Connie had made her decision.
‘Where are you off to in such a rush?’ Lizzie demanded after her sister had displayed the closed sign on the bakery door and was preparing to make a quick exit.
‘Nowhere.’ It was half-day closing and all the jobs were done. The counter was wiped clean, the floor swept and mopped; everything was in apple-pie order. ‘I’ll leave the van with you. I’m going for a walk.’
‘To clear your head?’ Lizzie fretted constantly about Connie’s stubborn refusal to talk about what Lizzie delicately termed her ‘predicament’ but, so far, she’d been unable to break through her defences. ‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No, I’d rather be by myself.’ Connie made for the door. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Lizzie grimaced at the sound of the door slamming shut. Her sister’s infuriating behaviour – her recent touchiness and shortness of temper – was beyond anything Lizzie had experienced, and there seemed to be no way of getting through to her. ‘She’s the limit,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled down the blinds, then checked that everything was secure.
Out on the street, Connie took a deep breath before setting off towards the harbour. For some reason, she was more aware than usual of the sights and smells around her. Weary market traders packed up their stalls as she crossed the square to the scrape and clatter of empty vegetable crates being loaded on to carts, and the sight of women in shawls and headscarves expertly gutting the last of their fish to sell cut-price to latecomers. On the harbour-side she noticed Bill tinkering with his motorbike outside his cottage and forced herself to respond to his wave. She didn’t stop to chat.
On she went, along the headland path, buffeted by the wind. Gulls flying overhead split the air with their shrieking calls while the unchanging sound of waves breaking against rocks provided an accompaniment to Connie’s troubled thoughts.
She’d come to a decision – yes, she had! She couldn’t, wouldn’t, change her mind. Two grey gulls swooped down from the cliff face then rode an air current far out to sea against a backdrop of dark grey clouds. She wouldn’t change her mind because there was so much to lose if she went ahead with the pregnancy: her reputation, for a start. There would be enormous shame attached to having this baby and in the end the person who would suffer the most would be her father. Knowing him, Bert would hold up his head and defend his daughter against all comers, but deep down he would be cut to the quick. Connie would be unable to bear the hurt in his eyes. So it was partly for him that she was doing this.
Then there was the prospect of having to relinquish her post at Gas Street. She couldn’t – she just couldn’t! Volunteering for the ARP team had meant everything; from the day she signed up, she’d been immensely proud of her uniform and of being an air raid girl. It signified that she was vital to the war effort, that she was doing her bit to defeat Hitler. Then, when she’d been promoted to chief warden and been given extra responsibility, she’d been recognized as a leader who could set a good example, who kept her head in a crisis. She’d grown into her job and done it well. Could she relinquish her badge and the yellow chevrons on her sleeve, her battledress and her double-breasted overcoat, her ski cap and the status that went with it? No – it would cost her far too much to give it all up.
People rely on me. That’s what Connie had told Mavis Coulson, to whose house she was now headed. Reaching the end of the headland path, she proceeded along the prom, where she noted a flotilla of tiny warships on the horizon, the row of squat concrete pillboxes lining the beach and half a dozen silver barrage balloons strung out across the estuary – familiar sights that served to remind Connie how much her country continued to need her. The bus station was in sight, and before it, the turn into North Street.
When she reached the junction, she hesitated. She must pass Tom’s lodgings to reach number 127a. What if she ran into him and was forced to explain her reason for being here? For a few moments, she considered where he was most likely to be at this time on a Saturday afternoon. In previous weeks, he would have been with Bill at Wren’s Cove working on Annie May, but now his whereabouts were more difficult to pin down. Connie cast her mind back to a recent conversation between Lizzie and Pamela to the effect that Bill and Tom were hot on the trail of Ron Butcher. So that was most likely what the pair were up to right now. Then again, no; hadn’t she just seen Bill working on his bike?
The single-minded determination that Connie had felt when she’d set off from the bakery was waning rapidly, and she had to force herself to continue up North Street. Seeing Tom’s bike parked by the kerb, she hurried past his house with her head down, holding her breath. Please don’t come out to speak to me!
A girl with her hair chopped short cycled down the pavement towards her, followed by a small boy. A woman on a doorstep shouted for the boy to come back. ‘Alfie, get back here this minute!’
All of life went on around her while Connie set about putting an end to one as yet unformed.
Her heart was in her mouth as she approached 127a.
Mavis would open the door to her basement rooms. The neat handywoman would express no surprise. Come in. Please be seated. All would be done in a calm and friendly fashion.
Connie dragged her feet over what she was about to do, held back by the knowledge of how selfish she was being. Yes; selfish and proud. In the end that was what her sense of shame boiled down to. A new thought occurred: if she gave up her warden’s role while she had the baby, perhaps she could return afterwards. It would cause a hundred practical problems but there would be ways around them – Aunty Vera, Lizzie, their father could all step in and help with babysitting. And she reminded herself that she, Connie Bailey, could do anything that she set her mind to.
‘Connie?’ Tom had seen her pass by his house like a woman on a mission; head down, hurrying on, looking nothing like his confident Connie of old. His heart had gone out to her. Never mind that he’d agreed to step back from the big decision she had to make, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from rushing out to speak with her.
She turned at the sound of his voice. He hurried towards her with his long stride; jacketless, with his waistcoat hanging open. ‘Tom.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You don’t look it.’ This time there was no sharp retort, no defiance. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Everything,’ she confessed in a dazed voice, suddenly sagging under the effort of holding herself upright. Tom had caught her at her weakest, most vulnerable moment.
‘Come with me to my house.’ Taking her hand and turning back down the street, he felt her resist.
‘No – I’d rather walk.’
‘Where to?’
Connie pointed towards a footpath that led to the headland.
It was a steep climb but at least they would have the wind behind them. ‘Are you sure you can make it that far?’
‘Yes, I may be pregnant but I’m not an invalid.’
There she was: the old Connie. Tom nodded, and they walked together past 127a until they reached the stile that would take them across open country towards the two kite balloons and beyond that to Raynard’s Folly. ‘I won’t risk offending you by offering you a hand,’ he said with a wry grin.
She hopped over the stile, then set off ahead of him along the rough path that cut through the heather and fresh green ferns. This wasn’t meant to happen. She ought this minute to be knocking on Mavis Coulson’s door. As they gained height, the wind strengthened and propelled them forward in silence until they reached the twin concrete storm beds that held the new blimps in place. Here they stopped and looked down on the town they’d left behind – at the bay with its curve of pale sand fringed by white breakers. Tom waited for Connie to speak first.
‘I don’t want to give up my warden’s work,’ she said with tears in her eyes. ‘It would mean letting people down.’ Strands of dark hair blew across her cheeks and she made no attempt to brush them back.
He stood beside her, gazing at the empty horizon and giving her time and space to speak.
‘I know this town like the back of my hand – where to go for builders’ materials and breakdown lorries and every inhabitant within half-a-mile radius of the sector post. And I care about each and every one of them.’
‘No one’s arguing with that.’
‘Who would step into my shoes if …?’
‘If you went ahead with the pregnancy?’ There; he’d said it.
‘I would miss my warden’s role if I had to give it up.’ The friendships, the loyalty, the saving of lives. Connie tried to picture how she would deal with watching Lizzie put on her ambulance driver’s uniform and set out on patrol while she stayed at home twiddling her thumbs. Worse than that – she would become one of the residents that Pamela herded into the communal shelter at the sounding of the alert. Connie would hurry to College Road as the drone of bombers grew louder, or else take refuge with her father in their cellar, waiting for the danger to pass.
Tom carried on staring steadily out to sea. ‘I thought it was the end of the world when Bill and I lost Annie May.’
‘So you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, but I found a way of carrying on – we both did. We’ve decided to save up again and buy another boat. Fingers crossed we’ll get there in the end.’
‘And I could go back after …’ It was the first time that Connie had tried to express this thought.
‘After you’d had the baby?’ He turned his head slowly to look at her.
‘I could, couldn’t I?’
A question for him at last. It was as if a lock-keeper had opened the canal gates and let the water slowly rise, bringing them up to the next level from where they would be able to sail smoothly on. ‘Don’t ask me – you already know what I think.’
‘Do I? You’ve never told me.’
‘Because you wouldn’t let me get a word in. Anyway, you know without me saying.’
‘Say it anyway.’
The lock gate swung open and the water rose. ‘I want to help – I always have. I know I was lousy at showing it. And what I think – no, what I feel – is this: nothing’s changed. All that matters is that I love you and I always will.’
‘Even after the way I’ve treated you?’ The hydrogen-filled blimps rocked and swayed above their heads and high above them a trio of RAF planes flew east towards the clouds that hugged the watery horizon. ‘You weren’t alone. Dad and Lizzie have had to put up with a lot from me.’
Tom shrugged but didn’t comment. ‘Were you on your way to see Mavis Coulson?’ He watched the planes disappear into the clouds. ‘Don’t answer that if you don’t want to.’
Connie was astonished that he’d been able to guess her intention across the chasm that she’d created. ‘How did you know?’
‘I know what Mavis does; it’s common knowledge. And I knew she’d be one of the options that you mentioned.’
‘Would you have blamed me?’
‘No. Who am I to pass judgement?’
‘But would you have wanted me to?’
‘To go to Mavis? No,’ he said forcefully. ‘That isn’t what I want. But I won’t interfere if it’s what you want.’
‘I thought it was. I was almost certain until now.’ A heartbeat, a new life. And a decision that was hers and hers alone, cemented during this conversation with the man who loved her and was the father of their baby. ‘Tom, I believe I can do this after all. I want to do it.’
‘With me?’ At last he’d asked what was, for him, the most important question of all.
Connie nodded slowly. So far, only Lizzie knew their secret but now everyone would hear about it. There would be no more hesitating, no more agonizing over what to do; Connie Bailey was expecting a baby with Tom Rose and she was happy about it. She would shout it to the world and to heck with the scandalmongers. ‘Yes, with you,’ she told Tom as they set off along the ridge towards the folly, hand in hand and in perfect step without the need for words.
Pamela thought she knew who her enemies were – Reggie Nolan and Lionel Simmons had made their views quite clear. But the attack, when it came, was from a stranger in broad daylight and in full public view.
She and Fred set out from Sunrise on an errand for Edith, who had run out of embroidery silks.
‘I’d like to finish sewing a tray cloth for your Uncle Hugh,’ she’d informed Pamela. ‘It’s a gift for his birthday next week.’
Despite the day being overcast, Pamela and Fred were happy to oblige. They strolled along the prom then around the headland, stopping to chat with acquaintances in the market square before proceeding along College Road, where they would buy the thread from the haberdashery shop opposite Cynthia’s hair salon. It was late in the afternoon and stall holders were packing up for the day.
Dorothy Parsons, the drama-loving telephonist at the report and control centre, hailed them from across the square. She hurried to join them and share news about Ronald Atkinson, the ARPO controller at the town hall.
‘Have you heard? Ronald’s doctor has ordered him to give up his post.’ Dorothy was breathless and flustered, tugging at the lead as she ordered her Yorkshire terrier to stop snapping at market traders’ heels. ‘Things have caught up with him. He’s not as young as he was.’
This was news to Fred. Ronald had been in charge of the control centre from the start, coordinating rescue teams and synchronizing the responses to raids. He was built in the mould of Field Marshal Montgomery: small in stature but sharp-speaking and authoritative, with a clipped, nasal voice and a military turn of phrase that brooked no argument. ‘Who will take his place?’
‘It hasn’t been decided yet.’ Dorothy gave Pamela a knowing wink. ‘Fred is too modest to say so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he were the one. He’s already been promoted to executive officer and his damage reports are second to none.’
‘Mind your backs!’ the last of the fishmongers warned as she approached with her empty barrow.
Fred’s face reddened at the telephonist’s compliment. He and Pamela gave way to the barrow woman, then said their goodbyes to Dorothy.
‘Could that be true?’ Pamela asked as they made their way along College Road. ‘Might you be promoted again?’
‘It’s not out of the question,’ Fred conceded. ‘It depends who else is in the running.’
Traffic was busy along Kelthorpe’s main shopping street. Car drivers honked their horns at cyclists who veered across their paths and a bus stopped outside the Red Lion to let passengers step down on to the pavement. There was some jostling and a few complaints from those attempting to board the bus. Fred and Pamela paused briefly in the entrance to a chemist’s shop to allow the crowd to thin out before they proceeded.
A bus passenger spied them – heavyset and clean-shaven, dressed in a black trench coat, wearing a trilby hat and thick-rimmed glasses; a man with unremarkable features. He came close to Fred and seemed about to pass by, but instead suddenly leaned in and spat in his face.
Fred was too startled even to raise his hand to wipe away the spittle from his cheek. The man spat again – this time at Pamela. It was over in a moment and he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.
A small group of observers waited to see what Fred and Pamela would do. No one spoke or made any attempt to collar the culprit.
A tremor of disgust ran through Pamela as she searched in her handbag for a handkerchief. Vile, vile man! She felt wounded by the sudden violation, then blazingly angry. ‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded of the small crowd as she wiped her face.
There was no answer but she heard the murmurs. ‘German … Hitler’s spy … traitor … no, he’s Jewish … even worse … as for her, consorting with the likes of him …’
Anonymous faces in the crowd passed cruel judgement, and Fred and Pamela’s humiliation was complete.
She grasped his hand. They would not respond to these people; they would rise above it. A second bus arrived and disgorged its passengers. In the ensuing melee, Pamela and Fred managed to melt into the crowd.
They went ahead and made their purchase in the haberdashery. Three skeins of embroidery silk for nine pence; emerald green, crimson and indigo. They heard the ring of the till and Pamela took the threepenny bit change for the shilling she’d tendered. Making their exit from the shop, they returned along College Road, walking with heads high and without looking to right or left. The sound of the assailant spitting and the sensation of the saliva trickling down their skin stayed with them – over and over again, Pamela shuddered and grasped Fred’s hand even more tightly.
As soon as they reached the relative quiet of the headland path, Fred spoke for the first time. ‘It’s never going to stop,’ he said with terrible finality.
‘They’re wrong. We’re right,’ Pamela said, reminding herself as much as him.
‘That’s not the point.’ How much more of this could they stand? Every morning he woke and wondered what ills the day would hold. There was always a Reggie or a Lionel, or else a hundred nameless men and women who pored over forbidden fascist literature and idolized Oswald Mosley; men who were immune to reason and spat in your face and humiliated you then walked on. ‘Perhaps we should leave Kelthorpe after all.’
‘Start afresh?’ Dismal grey clouds over the sea threatened rain. Pamela pictured being swallowed up by them, then emerging from cold mist into a shaft of bright sunlight.
‘Without anyone knowing who we are. It may be the only way.’
He’d said so before but this time felt different. She and Fred wouldn’t be separated – they would be forced out together, leaving behind the town where she was born, walking away from her family and friends. ‘Where to?’ she breathed, her head spinning.
‘Anywhere,’ Fred said fiercely. ‘A new beginning – perhaps that is what we need.’
‘There’s been a report of looting on the dockside.’ Connie had begun her shift with renewed vigour. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders and she issued brisk instructions to a team that included Simon and Eddie. ‘Apparently a bunch of spivs have been using a bombsite to store black market goods – cigarettes, whisky, and such like. A second gang got wind of it and tea-leaved the lot. Now the warehouse owner is worried that what’s left of his building will go up in flames because of the rivalry between them.’
‘A case of pistols at dawn,’ Simon remarked. It hardly seemed worthwhile investigating, given that the warehouse in question was most likely little more than a blackened shell. ‘Oughtn’t we to concentrate on clamping down on blackout offenders?’
‘Let’s divide and conquer,’ Connie decided. ‘Eddie, your job for the night is to patrol along the dock and make sure that the site of Wilson’s warehouse is secure. Simon, you can follow up complaints about number twenty-eight Maypole Street not observing the blackout times.’
Having sent them off on their tasks, Connie turned her attention to updating the report book. She noted a shortage of stirrup pumps and fire buckets on Tennyson Road then ordered warrant cards for three new volunteers due to finish their training and start their shifts the following week. Without their Fire Guard cards, they would lack the authority to enter premises. After this was done, she went to the door for a breather and spotted Lizzie’s ambulance idling at the corner of the street with the back doors open and her sister leaning against the side of the van. Connie beckoned her over and invited her in for a cup of tea.
‘Just a quick one.’ Lizzie followed Connie upstairs. ‘Nothing much is happening out there at the moment. I’m on duty with Sam Billington for a change. There’s a new trainee from the St John Ambulance Brigade. Sam’s running through the first-aid drill and the contents of our pouches – the various dressings, rubber gloves, splints, et cetera. The new chap is a quick learner so it shouldn’t take long.’
‘Stop!’ Connie came to a halt at the top of the stairs and seized Lizzie’s hands. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Spit it out.’ Lizzie could tell from the excited gleam in her sister’s eyes that the ‘something’ was important.
‘You’ll need to sit down.’ Connie pointed to a chair, then sat opposite. ‘Forget the tea. This is about my predicament. It’s been complicated but I’ve made a decision.’
Lizzie frowned. To the outside observer being pregnant presented only two options: either to go ahead and have the baby or not. What was complicated about that?
‘Don’t you want to know?’ Connie urged.
‘Yes, if you want to tell me.’ Lizzie preferred not to dwell on the ‘not’ side of things that often entailed secretive visits to unregistered midwives, or doctors who had been struck off for malpractice. ‘Finally! Put me out of my misery – do it quickly.’
Eager to fill in the background, Connie continued at her own pace. ‘Tom and I have had a heart-to-heart – this afternoon, as it happens. It turns out I was too quick to judge. He does care after all. Tom told me that he loves me and he always will.’
‘Hallelujah! Connie, dear, that’s not news to anyone but you.’
‘You may be right but I chose not to see it. I was convinced that my being pregnant would alter things so, typical me, I jumped the gun and pushed him away before he could do it to me. That’s what made everything so tangled up – it was my own fault.’
‘But now you’ve cleared the air?’ Lizzie knew that they didn’t have long – Sam would soon have finished his teaching stint and would be ready to resume their patrol.
‘Yes. I said I was sorry and in the end we came to a joint decision, which was the right thing to do and I should have seen that in the first place and saved us both a lot of heartache.’
‘Connie!’ Lizzie stood up and paced the room. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’ve decided or not?’
‘Keep your hair on. Tom and I are back together – aren’t you pleased?’
‘Thrilled. I mean it. But what about the …?’
‘Baby?’ Connie’s voice softened and the look in her eyes was now unmistakable. It was one of pure, unadulterated happiness. ‘Oh, Lizzie – I’m going to have it. I’ll go out and shout it from the rooftops if necessary. Tom Rose and I will celebrate having this child together. There, what do you say to that?’
‘Connie and I are talking again.’ Tom’s laconic announcement came soon after he and Bill had left the Anchor and set out on Ron’s trail. They’d begun with the area around the pub and quayside, where they’d found no trace, and now they were on their way to the Leisure Gardens to follow up Pamela’s sighting. ‘I won’t go into details,’ Tom added. ‘I’ll leave that to her.’
‘Just talking?’ Bill led the way through the old town. ‘Or back together properly?’
‘Back together,’ Tom confirmed. Again, no details. Talking about Connie’s pregnancy on the headland had led to a few hours at his lodgings before she’d had to leave for her evening shift, but what had gone on there was between him and her alone.
‘About time too.’ Arriving at the entrance to the park, with his brain less than razor-sharp after the three pints they’d consumed at the Anchor, Bill made a confession of his own. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m not looking forward to the eighteenth – leaving Lizzie for a narrow bunk aboard HMS Northern Lights has lost its appeal.’
‘It never had much in the first place,’ Tom agreed. ‘But there’s no getting out of it – we’re obliged to do our bit.’
‘You’re right. But before that we have to sort out this problem with Ron.’ It was down to business again as they entered the park.
‘This is where Pamela caught sight of him,’ Bill reminded Tom. ‘Mind you, he might have moved on since then.’
‘It won’t harm to take a good look around.’ It was Tom’s turn to take the lead. First they searched the bandstand, then the shadowy area behind the paddling pool, treading carefully and feeling their way between the trees with little hope of finding evidence of a man sleeping rough.
‘I can barely see the nose in front of my face,’ Tom complained as they emerged from the wood and made their way up to the colonnade to continue their search. It had begun to rain heavily, so they stayed undercover until it eased. It was almost midnight and any hope that Tom and Bill had entertained of tracking Ron down had evaporated.
‘Shall we call it a day?’ Bill suggested.
Tom was happy to agree. ‘Yes, let’s try again in the daylight.’ In any case, he and Bill had yet to think through what their tactics would be once they found Butcher.
‘The chances are we’ll find him hanging around the Anchor at some point.’ Bill turned up his coat collar and stepped out into the open, disturbing two squirrels that promptly shot out of sight up the smooth trunk of a nearby beech tree. ‘We can ask Frank to keep his eyes peeled for us. Why not stay at my place tonight? That way you’ll be on the spot.’
Tom declined the offer. ‘My own bed is calling me, thanks.’
He quickened his pace as he set off around the headland, wrapped up in glad thoughts about himself and Connie. Such a turnaround! Tom smiled to himself as he kept on walking, sidestepping a young CD messenger, Arnold Kershaw, who cycled full tilt towards him while yelling a warning about a UXB on the prom. Tom thanked Arnold and carried on. Not only Connie but a baby, too. It was a lot to take in. Life was about to change in a big way. Sure, there was a spell of minesweeping duty to get under their belts, and there was no telling how long that would last – most likely their new duties would continue for months if current reports on the wireless were anything to go by. German cities were being knocked down like skittles by the RAF boys, and the Yanks were at the throats of the Japs in the Far East, but the situation in the Med was still dire and Jerry’s raids on Kelthorpe and other northern ports showed no sign of abating – the blimps across the estuary were all the proof anyone needed of an ongoing threat.
Even these grim thoughts couldn’t wipe the smile off Tom’s face. Me and Connie are back on and that’s the main thing, he told himself, a lone figure emerging on to the dark, damp promenade.
Tom passed the ruins of the old Royal Hotel and approached the bus station. Noticing the barriers erected around the UXB some twenty yards ahead, he turned off up North Street still grinning from ear to ear. Home was in sight, a short way up the hill.
Ron Butcher lay in wait down some external cellar steps. He’d watched Tom and Bill leave the Anchor and stealthily followed them to the Leisure Gardens. Did they think he was an idiot, hanging around in the area where the blasted, busybody warden had spotted him? Yes, he knew his cover had been blown and straightaway he’d made himself scarce – ‘vanish without a trace’ was the rule that Ron lived by. After they’d sheltered from the rain, then decided to retrace their steps to the harbour, Ron had followed again. He’d heard Tom tell Bill that his own bed was calling him and that had been enough. Ron had sprinted on ahead, thinking that the headland path was the ideal place to launch an attack until a boy riding a pushbike had put paid to that plan. The lad had worn a steel helmet and carried a gas mask: signs that he was a messenger for the Civil Defence busybodies. Seeing Ron, he’d slowed down and issued a warning about a recently discovered UXB at the far end of the promenade. Rescue teams were on their way. Ron had sworn at the lad then broken into a run. Change of plan; the attack would have to wait until Tom Rose was closer to home.
Here he came now; those footsteps belonged to a man with a long stride. Hiding at the bottom of the cellar steps, Ron heard his enemy whistling a jaunty tune.
Tom took his door key from his jacket pocket before mounting the three steps. He’d be glad to get out of his wet things and into his pyjamas. The key was in the lock when Ron struck from behind.
The hammer he’d stolen from Annie May was an ideal weapon. You could knock a man out with it then bludgeon him to death – a slower method than a knife but none the worse for that.
Tom felt the blow to his head and staggered back down the steps. Catching sight of a raised hammer as he collapsed to his knees, he managed to roll out of reach as the weapon came down again.
Ron swore savagely and aimed a kick at his victim, who curled on to his side and raised both arms to protect his head. Ron smashed the hammer down – once, twice, three times more.
Tom ignored the pain in his hand and arm and kicked back. He scythed his legs against his attacker’s calves to throw him off balance. It worked – Ron toppled to the ground next to him and they grappled. The hammer flew from Ron’s hand and skidded out of reach. The two men writhed and wrestled towards it, hands reaching, sinews straining. It was inches from Tom’s grasp when Ron broke free. He seized the hammer, sprang up and lashed out with his feet.
Tom felt the kicks to his ribs. He saw a blurred image of Ron Butcher towering over him, wielding the hammer. After that, nothing.