Sisters at War Read online

  He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I wasn’t thinking, too tired. Sorry, Bee, and thank God for you.’

  ‘How did she get in the field? Is the fence broken somewhere? Everyone knows not to come on to the airfield, for heaven’s sake. I’ll check it.’ She undid her straps with shaking fingers.

  Adam said, ‘We’ll check the fence, and what’s more, find the little idiot. She’s got to be told off, Bee, and afterwards we’ll go down to the pub with the rest of the lads. Someone might know who she is, but I didn’t recognise her, did you?’

  Bryony shook her head, ‘No. Perhaps she’s an evacuee?’ She raised her voice. ‘Let’s get your straps undone, everyone, and your bags off. Your holidays are over, and to make up for that, in a moment Adam will open the door and you can escape the onion fumes.’

  A cheer greeted the announcement, and Adam squeezed her shoulder again.

  In Jersey, Hannah strolled along the lane towards Netherby Farm, her sketch pad under her arm. She had watched the Dragon Rapide lifting into the sky, hating to see Bee go but glad too. Bee was always pushing her to make something of herself, and yes, college might be nice, but Peter was nicer, so she wasn’t going to go anywhere without him.

  She hurried. Bee had said she’d have the money for art college after next week’s runs, so if Peter went to England to sign up, as he had muttered yesterday, she’d say she was going to college but instead use it to find digs near him. But why on earth Bryony had to make such a martyr of herself and work so hard was stupid. She should just ask Eddie, like Mum said. After all, he thought the sun shone out of Bee’s backside and it was nonsense to say there was no cash, because they could just sell a plane. Dad had been his friend in the Royal Flying Corps in the war, and they had been partners and Eddie had bought into Combe Lodge, so why shouldn’t Eddie support them all? If he did, then Bee would have more time for her.

  Hannah climbed over the stile, and took the footpath leading across the sheep field and into the bluebell woods, which she had painted in oils in the spring. She had hung it in the local art gallery but no one had bought it. Once in the woods it was more sheltered from the wind and out of the glare of the sun. She remembered Sid’s present, and sat on the fallen tree that was slowly rotting, with fungi growing out of it. Was that what smelt so acrid?

  She took the present from her pocket, smiling because he had even wrapped it. If it didn’t work out with Peter there was always Sid as a fallback. She could go to England and to college, and he could visit on his motorbike.

  She unwrapped the gift. It was a jewellery box and inside was a brooch. She took it out, and examined the back. There was no hallmark, and it was light to hold. It was clearly tin. Hannah threw it into the undergrowth where it belonged. How cheap. He could have done better, for God’s sake. She’d keep the jewellery box, though. It was pretty.

  The branches above rustled and a magpie headed for the light. She remembered Uncle Thomas and Bee looking up the chimney. She had heard what Uncle Thomas said, so why did Bryony tell a stupid story about a bird’s nest? Probably because Uncle Thomas liked Bryony more than her, and it wasn’t fair.

  Chapter Three

  27 May 1940

  Bryony was in the midst of a recurring dream in which a child ran across the landing strip. She had just reached the point where the aircraft crashed instead of powering out of danger. She could feel the heat of the flames, hear the scream which rocked her body, the screams too, of the passengers, and of the child, when she jerked awake. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, and then, as she stared around her bedroom in the darkness of the night, feeling her sheets, the weight of the blankets, she relaxed and drifted off again.

  Now she was chasing the girl, who was always just ahead and whose face she never saw until she reached the woods and then she turned, and it was Hannah. She started awake again, alarmed, but not at the dream – it was something else, as though . . . She sat up, but there was no one there. She checked the alarm clock: it was only three in the morning. Her heart was beating in her throat, too fast.

  She heard the cry then, ‘Adam!’

  It was more a shriek than a cry. It was April Cottrall. ‘Adam!’ she was calling. ‘For God’s sake, will someone wake up?’ Bryony heard the panic, the utter terror. She threw off her bedclothes.

  ‘Bryony, Eddie, someone.’ April was panting through the words. She must have run from Combe Cottage, seventy yards from the Lodge. There was light streaming in beneath Bryony’s bedroom door from the landing.

  ‘Morgan’s on the telephone at the cottage, oh, it’s awful. Quick, quick.’ Bryony heard the Blue Room door slam open and Adam call, ‘Mum?’ His voice was confused. He called again, ‘Mu—?’ but ended on a hacking cough.

  Bryony hurtled from her room to the landing. ‘What? What?’

  She yanked up her pyjama trousers, and met April at the top of the stairs. The woman was in her nightgown, with bare feet, hair dishevelled, panting. Now Uncle Eddie, who had arrived home for his regular two-day leave from the ATA, was in his doorway, hopping on one foot, struggling to put on a slipper, his threadbare red tartan dressing gown undone, his belt dragging on the floorboards. Adam was still coughing at the entrance to his bedroom door.

  April gripped Bryony. ‘It’s Morgan.’ She was panting so fast she could hardly speak.

  Adam hurried to them now, wiping his mouth, his coughing fit subsiding. ‘What, my Morgan?’

  ‘Of course your bloody Morgan, who else would I mean?’

  Adam gripped his mother’s arm. ‘Is he hurt, has his trawler gone down?’ he asked.

  ‘The Sunflower is needed in Weymouth, he says. We’ve lost, you see.’ April, on the verge of tears, stopped abruptly. Eddie took her hands. ‘It’s all right, April, love. Just tell us slowly. Come along.’ He led her to the sofa below the landing window. It was overstuffed, and had burst its seams, but it had been like this for as long as Bryony could remember. Adam coughed again and stood with Bryony as April and Uncle Eddie sat. ‘Now,’ Eddie said. ‘Someone is lost? Or has Morgan broken down somewhere? Was he on his way here? Why does he need the Sunflower?’

  April glared at them all. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, why don’t you listen? Not Morgan, we – I mean Britain has lost. Morgan says we need shallow boats to take the troops from the beaches of France to the big ships to save as much of the army as we can. Perhaps then we can fight another day. Perhaps. The Germans are nearly at Dunkirk, you see. The bloody Germans have beaten us.’

  Bryony felt everything slow. It was almost as though she was floating, as though the floorboards were no longer cool beneath her bare feet. She had seen the coast of France when she had collected the holidaymakers, and all had seemed as usual. Had there been the faint sound of guns? It had been such a quick turnaround, and none of the passengers had mentioned anything, neither had her family, but the Channel Islands were miles from Dunkirk. All she had read recently was that Holland was in peril, and the British forces were busy in France . . . She’d been more interested to hear that Churchill had taken the place of Chamberlain.

  Eddie was gripping April’s hand in both of his, his dressing gown still gaping open, his striped pyjamas faded. His dressing gown was torn beneath the arm. His belt was collecting dust balls from the floor now. ‘Tell me again, dearest April, just what Morgan said. Then Adam can phone him back. He obviously thought Adam had moved in with you at the cottage.’

  April reached her free hand to Adam and pulled him down on her other side. ‘No, he tried here, but you were all asleep.’

  Though her eyes were full, April was clearly not about to cry, and her look dared Bryony to do so. Her lips were quivering though, and her voice was high as she said, ‘He telephoned because his trawler skipper is setting off from Weymouth, with some others to help. Most are embarking from Ramsgate but everyone who can do something is needed.’

  ‘What, he’s going in his armed trawler?’ Adam’s voice was incredulous, ‘But that’s up in—’

  ‘
No.’ April’s voice was almost a wail. ‘His own trawler, the Maid of Torin, the one he has a share in. Morgan is on leave and they’re setting off for Dunkirk, that’s where the troops are. Fuel is being sorted, he says, and he’ll tow you there to save yours, but only if you’re well enough. He says to bring the dinghy too, because someone can take that in to the beach and transport a few back to the Sunflower and from there to the big ships.’

  Before she had finished, Adam was rushing down the stairs. ‘I’ll telephone him back.’

  April called after him, ‘He’s at the skipper’s house.’

  Eddie was on his feet. ‘Don’t go to the cottage, lad. Call from the study. We can’t waste time. April, can you get some sandwiches sorted, and you too, Bee. Adam and I will need them. I’ll go to Weymouth with the lad, but then he’s on his own. I have to get back on duty.’

  He hurried to his bedroom. April was already heading down to the kitchen. Bryony looked from one to the other, and thought – sandwiches, you must be joking. She washed, dressed in her overalls, flinging on a jumper and tying another around her waist. She grabbed her waterproofs then took the stairs two at a time. Halfway down, Adam came from the study and began to climb towards her. She shouted, ‘No, go back. It’s bad luck to cross on the stairs and we’re going to need every bit we can find.’

  He backed down, staring up at her. His pyjamas were checked and old, and his feet were bare. He could catch his death on the flagstones. She half smiled: well, they’d be facing more than cold floors soon. He shouted up, ‘We? Oh no, there’s no we about this, Bee. Morgan’s just told me what to expect, and it’s too bloody dangerous.’ He began to cough again, bending over. She continued down, sweeping past him. ‘You think I don’t realise that? I’m not a fool. I’ll be in the kitchen. Hurry up or we’ll go without you, which might not be a bad idea. This is bound to set you back.’

  Uncle Eddie was following on behind her, fully dressed, and as she swept into the kitchen she heard him laughing quietly. ‘Now, why am I not surprised, Bryony Miller, that not only are you coming but that you’ve taken over. You are indeed your father’s daughter.’

  April was banging about on the hotplates, frying bacon that Uncle Thomas had included in his produce. Now April threw in some mushrooms she and Bryony had picked yesterday. There was fried bread, fried potatoes, sausage. Adam came in behind them as Bryony started to cut bread for sandwiches. ‘I hope you’ve written your will, Bee,’ he said. ‘If Dunkirk doesn’t get you, the fry-up will.’

  His mother swung round. ‘Don’t you joke about it, ever, do you hear?’

  Adam slipped past Bryony to his mum, putting his arms around her as she stood in her nightgown. ‘We have to, Mum. It’s how we did it on the trawlers around Norway. Don’t worry, we’ll come back, no shell would dare hit Bee.’

  April’s eyes met Bryony’s. What was unsaid was that one had most certainly hit Adam’s father, at Ypres. ‘Of course I’ve written a will,’ Bryony said. ‘Everyone who flies does, if they have a grain of sense.’

  Bryony had inherited her share of Combe Lodge and the airline along with her mother and sister. She had nothing else except the art college money she had saved. In her will everything she had was left to her sister.

  Down at the harbour they stripped out all that was superfluous in the Sunflower, to allow as many men as possible to be taken off the beach. They even removed the mast to give them a few extra inches of space. April, standing on the dock, said she’d make sure the benches, table and cupboards were kept safely in the boathouse for their return. They hitched up the dinghy, and loaded the Sunflower with containers full of water and tin mugs April had somehow found. Morgan had said the troops that made it through would be gagging with thirst.

  They worked alongside another smack, The Saucy Lass, belonging to Barry Maudsley and his son Eric, who had been a classmate of Adam and Morgan’s and often helped with the maintenance of the aircraft. They too had received a telephone call. The Saucy Lass was used, as was Adam’s, as a pleasure-boat-cum-fishing smack. It too had been stripped, made mastless and loaded with water in double-quick time. April put down her basket, took packets from it and threw them to Bryony. ‘They’re cheese, they should keep you going.’ Finally she threw a haversack. ‘Put them in here. When they’re finished, throw the haversack overboard. Every inch is needed, Morgan said.’

  Bryony muttered, ‘He was always a bossyboots.’

  The men laughed and Eric called from the nearby boat, ‘Disruptive influence, an’ all, according to Miss Staines. D’you remember that, Adam?’

  Adam waved, nodding, then he and Eddie yanked out the last cupboard. Eddie asked, ‘Got a half share in the Maid, has he? It was a quarter, wasn’t it?’

  Adam carried the cupboard to the edge of the Sunflower and Timmie, who ran the nearby paint shop, took it from him. It was all hands to the pump this morning. ‘Yes, he’s done well and had the sense to keep his share. Bright lad. Exmouth was always too small for him, and the armed trawlers are just right, not too many fuddy-duddy rules, he said. That’s why I chose ’em, on his recommendation.’

  Above them the gulls were wheeling, and the sun was hotting up.

  At last they were done. They’d worked through the dawn, and now it was 9 a.m. April waved them off, calling after them, ‘I’ll look out for that child while you’re gone, Bee. Just because you’re not here, doesn’t mean we give up.’

  There was no word about being safe. Just about life going on, life that would be picked up on their return. Bryony blew her a kiss. ‘I love you, April. We’ll see you very soon. Look after Dragonette for me, and Hannah if . . .’

  With Adam at the controls, Eddie and she stood and waved as they left the calm of the harbour for the choppy waters of the sea, and Eddie put his arm around her. ‘Dragonette, indeed. It’s a Dragon, little Bee, a ruddy dragon that drums infernally.’

  She leaned into her uncle who wasn’t an uncle but her father’s dearest friend, one who acted like a parent to them all. ‘No, she purrs.’ He had slipped into his dark blue ATA uniform so he could hurry to Weymouth Station and pick up a train to his ferry pool. The argument continued as the wind tore at her hair and they watched the redness of the cliffs of Devon fade and become the yellow of west Dorset, and then the grey of east Dorset. ‘Where will the buggers go now,’ she murmured. ‘The Channel Islands or us? Jersey’s only fifteen miles from France.’

  Eddie hugged her, ‘One problem at a time, Bee. Let’s just get through the moment, shall we?’

  She knew he was right. As he left the boat in Weymouth harbour he called, ‘I’m setting you up with a test for the ATA. We’ll need all the help we can get, because we will fight on. So you get back here, Bryony Miller. You’re needed, darling, darling girl.’ His voice broke, and he hurried away.

  Chapter Four

  28 May 1940

  From Weymouth the Sunflower was towed like a camp follower through what was left of the evening, and then the night. Bryony and Adam had done two-hour shifts at the wheel ever since they’d left Exmouth. Once at Weymouth they hitched up the towline and continued the shifts. Who knew if they’d come adrift as they were towed through the waves?

  During the journey they said little to begin with, for what was there to talk about – life, death, the universe? None of that, so it came down to the smell of fish which permeated the boat and drew a laugh from Adam, who told Bryony that if he took people mackerel fishing for a living, what did she expect, and before he took trippers for a pleasure cruise he scrubbed it out, good and proper. Not content to leave it at that, he’d said the smell of fuel in her cockpit was nothing to write home about either. He’d added that Eddie was right, the Dragon engines made an infernal drumming. They bickered and laughed over a packet of April’s cheese sandwiches, then a drink of water, and then a perusal of the sea, the horizon, and the Maid of Torin, whose wash was visible and, what’s more, rocked the Sunflower.

  By the time they were halfway to Dunkirk, the argument
had moved on to who was to take the dinghy forward. It had to be her, of course, because Adam was the best at managing the Sunflower. He thought it too dangerous for Bryony because she’d be dealing with desperate men, quite apart from bearding the elements, and he’d wagged his finger. ‘You’ll be in an open boat and could be strafed and your hair will be a mess and what will your mum say about that?’

  She won that one because he started coughing, and while it racked his body she dragged out the rolled-up old rug thrown in at the last minute by April, who’d told them to sit on it because it would keep their backsides out of the slop. She’d added that they could throw it overboard when they arrived.

  ‘Sleep on here,’ Bryony insisted. ‘I’ll wake you in two hours or you’re going to be good for nothing. We must keep to two-hourly watches.’

  She took her turn at the wheel, he sat on the rug and rested, his head lolling against the side of the cabin. She longed to reach out, and stroke his dark blond hair.

  The Sunflower churned through the waves until dawn broke, with Adam awake now, and cursing the slow speed.

  ‘If you want fast,’ she said, ‘you should learn to fly an aircraft that purrs instead of being towed behind a trawler.’ He laughed. They had no need of a signpost as they at last drew near Dunkirk, for dark oily smoke hung like a blanket over the town, and the noise of gunfire coiled and writhed around them. But it was more than gunfire: there were explosions, and the smell of burning oil, and cordite. Bryony’s hands were fists as she thought of Uncle Thomas and her family on Jersey.

  What did they make of the news? Were they frightened, did they want to return to Combe Lodge, were they even now telephoning April? What if she died, here in Dunkirk? Who would look after Hannah and her mother?

  She felt her control slipping. She was sweating. Is this what had gone through her dad’s head when he was dying in Hannah’s arms, after his fall? But he’d had the comfort of telling Hannah with his dying breath that Bryony would, and must, look after her. If she died, who could she ask to do the same?