MARY HAD SPENT a lovely relaxed and homely evening at Beach View. Rita and Fran were on duty, but Cordelia, Jane, Suzy and Sarah had been warm and welcoming, and the stew had been delicious. They had commiserated with her over having to lodge with Doris, and chattered away nineteen to the dozen about Suzy’s wedding plans as they lingered over the meal and several cups of tea.
Unlike the routine in Doris’s fancy house, everyone mucked in willingly without a word from Peggy, and they’d set to on the washing-up while she’d settled Daisy in her cot. The house might have been shabby, but the atmosphere was friendly and it was clear that the girls all adored Peggy, as well as the elderly Cordelia, and they gently teased Cordelia about her gentleman friend Bertram, which made her blush and twitter.
Once the kitchen was tidy again, they’d settled down by the fire. The other girls got out their knitting or mending, and Mary helped to roll Cordelia’s beautiful new wool into balls as they regaled her with Ron and Harvey’s heroic efforts of Friday night.
As the clock struck ten and Mary reluctantly prepared to leave, Peggy had been rather put out that there was still no sight of Ron, for she’d been hoping he would walk Mary back to her billet. Mary had assured her she would be fine, and had left the boarding house armed not only with a torch but with the certain knowledge that she’d been amongst true friends tonight, and that Peggy Reilly would keep her promise and be there for her should things go wrong.
The house was in darkness and utterly silent as she’d tiptoed up the stairs to find that the blackout curtains in the bedroom had not been pulled, and Ivy had yet to come home. Tired after the long day, she’d quickly used the bathroom, set the alarm on her clock, and climbed into bed with a contented sigh. She was asleep within minutes and didn’t even hear Ivy coming in very much later.
The alarm shrilled at six o’clock and Ivy groaned as she pulled the pillow over her head. Mary shot out of bed, eager not to be late on her first day at work. ‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ she urged as she tugged at the pillow. ‘It’s time to get up.’
Ivy clutched at the pillow. ‘Go away,’ she moaned.
Mary grinned as she bounced on the end of the bed. The boot was on the other foot today. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re properly awake,’ she said. She gave Ivy a nudge and then went to open the curtains.
‘Gawd ’elp us,’ groaned Ivy as she struggled to sit up. ‘Yer worse than me mum.’
Mary ruffled her already tousled head. ‘That’s what you get for being a dirty stop-out,’ she teased. ‘Good night, was it?’
Ivy’s gamine face lit up with a naughty grin. ‘I ain’t telling you nuffing,’ she said. ‘Now clear off and sort yerself out while I try and wake up properly.’
Returning from the bathroom, Mary dressed in slacks and sweater, and her comfortable lace-up shoes. Unlike Ivy, she wasn’t expected to wear heavy boots and dungarees, and would be given a coverall to protect her clothes. She found her scarf and had to spend some minutes tying up her hair and getting the thing knotted above her forehead. Eyeing her reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile. She looked like a real worker now.
There was thankfully no sign of Doris while they cooked and ate their very early breakfast of dried scrambled egg on toast, and drank cups of strong tea. Grabbing their overcoats and gas-mask boxes, they hurried down Havelock Road and began the long trawl up the hill to the factory estate.
Surrounded by high wire fencing, overshadowed by many barrage balloons, and guarded at the gate by a soldier armed with a rifle, the estate was an imposing and rather forbidding place. They joined the long queue of other girls and older men, and had to show their identification papers and Mary’s letter from the labour exchange confirming her job at the Kodak factory.
Once they were through the gate, Mary followed Ivy as she weaved her way through the bustling crowds of people entering and leaving the great corrugated-iron buildings that had been painted a uniform grey.
‘They fill flak jackets with kapok in that building there, make camouflage netting in there and barrage balloons over there,’ said Ivy. ‘That’s the tool factory where Ruby and her mum work, and behind that there’s the really big factory wot makes parts for planes.’
They came to a long, single-storey building where the sound of a wireless programme blared out above the cacophony of loud chatter. Ivy continued, ‘That’s the canteen, and beside it are the washrooms and lavs. We have two ten-minute breaks for tea during each shift, and an hour for a main meal. You’ll know when it’s time cos a bloody great ’ooter blasts off and it’s a stampede fer the door.’
‘Too blooming right,’ said Mabel as Ivy’s friends joined them outside the canteen. ‘It’s a relief to get out in the fresh air to have a fag after being cooped up with a load of flaming explosives and cordite, I can tell you.’
‘That’s where the ammunition factory is.’ Freda pointed towards the roof of a distant building. ‘They keep us well away from everyone in case we blow up.’
They all giggled and linked arms. ‘Best of luck, Mary,’ said Gladys. ‘See you at lunch as we’re all on the same shift.’
‘We’d better get a move on or we’ll both be late,’ muttered Ivy. ‘You’re over there,’ she told Mary as she pointed to a large corrugated shed with heavy doors that were tightly closed. ‘You go in that small door at the side, see? They ’ave to keep the place clean cos of all the expensive machinery they’ve got in there, which is why the big doors are always shut except during an emergency.’
Mary’s mouth went dry and there was a flutter of panic in her stomach. ‘Do I just walk in? Who do I tell that I’ve arrived? How do I find my way around?’
Ivy put her arm about her waist and gave her a grin. ‘Lawks, yer really are green, ain’t yer, gel? Come on, I’ll go with yer and make sure yer don’t get lost.’
Mary was very grateful, but it didn’t make her any less nervous as Ivy opened the door and they stepped inside to find their way barred by a second door and an officious-looking woman in army uniform.
‘This is as far as I can go, gel,’ said Ivy as she squeezed Mary’s hand. ‘Good luck.’
‘Identification,’ boomed the woman as she held out her hand.
Mary fumbled her identification card and letter from her coat pocket and dropped both on to the concrete floor. She heard the woman tut and sigh and she scrabbled about in embarrassment until, red-faced, she finally handed the paperwork over.
Her papers were closely scrutinised and given back. ‘I am Sergeant Norris,’ the woman said briskly. ‘You will always address me as Sergeant. Follow me.’ She turned on her heel as if on a parade ground, marched to the second door and opened it.
Mary gazed at the grey paint on the iron walls and concrete floor and the strings of lamps that hung from the raftered ceiling. It was a huge, cool, clean space that hummed with the sound of machinery. A wireless was playing softly in the background as line upon line of silent women sat at long trestle tables sorting through stacks of rustling paper slips. On the far side of this vast place stood several very large machines.
‘Pay attention, Jones. I don’t have time to say everything twice.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’ Mary almost stood to attention as she listened carefully and learned how to clock in at the beginning of every shift, and then clock out again at the end. Then she followed the doughty figure of her guide as each process was explained.
‘We deal only with the outgoing airgraphs here,’ the sergeant said as she reached the first table, where women in white coats were handling what seemed to be endless slips of paper. ‘Incoming mail goes straight to Kodak’s factory in Wealdstone. These women are sorting the airgraphs according to the service or theatre of war of the recipient.’
She went to stand by the table, her gimlet eyes watching every movement, and Mary noticed that none of the women dared look up or falter in their work. She was clearly very much in charge and ran the place with frightening efficiency.
‘The airgraphs from naturalised British citizens, or nationals from enemy countries, have to be marked accordingly by the sender. These are also sorted here and put to one side so they can be thoroughly scrutinised by the censors.’
The sergeant marched on deeper into the factory. ‘Everything has to go through the censors for each of the services. When they are passed, they will then be numbered and stamped.’ She looked proudly at yet another long table where around twenty women of all ages were stamping the airgraphs, their speed so fast it made Mary blink with admiration.
‘Yes, there’s no machine to compare with the swift right arm and the deft left finger and thumb of a woman worker,’ declared the sergeant with a satisfied nod. She turned away and Mary meekly followed.
They came to an enormous piece of machinery where a girl in a white coat sat at what looked like a flat desk with a slit in the top. ‘You will see that each airgraph is held inside the slot for a matter of only seconds. This activates the camera beneath the desk, and the image is photographed in miniature on the 16-millimetre film which is 100 feet long. When it arrives at its destination, it will be enlarged to approximately a third of its original size and printed on to sensitised paper. Then it is placed in a brown window envelope and delivered to the recipient.’
She moved to where the endless strip of film was slowly being wound into a tin canister. ‘A film such as this will carry the reduced images of 1,700 airgraphs and weigh five and a half ounces. That number of letters would weigh 50 lb. This is vital to the war effort, for it takes up less space in our aircraft and ships, and the lighter weight means more vital, heavier equipment can be transported in its stead.’
‘That all sounds marvellous,’ said Mary. ‘But what happens if the films get lost because of enemy attack?’
The woman stiffened as if she’d been insulted. ‘That has happened only once, and the delay in getting the mail to our boys was minimal because we always make two copies of each airgraph. When the flying boat Clare was sunk back in September ’41, it was carrying mail from India, East and South Africa. Upon confirmation of that loss, the countries of origin were quickly contacted by telegraph and the duplicates of the lost films were received in London on the 15th of October. They were processed and delivered to the recipients within three days.’
‘Goodness,’ breathed Mary in admiration.
‘Indeed,’ she replied smugly. ‘Now we’ve wasted enough time with chit-chat. You will begin at the sorting tables under the supervision of Cartwright. There is to be no talking, no eating or drinking – and absolutely no smoking. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
Mary was handed a long brown duster coat that buttoned down the front before being led back to the first line of tables. ‘Wear that at all times when you are on duty,’ she was told. ‘This is Cartwright, and that is your seat. You are not to leave it unless there is a raid or an emergency – or it’s time for your break.’
‘Whew,’ breathed Mary as she sat down next to a tall willowy girl with grey eyes and wisps of fair hair drifting from beneath her headscarf. ‘Is she always like that?’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ the girl said without moving her lips as she continued to sort through the airgraphs. ‘The name’s Jenny, by the way.’
‘I’m Mary.’
‘Get stuck in and work as quickly as you can. The old girl has eyes everywhere.’
Mary looked at the piles of airgraphs in front of her, worked out what went where and made a start. It was easy, monotonous work, but the thought of all those men receiving letters from their loved ones kept her going until the hooter went at ten.
The factory erupted with noise as chairs were pushed back and the chattering began to coincide with the tramp of feet hurrying towards the door. Mary rose from her chair, eased her stiff neck and shoulders and followed Jenny out of the building. The time had flown past, and, thirsty from the dry atmosphere, she was looking forward to a cup of refreshing tea.
Having left Stan at the allotment the previous afternoon, Ron had rather reluctantly gone to the hospital to see the girl he’d rescued and her baby, to satisfy himself that neither of them had suffered any permanent injuries. Her mother had been sitting by the bed, and she’d flung her arms round him and sobbed wetly against his neck, which had been horribly embarrassing. To make things worse the girl, who was feeding the baby, had burst into tears too, and the other women on the ward started making a fuss of him and Harvey.
Harvey had got carried away by all this attention, and had tried to climb on the bed so he could inspect the baby. Matron’s sudden appearance had them beating a hasty retreat to the Anchor where Rosie had cooked him a lovely tea of sausage, onions and mashed potato, which he’d washed down with a couple of pints of nice warm bitter.
Harvey had done all right too, for he’d also had sausage mixed with special biscuit, which he ate from a bowl next to Monty’s. Both he and Ron had stayed late after the pub was shut, so that they could all enjoy their last private evening together before Tommy turned up the following day.
Now it was morning, and Ron had gone out early to walk the two dogs up in the hills and try to get some rabbits for the pot. He’d returned Monty to the Anchor and had sat down to a delicious filling breakfast before he helped to change the barrels and bring up the crates from the cellar. There were a couple of repair jobs to do, and after he’d boarded over parts of the cellar ceiling to stop any more plaster falling off, he’d dithered about upstairs, reluctant to go home.
‘You’re getting under my feet,’ said Rosie rather crossly as she tried to hoover the carpet and get the spare bedroom ready for her brother.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ he rumbled. ‘I walk your dog and mend your ceiling, and now I’m being a nuisance.’
Rosie sighed and gave him a hug. ‘Sorry, Ron. I didn’t mean to be sharp with you, but I’m feeling a bit anxious.’
‘When’s Tommy due to arrive?’
She shrugged. ‘He didn’t say in his letter, just that he was being released today.’
Ron gathered her into his arms and gave her a kiss. ‘To be sure, I love the bones of you, Rosie, and I hate the thought of him here.’
She nodded against his shoulder. ‘I’m not overjoyed by it either, but he’s all the family I have and I can’t leave him in that prison.’
Ron thought it was the best place for him, but knew better than to say so, for love him or loathe him, Rosie was protective of her younger brother. ‘Ach, I’d better be leaving you to it,’ he said after kissing her again. ‘Peggy’s got a list as long as her arm of things for me to do, and I can’t avoid it any longer.’
‘You’ll come in tonight?’
‘Aye, you can be sure of that.’
He whistled to Harvey who was lying on the couch next to Monty, and they went downstairs and out into the street. Now Tommy was expected, Ron would make it his business to keep an eye on Rosie, for he knew how easily the man could manipulate her – and before too long he’d be behind the bar, helping himself to free drinks, and acting the friendly host.
Harvey raced on ahead as they climbed the hill towards Beach View, and was lying on the back step panting as Ron came through the gate.
‘It’s about time you showed up,’ Peggy greeted him, as she worked the wringer over the stone sink in the scullery. ‘There are a dozen and one things that need doing round the house, and I’m too busy with the weekly wash to get to the shops.’
Ron gave a deep sigh and looked with longing at his shed. He had hoped to while away a couple of hours in there to read his newspaper and smoke his pipe, but Peggy would evidently not be happy about that. He turned on the outside tap to fill Harvey’s tin bowl and then went to fetch the heavy basket of wet washing from the scullery, which he carried into the garden and placed beneath the clothes line.
Peggy nodded her thanks. ‘The window in my bedroom is still rattling, and the shelf under the kitchen sink is so bowed with damp and rot it’s become useless. I’d like you to mend the kitchen chair, clean out the fire in the range and bring me in more logs, and when you’ve done that, the front-door hinges need oiling.’
‘Ach, to be sure, you’re not wanting much, are ye?’
‘If you did each thing as I asked, they wouldn’t mount up,’ said Peggy as she briskly hung out the washing.
‘Aye, well, I’ll just have a smoke first, then I’m all yours,’ he replied as he opened his shed door and plonked down into the deckchair. He could see she wasn’t at all happy, but that was a long list and a man could only do one thing at a time.
He lit his pipe and puffed contentedly as he contemplated his vegetable garden. The winter lettuces, beetroot, parsley and radishes were planted in wooden troughs and covered with glass to protect them from frost. The peas and broad beans were doing well and would be a good crop come December and January. There were lines of spinach, chard and kale in another wooden trough, and the carrots, leeks, onions, shallots and potatoes were flourishing. All in all, it was a most satisfactory sight. Now he had Stan’s beetroot to plant, he would have to dig out some of the old cloches to cover them with.
‘I went to Doris’s for afternoon tea yesterday,’ said Peggy. ‘Young Mary is an accomplished pianist, and she played for us all quite beautifully. My sister was on her high horse as usual, but the girl did actually manage to stand up to her.’ She grinned. ‘As did Ivy, so there’s hope yet for the pair of them.’
Ron nodded, for he knew she wasn’t really expecting an answer.
‘Mary came back with me and had tea with us all,’ Peggy carried on. ‘She fitted in so well with everyone, I was quite tempted to ask her to stay. After all, I’ve got that spare bedroom.’
Ron lowered his brows and clenched his teeth round his pipe stem. ‘That could cause trouble between you and Doris.’
‘Hmmph, it wouldn’t be anything new, would it?’ She snapped the creases out of a blouse before she pegged it on to the line. ‘But I do realise it would make it very awkward for her – and I couldn’t ask Mary and not Ivy. And if I did that, the billeting people would be on Doris’s back to take in others.’
Peggy paused for a moment, deep in thought, before selecting another blouse. ‘Doris might be difficult, but her home is comfortable and the girls are well fed. Perhaps I shouldn’t meddle.’
‘That’d be a first,’ he rumbled.
‘There’s no need to be grumpy, Ron,’ she retorted. ‘I was just saying, that’s all. And if the girls really aren’t happy there, then I wouldn’t mind taking them in. Mary’s a lovely girl, you know.’
Ron thought about the long and troubling conversation he’d had with Stan the previous day. If he could get Mary’s story from Peggy, it would save his friend from having to question the girl. ‘Oh aye?’ he said casually. ‘And I suppose you’ve managed to learn everything about her within a couple of hours, have you?’
Peggy abandoned the empty laundry basket and dug her hands into her wrap-round apron for her packet of Park Drive cigarettes. ‘Yes,’ she replied softly, ‘and it isn’t a pretty story. The poor girl has certainly been through the mill these past few weeks.’
Ron was immediately alert, but he covered it by closely inspecting the bowl of his pipe. ‘How’s that then?’
‘Well I promised to keep most of it to myself,’ said Peggy, ‘but the gist of it is, she’s all alone in the world since her adoptive parents were killed by a bomb, and now she seems set on trying to find this Cyril Fielding.’ She lit a cigarette and blew out a wreath of smoke. ‘You don’t happen to know who that is, do you?’
He avoided the question and continued to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe. ‘Why’s she looking for him? Can you tell me that?’
‘Not without breaking my promise.’ Peggy eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve lived in this town nearly all your life and know just about everyone.’ Her gaze never wavered. ‘It’s very important, Ron, and if you know who he is, then you must tell me.’
Ron knew when he was cornered. ‘If you tell me why it’s so important, then I’ll tell you about Cyril Fielding,’ he said. ‘And be assured, Peggy girl, nothing you tell me will go any further.’
Peggy closed the back door and sat down on the step. ‘So you do know who he is, then?’
‘Aye. But I’m waiting to hear why young Mary is looking for him.’
Ron listened as Peggy related what the girl had told her, and as the full implications of it began to register, he felt a cold shiver trickle down his torso and settle into the pit of his stomach. This was far worse than he ever could have imagined, and he couldn’t begin to think of how much trouble it would cause Mary if her story reached the wrong ears.
Peggy stubbed out her cigarette and threw the butt into the nearby rubbish bin. ‘Now you know it all,’ she said as she looked at him squarely. ‘Who is Cyril Fielding, Ron – and why are you so reluctant to talk about him?’
He couldn’t avoid it any longer. ‘I’m reluctant because Cyril Fielding was the false name used by a man who was selling fake insurances, making off with the proceeds, and leaving people who could ill afford it out of pocket and holding bits of paper that weren’t worth a light.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He’s been out of town for a while now, but he’s due to come back today. Cyril Fielding was only one of his many aliases. You’d know him better as Tommy Findlay.’
Peggy stared at him in shock, her mind whirling with everything she’d learnt about Tommy over the years. The very real possibility that he could be Mary’s father was unthinkable.
‘You can’t tell her, Peggy,’ said Ron earnestly. ‘It will only bring her more heartache.’
‘I know,’ she breathed, ‘but what if she keeps asking people about him and he gets to hear of it?’
‘We’ll have to stop her from asking by telling her we’d heard he’d died some years ago. It’s the only way, Peggy.’
She thought about it and then gave a sigh. ‘I hate lying to her, Ron, and lies have an awful way of coming back to haunt you when the truth is uncovered. What if she discovered somehow that he’s still alive and living at the Anchor?’ Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh God. The Anchor. Mary has made friends with Rosie and will be in and out of there to see her and play the piano in the bar – and Tommy will be there too.’ She scrubbed her face with her hands. ‘What a mess, Ron. What a terrible, terrible mess.’
There was a long silence before Ron spoke again. ‘I suppose you could have a quiet word with her, and without naming names, tell her the bald truth about her father’s character. From what you’ve told me, she’s a nice girl who’s been carefully brought up, and is already a bit suspicious that Cyril wasn’t quite what he seemed when he handed her over to the vicar and his wife and then disappeared. Faced with the fact that he’s a sleazy out-and-out crook, and has spent time in gaol for fraud, embezzlement and black-marketeering, it might put her off trying to find him.’
Peggy thought about this. There were so many things that Ron didn’t know – secrets that she’d held for years – which were now in danger of being brought out into the open if something wasn’t done quickly. She felt as if she was trapped on a runaway train, with no way off and no one to turn to for help.
‘Peggy?’
She returned to the present and got to her feet. ‘I’ll do as you suggest, Ron,’ she said wearily. ‘The girl trusts me, and knows I only want what’s best for her. It will be all too easy to put Tommy in a very black light – and I’ll make sure she takes my advice and stops her search.’
‘I can see you don’t like having to do this, Peg, but to be sure ’tis the only answer.’
‘But I still worry about her meeting him at the Anchor, Ron. You know what that man’s like when it comes to women – especially the young pretty ones.’ She gave a little shiver of revulsion. ‘He’s a lounge lizard and thinks his vulpine charm is irresistible.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on her, don’t you fret. If he makes one move on her, or says something I don’t think is appropriate, I’ll soon put him in his place,’ he growled.
‘Don’t go getting into a fight with him, Ron,’ said Peggy hastily. ‘It will only make things worse and raise questions you have no way of answering if we’re to keep Mary’s secret to ourselves.’
Ron got out of the deckchair and stretched. ‘D’ye think Rosie ever had an inkling that he might have fathered a child outside his marriage? If Mary was born here, she could easily have got to hear about it.’
‘Who’s to say what Rosie knows,’ she replied almost dismissively as she picked up the laundry basket and headed back into the scullery. She watched as he fetched some tools and the oil can from his shed, and waited until he’d gone up the steps into the kitchen before she slumped against the stone sink, her thoughts in chaos.
There were parts of Mary’s story that didn’t fit the picture as she knew it – but then Tommy always had had a glib tongue, and no doubt lied through his teeth to that poor naïve vicar. Yet Mary was not the only one who had to be protected from all this, and although she hated having to be economic with the truth to the girl, it was necessary if Rosie was to remain unaware of the dangerously unfolding drama that surrounded her. She’d been hurt too badly and had suffered because of it over the years – and it was vital not to reopen those old wounds.
Peggy stood there for a long while, her thoughts churning. There was one other person inextricably involved in all this – and as she had no reason to doubt the validity of the vicar’s diary entry, she began to wonder how big a part they had played in the cruel deceit. It was a tangled, deadly web of lies and betrayal, and she would have to be very careful not to disturb the spider of truth that lurked at its heart waiting to ensnare them all.