There'll Be Blue Skies (28 page)

Sally watched with tears in her eyes as Jim jumped down and swept Peggy into his arms and kissed her passionately. Then she laughed as they were swamped by their children, the boys clinging to him like monkeys, the girls showering him with kisses as Harvey leapt up and tried to lick everyone. Ron, who was not a man to show his emotions in public, stood by his side and kept patting his shoulder, as if to confirm he was not a figment of his imagination.

Frank clambered down and tied the ropes firmly to the posts sticking out of the shingle. Then he threw his arms round Ron and held him in a tight embrace until a pretty, fair-haired woman shoved through the crowd and flung herself into his arms. Sally guessed it had to be Frank’s wife.

The
Pelican
chugged round the headland, smoke belching from the stack into the blue sky. Sally saw the men on board and sighed gratefully. At least Billy’s father and uncle had returned safely, even though one had bandages round his head, and the other wore a sling.

Sally watched the celebrations, her gaze returning repeatedly to the headland for sight of another boat. But when it came, her spirits ebbed once more, for it beached on the shingle with no sign of John among the exhausted and battered crew. She realised then she didn’t even know the name of the fishing boat John had sailed on – or even if it had come from this harbour. She wanted to ask Peggy, but the family were still celebrating, and she didn’t want to intrude on such a private moment.

Frantic now, she impatiently waited for the celebrations to calm a little and went to Frank, who still had his arm round his wife. ‘You said you knew John Hicks,’ she began.

His happy grin faltered and he regarded her warily. ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘You’re Sally, aren’t you?’

She nodded. ‘What boat is he on? Did you see him?’

Frank took his arm from his wife’s shoulders and rammed his hands in his pockets, clearly uneasy. ‘He was on the
Little Nell
with his dad, his uncle and two cousins,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I saw them when we left, but it was such chaos out there, I don’t remember seeing them again.’

‘But he’s all right, isn’t he? He
is
coming back?’ Sally’s fear was threatening to overwhelm her, the tears ready to fall, her heart feeling as if it was being squeezed by a giant hand. Then she looked into his eyes and saw something that made her go cold. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘What happened?’

‘I’m sorry, Sally,’ Frank murmured. ‘I heard the
Little Nell
was sunk.’

‘Sunk?’ she stammered. She covered her mouth with her fingers, blinking up at him through her tears. ‘Are you sure?’

He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her. ‘According to what I heard, Sally – and this isn’t gospel – it went down the day before yesterday.’ His grip tightened as a sob escaped from her and she swayed towards him. ‘But that’s not to say John and the others weren’t picked up by someone else. We managed to fish out the crew from the
Jenny
, just like many others rescued other crews. I’m sure they’re fine, Sally.’

She wanted desperately to believe him, but something in his eyes told her he didn’t believe it himself. ‘How can I find out what happened to them?’

‘No doubt someone in charge will know. You could try the harbour-master at Dover, I suppose.’ He swiftly looked over the dwindling crowd on the beach. ‘I don’t see any of the family here,’ he said. ‘But that’s not necessarily a bad thing,’ he added hastily as she sobbed more loudly. ‘Every boat has its own mooring, and if they
were
picked up, they could be anywhere along the coast by now.’

‘I have to find him,’ she managed through a throat constricted by tears.

‘Here’s Peggy,’ he replied, clearly relieved for the support. ‘She knows the Hicks family better than me.’

Peggy put her arm round Sally as Frank quickly explained the situation. ‘I’ve got their number at home,’ she said to Sally. ‘I’ll ring when we get back.’ She turned back to Frank. ‘Would you and Pauline like to come back with us for a cuppa?’

He shook his head. ‘Thanks, Peg, but I’m going home to me bed, where I’m planning on staying for at least a week.’

‘Thanks for bringing Jim back safely.’

He nodded curtly, put his arm round Pauline’s shoulders and walked away.

‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Peggy. ‘It looks as if the rift between them hasn’t been mended. I was so hoping this might bring them together.’ She gathered her thoughts and took Sally’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s get you back and make that call.’

The walk seemed to take for ever, and yet Sally was almost reluctant to arrive at the familiar front door – for Peggy’s telephone call might tell her the worst news, and she didn’t know how she could bear it. On the other hand it could be good news – that John had been picked up and was safe somewhere. This thought lightened her step but, as she followed Peggy into the hall, the optimism fled again.

Peggy didn’t even take off her hat before she grabbed her address book and riffled through the pages. Dialling the number, she listened to it ringing at the other end for what felt like a lifetime. Then she put the receiver down. ‘Betty must be out,’ she said, ‘probably over at her sister’s – but she’s not on the telephone. I’ll try again later.’

Sally didn’t know what she felt, her emotions were so mixed. There was relief at putting off the evil moment, fear that it could only be bad news, and a burning, desperate hope that John was all right and, even now, was making his way home from some distant harbour.

She helped Ernie out of the wheelchair, took his hand and followed Peggy as she made for the kitchen. Hearing Jim’s voice filling the silence, they tiptoed into the room and sat next to one another.

He was drinking the last of the Polish vodka that Alex had given him at Easter. His voice was low, without a hint of bravado – just a terrible weariness that coloured his words and made the scenes he described come frighteningly to life.

‘The weather turned bad, with high winds, thick fog and heavy waves; but the noise was the worst thing. What with the machine guns from the beach, the planes overhead and the gunfire from the destroyers that escorted us, you could barely hear yourself think.’

He paused, took a sip of vodka and grimaced. Whether it was from the burn of it going down his throat, or the images that haunted him, none of them knew.

‘There were thousands upon thousands of men trapped on the beaches,’ he said softly, his gaze distant with the memories of what he’d seen. ‘Apart from our troops, there were Frenchies, Aussies, Canadians, Belgians.’

He was silent for a long moment before continuing . ‘We got in as close as we dared, the machine-gun bullets ripping into the
Seagull
, sending shrapnel flying everywhere – it was a miracle neither of us got hit. They poured off the beaches, wading through the water that was soon thick with the bodies of their comrades – so thick that they were being trampled underfoot.’

The silence in the kitchen was deathly. They could all see and hear the terrible images he’d conjured up.

‘It was like the Somme all over again,’ he rasped. ‘They were being mown down even before they could reach us. The poor bastards never stood a chance.’

Peggy didn’t even admonish him over his language as she perched on a chair, her face ashen, eyes fixed to him, wide with horror.

‘We dropped anchor and hauled as many as we could into the
Seagull
.’ His haunted gaze sought his father. ‘But there were too many, Da – we couldn’t take them all, and the boat was shipping water and in danger of capsizing as they clung to her sides, pleading to be let on board. We had to force their fingers off her planking, and leave them in the water, so we could take the lucky ones to the Navy destroyers that waited further out.’

Peggy moved to sit on the arm of his chair, her hand softly settling on his shoulder.

Jim’s voice was lower now, broken with emotion. ‘Then we went back – and back again until we lost count. On and on it went through the night and into day after day, after day. The sea was red with blood, and we could hear them screaming for help – but there was nothing we could do; there were just too many.’

He looked at Ron, his face a mask of pain. ‘There had to be almost a thousand craft out there, naval and civilian, but we couldn’t save them all, Da. We couldn’t possibly save them all.’ Jim’s face crumpled as he buried his face in his hands, the deep, agonising sobs filling the little room with his heartbreak.

Peggy wrapped him in her arms and held him as he wept. The boys crept towards him and clutched his legs as Ron surreptitiously wiped his eyes and Mrs Finch sobbed into her handkerchief. Anne and Cissy sat dumbly, their tears running unheeded down their faces as they watched their big strong father cling to their mother, curling into her like a wounded, terrified child.

Sally felt chilled to the bone, for the images Jim had painted were all too real, and her fear for John was overwhelming. She gathered the wide-eyed Ernie close, needing his warmth and weight in her arms – needing the solace in this, her darkest hour.

‘Did the Germans hurt Uncle Jim?’ he asked, his voice wavering on the edge of tears.

‘No, love,’ she murmured, ‘but he’s hurting inside cos of everything he saw – and sometimes that’s even worse than a bullet-wound.’

Ernie rested against her and closed his eyes. ‘I don’t like it when he cries,’ he murmured. ‘It makes me hurt inside too.’

Sally kissed the top of his head and cuddled him. ‘I know,’ she whispered, feeling the same terrible pain.

‘Come on, Jim,’ murmured Peggy. ‘You’re exhausted. Let’s get you to bed.’ She turned to the girls. ‘There’s a bit of mince for tea. Do what you can while I see to your father.’

The mood was broken and, glad to have something to do to dispel the awful thoughts, Sally and the girls dried their tears and began to prepare the evening meal. Peggy’s larder was still well stocked with the bottled fruit, jam and pickles she’d made the previous summer and autumn, but there was only a handful of mince and two sausages to share among them all – they had to be creative.

Ron collected onions, potatoes and tomatoes from the garden, and cut some parsley and chives from the box he’d made to fit beneath the basement window at the front of the house. His tiny herb garden was flourishing, but the tomatoes were his pride and joy, brought on beneath sheets of glass close to the side garden wall where the sun shone for most of the day. He saved every last drop of used water to keep them and all his vegetables alive.

There was no fat, so Sally dry-fried the mince, chopped sausages and onions while the potatoes boiled. Anne made a sauce with the tomatoes, adding the parsley and chives, some pickled cabbage and a pinch of salt to give more flavour. There was no pepper – it had long since run out and was now affectionately called white gold by the beleaguered grocer whose shelves were becoming emptier by the day.

Cissy laid the table before helping Mrs Finch unravel a particularly large knot in her knitting. The old lady was quiet for once, her expression sad and thoughtful, and Sally wondered if she was remembering the last war, and the husband she’d lost at Ypres. Jim’s descriptive storytelling must surely have conjured up such memories.

The girls worked silently, keeping their thoughts to themselves as the boys disappeared into the basement to play with their train set. But none of the usual bursts of laughter came from down there – it seemed they were all affected by the terrible events of the past week.

Jim didn’t come downstairs for the evening meal, and Peggy assured them he was fast asleep and would probably stay that way until morning. He was exhausted.

‘I tried that number again, Sally,’ she said a while later. ‘Still no reply. I’m sorry, dear.’

Sally nodded and helped Anne clear the dishes and tidy away while Peggy put the boys to bed. In an attempt to dispel the terrible dread, she made a game of carrying Ernie upstairs for his wash. They had become used to having a nightly bath, and Ernie always looked forward to it, but they were encouraged to save water now, so they bathed once a week in the few inches allowed, Sally climbing in after Ernie had finished. Tonight it would be a lick and a promise with a damp flannel for both of them, and a few drops of water in a mug to rinse their toothbrushes.

Having massaged him with the last of the oil, she wrapped him in his pyjamas and snuggled him into bed. She sat in the chair and waited for him to fall asleep, wondering if he’d have nightmares. She could hardly blame Jim, but his description had been all too graphic, and she knew without a doubt that she’d have a disturbed night because of it.

The news was about to start as she returned to the kitchen and, with a nod of welcome to Pearl and Edie who’d just come in and were eating the warmed-up plates of food, she settled down to listen. Silence fell as the deep, well-educated and familiar voice came from the wireless and into the room.

Operation Dynamo had been a resounding success due to the bravery of the Royal Navy, the RAF, and the many civilians who’d risked their lives to bring the men home safely. They had rescued almost six hundred thousand men from the beaches of Dunkirk, Cherbourg, Saint Malo, Brest and Saint Nazaire.

But in his speech to the House of Commons that afternoon, Churchill had tempered his praise for this success by saying that, although huge numbers of men had been rescued, and the bravery of the rescuers was in no doubt, it had been a ‘colossal military disaster’ – and that wars weren’t won by evacuations.