be over so she could get the truth from Louise.
Beach View Boarding House was in one of the many terraces of Victorian villas that climbed the hill from the seafront on the eastern side of Cliffehaven. It was not aptly named, for the view of the sea could only be glimpsed from the corner of one of the top-floor bedroom windows.
Tall and narrow above the two basement rooms and scullery, its depth provided six other bedrooms, a bathroom, dining room and kitchen. The garden at the back housed the outside lav, a coal bunker and shed, and the ugly, rather menacing hump of the Anderson shelter. The washing line was stretched between poles to hang over the neat rows of vegetables that had replaced the lawn, and every inch of fence was covered with sprouting beans, peas and tomato plants.
The boarding house was conveniently close to Camden Road, where there was a small row of shops, the school where Anne taught, a pub, the fire station, clothing factory and the hospital. Cliffehaven’s High Street and main shopping centre could be accessed at the far end of Camden Road, but it was a steep climb to get to the top of it, and most of Peggy’s neighbours preferred the easier option of shopping locally where they were registered for their rations.
It was almost lunchtime and Peggy was peeling potatoes. The elderly Mrs Finch was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table, and Ron was outside weeding his vegetable plot, his every move closely watched by Harvey, his shaggy lurcher. Charlie and Bob were at school, Cissy was rehearsing for her show and everyone else was at work. Jim was not on duty in the projection room of the Odeon cinema until this evening, but he’d left the house several hours ago – no doubt up to something he shouldn’t be.
She cut the potato into chunks and dropped them in the saucepan of salted water, then stood gazing out of the window at nothing in particular as she let her thoughts ramble. She had known Jim was a rogue when she’d married him, and despite his roving eye and penchant for a dodgy deal, Peggy still adored the Irish charmer But she did wish he wouldn’t sail so close to the wind. Black marketeering was illegal, and if he was caught, then it would be prison or enforced enlistment. At over forty, with experience of war the first time round and used to his home comforts, she doubted he’d appreciate either.
Pulling her thoughts together, she reached for the kettle that always stood filled and ready on the side of the Kitchener range that she’d spent half the morning blacking and polishing. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Finch?’
There was no reply. Mrs Finch had turned off her hearing aid – not that it made much difference, the damned thing was useless most of the time. Peggy gave a wry smile, wiped her hands on her wrap-round apron and reached for the cups and saucers.
‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Finch as she set the paper aside. ‘Reading all that news has made me thirsty.’
‘The kettle’s already on the boil. Do you want a biscuit?’
Mrs Finch frowned as she twiddled with her hearing aid. ‘I didn’t know tea could spoil,’ she muttered, ‘but if you’re prepared to risk it, then so am I.’
Peggy chuckled. Conversations with Mrs Finch were always confusing, but at least they brought a smile. She poured the water over the leaves, dragged the knitted cosy over the brown china pot and sat down.
Mrs Finch was aptly named, for she was birdlike and twittered a great deal, especially when Jim and Ron were around. But Peggy felt a deep affection for the old lady and was glad she could make her last years more comfortable by bringing her into her home and making her part of the family. She had been worried the war would unsettle her, but it appeared she’d discovered a new lease of life with the house so full of young people, and Peggy could only hope that would last.
As they waited for the tea to mash, Peggy dug her packet of Park Drive out of her
Beach View Boarding House was in one of the many terraces of Victorian villas that climbed the hill from the seafront on the eastern side of Cliffehaven. It was not aptly named, for the view of the sea could only be glimpsed from the corner of one of the top-floor bedroom windows.
Tall and narrow above the two basement rooms and scullery, its depth provided six other bedrooms, a bathroom, dining room and kitchen. The garden at the back housed the outside lav, a coal bunker and shed, and the ugly, rather menacing hump of the Anderson shelter. The washing line was stretched between poles to hang over the neat rows of vegetables that had replaced the lawn, and every inch of fence was covered with sprouting beans, peas and tomato plants.
The boarding house was conveniently close to Camden Road, where there was a small row of shops, the school where Anne taught, a pub, the fire station, clothing factory and the hospital. Cliffehaven’s High Street and main shopping centre could be accessed at the far end of Camden Road, but it was a steep climb to get to the top of it, and most of Peggy’s neighbours preferred the easier option of shopping locally where they were registered for their rations.
It was almost lunchtime and Peggy was peeling potatoes. The elderly Mrs Finch was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table, and Ron was outside weeding his vegetable plot, his every move closely watched by Harvey, his shaggy lurcher. Charlie and Bob were at school, Cissy was rehearsing for her show and everyone else was at work. Jim was not on duty in the projection room of the Odeon cinema until this evening, but he’d left the house several hours ago – no doubt up to something he shouldn’t be.
She cut the potato into chunks and dropped them in the saucepan of salted water, then stood gazing out of the window at nothing in particular as she let her thoughts ramble. She had known Jim was a rogue when she’d married him, and despite his roving eye and penchant for a dodgy deal, Peggy still adored the Irish charmer But she did wish he wouldn’t sail so close to the wind. Black marketeering was illegal, and if he was caught, then it would be prison or enforced enlistment. At over forty, with experience of war the first time round and used to his home comforts, she doubted he’d appreciate either.
Pulling her thoughts together, she reached for the kettle that always stood filled and ready on the side of the Kitchener range that she’d spent half the morning blacking and polishing. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Finch?’
There was no reply. Mrs Finch had turned off her hearing aid – not that it made much difference, the damned thing was useless most of the time. Peggy gave a wry smile, wiped her hands on her wrap-round apron and reached for the cups and saucers.
‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Finch as she set the paper aside. ‘Reading all that news has made me thirsty.’
‘The kettle’s already on the boil. Do you want a biscuit?’
Mrs Finch frowned as she twiddled with her hearing aid. ‘I didn’t know tea could spoil,’ she muttered, ‘but if you’re prepared to risk it, then so am I.’
Peggy chuckled. Conversations with Mrs Finch were always confusing, but at least they brought a smile. She poured the water over the leaves, dragged the knitted cosy over the brown china pot and sat down.
Mrs Finch was aptly named, for she was birdlike and twittered a great deal, especially when Jim and Ron were around. But Peggy felt a deep affection for the old lady and was glad she could make her last years more comfortable by bringing her into her home and making her part of the family. She had been worried the war would unsettle her, but it appeared she’d discovered a new lease of life with the house so full of young people, and Peggy could only hope that would last.
As they waited for the tea to mash, Peggy dug her packet of Park Drive out of her
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