‘From baking bread to boat repair!’ It was early Saturday afternoon – half-day closing had come round fast – and Lizzie had scarcely had time to catch her breath.
‘Yes, where’s the week gone?’ Connie, too, had been rushed off her feet. They quickly removed the skirts and blouses that they’d worn for work in the bakery and changed into trousers and jumpers in their cramped shared bedroom on Elliot Street. The girls had ten minutes to snatch a bite to eat before Bill and Tom roared up to carry them off to Wren’s Cove for a spot of paint-stripping and tinkering with Annie May’s engine parts.
‘What’s the big rush?’ their father grumbled as his daughters clattered downstairs and set about making a flask of tea before slapping margarine and blackberry jam on to slices of bread. He sat at the kitchen table hunched over his Daily Express, reading about a plan to award the George Cross to the people of Malta for their bravery under siege – a move he was fully behind. ‘We think we’ve had it bad,’ he said with a jab of his finger towards the headline, ‘but those poor beggars have had it ten times worse.’
‘Bill and Tom are picking us up,’ Connie said with her mouth full and one eye on the clock. She’d flung a few items into her haversack and was ready for the off. ‘They’ll be here any minute.’
‘Will you go to the allotment?’ Lizzie checked with her father.
Bert nodded and put his newspaper to one side. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t overdo it,’ he assured her.
Lizzie kissed him lightly on the top of his head. ‘You read my mind.’
The sound of motorbike engines drew Connie to the front room, from where she had a clear view of traffic trundling along the street. ‘Here they are. Get a move on, Liz – time to go.’
The girls grabbed their belongings and ran from the house, banging the door behind them.
‘Hop up,’ Tom invited Connie, patting her leg as she climbed aboard.
Lizzie and Bill followed suit and soon they were off, winding through the narrow streets of terraced houses and only picking up speed once they were clear of the town. Glorious, long-distance views raised their spirits and they felt on top of the world.
The sea! Lizzie drank in the sight of the flat horizon beneath banks of fluffy white cloud. She caught occasional glimpses of waves crashing against rocks below, and there was space; glorious, infinite space. Her heart soared as they rounded the final bend and came to a stop in the lay-by overlooking the cove.
Bill pulled in behind Tom. Soon all four were taking the cliff path down to the beach, battling a strong breeze that chased the clouds over Kelthorpe’s distant headland, leaving the sky a pure blue. Eager to get stuck in again, they leaped the last few feet on to the sand, then ran on towards the hidden cove where they found Annie May in the same sorry state as before: tilted to starboard, leaky and rotten, crying out for rescue.
Seeing her, Connie took a deep breath. ‘Where do you want me to start?’
Tom took charge. ‘Why don’t you tackle the deck with me?’ He climbed the rickety ladder propped against the hull, then went to fetch the metal toolbox stored under the bridge. ‘That’s rum,’ he muttered. The box wasn’t where they’d left it.
‘Here it is.’ Bill lugged it along the deck. He’d found it near the prow, half covered by a tarpaulin. ‘But look – the lock’s been forced.’
‘Who by?’ Tom scratched his head.
Still down on the beach, Lizzie and Connie discovered that someone had set fire to their pile of rotten planks. All that remained was a heap of grey ash and a trail of scuffed footprints leading to and from the village. Connie called up to Tom. ‘Some idiot has lit a bonfire.’
Bill leaned over the guard rail. ‘It must have been kids,’ he decided. One hammer seemed to be missing from the toolbox but nothing else, so he wasn’t overly concerned.
Connie gave a doubtful frown before pointing out the size of the footprints. ‘What kid do you know who has size-ten clodhoppers?’
Tom joined Bill at the rail. ‘Are you two girls coming up to give us a hand or are you planning to stand around all day playing at Miss Marple?’
Laughing, the girls pushed the mystery to one side. Before long, they’d climbed the ladder and were hard at work with saw and chisel, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood and the soft thud of more rotten planks landing in the sand. After an hour, they’d made a worryingly large hole in the deck – ten feet square and worse than they’d originally thought. Even Bill’s optimism was dented.
‘The beams underneath are rotten as well,’ he said with a sigh. ‘We’ll need to buy extra timber.’
‘Where there’s a will …’ Lizzie reminded him.
Connie drew the flask of tea out of her haversack and the foursome took refuge from a strengthening wind under the bridge. The sea had turned choppy and the waves breaking on the shoreline sent up plumes of white spray. Lizzie nestled close to Bill to sip her drink, happily aware of the way their bodies seemed to fit together – he shielded her from the worst of the wind and they were so close that she could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. Connie and Tom sat a small distance away, his arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist, both gazing out to sea. No words broke the contented silence.
‘What next?’ Connie asked at last.
‘I’ll fit that new distributor cap.’ Lizzie jumped to her feet.
‘I’ll start on the second hatch.’ Tom intended to replace all the frames to make them watertight.
‘The winches,’ Bill said. He wanted to deal with the rust that caked the ancient mechanisms.
Connie offered to tackle the back-breaking job of stripping paint from the hull. ‘I know my place,’ she commented wryly as she descended the ladder armed with scraper and sandpaper, then began to hum a tuneless version of ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’.
Her humming was no better than her singing – a fact that Lizzie wasn’t slow to point out. ‘Give it a rest, Con,’ she called from the deck, spanner in hand. ‘Do us a favour and stick to dancing. Leave the Walt Disney warbling to Tom.’
The coast road from Kelthorpe to Raby consisted of many twists and turns. The hills were steep and Pamela’s legs and lungs had to work hard to keep up with Fred, who cycled ahead as they approached the cove. ‘Wait for me,’ she called.
He stopped at the top of the final gradient, his heart beating rapidly as he caught his breath and surveyed the scene. There was nothing to beat an English spring, he decided. Wayside flowers were coming into bloom – wild daffodils glowed jewel-like among blades of fresh green grass. At the sight of them, Fred felt his worries melt away. It was as if the spirit of the season had entered his veins and he experienced a sensation of weightlessness, of floating free of the earth while he waited for Pamela to catch up.
She arrived with windswept hair and flushed cheeks, as natural as could be. Her lips were slightly parted as she stopped to draw breath, her eyes wide and shining.
‘I’m sorry.’ Fred’s simple words held a wealth of meaning. Feelings that he’d bottled up for days rose to the surface and he felt unnerved by them, hardly trusting himself to speak.
‘Whatever for?’ Pamela asked between gasps. They’d set off later than planned and at this rate they wouldn’t make it to Wren’s Cove in time to help with the restoration of Annie May as promised. She was about to set off on the downward slope when he reached out and grasped her handlebars.
‘For everything. For how I’ve behaved recently. I’m an idiot.’ Would she forgive him, and did he deserve it if she did? Fred’s pulse raced as he studied her reaction.
Their eyes met and she saw that Fred’s recently erected barriers had come down and his direct, penetrating gaze was back. The apology was deep and heartfelt.
Her relieved smile drew out a longer confession. ‘I mean it,’ Fred said. ‘I’ve let Reggie Nolan get under my skin and I shouldn’t have. It was just the sight of you and him dancing together – I panicked.’
‘What for, exactly?’ Pamela was incredulous.
‘Like I said – I’ve been stupid.’ That’s what jealousy did – it took away every last shred of reason, magnifying the smallest problem and allowing it to gain a stranglehold against all the odds.
‘Reggie’s the stupid one, not you.’ Letting the bike fall on to the verge, she embraced Fred. ‘He’s not even my type.’
Of course not – perfectly idiotic of me. He held her close. ‘So you have a type?’ he murmured. Soft, sweet and gentle; my Pamela.
‘Yes. My type has to be over six feet tall, for a start. He must have thick dark hair and no moustache. There must be a neat side parting. What else?’ She ran her fingers down Fred’s cheek. ‘Smooth skin, clear grey eyes and a certain way of looking at me that makes me go weak at the knees.’
‘Stop!’ He kissed her lips. ‘I don’t deserve you, Pamela Carr. I really don’t.’
‘That’s true,’ she teased as she drew back. ‘Now, are we going to lend a hand with Annie May or not?’
They picked up their bikes and cycled on, coasting down the hill until they reached the lay-by described by Connie. It took them a while to discover the overgrown path down to the beach, then to negotiate the perils of the little-used descent, where the steps had crumbled in places. By the time they arrived on the beach and made their way to the narrow inlet named after Daniel Wren, a swashbuckling smuggler from times gone by, they found that the cove was deserted.
‘Where is everyone?’ Fred made a full circuit of the old trawler.
Pamela climbed the ladder on to Annie May’s deck to investigate further. ‘We’ve left it too late,’ she lamented. ‘And look, the tide’s coming in fast.’
True; waves broke on the shingle with furious force then raced up the smooth beach towards the secluded inlet where they stood. The way back was already underwater, with currents swirling around the foot of the cliff and spray rising into the cold, clear air.
‘It’s almost high tide.’ This must be why the others had already left; Fred realized he and Pamela would have to head towards Raby village rather than retrace their steps. ‘We’d better get a move on unless we want to stay here overnight?’ His sentence ended with an upward intonation – the romantic notion of being trapped by the tide and forced to take refuge in the dark, dry cave where Wren and his piratical band had once stashed their contraband goods had its appeal. A night with Pamela, holding her close leading to heaven knew what … For a moment Fred enjoyed the fantasy.
‘No.’ Pamela kept her feet firmly on the ground. ‘We’d freeze to death. Everyone would be out of their minds with worry. No, definitely not.’
‘All right – you win,’ he conceded.
With the roar of breaking waves and the rush of receding shingle in their ears, Pamela and Fred emerged from the inlet only to find that their way to the village was blocked by another jagged outcrop of rock rising even more steeply from the beach. ‘Good Lord!’ Realizing that their options were narrowing by the second, Fred anxiously scanned the cliff face. ‘Could we climb up?’
‘Or swim for it?’ Pamela saw that the tide threatened to cut them off in every direction. Mighty waves swelled then broke with great force. White water swirled in foaming eddies before another wave crashed against the rocks.
‘Too risky,’ Fred decided. ‘We’ll have to climb.’
So, with their hearts in their mouths, they started to scale the cliff. Pamela went ahead, searching for footholds and feeling her way with her fingertips. She told herself not to look down at the treacherous water below. Fred followed. When loose rocks were dislodged and came rattling down, he pressed himself against the dark cliff face, gritting his teeth as earth and stones peppered his hands and face. ‘No damage done,’ he called up to her. ‘Keep going.’
Pamela breathed hard. She felt a tight knot in her stomach as she inched her way up the cliff but she was determined to get to the top. Don’t look down, she repeated to herself. Down is danger. Up is safety. Almost there.
Both were young and agile. They stretched and reached, clambered and heaved. Though the wind tore at their clothes and the waves thundered below, they climbed on until they reached the top.
Once there, they flopped down on the coarse grass. Two curious sheep approached, then skittered away. A solitary grey van drove along the narrow road towards Raby.
Fred exhaled. ‘That was too close for comfort.’
‘But we did it.’ Lying flat on her back and breathing hard, Pamela gazed up at the sky. ‘It’ll teach us to check the tides in future.’ She got to her feet then pulled him up. They shared an embrace without kissing, holding each other close and letting relief flood their bodies. Then they set off on the short walk to the lay-by where they’d left their bikes, planning their evening as they went.
‘I’m on duty at Gas Street tonight, worse luck.’ She brushed a streak of dirt from Fred’s forehead then kissed his cheek.
‘Me too – at the town hall.’
‘I finish at eleven.’
‘I could meet you afterwards.’
‘You could.’
‘We could walk to Sunrise?’
Pamela shook her head at his tentative question. ‘Not tonight – not at that late hour.’
‘Your parents?’
She nodded. ‘They wouldn’t approve.’
‘So we could go to your house?’ The bold suggestion sprang from nowhere. He thought that she was bound to say no.
Pamela paused, then nodded again. ‘If you like.’
Yes; she had agreed! ‘Eleven o’clock it is, then.’
They reached the lay-by in a whirl of fresh emotions. Much had been left unsaid, but an important commitment had been made.
‘Our bikes have been moved,’ Fred pointed out. They’d left them carefully propped against a boulder, out of sight from the road. Now the bicycles were clearly visible and lying flat on the ground.
Pamela picked hers up with a confused frown. ‘Look, my front tyre is flat.’
‘Mine too – flat as a pancake.’ It was sabotage; clear as anything. Fred’s mind jumped to old suspicions – someone who knew his enemy alien status and who bore a grudge had seized the chance to make life difficult by letting down their tyres and leaving them stranded. It was a petty act but nonetheless it filled Fred with a familiar dread. Who had seen them cycle this way? he wondered.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Two flat tyres was no accident. Pamela noticed that the tiny screw-on black cap that covered the valve was missing on both wheels.
‘Yes. It’s deliberate.’ Fred scanned the area for clues but found nothing unusual – no cigarette butts or tyre marks.
‘Perhaps it was kids larking about.’ With a mounting sense of dread, Pamela sought a more innocent explanation. Not again! a small voice inside her head whispered. Not more threats, not more vile notes accusing Fred of being a fifth columnist and her of being a collaborator; not more men with twisted notions of patriotism ganging up and lurking in dark corners, waiting to pounce.
‘Yes – kids,’ Fred said without conviction. He grabbed hold of Pamela’s pump, connected it to the valve and began to inflate her tyre. ‘Yes,’ he said more firmly as the air went in. It was a silly prank carried out by boys from the village; nothing more.
Before the war, no one would have dreamed that patrolling the streets during blackout would become the accepted routine. ‘A responsible job for responsible men!’ shouted the early posters calling for ARP volunteers. Initially, people had responded with scorn. ‘What, me – join that bunch of busybodies?’ Families had also refused to use the flimsy Morrison shelters that the government had foisted on them, seeing them as death traps if a bomb should happen to fall. And, in truth, how likely was that? Only after the phoney war had ended and night-time raids became common had Civil Defence been taken seriously. The handful of paid wardens who had been recruited from the beginning were no longer dubbed ‘three-quid-a-week army dodgers’. Wardens’ posts had sprung up on every street corner and the cry of ‘Put that light out!’ had become the norm. Silver ARP badges were now pinned to coat lapels with pride.
‘Here we go again,’ Connie said wearily at the start of her Saturday-night shift. She’d split off from Lizzie at the bottom of King Edward Street and now stood with Pamela outside the sector post, leaning on the sandbag barrier and putting off the moment when she must enter. ‘Roll on eleven o’clock.’
Pamela was only half listening. ‘Something odd happened earlier today,’ she confided. ‘You know that Fred and I arrived too late to help with Annie May? Well, when we were ready to cycle home we found that someone had let down our tyres.’
‘On purpose?’ Connie quizzed. ‘That is strange. We had a similar thing down in Wren’s Cove. Some blighter had forced the lock on the set of tools we keep on board. They hadn’t taken much, but they’d set fire to a pile of rotten timber nearby. If the wind had been in the wrong direction and the flames had spread to the boat, we’d have been in big trouble.’
‘Kids?’ Pamela offered hopefully.
‘That’s what we thought.’ Glancing at her watch, Connie saw that it was time to take over from Brian Bellamy. ‘I’ll get a flea in my ear if I hang around out here much longer,’ she muttered as she went in.
‘Here’s a copy of amendments to the blackout regulations,’ Bellamy growled at her without looking up. He pushed a pamphlet across the counter then licked the end of his pencil and ticked an item off his list. ‘We’re running low on M3 forms and duty-respirators. You need to order a new batch of each.’ Lick and tick. ‘Inter-service training is to be stepped up so we’re expecting extra manuals to be delivered.’ A third lick and a third tick. He glanced up at last. ‘Have you got all that?’
‘Yes, ta,’ Connie replied through gritted teeth. Oh, to be a junior warden again – out on the street or patrolling the dockside and breathing in salty air. Instead, she would be cooped up all evening in a stuffy shoe-mender’s shop, filling in forms and talking on the telephone to central report and control. ‘I’m bored stiff,’ she whispered to Pamela once Brian was out of earshot. ‘Give me a Redhill container and a stirrup pump over a pile of rotten paperwork any day of the week.’
‘Arnold Kershaw, behave yourself,’ Lizzie barked at her young cousin, who was larking around with fellow Boy Scout Colin Strong. ‘This is a serious training exercise.’
The Saturday-evening task for the ambulance and first-aid crew based at the King Edward Street depot was to mock up a typical situation following an air raid. The boys had volunteered to act as casualties, enticed by the knowledge that it would involve pints of fake blood and the use of make-up to simulate gruesome wounds. On arrival, Arnold had promptly stripped off his jersey and vest then smeared lashings of bright red paint across his skinny chest. Now he was staggering around the brewery yard, clinging to Colin and crying out for his mother in the most pathetic manner imaginable.
Bill seized Arnold by the waistband of his shorts. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered sternly as he dragged the lad to a dark, damp corner then propped him against a broken drainpipe. ‘Stay there. Close your eyes. Don’t say a word. Colin, you as well. You two have to play dead until I send someone to put you on a stretcher and carry you into an ambulance. Is that clear?’
Lizzie took in the scene. Eight volunteer casualties were now deployed across the area. One elderly man had created two convincing black eyes and a head wound for himself and now lay groaning on the dirty cobbles, while Dorothy Parsons, the mild-mannered telephonist from report and control, cowered behind a broken cartwheel. Lizzie’s role was to follow procedures outlined in the latest training booklet. The instructions went like this: approach the casualty and check for vital signs. If the victim is conscious and compos mentis, ask the following series of questions before you even think about moving him or her on to a stretcher, et cetera.
At a signal from Bill, Lizzie and two other members of her first-aid team sprang into action. Lizzie’s job was to deal with Dorothy, but the telephonist took her role more seriously than expected. At Lizzie’s approach, she screamed and resisted all attempts to pacify her.
Taken aback, Lizzie hardly knew how to proceed. She tried hard to remember what it said in the booklet. Was there even a section on dealing with hysteria?
‘Help, somebody help!’ Screaming, wailing, flinging her arms around in distress, Dorothy displayed a talent no one would have expected.
God in heaven, she deserves an Oscar! was Lizzie’s first thought. She remembered that manhandling was one method recommended by the powers that be. They called it ‘restraint’ and suggested that at least two first-aiders should be present. Lizzie preferred a more rational approach.
Slowly but surely, she advanced towards Dorothy and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Calm down,’ she urged. ‘Let’s get you to the shelter.’
Lizzie’s gentle tone soothed Dorothy and she allowed herself to be led across the yard.
Lizzie called for Bill to join them. ‘All’s well,’ she reported. ‘Dorothy needs treatment for shock, that’s all.’
‘Right you are.’ Bill played out the scenario by taking charge of Dorothy. ‘I’ll manage from here. You can help Walter to stretcher one of the injured boys into the ambulance. Apply a splint to his right leg and a bandage to his chest to stem the bleeding.’
No sooner said than Lizzie sprinted across the yard to the spot where Arnold lay groaning, milking it for all he was worth. ‘Ouch – ouch!’ he yelped, then ‘Agh!’ at the top of his voice as Walter and Lizzie eased him on to a stretcher.
‘Lie still,’ Lizzie commanded sharply. Lord, was she glad that this wasn’t the real thing!
‘He’s heavier than he looks,’ Walter grumbled when they lifted their badly injured casualty and carried him to an ambulance.
‘Agh-oh-ooh-ouch-aagh!’
‘Quiet.’ Enough was enough for one training session. Lizzie did what it definitely didn’t tell you to do in the instruction booklet and growled at her patient through gritted teeth. ‘Pipe down, Arnold, or I’ll give you a thick ear.’
The real thing, when it happened, caught Pamela and Simon Fraser off guard.
Connie had sent the pair on patrol to the base of the headland then up Musgrave Street to the top of the hill, where a fire watcher was stationed close to the two newly installed kite balloons. They’d stopped to chat – Roger Calvert had introduced himself as an area officer sent over from Easby for the night. Simon had admired the fire watcher’s high-domed Zuckerman helmet, designed to withstand strong impact, and had noted that he wore his armband over a civvy overcoat to keep out the night-time chill. Calvert had been cupping his hands and blowing into them for warmth when searchlights on the beach below were suddenly switched on; the sky went from pitch dark to blinding white light in a split second. Beams raked across the night sky. Red alert sounded – there was no yellow warning period.
‘Tip-and-run!’ Pamela exclaimed. A lone Jerry bomber was caught in the criss-crossing beams, heading east to west, straight off the sea. Another Dornier: this time a more recent and even more deadly Do 217 – the throaty drone of the heavy twin-engine schnellbomber was unmistakable. Then, within seconds, dozens of incendiaries fell to earth. They lit up the black night, making a sound like dried leaves rustling along pavements as they fell before exploding in flashes of silver light as they landed on the headland.
‘Duck!’ Roger Calvert’s cry ripped through the air. Jerry flew in low, all guns blazing. Machine-gun bullets ricocheted off rocks, sending fragments of limestone flying in every direction. Meanwhile, dozens of fires broke out, setting alight the heather and gorse that covered the headland. Wind fanned the flames, driving them ever closer to the newly installed dirigibles.
Pamela, Roger and Simon flung themselves to the ground, face down, then covered their heads with their arms. An incendiary rustled down, landing within six feet of them and remaining ominously quiet – it continued to hiss but as yet there was no explosion. The threat built with every passing second.
The first to react, Roger sprang to his feet. There were rows of red fire buckets filled with sand ranged along the base of the two concrete blocks that anchored the balloons to the ground. He seized two of the buckets and threw the contents over the unexploded bomb, rendering it harmless. One fewer threat – but there was no time to rest on their laurels.
Simon and Pamela grabbed buckets then ran across the moorland to extinguish other fires with the sand. By now, Jerry had released all his bombs, so he gained height and turned for home. Ack-ack fire from the beach missed its target; mission accomplished, the Dornier pilot escaped scot-free.
Seizing more buckets, the two young wardens and the fire watcher continued to sprint along the ridge to fight the flames. Pamela’s face ran with sweat and her throat and lungs ached through inhaling hot, black smoke. Still she fought on until all the buckets were emptied.
‘What now?’ Simon appealed to Roger. Half a dozen small outbreaks were yet to be dealt with; fingers of flame were licking at the low heather and creeping ever closer to the LZs.
Overhead, the two balloons strained at their metal cables, twisting this way and that in the wind, their silver shells reflecting vivid orange flames.
Roger quickly took off his overcoat and proceeded to beat out the nearest fire. ‘Use your helmets,’ he ordered. ‘Scrape up loose earth then dump it on the flames.’
Once more, Pamela and Simon followed orders, sick in the knowledge that by staying they ran a huge risk. If the flickering flames were to reach the hydrogen balloons there would be a massive explosion and a conflagration from which there would be no escape.
Pamela heaved at clumps of heather and pulled them out by the roots to expose small patches of soil. She dug frantically with the rim of her helmet, scooping up loose earth, which she flung on to the flames. She repeated the exercise, once, twice, three times, until she ceased counting.
Then, as the exhausted trio paused to drag air into their smoke-filled lungs, an AFS lorry came roaring up Musgrave Street with hoses and water tank at the ready. Half a dozen firefighters leaped out, unreeled their hoses and directed strong jets at the remaining flames. Thank God: water quenched them. They flickered lower, flared in one last act of defiance, then gave a final hiss before expiring. Steam rose from the blackened earth. Darkness swallowed the headland and moonlight reflected off the smooth silver surface of the giant balloons.
‘It was nothing – all in a night’s work.’ Pamela made light of the evening’s close shave when Fred came to meet her at the sector post as arranged.
He kept his thoughts to himself. Her face and hands were blackened by smoke. She might have died. He could have lost her and lived the rest of his life with a broken heart. ‘The Dornier slipped in under the radar just like the last one,’ he admitted. ‘I filed the damage report after the event and forwarded it to Home Security – too late to be of much use, I’m afraid.’
They walked hand in hand along Gas Street then across the market square to the bottom of King Edward Street.
‘Are you tired? Is it too late?’ he asked tentatively.
‘For you to come home with me?’ She shook her head and they carried on up the steep hill together. When they reached her shabby lodging house, she searched the pockets of her battledress for her key.
Fred’s courteousness was at odds with his deep desire to be close to his sweetheart; closer than they’d ever been. ‘Really, you must say if you’d rather not.’
She turned the key in the lock. ‘Come in,’ she insisted gently.
He followed her along a dingy corridor then up the stairs. The dark brown carpet was threadbare, with several brass stair rods loose or missing, but once they reached Pamela’s room on the first floor all was spotless. The walls were freshly decorated with a rose-patterned wallpaper and a new green rug covered the cracked lino. There were two table lamps: one on the window sill and one on a bedside cabinet. The eiderdown on the bed was primrose yellow to match the roses on the wall.
Pamela crossed the room to pull down the blackout blind before turning on the lamps. Her heart raced. The moment that she’d dreamed of had arrived at last, yet she felt shy and unsure.
‘Your face.’ Fred stepped towards her.
‘What’s wrong with my face?’
‘There’s a black mark – here.’ He brushed her cheek with his thumb. ‘Your face is beautiful, by the way.’ Extraordinary – truly unique; a perfect pale oval, unmarked by time or tragedy. He loved her startling grey-green eyes, her full, soft mouth. ‘Everything about you is beautiful.’
‘I love you,’ she murmured as she felt his arms enclose her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘More than anything in the world.’
The simple, trusting, almost childlike declaration broke down all remaining barriers. ‘I love you too,’ Fred said, ‘and I’d never do anything to hurt you.’
She looked up into his face. ‘I know that.’
‘I’ll keep you safe.’
‘I’ve never—’ she began.
‘Hush.’ He kissed her softly on the lips.
‘I don’t know what—’
He kissed her again. ‘If you’re sure?’ he breathed.
One by one, Pamela felt the strong ties of convention loosen then slip away. Good girls don’t … It’s not respectable without a ring on your finger … Tongues will wag. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. The world and its myriad troubles ceased to exist. All that mattered was Fred’s voice, his hands, his lips.
‘Take off your jacket.’ He helped her with the buttons. She let it drop to the floor. Slowly they undressed. Slowly he led her to the bed, where they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling as they each absorbed what was about to happen. Then Fred turned towards her. ‘There will never be anyone else,’ he promised. Niemand anders.
His lips were against her cheek; she could feel his warm breath. ‘Don’t say never – you can’t be sure.’
‘It’s true – there never will be.’ Through all his years of struggle, Fred had coped alone – in London after his mother and father had died in the arson attack, in Kelthorpe where he’d tried in vain to escape his past. Only Pamela had believed in him and trusted him and shown him her love. ‘If you want me to, I’ll stay with you for ever. Nothing will tear us apart.’
His words gave Pamela certainty in the midst of chaos. Bombs would rain down, houses would collapse, the streets of Kelthorpe would lie in ruins, but Fred would still be there. She folded herself into him, slipping her arm around his neck and drawing him close. Peace. Silence. Only cool skin tingling as they touched, and then their rapid breathing.
In the first light of day they rose and pulled up the blind. Contentment filled the room. There was no hurry as they got dressed; only a slow ease of movement. Their bodies were familiar now and no less beautiful. Making love had been everything they’d hoped for, dreamed of, yet at the same time feared. Together, they left the house and walked without worry or shame to Sunrise, where they would share breakfast with Edith, Harold and Hugh, unembarrassed and ready to face the world.