‘“Though April showers may come your way, they bring the flowers that bloom in May.”’ Connie sat at her sewing machine and croaked her way through the chorus of a popular Al Jolson song. As usual, she was completely out of tune.
Lizzie dropped her pinking scissors and clapped her hands over her ears. ‘You did that on purpose to put me off.’ Turning to Pamela and Sally, she advised them to ignore Connie’s caterwauling. ‘She’s like the Duchess’s baby in Alice in Wonderland – she only does it to annoy.’
Connie grinned. So far, she liked what she’d seen of Pamela’s new friend; a little red-haired dynamo who fitted in well with the small group of eager seamstresses.
‘I’ve come to lend a hand with Pamela’s bridesmaid’s dress,’ she’d announced when she’d arrived at the door of number 12, her sewing box tucked under her arm. ‘I arranged to meet her here.’
Connie and Lizzie had welcomed Sally in, and Pamela had arrived five minutes later.
‘What happened to you?’ Lizzie had demanded as she’d shown her into the front room.
‘Nothing. Why – what do you mean?’ Pamela had been conscious that her blushes gave her away as usual.
‘Come off it – you’re positively glowing.’ Connie had guessed instantly what was what – Pamela and Fred’s relationship had finally taken a major step forward. Yes, and about time too!
Soon the foursome had settled down to work. Connie whirred away at the machine, attaching her matron of honour’s bodice to its flared skirt, then sewing in the zip. Lizzie removed pieces of her bride’s dress from the paper pattern before tacking interfacing to the neckline and arm holes. Starting from scratch, Sally knelt on the floor with Pamela to lay pattern pieces on to forget-me-not-blue satin.
‘So, Sally – how on earth do you find time to fit everything in?’ Lizzie enquired as her needle flew through the fine fabric. ‘What with the new job at Anderson’s on top of working behind the bar and looking after your brood of little ones.’
‘Not so little any more,’ Sally pointed out. ‘Rita started school last September, bless her.’
‘Yes, but you still have all those mouths to feed and clothes to wash and iron. I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Dotty’s not much help in that regard,’ Sally admitted. ‘She may be eleven but she’s a proper dreamer. She’d go out wearing odd socks and with her hair like a bird’s nest if I let her.’ Chatting easily, she showed Pamela how to fit pattern pieces on to the material with the least possible waste. ‘Eric does his best, but have you ever tried to teach a lad how to iron a shirt? It’s a lost cause, believe me.’
‘And the other boy?’ The name had escaped Pamela.
‘George. He’s not happy unless he’s climbing a tree or else out at the end of the jetty fishing for cod. I reckon that’s what George will do when he leaves school – sign up as a trawlerman on any boat that will take him.’
‘What about the length?’ Connie tried her dress on the mannequin by the window. ‘To the knees, or a bit higher?’
‘Higher,’ Lizzie decided. ‘With legs as good as yours it’d be a shame not to show them off.’
Happy with the reply, Connie set about measuring the length of her skirt. ‘Sally, what’s it like having Pamela as your boss?’
‘It’s a nightmare!’ Sally’s freckled face assumed an exaggerated expression of disgust. ‘Do this, do that, don’t do it that way, do it like this.’
‘Uh-oh, I like this girl!’ Connie whisked the dress off the mannequin. ‘Why not volunteer for the ARP and liven things up a bit? We could do with some new blood over at Gas Street.’
‘Much as I’d love to …’ Sally said with a mischievous wink at Pamela.
‘She’s busy at the Anchor most evenings,’ Pamela reminded Connie. ‘Have you finished with the machine? Can I make a start on this bodice?’
Connie gave way to Pamela with good grace, then there was more whirring, more snipping and pinning. Two hours passed before they knew it; nine o’clock arrived and it was time to pack up.
Lizzie was happy with their progress. ‘Two more sessions ought to do it,’ she remarked as Sally and Pamela prepared to leave. Then she thanked Sally for lending a hand. ‘It’s made all the difference,’ she assured her as they said their goodbyes.
Pamela and Sally’s way home took them to the edge of the market square. Not a single shaft of light escaped from any of the cottages, or from the pub where Sally lived, but the night air was alive with the sound of waves crashing against the stone jetty and the sense that soldiers from the 39th Battalion were hunkered down as usual inside the pillboxes ranged along the beach. ‘This is where I love you and leave you,’ Pamela remarked easily.
But Sally’s mood had grown more sombre during their walk home. ‘Before you go, do you mind if I get something off my chest?’ she said.
‘No – what is it?’ Pamela envisaged a small problem at work – sometimes the crane drivers and men who worked in the cutting shed under Keith Nelson could make remarks that were a little off-colour.
‘It’s the man I was engaged to,’ Sally confessed. ‘He won’t leave me alone.’
Pamela was confused. ‘But I thought …’
‘Yes, Ron was the one who broke it off.’ Sally bit her bottom lip. ‘But it hasn’t stopped him bothering me ever since.’
‘Your fiancé was Ron Butcher?’ Pamela had heard this on the grapevine so showed no surprise.
Sally sighed and nodded.
‘Why – what does he do exactly?’
‘He hangs around outside the pub most evenings. He doesn’t come in, though.’
‘No, I expect your father would send him packing if he did.’
‘And he’s followed me to work most mornings. Sometimes he’s still drunk from the night before.’
‘Follows you but doesn’t say anything?’ Pamela was worried by this.
Sally nodded. ‘So what does he want?’ she pleaded, with a mixture of exasperation and fear. ‘If Ron’s got something to say to me, why not just come out with it?’
‘Perhaps he wants to make up?’
This time the response was a vehement shake of the head. ‘You weren’t there when we broke up. You didn’t hear what he said.’
There was a long pause while Pamela waited for Sally to continue.
‘He said he hated me and he hated all women. We tell lies and we can’t be trusted. There was worse than that, too.’ Tears welled up and she brushed them away. ‘I tried to tell him how much I loved him, but he told me he’d never loved me right from the start, that I was a silly little fool if I thought he hadn’t noticed me carrying on behind his back. I wasn’t, I swear!’
‘Of course not.’ Pamela felt a surge of anger on her new friend’s behalf. How awful it must be to hear those insults spoken by the man you were engaged to.
‘I’m not that kind of girl.’
‘But in that case, why is he still bothering you? And how much does it scare you?’
Sally hesitated. ‘I’m more worried than scared. Ron has a cut on his forehead – a bad one. He’s let it get infected.’
‘I heard that he crashed his bike when he was drunk and got into a fight with Sam.’ Pamela had a clear memory of Lizzie’s account.
‘That explains the cut.’ Taking a deep breath, Sally started to apologize. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything to you – it’s up to me to sort it out.’
‘I only wish I could be of more use.’
‘That’s just it – you can’t. No one can.’ With a helpless shrug of her shoulders, Sally backed away across the empty square towards the Anchor.
‘Maybe he’ll lose interest and stop following you,’ Pamela said without conviction.
‘Maybe,’ Sally echoed uncertainly. ‘I’ll see you first thing tomorrow.’
‘Eight thirty on the dot,’ Pamela agreed. There would be the usual letters to type, receipts to file, telephone orders to write down – a busy life to lead despite the broken heart.
Pamela watched Sally cross the square with a sinking feeling. Who knew what a man like Ron Butcher would do next? The thought struck her that he might also be hanging around Wren’s Cove. Could he be the one who had set fire to the debris on the beach, then let out the air in her and Fred’s tyres? I’ll talk to Connie and Lizzie about it, she decided as she turned for home.
‘Fred’s not here,’ Edith informed her daughter. It was Tuesday evening and Pamela had called in at Sunrise on the spur of the moment, hoping to surprise her sweetheart. ‘He’s gone with Hugh and Harold to look at some new equipment for the cutting shed. Hugh said he would value their opinion.’
‘Fred never mentioned it.’ Pamela was disappointed. Since their Saturday night together he’d seldom been out of her thoughts and they’d spent every possible moment in each other’s company, not attempting to hide their new intimacy from her parents and uncle. They’d held hands and openly exchanged kisses over Sunday breakfast and dinner. If Edith thought it unseemly, she had hidden her disapproval – after all, in her eyes Fred could do no wrong. Hugh had smiled in avuncular fashion at the billing and cooing as he called it. Harold, on the other hand, had clung to a more traditional role. Pamela was his daughter and it was his duty to look out for her. Ought he to pull Fred to one side and caution him against taking things too far too quickly? Then again, how could Harold possibly risk putting a dent in Pamela’s blissful smile?
‘Stay and have a cup of tea,’ Edith insisted. She invited Pamela into the lounge, where her baby grand took pride of place in the bay window. Every surface was polished, every cushion plumped and every china ornament arranged on the low mantelpiece in perfect relationship to each other – the shepherd lad with fleecy lamb tucked under his arm smiled at his shepherd lass in panniered skirt and beribboned bonnet, while the Doulton cockerel raised his splendid iridescent head and crowed.
Tea. Ginger biscuits – home-made and presented on a plate with a paper doily. Pleasant chatter led by Edith. Her new musical scores had finally arrived, thank heavens. She’d started giving piano lessons to Reverend Greene’s daughter, Millicent. Unfortunately the girl was tone deaf. Pamela listened and nodded sympathetically. She looked at her watch and wondered if it was worth waiting for Fred to return, then realized that her shift at Gas Street was due to start in just over an hour. She put her cup and saucer back on the tray and speedily took her leave. ‘Tell Fred … tomorrow night, all being well. Thanks for the tea and bye-bye.’
Edith walked to the gate and watched Pamela hurry off along the promenade. It was true what they said about young lovers walking on air – her daughter’s feet hardly touched the ground as she disappeared into the shadow of the headland. Edith sighed. Once upon a time she’d been that girl, falling head over heels for Harold Carr. She’d felt the same butterflies in her stomach and the overwhelming yearning in her heart that had made her throw aside convention and marry the lowly junior clerk in her father’s office. Once upon a time.
Pamela had taken the lonely footpath that rounded the headland and was approaching the harbour when she ran into, of all the people she didn’t want to meet, Sid and Reggie. They were dressed in uniform and lounging on a bench overlooking the jetty, but the moment they spied her, they sprang up and intercepted her; one on either side, jostling with their elbows and behaving with their usual overfamiliarity.
‘Look what the wind blew in,’ Sid began cheerily.
‘Yes – just what the doctor ordered.’ Reggie’s patter was accompanied by a wink.
‘We promise, Nurse, we’ll take our medicine like good little boys.’
‘As long as you read us a bedtime story.’
The rapid-fire remarks were whipped away by the wind coming straight off the sea, which tugged at Pamela’s silk scarf. Who did the pair of clowns think they were; Abbott and Costello?
‘Come and have a drink with us.’ Reggie took hold of her elbow and steered her towards the Anchor.
‘No, thank you – I’ve told you before – I’ve no wish to have a drink with you. Either of you,’ she added with a cool glance at Sid. (‘Be firm,’ Connie had instructed when Pamela had broached the subject the previous day. ‘They’re a pair of pests,’ Lizzie had agreed. ‘If it happens again, don’t stand any nonsense.’)
‘Reggie’s paying,’ Sid assured Pamela, before sidestepping a pile of lobster pots and two fishermen hanging up their nets. As Reggie and Pamela continued in a straight line towards the pub door, Sid lost interest and instead of following them into the Anchor decided to pass the time of day with the gang of trawlermen gathered by the jetty. He took out a packet of Woodbines and offered them round.
‘Really, I wish you’d stop bothering me.’ Pamela wrenched her arm free, only to find that Reggie had managed to slip his hand around her waist and was intent on whisking her onwards. I’m being as firm as I can, she told herself, and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference.
‘Just this morning I was telling young Fred what a lucky beggar he was. Two like you don’t come along very often and that’s a fact.’ On Reggie went, unabashed and with a steely determination beneath his jokes. ‘Fred’s a bit on the quiet, bookish side, if you don’t mind me saying. What you really need is a man of the world.’
‘What I really need is for you to leave me alone.’ Pamela dug in her heels. What did it take to get rid of a man like Reggie Nolan? Was he so caught up in himself, in his belief that he was irresistible to all women, that he missed the signals she was giving him? ‘Seriously, I object to your discussing me behind my back as if I were a bus or a train – and with Fred of all people.’
‘Watch out, love.’ A thirsty customer in a frayed tweed jacket and a well-worn cap pushed past her as he made his way to the bar.
‘I’m winding you up.’ Reggie laughed and spread his hands, palms upwards. ‘As a matter of fact, your name never came up in conversation with Herr Müller or whatever his name is.’
Not that again! The spectre of Fred’s past reared up and a knot formed in the pit of Pamela’s stomach.
‘Joking again,’ Reggie said with that maddening grin. His moustache hid his thin top lip but a set of bottom teeth showed white and even, with a speck of spittle on his clean-shaven chin. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s about where Fred was born or what he got up to after he left Germany. Let sleeping dogs lie, I reckon.’
Knowledge was power – Pamela might be naive but she knew this much. And she didn’t trust Reggie not to misuse this vital piece of information about Fred’s background. Hesitating, she allowed herself to be ushered into the dimly lit snug.
‘There, that’s more like it. Dubonnet for the lady and a pint of pale ale for me,’ Reggie called to Sally behind the bar.
Sally, help! Pamela’s silent appeal came with a meaningful stare and a small shake of her head.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Sally had picked up Pamela’s panicky signal and stood with both hands placed firmly on the top of the bar. ‘For one thing, we’re clean out of Dubonnet. For another, I know for a fact that “the lady” you refer to is due to start a shift at Gas Street in half an hour.’
‘Make it a sweet sherry, then.’ Reggie ignored the second part of Sally’s rejoinder.
‘Pamela doesn’t drink sherry.’ Sally’s challenging gaze was strong enough to take the wind out of even Reggie’s sails. Arms braced against the bar, eyes fixed on his face and mouth set firm, she made no move to serve him.
‘That’s right – I don’t.’ Seizing her chance, Pamela broke free from her unwelcome suitor and headed for the door. Thirty minutes to get home and then change into her uniform before taking the short cut to the sector post – she could just about make it if she ran every step of the way. ‘I can’t stand the taste, and even if I could, I’ve already spelled it out – I want you to stop pestering me, full stop.’
‘Hear that?’ Sally told the big-headed erk. Her hand reached for the pump and she began to pull him a pint of pale ale. ‘You’re out of your league there, love. And the sooner you get that into your thick skull the better.’
‘Sam reckons that Ron went off the rails when his dad started talking about selling Annie May,’ Lizzie told Connie as they shut up shop late on Friday afternoon. Connie was sweeping the floor while Lizzie finished tidying up in the bakery.
‘Come again?’ Connie was expecting Tom to pick her up on his motorbike, so she opened the door and looked anxiously up and down the busy street.
‘Sam puts Ron’s queer behaviour down to his dad deciding to sell Annie May,’ Lizzie repeated. ‘Apparently, Ron called Tom and Bill all the names under the sun when the hospital doctors were trying to treat his injuries. He said they were swindlers who had robbed his dad blind. Sam and Ron used to be pals. He says Ron was always a bit of a loner, but he and Sam got on well enough.’
Men were at work on the Gazette building opposite the bakery, clearing rubble and erecting a barbed-wire barrier around the site. They’d put up a ‘No Looting’ sign for good measure.
‘According to his dad, Ron wasn’t capable of taking over, and anyway he wasn’t interested.’ Connie recalled the exact phrase that Tom had relayed to her – ‘The lad hasn’t got what it takes.’ She continued, ‘Come to think of it, Sam could be on to something – having Annie May snatched from under his nose can’t have been easy.’
‘You might be right,’ Lizzie acknowledged. ‘Anyway, I can see you’re itching to get away.’
‘Tom’s due any minute.’ Connie took off her apron and folded it neatly. She seemed distracted as she went to the door once more.
‘You’ve got ants in your pants,’ Lizzie commented. ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.’
‘That’s not true,’ Connie protested weakly.
‘You’ve been like it all day.’ Lizzie had noticed Connie make small mistakes over the change she’d handed to customers – definitely not like her – and she’d been unusually short with their Aunty Vera, who had dropped by to discuss more wedding arrangements.
‘I take it you’ve organized a new suit for Bert?’ their aunt had asked Connie just as Lizzie had been heading off with a delivery. ‘If not, would you like me to take him to Burton’s to get measured up?’
Two new customers had followed Vera into the shop and Connie had given her short shrift. ‘I don’t have time for that now,’ she’d snapped. ‘Not everything revolves around Lizzie and Bill’s big day, you know.’
Taken aback, Vera had retreated with a flea in her ear.
Now Connie sighed and offered a quiet apology. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she muttered. ‘I’m feeling a bit off-colour. Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.’
Arranging to catch up with her later, Lizzie left the shop just as Tom purred up on his motorbike. She gave him a cheery wave then headed off in the van for her own rendezvous with Bill. Tom parked the bike and went inside. He took off his gauntlets and goggles while Connie pulled down the blind.
‘What do you say to a quick ride out to Wren’s Cove?’ Tom suggested. ‘I haven’t been out there for a couple of days. Bill’s done more work on the deck – we can see how he’s been getting on.’
‘Fine.’ She went to fetch her coat and hat.
Tom followed her. ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’
‘Sorry.’ Connie brushed his cold cheek with her lips. ‘What have you been up to today?’
‘I was on one of the river barges, learning more about winches and so on from Sid Donne. There’s not much to it really.’ He flapped his gauntlets against his thigh as if giving himself a quick reprimand. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to hear about my boring day. How about you?’
Sensing that he was keeping something from her, Connie buttoned her coat as she stepped back into the shop. ‘Don’t give me that, Tom Rose. What else has happened?’
‘Nothing.’ He gave another flap of the gauntlets. ‘Ready?’
The choppy conversation had put them both on edge. ‘Do you mind if I say no to Wren’s Cove?’ Connie asked. ‘The truth is I need an early night.’
Tom winced as if he’d nicked his finger with a sharp blade. ‘Rightio – I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘If you like.’ She advanced towards the door.
‘The Patrol Service wants to transfer us from airship maintenance to minesweeping duties,’ he blurted out. He’d meant to keep it a secret for now, darn it, but Connie’s terse replies had thrown him off balance.
‘You and Bill?’ She took a sharp breath and felt the blood drain from her face. Feeling suddenly light-headed, she grasped the door handle.
‘Yes, both of us.’
‘Does Lizzie know?’
‘Not yet. They informed us today but they haven’t given us a date for when we start. Bill’s hoping it won’t be until after the wedding.’
‘But how can you go minesweeping if you don’t have a boat?’ It made no sense; surely for Tom and Bill to go after the deadly North Sea mines again they would need a vessel that was seaworthy.
‘They intend to conscript us on to a Royal Navy corvette. They’re better equipped than your average trawler – electrical sweeps, bigger guns, more modern sonar. They go after U-boats as well as mines.’ Sounding weary, Tom made no attempt to soften his explanation. ‘It’s better if you don’t tell Lizzie,’ he warned. ‘Let Bill pick his moment.’
Connie closed her eyes and steadied herself. ‘What about Annie May?’ she whispered.
‘We’ll carry on with the restoration for the time being. Who’s to say exactly when the RNPS will give us the nod? It could be months off.’
She nodded; yes, look on the bright side. Why would the navy go to the trouble of teaching Tom and Bill about river barges and barrage balloons unless it planned to put their training to good use in the estuary? Minesweeping duty was surely a long way off – weeks, months, even years – and by then the war might be over.
‘I didn’t mean to tell you. I knew you’d worry.’ A gulf had opened up between them, with Connie on the far side of a rapidly widening chasm, leaving Tom confused and helpless.
‘Of course I’m worried! Who wouldn’t be?’ Feeling hot tears well up, she fiercely wiped them away with the back of her hand. As if things weren’t bad enough!
‘Connie?’ He moved towards her, only for her to step sideways. ‘What’s up, love? This isn’t like you.’
She turned her back, searching for a handkerchief in her coat pocket. ‘I’ve been doing too much,’ she told him. ‘I’m worn out, that’s all.’
‘That’s not it, though, is it?’ Her head was bowed and she trembled. ‘Has something happened?’ Perhaps her dad’s health had taken a turn for the worse – it was the only thing Tom could think of that would cause Connie to act this way.
The words wouldn’t come. She had spent the day rehearsing this moment, framing what she would say. But now it came to it – she and Tom together with the blind down, traffic rumbling along the road outside and no earthly reason why she shouldn’t deliver her news in a grown-up, calm and practical way – there was a constriction in her throat as if a hand was pressed against it, trying to strangle her.
‘Connie?’ he said with mounting trepidation.
‘It’s my time of the month, but I’m late.’ Had she imagined speaking or had she actually come out with the dreaded words?
‘What?’ The gulf widened. She sounded far, far away. The glass counter gleamed and a low sun filtered in through the blind.
She forced herself to turn and face him.
Tom stared at her, dumbstruck, disbelieving and desperate.
‘I think I might be pregnant.’
Six simple words shattered Connie and Tom’s harmonious world as surely as any Hefty Hermann or anything else Jerry could throw at them. This was a disaster, pure and simple.