he was alive and as well as possible. Mattie had already sent off one parcel via the Red Cross to make his stay more bearable.
Mattie sank back down onto the comfy chair, keeping a close eye on Gillian, who had found her teddy bear which had rolled under the kitchen table. Then came a gentle waft of welcome cool air as the door to the back kitchen opened and Stan Banham strode in. He was an imposing figure, tall and straight-backed, although his face had grown etched with new lines ever since the news had come through about Harry. He was the local trusted Air Raid Precautions warden, as well as working full time, and Mattie knew that whatever happened, her father would be there to make everything better. He was the rock on whom they all depended. She struggled to her feet. ‘Fancy some tea?’ she asked as brightly as she could, despite the heavy weight of the growing baby.
Stan smiled at his only daughter and then at his granddaughter, who ducked out from beneath the table and held her arms up, demanding a cuddle. Stan obliged. ‘No, you sit yourself down, I’ll just have a glass of water to cool off,’ he said, tousling Gillian’s fine brown hair before gently putting her down again. ‘It’s warm out there. The heat will have died down before I go out on my rounds; that’s something to be thankful for.’
Flo looked at him. ‘Well, that’s good,’ she said slowly. ‘Have you heard anything more today? About what’s going on? Down the market there are all sorts of rumours. Some say Hitler’s just waiting to pounce, that he’s got all his tanks lined up on the French coast.’
Stan shook his head. ‘You know better than to listen to rumour. People will repeat any old rubbish.’ He took a deep breath, easing off his light jacket. While he didn’t want to give anyone false hope, one of his foremost duties as an ARP warden was to prevent panic and keep everyone calm. If necessary that applied to his own family too. ‘We’ll take whatever comes and do our best. That’s all we can do. We won’t be frightened by silly tales or scaremongers. Worrying never solved anything, you know that as well as I do.’
Flo nodded, reassured as ever by her husband’s presence. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ she said with determination. ‘And we’ll start with my potato pie.’
Billy Reilly wiped his itching eyes. They were red from tiredness, not helped by his underlying anxiety that this was the calm before the storm. He gazed up at the darkening sky, searching for any enemy planes. They’d been spotted in small numbers in Kent and along the south coast, sneaking over the Channel, as was common knowledge down at the docks where he worked. You couldn’t stop sailors and dockers talking to each other. How much everyone else knew was anyone’s guess, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.
He forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand. As well as working his full shift of hard manual graft, he now had an evening of ARP duty, walking the streets of Dalston, checking that everyone had put up their blackout blinds correctly and generally helping out whenever he was called upon. He’d learnt most of what he needed to know from his colleague Stan, who everyone looked up to. Billy had known Stan since he was at school, as Stan’s sons were two of his best friends. Or, rather, they had been; now there was just Joe left.
He was used to his duties now and found it easier to confront householders who refused to obey the regulations. In some ways it was easier in summer, as the longer hours of daylight meant nobody needed to use their gas – or, in rare cases, electric – lamps until late in the evening. During the winter months, when he’d been new to the work, there had been plenty of rows, as people pointed out that the expected air raids and gas attacks hadn’t happened and so what was the point of putting up ugly black blinds? Some wardens were lenient, insisting on the blinds only when there was a warning siren, but Billy thought that was the start of a slippery slope and aimed to be equally strict with everybody. Lives might depend on it.
He wondered whether he could find an excuse to call in on Kathleen. He wanted to more than anything else in the world but didn’t like to push his luck. He could tell himself it was out of simple concern for her welfare, as she had nobody else to look out for her and her little son. She struggled to make ends meet and he loved helping her out in small ways. Yet, if he was honest, he knew the real reason was that he’d been in love with her for years but had missed his opportunity to tell her.
She’d been another person Billy had known from school, and he’d always thought she was the prettiest girl there. Gradually they had drifted into the same circle of friends and they had all stayed in touch after leaving, when Billy had gone to work down at the docks. Just as he was gathering his courage to tell her how he felt, she’d met that handsome wastrel Ray Berry, and before you could say knife she’d gone and married him.
Billy drew a sharp breath at the thought of the man who had treated Kath so badly. She’d hidden his true nature from them all for ages, but it had got to the point where anyone could see the bruising. And it wasn’t only Kath who’d suffered. Ray had resented their baby son, which was unforgivable. When the news had come that Ray had not survived Dunkirk, most people had felt relief.
Yet Kathleen had been more distant since that day. It was as if she felt guilty at sharing the relief, the knowledge that Ray could never hurt her or little Brian ever again. So Billy was biding his time, not wanting to rush things, to ask for too much too soon. One thing was certain though; he didn’t intend to be pipped to the post again. Kathleen was the only woman for him, and if he had to wait until she realised that they were destined to be together, then so be it.
Peggy sighed as she dutifully fastened the blackout blinds in her mother-in-law’s kitchen. This was not how she had imagined her life turning out. She had moved in after she and Pete had got married in the autumn, with the plan that they would have their own house as soon as the war was over. Pete had been happy at the thought of his wife and his mother keeping one another company while he fought for his country. He hadn’t hesitated to enlist in the army when war broke out, even though their long-awaited wedding had been only weeks away. Everything had been going so well; they still managed to marry, and he’d had a wonderful period of leave at Christmas. She’d realised she was pregnant and they’d been thrilled. But then she had miscarried, and before that really sank in, Pete had been killed at Dunkirk.
‘Are you finished in there, Peggy love?’
‘Nearly,’ Peggy called back, from between gritted teeth. She hadn’t minded Mrs Cannon at first. They’d always got along well, and the older woman had welcomed her into her home, pleased that Pete was so happy in his choice of bride. Everyone could see how well suited they were; they’d been together since meeting at school, although they’d only become serious once Peggy had started working at the gas-mask factory.
Now, though, every tiny request or comment drove Peggy to the point of screaming. Nothing she did was ever quite right. The forks weren’t the right way round in the cutlery drawer. She hadn’t used enough Reckitt’s Blue in the washing. She didn’t know the best way to darn the frayed elbow of a jumper. None of these complaints on its own was enough to spark a row, but added together they were stifling.
It wasn’t that Peggy had to do all the housework. She knew she was lucky; plenty of young women her age were expected to do the lion’s share of the cleaning and cooking as well as working full time. Mrs Cannon was not like that and had been heard to boast that Peggy was a good girl, putting in all those hours at the factory and then helping out around the house. Peggy groaned inwardly. It was just that when she did help, it always provoked gentle criticism.
‘Come and listen to the wireless,’ called Mrs Cannon from the front room. ‘That Wilfrid Hyde-White is going to be on – he’s ever so good.’
