BB
BB took his breakfast coffee and toast out to the terrace and sat enjoying the quiet early morning silence. A silence occasionally broken by squawking seagulls and the distant sound of cars driving onto the Higher Ferry car ramp drifting towards him on the breeze.
Between eating his toast and drinking his coffee, he studied the bus timetable he’d picked up yesterday and began to plan his day out. A ride out to Torcross to look at the Sherman tank, lunch in a beachside restaurant and then back on a bus to go to Kingsbridge for the afternoon.
A shiver of anticipation ran through him as he thought about what he hoped to discover later that day. If he’d read his most recent genealogy research correctly, in a few hours he could have the confirmation of the existence of ‘The English Connection’ that he and Jessie had set out to find. Or not.
A deep sigh escaped his lips as he folded the timetable back up. He prayed placing so much hope on this one Kingsbridge name and address didn’t lead to a dead end and disappointment.
‘That was a deep sigh,’ Rachel said, making him jump in surprise. ‘Good morning.’ Holding a mug of coffee, she sat down in the chair opposite him.
‘Good morning,’ BB said, concealing his surprise at seeing her. He’d realised the first morning after moving into the cottage that Rachel was most definitely not a morning person, and he’d taken great care not to disturb her in the mornings.
‘You’re up and about early,’ he said.
‘Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,’ Rachel said, looking at the bus timetable. ‘Where are you off to then?’
‘Torcross and Kingsbridge.’
‘More family research?’
BB nodded. ‘Yep.’
Rachel warmed her hands around her mug of tea before asking, ‘You are happy here aren’t you, BB? The room’s worked out okay? You’re staying until September?’
‘Couldn’t be happier,’ BB said. ‘Why? You’re not about to give me notice, are you?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No. It’s just … I thought I’d go away for a bit and wanted to make sure you’d still be around to keep an eye on the place.’
‘Sure thing. You planning on going on another yacht delivery with Johnnie, then?’
‘No. Thought I’d have a holiday. Go down to Cornwall or somewhere. No idea where yet really – or when. Just feel the need for a change.’
‘Happy to look after the place anytime – so long as you’re back before September,’ BB said. ‘I was going to ask you this later, can I invite a few friends around for drinks on the terrace sometime?’
‘How many is a few? Not a lot of room really,’ Rachel said.
‘About seven or eight. You too, of course, if you haven’t disappeared on holiday by then,’ BB looked at Rachel hopefully.
‘Don’t see a problem with that number. Okay.’
‘Thanks. Right. Quick shower and then time to get going. I’ll see you this evening, with some good news I hope.’
For BB the slowness of the bus journey from Dartmouth along the coast road to Torcross was just perfect. He admired the blue sea and the golden curve of Blackpool Sands bay as the bus climbed the hill towards Strete. Through Strete where he held his breath as the driver jiggled the bus through a seemingly impossible narrow space to pass a Dartmouth-bound coach.
He was given a quick glimpse of the long stretch of Slapton Sands with its sea sparkling in the sunlight in the distance as the bus drove along the final stretch before the final descent. Minutes later, the driver drove slowly down the hill, round the last bend and into Strete Gate at the start of the long, straight drive into Torcross itself, with only the wide shingle beach between it and the English Channel.
Getting off the bus in the centre of the village, BB crossed the road and made his way to the Sherman tank memorial. Standing to one side, he waited patiently for the crowd surrounding the tank to disperse and allow him to approach for a better look. A pile of paperback books were stacked neatly on a table near the tank and he picked up one.
The Forgotten Dead by Ken Small. He’d briefly looked through this book in the reference library the other day, now he could buy his own copy and read it properly. He knew it detailed the tragic events that had happened out in the bay in front of him the night of April 27 l944. The night that Great-uncle Lance, one of the men involved in the naval exercise – code name Operation Tiger – had died. Hard to reconcile the dreadful events of that night with the peaceful scene before him now.
Listening to the man at the tank telling the story of how after forty years the tank was dragged from the bottom of Start Bay and placed here as a memorial to all the young men who died that night, BB felt increasingly sad for his late great-uncle. No wonder Grandfather had never talked much about his time here.
The book bought and safely placed in the folder with his research notes, BB made his way across the road and walked along the beach for a while. His head needed the sea breeze to blow away all the harrowing pictures his mind had conjured up listening to the tragic outcome of Operation Tiger and how it had affected the whole coastline.
Two hours later, his head cleared by the sea air, and fortified by some of the most delicious fish and chips he’d ever eaten, he was back on a bus for the last stage of his journey to Kingsbridge. He knew from the map he’d printed off the Internet that the street he wanted was at the top end of the town’s steep main street.
Reaching the top of town and following his map, he found the address with surprising ease. He stood in front of the terraced cottage, its front garden a mass of flowers and its white painted wooden garden gate firmly closed, for several moments. He was excited about the answers he was hoping to get. But what if he was wrong wanting to bring this family and their past into his life? What if they weren’t interested in having overseas cousins? Would they resent him appearing out of the blue and disrupting their lives? If they told him to get lost, then he would. Tell Jessie that there was no English connection, but he had to know one way or the other. He took a deep breath and put his hand out to lift the gate latch.
‘If you’re selling something, we’re not interested. We’re not interested in being saved either. So please don’t waste your time – or ours!’ A woman about his own age stood on the doorstep of the cottage.
‘No, I’m not doing either of those things,’ BB said, opening his file and taking out a photocopy. ‘I’m looking for somebody.’
‘You’re American?’
BB nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. May I?’ And he opened the gate and walked up the path. ‘Do you recognise this lady?’ He handed her the photocopy of Lance and Florrie. Saw her start as she looked at the picture.
‘That’s my grandmother,’ she said, looking up at him and handing back the paper.
‘So your mother must be Mrs Elisabett James?’
When the woman said a simple ‘yes’ and nodded her head, BB wanted to punch the air. ‘Is your mother still alive? Does she live here? Can I meet her?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Braxton Brael – always called BB – and I think we may be related.’
‘You’d better come in,’ the woman said. ‘Mother’s in the back garden. I’m Patricia, by the way.’
Expecting to find Elisabett James simply sitting in the garden enjoying the sunshine, BB smiled when he saw her bending over, vigorously weeding a flower border. Like his own mother, she clearly refused to give in to age.
‘Mum, this is BB from America. He’d like to talk to you about Grandma Florrie,’ Patricia called out.
BB watched as Elisabett straightened up, a hand placed in the small of her back and turned to face him.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,’ BB said, striding forward, hand outstretched.
Elisabett shook his hand but didn’t respond. Her blue eyes, regarding him from behind rimless glasses, gave nothing away as she waited for him to continue.
‘I’ve been researching my family history and I think we’re related.’
‘Now what makes you think that, young man?’ Elisabett said in her soft Devonshire accent.
BB handed her the photo. ‘The man in the photo was my Great-uncle Lance and I understand the lady was your mother.’ Watching her as she looked at the picture, BB saw her hand tremble and tears glisten in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, it must be a shock for you,’ he said, looking across at Patricia, who was also watching her mother.
‘Mum, why don’t you and BB sit on the patio and I’ll go make us all some tea?’
Once she’d settled herself on one of the cushioned teak chairs, Elisabett glanced at BB. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever seen a photo of my father. Mother didn’t have one. He was a handsome man, wasn’t he?’ She looked at BB. ‘I can see the family likeness.’
‘Jessica, my sister, is sending the original over. When it arrives, it’s yours,’ BB said. ‘There’s also some letters Florrie wrote to him on the days they couldn’t meet.’
‘She was never told officially, you know, that he’d died,’ Elisabett said. ‘The official channels of information were all denied to her because they weren’t married or related. It was only when news of the tragedy started to circulate in town that she knew something dreadful had happened to him.’
‘That must have been so hard for her,’ BB said quietly.
Elisabett nodded. ‘It was. She rarely talked about the war or him when I was growing up, although my stepfather never let me forget I was not his.’
Elisabett took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It wasn’t until I was a teenage rebel that I demanded to know everything about him and announced that I was off to find my American family that she finally opened up about him.’ Elisabett shook her head.
‘She had very little to tell me really, except she was heartbroken when he died. Said he was the love of her life.’ Fiddling with her wedding ring, she continued, ‘She never even had the chance to tell him about me. Didn’t have an American address for the family either. All she knew was that he came from somewhere in South Carolina.’ Elisabett laughed. ‘Imagine if I’d carried out my threat and gone looking – it would have been like trying to find a sprat in a shoal of mackerel.’
‘I, of course, have spent many years dreaming of my American family arriving on the doorstep and whisking me away, and now you’ve finally turned up.’
Patricia arrived just then with a tray laden with tea and scones.
‘You all right, Mum?’
Elisabett nodded, blinking back the tears.
BB took her hand in his. ‘Did your mother know Lance’s brother Randy, my grandfather, was a GI too?’
‘She never said. Did he die in the tragedy too?’
‘No. He wasn’t on board the boats that night. If my grandparents had known about Lance and you, I know they would have made every attempt possible to contact your mother.’
‘Nobody knew about them,’ Elisabett said. ‘That was one thing mother did say. The locals weren’t really allowed to mix with the army. Security was tight – although not tight enough, it seems. Their love had to remain a secret from everyone until after the war was over.’
She took the tissue Patricia handed her and wiped her eyes.
‘So how did you find me?’
‘Serendipity,’ BB said honestly. ‘Randy met a Dartmouth girl too, Mary Seale – maybe your mother knew her? Their love had a happier ending, even though Mary’s family disowned her. Mary ran away to America and they were married in 1946. Jessica – that’s my sister – and I have been researching, trying to find the Seale relatives. Who, incidentally, appear to have died out. I just happened to see the record of your christening with Lance named as your father.’ He took the cup of tea Patricia passed to him. ‘Thanks.’
‘I couldn’t believe it, to be honest. I haven’t told Jessica yet about you. I wanted to make sure it was true before I said anything. I only wish Grandpa Lance and Grandma Mary were still alive. My mother though, will be thrilled.’
‘That was something else I missed out on – loving grandparents. My mother’s parents never got over the scandal,’ Elisabett said. ‘After mother married, she and my stepfather moved to Brixham and simply lost touch with her family. Probably still got relatives over there in Dartmouth too that I know nothing about.’
She picked up the plate of scones that Patricia had placed on the table in front of them and offered it to BB, along with a bowl of clotted cream and jar of homemade jam.
‘Dysfunctional families existed long before the twenty-first century,’ she said, laughing as he helped himself to a scone. ‘I’m so happy part of mine is finally – how would you phrase it? Ah, I know, getting it together.’