MARY HAD COME to know the eight land girls from her previous visits to Black Briar Farm, and was genuinely touched by their sincere condolences – especially when Judy, a quiet little girl from Essex, handed her a scruffy brown paper parcel. ‘We’ve had a whip-round,’ she said shyly before scurrying off to catch up with the others.
Mary knew that none of the girls had very much in the way of luxuries, but as she’d opened the parcel, she’d been quite overcome by their generosity. There was a pretty tortoiseshell comb to put in her hair, the end of a lovely pink lipstick, a bag of boiled sweets, a couple of rather tattered books, two headscarves and a pair of woollen gloves.
However, the girls weren’t the only ones who wanted to show their sympathy in a practical and loving way, for by lunchtime there had been a stream of visitors from the village and its surrounds, who brought gifts of clothing, writing materials, books and prayer cards – and even shoes and a pair of wellingtons.
‘I feel so blessed by everyone’s kindness,’ she said to Barbara as they sat at the kitchen table later that morning. ‘They have little enough as it is, and yet they’ve given me so much.’
Barbara nodded as she regarded the pile of things on the table. ‘It’s always been a close community,’ she replied. ‘We like to take care of our own in times of trouble.’
Mary pulled a pretty blue sweater from the tangle. ‘But this has hardly been worn,’ she breathed, ‘and neither has this skirt – or these shoes.’ She blinked back the ready tears. ‘Everything is lovely,’ she murmured, ‘and far nicer than anything I had before.’
‘Your parents were much loved, and so are you,’ said Barbara as she scooped up the nightdresses, petticoats and a somewhat worn and faded dressing gown. ‘I’ll give these a bit of a wash, while you polish up those shoes and put the rest away.’ She shot Mary a wry smile. ‘The stuff you’re wearing can come with us to the WVS centre this afternoon. They’re bound to fit someone.’
Mary took the wellingtons and two pairs of lace-up shoes into the boot room, hunted out the brushes and tins of polish and buffed up the scuffed leather shoes until they shone. Then she returned to the kitchen to gather up her wonderfully generous gifts and carry them upstairs. The kindness that everyone had shown amazed her, and as she tried on skirts, trousers, sweaters and blouses she felt warmed by the spirit in which they’d been given.
By miraculous chance everything fitted but for the beautiful black velvet evening gown which had been donated by the doughty wife of the district councillor, who lived in a huge house just outside the village. But even that could be taken to pieces and made into something she could wear, for the velvet was soft, and still in remarkably good condition.
Mary carefully hung it in the wardrobe, folded up Barbara’s clothes and then changed into a pair of grey worsted slacks, white blouse and the gorgeous blue sweater which had come from the grocer’s wife. The only thing she needed now was some proper underwear – but even cheap Utility knickers, vests and bras would require clothing coupons, and as she didn’t have any she’d have to ask Barbara if she could borrow some.
Brushing her hair back from her face, she twisted it into a knot and tethered it with pins before sliding in the pretty comb on one side. She briefly regarded her reflection in the dressing-table mirror and although she looked very smart in her new clothes, she could see how pale and drawn she was, with dull, almost bruised eyes that stared back at her with profound sadness. Turning away with a deep sigh, she looked out of the window and saw that the sky was leaden, with black clouds scudding over the Downs and promising rain. The bleakness of the scene echoed the grief in her heart.
As her gaze drifted from the girls who were working in the ploughed fields to the smallest of the three barns, she thought about her father’s trunk. It was all she had left of him, but the thought of opening it and prying into something he’d always kept private didn’t sit well with her. She knew her reluctance was all part of her grief, and accepted that she wasn’t yet ready to face whatever he’d hidden in there – however impersonal.
Mary turned from the window, picked up the bundle of Barbara’s clothes and was carrying it downstairs when she heard the voice of the rural dean coming from the kitchen. She paused on the stairs, tempted to return to her room until he’d gone, for although her mother had thought he was wonderful, Mary had never liked him, and neither had her father.
The dean should have retired at least eight years ago, but he’d held on to the position with the tenacity of a leech, and once war was declared he’d simply stayed on. He wasn’t a big man, but he made up for his size by being pompous and overbearing, and his poor little wife, Marjorie, ran about endlessly trying to placate and please him. His hands were delicate and soft like a woman’s and his hair was a little too dark for a man his age, but it was the fish-eyed stare and pious sneer that made him unlikeable.
Mary dithered, then came to the conclusion that it was unfair to leave Barbara to deal with him alone. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for a long speech of condolence, which would, no doubt, completely gloss over the antagonism which had lain between him and her father for so many years. Clutching the folded clothes, she reluctantly went down the stairs.
The dean got to his feet, his expression suitably forlorn as she entered the kitchen and dumped the clothes on a nearby chair. ‘Mary, my dear child,’ he said as he grasped both her hands. ‘Please allow me to offer my deepest condolences at this very sad time. My sorrow at your parents’ passing has brought me to despair, for I feel as if I have lost my very best friends. But I have found comfort in the knowledge that they are now with God – and I hope that this too will be of some consolation to you.’
Mary eased her hands from his clammy grip and edged away. ‘Thank you, Dean,’ she replied. ‘It’s very kind of you to come all this way when I know how busy you are.’
He puffed out his chest and his face took on a sanctimonious expression as he placed a delicate white hand over his heart. ‘But my dear child, how could I not? You have suffered – as we all have suffered – from your tragic loss. What is a twenty-mile journey on a very busy day when one of my flock is in need of succour?’
Mary had no reply to this, so she sat down and nodded her thanks to Barbara as she handed her a cup of tea.
The dean settled back comfortably in the wooden carver and adjusted his tailored suit jacket to cover his paunch. ‘Mrs Boniface tells me that you’ve refused to have the service in my church at Hillney.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mary, determined not to be intimidated by his stern gaze.
‘That is a great shame,’ he sighed. He plucked at a button on his jacket. ‘Mrs Boniface also tells me she has already spoken to the undertaker, and that the funeral will be next week.’
Mary nodded. ‘Eleven o’clock next Monday,’ she managed as her throat tightened.
‘I will, of course, be officiating at the service,’ he said as he reached for the plate of biscuits. ‘Your father was not only a close friend, but a stalwart member of my church. And Mrs Boniface has assured me that in the absence of your usual grave-digger, who has sadly passed away, her husband will prepare the ground in the churchyard for the interment. One can only thank God that it is still possible after His church has been so cruelly destroyed.’
Mary suddenly had an awful vision of two coffins being lowered into the cold, damp ground beside the ruined church. She gave a shiver and grasped Barbara’s hand as she looked back at the dean. ‘That’s very kind of you and Joseph,’ she said tremulously. ‘Everyone is being so very thoughtful.’
‘I don’t think we need to discuss such things,’ said Barbara rather flatly. ‘Mary is upset enough already.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he said coolly, ‘but these practicalities must be faced.’ He lifted his chin, his protuberant eyes glassy, his expression pious. ‘Death, after all, is only the beginning of eternal life. Our earthly bodies are mere husks to be returned to the soil – and as we go to God, our souls are freed from this mortal world to take up their rightful place in Paradise.’
Barbara’s lips thinned. ‘I’m sure Mary finds great comfort in your words, but I think it would be best if we concentrated on the sort of service she would like.’
Mary was soothed by Barbara’s understanding, for the dean’s pontificating had begun to irritate her. As for his conducting the service, she knew she must speak out now before it was too late. The dean was known to give tediously long speeches at gravesides.
‘I’d really appreciate it if the service wasn’t too long,’ she said with as much tact as she could. ‘Most of the congregation is elderly, and with this bitter weather I wouldn’t like them to be standing about and catching a chill.’
The dean looked rather shocked by this. ‘But my dear child,’ he protested. ‘Your father and mother must have all due honour paid to their sterling service to the church – and as you refuse to allow me to conduct a full service in my church, then . . .’
‘I do see your point,’ she interrupted swiftly. ‘But that doesn’t have to mean a long, drawn-out ceremony with lots of speeches.’ He was about to protest, so she carried on quickly, ‘If he agrees, I’d like Dr Haywood to say a few words. He and Father have been friends for years, and Mother thought very highly of him.’
After an initial tightening of his lips at the idea of the doctor playing any part in the proceedings, he nodded solemnly. ‘I too would like to say a few words,’ he said as he chewed on a second biscuit. ‘And although the Bishop will not be able to attend due to his heavy responsibilities, I’m sure he will gladly prepare a short, fitting eulogy which I can read out.’
Mary dipped her chin and gave a deep sigh. She was dreading the whole thing, and knew now that no matter what she said, the dean would have his way, and the ceremony would be dragged out to fulfil his need for grandstanding.
Reaching for a third biscuit, he contemplated it for a moment before he spoke. ‘The Church will of course provide pastoral care, and find you cheap accommodation until you have the means to support yourself,’ he said before dunking the biscuit into his tea.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Barbara as she moved the plate of biscuits out of his reach. ‘Mary will be living here.’
He eyed her coolly. ‘That is very charitable of you, Mrs Boniface.’
‘It’s not charity,’ she replied briskly. ‘We’ve taken her in because she’s one of us and we love her.’
‘Very commendable, I’m sure.’ He finished the biscuit, swallowed the last of his tea and brushed crumbs from his jacket. ‘Church funds will pay for the service and the funeral expenses – as long as they are not too high – but I’m afraid that is all the financial help we can offer. We are not a rich organisation, and in these troubled times our fiscal responsibilities are stretched to the limit.’
Mary saw the disgust on Barbara’s face, and knew her dislike for the dean could barely be contained, and that it was only through an innate sense of courtesy that she didn’t speak out.
Mary felt the same way, for the Church had always pleaded poverty when it came to mending the organ, dealing with the woodworm in the rafters and repairing the rectory roof – and paying their vicars a decent stipend. Yet it was common knowledge that the Church of England was one of the richest landowners in the country, and that the extravagantly robed Bishops and Archbishops lived in palaces while the ancient churches crumbled.
‘Don’t you worry, Mary,’ soothed Barbara. ‘There’ll be government compensation of some sort even if the Church won’t put its hand in its pocket.’
The dean clearly realised his presence was not having the effect he’d desired, so he rose from his chair and shook Barbara’s hand. ‘I must take my leave.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Goodbye, my dear. I will pray for you in your hour of need.’
Mary only just managed not to flinch from his touch as she shook his hand and thanked him for his visit. As Barbara showed him to the door and finally shut it behind him, Mary breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Pompous old hypocrite,’ muttered Barbara. ‘Men like him are the reason I rarely set foot inside a church these days.’ She reached for Mary’s hand across the table and smiled. ‘That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy your father’s sermons. He had such a lovely deep, tuneful voice that I could have listened to him reading from a laundry list.’
For all her determination not to cry, the tears welled as Mary remembered his wonderful sermons. ‘Do you think Dr Haywood would read “And death shall have no dominion” by Dylan Thomas? It was one of Daddy’s favourites.’
‘I’m sure he would, if he has a copy of it. If he doesn’t, I expect we can find it in the library at Hillney.’
Mary’s sorrow deepened as she thought of those precious books at home being so utterly destroyed. ‘Perhaps the bookshop will have a copy,’ she said as she determinedly dried her eyes. ‘I’d like to have one for myself.’
Barbara nodded, glanced at the kitchen clock and became businesslike. ‘Everyone will be wondering where their lunch has got to,’ she said as she took the baked potatoes out of the range oven, and ladled a good portion of stew into a smaller pot.
‘That’s for us,’ she explained. ‘The girls eat in their accommodation hut, so if you take the spuds and the bread, I’ll carry this big pot of stew. Joseph is right out in the back fields all day, so he took his lunch in a Thermos.’
Mary realised Barbara was trying to keep her busy and out of the doldrums, so she swallowed her grief and helped to ferry the food across the cobbled yard to the barn which had been converted into living quarters for the land girls.
The accommodation consisted of a series of bunk beds at one end of the barn, a large scrubbed table and benches at the other, with two sagging couches, a stone sink and wooden drainer in the middle. The cooking and washing facilities were basic, with an outside lav, the sink, hot and cold water, and a two-ring gas burner. Heating and hot water were provided by a pot-bellied stove, and the girls’ clothes were kept in a couple of wardrobes and chests of drawers that had definitely seen better days.
The concrete floor had been covered with a collection of moth-eaten rugs, and someone had gone to the trouble of making thick curtains to cover the two windows in an attempt to keep out the draughts. The eiderdowns were colourful, the floor had been swept and the washing-up was drying on the drainer. With bedclothes, books, make-up and magazines strewn about, and photographs of loved ones and favourite film stars pinned to the walls, it was clear the girls had made it as comfortable and homely as possible.
They were nowhere in sight, so Barbara turned on a gas ring to keep the stew warm while Mary quickly set the table. ‘I let the girls come in for a bath twice a week, and most evenings they’re either down at the pub or huddled round the stove,’ Barbara said. ‘Poor things have it rather tough out here, especially in the winter. But there simply isn’t room to have them all in the house.’
‘I certainly don’t envy them,’ said Mary as she looked around. ‘It can’t be easy to be so far from family and home comforts, camping out here and working such long hours.’
Barbara nodded. ‘It’s surprising how quickly some get used to it. I can usually tell within minutes if they’re stayers or not.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get back and have our lunch, then we can go into Hillney and sort out your ration book and so on before I have to be on duty at the WVS. I expect they’ll give you emergency coupons, so you’ll be able to go shopping for some decent underwear.’
Mary smiled back, warmed by her love and the security of knowing she didn’t have to struggle through these dark days on her own.
The day had flown past, and now it was almost five o’clock, with still no sign of Ron or Jim. Peggy was tired and hot and beginning to get annoyed. ‘You’d think that as this party is for Jim, he’d at least bother to come and do something to help,’ she said in exasperation.
Cordelia wrapped the spam sandwiches in dampened tea towels to keep them fresh. ‘Men can’t be expected to be useful in a kitchen,’ she said cheerfully as she bobbed her head in time with the music on the wireless. ‘They’d only get in the way, and eat everything the minute it came out of the oven.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Peggy conceded, for she remembered only too well how Ron had snaffled more than his fair share of buns and cake the last time she’d had a good cooking session.
She regarded the plates of food on the table with the sense of satisfaction for a job well done. Jane had brought some butter, cheese and cream from the dairy before she went on to her afternoon work in the clothing-factory accounts office, and Rita had been to see Alf the butcher and brought home sausages, suet and two tins of spam during her lunch break. Fred the fish had dropped in with a parcel of sprats, and his wife had very generously donated a jar of sugar and three eggs.
With all this bounty, including their own eggs and the white flour Ron had somehow managed to get from a mate who dealt in such things under the counter, Peggy and Cordelia had worked miracles. There were sausage rolls, Scotch eggs, sandwiches, cheese straws and an onion flan. The sprats would be dipped in flour and egg and fried nearer the time, and the crowning glory was the Victoria sponge, filled with Peggy’s home-made raspberry jam and thick cream. She fetched a clean tablecloth and laid it almost reverently over everything so it would keep off any dust.
‘I got a gaaaaal in Kalamazoo, zoo, zoo,’ trilled Cordelia, out of tune, as her favourite song came on the wireless. ‘Ooh, I am looking forward to the party,’ she said as she washed her hands in the sink.
‘I take it that means Bertram has accepted your invitation.’ Peggy smiled at her.
‘He certainly has,’ she replied, ‘and he’s promised to teach me how to butterjug.’
‘You mean jitterbug,’ laughed Peggy as she rounded up a crawling Daisy who was intent on inspecting the coal scuttle, which Ron had left on the wrong side of the fireguard. ‘I think that’s a bit ambitious, and best left to the young ones,’ she added.
Cordelia pulled a face. ‘Bertram and I can cut a rug as well as any youngster,’ she retorted. ‘You wait and see.’
‘Lord help us,’ muttered Peggy, who had visions of an overexcited Cordelia doing herself serious damage.
She carried the squirming, protesting Daisy to the sink and washed her hands and face clean of jam, flour and coal dust. There wasn’t much to be done about her filthy clothes, but as it would soon be time for her bath and then bed, it didn’t really matter.
The back door slammed and Harvey raced into the kitchen, shot his nose up Cordelia’s skirt, licked Daisy who was now sitting on the floor, and then put his great paws on the table to sniff at the covered food.
‘Get down,’ shouted Peggy as she quickly hauled on his collar. ‘Don’t you dare touch a thing, you great lump, or I’ll have your guts for garters.’
Harvey slunk off and showed how hurt he was by this unreasonable threat with a grunt of despair and a deep sigh of martyrdom as he collapsed before the fire.
‘To be sure that’s a fine welcome after a long hard day,’ said Jim in mock protest as he staggered up the concrete steps and into the kitchen, laden with beer crates. He dumped them on the floor so they were in everyone’s way, then swooped to pluck up Daisy before he gathered Peggy into his arms. ‘Have my girls missed me?’ he asked as he gave them both sloppy kisses.
‘Oof,’ protested Peggy as she wafted away beer fumes. ‘You’ve clearly been having the time of your lives while Cordelia and I have been slaving away here.’
‘Ach, Peggy girl, it was a great craic, so it was. Fred and Alf popped in, then Stan arrived during the lull between trains, and . . .’
‘All right, I get the picture,’ she said with a giggle. Then she caught sight of Ron, who was surreptitiously looking beneath the cloth on the table. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she snapped.
Ron snatched his hand away, his eyes wide with innocent hurt. ‘I was only looking,’ he complained. ‘To be sure that is a fine spread there, Peggy, and it seems to me there’s enough to feed an army. Surely one little sandwich wouldn’t be missed?’
‘It would,’ she replied sternly as she tucked the cloth firmly round the plates. ‘And if you and Jim had come back at lunchtime, you wouldn’t be hungry now.’
‘I told you that men were no use in a kitchen,’ piped up Cordelia.
Peggy pointed at the beer crates. ‘The pair of you can take those into the dining room while I make a pot of tea to sober you up.’
‘’Tis a terrible burden living in a house of women,’ grumbled Ron as he staggered a bit and almost fell over the crates he was attempting to lift.
‘Aye,’ nodded Jim as he placed Daisy carefully in her high chair. He straightened up and swayed on his feet. ‘But ’tis far worse in the army, Da. Our sergeant major can outboss my Peg any day of the week – and that’s saying something.’ He shot her a soppy smile and hiccuped.
Cordelia giggled and Peggy failed miserably to look cross. ‘Get away, the pair of you,’ she said in exasperation. ‘And after you’ve drunk your tea, you can wash and change and have a shave before our guests arrive.’
‘Are ye sure that sergeant major’s worse than Peg?’ muttered Ron as he and Jim weaved their way out of the kitchen and across the hall to the dining room. ‘Cos it strikes me she could give old Hitler a run for his money and no mistake.’
Father and son thought this was hilarious and were chortling like schoolboys as they tottered into the dining room and out of sight. Peggy turned from the kitchen doorway and was smiling too, for it was as if Jim had never been away.
Two hours later, and after a bit of a struggle to get into her corset, Peggy was sitting in her dining room in her best frock, thinking how lucky she was. The table was positively groaning with the weight of food, for everyone had brought something. Now there were plates of biscuits, a trifle, two jellies, a box of crystallised fruit Alf’s wife, Lil, had unearthed from the back of a cupboard, and a bread and butter pudding.
The level of noise was rising as the men huddled in the corner by the beer and told tall tales, while the women chattered like starlings and Harvey lay close to the table waiting for anything that might drop to the floor. Everyone was here but for Cissy and Peggy’s son-in-law Martin, and she could only hope there wasn’t a flap on at Cliffe airfield which would put a damper on things and stop them from coming.
Peggy noted that Cordelia’s colour was quite high as she sipped sherry and excitedly watched everything going on around her. She was chatting to Enid the fishmonger’s wife, who was splendidly arrayed in a deep purple two-piece. Cordelia looked lovely in a white blouse with a cameo brooch at the neck, and a smart navy skirt – no doubt in order to impress Bertram, who’d arrived looking very dapper in a beautifully cut suit with a sprig of heather in the buttonhole, and a large bottle of gin under his arm.
Peggy’s gaze travelled to Jane, Sarah and Fran, who were youthfully pretty in colourful frocks and cardigans, their hair freshly washed for the occasion. Suzy, glamorous in her little black dress and pearls, was radiant as she looked up into Anthony’s face. Anthony was wearing his usual tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches, and corduroy trousers, his hair flopping over his eyes as his horn-rimmed spectacles repeatedly slipped down his nose.
Rita, Peggy noticed with approval, had changed out of her usual tomboyish clothes into the very fetching blue dress she’d borrowed from Sarah, and a pair of low-heeled pumps. With her dark hair and eyes, olive skin and just a touch of make-up, she was turning into a real beauty. She was in animated conversation with Pilot Officer Matthew Champion who appeared to Peggy to be far too young to be doing what he did, but was extremely dashing in his RAF uniform. They were clearly besotted with one another, and Peggy could only pray that nothing spoilt their happiness.
‘They make ever such a lovely couple, don’t they?’ said Ruby as she sat down next to Peggy and lit a cigarette.
Ruby came from the East End and had been Peggy’s lodger earlier in the year. Now she lived with her mother, Ethel, in a rented bungalow on the northern borders of Cliffehaven, close to the tool factory where she worked.
Peggy nodded, aware that Ruby’s young Canadian was still recovering from the life-changing injuries he’d sustained in the Dieppe raid. ‘How’s Mike? Are things a bit better between you now?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied happily. ‘He’s over all that nonsense of not wanting me about the place, and although he’s still got to come to terms with losing his sight in one eye, he’s put in a request to stay here in England and take up an army desk job.’
‘Oh, Ruby, I am pleased.’
‘Well it ain’t all sorted yet, but his commanding officer is hopeful. We’ll know tomorrow after the powers that be have their conflab.’
Peggy patted her hand in consolation, for she knew that if Mike was refused the posting here, it would mean him being sent back to Canada – and it simply wouldn’t be possible for Ruby to go with him. ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed that everything turns out all right,’ she murmured. ‘Speaking of which,’ she added with a smile, ‘Ethel and Stan seem to be getting on like a house on fire. I bet she’s glad she got out of Bow.’
‘Not ’alf.’ Ruby grinned as she watched the portly stationmaster and her mother laughing together. ‘She’s ’aving the time of her life, what with bungalow and Stan and a decent wage at the factory.’
‘She certainly looks well on it – and so does Stan by the width of his girth,’ Peggy commented wryly.
‘Yeah,’ Ruby agreed. ‘Some might say he’s a bit old for ’er, him being in his sixties an’ all, but he’s a lovely bloke, and what does it matter anyhow? Live while you can, that’s what I say.’
Peggy was about to reply when Cissy came running into the room and threw herself into her father’s embrace. ‘Da, I’m sorry I’m late, but we got a puncture,’ she explained after she’d kissed him and been swung round in his arms.
‘Ach, to be sure wee girl, you’re looking quite magnificently grown up, so y’are,’ he told her as he put her back on her feet and admired the dark blue uniform that enhanced her shapely figure and emphasised the colour of her eyes.
Then he saw Martin coming in and went to shake him vigorously by the hand. ‘Good to see you, son,’ he said. ‘Glad you could make it.’
Peggy laughed in delight as Cissy rushed over to hug her. ‘It’s so lovely to see you, darling,’ she breathed. ‘It feels like ages since your last visit.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, Mum, but I’ve brought a friend with me.’ Cissy blushed to the roots of her blonde hair as she turned to draw forward a tall, dark-haired pilot who’d been left standing rather awkwardly in the doorway. ‘This is Flight Lieutenant Randolph Stevens. He’s with the USAF on secondment at Cliffe,’ she said breathlessly.
Peggy’s hand was engulfed in a firm clasp, and as she looked into his face she saw brown, serious eyes, a long straight nose, clear skin, a well-defined mouth – and of course wonderful teeth. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ she stammered.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s a great honour to be invited to your party, and I hope you will accept these little gifts by way of appreciation.’
Peggy gasped as he opened the large bag he’d been carrying and drew out a bottle of whisky, four pairs of nylons, a box of chocolates, several packets of chewing gum and a whole carton of cigarettes. ‘Goodness me,’ she smiled. ‘How very generous, but there was no need, really. We’re just delighted you could come.’
‘Don’t be daft, Mum,’ muttered Cissy as Randolph and his whisky bottle were carted off by the other men. ‘Randy has found it hard to settle here, and this is the first time he’s ever been invited to someone’s house. He just wants to show how grateful he is that at last an English family wants to befriend him.’
Peggy was startled by this. ‘Really? But I thought everyone was only too delighted to have them over here and on our side – especially all you girls.’
‘That’s half the trouble,’ Cissy replied as she sat down and took a sip of her mother’s gin. ‘Our boys get jealous of all the attention the Yanks get from the girls, and because they seem to have an endless supply of luxuries which they distribute like confetti, some see it as showing off, or trying to buy people’s affections.’
‘Oh dear, is it really as bad as that?’ Peggy looked across at the young American. ‘And he seems to be a very nice boy, too,’ she sighed.
‘You’ve heard the phrase, overpaid, oversexed and over here? Well, that’s just jealousy,’ Cissy continued. ‘The Americans are very polite and clean-cut, and frankly rather bemused by the adverse reaction to them being here.’
Peggy thought of how upset Fran had been when her American had turned out to be married, and the father of several children. With men like that in their ranks, no wonder their reputations were sullied.
Cissy must have read her thoughts. ‘I know what happened to Fran was simply ghastly, but they’re not all rats, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘Randy’s as honest as the day is long, and the sweetest man I could ever hope to meet. I feel as if I’ve known him for years, and I would trust him with my life.’
Peggy looked into her starry eyes, saw the glow of happiness in her face, and realised that Cissy had at last found someone she really did love. ‘I’m sure he’s lovely,’ she said, ‘and if he makes you happy, then I’m happy.’
‘Oh, he does, Mum. Really he does.’ Cissy kissed her cheek and hurried off to rescue Randy from her father, who was regaling him with yet another tall tale of his life in the British army.
Peggy saw the boy smile down at her daughter, and watched him fetch her a drink and make sure she was comfortably seated. He had eyes only for her and was charming and attentive, and Cissy was clearly head over heels, but Peggy feared for her daughter. Cissy had fallen in and out of love since she was sixteen, and the heightened pressure and excitement of wartime fed her lust for life. She could only hope it didn’t all end in tears, as it had done before.
Her anxious thoughts were broken by the sound of the music coming from the gramophone, and Jim’s warm hand drawing her to her feet.
‘Dance with me, darlin’,’ he murmured as the hypnotic Latin rhythm of ‘Begin the Beguine’ filled the room.
Peggy moved into his embrace and rested her cheek against his chest as Ella Fitzgerald’s smoky, enticing voice eased them into a slow tango. She was where she belonged, and she had no need to worry about anything or anyone while she was held so lovingly in her husband’s arms.