While We're Apart (19 page)

Doris's cheeks went pink and she looked away. ‘What with the wedding to organise and those awful lodgers to keep an eye on, I really have far too many things to think about to worry about your disreputable household,' she replied. ‘And I'm quite sure that if anything was amiss, I'd be the last person you'd confide in.'

‘You've got that right,' snapped Peggy as she pushed back from the table. She turned her back on her sister and walked quickly towards the counter and the tea urn. Doris could wind her up like a clock, and there were times when she was sorely tempted to give her snooty face a resounding slap.

Peggy's feet were aching by the time her shift was over. She'd made what felt like hundreds of cups of tea and thousands of sandwiches during the past four hours, and was now sick of the sight of dirty crockery. No wonder Doris had weaselled out of doing it.

Having managed to feed Daisy earlier, she took off her apron and pulled on her coat, determined to escape before someone found her something else to do. Ron had probably told Rosie she was going to pop in after the pub's lunchtime session, and she didn't want to be late.

The sky was black over the sea, and the wind had lost none of its brutal cold, but at least it wasn't raining, and Daisy was happily sitting up in the pram watching everything go on around her. Peggy took a deep lungful of the fresh air as she strode down the hill towards Camden Road, glad to be away from the tea urn and the pervading fustiness of too many people in one place.

Turning into Camden Road, her thoughts were on Rosie and how best to cajole her out of this annual gloom, when Eileen Harris stepped out of her doorway and straight into the pram.

‘Oh, I'm sorry. But you appeared out of nowhere. Are you hurt?' Peggy asked.

‘You should look where you're going,' said Eileen crossly as she checked her rather splendid silk stockings for any damage. ‘Luckily for you these haven't been torn, or you'd've owed me a new pair.'

‘And it's lucky for you there's no damage to my pram, either,' retorted a bristling Peggy, who was in no mood to be spoken to like that by Eileen Harris, of all people. ‘Knowing your front door opens out on to the pavement, you should watch what you're doing.'

Eileen folded her arms as she blocked Peggy's way and glared.

Peggy glared back, daring her to start a good row. Eileen was the older sister of a young midwife who'd lodged with Peggy for a few months back in 1941, and although she'd found Julie to be a delightful girl, her sister was quite another kettle of fish. There were things she'd been wanting to say to Eileen for years, but because of Rosie, she'd held her tongue. But one wrong word from this cow and she'd let her have it.

Eileen must have noticed the light of battle in Peggy's eyes, for she suddenly moved out of the way. ‘Well, no harm done,' she said with an uncertain smile.

‘Don't you talk to me about harm done,' hissed Peggy. ‘I know what you are, Eileen Harris, and you should be ashamed to walk these streets.' Before she really lost her temper, Peggy gripped the pram handle and was about to walk away when Eileen stepped in front of her again.

‘What exactly do you mean by that remark?' she snapped.

‘Get out of my way before I ram this pram into your fancy stockings.'

‘No, I want an explanation,' persisted a furious Eileen, her brown eyes narrowed and venomous in her carefully made-up face.

‘Rosie Braithwaite is my friend, and you don't need me to say anything further,' retorted Peggy.

Eileen's face paled and the brown eyes widened. ‘You know? About that?'

Peggy tightened her grip on the pram, uncaring that the women in the queue outside the butchers were finding their spat hugely entertaining. ‘I certainly do,' she replied. ‘Want to make something of it, Eileen – or are you going to let me pass?'

Eileen shook her head and was unsteady on her high heels as she moved back into her doorway.

Peggy marched away, head high, a broad smile on her face. That had put the uppity piece in her place and no mistake, and she couldn't wait to tell Rosie so they could have a proper good laugh about it.

She wheeled the pram down the narrow alley which led to the side entrance of the Anchor and pushed it through the door into the square hallway. To her right was the entrance to the large cellar which Ron had turned into a bomb shelter, ahead of her was the entrance to the bar, and to her left were the wooden stairs which led up to Rosie's private apartment. ‘Rosie?' she called. ‘Are you up there?'

Rosie appeared on the landing and hurried down the stairs. ‘Oh, it's so good to see you, Peg. Thanks so much for coming.'

As they hugged, Peggy could feel the tension in her, and was mortified that she hadn't made the time to visit before this. ‘I've got something to tell you that will cheer you up no end,' she said as they drew apart and Rosie turned to make a huge fuss of Daisy and lift her out of the pram.

Rosie held Daisy close, her cheek resting on her downy head. ‘I know,' she replied with a rather wan smile. ‘I saw you and Eileen from my sitting-room window. It looked quite a humdinger.'

‘Oh.' Peggy's mood for gossip was immediately deflated.

Rosie must have seen this, for she reached out a hand and squeezed Peggy's arm. ‘Come on upstairs and tell me all about it. We can talk in peace now that Ron's taken Monty out with Harvey – and I've got a special treat for us.'

Peggy liked treats, for they were in short supply at Beach View. ‘What sort of treat?' she asked eagerly.

Rosie began to climb the worn stairs with Daisy in her arms. ‘One of my Yankee customers has given me a carton of cigarettes and a box of chocolates,' she said as she reached the landing. ‘I thought we could have a glass of sherry, kick off our shoes, and really spoil ourselves.'

‘That sounds heavenly,' sighed Peggy. ‘My feet are killing me after standing behind that tea urn for four hours.'

She wasn't at all fooled by Rosie's bright chatter, for her sapphire eyes were dull and shadowed by recent tears. But Peggy made no mention of this as she entered the cosy sitting room that overlooked the street and sat down in the chintz-covered armchair. It was the same every year, and Peggy had willingly taken her troubles on board knowing she was the only person that Rosie trusted to talk to about her very private sorrow.

It was the end of October now, and Mary had managed to resist opening the diaries even though they'd been temptingly piled on top of her bedroom chest of drawers for five days. Yet her curiosity had finally won over her reluctance to pry, and with trembling hands she'd opened up the earliest one two days before, and was soon swept away into another time and another world by her father's lyrical and descriptive prose.

‘I'm glad Gideon had something interesting stowed away in that trunk,' said Barbara as they sat in the warm kitchen that wintry evening. They were alone, for the girls had gone down to the pub and Joseph was on fire watch at the school. ‘Those diaries have certainly kept you occupied these past two evenings.'

Mary closed the little book and ran her hands over the tooled leather. ‘Yes, Daddy wrote so well that I feel I'm walking beside him as I read.' She smiled. ‘Did you know that Mother was the daughter of a Presbyterian minister? He was very strict, by all accounts, and of course disapproved fiercely of her association with a Protestant vicar, which was why they left it so late to marry.'

‘No, I never knew that,' murmured Barbara as she turned the collar on one of Joseph's shirts with neat stitches.

‘Daddy writes so eloquently about the loss of their first two babies,' sighed Mary, ‘that I can feel his pain in every word. And yet that anguish was not just for himself, but for Mother, and he shielded her from it, pouring it all out in his diaries in an attempt to find some kind of solace.'

Barbara dipped her chin, putting her sewing aside. ‘I remember how devastated I was when I lost mine,' she said softly. ‘It's the cruellest thing to bear, and I count myself fortunate that I had Joseph to lean on.'

‘I didn't realise,' Mary gasped. ‘Oh, Auntie Barbara, I'm so sorry if I've upset you by talking about all this.'

Barbara shook her head and gave her a wan smile. ‘It was a very long time ago, Mary love, and the miscarriages were quite early on in each pregnancy. Joseph and I began to wonder if I'd ever carry a baby full term, and so when I gave birth to Jack, it seemed like a miracle.' Her smile warmed and broadened. ‘We were in danger of smothering him in love and spoiling him, but I think he's turned out all right.'

‘Yes, he has,' Mary replied softly. She looked down at the diary on her lap. ‘I just wish Mother had felt the same way about me,' she said unsteadily.

Barbara reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I've always been puzzled by that,' she said. ‘Emmaline could be kindness itself, and obviously adored your father, but when it came to you . . .' She bit her lip. ‘It was almost as if she resented you coming between her and Gideon – which of course was ridiculous,' she added hastily. ‘How could one resent such a sweet, pretty little thing like you after all the sadness of losing the others?'

‘I don't know,' said Mary. ‘But I've realised over these past days that there's no point in dwelling on things I can't change.'

Barbara patted her hand in empathy, then picked up her sewing again. ‘At least you know your father loved you,' she said comfortably, ‘and you have his diaries to keep his memory alive.'

‘Yes, but the years he spent in Flanders don't make for easy reading,' Mary admitted. ‘He describes too well the horror of the rat-infested trenches, the mud and the shelling. The conditions were obviously intolerable, even far behind our lines in the hospital tents, and he had nothing but praise for the overworked doctors and nurses.'

‘I was still a young girl back then and living with my parents on our farm near Lewes. I remember the bands and the cheering as my father and brothers paraded down the streets, eager to join in a war that everyone said would be won by Christmas.' Barbara gave a deep sigh as her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I lost two brothers, an uncle and a cousin, and my father was a broken man by the time it was all over. He'd been gassed, you see, and he spent his final months as an invalid.'

‘Oh, Auntie Barbara, how awful.'

‘Yes, it was at the time, and my poor mother was inconsolable. Yet here we are again, fighting another war. We never learn, do we?'

Mary shook her head and set the diary aside. ‘My father wasn't injured, so he was lucky in that respect. But he had a crisis of faith during that time, unable to reconcile his beliefs in a loving and forgiving God with the sheer carnage he was witnessing.'

‘That's understandable,' said Barbara as she neatly stitched the collar. ‘And yet one would never have guessed it from his wonderful sermons.'

‘They were marvellous, weren't they?' Mary sighed. ‘But that conviction in his faith was hard-won. I can tell from his diaries that he returned home a very different man to the one that had left in 1914, and although Mother welcomed him with open arms, he found it very difficult to fit back into normal life again after all he'd been through.'

‘It was the same for so many of those poor men,' said Barbara. ‘It can't have been easy for Gideon to return to a quiet seaside parish after the noise and horrors of war.'

‘I think they both struggled to adapt to married life again after four years apart. When Mother lost another two babies in quick succession, Daddy accepted that God didn't wish them to have children, and so he threw himself into his parochial duties and battled to renew his shattered faith.'

Barbara looked up from her sewing. ‘It all sounds terribly sad. Are you sure that reading about their early life together is helping to ease your grief?'

‘Strangely enough, it is,' Mary replied. ‘I feel I know them both a bit better now, especially Mother.' She paused to find the right words. ‘From the way he writes about her it's obvious that he absolutely adored her, and tried very hard to make up for the loss of their babies by encouraging her to help in the parish and be his constant companion and guide. I do believe that she loved him, but I also think she was very aware of how important her place was in the village community, and how easily she could use the loss of their children as a means to tighten her hold on him and manipulate him to her will.' She gave a tremulous sigh. ‘That sounds awful, doesn't it?'

Barbara shook her head. ‘Not at all. And actually, I agree. Emmaline was like Gideon's shadow; she followed him about, clung to his arm when they were walking, and looked up at him as if he was the font of all knowledge.' She gave a rueful smile. ‘Now I'm being rather catty, aren't I? But I always got the impression Emmaline knew exactly how to flatter and coerce to get her own way and that Gideon was far too soft with her.'

‘You didn't like her, did you?'

‘Not much,' admitted Barbara. ‘Which isn't to say I didn't admire the good works she was involved in,' she added hurriedly. ‘But her treatment of you was so odd that I just couldn't warm to her.' She smiled. ‘I'm not ashamed to confess that I was only too delighted to look after you when you were tiny, and at one point, Joseph and I even discussed the possibility of adopting you.'

Mary's eyes widened in shock. ‘Adopting me? But Daddy would never have agreed to that.'

Barbara nodded. ‘We both realised that, which is why we never broached the subject outside these four walls.' She gave a deep sigh. ‘To all intents and purposes Emmaline gave an outward show of caring for you, but I very quickly realised it was all a sham and my silly old heart went out to you. I probably shouldn't have, but I tried to make up for her lack of affection with lots of hugs and kisses.'