13
RUBY
I’d planned to slip over to the lodge that evening for ten minutes, but at dinner, I noticed Father kept coughing, his handkerchief pressed against his mouth. ‘Are you OK? Do you need your tablets?’ I asked, but he waved me away distractedly.
I decided it would be better to stay at home and keep an eye on him. I didn’t like the sound of that cough, and anyway, I had a whole week before Sam and I were due to meet again; I could do a recce around the lodge tomorrow. In the meantime there were the shirts to iron, my shoes to polish, and I was on duty at seven o’clock.
While I was heating up the iron on the stove – and wishing we could have one of those new electric irons that plugged into a light fitting; Father didn’t trust them – I made plans for the lodge. It was years since I’d last been inside. I expected it would be rather dusty, even if the roof was still all right. I’d have to tidy up. Perhaps I could sneak a broom out with me when I went over there. I hugged my arms around myself, smiling in anticipation.
*
By the next morning, it was clear Father’s cough was a chest infection. He always got one at this time of year, and, as usual, feeling it coming on, he’d tried to work through it until he was too ill to continue. Abruptly, my world shrunk back down to the Herald offices and home. The cottage walls echoed with Father’s hacking as I ran up and down the stairs with brown glass bottles of medicine, hot water bottles, towels and bowls of steaming water. I couldn’t walk Toffee – I couldn’t even do my ARP shifts, although thankfully they were understanding about it.
On Wednesday, Sam’s message arrived like clockwork. Sunday, 2 p.m., Lodge?
That evening, as I was wondering frantically if I could slip out to the lodge for half an hour, Mrs Blythe brought the post over from the main house. ‘I thought I’d save you the trouble, my lovely, with your pa being so poorly and all,’ she said. ‘There’s two letters, and a telegram.’
A telegram? I frowned, wondering who it could be from. Father was sleeping, so I put the letters in his study and turned the telegram over. My heart jolted. LEAVING TYNEHAM EARLIER THAN PLANNED. WILL BE ON 2.30 BUS SUNDAY. PLEASE ARRANGE TO MEET ME. HAVE SENT BELONGINGS ON AHEAD. ALL MY LOVE MOTHER.
Panic gripped me like a fever. Grandmother was coming on Sunday? This Sunday? That was less than four days away – Father was ill – nothing was ready – there wasn’t even a bed for her yet! And what about Sam? I wouldn’t be able to get away to meet him. Could I send a note up to the camp?
‘Are you all right, my lovely?’ Mrs Blythe was watching me closely. ‘You’ve got a phizog on you like you’ve seen a ghost. Bad news?’
‘I – well, no, not exactly,’ I said. ‘Grandmother’s village is being evacuated. She’s coming here, and she’ll be arriving sooner than I thought.’
A strange expression flitted across Mrs Blythe’s face when I mentioned Grandmother, but it was gone so fast I was left wondering if I’d imagined it. I handed her the telegram.
‘Now, don’t you worry about a thing,’ she said briskly when she’d read it. ‘We’ll have this place sorted out d’reckly.’
And she kept to her word. The following evening, she enlisted the help of Alfie and one of the kitchen boys to bring a spare bedframe over from the hospital, which they wedged into my bedroom alongside my own bed, and over the next few days, when I wasn’t at work, I helped her clean the cottage from top to bottom until the windows sparkled and there wasn’t a cobweb to be seen, not even in the outhouse.
We finished just in time. On Saturday, I returned from the Herald to find a pile of bags, suitcases and boxes in the kitchen. ‘Looks like she’s bringing everything bar the kitchen sink,’ Mrs Blythe said drily when she popped over that evening to check the cottage was ready. She helped me stack everything in the parlour, out of the way, and as I looked at it all it finally hit me properly that, by this time tomorrow, Grandmother would be here – and that she’d be staying. It made me feel as if a hand was closing around my throat.
Sighing, I straightened my shoulders. ‘Thank you for all your help. I don’t know how I’d’ve managed without you.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome, my lovely.’ She put her broad arms around me and gave me a hug. I stiffened slightly – I wasn’t used to physical contact – before squeezing her back.
‘If it all gets a bit too much for you, you know you’re welcome at our’n. Our Alfie and Annie would be right glad to see you. Come down any time. I mean it.’
‘Thank you. I will.’
‘And our Wilf’ll drive you down into town tomorrow to meet ’er nibs.’ Mrs Blythe winked, pitching her voice lower in case Father, still in bed, was awake and listening. ‘Wouldn’t want ’er having to walk, would we?’
I spent the next day in an awful state of suspense, waiting for Mr Blythe to drive me down to meet Grandmother’s bus. It was almost an hour late. At first, when everyone got off, I couldn’t see her, and I felt a small, irrational burst of hope that she wasn’t coming after all.
Then she stepped down off the bus, immaculate in a lilac coat and matching hat, looking around her with her usual slightly sour expression.
‘Ah, Ruby.’ Hurrying over to me, she planted a cold, feather-light kiss on my cheek. She had to stand on tiptoes; I was taller than her now. ‘What a dreadful journey that was, squashed on there with all those people. I thought it would never end! Where’s your father?’
‘He’s ill,’ I stammered, suddenly realising I’d forgotten to reply to her telegram. There’d been too much to do.
‘Ill? Why wasn’t I told?’
‘I’m sorry, Grandmother—’
‘Take me to him at once!’
Mr Blythe stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Who’s this?’ Grandmother said, her mouth compressing into a flat line.
Mr Blythe tipped his cap. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mottram.’
‘This is Mr Blythe – you’ve met him before, remember?’ I said, a little desperately. ‘He’s going to drive us home.’
‘In that?’ Grandmother eyed Mr Blythe’s van, which had Blythe’s Engineering Works painted in ornate script on the side. ‘Oh, dear me.’
‘It’s an awfully long way to walk, Grandmother.’
She sniffed. ‘One must make do, I suppose, with this war on.’ Straightening her handbag on her arm, she allowed Mr Blythe – whose moustache was twitching suspiciously, as if he was trying not to laugh – to open the door and help her up into the cab. I clambered in beside her.
Just as Mr Blythe was about to shut the door, I saw a flash of khaki out of the corner of my eye. Two soldiers were crossing the road – Sam and his friend Jimmy. Suddenly, I realised I’d forgotten to reply to Sam, too. He glanced our way and our gazes met. He raised his hand and started to come over. I shook my head quickly, sharply: No.
His face fell.
‘Do you know that young man?’ Grandmother said as Mr Blythe slammed the door. My heart sank. She missed nothing.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ It was a struggle to keep my voice even.
‘I should hope not. Isn’t he one of those Americans?’
‘I don’t know, Grandmother.’
‘Dreadful people. Dreadful. The stories I’ve heard!’
Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t you start going on about that too, I thought drearily. I wondered what she’d do when she found out about Jennie Pearson; it wouldn’t be long, I was sure. As Mr Blythe drove away, it took everything in me not to turn my head and look back to see where Sam had gone.
*
‘Are you all right?’ Vera said when she came into the office on Monday morning and found me almost in tears because my typewriter ribbon had jammed.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not. Grandmother arrived yesterday and she’s behaving as if it’s all my fault Father’s ill. I can’t so much as blink without her criticising me and there isn’t room to swing a cat because of all her things. She’s forever moaning about those awful Americans who’ve taken over this town and I’ve had no bloody sleep and I was supposed to meet Sam again yesterday and I couldn’t because—’
Tired and muddled, I remembered, too late, that I hadn’t actually told Vera about Sam yet.
Vera put her head on one side. ‘Sam? As in, Sam Archer? Soldier Sam? What do you mean, you were supposed to meet him again?’
I felt my face getting hot.
‘Right.’ She handed me a hanky so I could wipe my ink-stained fingers. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea and then you’re going to tell me everything.’
I didn’t try to argue. Resisting Vera when she was in this sort of mood was like trying to dig your way out of an avalanche with a mustard spoon. I drank the tea she made me, which was hot and reviving, sweetened with not one but two spoonfuls of sugar (‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,’ she said, winking, when I asked her where she’d got it), and spilled the beans about me and Sam.
She grinned at me. ‘Well, you sly little thing! And there was I thinking you were such a mouse. Good for you!’
Relieved she wasn’t annoyed with me, I grinned back.
‘Personally I think you’re doing the right thing, keeping away from the camp,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t do for that father of yours to find out about Sam, or your granny if she’s so dead set against the Americans too. But you’ll need to let Sam know that you’ve got to be a bit more careful about seeing him, and that it might be difficult for you to get away. Why not write him a letter and post it, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Because Betty Lowe works at the post office, and her mother is matron at Barton Hall – you know what terrible gossips they both are.’
‘OK, why don’t I take a message up to the camp for him myself? I’m going up there tonight – they’re showing a film, and Stanley asked me to come.’
‘Who’s Stanley? What happened to George? Or was it John?’
‘Oh, him.’ Vera waved a hand dismissively. ‘He wasn’t up to much. Stanley’s much more my type. He’s a journalist too – before the war he worked for one of the big papers back in Washington. Anyway, enough about him. What about a message for this Sam of yours?’
I scribbled a note, folded it and wrote Sam’s name across the front. Vera pocketed it. ‘I’ll make sure he gets it. And if you want to use me as a go-between from now on, I don’t mind.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No need to thank me. It’s about time you had a bit of fun. Fancy another cuppa? And let’s change the subject – I’m sure I can hear Alfie coming up the stairs.’
She was right; a few moments later, he came in with the post, handing it to me with a shy expression.
‘Poor boy,’ Vera said when he’d gone. ‘It’ll break his heart if he finds out about Sam.’
‘Don’t!’ I felt suddenly, absurdly guilty. ‘I’ve got enough to worry about without adding Alfie Blythe’s feelings to the list!’
After that, I tackled the typewriter ribbon with renewed determination, desperate to take my mind off the misery that crept over me every time I thought about going home and Grandmother being there. I’d always been able to cope with her previous visits by telling myself that she’d be going home soon; this time, who knew how long it would be?
After work, I took my time going home, wheeling my bicycle the long way through town instead of riding straight back to Barton Hall. Perhaps it was just my mood, or the dreary winter weather, but I couldn’t help thinking how drab everything looked. In a few weeks it would be Christmas, and some of the shops had decorations hanging in the windows, but the tape criss-crossed across the glass and the sandbags heaped on the pavements spoiled the effect. They were a stark reminder that we were at war, which wouldn’t be stopping for Christmas or for anything else. I sighed softly to myself. When would all this end?
‘I’ve as much right to shop here as anyone else, you know!’ I heard someone say suddenly, their voice sharp and edged with tears. Startled out of my gloomy musings, I turned and saw a woman who had come out of the greengrocer’s a moment before; the door had just slammed shut in her face, the bell jingling. The woman had mousy brown hair, inexpertly waved beneath the tired-looking felt hat she wore, and her coat, in a matching shade of dull green, hung open despite the chilly weather. As she turned towards me, I saw why.
‘Hullo Jennie,’ I said, trying to tear my eyes away from the slight, but all-too-obvious swell of her belly beneath her frock. ‘How are you?’
Jennie Pearson’s face was a dull pink, her mouth pinched into a tight line, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Ruby,’ she said, tossing her head. ‘I’m fine. Never better. How are you?’
‘I – I’m fine,’ I stammered, becoming aware of the people inside the greengrocer’s staring through the window at us, all wearing identical expressions of disapproval.
Following my gaze, Jennie glanced round at them and her face went an even deeper shade of pink. ‘Apparently there’s a problem with my coupons or something,’ she said, shifting the empty basket on her arm to a more comfortable position. ‘I’m to try somewhere else.’
I wanted to offer her some word of kindness or reassurance, but I had no idea what to say.
‘Well, I’ll be seeing you, then,’ Jennie said when the silence between us had stretched out for just that bit too long.
And before I could answer her, she’d turned and walked away, shoulders slumped and head down.