The piece of shrapnel in Ron’s back was giving him real gyp this Sunday morning, and he put it down to the cold, damp weather and the fact he really should remember he wasn’t eighteen any more. Rosie weighed very little, but lifting her up like that did him no good at all – especially when followed by a night of enthusiastic lovemaking.
He’d left the Anchor whilst it was still dark so as not to set the gossips’ tongues wagging, and had returned to Beach View for a hot bath in the hope it would ease the pain. However, one bathroom in a busy household could never be a haven of peace, and it wasn’t long before Fran was urgently knocking on the door.
He emerged from the bathroom wrapped in his old dressing gown, muttered a good morning to Fran who was due to start her shift in the hospital theatre within the hour and made way for Cordelia as she came bustling out of her bedroom.
‘What are you doing, lurking about here in a state of undress?’ she demanded crossly.
‘Waiting for you to get out of my way so I can get downstairs,’ he replied. ‘What’s bitten you this morning? You’re not usually this nice to me so early.’
Her expression was scathing. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, and the highest form of vulgarity,’ she retorted.
‘Ach, yes, Cordelia, but a smile costs nothing, and you’re awful pretty when you smile,’ he teased.
She swiped at his arm. ‘Get away with you, you old scallywag,’ she said, trying not to laugh. ‘Soft words don’t impress me.’
Cordelia headed for the stairlift contraption that Rita and Peter Ryan had built for her so she had the freedom to come and go about the house as she pleased. Picking up Queenie who’d taken to sitting on it every morning for a free ride, she tucked her onto her lap and strapped herself in. Pushing down the handle to engage the motor, she gave a regal wave of her walking stick and sailed slowly down the stairs to the hall, the cat sitting like a masthead on the good ship Cordelia.
Ron followed, admiring the engineering of the stairlift, and the huge benefit it had brought to Cordelia. He went down to his basement bedroom to get dressed in his oldest clothes, for after walking the dogs and visiting his son Frank, he would be giving the Anchor’s chimney a good sweep before painting the ceiling in the bar. In between, he’d be visiting Father O’Leary, but he was trying not to think about that.
The rain had stopped, so after a breakfast of tea and toast, he left Beach View, and was soon tramping up the hill with the dogs haring ahead of him. His back didn’t like it and, unusually, he had to stop frequently to ease it before he could carry on.
He’d never given much thought to his age, and certainly never considered himself to be old, for he’d always been fit, the shrapnel a minor niggle he’d learned to live with. But today the shrapnel was really bothering him and he felt every one of his – how many years? He paused to add them up and was shocked to discover that he was sixty-seven.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I never thought I was that ancient. ’Tis no wonder I’m falling to pieces.’ He squared his shoulders and strode out, determined not to let that unwelcome knowledge slow him down. He was about to get married to a lively and rather demanding, sensual woman – he’d have to look to his laurels if he was to continue to keep her happy.
At last he crested the hill and made his way across the flatter ground to the steep track that led down to Tamarisk Bay. There had once been a number of fishing boats beached on the shingle, but now there was only one, and the lobster pots and trawling nets lay idle beneath tarpaulins.
Three cottages nestled beneath the cliff, well above the high-tide mark, facing the arc of the tiny bay and the sharply sloping shingle beach. Two of them had been abandoned at the start of the war and were showing marked signs of neglect as the elements ate away at them, spiders weaved their webs across the mouldy windows, and wild ivy and brambles took over. The house on the end was in better shape, the wooden planking of the walls freshly painted, the roof, gutters and chimney in good repair and the windows neatly shuttered from the wind and rain – proof, if needed, that Frank had too much time on his hands.
Ron stood for a moment on the bank at the top of the rutted track where the tamarisk grew in abundance amid the long marram grass and sea sedge. This was the house his father had helped him buy just after Frank had been born, and where he’d raised him and his younger brother, Jim, after Mary had died. It held a lot of memories – not all of them good – and he’d gladly handed it over at a peppercorn rent to Frank on his marriage to Pauline, and moved in with Jim and Peggy at Beach View.
Yet, as his gaze trawled the beach which the army had declared too small to be mined, he could still remember the pleasure of foraging the shore for rock samphire, wild fennel, sea beet, lovage and spinach to eke out the meals when the catch had been poor. To the uneducated eye a shingle beach held only weeds, but to Ron it was a storehouse of nutritious vegetables – the rock pools a source of shellfish – and he knew Frank went foraging to this day.
The dogs raced ahead of him and he found Frank sitting in the wheelhouse of the last of the family’s fishing boats staring out to sea. There was no sign of his moody and difficult wife, Pauline, which was a relief, for Ron found her tiresome in the extreme.
The shingle crunched beneath Ron’s boots and Frank leaned out of his shelter to watch his approach as the dogs hurtled past him and into the shallows. ‘Hello, Da. What brings you down here on a Sunday morning?’ he boomed.
‘To be sure, ’tis a lovely day and I needed to get away for a wee while.’
Frank grinned. ‘Rosie finding you too many things to do, is she?’
‘Aye, she is that,’ replied Ron, clambering into the boat to sit beside him. ‘If that’s tea you’ve got brewing, I’d be glad of it,’ he said, eyeing the spirit stove and whistling kettle.
Frank was still smiling as he poured the tea into two tin mugs and added generous slugs of whisky. ‘To chase away the cold,’ he said with a wink.
‘Pauline’s not here, then,’ said Ron, returning the wink.
‘She’s gone to work for the morning,’ Frank replied, ‘so what she doesn’t see won’t hurt her.’ He regarded his father with gentle pleasure. ‘It’s good to see you, Da.’
Ron took the tin mug and breathed in the aroma of whisky and good, strong, milkless tea as he regarded his eldest son with deep affection and pride. Frank was a big, handsome man of few words who’d just turned fifty. He had an expressive face and a thoughtful disposition which Pauline found infuriating, and Ron considered to be wise as he was married to the sort of woman who took umbrage at the slightest thing.
Frank had fought in the First War and done a couple of years’ service in this one, and Ron knew he was finding it hard to settle down again now he was at a bit of a loose end, and had time to worry about his only surviving son, Brendon, who was with the fleet in the Mediterranean. The two other boys had lost their lives in the Atlantic on one of the family’s large trawlers which had been requisitioned as a minesweeper – and their loss still cast a long shadow over everyone.
‘How are things with you?’ asked Ron, after taking a tentative sip of the scalding drink and burning his lips in the process.
‘The same as always,’ Frank rumbled. ‘Pauline’s still on edge over Brendon, but she’s less fraught because that office job at the Red Cross place has given her something else to focus on, which can only be a good thing. We’re rubbing along a bit better now we share our thoughts and talk things over.’
‘That’s good,’ murmured Ron, thankful that his son was having a quieter, more settled life since Pauline’s mother, Dolly, had come down for a visit. ‘Dolly must have pulled her up short,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Aye, Dolly saved our marriage. I don’t know what she said to Pauline before she left, but it worked, and life has been a lot easier since.’
Ron’s heart warmed at the thought of Dolly Cardew. She’d been a friend since he was a youth of thirteen or so, and had turned from tomboy into the most intriguing woman he was ever likely to meet. Always glamorous and vivacious, she seemed to breeze through life without a care – although he was privy to the heartache and regrets she’d suffered along the way. She was now in her sixties but could easily pass as someone at least a decade younger, and Ron knew that behind that sophisticated air of being rather empty-headed and frivolous, she possessed an extremely sharp mind, a keen eye and ear for detail, and a lethal knowledge of hand-to-hand combat and sabotage which she’d put to good use in both wars.
He glanced at his son surreptitiously, wondering how he and Pauline would react if they knew the truth about Dolly. Everyone in the family thought she’d retired from her office job in London to a flat in Bournemouth where she was ruffling feathers amongst the good ladies of the local WI – whereas, in fact, she was working for the Special Operations Executive which had been formed back in 1940.
The secrecy surrounding the work and the agents of the SOE was absolute, but Ron had performed similar covert missions in the First War and had learned of her involvement in that side of things during an unexpected meeting in France where they’d both been sent to sabotage a German communications centre.
This covert experience had led her to be recruited, and as he was also still involved in a very minor way, he knew that Dolly had played a key part in Danuta’s recruitment and training for the dangerous missions behind enemy lines which had almost cost the girl her life – and had supplied the necessary paperwork to secure her the post as district nurse and assistant midwife once she’d recovered from the injuries that had been inflicted on her by the Gestapo.
Ron dragged his thoughts from the delectable Dolly and blew on his tea. The family would remain ignorant of the parts they’d played, for each of them had signed the Official Secrets Act – and he didn’t mind at all that they all thought he was just a grumpy old man who told tall war stories, moaned about the shrapnel moving in his back to avoid work, and did his bit with the Home Guard – or Dad’s Army as the wags called it.
He turned his attention back to his son who was gloomily staring out to sea. ‘What about you, Frank? You look a bit down in the mouth, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Frank grimaced. ‘I’m still waiting for the compensation to come through for all our boats that were requisitioned. I’m managing all right on what I earn at the tool factory, and Pauline’s wages help – but I need to get back to sea where I belong.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘You know what the government’s like – they requisition your property quick enough with lots of promises, but are very slow to honour them.’
‘It’ll come eventually,’ said Ron, blowing on the tea again before taking a tentative sip. ‘And until this war’s done with, and the fishing grounds and beaches are cleared of mines, there’ll be no boats going out from Cliffehaven anyway.’
Frank gave a grunt of agreement and sat in silence for a while, his large hands cradling the mug as he watched the dogs dash in and out of the water.
‘Brendon’s been very good about writing home, so we know he’s all right so far,’ he murmured eventually. ‘He and Betty got engaged during that short leave he had in Devon, so no doubt he’ll be bringing her to meet us all when this lot’s over – if it’s ever over,’ he added dourly.
‘Aye, it’s beginning to feel endless, that’s for sure,’ murmured Ron. He took another sip and then gave up on it to light his pipe. ‘We’ll just have to concentrate on the good things for now. Cordelia’s birthday party is all organised at the golf club – Bertie Double-Barrelled has seen to that, so it’ll be quite a bash.’ He nudged Frank’s arm. ‘We’ll have to be wearing our best bib and tucker for that one – the club’s very posh and insists that men wear ties and jackets in the dining room.’
Frank grunted at this and Ron silently agreed that it was a bind, but one that had to be borne with dignity if they wanted a quiet life. ‘Daisy will be three at the beginning of December and Peggy’s talking about having a tea party at home with some of the other little ones from the factory crèche – so I’ll be making meself scarce that day.’
He took a breath and hurried on. ‘Then there’s me wedding. Me and Rosie will be tying the knot at the Town Hall on the ninth of December. We’ve decided the church isn’t for us.’
‘Oh aye?’ Frank regarded him evenly. ‘You mean you chickened out and Rosie gave in,’ he teased.
Ron grinned. ‘Something like that. To be sure, she’s a good wee girl, and I’m a lucky man to have her in me life.’
‘That y’are,’ said Frank, pulling out a tin of tobacco from his pocket to roll a cigarette. ‘And what does Father O’Leary have to say about this change of plans?’
‘I’ve yet to tell him,’ Ron admitted. ‘I’m going over there later, and to be sure, I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘I’m surprised Rosie isn’t going with you,’ said Frank, cupping his hands around the match to light his cigarette.
‘She thought it was best I did it, as me and the Father have a close understanding of things,’ Ron replied airily.
Frank gave a bark of laughter. ‘Don’t give me that. You’re both a couple of old divils who’ve never agreed on anything. Rosie’s punishing you for mucking up her plans, more like, but I suspect he’ll be glad not to have to perform the ceremony knowing what a heathen y’are, Da.’
‘Aye, you could be right,’ muttered Ron. ‘To be sure, ’tis a relief I’ll not be going through all that rigmarole, and that Rosie’s been so understanding about it.’ The tea had finally cooled enough to drink, so he raised the mug in a toast. ‘Here’s to weddings, birthdays and Christmas and the hope that 1945 will bring peace.’
Frank raised his mug in agreement. ‘You always were an optimist, Da.’
Ron slowly drank the cooled tea, relishing the fire of the whisky warming him through and dulling the pain in his back. ‘There’s no point in being down in the mouth about things we have no control over,’ he said. ‘But I have to confess ’tis a worrying thing having to face Father O’Leary again. The wily old so-and-so will no doubt make me pay for spoiling his fun.’
Frank chuckled. ‘Better that than going through something you know isn’t right.’ He eyed his father quizzically. ‘It must have taken a lot of courage to tell Rosie.’
‘Aye, it did. To be honest with you, son, I thought I would lose her.’
Frank nudged him with his shoulder. ‘But you didn’t, so everything turned out just right, didn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ breathed a happy Ron, holding out his mug for more tea and whisky to give him courage to face the priest.
They sat in companionable silence as the dogs grew tired of their game and came to shake themselves dry before slumping in a panting heap by the side of the beached fishing boat. Frank was the first to break the silence.
‘I got a letter from Jim yesterday. He seems to be on the mend, but I’m not sure I believe his injuries were so superficial. They wouldn’t have kept him this long in hospital if they had been. And the tone of his letters isn’t right, either. It’s too matter-of-fact and overly cheerful – and when Jim’s in that frame of mind it means he’s hiding something.’
Ron had come to the same conclusion a while ago. ‘I’m thinking he’s putting it all on for wee Peggy’s sake, so she’s not worried about him. If his injuries were that light he’d have been treated in the field hospital and then sent back into the fighting again by now.’
‘Aye, that was my thought too.’ Frank regarded his father solemnly. ‘At least we know for sure it wasn’t bad enough to send him home like his mate Ernie. That poor wee man will not be walking again, and Jim blames himself for putting him in the line of fire.’
Ron nodded. ‘Ernie’s wife wrote to Peggy, telling her how grateful she was that Jim had saved Ernie’s life that day – but it seems neither man is willing to talk about what happened, so I reckon we’ll never get to the bottom of it.’
He swallowed the last of his tea. ‘I’d better be getting on. Mass will be over and I want to catch Father O’Leary before he has his lunchtime tipple.’
Frank followed him as he clambered awkwardly out of the boat and eased his back. ‘Is the shrapnel bothering you, Da?’ he asked with concern.
‘Ach, it’s nothing,’ Ron fibbed. ‘Just old age and creaking bones.’
Frank eyed him sternly. ‘It looks more than that. You should take the family’s advice and go and see a doctor about it.’ He held up his hand to wave away Ron’s protest. ‘I know the army surgeon said he couldn’t do more to get that last bit out, but I’m sure things have moved on since then and there’s something they can do to be rid of it once and for all.’
‘To be sure, the medics have enough to do without bothering them with my troubles,’ Ron replied, cross with himself for having let Frank see he was in pain. To ward off further discussion, he took his son in his arms and hugged him. ‘I’ll see you at Cordelia’s party, if not before,’ he said, trying not to flinch as his son hugged him back with great fervour.
He could feel Frank watching him as he left the beach and walked determinedly up the steep slope, the dogs trailing after him. Frank’s strong embrace had made his back feel even worse, but he was damned if he’d let it show.
By the time he’d reached the presbytery his back was easing somewhat, so he tethered the dogs to the gatepost and walked up the gravel drive to the front door, his mind working furiously on what to say to the old priest that wouldn’t offend him. For all his faults, Father O’Leary was a good man at heart, and his unwavering faith in what he believed had earned Ron’s respect.
The priest’s house was an enormous red-brick barn of a place that had been built in Victorian times to house several priests and three members of staff. It was set behind the cemetery trees in a large garden that was forever in shadow, and since the other priests had either retired or gone into the services, Father O’Leary lived there in almost solitary splendour, but for an elderly housekeeper called, rather appropriately, Miss Thorn, who resided in a couple of rooms behind the kitchen and fiercely guarded him against all comers.
Ron’s rap of the knocker was answered almost immediately, which told him she’d seen him coming, and the door opened to reveal her sour, wrinkled face and unwelcoming glare.
‘Good day to you, Miss Thorn,’ he said, taking off his cap and giving her his friendliest of smiles. ‘Would the Father be in?’
‘He’s about to have his pre-luncheon sherry,’ she replied. ‘You’ll have to come back.’
‘Ach, now, Miss Thorn, I’ve come a long way and ’tis urgent I speak to him now. Would you be after telling him it’s Ronan Reilly?’
A lesser man would have quailed in the force of her glare, but Ron had faced the might of the Hun and stood firm.
‘I know who you are,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll see if Father wishes to speak to you.’ She slammed the door in his face.
‘Old witch,’ Ron muttered. How Father Peter put up with her, he couldn’t fathom, but he supposed the old boy needed someone to look after him and he’d unfortunately drawn the short straw.
When the door opened again it was Father O’Leary standing there. ‘I hope this is important, Ronan. My sherry’s waiting.’
‘This won’t take long, Father,’ he replied quickly. ‘Rosie and I have had a long talk, and we’ve decided to get married at the Town Hall,’ he said in a rush. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done for us, and we’re sorry if it’s an inconvenience to cancel things, but we both agree it’s for the best.’
Father O’Leary eyed him for a long moment and then broke into a chuckle. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to see the error of your ways. But at least it shows you do possess some moral fibre.’
‘Well, thank you, Father,’ he replied, a little nonplussed by his reaction. ‘You and I both know it wouldn’t have been right, and me conscience is much easier now things are sorted.’
The little man looked up at him keenly. ‘I’m glad to hear you have a conscience, Ronan – it shows you’re not a completely lost cause. But what I’m asking meself, is, why does a man who is not a believer have a conscience about going through a ceremony before God in church? You think on that, Ronan. Now good day to you.’
Ron stood on the step as the door was once more closed on him, albeit softly. The older man’s reaction had come as a pleasant surprise, but his parting words lingered with him all the way back to Beach View and throughout the rest of the day.