PEGGY HAD BEEN woken early by a fractious Daisy, and not wanting the whole house disturbed, she’d quickly pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, bundled her up and carried her into the kitchen.
What she saw there brought her to a stunned halt. With rising fury she regarded the table littered with dirty plates, breadcrumbs and raided jam and pickle jars – and the greasy frying pan on the top of the range as well as the numerous smeary bowls lined up on the floor. Jane was always the first one up, but she never left the kitchen in such a mess, so there was no doubt who the real culprits were.
A quick check on her larder showed there were no eggs, only the crust of the hated wheatmeal loaf, one onion, and a heel of cheese. The potatoes she’d been saving to fry for everyone’s breakfast had also gone, along with the last of the margarine and lard ration and most of the sugar.
Fairly vibrating with rage, she put Daisy in the playpen and was about to go down and give Ron a right royal ear-wigging when a bedraggled and clearly exhausted Rita traipsed in.
‘I can’t promise you breakfast,’ Peggy said, barely able to contain her temper. ‘Ron and Harvey have been through my larder like a plague of locusts. But don’t you worry, Rita. I’m about to go down and tear them off such a strip their ears will be ringing for a bloody week.’
Rita looked rather shocked by Peggy’s language, for she rarely swore. ‘You must be really cross,’ she said as she took in the mess, ‘and I understand, really I do. But please don’t tell them off, Auntie Peg. They’ve been up all night helping us rescue people from the bomb site on the seafront.’
‘That’s no excuse for raiding my larder,’ stormed Peggy.
‘Auntie Peg,’ the girl pleaded. ‘Please listen, and then you’ll understand why they both deserve more than just a good breakfast.’
Peggy tightened the belt on her dressing gown and folded her arms. ‘Well it better be good, Rita,’ she snapped. ‘Because I’ve just about had enough.’
‘They’re both heroes,’ said Rita, ‘especially Harvey, because he saved the life of a young mother and her baby tonight.’
Peggy’s temper dissolved immediately and she sat down at the table with a bump, as Rita described in detail everything that had happened.
‘We missed them entirely,’ Rita finished. ‘And if it hadn’t been for Harvey they could have died down there, because the whole thing was on the point of collapse.’
Peggy was chastened and she found that her hand was shaking as she lit a cigarette. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured. ‘Oh God, and to think I was about to go down there and give the pair of them an earful.’
Rita squeezed her hand in sympathy. ‘You weren’t to know.’
Peggy regarded her more closely and felt worse than ever. ‘You look so tired,’ she said. ‘It must have been a terrible night for everyone, and here I am moaning about a mess in my kitchen. At least they’ve left me tea, and if the hens have laid more eggs I could do you one with the last of the bread.’
‘Don’t worry about anything for me, Auntie Peg, I’ve drunk enough tea tonight to sink a battleship, and I had breakfast at the fire station.’ Rita pushed back from the table and began to collect the dirty dishes. ‘Come on, it won’t take long if we clear up together.’
Peggy took the dishes from her. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘you’re as exhausted as they are. Go and have a bath, then get to bed. I can do this.’ She patted the wan, grubby little face, and gave her a hug before nudging her towards the door.
‘I’ll probably sleep straight through,’ said Rita as she yawned. ‘Could you wake me up at five? I have to be back on duty again at seven.’ At Peggy’s nod, she trudged out and headed for the stairs in her soot-stained clothes, every movement of her small slender body making it clear she was completely drained.
Peggy stacked the dirty dishes on the wooden draining board, wiped down the table and replaced the lids on her raided pots of home-made jams and pickles. She looked down at Daisy who’d fallen back to sleep with her teddy bear in the playpen, and decided the washing-up could wait for a while.
She slumped back into the chair and gazed at Jim’s photograph on the mantelpiece. The Grand Hotel had been their favourite place to go for an evening when they were feeling flush and wanted to splash out, and she had many fond memories of the elegant dining room, the comfortable lounge bar, and the marvellous dance floor in the very grand ballroom. Now it was all gone – smashed to smithereens.
There had been so many changes to Cliffehaven since this awful war had begun that soon she wouldn’t be able to recognise the place – and if it went on for much longer, neither would Jim. There were the remains of a German fighter plane rusting amid the skeleton of the once-lovely pier; hotels, guest houses, the cinema and half the station buildings were gone, and the entire area behind the station had been firebombed flat. Not that it was too much of a loss, for it had been no more than a slum that should have been cleared years ago. And yet it had been home to Rita and a hundred other families, who’d been forced to find alternative accommodation.
The factories had flourished in the north of the town and new people were arriving every day, and what with the parks being turned into vegetable plots, their fine railings melted down for the war effort, and the majority of the town’s children sent away to live with strangers, it just didn’t feel the same any more.
And yet, Peggy realised, the nature of the people hadn’t changed. In fact they were more close-knit than ever, united in their determination to battle on against a common enemy. Churchill had talked about the need for blood, sweat, toil and tears, and the people of Cliffehaven had taken his message to their hearts, willingly giving everything they could to bring an end to this war.
She looked around her shabby, untidy kitchen and felt strengthened by its warmth and familiarity. She would get through today and tomorrow and every day until Jim and her children came home again, but for now she must pull herself together and get on with writing a shopping list and cleaning this kitchen.
Leaving her chair, she hunted out a piece of scrap paper and began to make a list of all the things she would need to restock her larder. Then she quickly washed up the dishes, scrubbed out the frying pan and cleaned the splattered grease from the top of the range. Once the floor had been swept of sugar and crumbs, she poked some life into the fire and used the last of the oats to make a thin but warming porridge.
Daisy was still asleep, and the others wouldn’t be down for at least another hour, so she fetched a bowl and went down the cellar steps intending to search the henhouse for any fresh eggs. But as she reached the scullery, she could hear the resonant snores coming from Ron’s bedroom. Tiptoeing down the narrow corridor she peeked in, and couldn’t help but smile.
Ron was lying on the unmade bed, flat on his back, still fully dressed and snoring for England. His good trousers and shoes were ruined, his shirt, hair and face were black with soot and grime, and his tweed jacket had a tear in the sleeve.
As for Harvey, he was stretched alongside Ron and also snoring. His brindled coat was matted and filthy, and his two front paws had been bandaged in what looked suspiciously like strips from one of Ron’s old shirts.
Peggy watched them sleeping, the tears blinding her. They were heroes – her heroes – and she couldn’t have loved them more than she did right at this moment.
Mary was woken by the sound of someone moving round the room. Startled and disorientated, she sat up and peered into the gloom. ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s only me,’ said Ivy. ‘Who did you think it was? Your Australian?’
Mary realised where she was and sank back into the pillows. ‘He’s not my Australian at all,’ she replied as she yawned and snuggled back beneath the covers. ‘What on earth are you doing up at this time of the morning, anyway?’
‘I’m going to work. And it’s not that early, it’s nearly six.’
Mary groaned as Ivy pulled back the thick blackout curtains and the room was filled with a grey light. ‘Did you have to do that?’ she asked as she pulled the sheet over her head.
‘And here’s me thinking you was a country girl, up and out milking cows and such before it were even light,’ Ivy teased as she finished lacing her sturdy boots.
‘I lived in a rectory, and don’t know one end of a cow from another. Go away and let me sleep.’
Ivy bounced on the end of the bed. ‘You’ll have to get used to early mornings once you start at the factory, Mary. Late nights an’ all, cos like the good old Windmill Theatre, they never close.’
Mary was now fully awake, so she sat up and gently swatted Ivy with a pillow. ‘Are you always this annoying in the morning?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied blithely as she dodged the pillow, grabbed her gas-mask box and coat, and headed for the bedroom door. ‘I’ll see yer tonight.’ With that she closed the door and was gone.
Mary sighed deeply and reached for her dressing gown. It would have been nice to have had a bit of a lie-in after the late night, but she was now fully awake, so she might as well follow Ivy’s example and get on with the day.
She dug her feet into her slippers and, picking up her washbag, hurried quietly along the landing to the bathroom. It was quite cold, with gleaming white tiles, and the claw-footed tub was deep. Pristine towels were folded neatly on a shelf, and a quick glance into the wall cabinet revealed a sparse collection of toothpaste, talcum powder, shampoo and bath salts. As these were all clearly recognisable as having come from Woolworths, Mary realised they must belong to Ivy. No doubt Mrs Williams kept her expensive toiletries in her bedroom so they wouldn’t get used by her lodgers.
Having washed and cleaned her teeth, Mary went back to the bedroom and got dressed. She chose her warm skirt, a white blouse and the blue sweater. Ankle socks and her sturdiest pair of lace-up shoes completed the outfit, for she was planning to explore the town today, and perhaps spend some time on the seafront.
She heard Mrs Williams moving about, and wondered what the routine of this house was in the mornings. Would she be expected to cook breakfast for them both – or just for herself? Or did Mrs Williams actually do it? It was all a bit awkward, and she didn’t feel she could go down and start poking about in cupboards or making tea without asking permission first. If only she’d asked Ivy what the form was before she went rushing off. But it was too late now, so she decided she would wait until she heard the woman go downstairs.
Feeling restless and rather hungry, she made the bed and tidied up the clothes Ivy had left strewn all over the floor, then brushed her hair. Going over to the window, she drew back the thin sprigged curtains, lifted the white nets, and gasped in delight.
The view was quite magnificent, for the sun was rising above the sea and she had an uninterrupted panorama of the whole of the promenade right to the white cliffs that towered at the very end. And although the rusting ribs of the enemy plane looked forlorn amid the crumbling remains of the pier, and the coils of barbed wire and gun emplacements were ugly additions to the promenade, they couldn’t detract from the beauty of the sun-gilded sea, which rolled like silk on to the pebble beach.
Mary watched the waves, almost mesmerised by their symmetry and rhythm, and then she slowly drank in the majesty of the towering cliffs with their brows of green, the long, gentle arc of the beach, and the tall houses lining the street which followed this curve.
She opened the window and leaned out to breathe in the clean, crisp, salty air, admire the clear blue sky and listen to the cries of the wheeling gulls. As her gaze drifted over the numerous rooftops to the lines of terraces that climbed the hill in the distance, she realised that Cliffehaven must have been an elegant town before the war. She could imagine the holidaymakers walking along the promenade, or sitting in deckchairs on the beach with their picnics while children paddled in the shallows. The pier would have been lit up, and offering music, dancing and variety shows – and in the hotels there would have been waiters in white coats serving cocktails to women dressed in silks and furs.
The sound of footsteps passing the door and going down the stairs brought her out of her daydream and she shut the window. Checking that she looked presentable, she took a deep breath to prepare herself, and then left the bedroom.
‘There you are,’ said Mrs Williams, who was making a pot of tea in the kitchen. Her hair was immaculately groomed, and she was wearing full make-up and a beautifully cut tweed skirt and jacket over a white blouse. There were pearls in her ears and around her neck, so she was probably planning on going somewhere important today.
‘Good morning,’ said Mary as she hovered in the doorway.
The gimlet gaze scrutinised her. ‘I hope you are not suffering any ill effects from your less than salubrious night out – but if you are, it is entirely your own fault, so don’t expect any sympathy.’
‘I’m feeling very well, thank you, Mrs Williams, and had an excellent night’s sleep. May I help with anything?’
‘No thank you,’ she replied rather sharply. ‘I prefer to prepare my own breakfast. When I have done so, you may prepare yours.’
‘I brought down my food stamps,’ said Mary as she placed them on the table. ‘I was wondering,’ she went on hesitantly, ‘may I use the telephone to call my friend Mrs Boniface to let her know I’ve arrived safely?’
‘Certainly not. I cannot allow my instrument to be used by all and sundry, and I have to keep a close eye on the bills which are high enough already. There is a public telephone box in the High Street which is perfectly adequate.’
Well, thought Mary, that tells me. ‘Then may I ask where the nearest air-raid shelter is, and what the usual daily routine is?’
Doris poured out two cups of tea and placed them on the kitchen table. ‘There is an Anderson shelter in the back garden. I simply couldn’t abide being enclosed with so many ghastly people in the public one behind the park. One never knows what one might catch,’ she said with a sniff.
Mary made no comment.
‘Your breakfast is to be eaten in here, and you must ensure that you leave everything clean and tidy. I am not always here for luncheon as I am terribly busy with my various committees, so you may make yourself a sandwich or something. Ivy usually cooks the evening meal if she’s not working, because I have a frightfully packed schedule and cannot possibly be expected to cater for everyone.’ She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘I am trying to teach her the refinements of good housekeeping and cooking, but sadly she’s still very slapdash.’
Mary realised she was expected to make some sort of placatory comment. ‘It must be very difficult for you with your lodgers coming in at such odd hours.’
‘It is a trial, certainly, but one does what one can in these troubled times.’ She broke an egg into the pan of swirling water, placed two slices of bread in the smart-looking electric toaster and carefully drew up the sides until they clipped at the top. ‘I used to have a girl who came in to cook and clean, but she decided to leave for the dubious delights of the factory production line, so I must soldier on alone.’
Mary sipped her tea, thinking how much she disliked this woman.
‘My son has a very important post with the MOD and he occasionally stays overnight, and as I have warned Ivy, I expect you girls to conduct yourself with utter decorum – especially when using the bathroom in the mornings. My Anthony is to be married soon, and his work is stressful enough without having to see you girls in your nightclothes or listen to your silly chatter.’
Mary wondered if he was as priggish as his mother, and felt very sorry for Suzy who was marrying him. To have this woman as a mother-in-law would be a complete nightmare. ‘I met your sister Peggy last night, and three of the girls who lodge with her. She seems very nice,’ she said carefully.
Doris tutted with disapproval. ‘My sister has very few refinements, and her habitual use of that ghastly public house is not something I wish to discuss.’ She scooped out the egg and placed it on the golden toast. ‘My future daughter-in-law is thankfully from a most respectable and well-connected family, and although she’s far too well-mannered to say anything, I’m sure she must have found it a trial to have to live at Beach View.’
From what Peggy had told her last night, Suzy was a lovely girl who had few airs and graces and worked extremely hard as a theatre nurse at the large hospital. Mary just hoped she was of strong enough character to withstand this woman’s constant and undermining snobbery.
‘You may now cook your breakfast, and then I suggest you go and practise the pieces you’ll be playing tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I’m not at all sure I really know that music well enough to play for an audience,’ Mary replied, as she regarded the toaster with some trepidation.
‘There is sheet music in the piano stool.’ Doris loaded her breakfast on to a tray. ‘I have made all the arrangements now, so you’ll just have to manage.’ She picked up the tray. ‘I am expecting you to do me proud,’ she said and left the kitchen.
Mrs Williams was clearly the sort of woman who could steamroller her way through life and didn’t care one iota if it was awkward or inconvenient for other people.
Mary gave a sigh, eyed the toaster and decided she’d just have bread and marge with her egg. She’d never come across a contraption like it before, and was terrified of breaking it. Once her egg was cooked, she hunted out cutlery and china, poured a second cup of tea, and sat down.
As she ate, she planned her day. She would practise for an hour on the piano, and then go and explore until teatime. She should probably tell Mrs Williams about the arrangement she’d come to with Rosie, but had a nasty feeling that wouldn’t go down terribly well, so decided to leave it for another day. No good would come from rocking the boat so early on, and she suspected that the seas would always be choppy with Mrs Williams at the helm.
Ron woke to discover the day was half gone, and that Harvey had deserted him. He rolled off the unmade bed and groaned as he stretched. He ached all over, his hands were stiff and sore, and all that clambering down tunnels had done no favours to the pain in his back, which was particularly sharp this morning. No doubt the shrapnel was on the move again.
He discarded his ruined shoes and the rest of his filthy clothes, then pulled on his old warm dressing gown. He would have a bath and then eat something, and because Rosie wouldn’t need him until tonight, he’d go and see Stan up at his allotment to ask if he had any more seedlings going spare. A walk might ease his back, and after the unpleasant fug of his bedroom, it would be good to get some fresh air into his lungs.
He stomped up the cellar steps to find Peggy and Cordelia busy in the kitchen as Daisy crawled about on the floor. Harvey was stretched out in front of the range, and he raised his head to look at Ron, his eyes soulful as his ears drooped.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Ron asked. ‘To be sure you’re looking very sorry for yourself this fine day.’
‘I’ve given him a bath,’ said Peggy. ‘He stank to high heaven and it took me ages to brush all the clumps of muck out of his fur. I’ve also put cream and clean bandages on his poor old paws. He’s scratched and torn them quite badly after digging in all that rubble.’
‘No wonder he’s looking so down in the mouth,’ Ron muttered as he stroked the silky head. ‘He hates having baths.’
‘Much like his master,’ said Peggy. She threw her arms round him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘What the divil’s that for?’ he blustered as he went pink with embarrassment.
‘It’s for being a hero,’ she replied fondly.
‘I’m no such thing,’ he protested.
‘Oh, but you are,’ trilled Cordelia, who was industriously chopping cabbage. ‘We’ve had the man from the local paper knocking on the door asking to interview you, and there have even been calls from the national papers – and just about everyone in Cliffehaven has been round today wanting to see and congratulate you.’
Ron frowned and tightened the belt on his dressing gown. ‘Well it’s all stuff and nonsense,’ he rumbled. ‘I’m going to have a bath, and if anyone else calls, tell them I’ve gone to Timbuctoo.’
‘The girl you saved rang earlier,’ said Peggy. ‘She sounds terribly young, but she’s on the mend and is anxious to see you and Harvey so she can thank you for saving her baby’s life. She said that Matron has agreed you can go in at any time.’
He glowered at her from beneath his bushy brows, still uneasy at all the unwarranted fuss. ‘She’s all right then?’
Peggy smiled. ‘She and little Louise will probably be discharged tomorrow. Her mother is coming down from the Midlands, and she and the baby will go back with her to live.’
‘Well, I’m glad everything turned out all right in the end,’ Ron said. ‘Now I’ll be having me bath.’
‘Try having a shave as well,’ advised Cordelia with a hint of asperity. ‘You never know, you might get your picture in the papers, so you should try to look at least half respectable.’
‘Over my dead body,’ he muttered as he stomped into the hall and clumped up the stairs.
An hour later Ron was walking up the High Street. His natural abhorrence for doing what people expected of him meant that he’d decided not to shave, and was wearing his favourite old corduroy trousers which were held up at the waist by a length of garden twine, a warm shirt, a thick but rather ragged sweater and his poacher’s coat.
Harvey was trotting along beside him and didn’t smell quite as sweet as he had when he’d left Beach View, for he’d rushed off at the first opportunity to roll in some fox droppings.
Ron was strolling along, minding his own business, and enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. But it seemed the story of last night’s events had spread throughout the town, and as he tried to make his way up the street he kept being stopped by people who wanted to talk about them and congratulate him on his bravery. It was all very embarrassing, and by the time he’d reached the Town Hall he was feeling decidedly grumpy.
Harvey, of course, was delighted by all the fuss, but people soon recoiled when they smelled him, and Ron began to wish that he too was redolent of fox droppings. It was certainly a deterrent to being pestered.
He pulled down the peak of his battered cap and shoved up the collar of his coat in an effort to avoid being recognised, but as he stomped past the Home and Colonial he was almost blinded by a flash of light. He blinked and glared at the man with the camera. It was the reporter from the local paper. ‘I never gave you permission to do that,’ he barked as he strode menacingly towards him.
The man edged away. ‘Would you like to say a few words for our readers?’
Ron bunched his fists. ‘To be sure I’ll have a few words for you,’ he growled, ‘but they’ll not be suitable for your rag.’
‘Now, Ron, don’t get het up,’ the man said as he backed hurriedly away. ‘You’re a hero, and the public want to hear your story.’
‘Well the public can mind their own damned business,’ he roared.
The man shrugged – he was an old hand at dealing with reluctant interviewees – but clearly he realised it wouldn’t be wise to hang about any longer. With a cheerful grin, he turned and hurried down the street towards the newspaper offices.
‘Ach, to be sure, Harvey, there’ll be no peace for us today,’ Ron muttered. He carried on walking up the hill. If this was what happened when a man and his dog did something that anyone else might do, then he’d had enough of it. Hero indeed. He was nothing of the sort. The real heroes were the lads doing their bit on the battlefields and in the air and seas.
He checked that Stan wasn’t at the station and hurried over the humpbacked bridge and up the hill, through the wasteland that had once been home to little Rita and hundreds of others, until he came to the allotments. But even here he was called to and congratulated and made a general fuss of, so he was glad when he reached Stan’s quiet corner and could hide in comfort behind his shed.
‘I’ll just say it once.’ Stan got up from his deckchair to make a pot of tea on the primus stove. ‘Well done. You did a marvellous thing last night.’
‘It was Harvey, not me,’ Ron replied grumpily as he plumped down into the other deckchair. ‘It’s a lot of fuss about nothing. I’ve even had that blasted reporter flashing his blasted camera at me. To be sure the only consolation I have is that by tomorrow night it will all be forgotten and the newspaper will be wrapped round someone’s fish and chips.’
Stan made the tea while Ron hosed Harvey down from the standpipe and made him smell better. Once that was done they sat enjoying the sunshine as they talked about seedlings and cabbages, and then went on to discuss Jim’s posting abroad, Ruby and her young, injured Canadian, and Ethel’s masterly cooking.
Ron began to relax finally and removed his heavy coat as Harvey went off to explore the possibility of cadging sandwiches or biscuits from the other allotment holders. It was very pleasant in the sun, and no one bothered him with their talk of heroes and such, so he could enjoy some peace with his friend before he took the back roads home.
‘Rosie keeps a good pint,’ said Stan. ‘It’s always a pleasure to drink in the Anchor.’
‘Aye, she does that.’ Ron puffed on his pipe. ‘But it’s only because I look after the barrels and keep the pipes clean.’ He shifted in the deckchair. ‘It was a good night, wasn’t it? That little Mary certainly knows how to entertain a crowd.’
‘Yes, Ethel and Ruby thoroughly enjoyed themselves, and it was lovely to see all the young people having such fun.’
Ron chuckled. ‘To be sure I can see the pound signs in Rosie’s eyes now the girl has agreed to play every weekend.’
‘She’ll certainly bring the customers in,’ agreed Stan. ‘But I pity her having to live with Doris.’
Ron grimaced. ‘Aye, ’tis not something I’d wish to be doing after she dumped herself on us when Peggy was laid up.’
Stan dunked a biscuit in his tea. ‘By the way, there’s something I meant to ask you, but never got the chance last night. Do you know a Cyril Fielding?’
Ron froze with his pipe halfway to his lips. Hearing that name after so many years had come as a shock, and he could feel the hairs prickling on his nape. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Mary asked if I knew him, and I’ve been trying to place the name ever since. I’m positive I’ve heard it before, but I’m damned if I can remember how or when.’
Ron’s thoughts were churning. He wasn’t really surprised that Stan couldn’t place Cyril, for it hadn’t been him who’d had the run-in with him all those years ago. He pressed the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe and took his time to relight it so he could think how to respond. ‘Why was Mary asking after him?’ he asked quietly.
‘I have no idea.’ Stan eyed him sharply. ‘You know who it is, don’t you? So come on then, put me out of my misery.’
Ron told him and Stan stared back in disbelief. ‘Good grief,’ he managed. ‘But why would a young girl like Mary want to find him, of all people?’
‘That’s what you’re going to have to find out, Stan.’
‘Why me?’ he spluttered.
‘Because she knows you a bit better than she knows me,’ Ron replied firmly. ‘And I can’t get involved with this. You know I can’t.’
Stan thought about this as he lit a cigarette. ‘We’ve only exchanged a few words,’ he said eventually. ‘But she seems to get on all right with Ethel. Perhaps she should be the one to talk to her?’ he suggested hopefully.
Ron shook his head. ‘The fewer people who know about this, the better,’ he declared. ‘I know Ethel means well, but she’s got a loose tongue, Stan, and you know how gossip can spread.’
‘Aye, you could be right,’ Stan muttered regretfully. ‘But how on earth do you expect me to get her to confide in me?’
‘Just be your usual self. You managed it with little Ruby well enough, and she didn’t know you from Adam when she arrived.’ Ron puffed on his pipe, his thoughts in a whirl as he tried to figure out the best way of going about things.
He finally came to a decision. ‘The next time you see Mary, tell her you’ve forgotten the name and ask her to remind you. Then you can ask why she’s looking for him.’ He gripped Stan’s arm. ‘Do not under any circumstances let on that you know who it is. I’m deadly serious about that, Stan.’
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Stan replied grumpily. ‘I am blessed with some common sense, you know.’
Ron did, but he’d had to make certain Stan understood how important it was to shield the girl from any unpleasantness. She was, after all, very young and still innocent enough to need protection.
‘When you’ve found out her story, come to me and we’ll work out what to do next. It might not be anything at all serious and we can just fob her off by saying we don’t know him. But there’s always the danger that she’ll ask others about him, and sooner or later he’ll get to hear about it, and that could cause a whole heap of trouble.’
‘God, what a mess,’ sighed Stan. ‘I do wish you hadn’t dumped all this on me. I was having a lovely peaceful couple of hours off, and now you’ve ruined it.’
‘I’m sorry. But it’s more than my hide is worth to be seen getting involved in this one.’
‘I realise that. But you’ll owe me, Ron.’
‘To be sure we’ve been owing each other favours for over fifty years, my friend. Now, pour me another cup of that fine tea. A man gets thirsty from all this talking, and I’ve yet to ask you about your spare seedlings.’
Stan grinned. ‘I might have known you’d only come up here to cadge something,’ he said without rancour. ‘And I suppose you’d like one of my cheese sandwiches to go with the tea?’
Ron grinned back. ‘To be sure you know me too well, Stan, and a cheese sandwich would go down a treat. I was wondering when you’d get round to offering me one.’