Chapter Text
Peggy knew from the beginning that something was very wrong, for Susan very nearly shut the door in her face.
She had hurried up from Southampton, anxious not to waste a minute of her precious twenty-four hours of leave. The train had dawdled all the way to Winchester; she had only just caught the bus on, and all the way she had been sitting on the edge of her seat, peering through the mesh-covered windows so that she should not miss her stop.
Now she almost wished that she had not come. It was clear that Susan did not want her here. It was clear, too, that all was not well. Susan’s hair was uncombed, her eyes red-rimmed. Somewhere in the cottage a baby was grizzling.
Susan managed something like a smile. ‘Peggy.’
‘Susan.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
‘Come in, won’t you?’ Susan stepped aside.
‘I don’t want to put you out.’
Susan bit her lip. ‘You aren’t. Not really. It’s only that the place is in a bit of a state.’
‘Oh, I won’t mind that,’ Peggy said heartily.
*
It was true on both counts. Peggy could not have thought of a situation in which she would not be glad to see Susan. And the cottage was cluttered, with baby napkins and clothes drying on a clothes-horse in front of a neat fire (that, at least, was the Susan that Peggy knew), and newspaper down on the kitchen floor to soak up a spill, and the washing-up not done.
‘Look here,’ Peggy said, ‘can’t I help at all? After all, I’ve barged in on you with no warning. It isn’t really fair.’
She waited, not knowing what the answer would be. This was not like Wild Cat Island. She would not have hesitated to offer, when they were first mates together. This was altogether different.
But Susan said, a little reluctantly, ‘Perhaps you could put the kettle on, while I see to the baby.’
Peggy complied, and then found the tea and the milk. She could hear Susan making half-hearted nonsense noises to the baby, and remembered soothing the pigeons at Beckfoot. She smiled to herself and spooned the old tea leaves out of the pot.
‘Oh dear, I quite forgot those.’ Susan had returned. She had the baby in her arms and was jiggling it gently. ‘This is Mary.’
‘Like Mother. And yours, I suppose.’
Susan nodded. ‘That was why.’
‘How do you do, Mary?’ Peggy waved at her, feeling a little silly. She was not accustomed to babies.
Susan laughed, and then made a face. ‘Oh, dear, I’m sorry. She isn’t used to company.’
Peggy had smelt worse. ‘She must keep you busy.’
‘Not as busy as you, I’m sure. Are you allowed to say what you’re doing?’
‘Cooking, down at the docks.’
‘How are you enjoying it?’
‘It makes a change from typing, which was what they had me doing before.’
‘I’m sure you’re good at it.’
‘It’s a way to do my bit.’
‘Yes.’ There was something odd in Susan’s voice. Peggy realised just too late that she was on the edge of tears. As it was, all she could do was find a handkerchief.
‘Sorry,’ Susan said after a little while.
‘No need.’
‘I don’t make a habit of bursting into tears over every person who knocks on the door.’
‘You’re all alone here?’
Susan nodded. ‘Except for Mary.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘I wrote to her. Told her not to worry, not to come.’
And of course Mrs Walker would believe Susan if she said not to worry, because when had anybody ever doubted that there was cause for worry if Susan said there was not? Even Peggy was half-inclined to doubt the evidence of her eyes, to suspect a Swallow prank. If she looked away for half a minute Susan would have whisked away the dirty dishes, changed the baby, and set out a veritable feast in defiance of rationing.
But it was no prank.
That Susan should be in tears! Peggy would have been less surprised to see a kraken in the Solent. She half-expected to look out of the window and find the Germans goose-stepping down the High Street. If Susan could falter, what hope was there for the rest of them?
At a loss, she said, ‘I’ll make the tea; then it’ll be waiting for you when you’ve changed her.’ She looked at the plate and saw toast crumbs and a smear of jam. ‘And have you had any dinner?’
‘I wasn’t hungry,’ Susan said. She looked at the clock. ‘Have you?’
‘I don’t need any.’
‘Oh, nonsense.’ She frowned. ‘But I haven’t got around to going to the shop. Drat.’
‘I can go, if you like. And make dinner.’
‘Honestly, you mustn’t.’
‘Do you remember that time we tossed for whose turn it was to cook, up at Camp Might Have Been? You won, and I owe you one.’
‘Peggy! That’s ancient history!’ But she was not exactly arguing. Mary let out a little wail. ‘Ssh. Ssh.’
‘May I take your ration book?’
‘Oh, yes… It’s on the mantelpiece, I think.’
Peggy looked, and found it next to a photograph of a man in RAF uniform. So this was Arthur. She had never met him, not having been able to get leave for the wedding. She never would, now. He looked pleasant enough; he had a gentle smile and one eyebrow slightly raised.
Then she took up the little green book before Susan could see her looking, and walked back through the village. She had seen a telephone box on the corner. She kept in mind for the way back; but the shop would shut if she didn’t hurry.
There wasn’t a queue. That was something. She did what she could with the meagre stock and, equipped with a tin of Spam and some tired carrots, she hurried back through the village. When she reached the telephone box she hesitated, then went in, paid her tuppence, and gave the exchange the Beckfoot number. Susan might well appreciate a little more time to wash her face, after all.
Two minutes served to exchange most of the news. Then Peggy made up her mind. She paid another twopence and said, ‘Mother, did they send you any more evacuees, or do you still have a spare room?’
‘Not yet, no. I was meant to be having some more, but they aren’t coming. Why?’
She explained quickly about Susan. ‘And I was wondering whether you might ask her – and little Mary – to Beckfoot.’
Her mother had heard about Arthur, of course. ‘I had a letter from Mrs Walker. What a sad business.’
Peggy remembered suddenly how Nancy had always stopped her asking to see photographs of their father. Had she been horribly tactless? Too late to do anything, if so. She hurried on: ‘I don’t know if she’ll want to come, but I’d want to ask her at least. I’d worry even if it weren’t for the bombs.’
‘I do my best not to think about the bombs,’ her mother said. ‘But yes, I’ll write.’
‘Bless you, Mother. Thank you. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Please don’t tell her I asked you to ask her.’
The second twopence gone, Peggy gathered up the groceries and walked back to Susan’s cottage, wondering whether she had done right. Susan was asleep in an armchair, the baby cuddled up close to her.
Well, Peggy, thought, that saved an argument. She found their old friend the mincing machine in the kitchen drawer and proceeded to make dinner. When Susan woke and saw it, she laughed.
‘Cannonballs!’
‘They aren’t quite the same with Spam. And really it ought to be fresh egg.’
‘Honestly, it’s nice to eat something I haven’t had to think about.’ She smiled at Peggy. ‘Thank you.’
They ate the cannonballs, and then Peggy held little Mary for a while, and then she had to leave to get her bus. She didn’t mention Beckfoot. Instead, she promised to visit Susan again, the next time she could get away.
Some weeks later she received a postcard, its caption crossed out and replaced with KANCHENJUNGA from the south, and she decided that things were probably all right.
Then the bomb fell, and Susan went out of her thoughts.