While We're Apart (32 page)

‘Come on, auld feller,' he said affectionately. ‘It's our turn now.'

Harvey whined and flinched as slates and dust and debris came sliding down to shatter on the stone floor. The tunnel was slowly but surely beginning to disintegrate.

Ron took Harvey's head in his hands and looked into his eyes. ‘You got down here twice, so you can go back up. And to be sure there'll be a biscuit in it for you if you'd just do as I say for once.'

Harvey's eyebrows twitched, and at Ron's nudge, he gave him a lick on the nose and started to scramble up the tunnel.

Ron dodged the bits of brick and mortar that came flying down from beneath the dog's paws. If he stayed here any longer he'd never get out, and his old terrors of small dark places deep underground would have won.

He began to crawl, feeling each handhold sink and shift, and every scrape of his ruined shoes dislodge something. He could hear the crash of heavy debris hitting the concrete floor behind him. Could hear the sigh of things moving all around him. And then hands were reaching down – pulling him out into the cold, smoke-filled night where Harvey joyously welcomed him. Ron's legs felt weak and trembling, but he hugged him hard and led him back off the rubble to the firm pavement.

Harvey shook himself, spraying everyone with filthy water and sooty dog hair before he sat grinning like a fool as he was patted and praised by one and all. There was a bowl of water put down for him and one of the ladies from the WVS even brought him a couple of biscuits.

John Hicks ordered his crew to get back to the hotel bomb site now that Ron and Harvey were safe, and Ron had just taken a mug of tea from the WVS woman when the tunnel collapsed. It went with a mighty crash that sent a great plume of dust and soot into the air, and Ron's legs finally gave out.

He sank on to the kerb, his arms around his beloved dog as he fought off the waves of giddiness that made him feel as if he was caught in a storm at sea. ‘You're a brave, brave boy,' he managed gruffly as the tears ran down his face. ‘Thank God you turned your usual deaf ear and ignored me shouting at you, or those two would have died down there.' Harvey whined and licked away Ron's tears before turning and rushing off to see what everyone else was up to.

Ron suspected Harvey was thoroughly enjoying himself, for he was now nosing about in search of something else. He scrubbed at his face and struggled to his feet. His body might be aching from weariness, and his head spinning from shock, but his spirits had been reinforced by Harvey's bravery, and the miracle of finding the mother and baby alive. There would be no rest until everyone had been accounted for, and now the heavy-lifting crew had finished securing the cellar ceiling, all hands would be needed on deck.

Ron and Harvey worked tirelessly alongside the others throughout the night. It seemed that God, or whoever was in charge of such things, had been keeping watch, for there was only one fatality amongst fifty people trapped in the hotel cellar, and that had been an elderly woman who'd suffered a heart attack.

The sky had lightened by the time the last ambulance left. The walking wounded had long since gone, and the fire crews and rescue workers were now on their weary way back to their headquarters where they would attempt to wash off the dirt, sweat and horror of a harrowing night's work.

And yet there was a lightness in their hearts, for the baby was unharmed and thriving in her hospital crib. Her young mother's injuries had been treated, and now she was slowly recovering from her ordeal in a nearby ward. It had indeed been a night of miracles.

Ron stood for a moment and said a silent prayer for the souls of those who'd been lost tonight, and then stroked Harvey's head. ‘Come on, you auld heathen,' he said through a vast yawn. ‘Let's go and raid Peggy's larder for a slap-up breakfast.'

PEGGY HAD BEEN
woken early by a fractious Daisy, and not wanting the whole house disturbed, she'd quickly pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, bundled her up and carried her into the kitchen.

What she saw there brought her to a stunned halt. With rising fury she regarded the table littered with dirty plates, breadcrumbs and raided jam and pickle jars – and the greasy frying pan on the top of the range as well as the numerous smeary bowls lined up on the floor. Jane was always the first one up, but she never left the kitchen in such a mess, so there was no doubt who the real culprits were.

A quick check on her larder showed there were no eggs, only the crust of the hated wheatmeal loaf, one onion, and a heel of cheese. The potatoes she'd been saving to fry for everyone's breakfast had also gone, along with the last of the margarine and lard ration and most of the sugar.

Fairly vibrating with rage, she put Daisy in the playpen and was about to go down and give Ron a right royal ear-wigging when a bedraggled and clearly exhausted Rita traipsed in.

‘I can't promise you breakfast,' Peggy said, barely able to contain her temper. ‘Ron and Harvey have been through my larder like a plague of locusts. But don't you worry, Rita. I'm about to go down and tear them off such a strip their ears will be ringing for a bloody week.'

Rita looked rather shocked by Peggy's language, for she rarely swore. ‘You must be really cross,' she said as she took in the mess, ‘and I understand, really I do. But please don't tell them off, Auntie Peg. They've been up all night helping us rescue people from the bomb site on the seafront.'

‘That's no excuse for raiding my larder,' stormed Peggy.

‘Auntie Peg,' the girl pleaded. ‘Please listen, and then you'll understand why they both deserve more than just a good breakfast.'

Peggy tightened the belt on her dressing gown and folded her arms. ‘Well it better be good, Rita,' she snapped. ‘Because I've just about had enough.'

‘They're both heroes,' said Rita, ‘especially Harvey, because he saved the life of a young mother and her baby tonight.'

Peggy's temper dissolved immediately and she sat down at the table with a bump, as Rita described in detail everything that had happened.

‘We missed them entirely,' Rita finished. ‘And if it hadn't been for Harvey they could have died down there, because the whole thing was on the point of collapse.'

Peggy was chastened and she found that her hand was shaking as she lit a cigarette. ‘I had no idea,' she murmured. ‘Oh God, and to think I was about to go down there and give the pair of them an earful.'

Rita squeezed her hand in sympathy. ‘You weren't to know.'

Peggy regarded her more closely and felt worse than ever. ‘You look so tired,' she said. ‘It must have been a terrible night for everyone, and here I am moaning about a mess in my kitchen. At least they've left me tea, and if the hens have laid more eggs I could do you one with the last of the bread.'

‘Don't worry about anything for me, Auntie Peg, I've drunk enough tea tonight to sink a battleship, and I had breakfast at the fire station.' Rita pushed back from the table and began to collect the dirty dishes. ‘Come on, it won't take long if we clear up together.'

Peggy took the dishes from her. ‘No,' she said firmly, ‘you're as exhausted as they are. Go and have a bath, then get to bed. I can do this.' She patted the wan, grubby little face, and gave her a hug before nudging her towards the door.

‘I'll probably sleep straight through,' said Rita as she yawned. ‘Could you wake me up at five? I have to be back on duty again at seven.' At Peggy's nod, she trudged out and headed for the stairs in her soot-stained clothes, every movement of her small slender body making it clear she was completely drained.

Peggy stacked the dirty dishes on the wooden draining board, wiped down the table and replaced the lids on her raided pots of home-made jams and pickles. She looked down at Daisy who'd fallen back to sleep with her teddy bear in the playpen, and decided the washing-up could wait for a while.

She slumped back into the chair and gazed at Jim's photograph on the mantelpiece. The Grand Hotel had been their favourite place to go for an evening when they were feeling flush and wanted to splash out, and she had many fond memories of the elegant dining room, the comfortable lounge bar, and the marvellous dance floor in the very grand ballroom. Now it was all gone – smashed to smithereens.

There had been so many changes to Cliffehaven since this awful war had begun that soon she wouldn't be able to recognise the place – and if it went on for much longer, neither would Jim. There were the remains of a German fighter plane rusting amid the skeleton of the once-lovely pier; hotels, guest houses, the cinema and half the station buildings were gone, and the entire area behind the station had been firebombed flat. Not that it was too much of a loss, for it had been no more than a slum that should have been cleared years ago. And yet it had been home to Rita and a hundred other families, who'd been forced to find alternative accommodation.

The factories had flourished in the north of the town and new people were arriving every day, and what with the parks being turned into vegetable plots, their fine railings melted down for the war effort, and the majority of the town's children sent away to live with strangers, it just didn't feel the same any more.

And yet, Peggy realised, the nature of the people hadn't changed. In fact they were more close-knit than ever, united in their determination to battle on against a common enemy. Churchill had talked about the need for blood, sweat, toil and tears, and the people of Cliffehaven had taken his message to their hearts, willingly giving everything they could to bring an end to this war.

She looked around her shabby, untidy kitchen and felt strengthened by its warmth and familiarity. She would get through today and tomorrow and every day until Jim and her children came home again, but for now she must pull herself together and get on with writing a shopping list and cleaning this kitchen.

Leaving her chair, she hunted out a piece of scrap paper and began to make a list of all the things she would need to restock her larder. Then she quickly washed up the dishes, scrubbed out the frying pan and cleaned the splattered grease from the top of the range. Once the floor had been swept of sugar and crumbs, she poked some life into the fire and used the last of the oats to make a thin but warming porridge.

Daisy was still asleep, and the others wouldn't be down for at least another hour, so she fetched a bowl and went down the cellar steps intending to search the henhouse for any fresh eggs. But as she reached the scullery, she could hear the resonant snores coming from Ron's bedroom. Tiptoeing down the narrow corridor she peeked in, and couldn't help but smile.

Ron was lying on the unmade bed, flat on his back, still fully dressed and snoring for England. His good trousers and shoes were ruined, his shirt, hair and face were black with soot and grime, and his tweed jacket had a tear in the sleeve.

As for Harvey, he was stretched alongside Ron and also snoring. His brindled coat was matted and filthy, and his two front paws had been bandaged in what looked suspiciously like strips from one of Ron's old shirts.

Peggy watched them sleeping, the tears blinding her. They were heroes – her heroes – and she couldn't have loved them more than she did right at this moment.

Mary was woken by the sound of someone moving round the room. Startled and disorientated, she sat up and peered into the gloom. ‘Who's that?'

‘It's only me,' said Ivy. ‘Who did you think it was? Your Australian?'

Mary realised where she was and sank back into the pillows. ‘He's not
my
Australian at all,' she replied as she yawned and snuggled back beneath the covers. ‘What on earth are you doing up at this time of the morning, anyway?'

‘I'm going to work. And it's not that early, it's nearly six.'

Mary groaned as Ivy pulled back the thick blackout curtains and the room was filled with a grey light. ‘Did you have to do that?' she asked as she pulled the sheet over her head.

‘And here's me thinking you was a country girl, up and out milking cows and such before it were even light,' Ivy teased as she finished lacing her sturdy boots.

‘I lived in a rectory, and don't know one end of a cow from another. Go away and let me sleep.'

Ivy bounced on the end of the bed. ‘You'll have to get used to early mornings once you start at the factory, Mary. Late nights an' all, cos like the good old Windmill Theatre, they never close.'

Mary was now fully awake, so she sat up and gently swatted Ivy with a pillow. ‘Are you always this annoying in the morning?'

‘Yeah,' she replied blithely as she dodged the pillow, grabbed her gas-mask box and coat, and headed for the bedroom door. ‘I'll see yer tonight.' With that she closed the door and was gone.

Mary sighed deeply and reached for her dressing gown. It would have been nice to have had a bit of a lie-in after the late night, but she was now fully awake, so she might as well follow Ivy's example and get on with the day.

She dug her feet into her slippers and, picking up her washbag, hurried quietly along the landing to the bathroom. It was quite cold, with gleaming white tiles, and the claw-footed tub was deep. Pristine towels were folded neatly on a shelf, and a quick glance into the wall cabinet revealed a sparse collection of toothpaste, talcum powder, shampoo and bath salts. As these were all clearly recognisable as having come from Woolworths, Mary realised they must belong to Ivy. No doubt Mrs Williams kept her expensive toiletries in her bedroom so they wouldn't get used by her lodgers.

Having washed and cleaned her teeth, Mary went back to the bedroom and got dressed. She chose her warm skirt, a white blouse and the blue sweater. Ankle socks and her sturdiest pair of lace-up shoes completed the outfit, for she was planning to explore the town today, and perhaps spend some time on the seafront.