told me Sebastian and my grandmother had a tremendous row while we were out. It was so bad that she could even hear it in here.’

‘Huh! About money no doubt,’ Howel said caustically.

She nodded. ‘Yes it was, as a matter of fact. Apparently Grandmother refused to give him any more and he called her all the names under the sun.’

‘I dare say he thought she’d be an easy touch once his father was out of the way, but Mrs Frasier seems to be finally coming to her senses. And with her husband barely cold in his grave, poor man.’ They sat down together at the table and Briony handed Howel the last slice of jam tart. She was going to bake a treacle one later on. It was as they were sitting there that Sebastian strolled in and glowered at them. He often took the short cut through the kitchen if he was heading for the barn or going to get his car.

‘It must be nice to have nothing better to do than sit there eating my food,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I wonder what I pay you for.’

It was on the tip of Howel’s tongue to tell him that in actual fact it was Sebastian’s mother who paid his wages, but he decided against it.

Briony, however, positively bristled. ‘For your information I only get paid a very small allowance,’ she said coldly.

‘And you should think yourself lucky to be getting that!’ he snarled. ‘Sitting here in the lap of luxury scrounging off us.’

‘I’d hardly call being shoved up into the old servants’ quarters the lap of luxury,’ she retaliated. ‘And as for scrounging off you – if you brought someone in from the village to do half the work I do about the place, it would cost you easily double what it costs to feed myself and the children.’

That’s told him, Howel thought, bowing his head so that Sebastian wouldn’t see the amusement in his eyes. It was about bloody time somebody stood up to His Lordship!

Sebastian hovered for a second and if looks could have killed, Howel had a suspicion that Briony would have dropped down dead there and then. But then he seemed to think better of it and striding across the kitchen he went out, slamming the door so hard behind him that it danced on its hinges.

Briony took a deep breath. ‘Do you think I was rude?’

‘Not at all. Seb is a bully, and it’s about time someone gave him as good as they got. I’d do it myself, but I don’t want us to be chucked off the farm with no jobs to go to. It would upset everyone. Still, I have to admit there are times when I feel like telling him a few home truths.’

Brushing the pastry crumbs from himself, he then rose from the table, saying, ‘I’d best get on. I want to bring the sheep down into the field at the back of the farm today for the winter. They can shelter in the barn then, when the weather turns really bad. See you later. And Briony . . . try not to worry too much.’

She managed a smile, but once he had gone she sat for some minutes staring off into space, picturing her mum all alone at home and praying that she was safe.

In Nuneaton Mrs Brindley stared down numbly at the death certificate that the doctor had just delivered to her. It was still hard to believe that Lois was really dead.

‘But what about ’er children? They’ve already lost their dad,’ Mrs Brindley fretted. ‘What’ll ’appen to ’em now?’

‘Aren’t they all in Cornwall with their grandparents?’ he asked gently.

Mrs Brindley nodded. ‘Yes, well, wi’ their grandma. Their grandad died recently. What wi’ losin’ her dad an’ her grandad, an’ then young Sarah comin’ down wi’ polio, God alone knows how Briony will cope wi’ this on top.’

‘Even so, they will have to be informed,’ the man told her gravely. ‘We will need to know what the family wishes us to do with the body and where they want her to be buried. Is there any way you can get in touch with them?’

‘I . . . I suppose I could telephone them. Though Lois ’ad been told she must only get in touch that way in the case of a dire emergency.’

‘Well, I rather think this falls under that category, don’t you?’ His face softened then as he saw how distraught the woman was. She was wringing her hands together and her eyes were full of unshed tears. ‘Would you like me to telephone them for you?’ he offered.

‘Oh, would yer?’ she asked gratefully. She had only used the callbox about three times in her life. She bustled away to find the number next door. She seemed to remember Lois telling her she kept it in the sideboard drawer. Sure enough, there it was, and she hurried back and passed it to the doctor.

‘I shall arrange for an undertaker to remove her body from the morgue and take it to a Chapel of Rest in Nuneaton as soon as possible. She was a very brave woman,’ the doctor said. ‘And when I get back to the surgery I shall contact the family immediately. I shall keep you informed. Good day, Mrs Brindley.’

She watched him leave and then rubbed a hand across her weary face. It came away wet with tears. What would happen to the house now? She doubted Briony’s grandmother would agree to pay the rent on it – and so the children would have nowhere to come back to after the war was ended. Bloody Hitler! It was all such a mess!

It was Marion Frasier who answered the phone some time later that day. When the doctor who had attended Lois introduced himself and explained why he was calling, her face set into a mask. Even so she was polite and after giving him instructions about the removal of the body, she stared towards the kitchen door. Briony wouldn’t have gone to get the children from school yet and so she supposed she might as well go and tell her and get it over with. It was typically thoughtless and inconsiderate of Lois to do such a thing, putting herself at risk like that for strangers – but then she had always been a selfish, headstrong girl. As far as Marion Frasier was concerned, her daughter had died the day she went off with James Valentine. She felt no grief whatsoever about her death.

‘I am afraid I have some rather sad news for you,’ she said coldly when she entered the kitchen. Briony had just taken the treacle tart from the oven and was placing it on a cooling tray on the table.