Where the Heart Lies (14 page)

Harvey’s ears went back and he tucked his tail between his legs as he reluctantly headed for the range and plonked down in front of it with a much put-upon sigh. Resting his nose on his dirty paws, he eyed them both as if he’d been whipped.

Nobody took a blind bit of notice, for this was a well-worn act and they weren’t fooled for a minute.

‘Never mind that dog. I need a hand up these steps.’

Ron turned back to Mrs Finch and carefully steadied her as she reached the top step, swaying rather alarmingly and threatening to fall backwards. ‘To be
sure you’re swaying well,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’ve not been hitting the hard stuff while me back’s been turned?’

Mrs Finch tugged at her hat and fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘I’m paying the going rate,’ she said stiffly, ‘and I don’t need you to tell me it’s hard enough even if your back is burned. Though how you did that, I have no idea.’ She gave him a look that would have stopped a rampaging bull in its tracks.

That look had absolutely no effect on Ron. He grinned, his eyes twinkling beneath the shaggy brows. ‘To be sure, ye’re a caution, Mrs Finch.’

‘And you’re a rogue and a scoundrel,’ she retorted, her own grey eyes gleaming with humour as she pulled off her hat and coat. ‘Now get out of my way and let me sit down. Arguing half the afternoon with you has quite exhausted me.’

She plumped into a chair and smiled sweetly at Peggy. ‘I’ve been gardening,’ she said, ‘but Ron seems to think he knows it all and won’t take any advice from me.’ She shot him an impish glance. ‘Silly old fool,’ she added quietly.

‘I heard that,’ muttered Ron. ‘And don’t call me old – I’m at least ten years younger than you, and know more about onions than you ever will.’

Mrs Finch spread her hands and shrugged. ‘See what I mean?’ she said to Peggy. ‘That’s so typical of a man. Won’t listen to anything I have to say and changes the subject to his bunions.’

Ron muttered something under his breath as he stripped off his heavy coat and kicked off his boots.

‘What’s that? Do speak up, Ron.’ She fiddled with her hearing aid and made it whine horribly.

‘To be sure, there’s little point in wasting me breath,’ he said, the twinkle still evident in his eyes. ‘You don’t hear half of what I say – and ignore the rest.’

Peggy stubbed out her cigarette and made a pot of tea. This sparring could go on for hours. As she placed the cup in front of Mrs Finch, she also pushed the package towards her. ‘I bought you a little something,’ she said.

Mrs Finch brightened considerably. ‘Oh, how lovely. I do like presents. What is it?’ She plucked at the brown paper to reveal a small box.

‘It’s a practical thing and not very pretty,’ Peggy warned quickly, not wanting her to be disappointed. ‘But I think you’ll find it’s just what you need.’

Mrs Finch frowned. ‘Practical and gritty and going to seed? It doesn’t sound very nice at all.’ She eyed the plain brown box suspiciously, and then lifted the lid. There was a long moment of silence before she closed the box and pushed it back over the table. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said firmly.

‘It will help you to hear better,’ said Peggy, pushing it back.

‘It came with a letter?’ Mrs Finch looked round the table. ‘Where is it? I can’t see it.’

Peggy took the new hearing aid out of the box and held it in the palm of her hand. ‘Why don’t you
just try it?’ she coaxed loudly. ‘Then if you really don’t want it, I’ll take it back.’

Mrs Finch looked daggers at Peggy, but curiosity won her over and she removed her old hearing aid reluctantly and placed it on the table. Eyeing the new one, she sniffed. ‘It doesn’t look up to much,’ she muttered. ‘Newfangled nonsense.’ She looked back at Peggy and gave a deep sigh. ‘Go on then, but hurry up. My tea’s getting cold.’

Peggy quickly fitted it the way the doctor had taught her, carefully adjusting the sound to one of the lower levels.

‘I can’t hear a blessed thing,’ Mrs Finch complained. ‘Damned contraption’s useless.’

‘How about that?’ Peggy slowly and carefully turned up the volume as she continued speaking. ‘Tell me when you can hear what I’m saying, Mrs Finch, because I don’t want to damage your eardrums by turning it up too—’

‘Good heavens, dear, there’s no need to shout,’ protested Mrs Finch.

Peggy hadn’t been shouting at all, which meant the thing was working very well indeed. She turned down the volume just a couple of notches. ‘Is that better?’ she asked.

‘Well, of course it is,’ Mrs Finch grumbled. ‘I’m not that deaf, you know.’

‘Not now you’ve got a nice new hearing aid that works properly,’ murmured Peggy with a gentle smile.

Mrs Finch drank down her tea and clattered the cup in the saucer. She regarded the china for a moment and then her eyes widened and she looked around the room. ‘Good heavens,’ she breathed. ‘I can hear the clock ticking and a robin singing outside – and I can hear Harvey snoring and Ron sniggering.’

She turned and glared at Ron, who was trying to look innocent as he sipped his tea. ‘Don’t slurp your tea like that,’ she scolded. ‘It’s most impolite.’

‘You have no idea what you’ve done, Peggy,’ muttered Ron. ‘There’ll be no escaping her now, to be sure.’

‘There certainly will not,’ said Mrs Finch with a beaming smile. ‘Now, if you’ve quite finished complaining, I’d like another cup of tea.’

The last six weeks had been fraught with grief and anxiety, and if it hadn’t been for Matron, Julie would simply have crawled under the bed-covers and shut out the world. Matron Starkey had been sympathetic and kind, helping to arrange a post for her in Cliffehaven even though she didn’t approve of Julie taking on William. But she’d known that Julie needed to be fully occupied while she waited for William to become strong enough to travel, and had set out a hectic schedule which gave her little time to think, let alone dwell on her loss. Julie had willingly plunged into the work, grateful for Matron’s wisdom, and the chance to make amends for her forthcoming departure.

Julie had arranged the funeral so that Franny could be buried with their parents. Somehow she had managed to attend the service, drink tea and talk to the many surviving neighbours who’d turned up, while all she could think of was the sight of those coffins being lowered into the ground. She’d returned to work that same evening, unable to bear the thought of sitting still.

There had been no sign of Stan since that awful scene, and no acknowledgement that he’d received the engagement ring in the post. She was a little piqued that he hadn’t even tried to mend fences, but at the same time rather relieved he hadn’t come round to the hostel making a nuisance of himself. There could never be any going back, not now she realised what a lucky escape she’d had.

Her letters to Bill’s family remained unanswered and she knew now that they would never accept William. The continued silence from Bill himself was unsettling, and she wondered if her letter had got through, or if, like his family, he’d decided to abandon the baby. And yet she couldn’t believe that of him. She wanted to keep faith that his silence was only the result of the erratic postal system, and that he’d write as soon as he could – perhaps even be granted compassionate leave.

Her three brothers had written back, devastated by all that had happened and promising to visit her the minute they got leave. Each letter had contained a money order to help pay for the funeral and a
decent wake, but all three of them advised her to have William fostered until more suitable arrangements could be made.

It seemed no one understood how important William had become to her, and how impossible it would be to break her promise and give him over to strangers. He was an enchanting child, with his mother’s sweet smile and fair hair, and his father’s wide-spaced eyes. She’d visited him every day, feeding him, changing him, growing more in love with him as he gained weight and gurgled happily in her arms. She could no more give him up now than fly to the moon.

Julie lay in bed on that last morning in London and waited for the others to wake. They’d had a bit of a farewell party the night before, sharing a couple of bottles of sherry and a midnight feast of spam sandwiches and tinned fruit, and she suspected there would be one or two thick heads this morning. She rested peacefully, listening to the sound of the other girls muttering and snoring. She would miss their friendship and company, the daily round and the evenings spent shedding the cares of that day and feeling young and carefree again.

As the doubts crowded in and the sheer magnitude of what she was about to embark upon set her nerves jangling, Julie threw back the covers. Her bags were already packed and waiting beneath the bed. One was full of baby clothes, nappies and spare feeding bottles, the other held her own few clothes,
her mother’s knitted blanket, and the few treasured bits and pieces she’d taken from Franny’s room.

Her gaze fell on the navy blue dress which she’d carefully placed over the back of the bedside chair. It was her mother’s dress which she’d rescued from the ruins, and after it had been washed, ironed and mended, it had come up almost as good as when Flo had last worn it. Julie had decided not to pack it away, for not only was it a symbol of all she’d lost, it was an intrinsic part of her old life and she felt it was important to wear it today as she stepped into the new.

She carefully gathered it up and tiptoed to the bathroom. The bell would go soon and all would be chaos and noise, and she needed these few moments alone to prepare for the emotional goodbyes, and the long journey ahead.

Breakfast was over and everyone was preparing to get on with their day. Julie was already beginning to feel distanced from them as they chattered and bustled and wished her good luck before they hurried off on their rounds, and she was torn between wanting to stay, and knowing it would be impossible.

‘Ne’er you mind, me luvver,’ soothed Alison in her West Country burr. ‘You’m be better down there with them southerners. Mind how you’m be goin’ and if you’m don’t tek to ’em, you be back ’ere dreckly.’

Julie returned her hug, the tears welling. ‘I’ll write, I promise,’ she murmured.

‘Dreckly then,’ Alison replied, waving goodbye as she crashed out of the back door.

‘I’m going to miss all of you so much,’ choked Julie through the lump in her throat.

‘And we’re going to miss you and all,’ said Doris and Ida in unison.

‘Mind ’ow you go down there, gel,’ added Doris, giving her a hug. ‘And if you get the chance, send us a stick of rock. I ain’t never been to the seaside.’

Julie swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I doubt they do sticks of rock in wartime,’ she managed.

Ida blew her nose. ‘It don’t matter, really,’ she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. ‘Just send us a postcard now and again to let us know yer all right.’

Julie gave each of them another hug and they hurried away. She turned to Lily, who was trying her best not to cry. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ she promised.

Lily forced a wobbly smile. ‘I know yer will, but it ain’t gunna be the same round ’ere without yer, Jules. I wish I were coming too.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you,’ she replied as they hugged, ‘but you’d hate leaving London – you know you would.’

Lily nodded. She’d never ventured far from the Thames, and had no real desire to go further. ‘I can ’ear Matron coming down the stairs,’ she said
urgently, her gaze flitting towards the door. ‘Good luck, Jules.’ She flung her arms round Julie and they held each other tightly before Lily tore herself away and raced off.

Matron Starkey strode into the room, her gimlet gaze following the flutter of Lily’s skirt as she disappeared into the sluice. ‘Are you sure I can’t change your mind, Sister Harris?’ As Julie shook her head she gave a sigh of weary acceptance. ‘Your work here has been exemplary,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say you will be sorely missed.’

Julie dipped her chin, worried that Matron would see her tears as a sign that her resolve was weakening.

‘I have your rail pass here and a letter of introduction to give to Dr Sayers, who is the senior partner in the medical practice.’ Matron handed over two envelopes. ‘I have not mentioned the child,’ she added. ‘That is for you to do.’

‘Thank you so much for arranging it all, Matron,’ said Julie. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’

Matron’s expression softened. ‘I know you won’t, my dear.’ She drew a sharp breath. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you earlier.’

Julie took the garishly coloured postcard which showed a pre-war Cliffehaven promenade and crowded pier. Eileen’s message was short, to the point, and lacked even a shred of emotion.

Dear Julie,

I regret I could not attend the funeral, but my important work here prevents me from leaving Cliffehaven.

Regards, Eileen.

Julie slipped it into her coat pocket. It might have been cold-blooded and terse, but at least it proved Eileen hadn’t left Cliffehaven. She said goodbye to Matron, picked up her cases, gas-mask box and handbag, and left the hostel for the last time.

PEGGY FINISHED THE
washing-up and put away the breakfast dishes while Mrs Finch and Anne read the morning newspapers, which miraculously were still delivered come rain, shine, bomb blast or air raid. It was the same with the milk, and the sound of the milkman’s horse clip-clopping down the street in the early mornings was comforting – a reminder of calmer, more peaceful days.

Rita, Fran and Suzy had left for work, Jim was having a bit of a lie-in after doing a long stint of fire-watching with the Home Guard, and Ron had taken Harvey up into the hills to see what he could find for the pot. No doubt Lord Cliffe would be minus a few of his game birds before evening, and Peggy just hoped Ron wouldn’t get caught.

She sipped her cup of tea and stood gazing out of the kitchen window. The back garden was long and narrow with a flint wall at the end which had been knocked about a bit during the many air raids. The gate led to a narrow alleyway that ran between the backs of the houses and petered out into a muddy track which meandered up the hills to the brow of the cliffs and beyond. Near the house,
Peggy’s washing line was strung between the neighbouring fences, while further down, Ron’s vegetable plot was just beginning to show some new green shoots beyond the row of leeks. Huddled at the bottom of the garden was the Anderson shelter, its roof covered in turfs, the corrugated iron already showing signs of rust.