The past two weeks had brought sadness and joy for Peggy. Sadness because Danuta had suffered a relapse and couldn’t come home to Beach View just yet, and joy because Doris was blossoming now she had a real interest in her life and felt useful. The change had been quite astonishing since that first day she’d started work in the administrator’s office. Suddenly she was animated and friendly, her head full of plans for her future once she’d earned enough to put down a deposit on a place of her own. It also seemed that she and the Colonel were getting on splendidly, which was an added bonus.
Sarah appeared to be doing very well at her new secretarial job, even though her mother’s letters were stretching her patience to breaking point, and Rita had assured Peggy that work was going well at the fire station on her stairlift contraption, and would increase in leaps and bounds once she was free of the hampering plaster on her leg. She was due to go in today to get it taken off, and as Peter Ryan thought he might be able to get over from Cliffe aerodrome for a couple of hours, he’d be going with her and then treating her to lunch at the British Restaurant.
Ivy was her usual scatty, mouthy self, unable to resist tweaking Doris’s tail at every opportunity, which was met with a cool response that, strangely, held a hint of what Peggy suspected was a growing tolerance – if not affection – although neither of them would ever admit this development in their relationship. Their interaction rather reminded Peggy of Cordelia and Ron, who relished their sniping banter, and almost treated it as a game.
Cordelia was back to full health, enjoying being whisked off for lunch or drinks with Bertie in between his numerous rounds of golf. And Ron had a definite spring in his step since he and Rosie had started acting like a proper courting couple. As for poor Fran, she was still waiting on tenterhooks to hear what her parents had to say about her wedding plans to Robert.
The weather had finally improved, much to everyone’s relief, and July was proving to be warm and sunny. Poor old London was still being bombarded by V-1s, which had become known as doodlebugs because of the noise the engines made, but there had been few air-raid warnings in Cliffehaven and only the distant buzz of the V-1s as they made their way inland. The news on the wireless and the daily papers held even more promise, for it seemed that the Allies were advancing ever deeper into Europe, and Paris was expected to be liberated very soon.
The Russians had begun their summer offensive and captured Minsk, which had been in German hands since the start of the war. The Americans had liberated Cherbourg; the British and Canadians had liberated Caen, and the American troops were advancing fast on Saint-Lo as the Allied troops advanced from the south. In Burma and the Far East, the British and Americans were beating back the Japanese, and it seemed as if there was now real hope that the war was drawing closer to a total Allied victory.
Peggy snapped out of her thoughts and finished laying the table for breakfast. As it was Saturday, and she didn’t have to go to work, she planned to pop in to see Rosie, and then spend an hour at the playground with Daisy before she met up with Kitty and Charlotte at the Red Cross distribution centre for their two hours of voluntary work. After that, she would take the bus up to the Memorial to visit Danuta. Her busy days had meant she hadn’t had the chance to catch up with anyone just lately, and Peggy was looking forward to having a good gossip.
She glanced out of the window to the lines of washing she’d hung out earlier which were now drifting in the light, warm breeze of another beautiful summer day. She was hoping there would be a letter from Jim in the post, which was unusually rather late this morning. She hadn’t heard from him for two weeks now, but going by his last letter, it sounded as if he was having a high old time out there, what with seeing Vera Lynn and enjoying concert parties.
Her attention was drawn back to Daisy as she charged about after Queenie, who was clearly in no mood to be caught. To Daisy’s frustration, the cat scooted up onto the draining board and sought refuge on one of the shelves beside the kitchener range, where she was out of reach.
‘Come on, Daisy,’ Peggy said briskly to ward off a tantrum. ‘Let’s feed the hens and see if there are any eggs this morning.’ She gathered up the small basket and bowl of feed from the scullery shelf and slipped on their wellingtons, and they went out into the back garden, Queenie scooting between their legs in a bid to escape.
The early morning sun had yet to breach the rooftops and warm the garden, so the shadows lay long across Ron’s burgeoning vegetable patch, but the air was soft and the sky a perfect, cloudless blue as the chickens pecked and burbled contentedly in their run.
The hens had arrived courtesy of a bunch of Australian soldiers who’d come for Christmas dinner at the beginning of the war with them hidden in their overcoat pockets. She hadn’t asked where they’d come from, suspecting they weren’t exactly theirs to give – but they’d proved a godsend. Eggs were rationed to one a week per person, but at Beach View everyone could enjoy a real treat most mornings.
Peggy thought about those lovely boys with their sunny, open smiles, loud voices and cheerful manner as she opened the gate in the chicken coop and then closed it firmly behind Daisy. She’d had letters from them at first, but they’d fizzled out as the fighting had increased in intensity, and she could only hope that wherever they were, they’d come through, and would see the shores of home again.
As the hens came bustling round them, Peggy showed Daisy how to scoop up handfuls of feed and scatter it on the ground. She smiled as the little girl clapped her hands and laughed at the hens’ antics as they squabbled over every grain and tried to peck at the few that had landed on her wellington boots. The simplest things delighted Daisy.
Peggy would never have dared come in here, let alone with Daisy, when Adolf the vicious rooster had been alive, but since his demise, the hens seemed far happier, and to Peggy’s delight she found half a dozen lovely brown eggs hidden amongst the straw in the coop. Having gathered them up and placed them carefully in the basket, she cleaned out the coop, laid fresh straw and barrowed the mess to Ron’s compost heap, for according to him, chicken poo was an excellent fertiliser.
Daisy trotted back and forth with an old dustpan and brush, scolding the hens if they got in her way, and laughing as they scuttled and flapped around her feet.
‘I think that’s clean enough,’ said Peggy, retrieving brush and pan. ‘Come on. Let’s see if the postman has been and if there’s anything from Daddy.’
Daisy looked up at her, her face streaked with dirt. ‘Dada come home?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, darling. But soon – and when he does he’ll make such a fuss of you and spoil you rotten with lots and lots of cuddles. You’ll see.’
She gave her a hug and together they went back into the house. Peggy placed the precious egg basket on the drainer out of harm’s way, and set about washing Daisy’s hands and face, her gaze frequently flitting to Jim’s photo on the mantelpiece.
It was a constant worry that Daisy knew nothing about her father other than the stories she and Ron had told her and the photographs she had of him placed around the house. Daisy had only just been born when Jim was called up, and had been too young to know who he was when he’d come home on that final leave before going off to India. Now Daisy would be three at the end of the year, and if Jim did by some miracle come home, they would be strangers.
Peggy brushed the thought aside and went to see if any post had arrived. As if he’d known she’d be anxious to hear from him, there was a letter from Jim, and she tucked it into her apron pocket to read when she had a minute to herself. There were others from Anne and the boys, and several for the girls, including one from Ireland for Fran. Peggy recognised Fran’s mother’s writing and fervently hoped the letter contained some sort of peace offering and a way out of the dilemma the young couple had found themselves in.
She turned at the sound of light footsteps on the stairs and smiled. Doris was looking refreshingly cool and attractive in a sprigged cotton dress and white sandals, her hair brushed to a gleam, and with only a hint of powder and lipstick on her radiant face. ‘My goodness, you’re up early,’ Peggy said. ‘Are you off somewhere nice?’
‘Colonel White asked me to go in this morning for a couple of hours,’ Doris replied. ‘I thought I might treat myself afterwards to a cup of tea at the Officers’ Club.’
‘I’ve never been,’ Peggy confessed, ‘but Rosie says it’s really very smart, and Bertie is always taking Cordelia there for lunch or drinks.’
‘I hardly think Rosie Braithwaite is an arbiter of what is smart,’ said Doris with a touch of asperity. ‘I prefer to draw my own conclusions.’
‘Rosie might own the Anchor, but she had a good upbringing, Doris,’ said Peggy flatly. ‘Better than ours, in fact, so I wouldn’t be so hasty to pass judgement if I were you.’
Doris hitched the white cardigan over her shoulders, her expression obdurate. ‘I speak as I find, Peggy, you know that, but to give Rosie her due, she’s certainly done wonders with Ronan. His sense of humour might still be questionable, but at least he’s begun to look presentable.’
‘Doris, you’re in danger of getting catty again,’ Peggy warned. ‘Please try and think before you pass judgement on everyone. Rosie’s my friend, and if it wasn’t for Ron being such a rock over the past few years, I would have given up long ago.’
Doris smiled. ‘I doubt that, Peggy. You’re as tough as old boots and nothing ever gets you down.’ She went into the kitchen and made a fuss of Daisy. ‘There has been many a time I’ve wished I had your strength,’ she continued over Daisy’s head. ‘And I’m sorry if sometimes I speak without thinking. But I am trying, Peggy, really I am.’
‘I know, and we’re all delighted you’ve turned the corner and made a new life for yourself. You’re stronger than you think, Doris, believe me.’
Doris kissed Daisy’s cheek and carefully set her back on her feet. ‘I do feel more able to cope with things,’ she admitted, ‘and that’s mostly down to you giving me such loving support. I’ve been quite moved by the way everyone at Beach View has rallied round in my time of need.’
‘They’re good people,’ said Peggy, ‘and always willing to step up to the mark in times of trouble.’
‘I’ve come to realise that,’ said Doris. ‘And I feel rather ashamed that I denigrated them in the past when I didn’t really know them.’ She looked at Peggy with a rueful smile. ‘I still have a great deal to learn, haven’t I?’
‘You’re doing just fine,’ soothed Peggy, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I’m sure your work up at the estate is helping you to see that life amongst us mere mortals isn’t all that bad,’ she teased.
Doris chuckled. ‘Some of it has come as a bit of an eye-opener, but on the whole I feel very at ease with it all. It’s lovely to be appreciated, and to know I’m doing something really useful for a change. The Colonel has so many responsibilities running that estate, and it’s such a pleasure to know I can ease his way through it all.’
‘I’m sure he’d be lost without you,’ murmured Peggy, turning away so Doris couldn’t see the soft smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. It seemed Doris and the Colonel were getting along famously, and there was a light in Doris’s eyes every time she spoke of him. Could it mean …?
Peggy pulled herself together and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Do you want a cuppa and some breakfast before you go?’
‘I’ll have some tea when I get there,’ said Doris, pulling on a pair of short white cotton gloves. ‘The Colonel likes to start early on a Saturday, so I don’t want to keep him waiting.’
Peggy wished her good luck and Doris ran down the cellar steps and hurried across the garden to the back gate. Peggy watched until she’d turned into the twitten and was out of sight. ‘Well, well, well,’ she murmured. ‘Who’d have thought it? Doris in a cheap dress and shoes bought from a market stall – and with a twinkle in her eye.’ Whatever she was doing up there in the Colonel’s office had certainly worked a miracle – and long may it last.
She’d boiled the kettle and poached an egg for Daisy, and was just slicing up the toast for her when Ron came stomping up the cellar steps with Harvey.
As usual, Harvey was delighted to see them both and tried to filch Daisy’s egg as well as wash her face.
‘Down, ye heathen beast, and eat your own food,’ roared Ron, pulling him away by the collar and setting his bowl on the floor. ‘Ach, to be sure, Peggy, the old rogue is always trying to pull a fast one.’
‘Why, what’s he been up to now?’ she asked, hurrying to poach him an egg and make more toast.
‘I finally had the time to take Doris’s fancy car up to Chalky White’s place to store it with yours in his big barn. Me back was turned for no more than a minute, and this divil found his way into Chalky’s kitchen and ate the poor wee man’s breakfast kippers.’
‘Oh, no,’ gasped Peggy, trying not to laugh. ‘And after he’s been so kind to keep the cars for the duration.’
‘Aye. He didn’t see the funny side of it at all, and I had to promise to buy him some more kippers. Though where I’m supposed to get them, I’ve no idea. Fred the Fish says he hasn’t seen a kipper outside a tin for weeks.’
‘Well, Chalky must have got them from somewhere. You’ll just have to widen your search, Ron.’ She placed his breakfast in front of him, sat down and pulled the letter from Jim out of her apron pocket. ‘I got this today, so if you could keep an eye on Daisy whilst I read it, I’d be grateful.’
‘Nothing for me?’ he asked, digging into his breakfast.
She shook her head and tore open the brown envelope, desperate to know how Jim was faring. Like all his letters, it had been written in pencil on a page torn from a notebook, and there were smears of what looked like mud all over it, making it very difficult to decipher. However, as she digested what he’d written she felt as if an icy hand was clutching at her heart.
‘Peggy? Peggy, what’s the matter?’ asked Ron, immediately concerned.
‘He’s frightened he isn’t going to make it,’ she managed. ‘And although it’s the most loving, sweet letter, it’s as if he’s trying to say goodbye to us.’
Ron took the letter from her trembling hand and scanned it quickly. ‘Aye, the wee boy is at the end of his tether to be sure,’ he muttered. ‘But this is no goodbye, Peggy. He simply wants you to know how much he loves you – loves all of us.’
‘But it’s as if …’
‘Now don’t be making things of it that aren’t there,’ he interrupted, putting his arm about her shoulders. ‘The fighting is probably bad out there, and the monsoon can’t be helping either. I expect he’s tired, and simply felt the need to say all the things he needed to say before he’s back on duty again.’
Peggy held onto her tears, not wanting to upset Daisy, but she was crying inside, the anguish and fear for her Jim building by the second. ‘How can you be so sure?’ she stammered.
Ron pointed to the last paragraph of Jim’s letter and read it out. ‘“Amid the sounds of battle and in the darkest hours of the night, the love and warmth of home keeps me going, Peggy, and I pray that I will soon know it again, for I’m sick of war and noise; of death and destruction and the endless struggle to remain strong and brave and not let my comrades down.”
‘There’s weariness there, Peggy girl, but he’s keeping strong and looking towards coming home. My Jim is not a man to have flights of fancy; he simply wanted us to know he holds us in his heart, and that his love for us is keeping him going.’
Peggy regarded him through her unshed tears. ‘Do you really think so?’ she breathed.
‘Aye, I do,’ he said firmly, and returned to his cooling poached egg.
Peggy retrieved the letter and read through it again. ‘What did he mean about you being honoured for your bravery in the last shout?’ she asked with a frown.
‘I have no idea,’ he said abruptly.
‘He must have meant something by it,’ she persisted.
Ron clattered his cutlery on the empty plate and began to spread margarine on a second slice of toast. ‘Sentimental talk, that’s all it was,’ he muttered. ‘There’s no honour in war, Peggy – as I’m sure Jim will tell you when he comes home.’
Peggy watched him as he began to load the toast with the last of the home-made blackberry jam, and was not convinced by his dismissal of what Jim had written. However, past experience had taught her she was wasting her time trying to fathom her father-in-law’s mind. Ron being Ron, he would never tell her what Jim had meant and she’d have to wait until the end of this blasted war to find out – unless she pumped Frank for some answers. Yet Frank was like his father, and she doubted he’d tell her anything either, which was most frustrating.
With a sigh she returned Jim’s letter to the envelope, praying that Ron knew his son well enough to be able to interpret his words correctly, but she couldn’t shift the thought that something awful must have happened to make Jim write such an extraordinarily tender and honest letter.
She had no more time to think about it, for Rita, Fran and Sarah came into the kitchen, having helped Cordelia down the stairs. They were swiftly followed by Ivy dashing in and grabbing the slice of toast from Ron’s plate. ‘Can’t stop,’ she said, halfway out of the door again. ‘I’m already late for me shift.’
‘To be sure, with girls pinching me toast and dogs pinching Chalky’s kippers, the world is going to hell in a handcart,’ Ron muttered without rancour.
‘That girl will get indigestion,’ said Cordelia, settling into a chair. ‘It’s no wonder she’s so skinny; anything she eats doesn’t have time to stick to her bones the way she charges about.’
Rita poured out tea for them all and counted the eggs. ‘There’s only three left,’ she said. ‘Is Doris still upstairs?’
‘She’s gone to work,’ said Peggy, ‘I suggest you scramble them, dear. They’ll go further that way.’
‘I really don’t want brambles and beer for breakfast,’ said Cordelia, ‘and as for fur and hay …’ She shuddered. ‘Surely the rationing hasn’t got to the stage where we’re expected to eat like animals?’
Everyone laughed and Peggy made winding signals to encourage Cordelia to turn up her hearing aid. ‘We’re having scrambled eggs,’ she said loudly.
‘Well, there’s no need to shout,’ said Cordelia with a huff. ‘And where’s my newspaper? I can’t possibly start the day without it.’
‘The news will be on the wireless in a minute,’ said Sarah. ‘The paper always comes a bit later on a Saturday.’
‘I don’t like the news on the wireless,’ Cordelia said grumpily. ‘It’s too depressing.’
‘If you turn off your hearing aid, you’ll not be hearing it,’ said Ron.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Cordelia. ‘That would defeat the object entirely.’ She regarded him sharply. ‘And why aren’t you dressed properly in all that new finery Rosie made you buy? You look more disreputable than ever this morning.’
‘This is the real me, Cordelia,’ he said with a smile. ‘If you want fancy then you’ve got Bertie Double-Barrelled. He’s the fanciest man I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t call him that,’ retorted Cordelia with a humorous glint in her eyes. ‘Bertram Grantley-Adams is a true gentleman, unlike some I could mention,’ she added with a sniff.
Peggy tuned out of the conversation, for the pair of them liked nothing better than an exchange of frank views first thing in the morning, and as it seemed to enliven them both and set them up for the day, there was little harm in it.
She noticed that Fran had yet to open her letter from Ireland, and guessed she was reluctant to see what her family had made of her engagement, but her own thoughts were on Jim’s letter.
Despite all of Ron’s assurances, she still couldn’t get the thought out of her head that Jim had had a premonition of some sort and become convinced he wouldn’t make it through. The thought of him being in such a terrible situation that it had spurred him into writing that emotional letter was a knife in her heart – and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t telephone him, a letter could take weeks to reach him, and a telegram couldn’t convey all her fears in just a few words and would only upset him. To cap it all, there wasn’t the remotest possibility of him getting a long enough leave to come home – unless he was wounded badly enough to be discharged from the army. ‘God forbid,’ she breathed.
Ron’s warm, rough hand covered hers. ‘Stop it, Peggy,’ he said quietly beneath the girls’ chatter. ‘He’ll be coming home safe and sound, you’ll see.’
‘Oh, Ron,’ she sighed. ‘If only I could really believe that.’
‘Fran, whatever’s wrong?’ Sarah’s voice, filled with alarm, caught Peggy’s attention.
She took one look at Fran’s ashen face and haunted eyes, and rushed to the other end of the table to take her hand. ‘What is it, love? Not bad news from home, I hope?’
Fran gazed up at Peggy, her green eyes swimming with tears. ‘It’s this letter from Mam,’ she said brokenly. ‘It’s what I feared, Aunty Peg, but it doesn’t make it any easier to see it written down so coldly like that.’
Peggy took the proffered letter and with a heavy heart began to read.
My dearest Frances,
I’ve taken this long to reply to your letter because your news has caused terrible trouble here. Your da will not hear of any marriage to a Protestant, and there have been times over the past two weeks when I’ve been truly afraid he will die from apoplexy, his raging has been so great. It reached the point where I had to send your younger sisters to your aunts so they couldn’t witness their da’s fury, or hear the terrible things he was saying about you.
He will not be mollified, even though I agree with him and do my best to assure him you’ll be bound to come to your senses once you realise what this will do to all of us. It feels as if our family has already been torn apart. How much worse it will be if you defy him and go ahead with this wedding that none of us can recognise.
In the eyes of a true Catholic you would be living in sin, Frances, your babies tainted by illegitimacy, denied not only the sacrament of the one true church, but also of a place in Heaven – forever condemned to purgatory. You would be excommunicated, and shunned by the church which has guided you since you were a wee wain, and by everyone in our village. Is that what you really want? Is this Protestant worth such sacrifice?
Your da arranged a family conference at the weekend, which I’m sad to say ended in a huge row. Some of the younger ones held some sympathy for you, but your uncles and aunts and the grandparents were as much against it as me and your da.
Have no doubts about it, Frances, if you go ahead then you will be lost to this family and never be welcomed into our homes or our lives again. You will have turned your back on all those who’ve loved and nurtured you from the day you were born, divided the loyalties that are generations old and defied the teachings of our church.
I blame myself for encouraging you to leave Ireland for what I hoped would be a better life in England. Your da warned me you’d be led astray being so far from home and forget who and what you are – and it seems he’s been proved right. I beg you to change your mind, acushla, for you are my heart and I do not wish to see you ruined, or live the rest of my life never to see you again.
Mother
Peggy folded the letter with trembling fingers. ‘That was harsh,’ she managed through her anger. ‘I can’t believe any mother could write such a cruel letter knowing how much it would hurt you.’
‘I thought she might be softer-hearted,’ said Fran through her tears. ‘But she’s turned out to be as staunch a Catholic as Da. And although I know they both love me, it’s clear they’ll never change their minds.’
Peggy drew her close and held her to her heart as she waited for the tears to subside. ‘So what will you do, Fran?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said sadly. ‘I love Robert, and I love Mammy and Da. I don’t want to lose any of them.’
Peggy held her close, her emotions in turmoil. She was angry with Fran’s family for being so cold-hearted and blinkered; sad for Fran and Robert; and fretful over her inability to find a solution to it all. Poor, sweet little Fran had the hardest of decisions to make and, like Sarah, would be forced to choose between two impossible options which, in the end, could only bring heartache.
Daisy came trotting up to Fran, her face wreathed in worry as she leaned against her knee and kissed her hand. ‘Not cry, Fran. Daisy kiss all betta.’
Fran reached down and drew her onto her lap, burying her tear-streaked face in her dark curls. ‘Sweet Daisy,’ she murmured. ‘Aunty Fran’s all better now she’s got you to cuddle.’
Daisy looked up at her with big brown eyes full of concern. ‘My daddy gone long, long away too,’ she said, resting the palm of her small hand on Fran’s cheek. ‘He be home soon and he come with your daddy and we have lots of cuddles.’ She nestled within Fran’s embrace and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
‘Oh, bless her,’ whispered Peggy, her own eyes pricking with tears as Fran rocked Daisy back and forth, and the others suddenly became busy at stove and sink. This war was hard enough to struggle through without old prejudices rearing their ugly heads, and if only they could all see the world through the eyes of a child like Daisy who thought all problems could be solved by a cuddle, it would certainly be a much better and happier place.
Ron left the kitchen with a heavy heart and went down the steps to the basement. He walked past the bedroom where he’d slept for many years, and opened the next door along. The room was bright with the sunlight pouring in through the narrow window that looked out from beneath the front steps.
He stood for a long moment, regarding the bunk beds where Bob and Charlie had slept before they’d been evacuated to the farm in Somerset. The mattresses had been rolled up, the blankets and pillows in a neat pile at the end of each bed, their toys and clothes packed away, the train set stowed in a large box on top of the wardrobe. The absence of these small things made him feel sadder than ever, for he loved the bones of those boys, and the house seemed emptier without them and their lively noise and mischief.
He sat on the bottom bunk and stared out of the narrow window. Fran’s mother had talked about tearing families apart in her letter, but the war had already done that by sending children away, enlisting men and boys and young women into the forces and scattering them to all four corners of the earth.
He’d been raised as a Catholic, but after the trenches of the Somme, Ypres and Passchendaele, he’d barely set foot in a church, for he’d seen and heard nothing to convince him that religion was the answer to the world’s ills. In fact it was often used as a weapon – an excuse to start trouble – and people like Fran’s parents were part of the problem with their mulish adherence to old prejudices.
Ron sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He felt so sorry for Fran and Robert, but there was nothing he, or anyone else, could say or do to help them, for it would be up to what was in their hearts that would decide their fate.
As for his grandsons … Bob could be called up within months, and Charlie was no longer the cheeky little rapscallion who’d fought so hard to hold back his tears on the day he’d left for Somerset, but a sturdy, growing boy of thirteen with a mind of his own. They would have both left these childish toys far behind them, and Ron wondered how they’d feel about coming home at the end of the war. The farmhouse was large and rambling, the acres of open space around it a paradise for boys with a sense of adventure and too much energy. It would feel strange to come back here to their cramped basement room, and all the restrictions that would entail after having so much freedom. He got to his feet, took one last look at those empty beds and discarded toys and closed the door.
Making his way back to his room, he stood for a moment deep in thought. That letter from Jim had shaken him to the core, although he’d been very careful not to let Peggy see his distress. The fighting in Burma was quite brutal if all the reports were to be believed, and now the monsoon had really taken hold, the conditions out there must be horrendous. It was no wonder his son had been brought so low as to write such a letter, and he could only pray that any premonition he had would prove to be an aberration, brought on by the gut-wrenching exhaustion, the mud and rain, and the constant, mind-numbing noise of warfare.
Ron understood all too well what that was like, had lived through it, cowering from it even though it reverberated into every atom of his being until he thought he would go mad.
He moved towards the wardrobe, dragged over a stool and climbed up to reach the shoe box he’d kept hidden away from prying eyes since 1919. He stepped back down and sank onto the neatly made bed, the box on his lap. He’d made Jim and Frank promise never to reveal what was in this box, and Jim had clearly been at the end of his tether to hint about it in his letter to Peggy.
Ron’s sigh was tremulous. He hadn’t looked inside this box since he’d first put it up there, and he didn’t really know why he felt the urge to look today, and could only assume it was some kind of morbid need to replay his own war. His rough hands caressed the box, and before he could change his mind, he lifted the lid and drew out the four small velvet cases that had nestled in the yellowing tissue paper for twenty-five years alongside his pay-book and the jumble of loose campaign medals.
He moved his fingers amongst the 1914–15 Star, the British War Medal and the Victory Medal. His smile was sad, for the grouping of those medals had become better known to the men who’d fought alongside him as Pip, Squeak and Wilfred.
Opening the fancy velvet cases one by one, he stared down at the medals which had been given to him with little ceremony in the midst of the carnage of war all those years before. The Distinguished Service Order medal, with its red and blue ribbon, entitled him to put DSO after his name, but he’d never bothered with such ostentation. The Military Cross had a ribbon of dark and light blue, and the Legion of Honour’s green and white star gleamed on its red ribbon.
Ron’s gaze drifted to the Croix de Guerre bronze star with its crossed swords, green silk ribbon striped with red and bedecked with two bronze palms and a silver gilt star to denote the times he’d been honoured. He’d received that after the armistice in a ceremony in some grand Parisian mansion with all the fanfare and hullabaloo the French so enjoyed – but he’d barely taken in any of it, he’d been so exhausted.
He sighed, closed the cases and put them back in the box to return to the top of the wardrobe. They were symbols of his war, and a stark reminder of all those pals he’d lost. He had been thankful to be alive and honoured to receive them at the time, but as the years had passed he’d come to regard them as just fancy bits of metal on smart ribbons that served no real purpose. They would probably stay there now until they carried him out feet first and someone cleared the room. If nothing else, they would make fine playthings for the next generation of grandsons.