Page 4 of The Island Girls

Rebekah’s life had been perfectly adequate without a man around, ever since the last time. She had learnt by watching her mum and her neighbour, Aunty Peggy, that a woman didn’t need a man in her life to make her happy. Still, she seemed to have always known that singledom wasn’t the first choice for either woman, and though love and marriage had never been modelled for her at home, something inside her had sometimes longed for it, all the same.

The thing with Andy had started out so well. A bond over their joint love of bushwalking had seen them spending more weekends together than not, and the nights they’d shared together in a two-man tent had soon turned into weeknight study sessions that led to sleepovers at his flat in the city. And she’d been happy with the fun and the company, and loved being around someone who made her laugh and treated her well on their occasional splurges for dinner in the city.

The trouble had started at a party with all their friends, when she’d found herself deep in conversation with someone from school that Andy didn’t know. When Lloyd had got up to get her another drink from the bar, Andy had appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the arm and frogmarched her out of the bar. She was too shocked by his outburst to understand that his jealousy was the tip of a controlling nature she’d never seen before. Within a few weeks, he’d begun to ask her details of everywhere she’d been, and who she had been with, insisting on driving her to and from every social engagement she had. And when Lloyd turned up at a friend’s dinner party and she’d greeted him with a friendly hug, Andy’s true nature was fully revealed.

Afterwards, when he had crossed the line that she knew she would never let another man cross again, she’d packed up everything that she kept at his flat immediately, and taken a taxistraight to her mum’s place. There, in the sanctuary of home, her black eye, cut lip, and traumatised soul were mended with love, encouragement and a protective shield that could have kept off an army of demons. She’d tried to report him to the police, because both Mum and Aunty Peggy persuaded her that rape was rape and should be punished as such. Peggy had driven her to the police station, making no attempt to conceal the burning rage she felt for the man who had so hurt the girl she loved like her own granddaughter.

‘Rebekah, my love, men have been treating women with this kind of disgusting disrespect for hundreds, thousands, of years. But it is so wrong. And they must be made to stop. The last thing any woman needs in her life is a man who treats her worse than an animal. We just won’t stand for it,’ she’d seethed. But the off-hand way the middle-aged police officer dealt with her in the suburban station told Rebekah that if she had a boyfriend, she should expect a bit of rough now and then. So from that moment on, supported by Mum and Peggy, she’d stayed well away from all men. The threat of tying herself to one and being stuck with him for life had brought her up sharp and she’d chosen singledom instead.

The only thing she could remember about living with a man in the house as a child was loud arguments, shrieks of fear, and the occasional crash of breaking furniture. The experience with Andy had only solidified her understanding. And perhaps, quite apart from that and the childhood trauma she barely knew she harboured deep in her heart, she’d also learnt from Bathsheba Everdene, or Tess Durbeyfield, or all the fictional women she’d read about who’d learnt their lessons the hard way. Men were either trouble in disguise, or boredom personified. She would stick with squirrels and trees. Birds and books. Her island home in paradise.

‘God bless Thomas Hardy,’ she said out loud and laughed at the sound of passion in her voice. She took another sip of wine, put her feet up and opened her book with a satisfied sigh. This, she agreed with herself for the billionth time, was a life of utter perfection.

3

POOLE – JANUARY 1941

Peggy Symonds took one last look at herself in the mirror – crisp, white-collared shirt, navy-blue woollen slacks, and a navy-blue jumper with the British Overseas Airways Corporation ‘Speedbird’ insignia on the front. She picked up her flat, peaked cap and trotted down the stairs.

‘Put the kettle on for me would you, Peggy love?’ Peggy’s sister Molly had called from her bed as Peggy was getting dressed for work. Peggy popped her head into her sister’s room to see Molly curled on her side, hiding her face with her arm.

‘Not feeling too good today, my love?’ asked Peggy, coming in and perching on the edge of the bed.

‘I’m exhausted all the time. I feel sick all day and all night, and having to spend hours outside in that freezing shelter just about did for me last night. I don’t know how I can survive any more of this,’ Molly groaned, and Peggy could see her sister was a very pale shade of olive green. Like hundreds of other young brides, Molly had moved back into her parents’ home once her husband was called up and went off to war, unable to manage the rent on her own and with her husband only sending back a minimal army pay.

‘You poor love,’ Peggy said as she softly stroked her sister’s hair back from her eyes. ‘Have you been sick this morning?’

Molly shook her head and grimaced in response. ‘It doesn’t make any difference anyway – it’s more like seasickness than a tummy bug. It just never stops.’

‘Nurse Wallace said it should get better after the first three months. You must be about there by now, surely?’ Peggy asked, counting the months out on her fingers, back to the time this baby must have been conceived last year, when Molly’s husband was home on leave. ‘I’ll go and make you that cup of tea. Anything to eat?’

The muffled noise of disgust that Molly made into her pillow was enough to tell Peggy that her sister couldn’t face food. But Peggy knew she needed the strength.

‘I’ll make you a bit of dry toast and bring that up too – just for a nibble, Molly,’ she said, giving her a gentle pat as she went downstairs to the kitchen.

It had been a rough night, even for Peggy, who was fit, healthy, and not expecting a child. The air-raid siren had sounded early, at nine o’clock, and the whole family had rushed out to the Anderson shelter still dressed from the day. But nothing seemed to come of it, though they heard a few planes go overhead, and only an hour later, the all-clear had sounded. Once back inside, they all got themselves undressed and tucked up in their warm beds, only to be woken again at midnight by another siren. Molly was all for giving up and staying in bed, but Peggy and their mother wouldn’t hear of it and had dragged her up, taking extra blankets into the shelter. And there they’d stayed until four o’clock in the morning, with the sound of bombs dropping, the ack-ack guns blaring, and fire engine bells ringing the whole time.

By six in the morning, with only a few hours’ sleep in her own bed, Molly was exhausted, but at least she could stay there allday if she wanted. Peggy was up and dressed and ready to put a brave smile on her tired face as she worked her launch in the harbour all day. Father was already up and had been out on a fishing run since before dawn, and Mother had gone to check on the neighbours after the air raid.

As Peggy went past the door to the front room, she ducked in to open the curtains, take down the blackout lining, and light the coal fire in the grate, stopping to look at the pictures of their brother, Samuel, and Molly’s husband, Bill, both dressed in their new uniforms, one in the navy and the other the army. Peggy said a quiet prayer for their safety today then headed into the kitchen at the back of the house. She filled the kettle with water then lit the gas stove, placing the kettle on top to boil before setting out two cups and saucers. While the kettle was boiling, Peggy opened the back door and braved the chilly air to use the outside lavatory.

Their home in Ballard Road backed on to the little bit of shore in Poole Harbour where most of the fishermen kept their upturned dinghies, ready to row out to their boats in Fisherman’s Dock. Peggy looked past the rabbit hutch and saw her dad’s tender was out, as she had expected it would be, and there were a few other fishermen sat about, balanced on their dinghies, mending nets, or ropes. Gulls squawked overhead, somehow able to smell the fish on the nets even when there were no fish to be had yet today.

She bent down to open the rabbit-hutch door and poured a portion of food pellets into their bowl and broke the sheet of ice that had formed on their water bowl, making kissing noises to them all the while. It was difficult to see them as anything but cute and fluffy, even though they were all destined for the stew pot sooner or later.

When she was back inside the warm kitchen again, the kettle boiled and Peggy completed the tea routine, pouring a littlewater into the teapot, then swirling it around to warm it before tipping the water down the sink. Then she dropped in two heaped spoons of tea leaves and poured the boiling water on top. She gave it a stir, popped the lid on and stuck the knitted tea cosy on to keep the pot warm.

She cut two slices from yesterday’s loaf of bread and stuck the first with the toasting fork, holding it near the gas flame to toast it before turning it over, then doing the same with the other. She went to the front door, wondering if the milkman had managed to deliver anything this morning after the air-raid disturbance overnight. There on the doorstep was their bottle of creamy-topped milk and Peggy smiled at the reassuring sign. All was well this morning – the world still turned as it should. Fish were being fished, rabbits were growing plump, milk was being delivered, and babies were growing strong and healthy inside their mothers’ bellies. The world had not ended last night, after all.

‘There you go, Molly love: hot tea and dry toast. Try and get a bit of that into you. I’ve got the fire going in the front room for you, and I’ve hung the big kettle on it for later,’ soothed Peggy.

Molly grunted her thanks and grimaced as she lifted herself up to sit and drink the tea.

‘The ration books are on the kitchen table,’ Peggy continued, ‘so if you could help Mother and pop out later to see if you can get us a bit of meat for dinner, that would be…’ Peggy didn’t get chance to finish before Molly leant over the side of the bed to the bucket she kept there, retching up the few mouthfuls of tea she’d just drunk.

‘Sorry, Peg,’ Molly mumbled, wiping her mouth on a hanky. ‘It was the thought of raw meat. I can’t go near the butcher’s shop, let alone inside it.’

‘Never mind, Molly – Mother will go if you can’t,’ said Peggy, patting her sister’s hand. ‘And failing that, Dad will have somefish for us again. But I would like a change.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll be off then. See you at dinnertime,’ she added as she headed down the stairs and started the process of rugging up into her coat, scarf, and gloves, for the freezing though brief walk to work this morning. Just as she was opening the door, the telegram boy arrived with something addressed to her parents. She thanked him with a tight smile, but backed into the hall shakily, shutting the door again and putting the telegram down on the hall table.

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