Lizzie had several scraps of news for Connie as she returned to Elliot Street to change into her uniform in preparation for her evening shift at the ambulance depot. She dashed into the kitchen before poking her head around the living-room door, then, finding both rooms empty, she rushed upstairs.
‘Guess what! The verger at St Joseph’s has had a stroke and been carted off to hospital, poor man. I heard about it at the allotment this morning. The vicar has found a replacement. Oh, and the city of Bath took a pounding last night. It was in this morning’s Sunday Express.’
Connie sat on the edge of the bed, still in rumpled clothes from the day before.
Lizzie stopped dead in her tracks. ‘Are you poorly? Do you need to see the doctor?’
‘It’s Sunday – the surgery’s closed,’ Connie replied in a flat voice. She felt dull and weary but not sick. ‘Anyway, I’m fine.’
‘Says you.’ Pulling down the blind, then turning on the lamp, Lizzie saw that Connie was far from fine – her face was pale, her eyelids heavy and her movements listless. ‘Bill and I worked on Annie May this afternoon. We’re making headway at last.’
Connie acknowledged the information with a nod.
‘A word of warning – take care if you ever venture inside the cave. There was a fall of loose rock while Bill was in there this afternoon. He could have been knocked out, or worse.’ Lizzie changed her clothes as she talked. ‘We wondered where you and Tom had got to.’
Connie cut her short. ‘I haven’t seen Tom lately.’
‘I see.’ Lizzie buttoned the waistband of her trousers. In that case, something was seriously amiss.
‘What do you see?’ Connie snapped back. ‘Trust you to read a drama into it. All I’m saying is that we’ve both been busy.’
‘Busy – yes.’ Lizzie straightened up from tying her shoelaces. This situation must be tackled head-on. ‘Listen, Con, I’m worried about you. It’s not like you to mope around or to keep secrets from me. We share everything, you and I.’
‘What secrets do you imagine I’m keeping, pray?’ Connie made an attempt to shore up her crumbling defences with a dose of scorn.
‘I’m guessing that you and Tom have had an argument.’ Sitting on her own bed, Lizzie faced Connie across the narrow gap.
‘And what if we have?’ Connie stood up jerkily and walked to the door. ‘Just because you and Bill float around on cloud nine doesn’t mean life is plain sailing for the rest of us.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I’m sorry, that was a cheap shot.’ Connie’s hand rested on the edge of the door. ‘If you must know, Tom and I did have a row. He’s keeping his distance for the time being and that’s all right by me.’ The biggest lie of all; every waking minute Connie had expected Tom to walk back into the house with a plan for their future. He would tell her that he’d had time to get over the shock and she wasn’t in this alone. He would wrap his arms around her. Together they would work things out.
‘You don’t look as if it’s fine. What was the row about?’ As Lizzie edged Connie towards a confession, the seed of an idea was planted in her brain. It quickly took root, developed green shoots and grew into a flourishing certainty. When it came to it, Lizzie could imagine only one event that could have thrown vibrant, fun-loving Connie so far out of kilter.
‘Nothing much.’ Connie grasped the door more tightly. ‘Honestly, don’t worry.’ Why, oh why hadn’t Tom shown up? The yawning disappointment was worst at night, when she lay in the dark and remembered.
‘I think I can guess,’ Lizzie whispered, her heart thumping against the wall of her chest. It was more than shrewd supposition – she felt sure.
Without warning, Connie slumped against the door and started to weep.
Lizzie leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘You’re expecting a baby.’
‘I’m over a week late.’ The words were out. There was no denying them. ‘How did you know?’ Connie sobbed.
‘I’m your sister, Con. We can practically read each other’s minds.’ Lizzie supported Connie back to her bed. ‘Here, sit down. Take your time.’
‘I told Tom, more fool me.’
‘No, you were right to do that.’ Fresh thoughts flew furiously in and out of Lizzie’s head. Connie ought to see a doctor; Tom would turn up when he was ready; they should keep it from their father at least until the pregnancy was confirmed.
‘He’s vanished,’ Connie cried. ‘He walked out on me, Liz!’
Lizzie held her tight and let her weep. ‘Tom wouldn’t do that,’ she murmured.
‘But he has.’ Sobs tore through Connie. ‘He stared at me open mouthed when I gave him the news. You should’ve seen him. The look on his face told me it was the end of the world as far as he was concerned.’
‘He must have said something.’
‘Hardly anything. He asked how it could have happened – we’d been careful.’ Connie recalled that rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights look and the frown as the truth slowly dawned. ‘He asked what we should do.’
Lizzie held her tight. All Connie’s strength and energy seemed to have drained away. ‘He said “we”?’ she coaxed.
Connie nodded. ‘He offered to help.’
‘Good.’ Lizzie pressed her lips against Connie’s hair. ‘That’s something.’
‘But then he left. I wanted him to stay but he didn’t. He walked out on me.’ Shock, dismay, sickening disappointment – these were the feelings that had distorted Connie’s view of events. Tom had abandoned her, full stop!
‘It must have been the shock. Give him time.’ Despite the soothing words, Lizzie couldn’t help but feel angry at her sister’s sweetheart – she would have expected better. It wasn’t fair to leave Connie in this state, shock or no shock. ‘Shall I get Bill to talk to him?’ she suggested tentatively.
Connie’s pride reasserted itself and she drew herself upright. ‘No. It’s bad enough already. I don’t want Bill to know – or anyone else, for that matter. Besides, if Tom has to be talked into doing the decent thing instead of doing it of his own accord, I’d rather he stayed away.’
‘I see that,’ Lizzie conceded. ‘So we’ll leave Tom to stew while we take this forward one step at a time. First, we make the appointment with Dr McKay. Second, it’s important for you to take it easy from now on. I could ask Aunty Vera to step in at the bakery for a while – what do you say?’
‘No need.’ Connie dried her eyes. ‘Even if I am expecting, I intend to carry on as normal – in the bakery by day, at Gas Street in the evenings.’
‘No, it’s too much,’ Lizzie argued.
‘I can’t just drop everything – what would people think?’
‘Does it matter?’ The most important thing in Lizzie’s mind was for Connie to look after herself. ‘And won’t you at least consider giving up the head warden’s job? That would allow you to cut back on your shifts – down to two nights a week out on patrol instead of three or four chained to a desk with all that responsibility.’
‘No.’ Connie dug in her heels. ‘I might moan about being cooped up in the sector post from time to time, but deep down I take pride in being head warden. Anyway, there would be all sorts of tittle-tattle. Why has Connie Bailey taken a step back from the role she loves? Surprise – she and Tom Rose have gone their separate ways! And have you noticed? Connie’s definitely putting on weight.’
‘Stop – you’re letting your imagination run away with you.’ Lizzie was fearful that Connie would rush headlong into actions she would later regret.
Connie nodded. ‘You’re right about seeing a doctor, but not at our local surgery. I’ll go somewhere else – preferably out of town. To Easby, perhaps.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow – I’ll make a few phone calls.’
Lizzie realized that this would have to do for now. ‘Promise me?’
‘I promise.’
‘And you must let me take the brunt of the work in the bakery. Why don’t we switch? You can come in later and drive out with the deliveries while I do the baking. I can get started an hour earlier so as to be ready to open the shop on time.’
‘No, that’s not fair on you. I want to do my share.’ Connie struggled against the despair that threatened to envelop her. ‘Let me do it my way, Liz, please.’
‘Very well.’ A glance at her watch told Lizzie that she had less than thirty minutes to get to the depot.
‘What time is it?’
‘Time I wasn’t here.’ Lizzie grasped Connie’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Good Lord!’ Reading the time on Lizzie’s watch, Connie sprang to her feet and began to rummage in the chest of drawers. ‘I’m due at Gas Street at half past. I have to get dressed!’
‘Surely not?’ The change from apathy to frenzied activity alarmed Lizzie.
‘Yes – why not? My name will be mud with Brian if I don’t turn up, and quite right too.’ Fresh underwear and clean socks, trousers, white shirt, battledress jacket – Connie scrambled for the items she needed.
Lizzie saw that it was useless to argue. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you,’ she offered.
‘Right you are.’ Connie ran a comb through her hair before jamming her ski cap on to her head. ‘Ready!’
They set off together along Elliot Street, sidestepping three girls playing hopscotch on the pavement and on past the barbed-wire fence protecting the corporation baths building that had taken a direct hit during a bombing raid the previous year. They heard mothers calling their children in for tea and wirelesses playing faintly in the background as they reached the end of Gas Street.
‘Are you expecting to see Tom tonight?’ Lizzie wanted to know.
Connie braced herself before replying. ‘Who knows? He may have swapped his shift again. Though let’s face it – I’ll have to see him sooner or later.’
‘I’m sure it’ll work out.’ Please let it be true – please let Tom step up to the mark! Lizzie crossed her fingers behind her back.
‘It doesn’t matter either way.’ At last, after seemingly endless hours and days of agony, Connie had her rebellious emotions under control. ‘I’ve come to a decision – I’ll write Tom a letter.’
‘Saying what exactly?’ In the early-evening light, the tall, terraced houses on either side of the street gave off a depressing air. Two female wardens at the end of Valley Road exchanged information about their shifts. No alerts, no emergencies, all quiet, thank God.
‘I’ve decided to put him out of his misery,’ Connie declared. ‘I’ll write and say he’s off the hook as far as the baby is concerned.’
‘Wait!’ Lizzie begged. The train was running off its tracks. Derailment beckoned. ‘Don’t make any decision until you two have talked it through.’
Connie was defiant. ‘What’s the point? It’s clear Tom Rose wants nothing more to do with me, and the feeling is mutual. Whatever I thought we had during our time together has gone up in smoke. Puff – the fling is over, Lizzie.’ Finished. Kaput.
Perhaps it would have been better if Pamela and Fred had argued following their stormy walk – cleared the air. As it was, the distance between them remained throughout the following week. All was perfectly civil and apparently unchanged when they were at work but during their evenings together it was as if they’d taken several steps backwards in their relationship. There were still kisses on the cheek and walks hand in hand along the promenade, but their conversations were stilted and limited to recent events – damage reports that Fred had collated at the control centre or the new machinery that Hugh had installed in the cutting shed at the timber yard – and nothing was said about the disastrous end to Saturday’s walk in the rain.
Pamela fretted in silence. A kiss on the cheek was a poor substitute for tender endearments and passionate embraces, skin against skin, but perhaps this was normal? She had never been in love before and so had nothing in real life with which to compare her affair with Fred. Of course, she’d read books where ardour cooled after those first heady days or where intense highs and lows settled into an affectionate pattern of compromise and cooperation. Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility came to mind; sensible Elinor Dashwood was the picture of restraint and reason, while younger sister Marianne’s emotions ran riot with predictably disastrous results.
In any case, Pamela felt she ought to be thankful for small mercies when she considered what had happened between Tom and Connie. Though nothing had been said, Pamela was increasingly convinced that they’d run into difficulties – they’d been avoiding each other for days and Connie had been acting like a bear with a sore head: first, ordering Eddie Fraser to polish his ARP badge and spruce up his uniform, then complaining about the untidy state of the rest room above the shop where the wardens drank tea, played cards and smoked. Pamela had taken Lizzie to one side and questioned her about Connie’s black moods. Lizzie had reluctantly confirmed that there was indeed trouble between Connie and Tom; leave it at that. As for Sally and Ron, Pamela shuddered at their current situation. And to think that in the early stages of their affair Sally had been genuinely in love with the man – she’d confessed as much – having no inkling of what Ron was capable of. This in itself was alarming, since Pamela saw Sally as a girl with her head screwed on, not as someone who could be easily fooled.
Her admiration for her new friend increased by the day. At work, Sally had picked things up so quickly that Pamela now left most of the typing to her while she followed up queries over accounts and kept track of deliveries. She enjoyed listening to the repetitive tap-tap-tap of Sally’s typewriter keys as she delved into reasons behind a delay or else processed invoices and transferred them to the Paid files. Their chats during breaks for elevenses were as animated and free as ever. Sally quizzed Pamela about Fred; what were his hobbies and did they have plans for the fast approaching weekend? He liked reading and rambling on the moor and no, they had no special plans, Pamela replied with a rueful smile.
‘I envy you those walks.’ It was Friday afternoon and the weather looked set fair. ‘I used to go hiking with Ron when we could find the time.’
Her casual mention of Ron’s name left the door open for Pamela to pursue the subject. ‘I take it you haven’t seen him since … you know when?’
‘Since Sunday?’ Sally’s fingers hovered over the keys. ‘I haven’t talked to him, but he still hangs around the square, worse luck. I warned Rita not to have anything to do with him, poor mite.’
‘It’s a shame.’ Pamela picked up several typed letters from Sally’s desk. ‘I’ll take these through for signatures,’ she offered.
She found Hugh talking on the telephone while Fred waited patiently by the window overlooking the yard.
‘I could come back later,’ she whispered, but Hugh motioned for her to sit down. Fred gave Pamela an awkward smile. His jacket was unbuttoned and he’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt but still somehow managed to look serious and businesslike as Hugh put down the phone.
‘Yes, Fred, what can I do for you?’ Hugh asked.
‘I’ve brought the balance sheets that you asked me for.’ Coming forward to place them on his boss’s desk, Fred avoided eye contact with Pamela. ‘Our profits have improved week by week since we cut down on overheads and eliminated waste in the catering department.’
‘Yes, yes, most satisfactory. That was a good suggestion of yours.’ Hugh scanned the paperwork. ‘Thank you, Fred – that’s all for now.’
Fred retrieved the papers then departed.
Hugh gave Pamela a quizzical look before dropping office formalities. ‘Now then, Pamela – trouble at t’mill?’ The colloquialism, intended to put her at her ease, sat oddly on his lips.
‘What do you mean?’ She blushed furiously.
‘Come on, do you think I haven’t noticed that something is up between you two love birds? It used to be that you could hardly keep away from Sunrise. Now we barely see you.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ she stammered.
‘And Fred – he takes extra shifts at the control centre as if my house is the last place on earth he wants to be. Anyone would think that he’s avoiding me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’s not.’
Hugh sniffed sceptically and twitched his trim white moustache. ‘It’s either me or those two RAF chaps we have billeted with us.’
‘That’s more likely,’ Pamela admitted before pushing the letters across his desk. ‘Could you sign these please so Sally can catch the last collection?’ As her uncle’s pen nib scratched away, she ventured further into non-office territory. ‘May I ask you a question, Uncle Hugh?’
‘Fire away.’
‘If you had a friend you cared about and you thought that friend might be in danger from someone she once walked out with, what would you do?’
Hugh blotted the last of his signatures then looked directly at her. ‘What kind of danger?’
‘For instance, the man might pester her, even though they’re no longer sweethearts. He’s the type who drinks then gets into trouble – serious fights and accidents. He ends up in hospital and the police are involved.’
‘I see.’ Hugh looked relieved. ‘Forgive me – I thought …’
‘No, I wasn’t referring to me and Fred,’ Pamela said firmly. ‘Say the man in question is likely to turn violent when he drinks – ought my friend to report him?’
‘To the police?’ Hugh gave the question serious thought. ‘That depends … You say he pesters her, but has he committed an actual crime?’
‘Not as far as I know, unless you count lying in wait for my friend and calling her names that I couldn’t possibly repeat.’ Go to hell … little tart. Sally had described each insult that Ron had flung at her as being like a punch to the stomach.
‘Unpleasant,’ Hugh agreed. ‘But no, unfortunately I don’t believe that constitutes sufficient grounds to report him. My advice would be for your friend to sit tight.’
‘And hope that the man leaves her alone eventually?’ But her uncle hadn’t seen the angry light in Ron Butcher’s eyes or sensed his low cunning or heard the hatred in his voice.
Hugh nodded. ‘These things – affairs of the heart – usually die down in the end. And while we’re talking frankly, my dear – ought I to give Reginald Nolan and Sidney Donne their marching orders? I will if you think it’s affecting Fred.’
Within seconds Pamela had thought of half a dozen reasons to say yes and an equal number to the contrary. ‘But where would they go? What reason could you give?’
‘There are plenty of spare rooms in hotels along the seafront. Provision could easily be made. I’d inform their squadron leader that it was no longer convenient.’
Caught between two difficult alternatives, Pamela hesitated. ‘They’d be upset. Sunrise is so handy for them. Sid might not mind, and anyway he’s not the main culprit, but Reggie would be livid. I know what he’s like – he could easily look for ways to get his own back, the worst of which would be attacking Fred for his family’s German origins. No, Uncle Hugh. I think it’s best for them to stay put.’ She gathered the letters, then stood up. ‘But please don’t mention our conversation to Fred.’
‘Not a word,’ he promised as he watched her retreat. ‘And, Pamela …’
‘Yes?’
Hugh screwed the top on to his Parker pen. ‘Fred is a decent chap. I’m fond of him.’
‘Yes – and so am I.’
Tap-tap with the end of his pen on the white blotting pad. ‘He’s been through a lot.’
‘I know.’ Wishing for the ground to swallow her, Pamela opened the door and stepped out into the corridor when Hugh delivered his parting shot.
He clipped his pen securely in his top pocket. ‘So be a good girl and sort out the difficulties between you, whatever they are.’
Tom had filled his week with non-stop activity. By Thursday evening the paint on Annie May’s hull had been stripped bare and the hatches made watertight. On Friday, he and Bill underwent another training day with the Patrol Service, visiting several of the river barges to learn how to operate various winches in addition to inspecting two new LZs that had been sited on Kelthorpe FC’s grounds and on a playing field on the outskirts of town. Mike Scott, a crisp, plain-speaking Royal Navy sub lieutenant whom they knew from earlier minesweeping duties, had made a point of seeking them out and informing them that several corvettes were due into dock for refits and that trawlermen up and down the north-east coast were expected to volunteer for anti-submarine duties once the work was complete. ‘There’ll be no excuse, lads,’ Scott had told them in no uncertain terms. ‘In my book, maintaining blimps isn’t top priority. The Patrol Service will need every pair of skilled hands they can find on board those minesweepers, so you two had better stand by your beds.’
‘Bloody hell, do me a favour,’ Bill had grumbled. ‘I’m getting married in a fortnight.’
‘Yes and Göring’s going to call off his dogs of war until after you’re spliced, is he?’ Scott had turned on his heel and marched away without further comment.
That evening, Tom returned to his digs on North Street to find an envelope on the doormat. His name was written on the front but there was no stamp so he knew it had been hand-delivered. The writing was unmistakably Connie’s.
Tom took the stairs two at a time and threw the unopened letter on to his bed. Reminders of Connie were strewn around the room: a comb and some Kirby grips on the window sill, her red jacket hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a lily of the valley perfume bottle on his bedside table. He’d moved nothing.
The white envelope demanded to be opened. But before he did so, Tom attempted to collect his thoughts. The whole week had been an agony of hurt and confusion. First, Connie’s news – a baby, for Christ’s sake! Not set in stone but pretty bloody likely. Then his own complete and utter failure to deal with it. Idiot that he was, he’d just stood there with his mouth hanging open, unable to find words to express how he felt. How did he feel? Stunned, obviously. It wasn’t meant to happen – he’d always done the right thing and taken precautions. This happened to other couples, not to him and Connie. There’d be a scandal, unless they got spliced in double-quick time – in which case they could bluff their way through. No one would know for sure whether it had been a shotgun wedding or not. But marriage? They’d never discussed it, though the thought had crossed his mind when Bill and Lizzie announced their engagement. He’d looked for signs that Connie was considering it too, but she’d breezed on, dancing the night away, having fun, laughing at life even when sirens sounded and bombs dropped all around.
Tom paced the room. He was due at Gas Street shortly. The blackout was already underway.
Why had he stood there like an idiot when Connie had delivered her news? Talk about the cat getting his tongue. At first, she’d fended him off with excuses – I’m tired, I’m worn out. Then, when she’d dropped the bombshell, she’d seemed too calm, too much in control. What the hell had she been thinking, feeling, expecting? He hadn’t been able to fathom it – they were so far apart that they might as well have been standing on different continents.
Later, after he’d left the bakery, he’d walked for miles in the dark. Instead of coming home, he’d hiked all the way up to Raynard’s Folly then back by the cliff path, scarcely caring whether he lost his footing and tumbled to his death. Strong winds, wild thoughts, clouds covering the moon. Tom had made a determined effort to stride his way out of confusion back into clarity. He’d considered going to Elliot Street and hammering on Connie’s door to swear that he would stand by her, whatever happened. But then the whole world would find out – Lizzie and Bert, and soon afterwards all the neighbours. Connie would never forgive him. So Tom had crept back into the shell of his lodgings: a nondescript room in the new part of town, close to the bus station. Connie’s stuff was everywhere. He was filled with dread that she might never want to see him ever again.
The secret of the pregnancy had wormed its way into his skull and become an obsession. He hadn’t slept or eaten for days and he’d thought about it endlessly. Best to keep out of Connie’s way until she was ready to talk to him. Tom had yearned to see her but the urge to knock on her door had faded. He’d even rearranged a couple of his shifts so as to stay out of her way – whether out of cowardice or consideration, it was hard to tell. She hadn’t got in touch.
So instead, he’d sawed and hammered, stripped wood, scraped and sandpapered and sealed hatches. Bill had had a go at him, demanding to know what was up. Had Connie given him a hard time because Tom, silly fool, had spilled the beans about the Patrol Service call-up? They’d both been on edge: Bill about the wedding and Tom for reasons he refused to share. Their friendship was under strain. The whole bloody world was going to pot.
And now the envelope. It stared at Tom, blindingly white on the dark blue bedcover. Forcing himself to get it over and done with, he tore it open and read.
Dear Tom,
I hope this letter doesn’t come as too much of a shock. I asked Lizzie to hand-deliver it for me because I wanted to make sure that you received it. Lizzie knows. No one else does.
I saw a doctor in Easby on Tuesday who confirmed what we were both afraid of. I’m pregnant – there’s no doubt about it. No one is to blame. It’s just one of those things.
There is plenty of time for me to decide what to do. This letter is simply to let you know how things stand. I understand that you don’t want to be involved and that is fine by me. You are under no obligation.
I’m sorry that things have turned out this way and will remember the happy times we had, as I hope you will too.
I hope also that we will be able to work together as wardens and that there will be no hard feelings between us. Please keep this matter private and tell no one.
That’s all. I close with best wishes – Connie