Sweet Memories of You (Beach View Boarding House) (27 page)

Ivy burst into tears and was immediately surrounded by her friends, and together they mourned the loss of a lovely friend who’d been robbed of life far too soon.

Doreen had been having a nightmare when the sirens started wailing, and as she reared up in bed gasping for breath she didn’t see the open curtains or the early blush of dawn beyond the window, for she was still trapped in the world of macabre dreams – the darkness of the tomb in which she’d been buried alive still closing in around her, pressing hard against her chest.

She’d sat there struggling to breathe as her heart pounded and the sirens screamed, and was only dimly aware of the sound of running feet passing her door. The sweat had soaked her nightdress and was cold on her skin, and the noises beyond her bedroom seemed muffled as if they were coming from somewhere far away.

The sharp tattoo of raps on her door made her flinch and grip the sheet even harder.

‘Doreen. It’s a raid. You have to come to the shelter.’

She could hear the doorknob rattling as her landlady twisted it back and forth, and knew she had to get out of bed. But she was frozen and incapable of doing anything.

‘Doreen.’ The voice was sharper now and more commanding. ‘I know you’re in there. You have to come to the shelter.’

Her heart was still pounding and her head was swimming as she tried to shake off the nightmare and get herself under control. ‘I’m coming,’ she managed as she swung her legs out of the bed and reached for her dressing gown.

‘Hurry up then, or you’ll put all of us in danger.’

Doreen realised she had to get a grip and calm down so she could think more clearly. She grabbed Archie’s watch and put it in her dressing-gown pocket, and then forced herself to cross the room to fetch his photograph from the chest. Her legs were trembling so badly she could barely walk, but she managed to shove her feet into her slippers, grab her gas-mask box and unlock the door.

Mrs Fletcher was standing outside, arms folded, expression grim, her metal curlers vibrating slightly with her pent-up fury. ‘About time,’ she snapped. ‘Now get a move on.’

Galvanised into action by this unusual behaviour from her kindly landlady, Doreen quickly followed her through the kitchen and into the back garden. The sirens were still wailing, but now the full-alert danger signals were going off, so a raid was clearly imminent. She fought down the rising panic as they approached the Anderson shelter which was at the far end of the garden. It was larger than most, but once everyone was inside and the door was shut, it would feel as if she was revisiting her nightmare.

‘Come along, Doreen,’ said Mr Fletcher briskly. ‘I have to shut the door.’

She shot a glance up at the bright moon and saw the searchlights sweeping across the dawn sky, then took a deep breath and stepped into the shelter.

Mr Fletcher slammed the door and sat down on the bench he’d built that ran round the sides of the shelter. Dressed, as always, in a brown suit, white shirt and tie, he was the very epitome of a stoic middle-class Englishman who refused to allow standards to slip, regardless of the circumstances. He pushed his round tortoiseshell glasses up his nose, took off his hat and nodded as if satisfied that all were present and correct. He was a fussy, rather pedantic little man who’d spent his working life behind a desk dealing with people’s accounts. Now he’d found his niche as the bookkeeper for the local Home Guard and saw it as his duty to act as guardian for those in his household. There had been some speculation amongst Doreen and the other girls as to whether or not he actually went to bed fully dressed, for no matter what time of day or night it was, they’d never seen him in his dressing gown.

Doreen’s pulse was racing, her heart thudding in her chest so hard she was amazed no one could hear it. She sat down and watched Mr Fletcher light the tilly lamp and then pour tea from a large thermos flask into tin mugs.

Doreen’s hand was shaking so badly that the hot tea slopped over and scalded her, but she grimly held on to the mug with both hands and prayed that the raid would be short and she could get out of here.

The four girls who shared the billet eyed her with some curiosity, for although they knew she didn’t like being in here, she was usually the one to get them all telling stories or starting a sing-song to help the time pass more quickly. Mrs Fletcher was also regarding her with some concern, and Doreen fidgeted awkwardly on the rough bench and refused to look at any of them.

‘What’s up, Doreen?’ asked the youngest girl.

‘Nothing, not really,’ she replied. ‘I just hate this shelter.’

The girl nodded and a conversation began between the others about the unpleasantness of shelters. But as they began to discuss the fact that anything had to be better than spending night after night in the tube stations beneath London, Doreen was besieged with images of her own experience at Bethnal Green, and the panic began to rise and swell again.

She caught Mrs Fletcher watching her and managed to dredge up a wan smile to reassure her. But the other woman’s frown made it clear that she’d been unconvincing.

Mrs Fletcher squeezed past the others, making them budge along so she could sit next to Doreen. ‘I realise you’ve been avoiding us since you got back from leave, and as this is most unlike you, I can only assume that something is bothering you, dear,’ she said beneath the chatter as the sirens stopped their racket. ‘Did something happen in London?’

Doreen hesitated and then reluctantly nodded. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it, Mrs Fletcher. Not now – and especially not in here.’

The older woman took the cup from her trembling fingers and placed it on the floor before gently holding her hands. ‘None of us like it in here,’ she said. ‘So you’re not alone – and if you do find you want to talk about what happened, I’m always here to listen.’

Doreen nodded again, for the kind words had touched her deeply and reminded her of Peggy.

‘Then we’ll just sit here holding hands until it’s over,’ said Mrs Fletcher as her husband opened a tin box containing doorstep sandwiches and handed them round.

Doreen declined the offer of a sandwich, but was comforted by her landlady’s words and the soft clasp of her hand as the enemy planes roared overhead and the Spitfires and Hurricanes rushed to intercept them. She kept her focus on those around her and slowly the panic subsided, the final shreds of the nightmare disintegrated, and she could breathe more easily again.

‘It sounds as if someone else is getting all the attention tonight,’ said Mr Fletcher as the distant booms and crumps penetrated the corrugated iron walls. ‘Those explosions are on the coast, if I’m not mistaken.’

Doreen felt a sharp twist of alarm as she thought of Cliffehaven and Peggy. ‘Where on the coast, do you think?’

He thought seriously before he answered. ‘It could be anywhere between Ramsgate and Brighton,’ he said. ‘The sound carries across the weald here, so it can be deceptive.’

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said his wife as she patted Doreen’s hand. ‘I’m sure your family will be fine in Cliffehaven – after all, they’re not really a strategic target, are they?’

Doreen bit her lip as she listened to the whine and scream of fighter planes engaged in dogfights many miles above them. Cliffehaven might not be an important target in the scheme of things, but they’d suffered a lot of damage from tip-and-runs and direct attacks over the last few years. And according to Peggy there was now a raft of factories manufacturing parts of planes, armaments and tools, and they would be prime targets for the Luftwaffe.

‘You can telephone them later,’ said Mrs Fletcher comfortingly. ‘Just make a note of the cost and leave the money in the box.’

Doreen squeezed her hand in gratitude. Her thoughts turned to her little girls. Wales was a long way away and there had been very few enemy attacks there, even on the cities. Evie and Joyce were living in a tiny hamlet west of the Brecon Beacons, an isolated farming community that was of no strategic importance to anyone. She’d never seen the farmhouse other than in the crayon drawings they’d sent her, but Mrs Jones seemed to be a decent sort if her many letters were anything to go by. She was a mother herself, and understood how very much Doreen needed to be assured that her little ones were happy and safe.

The last of the planes roared away and half an hour later the all-clear went. Doreen breathed a sigh of relief as Mr Fletcher opened the door and light and fresh air flooded in. She stepped outside and was greeted by birdsong and the sparkle of dew on the grass, and felt restored in spirit. It was going to be a lovely day.

They trooped indoors as Mr Fletcher fussily tidied up the Anderson shelter and his wife began to prepare breakfast in the kitchen. Doreen went into her bedroom, put Archie’s things back where they belonged and then sorted through her clothes to decide what to wear. It was Monday morning and she had a day of work ahead of her – a day in which she had to push aside the knowledge that tomorrow was Archie’s funeral.

There was a long wait to use the bathroom and when it was finally her turn, she had a strip wash and then got dressed in a skirt, blouse and sweater and her most sensible shoes. Going into the kitchen, she found everyone was already halfway through their breakfast of toast and dried egg, for time was moving swiftly on and they were due to be at the Fort within the hour.

‘May I use the telephone now?’ she asked once she’d finished eating and the others had already rushed off.

‘Of course, dear. Just don’t be too long, you know how anxious Reggie gets.’

Indeed she did. Reginald Fletcher was obsessed with keeping the line clear in case there was an emergency, and if he’d had his way, he’d stand by the person making the call with a stopwatch.

Doreen washed up her plate and cup and went into the hall where the old-fashioned telephone hung on the wall. She turned the handle several times to get through to the local exchange, put the receiver to her ear and gave the woman Peggy’s number.

‘I’m sorry, caller, but there is no reply on that number. Do you wish for another?’

‘Thank you, but no. I’ll try again later.’ Doreen replaced the receiver and frowned. It was almost nine, and Beach View was never deserted at that time of the morning.

She stood for a moment deep in thought as her uneasiness grew and she remembered Mr Fletcher saying the raid was on the coast. Had Beach View been hit? Were Peggy and the rest of them all right?

She forced down the fear and tried to think logically. If something had happened to them then the line would have been disconnected – but it hadn’t, for she’d heard it ringing, and the woman at the exchange would have said if there was a fault, which could only mean that for some reason or another, Peggy and the others had gone out.

Besieged with conflicting thoughts, she went to fetch her things from her bedroom. She’d try again the minute she got to the office.

The entire household at Beach View had been disturbed by the sirens which had gone off just after midnight, and Peggy had settled with the others in her nightclothes in the shelter for yet another uncomfortable and sleepless night.

Cordelia had taken charge of Queenie, who curled snugly into the blankets over her lap; Harvey slept during the raid as always, and Ron kept Peggy and the three girls amused by showing them some card tricks he’d learned off Chalky, while Daisy slept undisturbed in her special cot.

They’d all stilled as the incendiary bombs began to drop, and flinched as the barrage of anti-aircraft guns hammered away from the cliff-tops. But it was the huge crash of an exploding bomb that made them all sit up and listen hard.

‘That was the factory estate,’ said Ron. He dropped the cards and reached for his cap. ‘Come on, Harvey, they’re going to need help up there.’

Rita was already opening the Anderson door with Fran closely behind her. When a bomb that big fell, it was all hands on deck, especially at the hospital and the fire station.

‘You can’t go up there, any of you,’ Peggy had protested. ‘The raid’s still on, and if the munition factory goes then half of Cliffehaven will go with it.’

‘Those wee girls are not afraid to do their duty and neither am I,’ he’d rumbled. ‘And don’t forget that our Ivy’s up there in that factory.’ He’d kissed her cheek and hurried off.

Peggy had fidgeted and fretted over the next two hours, willing the raid to come to an end, and in dread for the safety of Ron and her girls. And as the raid had gone on and on, she knew she couldn’t sit there any longer. With her mind made up, she’d turned to Sarah. ‘Look after Daisy and Cordelia for me,’ she’d ordered. ‘I’m going up to make sure Ivy and the others are all right.’

Sarah had protested vehemently, but Peggy was determined, and as the enemy bombers roared overhead and the Spitfires and Hurricanes became embroiled in dogfights, she’d hurried back into the house and swiftly got dressed. Having decided it would take too long to walk all the way there, she’d grabbed the bicycle Jane had once used and set off.

The security at the factory estate was tighter than ever, and although she’d begged, pleaded and threatened the guards, it was to no avail, for it was deemed far too dangerous for anyone to get close. She’d been forced to wait behind the barricade for what felt like hours of suspense and frustration – seeing Ron working Harvey amongst the rubble, and Fran arriving with the medics as Rita and the fire crews battled to get things under control.

The speculation of those who’d braved the raid and were waiting with her veered from hope to despair, and when the all-clear finally rang out, their numbers were swelled by several hundred workers emerging from the estate’s deep underground shelter.

Now it was almost nine o’clock in the morning and Peggy had finally been allowed through to get to Ivy and her friends, who were clearly in deep distress. She gathered Ivy into her arms, holding her tightly as she haltingly told her what had happened, and how she’d lost her friend Freda. Peggy had seen the survivors taken away in the ambulances, the walking wounded stumbling about in a daze, and the dead shrouded in blankets, and could only thank God that little Ivy had had such a miraculous escape.