1

Cliffehaven, May 1944

It was Saturday morning and all was quiet at Beach View, except for sounds of activity in the scullery. Peggy Reilly was attacking the last of the mound of washing that had accumulated over the past week. Her evacuees, or her chicks, as she liked to think of them, had seen to their own and the elderly Cordelia’s laundry the day before, but having changed the beds and gone through her father-in-law, Ron’s, tip of a room in search of discarded underwear, dirty towels and shirts, there had been as much as ever to get through, and half the morning was already gone.

She filled the stone sink with hot water from the copper boiler, added a spoonful of soda crystals, and, having waited for them to dissolve, began to rinse out the sheets before feeding them through the wringer and into the basket. Each dip of her hands into the hot water and every turn of the wringer’s handle reinforced her yearning for a proper twin-tub washing machine. Her older sister Doris had been lucky (and rich) enough to buy one before the war. Peggy knew for a fact that once it was loaded it made short work of a week’s washing, and then all one had to do was transfer it into the second tub where it was rinsed and spun, ready to be hung out on the line. Yet, as she and Doris had fallen out yet again, there was no chance of using it, even occasionally.

Peggy switched off the copper boiler, dumped the last sheet into the basket, hauled it onto her hip and carried it into the back garden. She’d thought that by earning her own money at Solly’s uniform factory she could have put down a deposit and paid it off weekly; but it turned out that things like washing machines, electric kettles, fridges and irons were as rare as hens’ teeth, and so here she was, once more forced to carry on the weekly ritual which ate into her precious weekend off.

The two washing lines were strung across the width of the garden from poles attached to the neighbouring fences. Long, forked wooden props stood at intervals underneath the line, keeping the laundry from dragging across Ron’s vegetable beds, which had replaced the lawn beyond the paved area beneath the kitchen window. There was a good stiff breeze which snapped and flapped the washing already pegged out, and the sun was bright when it appeared intermittently between the scudding clouds, so at least everything would be dry and ready for ironing before teatime.

Peggy’s gaze drifted over Ron’s sprouting vegetable plot and the ugly corrugated iron Anderson shelter, noting that Queenie the cat had found a sunny spot by the flint wall, and was curled in a tight knot, fast asleep. The few chickens that had so far escaped the cooking pot were scratching about in their run. The cockerel, which they’d nicknamed Adolf because of the way he strutted about, was sitting on the roof of the coop surveying his harem with a proprietorial glint in his eye. He was a ruddy nuisance with his crowing at all hours, but as the hens laid a good number of eggs and he was often drowned out by the sound of the planes going overhead, Peggy could almost forgive him.

She let her mind wander as she wrestled with the sheets, vaguely aware of the familiar background noise of the wireless coming from the many open windows of the neighbouring houses as well as her own. Every shop, pub, factory, office and home kept the wireless on now, but Peggy didn’t take much notice of it unless it was time for the news, and then the whole of Cliffehaven stopped what they were doing and gathered round in the hope that the growing rumours of an Allied invasion into France had become reality.

It was now almost the end of May, and the number of air raids over France and Germany had increased dramatically. As the news of Allied victories in Italy and the Far East came through, the time seemed right to push their advantage and get rid of Hitler and his thugs once and for all. Yet those in charge appeared to have other ideas, and the waiting was getting to Peggy, just as it was for everyone, for there was still no clue as to when the invasion might happen. But it would – it had to if this war was ever to end.

She looked up as several squadrons of bombers and fighter planes roared overhead. They’d recently been taking off and landing at nearby Cliffe aerodrome day and night, the bombing campaign over the northern shores of France and into Germany increasing in strength and regularity. Her heart swelled with pride as the heavy-bellied roar of the huge British bombers rattled the window panes and sent a tremor through the walls of the old Victorian terraced houses and in the ground beneath her feet. ‘God speed and bring you home safely,’ she murmured.

Picking up the empty basket to carry indoors, she took a quavering breath as she thought of her darling Jim who was fighting the Japs in Burma; her nephew, Brendon, who’d be returning to duty with the Royal Naval Reserve tomorrow; and her son-in-law, Martin, who’d been shot down and was now a POW in Stalag III along with many of his fellow RAF officers. They were so brave, every last one of them, and all she could do was pray that this war would soon be over and they could return to their loved ones and enjoy the blessed peace which they’d all been denied for too long.

Her thoughts automatically went to Matthew Champion, Rita’s lovely young pilot who’d lost his life some months ago in that awful raid over Berlin which had seen so many die or taken prisoner. Rita was putting on a brave face, throwing herself into her work as a mechanic at the fire station and spending every spare moment raising money for the local Spitfire fund – but the sadness and awful loss could still be seen in her wan face and haunted dark eyes, and Peggy’s heart ached with the knowledge that there was very little she could do to ease the girl’s suffering, except to mother and console her.

With a tremulous sigh, Peggy stowed the basket away in the scullery, then went up the concrete steps into her deserted kitchen. Ron had done his usual vanishing act with his dog Harvey straight after breakfast; Rita, Ivy and Fran were at work; and Cordelia had gone with Sarah and Peggy’s little Daisy into town to see if there was anything worth queuing for in the shops – a faint hope, but one that sprang eternal regardless of the stark reality of empty shelves.

She bustled about, clearing the last of the dishes from the drainer and tidying away Daisy’s toys. It was a relief to be able to get on without being hindered by her two-year-old daughter, who’d lately become rather demanding when she thought she wasn’t the centre of attention – an unfortunate result of her being so well entertained by Nanny Pringle and her assistants at the factory nursery.

Peggy regarded the shabby kitchen fondly, her gaze drifting over the faded oilcloth on the large table, the mismatched chairs and battered old dresser which was covered in all sorts of clutter and no doubt gathering dust and cobwebs. The wireless was burbling away to itself, but a glance at the clock told Peggy it would be an hour before the twelve o’clock news came on – unless of course there was a special bulletin.

She went to the larder in the corner of the kitchen and took out the bowl of pigeon breasts Ron had prepared the night before. He’d been out on the hills at dusk and lain in wait with his shotgun for the pigeons to return to their regular roosts, and had bagged a dozen or more as they’d flown in low on the buffeting wind coming off the sea. There wasn’t a lot of meat on a pigeon and the shotgun pellets had made a bit of a mess of them, but getting meat of any sort was a minor miracle these days, and as Ron had assured her he’d retrieved all the pellets, they would make a fitting farewell meal for Brendon on his last night home. Peggy had offered to host the dinner, because Frank and Pauline’s cottage over at Tamarisk Bay wouldn’t quite stretch to the occasion.

Brendon had had four short days of leave having recently returned from Devon, and his mother, Pauline, had been ecstatic, fussing over him and hardly letting him out of her sight. Peggy feared the inevitable histrionics which would follow his departure, and could only hope that Frank could keep Pauline calm and focused on the need to carry on and remain positive. And yet, Peggy reasoned, perhaps she was being harsh, for Pauline and Frank had already lost two sons to this war, which made Brendon extra precious – and if she’d been in a similar situation, she would probably have felt just as on edge and terrified.

With all the rumours of an Allied invasion, none of them had a clue as to where Brendon would be posted – and he wouldn’t enlighten them. But Pauline had refused to even contemplate the idea that he might be involved in the fighting again, and was adamant that he’d be sent back to the London docks. Ron, Frank and Peggy didn’t have the heart to disagree with her, even though they thought it was highly unlikely with so many servicemen pouring into every nook and cranny of the south coast.

Peggy also doubted he’d go back to Devon. Something must have happened down there, for she and Ron had noticed how Brendon and his father, Frank, had been grim-faced and tight-lipped on their return. And surely any invasion would leave from Dover, as it was the shortest route to France, and the Pas-de-Calais had been repeatedly bombarded by the Allies recently.

She gave an exasperated sigh at her jumbled thoughts and speculations. The trouble with this war was that no one said anything definite about what was happening, and even the newspapers and frequent radio bulletins couldn’t be relied upon to tell the whole truth in case it affected morale. It seemed that all anyone could do was make an educated guess at the state of things, and try to read between the lines.

Peggy determinedly put these thoughts aside as she seasoned the pigeon meat and placed it in her large stewing pot. She then set about chopping the garden vegetables she’d picked earlier. Adding the rich stock she’d made from boiling a ham bone Alf the butcher had slipped her from under the counter, she popped on the lid and put the pot in the range’s slow oven. There would be eleven of them round the table this evening if she counted Daisy, so she’d planned to cook new potatoes with fresh mint to go with the stew, followed by an apple and rhubarb crumble. The apples had been stored since last autumn in the basement, the rhubarb picked this morning, and she had just enough plain white flour to make a decent crumble.

Peggy added a pinch of salt to the sifted flour and crumbled the tiny knob of margarine and teaspoon of sugar into the mix and then set the bowl aside. She would top the softened fruit with the mixture nearer to teatime so it didn’t go to mush, and serve it with the last tin of condensed milk she’d kept hidden right at the back of her larder. Ron was renowned for digging about in there looking for something tasty, and things like condensed milk, sugar and digestive biscuits had a nasty habit of disappearing.

With everything set for supper, she plumped herself down at the table and took off her knotted headscarf, then shook out her dark curls and ran her fingers through them. With the lack of decent shampoo, they felt lifeless and straggling, and she wondered if she should use some of her wages to treat herself to a trip to the hairdresser’s in the High Street – then dismissed the idea immediately. Fran was very skilled with curlers and scissors, and happy to do it for nothing. Wasting money on herself was too indulgent when there were other, more important things to buy. The head on her floor-mop needed replacing for a start; Daisy was growing out of everything, especially her shoes; and her own underwear was falling apart and beyond mending, so that if she was ever involved in an accident and had to be taken to hospital, she’d die of embarrassment.

Peggy dug into her apron pocket and pulled out her packet of Park Drive. Lighting a cigarette, she glanced at the clock. It was now almost midday, but as she wasn’t due to meet Kitty and Charlotte at the Red Cross distribution centre until two, she had time to relax, read her letters from Jim again, fix her hair and catch her breath. She let her gaze linger on the photographs she’d lined up on the mantelpiece and was drawn, as always, to the one of Jim. He smiled roguishly back at her, looking tanned and fit in his tropical-issue uniform, and at first glance appeared younger than the man who’d left Cliffehaven all those many months ago – but on closer inspection she could see there were deeper lines etched around those dark blue eyes which now held the shadows of stark experience and knowledge. Whatever he’d witnessed or been involved in had lent him an air of strength and gritty determination which had been lacking in the Jim she knew and loved. He was no longer the scallywag with a roving eye, a carefree nature, and a nose for a shady deal, but a man honed by vigorous training and imbued with pride for what he’d become.

Peggy bit her lip, wondering what he’d seen and done, and how he would settle back into his old life again once the war was over. Cliffehaven might prove too tame for him after all the excitement of Burma, and he could find it impossible to pick up the threads of hearth and home again – especially as the cinema had been blown up along with his job as a projectionist.

She knew he loved her; knew he was longing to come home, but he wasn’t the only one to have changed since they’d parted, and their separate experiences must surely have widened the gulf between them. And then there was his little Daisy and the grandchildren growing up with only photographs and stories to remind them of who he was. He would be a stranger to them – and maybe even to her – and that thought made her shiver.

Peggy swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away her ready tears, cross with herself for being so pessimistic. They would find a way to get through, for they were strong and invincible as long as they had each other, and she had to keep faith in that, and never let it waver.

She reached for the scruffy letters that had arrived earlier, and read the few, hastily scrawled words Jim had written. The ink was blurred from his sweaty fingers, and although he wrote that he loved and missed her and treasured all the letters he’d received from everyone, he gave little hint as to where he was in Burma, or what the conditions were like. Even so, it was clear he had little time to write, that the jungle heat was as bad as ever, and he was probably involved in the skirmishes that the newscaster was now talking about on the wireless.

Peggy folded away the letters and turned up the volume on the wireless as the news continued. The Japanese were retreating at last, forced back by the advancing Allied soldiers at Kohima and Imphal, the imminent monsoon threatening their supply chains and closing off their escape routes. A number of Japanese ships had been sunk in the Pacific and the islands of New Guinea were now under Allied attack.

‘Good,’ breathed Peggy. ‘The sooner they admit defeat, the sooner my Jim can come home.’

The broadcast continued with news that the advancing 5th and 8th armies in Italy had broken through a significant line to take Monte Cassino, and six thousand Germans were now prisoners. There was a new offensive on the beaches of Anzio, and Terracina was expected to fall within hours – and then the Allies would advance on Rome.

Peggy closed her eyes as the newscast came to an end. There was at last hope that the tide was turning – that the Allies were achieving victory after victory. But still there was no hint of an invasion and she burnt with frustration that their leaders seemed intent upon hanging about instead of striking while the iron was hot. She got to her feet, grabbed a duster and set about cleaning the dresser with far more vigour than was necessary. If she didn’t do something to vent her pent-up emotions, she’d explode.

Ron was not a man who cared much about his appearance, and so was wearing his usual ragged shirt, old corduroy trousers held up at the waist with a length of narrow rope, an ancient sweater and his long waterproof poacher’s coat. A greasy cap was pulled over his thick, wayward hair, the peak tipped down almost to his bushy brows, and his feet were shod in a stout pair of boots, the laces of which had been replaced by thick garden twine.

With Harvey loping alongside him, he left the hills and tramped down the steep slope until he reached the High Street. He had two dead rabbits in one of his poacher’s coat pockets, and his sleeping ferrets, Flora and Dora, were curled up in another. It had been a good morning of netting rabbit holes and exercising the ferrets; now he and Harvey were ready for a beer and a sit-down.

He’d arranged to meet his son and grandson – Frank and Brendon – in the back room bar at the Crown, to start Brendon’s send-off a little early. They could have met at home or in the Anchor, but the Crown was the only place in Cliffehaven they could really talk away from their women and enjoy a pint or three at the same time. Yet he kept a wary eye open as he approached the pub, knowing that if his Rosie caught him anywhere near the landlady, Gloria, there would be fireworks.

The two women had called an uneasy truce because it was wartime, but there was no love lost between the two landladies of Cliffehaven; they were women on their own, and running a pub was difficult at the best of times – and it didn’t help that Rosie hadn’t really forgiven Gloria for kissing Ron under the mistletoe two Christmases ago. She’d made it very clear that Ron was never to set foot in the Crown again.

Ron could understand Rosie’s reasoning and was quite flattered by it, but as he was completely innocent of any wrongdoing with Gloria, he rather resented being told what he could and couldn’t do. At the same time, he didn’t relish getting caught coming in here.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him the coast was clear and he nipped into the alleyway at the side of the pub and through the back door, with Harvey following closely behind him.

Gloria was serving behind the bar, and she shot him a wink, and indicated with a tilt of her head that he should go straight through to the snug. Ron winked back and headed to the small private lounge bar at the back of the pub, his gaze feasting on the luscious landlady who, despite her come-hither looks, was most definitely out of bounds.

Gloria had none of the soft glamour and sweet appeal of his Rosie, for she was a big, buxom lass built for sin, with a loud voice and rough ways – but there was no doubting she made a pleasing sight behind the bar, her large breasts undulating delightfully beneath that tight blouse as she pulled pints and kept up a flow of bright chatter. She was a Londoner, but had been running the Crown for so many years she’d become part of the fabric of Cliffehaven, and because she wasn’t averse to a bit of harmless slap and tickle, was regarded by her male customers as the salt of the earth and a jolly good sport. To other, more prudish minds she was no better than she should be, and to Rosie, she was a danger to anything in trousers – especially her Ron.

Gloria shrugged off her detractors, seemingly undisturbed by their hurtful sniping, and carried on in her own sweet way. Ron admired her, for he knew Gloria better than most, and despite the brassy hair, heavy make-up and provocative clothes, she had an intelligent, quick mind, and a sharp nose for trouble. In fact, she’d been instrumental in helping to capture a rats’ nest of fifth columnists who’d held their meetings in her function room the previous year, and Ron suspected that, being perfectly placed to overhear all sorts of things, she passed on a good deal of useful intelligence to MI5.

He pushed through the door to the snug with Harvey barging before him to greet Frank and Brendon who were waiting there. ‘To be sure it’s good to have you both to meself for a change,’ he said after they’d embraced. ‘Once the women get involved you can’t get a word in edgeways.’

‘It’s only because they care, Grandad,’ said Brendon, making a fuss of a joyous Harvey. ‘You can’t blame them.’

‘Aye, I know that, wee boy,’ he replied, reaching for one of the many beer bottles on the table, and emptying it into the dog bowl Gloria had thoughtfully provided for Harvey. ‘But it’ll be good to have an intelligent conversation for once. I’m surrounded by women, and this is a rare chance to be away from them.’

They sat in the worn leather chairs and Ron cast an appreciative eye over the laden table, noting the bottle of Irish whiskey nestling amongst the beers. ‘I have to say, you’ve been mighty generous, Frank. This little lot must have set you back a few bob.’

‘Aye, it did that, but I can’t have me boy leaving without a decent send-off, can I? And Gloria gave me a discount on the whiskey.’

‘Aye, and so she should,’ muttered Ron.

They drank in comfortable, companionable silence as Harvey’s collar tag clanged against the metal bowl in his eagerness to lap up the last drop.

Harvey finally slumped onto the floor with a satisfied sigh and went to sleep, and Ron surreptitiously watched his son and grandson as he packed tobacco into his pipe and took his time to get it alight. There was something between Brendon and Frank – some indefinable thing that had been there ever since Frank had come home from Devon. Peggy had noticed it too, and when Brendon had come on leave a few days later, their suspicions had grown that something bad had gone on down in Devon which now preyed on their minds.

‘Are either of you going to tell me what happened down there?’ he asked gruffly. He saw the swiftly exchanged glance between them and grunted. ‘You know it’ll go no further with me,’ he said. ‘Come on. Out with it. I can see it’s eating at both of you, and it’ll do Brendon no good to be going back on duty without a clear mind.’

‘We’ve been threatened with a court martial if we breathe a word of it, Grandad,’ said Brendon solemnly.

Ron gripped the stem of his pipe between his teeth and leant back in the chair, feeling the weight of his ferrets and the dead rabbits dragging on his coat. ‘It was that serious, was it?’ He regarded them evenly as they remained silent. ‘Let me guess. Those in charge were incompetent. A careless order or lack of proper guidance led to men getting hurt – or worse – just as it did at Dieppe and Gallipoli. And now the whole thing has to be hushed up because it might damage morale and show the public just what sort of fools are running this war.’

‘You’ve got that about right,’ growled Frank, slamming his tankard down on the table with such force that the remains of his beer splattered his hand. ‘The whole thing was an absolute disaster.’

‘Dad,’ warned Brendon.

‘I don’t care if they court-martial me,’ he retorted loudly. ‘I’m not afraid to speak out to me da.’

‘Then do it quietly, son,’ cautioned Ron. ‘There’s no wisdom in letting half of Cliffehaven hear you.’

Frank swallowed the last of his beer, opened the bottle of whiskey and poured generous measures into the clean glasses Gloria had set out. ‘Sláinte,’ he said, raising his glass and downing it in one.

Ron drank his own whiskey while Frank poured himself some more. His son’s hand was shaking so much the bottle rattled against the glass, and Ron experienced a cold dart of uneasiness. ‘To be sure, Frank, you don’t have to tell me. I can guess enough to know things didn’t go well and that somehow you and Brendon were caught up in it.’

‘I was only a bystander,’ said Frank, ‘but I saw enough, and can only thank God my boy wasn’t amongst the dead that day.’ He shrugged off Brendon’s staying hand, raised his head and looked at his father with bloodshot eyes, his gaze never wavering as he described the terrible scenes on Slapton Sands those two consecutive early mornings when raw, young American recruits had been sent to their deaths during a rehearsal for landing in France.

‘The final death toll was over seven hundred,’ he finished brokenly.

Ron gritted his teeth, holding back his anger at such an unnecessary waste of young lives, and the futility of ever trusting those in charge to get beach landing assaults right. He’d seen enough slaughter during the first shout, and the knowledge that things hadn’t really changed made him sick at heart.

Brendon leant forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘As tragic as it was, we’re fighting a war, and men die.’

‘It was just a bloody rehearsal,’ Frank hissed furiously. ‘And they weren’t men – they were boys – they weren’t supposed to die.’

‘Everyone knows that,’ said Brendon firmly, ‘and you can be certain that it wasn’t taken lightly by Churchill or Eisenhower. General Addington – the American observer – told me that changes have been implemented to make sure something like that doesn’t happen when we—’ He broke off and bit his lip.

‘You’re taking part in the invasion?’ breathed Ron, his heart thudding at the thought.

Brendon scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t mean … That’s to say …’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Just forget I said anything – and for God’s sake don’t say a word of it to Mum.’

‘It’s all right, son,’ said Frank, putting his large arm around his shoulder. ‘We understand, and it’ll go no further than this room, I promise.’ His heavily lined, weathered face showed his anguish. ‘But the thought of you going back to the fighting is a knife to me heart, wee boy. If anything should happen to you …’

‘I’ll do my best to stay alive, Da,’ Brendon replied softly. ‘But it’s war, and we all have to take our chances.’

Ron’s heart shrivelled at the thought of the danger the boy would be in. He poured another round of drinks and gulped his own down. ‘When you told us you were going down there you said you wouldn’t be involved in the fighting,’ he muttered.

‘I know I did – and at the time, that’s what I believed. But it turns out that every man, ship and vehicle that took part in those rehearsals will be involved in the real thing, and I for one am glad of it. I’m sick of hanging about in London like a spare part when I should be doing something useful elsewhere.’

‘When will it be?’ Frank asked raggedly.

‘I’ve said too much already, Da. Please don’t ask me anything more.’

‘But it’ll be soon?’ Frank’s penetrating gaze was fixed on his son.

Brendon nodded curtly and poured another whiskey before making a visible effort to change the subject. ‘So, what’s Aunt Peggy cooking us for supper, Grandad?’ he asked a little too brightly. ‘Something you pilfered from the Cliffe estate, perhaps?’

Ron understood the boy’s need to lighten the mood, but his heart was heavy at the thought that this treasured grandson would once again be involved in the fighting that had already taken his two brothers, Seamus and Joseph and could see that Frank was really struggling to absorb the knowledge that his last surviving son would once again be in peril. Ron battled to keep his tone light and his expression bland as he played along with his grandson’s charade that everything was all right.

‘Those pigeons had nothing to do with Lord Cliffe,’ he said stoutly. ‘To be sure they were flying free up on the hills and simply got in the way of me shotgun, so they did.’

Brendon chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘If you say so, Grandad.’

Ron grinned back. The whole family knew that the Cliffe estate had been his larder for many years, and although the pigeons had been legally shot, their Christmas dinner had certainly been courtesy of Lord Cliffe’s well-stocked salmon ponds and pheasant pens.

He sipped the good whiskey and regarded his silent son, who was drinking it down as if it could wash away his fears and drown out the sounds and sights of what he’d witnessed at Slapton. Ron shared Frank’s anxieties and would have given anything to be able to lift the burden of Frank’s suffering, but what could he say or do that would make a difference to how they were both feeling? This war had to be won – boys like Brendon had to put their lives in danger to gain victory – and all anyone could do was cling together and pray that they all came home in one piece.

‘Let’s not dwell on things we have no control over,’ he said into the heavy silence. ‘Our time together is short enough without getting depressed.’ He forced a cheerful grin at Brendon. ‘Why don’t you tell us more about your young Betty?’ he encouraged. ‘From what your Aunt Carol says in her letters, she sounds like a nice wee lass.’

Brendon made a visible effort to emulate his grandfather’s cheerful tone as he filled Ron in on his girl down in Devon. ‘Aye, that she is,’ he said, pouring yet more whiskey into the empty glasses as he sang the young schoolmistress’s praises. ‘I hated leaving her down in Devon, but when this is all over we’ll be together again, I’m sure of it.’ He finished with a sheepish smile. ‘I know you’ve heard all this before, but she really is the one, Grandad.’

Ron smiled. ‘What it is to be young and fancy free,’ he joked, the whiskey giving him a pleasant buzz. ‘To be sure I remember when I was a lad. The girls couldn’t get enough of me back then.’

‘You’re not doing too badly now,’ teased Brendon, whose cheeks were getting flushed. ‘You’ve got a fine woman in Rosie Braithwaite.’

Ron chuckled. ‘Aye, I do that, and I count myself lucky that she puts up with me.’ He felt the ferrets begin to stir and hoisted them out of his pocket to drape them over his shoulders and stroke their soft fur. ‘But if she catches me in here, she’ll have my guts for garters.’

The ferrets lay slumped over his broad shoulders, hypnotised by Ron’s gentle hands and snuffling with pleasure.

‘D’you think it’s wise bringing them in here?’ asked Frank. ‘Rosie wouldn’t like it, and I doubt Gloria will either.’

‘Ach,’ he murmured, ‘they’re fine, so they are. They’re tired and it’s peaceful enough in here.’

As if on cue, the door slammed back, making them all jump. The ferrets stirred, raising their inquisitive noses and digging their claws into Ron’s shoulders as Gloria bustled in with a large plate of sandwiches.

Catching sight of the ferrets she dropped the plate and let out a screech. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing bringing them in ’ere?’ she yelled.

The ferrets took objection to the loud interruption and before Ron could grab them, they’d shot off his shoulders and scampered at lightning speed across the floor towards the open door.

Ron raced after them in an attempt to bar their escape – but Gloria was yelling fit to bust, the ferrets were too quick, and Harvey was barging about, trying to snaffle the sandwiches from the floor.

‘Get them things outta my pub,’ yelled Gloria, holding up the hem of her skirt as the ferrets darted between her feet and disappeared into the main saloon bar.

Frank and Brendon were quickly in pursuit and Ron dived after Flora, who was about to disappear up the chimney, managing to grab hold of her back leg. A firm tug, a grasp of her sooty scruff, and she was quickly shoved back into the deepest pocket of his coat.

But pandemonium had broken out amongst the crowd of drinkers as Dora shot between their legs, darting back and forth in search of an escape route through the tangle of screaming women and shouting men.

Brendon made a grab for her, but she twisted away, clawed up the sturdy oak bar and leapt for safety onto the mirror-backed shelves on the wall behind it. Glasses smashed and bottles teetered dangerously as she arched her back, dropped a stinking pile of poo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.

To the accompanying cries of horror at the stench, shouts of encouragement from the servicemen and over-excited barking from Harvey, Brendon and Frank closed in on her, wary of her sharp claws and even sharper teeth.

‘Look what it’s done all over me shelves,’ wailed Gloria. ‘You’re gonna pay for this, Ronan Reilly, you can be sure of that!’

‘Gloria, stop yelling, or you’ll frighten her even more,’ Ron retorted.

Gloria glared at him, her eyes glinting dangerously, but she held her tongue and her customers fell silent, agog as to what might happen next.

Brendon and Frank closed in with Ron. ‘Go slow and easy, boys,’ he said, grabbing Harvey to make him shut up and sit still. He murmured soft words as he slowly approached Dora, and gently drew Flora back out of his pocket so they could see each other.

Dora sniffed the air suspiciously and Ron held Flora up so they were nose to nose, and while Dora was occupied with greeting her companion, Frank took a firm hold of her scruff and eased her off the shelf.

Ron tucked them both away in the deepest reaches of his coat. Mournfully eyeing the shattered glasses and bottles on the floor and the odorous mess on the shelf, he gave Gloria a hapless smile. ‘To be sure, I’m sorry, Gloria. We’ll clean up and pay for any damage.’

‘Damned right you will,’ she stormed. ‘Do you know how hard it is to get glasses these days? And that were a full bottle of gin – worth a king’s ransom.’

Ron could see Brendon and Frank were doing their best to clean up the mess with a discarded newspaper as Gloria stood there, her expression thunderous. ‘Now, Gloria,’ he placated softly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. ‘You and I both know where that gin came from and that the bottle was half-empty, so don’t be getting ideas of making a profit out of me. To be sure, ’tis sorry I am for the mess, but they were doing no harm until you frightened them.’

‘You’ve got a bleedin’ nerve, Ronan Reilly,’ she rasped, the gleam of humour in her eyes at odds with her furious expression as she folded her arms beneath her magnificently heaving bosom. ‘You come in my pub, let that vermin loose, and then blame me. I don’t know what sort of place Rosie runs, but this is a respectable ’ouse, and I ain’t standing for it. Cough up the money and get out.’

‘But I—’

‘Wallet,’ she snapped, her hand open beneath his nose, her eyes challenging him to argue.

He could hear the muffled giggles running through the watching crowd, and felt their eyes on him as he scrabbled in his trouser pockets, took out what money he had and placed it in a crumpled pile on the bar.

She eyed the grubby ten-bob note and few coppers disdainfully. ‘That ain’t enough.’

‘To be sure, it’s all I have on me at the moment. But I’ve a couple of fine rabbits to make up the rest,’ he said hopefully, digging them out of his coat.

Gloria grimaced and flinched as the dead rabbits were dangled beneath her nose. ‘You owe me, Ron, and I won’t let you forget it.’

Brendon dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of notes. ‘We Reillys pay our debts,’ he muttered.

Gloria stuffed the money into her bra. She stood tall and imposing, her arm as straight and stiff as an arrow, pointing towards the door. ‘Out. Now,’ she ordered.

Ron returned the rabbits to his pocket and decided the only way to appease her was to use a charm offensive. ‘Ach, come on, Gloria,’ he wheedled. ‘Brendon’s leaving tomorrow and—’

‘I don’t care,’ she retorted. ‘And if you don’t leave right this minute, I’ll throw you out.’

Ron felt the tension rising amongst the interested audience and drew himself up to his full six feet three inches and tried to dazzle her with his smile. ‘Oh, Gloria,’ he crooned with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I know you find me irresistible, and to be sure I’m flattered that one so lovely can’t keep her hands off me – but should we not go somewhere more private so we can discuss this further?’

Gloria’s lips twitched momentarily, and there was a speculative gleam in her eyes until she remembered their audience. ‘Don’t flatter yerself. I got my standards – unlike some – and if I’d wanted yer body, I’d’ve ’ad it. But only after a good scrub-down with soap and water.’

Ron met her challenging gaze as a chorus of cheers and ribald remarks followed this statement. Gloria was now playing to her audience, the town gossip Olive Grayson was lapping up every word, and it was time he beat a retreat. He only hoped he had the chance to explain this situation to Rosie before Olive got in first, for she’d take great pleasure in exaggerating, stirring and twisting his actions into something unsavoury. He caught sight of Frank and Brendon, who were now emerging from the private bar laden with the bottles they’d already paid for, and jerked his head towards the back door.

‘’Tis sorry I am it has come to this,’ he muttered, edging towards escape. ‘We’ll not be darkening your door again, Gloria.’

The three of them silently left the Crown with as much dignity as they could muster in the light of the amount of alcohol they’d already consumed. Emerging from the side alley, they staggered up the hill to the allotments where Ron’s old pal Stan had a nice shed and some comfy deckchairs.

Ron knew where Stan hid his key, and within minutes they were sitting in the sunshine out of the wind, and drinking whiskey from Stan’s none-too-clean chipped mugs while Harvey went off to see if anyone might be kind enough to feed him a biscuit or three.

‘That went well,’ said Frank dryly. ‘I expect most of Cliffehaven will hear about it before nightfall as Olive Grayson was watching your every move.’ He eyed his father quizzically. ‘There were certainly some sparks flying between you and Gloria. You haven’t been playing away there, have you, Da?’

‘As tempting as it is, I wouldn’t dare,’ Ron replied. ‘Rosie would deal with me as thoroughly as the vet did Harvey.’ He eyed the whiskey in the mug, saw an ant about to drown itself and flicked it out with a grubby finger. ‘God help me, boys. To be sure she’ll hear about this and, like that ant, me life will be in peril.’

‘You always did live on a knife-edge, Grandad,’ said Brendon with a wry smile. ‘How Rosie puts up with you, I really don’t know.’

‘It’s because she loves me,’ Ron replied with drunken bravado. ‘She’s a forgiving woman, so she is, and this’ll all blow over, you’ll see.’

He chuckled and raised his mug in a toast. ‘Here’s to women. Can’t live with ’em, but can’t live without ’em. God bless them all.’

2

The British Red Cross distribution centre had been set up on the vast factory estate which sprawled across the northernmost reaches of Cliffehaven where cattle had once grazed. Situated behind high barbed-wire fencing, it was overshadowed by several barrage balloons which glinted like silver whales above the mass of corrugated iron roofs.

Peggy could have left Daisy with Sarah and Cordelia, but as she spent so little time with her now she was working, she’d decided to take her along this afternoon so they could have half an hour’s play in the park before she started her two-hour stint as a volunteer for the Red Cross. She steered the pushchair up the steep hill, then showed her identity card to the guard on duty at the gate and headed for the new building at the far end.

She passed the canteen, which was alive with chatter and the ever-present wireless, and then glanced towards the armaments factory where Ivy worked, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But it seemed everyone was busy, so she carried on past the tool factory, the parachute manufacturer and the large engineering sheds where bits of planes were being made. There was a wonderful sense of industry, with the sounds of thudding, whining tools echoing from those vast sheds, and Peggy felt a certain pride that she too was now an intrinsic part of the workforce striving to do their best to defeat Hitler. Her sewing of uniforms for Solly Goldman might not be as important as making bullets and bombs, but it paid well and gave her the satisfaction of knowing she was doing her bit. Since she’d given up on volunteering for the Women’s Voluntary Service because her sister Doris – queen bee at the WVS – had been such a pain in the neck, she was glad to sacrifice two hours every Saturday to do something charitable.

Peggy’s defection from the WVS and her new job at the factory had caused yet another breach in her relationship with Doris – who was now refusing to talk to her unless she wanted something, and although this saddened Peggy, she was determined to do things her way and not be cowed because her snooty sister didn’t approve of her working alongside her London evacuees in what she considered to be a common factory.

Approaching the large British Red Cross warehouse, Peggy saw Kitty and Charlotte waiting outside, and smiled as they waved to her. They looked lovely, with one so dark, the other fair, each dressed in dungarees and layers of thick sweaters that didn’t quite disguise the fact they were both pregnant. Kitty had been Peggy’s evacuee back in 1942, following a terrible accident in the plane she was delivering for the ATA which had left her with a partially amputated leg, and a doubtful future. But Kitty was made of stern stuff, and she’d soon learnt to manage the prosthesis, returned to flying and ended up marrying Roger Makepeace, who was Martin’s wingman and best friend.

Dark-haired and usually girlishly slender, Charlotte had been close to Kitty since their boarding-school days, and she too had become an ‘Attagirl’, before marrying Kitty’s rogue of a brother, Freddy, and falling pregnant with twins. Both men were now incarcerated in Stalag III along with Martin, and the girls were putting a brave face on things, determined to do their bit until they could all be reunited.

Peggy hugged them both warmly and kissed their radiant cheeks. ‘You both look marvellously well,’ she said affectionately.

Kitty laughed and tucked her short fair hair behind her ears. ‘I’m just glad I’m not having twins,’ she said, patting her bump. ‘This one’s heavy enough on its own.’

Peggy eyed the walking stick Kitty had taken to using now her pregnancy had advanced. ‘You’re not finding things too much, are you, dear?’ she asked with motherly concern. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting at home instead of coming here?’

‘If Roger can put up with being a POW, then I can certainly manage the added weight on my stump.’ She squeezed Peggy’s hand. ‘You do worry, Aunt Peg, and there’s really no need. The doctor’s passed us both fit, and a few hours a week helping out here won’t kill either of us – in fact we’d be going quite potty if we weren’t doing something useful.’

Peggy smiled at Charlotte, who was easing her back after bending to make a fuss of Daisy. ‘Are you sure you’ve got your dates right, dear? You look as if you’re about to pop.’

Charlotte giggled. ‘Quite sure. There are two of them in here,’ she said, caressing her enormous stomach, ‘and I’m eating for both of them when rationing allows, so it’s hardly surprising I’m so huge. Mother wrote and told me she got quite big with me, so it obviously runs in the family.’

Peggy smiled even though she fretted that both girls were doing too much with only three more months to go in their pregnancies – but then she hadn’t exactly rested during any of her own while she was running the boarding house, and certainly hadn’t when she’d been carrying Daisy.

She followed the girls into the echoing warehouse, where the sound of the music coming from the wireless was fighting a losing battle with all the chattering. It was a terrible shame that Kitty’s parents were in Argentina, and Charlotte’s were up in the Midlands, but Peggy was delighted to have the chance to mother them, and was very excited at the thought of three little babies to cuddle and croon over.

Peggy had chosen to volunteer for the Red Cross as it had branches all over the world and was almost wholly a voluntary organisation which did the most wonderful work, not only for the sick and wounded, but for the men and women who were in internment camps. She felt proud that in her own small way she was bringing comfort to those who needed it most.

The three women kept their jumpers and coats on, for it was cold in the warehouse, the concrete floor and iron roof keeping the vast stores of tinned food and medical supplies at the right temperature to stop them from going off. Unstrapping Daisy from the pushchair, Peggy took her over to the knot of little ones playing on mats in a corner under the watchful eye of several sprightly grandparents who’d volunteered for the job while the young mothers packed the food parcels. Once Daisy was happily occupied with a doll’s house, Peggy joined Kitty and Charlotte at the long table where the POW boxes were being filled.

The Red Cross provided a bewildering array of different parcels to be sent abroad, some with medical supplies, others with food, or recreational things like board games, jigsaw puzzles and books. Prisoners’ next of kin could send their own parcels, but these were strictly checked for anything not on the permitted list of goods, and then weighed before they were sent out. Medical supplies were being transported to the internment camps across Europe, but the Japanese had barred the Red Cross personnel access to their camps and had refused to accept any parcels, which was in direct defiance of the Geneva Convention. Whether the Germans allowed their prisoners to have their parcels wasn’t known, but it seemed that at least they were being delivered, and the inspectors permitted into the camps.

The three women set to with a will in the food section, each of them praying that their loved ones would benefit from the tins of meat, vegetables and fish, and enjoy the luxury of butter, biscuits, tins of cigarettes and bars of Cadbury’s chocolate. It had been explained to them that each parcel must contain a balance of fat, protein and sugar to supplement what was probably a very poor diet in the camps, and that things like jam, dried egg, tea and cocoa would be a boost to the prisoners’ morale.