The Returning Tide Read online

  You haven’t told me about Portland or the Wrens you are with. Were any of your friends from training posted with you? What can I tell you about here? There was another bomb dropped in the bay the other night and Grandmother was down on the beaches with everyone collecting the stunned fish. I wish I could have seen it but I was working. However I came home to find sea bass on the counter. I made a delicate sauce with chives and just a bit of cream. We have fewer eggs now that all of them have to go through official channels but Anne at the farm still manages to occasionally give us some extra.

  Last Friday night I was driving behind Mr Wellbrook, the furniture man from Falmouth. You know, the one who deals in extra food on the side. Well, he was pulled up because his headlights were showing too much light. I watched the whole thing, waiting for him to be caught with black market goods. But you know how he uses a doctor’s bag. It was sitting on the front seat and they waved him through. The smile on my face was so wide it should have cracked and the commodore in the car had no idea why I found the whole situation so amusing. You have to love life here.

  Having said that, I miss London terribly. Maybe I should request a change. If I were in London I would see Eddie more. I hear you saying that if I requested a change I’d probably end up in Scotland and further away! You, as always, are right – and besides, Mother needs me. I can see the smile on her face isn’t reaching her eyes. I think it’s Father but I can’t say for sure. His calls are shorter than necessary and they don’t say much to each other, not like before. Do tell me how you find him when you see him again.

  Missing you terribly and so longing to see you. I can’t believe we won’t be together at Christmas. We’ll be having some of the Americans. Grandmother isn’t pleased at all, which is why I had Mother issue the invitation. You know I’m a devil.

  Love you so.

  Xxx

  My hand shook. Closing my eyes, it all felt so close, like it could be happening now. Windward was little altered except for the bathrooms, which had been done at Jack’s insistence and his expense. The lawn was restored – replanting it was the first thing Grandmother had wanted to do when the war was over, but she kept growing vegetables. I laughed. Rationing had lasted a long time and those extra things had helped.

  My joints creaked as I stood and the letter fell from my hand. Where was my sister now? I hadn’t felt her in so long. I had blocked her and maybe she had done the same for me. At ninety there was a good chance she was dead. We weren’t a long-lived family so I wasn’t sure why I was still alive.

  ‘Gran.’ Jack strode from the drive towards me. The easterly breeze caught his fair hair. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ His glance fell on the letter. ‘Still delving in the past, I see.’ He studied me then took my arm. ‘Looking at the scowl on your face, I’m not sure it’s a good thing.’

  ‘Dwelling in the past never is.’ I looked hard at him. ‘You have to let it go and move on.’

  ‘Ouch.’ He leaned back. ‘Whatever was in that letter has made you grumpy.’

  ‘Seriously, Jack.’ I stopped walking. ‘You only have one life. Don’t waste it.’

  He dropped his arm from mine and stepped back. I braced myself for the explosion. I’d overstepped the line we’d established years ago. He stared at me. His pupils disappeared to pinpricks, then he turned and marched off. I looked for something to lean against. His silence was worse than anything.

  He couldn’t keep holding himself apart from the world. He had to open up or it would kill him one way or another. This I knew too well.

  Twelve

  HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset

  22 December 1943

  I looked at the letter I’d started ages ago in London but had never finished. Since then I had received several from Amelia and everything I’d written was out of date and unimportant.

  London is crawling with Americans. Of course they are here in Portland and Weymouth but they make more sense in a military setting. They are everywhere. I even had one try and pick me up tonight while I was waiting for Father.

  However, paper was precious. I put a strike through it and chewed the end of my pen, puzzling why I could still see the American lieutenant’s blue eyes and his dark brown hair.

  I even had to deal with one at the Savoy while I was waiting for Father. He had the cheek to ask me to dinner and call me by my first name. You would have loved him. Tall, dark and bold. Of course your heart is spoken for. Have you heard from Eddie? Has he been through Cornwall again?

  Father looked well but I only saw him for moments. He had to have dinner with some major and I was sent home hungry. I’m sure Father felt terrible and I’m supposed to meet him for lunch tomorrow but it will be a quick lunch as I’m due back on duty at six.

  How are Mother and Grandmother? Or should I say, is Grandmother behaving? Aunt Margaret was much more cheerful despite new people lodging in her house. She spent a long hour gossiping with me about their antics.

  Will write more after I have seen Father for lunch. Missing you and hoping all is well.

  I sat back and thought of Cornwall. I tried to picture the lanes and landscape crowded with jeeps and tents. It didn’t fit and I didn’t want Americans with their chewing gum in my Cornwall.

  Everything I have written above is old news – sorry. I’m adjusting to life here. The Wrens in my cabin are a good lot and there is a friend of Angus’s that we met a few years ago. It’s good that I’m beside the water. It makes Cornwall feel closer. I try and imagine that on a clear day I can see Rosemullion Head and know that Windward stands nearby.

  My lunch with Father was disappointing and short. He was with me physically but his mind was elsewhere. I would like to say it was on the war but

  I paused mid-sentence, not sure if I should write what I thought. He was behaving like he was in love. I thought of Aunt Margaret’s offhand comment. Was he seizing joy where he found it? I couldn’t help but think so. Poor Mother.

  I’m not so certain. It was as if he would have rather been lunching with someone else. I’m not sure with whom though. I had hoped it would be my Christmas but I came away feeling empty. I’m so jealous of your Christmas at Windward even if you do have Americans at the table. Do you still have that French refugee, Mme Pomfrey? Does Mother miss the children from Latimer School still?

  I chewed my nail. Despite the lack of material pleasures, Christmas the past few years had been so jolly with the children, and Father having leave. Now I was preparing to spend my first Christmas away.

  I will miss you so much. Do tell me everything, especially how Grandmother deals with the Americans.

  All my love

  Xxx

  HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset

  25 December 1943

  ‘Happy Christmas, Adele,’ a rating called as I left the bunker.

  I waved and made my way out into the darkness. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and I blew on my hands as I walked. Chilblains were a problem. In the distance I could hear the sound of a carol being sung. I stopped for a moment as ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ carried on the cold air. It was Christmas Day and there was no peace on earth.

  I felt for the men on the boats. It was bad enough to be here away from home, but they were under constant threat in the Channel. It had been quieter in the wireless room. It was as if we all knew that we should be elsewhere with our loved ones. I sighed. Christmas lunch had taken place while I was on duty. The hymn finished and I continued my walk back to quarters, hoping there was soup or something warming. The north wind had an icy bite to it and there would be a hard frost tonight, but no snow. However much snow might lift the spirits, it would just make everything more difficult.

  I sang ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ as I went, pausing only when I heard footsteps behind me

  ‘I know the words, but not the tune,’ a deep voice said.

  I jumped and turned to see an American who in the darkness seemed as broad as he was tall. ‘Is the tune different in America?’

 
‘Yes, ma’am. It goes like this. “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie …”’ His baritone sounded out the hymn on the still night air. ‘See. Same words, different tune.’

  ‘You have a lovely voice.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  I flinched. I knew he was being polite, but it was almost too much and that was the problem with Americans. Too much smile, too much teeth, too much good humour and, finally, too much here. But I did accept that we needed them.

  We reached the mess and he stopped. ‘You have a merry Christmas, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, you too.’ I dashed inside as fast as my frozen legs would let me, with the American tune playing in my head.

  Sitting down with a bowl of stew and a mince pie, I thought, Happy Christmas. At home no doubt the Americans would have provided ingredients that would have allowed Amelia to make a meal to celebrate. Stew didn’t quite compare. But I was hungry so I ate it, trying to pretend it was goose with all the trimmings. I was picking the last crumbs of the mince pie up with my finger when I saw Pat enter the mess and head straight for me. ‘Not much of a Christmas dinner,’ she said, and frowned.

  ‘True.’ I stood up.

  ‘We’re going on shore in half an hour.’

  I smiled, thinking of the peace that would fill the quarters with most of the occupants out. ‘Good luck.’ I cleared my plates and began walking to our cabin.

  ‘No, no, no – you’re joining us.’ Pat kept pace with my steps as walked through the cold night air.

  I rubbed my aching wrist. Tension travelled up my arm to my neck. ‘I’ll pass.’

  ‘I’m not taking “no” for an answer. It’s Christmas and you are coming to the dance, Adele.’ She stood in the doorway to our cabin.

  ‘Look, Pat, I’ve been on duty all day and all I want to do is put my feet up, not go dancing.’

  ‘It’s Christmas, there aren’t enough women and life is too short, as we know only too well.’ She frowned again and looked at the picture of Sally’s husband. He had been shot down two weeks ago. ‘I’m heading downstairs and I expect to see you on the liberty boat. No bah humbugs allowed.’ She went out of the door and I slipped off my shoes. I didn’t want to do this, Christmas or not. A dance hall filled with smoke and false happiness. I would much rather fall into bed.

  I turned and sat there with my presents at the bottom of my bunk. I glanced at my watch; there was enough time to open them and still make the liberty boat on shore. The name ‘liberty boat’ made me smile. It was a battered old bus and the name caused much amusement among the Americans. But then everything about us caused amusement, our quaint ways. Maybe that was what really bothered me. I felt they were laughing at us, at our warm beer and our gardens not yards. I rubbed my temples. This was not going to help and I was in danger of becoming a Scrooge or, worse, a total spoilsport. Amelia would be kicking me at this point. Maybe that was the problem. Without my twin I wasn’t whole. I didn’t feel like joining the party – or, if I was honest, life. God, I missed her and I knew she felt the same.

  I opened my mother’s present first. She’d given me a scarf in bright red wool. Grandmother’s turned out to be a copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. There was another package wrapped in newspaper. I smiled as I read the tag on the bottle:

  Take a spoonful of this, dear, to keep Cornwall in your bones and keep you fit and well. Rosehip syrup, 1943. Happy Christmas, Mrs Tonks.

  Trust Mrs Tonks to be worried about me. She always had been over the years we visited Windward, fussing whenever she could. I opened the bottle and took a deep breath. Cornwall. The scent transported me there. If only the feeling would last. I sighed and opened Amelia’s present – a pair of silk French knickers that she’d made with the help of Mme Pomfrey. In her note she promised me that the elastic wouldn’t give, as there was none. My mouth lifted into a smile as I stroked the fabric. They would be wasted under my uniform. Tucking them into the bottom of my drawer, I wonder what she thought of the book of poetry I’d sent her. I was trying to enlighten her, while she was trying to lighten me up. I chuckled.

  The final present was from Aunt Margaret. It was large and as I opened it I knew immediately what it was: a dress in emerald-green satin. It was one I had admired on her. Her note fell on to the bed.

  My darling Adele,

  Sorry to give you a hand-me-down but clothes are in such short supply and you had admired it so. I found so little to buy for Christmas and then inspiration struck. I hope you bowl over all the men you must be meeting. Plus green is your colour!

  With love,

  Aunt Margaret

  I stroked it. The fabric gleamed, becoming almost like the sea in the way the light and shadow played across the surface. It was beautiful and I was touched by her generosity, but I was not sure when I’d wear it. Wrapping it in its tissue, I placed it with the extravagant knickers from my sister. Then I changed my blouse to try and feel fresher for the dance hall that I didn’t want to go to. Merry bloody Christmas.

  The liberty boat was full of laughter as I climbed on board and squeezed into the last empty seat. Sitting beside me was a Wren who worked in Supply with Angus’s friend. Dot struck me as quite sensible and just a little bit older than me. Her eyes saw everything and had a bit of mischief about them that lit up her neat face.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ I said as we set off. The moon was up and I could make out the high bank of Chesil Beach as we bumped along the causeway. I heard rather than saw a vehicle pass us. So many accidents and deaths had happened since the blackout. I wouldn’t want to drive, let alone in the dark without lights. I didn’t know how Amelia did it.

  ‘Looking forward to the dance?’ Dot’s soft voice could be barely heard above the noise.

  I turned to her. ‘Truth, no.’

  ‘Tired, homesick?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘It’ll be good for you. We have to grab life while we have it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, but I honestly didn’t feel it. The bus stopped and we all filed into the dark streets. At home the fire would be lit, the wireless on, while Grandmother slept in her chair. Would Amelia be playing charades with our guests or would they all be singing around the piano? Normally it would be Father who would play but he wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure where he was – he’d never said.

  Dot tapped my shoulder and I followed her as a group of Yanks strolled up. ‘Hello, Dot. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Happy Christmas all.’ She took my arm. ‘This is Adele and she’s missing home.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, honey.’

  My back straightened with disdain. Honey, I thought. Really. Then I slowed my steps. I thought nothing of a bus driver in London calling me ‘darling’ or a stranger in Cornwall calling me ‘my lover’, so ‘honey’ might not be any different, yet I still bristled. Maybe it was the tone and implied intimacy. I shivered as I walked along the street in darkness. Music could be heard spilling out of the hall each time the door opened. I braced myself for the noise, the forced joviality and the smoke.

  Once we were inside, Dot touched my arm as if she sensed my desire to turn and run. ‘Seriously, this will lift your spirits. Nothing like a bit of dancing.’

  Under my breath I muttered, ‘Bah humbug,’ but I put a smile on my face and hoped I could find a quiet corner away from the Yanks.

  Dot didn’t let me slip away. She led me across the crowded hall filled with American servicemen towards a group of men in RAF uniform. ‘Adele, this is Johnny. He’s home for Christmas with a few friends.’

  ‘Adele.’ He smiled and his face coloured slightly. ‘Dance?’

  I liked his bashfulness and the way he looked in his flight lieutenant’s uniform. ‘Yes.’ I took his hand, walking with him and ignoring the Americans. Tonight I would make it my duty to be sure all our own boys were partnered, especially the very sweet but quiet Johnny. It was a joy to be led about the floor with someone who could dance and wasn’t trying to get too close. There was e
nough space between us so that I could actually look up at him and not be pressed against him. He hadn’t assumed the immediate intimacy as so many did at these dances. He was a breath of fresh, English air.

  The evening flew by and I even danced with a few Americans. I secretly hoped that Johnny would ask me for the last dance. I was afraid to look for him as I might catch another man’s eye, so I stared into my teacup.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ Johnny stood in front of me, smiling.

  ‘Yes.’ I took his hand and he swept me onto the floor, this time holding me a bit closer but not too tight. Grandmother would approve. I smiled at the thought.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy for it as it made you smile.’

  I grinned, looking into his hazel eyes. ‘It did.’

  ‘Will you be here in two weeks?’ he whispered in my ear.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I glanced up at him. ‘I’m not sure what shifts I will be on.’

  He nodded. ‘If you are … will you save the last dance for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pulled me a little closer and Christmas didn’t feel so lonely all of a sudden.

  HMS Attack, Portland, Dorset

  10 January 1944

  Opening Amelia’s letter, I paused. Part of me wanted to know that they had had a wonderful Christmas and the other part of me didn’t. For whatever reason she had taken a long time in sending it. I turned it over in my hands then settled on my bunk to read.

  New Year’s Day

  Darling,

  What fun we had but I felt so guilty without you. Christmas was divine, and even Grandmother enjoyed herself. Inviting the Americans was inspired. First they came bearing gifts in the form of food and spirits, so immediately we began plying drink into Grandmother. What a difference that made. I then took the gifts of tinned peaches and custard powder. The trifle was to die for and while I worked in the kitchen the boys amused Mother and Grandmother. I wish I could have recorded the laughter for you. They had put the gramophone on and you won’t believe it but they were teaching Grandmother the jitterbug. It was magic, as if Father Christmas himself had spread fairy dust on the old bat. She looked years younger in the arms of a captain.