there had been one or two close calls in the past, and she didn’t want a repeat performance. The peroxide blonde was young enough to be his daughter, for heaven’s sake, and it was high time Jim Reilly realised he was far too old to be making such a fool of himself.
Peggy was so angry and upset that she walked even faster as she turned sharply east from the High Street and into Camden Road, which ran parallel to the seafront. Her footsteps echoed as she passed the factories, the hospital and the remains of the school, and she found she was soon out of breath.
Slowing down, she glanced into the local shop windows to see if there were any notices of new deliveries arriving. There were always rumours of tinned salmon, fresh batches of eggs and joints of pork, but they usually amounted to nothing, and half a day could be wasted queuing up for a scrag end and a handful of dubious mince.
The noise coming from the Anchor pub spilled out into the street, and she waved to Rosie Braithwaite, the landlady, who was closing the shutters over the ancient diamond-paned windows. Ron had a thing for the luscious Rosie, but at least he was entitled to flirt, she thought sourly – he’d been a widower for years.
It was getting dark much earlier now, but with no street lights and every window covered with blackout, it made walking along the damaged pavements rather hazardous. Peggy caught the toe of her shoe in a jagged piece of paving and just managed to save herself from falling by grabbing the edge of a rough stone wall.
She winced as she felt her wrist twist and her skin grate against the stone, the pain of it stoking her humiliation. How dare Jim shame her like that in front of all those people? And how dare he think so little of her and their marriage to carry on like that with a little tart barely out of school? She’d put up with his shady deals, withstood his previous forays into extra-curricular entertainment, and worked herself into the ground to make a good life for them and their children – and she’d had enough. Jim Reilly was about to discover that the world did not revolve around him, and that if he wasn’t very careful, he’d lose the part of his anatomy which seemed to be his driving force.
She came to the end of Camden Road, crossed the main road that led down to the seafront and the pier and hurried along Beach View Terrace. Number sixty-four was in darkness, just as all the other Beach View houses were, and Peggy slowly climbed the steps, her gaze flitting mournfully over the shattered lamps that had once stood so proudly at the end of the concrete balustrades. Their sad state of repair seemed to be an analogy for her marriage.
She stood on the top step and made a concerted effort to calm down before unlocking the door. She had become adept over the years at hiding her sorrows, and Jim would be the only member of this household to discover how angry and hurt she was.
Plastering on a smile, she was greeted by the lovely smell of cooking and the happy chatter of voices as she went into the kitchen. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Has everyone had a good day?’
The train had finally left the country halt two hours behind schedule, which meant Polly had missed her ongoing train and had to wait another hour for the next one. It clattered and rattled through the gathering gloom, the heavy shutters tightly fastened over the windows to blot out any stray splinter of light coming from the compartments.
Polly tried to sleep but it was impossible. She hated being enclosed, hated not being able to see the towns and villages she suspected they were passing through, and when a train hurtled past on the other line, she flinched at the sheer force of its down-draught.
She arrived at Victoria Station at ten o’clock and within minutes found herself caught in an air raid. The sirens were screaming, their plaintive wails echoing in the high ceiling and reverberating through the vast concourse.
Guards
Peggy was so angry and upset that she walked even faster as she turned sharply east from the High Street and into Camden Road, which ran parallel to the seafront. Her footsteps echoed as she passed the factories, the hospital and the remains of the school, and she found she was soon out of breath.
Slowing down, she glanced into the local shop windows to see if there were any notices of new deliveries arriving. There were always rumours of tinned salmon, fresh batches of eggs and joints of pork, but they usually amounted to nothing, and half a day could be wasted queuing up for a scrag end and a handful of dubious mince.
The noise coming from the Anchor pub spilled out into the street, and she waved to Rosie Braithwaite, the landlady, who was closing the shutters over the ancient diamond-paned windows. Ron had a thing for the luscious Rosie, but at least he was entitled to flirt, she thought sourly – he’d been a widower for years.
It was getting dark much earlier now, but with no street lights and every window covered with blackout, it made walking along the damaged pavements rather hazardous. Peggy caught the toe of her shoe in a jagged piece of paving and just managed to save herself from falling by grabbing the edge of a rough stone wall.
She winced as she felt her wrist twist and her skin grate against the stone, the pain of it stoking her humiliation. How dare Jim shame her like that in front of all those people? And how dare he think so little of her and their marriage to carry on like that with a little tart barely out of school? She’d put up with his shady deals, withstood his previous forays into extra-curricular entertainment, and worked herself into the ground to make a good life for them and their children – and she’d had enough. Jim Reilly was about to discover that the world did not revolve around him, and that if he wasn’t very careful, he’d lose the part of his anatomy which seemed to be his driving force.
She came to the end of Camden Road, crossed the main road that led down to the seafront and the pier and hurried along Beach View Terrace. Number sixty-four was in darkness, just as all the other Beach View houses were, and Peggy slowly climbed the steps, her gaze flitting mournfully over the shattered lamps that had once stood so proudly at the end of the concrete balustrades. Their sad state of repair seemed to be an analogy for her marriage.
She stood on the top step and made a concerted effort to calm down before unlocking the door. She had become adept over the years at hiding her sorrows, and Jim would be the only member of this household to discover how angry and hurt she was.
Plastering on a smile, she was greeted by the lovely smell of cooking and the happy chatter of voices as she went into the kitchen. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Has everyone had a good day?’
The train had finally left the country halt two hours behind schedule, which meant Polly had missed her ongoing train and had to wait another hour for the next one. It clattered and rattled through the gathering gloom, the heavy shutters tightly fastened over the windows to blot out any stray splinter of light coming from the compartments.
Polly tried to sleep but it was impossible. She hated being enclosed, hated not being able to see the towns and villages she suspected they were passing through, and when a train hurtled past on the other line, she flinched at the sheer force of its down-draught.
She arrived at Victoria Station at ten o’clock and within minutes found herself caught in an air raid. The sirens were screaming, their plaintive wails echoing in the high ceiling and reverberating through the vast concourse.
Guards
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