Far From Home (6 page)

Shearing Halt was on the outskirts of a tiny farming hamlet and consisted of two short platforms, a signal box and a waiting room. The station master and his wife lived in the neat red brick cottage next to the tracks and clearly loved their country idyll, for there was a flourishing vegetable and flower garden, and sprawling, sweet-scented roses climbed over the roof.

Beyond these few buildings lay miles of open country, with cows grazing and fields of wheat undulating in the warm breeze. Distant figures worked in the fields, the heavy horses pulling the reapers as the wheat was stacked in sheaves and tossed into enormous wagons. A narrow lane ran past a collection of whitewashed cottages, and much further along, among the gentle hills, Polly could see the roofs of isolated farmhouses and barns.

It was a pleasant pastoral scene, and if Polly hadn’t been so frustrated by all the hanging about, she would have enjoyed it more. The station master and his wife were doing their best to make their short stay as pleasant as possible, but Polly was already several days late for her nursing post at Cliffehaven and her landlady, Mrs Reilly, must surely be wondering by now if she should let her room to someone else. She bit her lip as she mulled over her predicament, and then asked the station master if she could use his telephone.

‘It can only be used in emergencies,’ he replied.

‘This
is
an emergency,’ she persisted. ‘If I don’t make this call I could lose my job and my lodgings.’ She smiled up at him, willing him to agree.

He tipped back his peaked hat and scratched his head. ‘I suppose it would be all right,’ he muttered. ‘But make it short.’

Polly was shown into his office, and she reached for the large black telephone on his desk and dialled the number she’d written down in her notebook. It seemed to ring for ages, and she was about to replace the receiver when she heard an elderly voice at the other end of the line.

‘Hello? Who’s that?’

‘It’s Polly Brown. Is that Mrs Reilly?’

‘Mrs Reilly’s out. Who did you say you were, dear? Do speak up.’

Polly took a deep breath and raised her voice. ‘This is Staff Nurse Brown, and I’m ringing to let you know I should be in Cliffehaven by tomorrow. Please will someone inform the hospital that I’m on my way?’

‘You’re in hospital? Oh dear.’

Polly closed her eyes and tamped down on the frustration. ‘Just tell Mrs Reilly I rang,’ she said. ‘I’m not in hospital; I’m waiting for a train.’

‘It’s not raining here,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘But I’ll tell Peggy you called.’ The line was abruptly disconnected.

Polly giggled as she replaced the receiver. Lord only knew what sort of message the old dear would give Mrs Reilly.

She thanked the station master who’d been hovering nearby and returned to the platform, where she perched on the larger of her two suitcases in the shade of the platform roof and watched the driver, stoker and guard laboriously tap wheels, check the bullet holes in the carriages, and closely inspect the engine. They seemed to be taking forever, standing about and talking as they drank tea and smoked cigarettes – why couldn’t they just get on with it?

She realised she wasn’t alone in her frustration, for there was a general muttering of annoyance among the other passengers. But it seemed such inconveniences had become commonplace, and everyone soon began to settle down for the long wait. The primitive facilities of the station master’s scullery and outside lavatory soon became the scenes of long, patient queues, and Polly had to accept she was stuck here for as long as it took, so she might as well make the best of it.

As the summer day waned, she wandered down the lane and leant on a fence to watch the lovely Shires plod sturdily back and forth through the wheat. It was a scene that reminded her of her childhood, and although it looked very pretty from here, she was all too familiar with the realities of life on a farm to be fooled by it. Harvesting was back-breaking work, with stinging insects worrying the sweat on your face, flies buzzing and bits of corn and wheat getting stuck in your clothes and making you itch.

But there were also joyous times that took the edge off the weariness and discomfort, and she smiled as she remembered how she and Adam had realised they were in love during a harvest festival dance at the local village hall. She remembered their first kiss beneath the full harvest moon, and the happiness of riding together on the back of one of those faithful Shires as they made their weary way home from the fields.

Tears sparked and she blinked them away, determined not to let the worry cloud this beautiful day. And yet, as she slowly made her way back to the tiny station platform, she couldn’t dismiss the fear that seemed to be entwined through everything she thought and did. Adam, her childhood sweetheart, lover and best friend was lying in hospital, his future uncertain. And Alice, sweet, precious little Alice, would have already boarded the steamship
City of Benares
and, in the morning, Convoy OB-213 would set sail for Canada. The life she and Adam had planned on that magical harvest night had been scattered to the winds.

Peggy came out of the town hall and paused for a moment in the lee of the huge piles of sandbags to slip on her cardigan. There was already a bit of a chill in the air once the sun began to go down, and although they were only in the second week of September, she could already scent the coming winter.

She glanced up the steep hill towards the station, wondering fleetingly if Nurse Brown had arrived yet. She was terribly late, and although the Billeting Office had assured her she was on her way, Peggy wondered if she shouldn’t give her place to someone else. It seemed very poor form to have an empty bed when so many poor souls were homeless, and if she should turn up later, the hospital could surely provide suitable accommodation.

Realising she could do nothing about it today, she hurried down the High Street towards the seafront, past the burnt-out remains of Woolworths and the pile of rubble that had once been a very smart department store, and weaved her way through the long queue outside the Odeon cinema.

She glanced automatically up the side alleyway. Jim worked as a projectionist at the Odeon and could often be found having a quiet smoke in the alley between performances. About to hurry on, she caught a glimpse of him emerging from the side door and was on the point of hailing him, when she realised he was not alone.

A peroxide blonde had followed him outside and was looking up at him coquettishly as she leant against the brick wall and tossed back her hair. Jim moved nearer to her, resting one hand on the wall close to her head, effectively making their little exchange more private. He said something that made her giggle, and she playfully slapped his arm.

Peggy watched as Jim lit her cigarette and continued to flirt with her. The pain she felt was immense, tearing through her so swiftly it took her breath away. She’d known Jim Reilly was a rogue even before she’d married him all those years ago and she’d learnt to hide the hurt – learnt it was better to believe him when he said it had only been a bit of harmless fun, that all men flirted, and of course he would never be unfaithful. Well, she’d been tested over the years, that was for sure, and when she’d seen the signs he was getting too involved elsewhere, she’d nipped it in the bud very quickly. But to see him like this when she’d thought he’d outgrown all that nonsense was so painful, she couldn’t bear to watch any more.

Aware of the curious looks of those standing so patiently outside the cinema, and recognising one or two of them, she hurried on down the street, her face on fire, her pulse racing.

Jim had never been able to resist a pretty face or a dodgy deal, and if he was up to his tricks again then she’d soon spike his guns – just as she’d had to do rather too frequently throughout their marriage. She doubted there was anything serious in his behaviour, but there had been one or two close calls in the past, and she didn’t want a repeat performance. The peroxide blonde was young enough to be his daughter, for heaven’s sake, and it was high time Jim Reilly realised he was far too old to be making such a fool of himself.

Peggy was so angry and upset that she walked even faster as she turned sharply east from the High Street and into Camden Road, which ran parallel to the seafront. Her footsteps echoed as she passed the factories, the hospital and the remains of the school, and she found she was soon out of breath.

Slowing down, she glanced into the local shop windows to see if there were any notices of new deliveries arriving. There were always rumours of tinned salmon, fresh batches of eggs and joints of pork, but they usually amounted to nothing, and half a day could be wasted queuing up for a scrag end and a handful of dubious mince.

The noise coming from the Anchor pub spilled out into the street, and she waved to Rosie Braithwaite, the landlady, who was closing the shutters over the ancient diamond-paned windows. Ron had a thing for the luscious Rosie, but at least he was entitled to flirt, she thought sourly – he’d been a widower for years.

It was getting dark much earlier now, but with no street lights and every window covered with blackout, it made walking along the damaged pavements rather hazardous. Peggy caught the toe of her shoe in a jagged piece of paving and just managed to save herself from falling by grabbing the edge of a rough stone wall.

She winced as she felt her wrist twist and her skin grate against the stone, the pain of it stoking her humiliation. How dare Jim shame her like that in front of all those people? And how dare he think so little of her and their marriage to carry on like that with a little tart barely out of school? She’d put up with his shady deals, withstood his previous forays into extra-curricular entertainment, and worked herself into the ground to make a good life for them and their children – and she’d had enough. Jim Reilly was about to discover that the world did not revolve around him, and that if he wasn’t very careful, he’d lose the part of his anatomy which seemed to be his driving force.

She came to the end of Camden Road, crossed the main road that led down to the seafront and the pier and hurried along Beach View Terrace. Number sixty-four was in darkness, just as all the other Beach View houses were, and Peggy slowly climbed the steps, her gaze flitting mournfully over the shattered lamps that had once stood so proudly at the end of the concrete balustrades. Their sad state of repair seemed to be an analogy for her marriage.

She stood on the top step and made a concerted effort to calm down before unlocking the door. She had become adept over the years at hiding her sorrows, and Jim would be the only member of this household to discover how angry and hurt she was.

Plastering on a smile, she was greeted by the lovely smell of cooking and the happy chatter of voices as she went into the kitchen. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Has everyone had a good day?’

The train had finally left the country halt two hours behind schedule, which meant Polly had missed her ongoing train and had to wait another hour for the next one. It clattered and rattled through the gathering gloom, the heavy shutters tightly fastened over the windows to blot out any stray splinter of light coming from the compartments.

Polly tried to sleep but it was impossible. She hated being enclosed, hated not being able to see the towns and villages she suspected they were passing through, and when a train hurtled past on the other line, she flinched at the sheer force of its down-draught.

She arrived at Victoria Station at ten o’clock and within minutes found herself caught in an air raid. The sirens were screaming, their plaintive wails echoing in the high ceiling and reverberating through the vast concourse.

Guards were shouting orders to get into the shelters immediately, and Polly looked round for some clue as to where they might be. People were milling about and all was confusion.

A porter rushed up to her and grabbed the heavier suitcase. ‘The shelter’s this way,’ he shouted. ‘Quick, quick, they’ll be here in a minute.’

Polly ran beside him, the weight of her overnight bag dragging on her arm, the gas-mask box and handbag thudding against her hip. She hesitated momentarily as he ran down the steps to the underground, and then had no choice but to follow him as a surge of people pushed round her. Down they went beneath the ground, the smell of soot and grime and overheated bodies growing ever stronger in the dim electric light.

She could almost feel the great weight of earth above that gloomy tunnel as she was swept along in the tide of people hurrying down the steep flight of stairs. As the tide dispersed through the various tunnels at the bottom, she experienced a moment of panic. She couldn’t see the porter who had her case.

‘This way, love. Over here.’

With a sharp stab of relief, she followed him through a narrow archway and on to the platform. Bemused and feeling slightly claustrophobic in the crush of humanity, she looked round.

The long platform that ran down one side of the single set of rails was full of people who were lying on mattresses and blankets, sitting on chairs and upturned crates, making themselves at home for the duration of the air raid. The sound of their voices was strangely muted beneath the continuous wails of the sirens, and no one seemed to mind the lack of space and privacy as they carried out their nightly rituals.

Polly stared down the line to the yawning mouth of the great black tunnel, and up to the curved ceiling that loomed over them all. ‘Is it safe down here?’ she asked fearfully.