The Girl on the Beach Page 12

  ‘It’s quite a big house,’ Julie said, standing to look out of the window at the front lawn and a paddock where a couple of horses grazed.

  ‘Mum and Dad inherited it from my grandfather along with the farm. I’ll show you round later. Let’s get out of uniform into civvies and then go down for supper. I can smell something good.’

  They were soon seated round a big kitchen table enjoying roast pork and apple sauce and plenty of fresh vegetables; rationing seemed not to bother them. There was Mr Kilby, whom she was told to address as Walter, Maggie, Florrie’s brother Alec, Julie and two little girls, Liz and Alice, who had been evacuated from Plymouth. Both were very shy. Stretched on the hearthrug before the kitchen range was a black Labrador, twitching in his sleep, and on a cushion on a rocking chair by the hearth a ginger cat snoozed. It was so cosy and welcoming, Julie had to blink back tears.

  Alec was a younger version of his father, in that he was well built and tanned from spending most of his time out of doors, but his hair was fair and he had Florrie’s hazel eyes and winning smile. ‘Fancy coming to the Three Bells for a quick one after dinner?’ he asked his sister.

  ‘I don’t mind, it’s up to Eve.’

  ‘I’ll go along with whatever you decide,’ she said.

  They walked there, with Julie in between them. Florrie and Alec kept up a lively conversation and all Julie had to do was listen. She liked Florrie’s family. They all seemed so cheerful and concerned for each others’ welfare and happiness. That, she decided enviously, was what family life was all about; she had a strange feeling, listening to their banter, that she had not had a family like that. Maybe she had been an only child. On this warm starlit night, with her arm through those of her companions, she was really content for the first time since she had woken up in hospital.

  The week went by in a blur of eating, sleeping, going into Andover to shop – where Julie used some of her pay and clothing coupons to enlarge her tiny wardrobe with a cotton dress, a skirt, a couple of blouses and some stockings – exploring the countryside on foot, watching Alec milking the cows, and learning to ride a small docile pony, which took all her courage. Whatever had been in her past, it did not include farm animals, she decided. No one questioned her too closely on her past, perhaps because they had been warned by Florrie that being reminded of the loss of her family would upset her. Instead they brought her into the family circle, just as they had the two little evacuees, cracking jokes and suggesting things to do. Alec was particularly good with the evacuees and they adored him, scrambling onto his back and being taken for piggyback rides, telling him to ‘Gee up’ and giggling when he collapsed in a heap on the floor. Julie thought he would make a wonderful father, though she had seen no sign of a girlfriend.

  ‘I’m so grateful to you,’ Julie told Maggie when the week came to an end and they were preparing to leave. ‘I’ve had a lovely time.’

  ‘Good. Now, you come again. Even if Florrie can’t come, you come. Think of this as home.’

  At which Julie burst into tears and was enveloped in brawny arms. ‘There, I didn’t mean to make you cry. Don’t be sad.’

  ‘I’m not sad,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m happy.’

  Maggie laughed and held her at arm’s length. ‘It’s a funny way to show happiness. But there, I understand. I think you’re so brave, after what you’ve been through. Now smile. Here comes Florrie. Alec will take you to the station.’

  Alec bundled their kitbags into the boot of the family Ford, held the door for Julie to sit beside him and Florrie climbed in the back.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your leave?’ he asked Julie as he swung out of the farm gate and along the lane to the main road.

  ‘Oh, yes, very much.’

  ‘You’ll come again, I hope.’

  ‘Course she will,’ Florrie put in from behind them. ‘You haven’t seen the last of her.’

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘There,’ Florrie said, tapping Julie on the shoulder. ‘You’ve got yourself a new brother.’

  ‘Brother be damned,’ he muttered.

  They had no sooner arrived back in Bridgnorth than they were on the move again. The others were scattered but Florrie and Julie managed to stay together and were posted to Morecambe to learn to be drivers. Here, they were billeted in a boarding house taken over for the purpose and spent most of their time up to their elbows in oil and grease, learning basic mechanics. There were lectures on theory, rules and regulations and the Highway Code, all before they ever found themselves behind the wheel, but when they did, it was not long before they graduated from cars to all manner of vehicles, from trucks and lorries to tea wagons and ambulances. Florrie took to it like a duck to water and was soon driving heavy lorries with ease. Julie struggled. She was too small to reach the pedals comfortably and in the end it was decided between her and her instructors that driving wasn’t for her. She found herself working in the stores, which was safe and boring.

  ‘I think I’ll apply for a posting,’ she told Florrie one day when they had some time off together and were walking along Morecambe sands with their shoes and stockings in their hands.

  ‘Why? Aren’t you happy here?’

  ‘Yes and no. I don’t feel as though I’m contributing much towards the war effort. I need something to get my teeth into.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s half the trouble.’ Another reason was the proximity of the seashore, which niggled away at her memory until she thought it would drive her mad. She had walked along sand like this before and it had been significant, or why did it awaken a feeling of things past, of matters left undone, of children? At least, one child. She could not grasp more than that, not even to decide on the sex of the child. But perhaps the child had been her? Was it her own childhood that was slowly coming back to her? In one way she welcomed it and in another dreaded it. Just when she thought it was coming back, it slipped away again. ‘Something to keep me busy.’

  ‘But you are busy.’

  ‘Not my head. My head wanders.’

  ‘You are a little silly. Tell you what. Hang fire until I’m given my posting and see if you can come to the same place. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘You won’t lose me. We’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course we will. You’re going home to the farm on your next leave, you promised Mum, but that’s not the point. You’re such a dreamer, you need me to keep your feet on the ground. How you ever got by before you met me, I don’t know.’

  Julie laughed. ‘I’m not that helpless.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you were helpless – far from it – simply that you often seem to have your head in the clouds.’

  It was the perfect opportunity and she nearly told her then, nearly said, ‘You might have your head in the clouds if you couldn’t remember your own name or where you come from,’ but still she hesitated. Supposing whatever it was she could not remember was so dreadful that no one would want to know her and she lost Florrie’s friendship? She dare not risk it.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait until you know where you’re going and see if there’s a vacancy there too. Will that satisfy you?’

  ‘Yes. Come on, we’d better turn back. Have you brought anything to dry your feet?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think.’ More echoes, more nudges of her memory. Was it coming back, bit by bit?

  ‘Good job I did.’

  They left the sand and sat on a bench to dry their feet with the small towel Florrie had with her and replace stockings and shoes, before returning to their billet and their daily routine which left Julie no time to brood about the past. It was hard enough dealing with the present. The war was not going well. Apart from the air raids which went on almost without let-up, food was short owing to heavy losses at sea, and rationing was extended. The Allied armies, fighting in North Africa, were having a hard time of it and the German army had overrun Poland, captured Kiev in Ukraine and were driving towards Moscow. Julie’s
problems were insignificant by comparison.

  Chapter Six

  Stuart and Angela Summers were back in London. They seemed unable to stay away. They had no sooner eliminated one lead in their search for Rosie and returned to Scotland than they felt compelled to return and try another. The Salvation Army and the Red Cross were helping them but so far there had been no luck. They had advertised in every newspaper, even including a snapshot and offering a reward. All in vain. Stuart was slowly coming to the conclusion that his daughter had perished in one of the many bombing raids on London, but Angela would not believe it. Ashen-faced and losing weight, she clung to hope like a drowning man clinging to a straw.

  ‘There’s something not quite right about her disappearance,’ she said over and over again. ‘All that stuff in her room and then the break-in when it was all stolen is decidedly suspicious. She’s got herself into trouble, that’s what, and is ashamed to tell us.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘What other explanation is there? Her landlady said there was a shifty-looking character came asking after her.’

  ‘Angela, you must stop this,’ he told her as often as she brought the subject up. ‘Our Rosie was lost in the Blitz. They couldn’t identify all the casualties.’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe people can just disappear like that, wartime or no wartime. Perhaps she’s been injured and is lying in hospital somewhere, lost her memory or something. It does happen …’

  ‘We’ve been to all the hospitals and convalescent homes.’

  ‘So you are just going to give up, are you, Stuart Summers?’

  ‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I can’t give up any more than you can, but I don’t know where we go from here.’

  ‘We could try tracing the man that went to her lodgings. I’m sure it was him broke in and stole those supplies from her room.’

  ‘We don’t know his name or what he looks like.’

  ‘Perhaps she met him at work. We could try Chalfont’s again.’

  He had sighed and given in. It was easier than arguing, and to tell the truth, he was as unsettled about Rosie’s disappearance as his wife was. Even to have her death confirmed might give them a little peace.

  Chalfont’s had evacuated to Letchworth, and to Letchworth they went and asked to speak to the manager.

  Donald Walker recognised the couple because they had gone to him in Southwark when their daughter had first gone missing. He shook their hands and offered them seats in his office. ‘Have you any news?’ he asked, pulling his chair round so that he was not sitting behind his desk.

  ‘No, we hoped you might have.’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I gather from her landlady that she had a man friend,’ Angela said. ‘Could she have met him at work?’

  ‘I cannot say, but I’ll make enquiries if you like. She was friendly with my daughter-in-law …’

  Angela sat forward eagerly. ‘Can we speak to her?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no; she was killed at the start of the Blitz. The same weekend your daughter went missing. It was a dreadful night and there were so many casualties, our little grandson among them.’

  ‘Oh, I am dreadfully sorry for your loss,’ she said, but even then she could not let go a lead, any sort of lead. ‘What about your son?’

  ‘He was in Canada at the time. In the RAF. He came back to find them dead and buried.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was suddenly deflated. Another blind alley, each one more disappointing than the last. She could hardly hold back her tears.

  ‘I am sorry we troubled you,’ Stuart said, standing up.

  Donald rose too. ‘If it helps, I’ll see if anyone in the factory remembers your daughter and who her friends were, but it’s a long shot – we have so few of our old workers with us now.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. When I write to my son, I’ll ask him if Julie ever mentioned Rosie or any other friends.’

  ‘Please don’t upset him,’ Stuart said. ‘He must be grieving for his loss.’

  ‘Yes he is, but putting a brave face on it, as we all must.’

  Stuart gave Donald his card. ‘That’s where you’ll find us, if you have any news.’

  Donald watched them go, feeling very sorry for them. If he were asked for his opinion he would say Rosemary Summers was dead, had died that same dreadful night as Julie. There had been so many bodies, so many bits of bodies that it had sometimes been difficult to piece them together and make a whole. He had told Harry Julie looked peaceful and unmarked, which had been a blatant lie. She had been unrecognisable, and it was only her slight build and the colour and texture of her hair, and the fact that she had been cradling the baby against her bosom for protection, that allowed him to identify her. Poor Harry. He had taken it badly, but who could blame him for that? Since then he had changed. His softness had gone; the young lad who had befriended a little waif and married her had matured, had become a hard man who had little time for sentiment. In a way that was to be regretted, but it made it easier for him to function. That was what this war was all about: functioning to the best of one’s ability in the face of adversity.

  He put the card in the top drawer of his desk and then drafted out a request to put on the noticeboard in the factory, asking if anyone remembered Rosemary Summers. He did not see what more he could do.

  ‘You’re the quiet one.’

  Harry looked up to see the barmaid standing beside him, her hands full of glasses she had gathered up from the tables. She was about his own age, well built but not fat, with light-brown hair and greeny-grey eyes. ‘Sorry?’

  She smiled. She had a lovely smile, he noticed. It lit her whole face. ‘I said you’re the quiet one.’

  ‘Am I? Well, we can’t all be like that lot.’ He indicated his fellow airmen with a jerk of his head. They were letting their hair down after returning from a successful bombing raid. It was a kind of release of tension and thankfulness that they had survived to fight another day.

  ‘Were you with them?’

  He knew what she meant. ‘Yes.’

  She nodded towards his empty glass. ‘Do you want another?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She disappeared with the empty glasses and returned with a full one which she put down in front of him, then sat opposite him. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Harry Walker. What’s yours?’

  ‘Pam. Pamela Godwin. Why don’t you want to join in with the others?’

  ‘Dunno. Didn’t feel like it.’

  ‘Pretty awful, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’ That was an understatement. The target had been Berlin, about as far as they could go on their fuel. The flak had been worse than usual and the enemy fighters buzzed round them like wasps, waiting to sting. Harry’s job, when not operating the wireless, was to drop bundles containing thin strips of silver paper, called ‘window’, out of the aeroplane to confuse the enemy radar. The Germans counteracted this by concentrating their searchlights on the cloud layer above which the bombers were flying, silhouetting them clearly. Tim had thrown the Boston all over the sky in an effort to evade them, which made it doubly difficult for the navigator and bomb aimer. Luckily the target had been well lit by earlier fires and they had dropped their bombs and turned for home. He was never more glad to see the coast of England and then drop down on Swanton Morley, mission accomplished.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, bringing him back from his reverie. ‘Originally, I mean.’

  ‘London. Bermondsey.’

  ‘That’s right on the docks, isn’t it? Didn’t it get a pasting in the Blitz?’

  ‘Yes. I lost my wife and son in that first big raid.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  ‘I lost my brother at Dunkirk.’

  ‘I’m sorry. This damned war has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Yes.’


  They sat in silence for a minute but she made no move to leave him. He drank some of his beer and set the glass back on the table. ‘Do you live in Swanton Morley?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, just down the road, with my mum and dad. He’s the local baker. You’ve probably had some of his bread. He supplies the station.’

  ‘And very good it is too.’

  ‘It was better before we had the National Loaf. He hates that.’

  ‘It’s not that bad, and it’s supposed to be healthier than a white loaf.’

  ‘Can I get you a sandwich?’ she asked, then chuckled. ‘Dad’s bread.’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He wasn’t particularly hungry but he didn’t like to hurt her feelings by saying no.

  ‘Cheese and pickle do you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He watched her go and continued to drink his beer. His companions were becoming noisily drunk and he wondered if they would make it safely back to base without falling into a ditch. They were great lads, some of them very young, and they had to let off steam now and again. Sometimes he joined them, sometimes, like tonight, he preferred to sit quietly. Not that he brooded; he had got past that, but sometimes he reflected on his life as it was now compared with what it had been. It seemed a lifetime ago since he had come back from Canada to stand over Julie’s grave with that broken garden gnome in his hand and felt so lost, guilty and angry.

  After pestering the powers that be at Cosford he had been posted to 226 Squadron who were stationed at Wattisham in Suffolk where they flew Blenheim bombers, mostly on coastal patrol against German shipping. It was while he was there he was sent for officer training and returned a flight lieutenant. Just before Christmas 1941 the whole squadron had moved to Swanton Morley in Norfolk. Its runway had a grass surface covered with steel mesh, but there was some new hardstanding and a tarmac perimeter track, plus a couple of new hangars and the usual conglomeration of huts. From here, he found himself making bombing raids on coastal shipping and targets in occupied Europe, dodging enemy fighters and flak. He had been lucky so far, but many of his new-found friends had not returned. It was something you had to accept or you’d go mad.