AS THE GUARD came along the train calling out, ‘Cliffehaven. Next stop Cliffehaven,’ Mary took her case down and slipped on her coat and beret. Gathering up her handbag and gas-mask box, she felt a flutter of anticipation and fear in her stomach. This was it.
The train slowed, and with a great clanking of wheels and screeching of brakes it came to a stop with a billow of smoke and steam. Mary followed two other women down the step to the platform, and as the thick smoke cleared, she looked around her. For a seaside station, it had clearly once been quite large, but there was bomb damage to the siding wall, and where she guessed there had once been a waiting room and ticket office there was now only a pile of rubble.
She noticed a woman in dungarees and the ubiquitous knotted headscarf sitting on a bench holding a cup of tea while she puffed on a cigarette, and a younger one busy pulling weeds out from between the row of cabbages that grew in an earth-filled cattle trough beside the signal box. They must be the stationmaster’s wife and daughter, she thought as she breathed in the salty air and listened to the mournful cries of the gulls.
Hitching the straps of her bag and gas-mask box over her shoulder, she gripped her suitcase. The elderly stationmaster had just finished talking animatedly to the two women passengers and was now looking at her with undisguised curiosity. He was probably in his sixties, wide of girth and quite tall, with a ruddy face, kind eyes and rather wayward eyebrows.
‘Hello, dear,’ he said as he examined her ticket. ‘My goodness, you’ve come quite a way today. Got family here, have you?’
Mary smiled, recognising a cheerful, nosy gossip. ‘I’m starting a job on Monday,’ she replied.
‘Ah, so you’ve come early to get settled in.’ He grinned at her as he stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocked on his heels. ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘Always best to get your bearings in a new place. So, where are you staying?’
‘Havelock Road.’
‘Blimey, there’s posh,’ remarked the woman who’d been drinking tea. ‘You’ll be set up nice there.’ She got up from the bench, grinned at Mary and stuck out her hand. ‘I’m Ethel, by the way, and this ’ere’s me daughter Ruby.’ The girl looked up from her weeding and smiled pleasantly.
Mary shook her hand and introduced herself, rather overwhelmed by this friendly greeting.
Ethel dug the stationmaster in the stomach with her elbow. ‘And this ’ere’s Stan. Anyfink you wanna know about this place, you come and ask ’im.’
Mary decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘There are two things, actually,’ she said rather nervously. ‘One, how do I get to Havelock Road – and, and . . . Do you happen to know a Cyril Fielding?’ she finished in a rush.
Stan rubbed his chin with a meaty hand. ‘I know several Cyrils, but the name Fielding doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘He would have been here about eighteen years ago,’ Mary told him.
He shook his head and then his frown cleared and he smiled. ‘I’ll have a think on that one. Eighteen years is a long time past. But I can help you with Havelock Road.’
‘Who are you billeted with?’ asked Ethel, the cigarette bobbing up and down as she spoke. ‘A lot of them posh houses have been rented out to families now the owners have gorn orf to somewhere safer.’
‘I’m staying with a Mrs Williams,’ Mary replied. ‘Do you know her?’ She didn’t miss the look of dismay that went between Ethel and Stan, and felt a stab of alarm.
‘She ain’t too bad,’ said Ethel hurriedly. ‘But she’s got ideas above her bleedin’ station, if you asks me.’ She took the cigarette from her mouth, tapped off the ash with some deliberation, and stuck it back in.
‘I do think we shouldn’t judge too harshly, Ethel my dear,’ reproached Stan. ‘This young lady seems to be very respectable, and I’m sure they’ll get along just fine.’
Ethel narrowed her eyes against the cigarette smoke as she folded her arms. ‘If you say so, Stan, but I reckon she’d be better off with Peggy Reilly, and no mistake.’
Mary looked puzzled. ‘Who’s Peggy Reilly?’
‘She’s Mrs Williams’s sister and ever so nice. A proper diamond is Peg,’ declared Ethel, who was settling in for a good gossip. ‘Looked after my Ruby, she did, when she first come down from London.’
Stan must have realised this could go on for a while, and intervened. ‘Come on, love,’ he said to Mary as he picked up her case. ‘Let me point out how to get to Havelock Road. I’m sure you and Doris will get on fine as long as you can put up with her airs and graces. After all, she’s Peggy’s sister, so she can’t be all bad.’
Mary decided he was probably right, and having said goodbye to Ruby and Ethel, followed Stan out into the street.
‘This is the High Street and you follow it all the way down the hill until you get to the last turning on your right,’ he told her. ‘That’s Havelock Road. Walk past Havelock Gardens, and Mrs Williams’s house is the last but two. You can’t go any further, cos it’s a dead end.’
‘Thank you for being so helpful, Stan.’
‘Not at all,’ he said expansively. ‘Now you’re not to fret over what Ethel said. She’s never seen eye to eye with Doris and is very protective of Peggy. I’m sure you’ll settle in nicely, but if you do have any problems, you come and see me. If I’m not at the station, then I’ll be on my allotment.’ He waved in a general northerly direction.
‘That’s really nice of you, Stan, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.’ Mary shook his hand, retrieved her case from him and set off down the hill.
Taking her time to look in the shop windows, she meandered down the High Street past several bomb sites, the Town Hall, billeting and recruitment offices and the labour exchange. Cliffehaven was busy, with women pushing prams along the pavement, standing in queues outside the grocers and bakers, or hurrying along with laden shopping baskets. From the number of servicemen strolling about or passing at speed in their open trucks, it was clear there had to be several Allied bases nearby – including an airfield.
She tried to ignore the admiring glances and the occasional wolf whistles, and was disconcerted by how easily they made her blush. Yet it was rather flattering, and she could now understand why her friend Pat was having such a jolly time of it after being stuck in a tiny country village for most of her life. Mary also rather liked the look of Cliffehaven. It wasn’t as old or sprawling as Lewes, and there were no cobbled streets or rows of ancient houses, but it seemed to be quietly respectable, and it had the bonus of being by the sea.
Mary stood and gazed down at the sea, sparkling in the early afternoon sun, for a trip to the seaside had been a rare childhood treat. This was an attractive sight, despite the gun emplacements and the coils of barbed wire and she was looking forward to exploring the promenade once she’d settled in.
Then her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since her six o’clock breakfast, and as she walked on, she came to Camden Road and saw the sign for the Lilac Tearooms. It wouldn’t matter if she was a bit late getting to Havelock Road, for she hadn’t mentioned a specific time of arrival, and she really did need to eat something before she had to face the undoubtedly tricky Mrs Williams.
The Lilac Tearooms were opposite a large hospital. The room itself was small and intimate beneath a heavily beamed ceiling, and it seemed it was very popular, for chattering women filled nearly every seat. It was all very reminiscent of the tearooms in Hillney, with gingham cloths on the tables and pictures of kittens and rose-clad cottages on the walls, and Mary felt quite at home as she found a spare place at a table and sat down.
She realised that a new face was an immediate target, and before she knew it, she’d told the other women on her table where she’d come from, what work she was starting and who she was billeted with. The general consensus seemed to be that she was lucky to get such a comfortable billet, but that Doris would need careful handling.
Having finished her lunch, she paid the bill, bid the other women goodbye and set off again. She had asked them about Cyril, and even though the rest of the customers in the tearoom had joined in the discussion, none of them had heard of him. She hadn’t wanted to mention the young woman who’d run off leaving her baby behind – that sort of thing was far too personal for a general debate in a tearoom full of gossips.
Mary passed the remains of what looked like a church and vicarage, and the sight made her falter as all the memories came flooding back. Determined not to allow the past to overshadow the present, she gripped the handle on her case, took a long, appreciative look at the sweeping promenade, then walked on down the tree-lined road.
The park must have once looked quite lovely, with a weeping willow drooping over the pond and arched rose bowers sheltering the wooden benches. Now there were no metal railings, and most of the flower beds and lawns had been turned into vegetable patches.
She carried on down Havelock Road, past the remains of two bombed-out houses, her shoes scuffing the rustling leaves that lay across the pavement and in the gutter. She could see now what Ethel meant by being posh, for the houses were large and detached, with generous gardens and high walls, and being so close to the promenade, they would have had the most magnificent views of the sea from their back windows.
Mary found the right number and crunched across the gravel drive to knock on the door. It looked very nice, with clean windows, fresh paint, and a neat front garden. There were pristine white net curtains, the brass knocker gleamed, and no fallen leaves were lying about. Mrs Williams obviously ran a tight ship, as her father would have said.
Receiving no reply to her knock, she tried again, rather more firmly. Minutes later she had to accept that Mrs Williams had gone out, but as she’d left no note on the door Mary had no idea how long she might be.
‘What to do?’ she murmured as she dithered on the doorstep. ‘I can’t lug this case round the town, or spend any more money in a tearoom.’
After a fruitless search for a key beneath the doormat and the nearby flower pots, she gave a sigh of frustration. She shouldn’t have spent so much time on her lunch. It was an inauspicious start to her new life, and as there didn’t seem to be anyone in the street or the neighbouring houses, there was only one thing left for her to do. She put down her case, sat on the doorstep and waited for Mrs Williams – or someone – to come home.
Harvey and Monty were stretched out in front of the fire, slumbering happily now the pub had closed for the afternoon. Ron had finished changing the beer barrels, and now carried up the crates of bottles from the cellar and dumped them on the floor behind the counter. He was distracted for a moment by the undulation of Rosie’s generous bosom beneath her frilled blouse as she energetically polished the broad sweep of oak that formed the bar – and he couldn’t help but stop and watch in admiration.
She caught him looking and gave a cluck of annoyance. ‘If you can bear to concentrate on something other than my chest, those bottles need putting on the shelves before we open again.’
Ron was startled by her unusually brisk tone, and he regarded her with a frown. ‘What’s eating you today, Rosie? You’ve been short with me since this morning.’
Rosie gave the bar a final sweep with the duster and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ron. I didn’t mean to snap at you, but I’ve got things on my mind.’
So had Ron, but Rosie was certainly in no mood for a bit of slap and tickle, so he knew better than to mention it. ‘And what things might they be?’ he asked casually as he began to stack the bottles neatly on the shelves beneath the bar.
‘Just things,’ she hedged as she turned away and began to polish the battered upright piano with unnecessary vigour.
Ron continued to deal with the bottles. Rosie was clearly furious about something and it was bubbling away inside her, fit to bust. He’d let her stew for a bit, he decided. She couldn’t keep it to herself for much longer.
He finished doing the bottles and stacked the crates neatly out of the way. Rosie had stopped trying to rub the veneer off the piano and was now dusting down the horse brasses which hung either side of the inglenook fireplace. Her whole body seemed to be involved in this exercise and he watched the wiggle of her hips in silent longing. To be sure she’s a fine-looking woman, he thought with a smile.
‘What are you grinning at?’ she snapped, still with her back to him.
Ron’s smile disappeared. ‘How the divil do you do that?’ he asked in genuine amazement.
‘I know you,’ she said. ‘If you’re not on the move, then you’re standing grinning and leering at me like a loon.’ She threw down the duster and turned to face him, her arms tightly folded round her waist, her expression stormy.
Ron noticed Harvey slink away from his customary position in front of the fire, swiftly followed by Monty. They’d obviously decided to make themselves scarce before Rosie really got going. ‘Well, if you don’t appreciate being admired, I’d better be off,’ he replied. ‘To be sure this is no place for man nor beast while you’re in this mood.’
‘Oh, Ron.’ Her shoulders slumped and she dipped her chin so her platinum hair fell round her face. ‘I’m sorry for being so horrid to you all day – and now I’ve even upset poor Monty and Harvey. Please don’t go.’
He heard the tremor in her voice and knew she was close to tears, so he swiftly crossed the room and gently drew her into his arms. ‘What is it, Acushla?’ he crooned. ‘Come on, you can tell me.’
She relaxed into his embrace, her head resting on his shoulder as she wrapped her arms round him. ‘It’s all suddenly got too much,’ she gulped as she sniffed back her tears. ‘And I don’t know if I can stand it for much longer.’
He drew back and lovingly eased her hair from her face so he could look deeply into her sapphire eyes. ‘You’ll always have me to rely on, Rosie,’ he soothed. ‘Whatever it is that ails you, you won’t have to deal with it on your own.’
She nodded and drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse. ‘I know, but it seems so unfair that I have to burden you with all my endless troubles.’
Ron drew her down to sit beside him on the cushions of the old settle. ‘A trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ he soothed. ‘And you know I’d rather share them than have you worrying alone.’ He paused, reluctant to broach the subject, but knowing he must. ‘Is this to do with whatever you and Peg talked about the other week?’
She lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes startled. ‘What did she tell you about that?’ she asked sharply.
‘Absolutely nothing. Told me to mind my own business,’ he replied gruffly.
Her relief was almost tangible as she sat there in silence and mangled her handkerchief. ‘That’s only a part of it,’ she said eventually. ‘I had a letter from my husband’s sister this morning, and it wasn’t pleasant. She accused me of being heartless and unchristian – of abandoning him by living so far from the asylum.’ She dabbed the handkerchief over the last of her tears. ‘She even called me a Jezebel,’ she went on with a shaky laugh, ‘because she thinks you and I have broken my marriage vows.’
‘I’d like five minutes with that witch,’ he growled. ‘She’d soon be put right and no mistake.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ She gave him a watery smile.
‘You’ve had those sorts of letters before,’ he said, ‘so I’m surprised you’ve let her get under your skin like this. You usually tear them up, put them in the bin, have a gin and forget about them. What’s so different today?’
‘That wasn’t the only letter that came this morning.’ Rosie’s voice wobbled. She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. ‘And you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, because it will change things for both of us.’
Ron experienced a sharp pang of alarm. ‘I don’t understand,’ he managed.
Rosie took his great rough hands in hers and looked at him squarely. ‘My brother’s been given parole, and he’ll be moving in here until he can find somewhere else to live.’
Ron stared at her, unable to believe what he’d heard. Her brother had another two or three years to serve, and Ron had thought he’d finally managed to get rid of him. ‘But men like Tommy are sent into the army the minute they’re released.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘Not in this case unfortunately. He has asthma and has been declared medically unfit for service. As part of his parole agreement, he has to have a permanent address for six months and must work full-time on warden and fire-watch duties.’
‘He has a wife,’ Ron rumbled crossly. ‘Why can’t he go there?’
‘She wants nothing more to do with him now they’re divorced.’ Rosie’s tone was bleak. ‘And neither do his children.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I can’t say I blame any of them. He might be my brother, but I’m not proud of him – and the last thing I want is for him to move in here.’
It was the last thing Ron wanted, too. On the previous occasion when Rosie had left her brother in charge, he’d not only managed to damage the pub’s reputation by bringing in a rowdy and unruly crowd, but had used the cellars to hide his black-market goods. Ron had discovered them and had had a quiet word with his policeman friend – and Tommy had been arrested. Not that Rosie knew of the part he’d played in getting rid of her brother. And he hoped she never would.
‘Then don’t let him,’ he said gruffly.
Rosie gave a tremulous sigh as she gripped his hands. ‘But I have no choice, Ron. If I don’t agree to take him in, he’ll have to serve out the rest of his sentence in that awful prison.’
‘If he can’t do the time, then he shouldn’t have done the crime,’ Ron stated flatly. ‘He’s more trouble than he’s worth, Rosie girl. Leave him to stew where he is.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t do that. He’s been very ill apparently, and feeling terribly low after he received the divorce papers. I’m worried he might do something silly.’
Ron knew it wouldn’t do his own cause any good at all if he voiced his thoughts on Tommy. The man was a shark, a womanising spiv and double-dealing all-round bastard, and if he slit his wrists, he’d be doing the world a favour.
‘You’ve gone very quiet, Ron,’ Rosie said. ‘I know you don’t like him, but please try to keep the peace with him, for my sake.’
‘You’re too soft, Rosie,’ he replied sadly. ‘But I’ll not be the one to cause trouble, as long as he behaves himself and doesn’t upset you. When is he due to be released?’
‘Monday.’
‘But that’s only three days away,’ he gasped.
Rosie stood and tugged at his hand. ‘Let’s go upstairs where we can be more comfortable, and I’ll make us some lunch. We only have this weekend to ourselves, and I don’t want to spoil it by talking about my brother.’
Despite her thick overcoat, scarf, gloves and beret, Mary was feeling cold and miserable as she huddled on the doorstep and tried to shelter from the rising, bitter wind. She’d attempted to pass the time by reading, but found she couldn’t concentrate. In an effort to keep warm she’s wandered back and forth across the front garden, and even over the road to the park to watch the swans regally swimming on the pond.
The hours dragged slowly by, and it would soon be dark, the thick clouds gathering overhead and threatening rain. She’d tried the garage door, but it was firmly padlocked, so there would be no shelter there – and the porch offered little respite from the elements either. If there was an air raid she didn’t know what she’d do, for she had no idea where the nearest public shelter was, and she hadn’t spotted an Anderson shelter in any of the other gardens.
She wrapped her arms about her, closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the front door. If she stayed here much longer she would freeze to death. Perhaps she should go back to the station and ask Stan’s advice – but she didn’t like to do that, for it would be admitting she needed help, and she didn’t want to appear feeble. But where could Mrs Williams have gone? Surely she hadn’t forgotten she was coming?
‘Hello. What on earth are you doing there?’
Mary’s eyes flew open and she stumbled to her feet as a girl approached. ‘I was waiting for someone to come home,’ she stammered. ‘I was supposed to be moving in today, but Mrs Williams seems to have gone out and—’
‘Yeah, she ’as an ’abit of going out, does Old Mother Snooty Drawers,’ the girl replied with a grimace. ‘I’m Ivy, by the way,’ she said and grinned. ‘You must be Mary.’
Mary’s face was so cold she could barely smile back as she shook the rather grubby little hand. Ivy was about Mary’s age, but small and thin, with a mop of brown curly hair, an urchin face, dimples, and dark brown eyes. Dressed in overalls, jacket, boots and headscarf, her face smeared with grease, she’d clearly just come home from work.
‘Yeah, I look a proper mess, don’t I?’ Ivy said without rancour as she fished a key out of her gas-mask box. ‘I work with oily machinery every day up at the factory estate, so it can’t be ’elped.’ She opened the front door. ‘Let’s get you inside. You look ’alf frozen.’
She led the way into a square hall that had an expensive Turkish rug covering part of the highly polished parquet floor, an oak table with a telephone on it and a mirror above it. There was a coat stand and several ornately framed seascapes and landscapes on the white walls, and carried on the relatively warm air inside the house was the overall scent of beeswax.
‘Better get them shoes off. She don’t like us getting her posh floors mucky.’
Mary slipped off her shoes as Ivy stood on the doormat to unlace her boots and toe them off. ‘Is she very fussy, then?’
‘I’ll say, but at least the billet’s comfortable and warm, and the food ain’t bad either. Her old man is the manager or something of the Home and Colonial, so there’s always tins of stuff from under the counter.’ Ivy picked up her boots and the dimples reappeared as she grinned. ‘It’s a bleedin’ long way from ’ackney, I can tell yer, so I keeps me ’ead down and gets on wiv it.’
Mary didn’t know how to reply to this, so she clutched her shoes and case and awkwardly smiled back.
‘I expect you need the lav and a cuppa after sitting out there in the cold,’ said Ivy. ‘The lav’s in there.’ She pointed to a door. ‘Make sure you clean the basin when you’ve finished and try not to use too much soap or get ’er towel dirty. I’ll be in the kitchen which is just at the end of the hallway.’
Mary put down her case and shoes, slipped the straps of her handbag and gas-mask box off her shoulder and tentatively opened the door to what turned out to be a very smart, spotlessly clean cloakroom. She was almost afraid to use the lav, and when she’d finished she polished the handle with the pristine towel, washed her hands with the merest smear from the luxurious bar of sweetly scented soap, and dried the basin before putting the towel back exactly how she’d found it.
‘I’m in here,’ shouted Ivy from the other end of the hall.
Mary left her belongings neatly at the bottom of the carpeted stairs and found Ivy in the well-equipped kitchen, busy making a pot of tea. She’d clearly washed her face and hands in the kitchen sink, for there was a tidemark of dirt around it, and her coat had been thrown over the back of a kitchen chair.
‘I’ll show yer round when I done this,’ she said. ‘There’s only you and me billeted here now. The other girls went off in a huff after their mate got thrown out over some Yank shinning up the drainpipe to her bedroom.’
‘Goodness,’ breathed Mary. ‘That must have caused trouble.’
Ivy giggled. ‘Not ’alf. Old Mother Snooty went off on one like I don’t know what. I ain’t seen nothing like it.’
Mary smiled, for it seemed to be expected. ‘So does Mrs Williams have any family?’
‘Her old man lives in a flat above his shop. I heard tell he went off with another woman and she ain’t quite forgiven ’im yet. There’s a son, Anthony. He’s ever so nice, works for the MOD, and only comes home now and again. He’s getting married soon, and her ladyship’s in a right flap over all the arrangements.’
‘You really don’t like her, do you?’ Mary took the cup of tea Ivy offered her and gratefully cradled it in her cold hands.
‘Not much,’ Ivy shrugged, ‘but then I’m out most of the time so I don’t ’ave to put up wiv ’er.’ The dimples showed again. ‘I ’opes you can cook and clean, Mary, cos I’m sick of doing it all on me tod now the others ’ave gorn. That one’s far too posh to get ’er hands dirty, and would probably burn water if she tried.’
Mary stared at her in shock. ‘But we shouldn’t have to do that,’ she protested. ‘The terms of agreement with the billeting people state quite clearly—’
‘Yeah, but that don’t apply to ’er ladyship,’ said Ivy dismissively. ‘If yer wanna eat in this house, yer cook. Same wiv the laundry and such – so I’m glad you’re ’ere to lend an ’and.’
Mary decided she didn’t like the sound of Mrs Williams at all, but Ivy seemed to be very nice and as she didn’t want to cause trouble on her first night here, she made no comment. But she would go to the billeting people on Monday and find out exactly what was expected of her. She hadn’t come all this way to be Mrs Williams’s skivvy.
‘She keeps ’er food and stuff in the larder, and we gotta keep ours there.’ Ivy opened the larder door and pointed to the top shelf. ‘Milk and that goes on the bottom shelf of the fridge,’ she added. ‘There’s a washing machine and dryer in a lean-to out the back, but she don’t like us using them unless we’re doin’ ’er stuff.’
‘She sounds as if she’s a real dragon,’ said Mary, by now a bit befuddled by all the rules and regulations of this house.
‘Yer right there,’ Ivy agreed.
They leant against the warm range and drank their tea. ‘So what’s a girl from Hackney doing down here?’ asked Mary as she took off her overcoat.
‘We got bombed out and me mum and nan went to live wiv me aunt in Shoreditch. I didn’t fancy it, so when I heard about the jobs going ’ere, I jumped at the chance to be by the seaside.’ The brown eyes were curious as Ivy looked Mary up and down. ‘What about you?’
‘I was bombed out too,’ said Mary, ‘and thought it was a good chance to start afresh. I start at the Kodak place on Monday.’
The dimples reappeared in the urchin face. ‘You worked in a factory before?’ As Mary shook her head, she grinned. ‘I didn’t think so. You sound quite posh. But you’ll be all right,’ she added hastily. ‘I knows a lot of them girls, and they’re a good bunch. We can walk up there together on Monday cos I’m on early shift.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Mary with some relief, for she’d been dreading going on her own and trying to find her way around.
Ivy drained the last of her tea. ‘Right, come on, let me show you round while we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
Mary quickly finished her cup of tea, and followed the chatty little Ivy in a slight daze.
The dining room was full of dark, heavy furniture that had been polished to a gleam, and above the ornate marble fireplace was a gilt-framed portrait of a young woman in a blue silk dress and pearls. ‘She ’ad that done when she got engaged,’ said Ivy with a contemptuous curl of her lip.
Mary would have stayed to admire the painting, but Ivy was already halfway out of the door and heading across the hallway.
‘This ’ere’s what she calls ’er drawing room.’ Ivy crossed the floor to pull the blackout curtains and switch on the standard lamp. ‘It’s a smashing view, right to the sea, but you’ll get a better idea tomorrow when it’s light.’ She gazed round the room. ‘It’s ever so lovely, ain’t it? Like a palace, really. Me mum would think she’d died and gorn to ’eaven if she could live ’ere.’
Mary had eyes only for the beautiful baby grand that stood in the corner. She crossed the room and almost reverently lifted the lid. Pressing her finger gently on middle C, she heard the rich tone of a well-tuned instrument.
‘No one can play it,’ said Ivy. ‘I reckon she just likes to ’ave it there so people can admire it.’
Mary glanced over her shoulder nervously. ‘Do you think she’d mind if I tried it out? It’s got a lovely tone.’
Ivy’s eyes widened. ‘Cor, can you really play that thing – proper like?’ At Mary’s nod, she grinned impishly. ‘You’re full of surprises, ain’t yer?’ She shot a glance at the clock. ‘Go on then, but be quick. She’s bound to be back any minute.’
Mary pulled out the padded piano stool and sat down. Rubbing her stiff hands, she thought for a moment and then executed a series of scales to get her fingers supple. The tone was exquisite, and she forgot about Ivy and Mrs Williams and was soon lost in the sublime sound of one of Beethoven’s piano sonatas.
Neither of them heard the front door, or the footsteps coming down the hall, and were completely unaware of the woman who was now standing watching from the doorway.
As Mary came to the final, haunting notes of the first movement, she bent her head and slowly took her fingers off the keys. The worry and weariness of the day had been dispelled, and she knew she could put up with any discomfort while she had access to this wonderful instrument.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Ivy. ‘That were lovely – and you didn’t have no music, or nothing. You’re brilliant, Mary. You should be on the stage.’ She was grinning with delight. ‘What were it called?’
Mary was blushing at the praise. ‘Beethoven called it Quasi Una Fantasia, which roughly translated means “Almost a Fantasy”. But it became better known as the Moonlight Sonata after a music critic said that the first movement reminded him of how the moonlight fell over Lake Lucerne.’
‘That is all very commendable,’ said Doris as she strode into the room. ‘But I would have preferred it if you’d sought my permission before touching my piano.’
Mary leapt off the stool as Ivy quickly put herself behind the piano. Mary saw a carefully groomed woman in her early fifties who was wearing an expensive-looking wool dress, with real pearls in her ears and in a string round her neck. Her demeanour was not encouraging.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Williams,’ she stammered. ‘But I haven’t been able to play for such ages, and I simply couldn’t resist such a lovely instrument.’
Doris dipped her chin in regal acceptance of her praise and apology. ‘You must be Mary,’ she said grandly. ‘Where did you learn to play like that?’
‘My father taught me at first, and then I was lucky enough to have more formal lessons at school.’
The gaze sharpened. ‘Your father is a music teacher?’
‘No, he was a vicar.’ Mary eased from one foot to the other. This was like being interrogated by a headmistress, and she didn’t feel at all comfortable.
The plucked eyebrows rose. ‘A vicar? Well, well, you do surprise me.’ Doris suddenly seemed to notice Ivy, and glared at her. ‘What are you still doing in here? You should be starting on supper.’
‘Sorry,’ Ivy muttered and shot out of the room.
Mary carefully closed the piano lid and started edging towards the door. ‘I’d better go and help her,’ she murmured, as desperate to escape as Ivy was.
Doris waved her hand. ‘Ivy is perfectly capable of cooking supper on her own,’ she said dismissively. ‘Sit down and tell me all about yourself. I’m intrigued that a vicar’s daughter should want to work in a factory.’
Mary perched on the very edge of the silken upholstery, aware that she was under close scrutiny, and that her sweater and skirt were second-hand. She took a deep breath, determined not to be cowed by this imperious woman whose accent betrayed her social-climbing ambitions, and gave her a potted history of her background and how she’d come to be in Cliffehaven.
‘I felt I needed to do something for the war effort until I start my teaching course next year,’ she finished.
Doris lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and regarded her with something approaching excitement. ‘Well, I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet a respectable gel for a change. You have no idea how ghastly it has been to lodge East End guttersnipes in my home.’
Mary was about to protest when she blithely carried on. ‘I do a great deal of charity work, fund-raising for the many causes that are so desperate these days. I’m sure you wouldn’t object to playing at a concert here or there, or perhaps even at my son’s wedding.’
Mary was horrified. ‘Oh, I’m not really good enough for things like that,’ she said hastily.
‘Well, of course you are,’ insisted Doris. ‘We can’t allow a talent like yours to go to waste, now can we? After all, there is a war on, and you said you wanted to do your bit.’
‘Of course,’ stammered Mary most reluctantly. ‘But it will all depend on my shifts at the factory, so I really can’t promise anything.’
‘You leave that to me,’ said Doris firmly. ‘I have a great many very important friends, and once they’ve heard you play, I can assure you, the manager of the factory will certainly allow you to take time off.’
‘But I have to earn a living,’ protested Mary. ‘And if I keep taking time off the other girls will start to resent me.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Doris. ‘And what do you care whether such girls resent you or not? They are uneducated and not at all suitable colleagues for a girl of your class.’
She stubbed out her cigarette and didn’t seem to notice that Mary was silently fuming at her appalling snobbery. ‘I shall arrange for Lady Chumley and some of my other friends to call round on Sunday afternoon for a little recital,’ she announced with a gleam in her eyes. ‘But we don’t want anything too heavy. Perhaps a little of the Beethoven, followed by some Rachmaninov – then you could follow up with something from the stage or screen? That always goes down well.’
Mary gritted her teeth. ‘I have plans for Sunday,’ she said, desperately trying to think what they could be.
‘Then you’ll have to change them,’ Doris told her imperiously. ‘Now run along and get settled in while I telephone Lady Chumley to make the arrangements. I think it would be better if you take the second bedroom. You won’t want to be sharing with the likes of Ivy.’
‘Actually, I’d prefer to share,’ said Mary coldly.
The eyebrows shot up and she looked down her nose. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ Mary was firm. ‘Really.’
‘Well, I don’t have time to discuss this now,’ said Doris irritably. ‘Not with so many other things to organise.’
Mary followed her into the hall and slipped into the kitchen while she was busy dialling her friend’s number. ‘She’s the worst kind of snob,’ she hissed at Ivy, who was peeling potatoes. ‘How on earth do you put up with her being so rude?’
Ivy giggled. ‘I ignore her,’ she whispered back. ‘It’s all hot air, really, ain’t it? That Lady Chumley woman and her snooty cronies don’t like her at all, I can tell, and they only puts up with ’er cos she’s a whizz at fundraising and flattery.’
Mary rolled up her sleeves and found another knife to help with the potatoes. ‘Well, it looks as if I’m stuck with the lot of them on Sunday,’ she said crossly.
‘We’ll probably both be stuck, cos she’ll want me handing out the tea and sandwiches,’ Ivy replied gloomily. Then she grinned. ‘But at least you and me can share a room and ’ave a bit of a laugh. Thanks for that, Mary.’
Mary smiled back. ‘I’m glad you don’t mind, but she was so awful, I couldn’t possibly let her try and divide us up.’ Her smile broadened. ‘At least I’ll get the chance to play on that piano and practise sometimes – even if it does mean performing for her and her horrid friends.’
‘Good on yer, Mary. That’s the spirit. I’m going to enjoy having you about and no mistake.’