Constance opened her eyes, seeing but not seeing the hub of activity on the Solent in front of her as she carefully stored the memory of that final scene away for another day. She hadn’t understood the gravitas of saying goodbye to Ted. The possibility that she might not see him again was not something she’d entertained. It was childish of her, she understood now. Dad, standing there squinting into the sun, would have known what his boy faced. He’d done his duty in the First World War and still cried out in his sleep from time to time all these years later.
It would have been cruel to share this knowledge with Ted or any of them for that matter because it wouldn't have changed things. What was to come was as inevitable as the tide that had been inching its way up the beach as they huddled together watching him leave. So it was, her brother had left them all with the excited gleam of an impending adventure in his eyes, sure that he’d be back to a hero’s welcome before the year was out to live his life with his pretty, young wife.
The sounds of family life above the haberdashery shop on the ground floor of Pier View House, which her parents had run since they were first married, were different with Ted gone. It was the absence of his boisterous banter—Constance would often think as she lay in bed fully dressed. That was the custom in case the need to troop down to the freezing Anderson Shelter at the bottom of the garden arose. It was funny how quickly one grew used to change no matter how hard one fought against it, and how she couldn’t recall a time when they’d slept soundly and uninterrupted.
It had become increasingly clear as the fighting showed no signs of abating that the Nazis, nocturnal and efficient creatures that they were, had decided the Islanders should be the recipients of the bombs that didn’t quite make it all the way to Southampton or Portsmouth. Their motto it would appear had been waste not, want not.
Ted being taken from them changed everything. The boy, far too young to be the bearer of such news, had delivered the telegram to the shop. His eyes filled with feeling too big in his sombre face, as he handed Ginny the official envelope. It was those eyes of his that had given the game away from the instant he walked into the shop on a wild and windy day, ‘it is with regret we inform you—'
In the minutes before receiving this news, Evelyn, who’d not long tossed her coat over her father’s stool, had been holding court. She had her hair tucked up in a turban and was clad in her overalls; the belt cinched so tightly at the waist that Constance had wondered how she could breathe let alone speak. Nevertheless, she could and had been spouting off about how she’d learned to milk a cow this week. Further evidence of this was the billy of milk she’d given their mum on this rare trip home from Norris Castle Farm. There was such a sense of friendship, and despite the hard work, fun amongst the Land Girls, Constance always thought with a touch of envy as she listened to her sister’s stories of their shenanigans.
She was sure these tales Evelyn brought home with her were heavily censored for their parent's benefit. Her sister’s backbreaking work was much sweetened, she knew by its proximity to the castle. It had been converted to soldiers’ barracks, hence the cinching of the belt. The girls at the shipyard factory in Cowes where she worked were, for the most part, a coarse bunch who were there under sufferance. She’d have given anything to join Evelyn at Norris Castle farm but they were full, and she was needed elsewhere.
Dad was busy tuning Evelyn’s chatter out as he sorted the pile of drab olive coloured trousers that had been brought in for repair from the camp at Puckpool Park. His wife carrying out a meagre stocktake thanks to rationing, and pondering whether to touch on making shorts from old pillowcases or skirts from trousers at her ‘make do and mend’ class later that week, rolled her eyes. She still found it hard to believe that Evelyn, who’d always been hard pressed to help with so much as peeling the spuds, survived the daily demands of the Land Army. It had been the making of her daughter in her humble opinion.
As for Constance, she was home early from her loathed work riveting thanks to the air raid siren having sounded a false alarm. She could have gone with Lil and the others back to her house where they planned on practicing the numbers they’d chosen for their upcoming performance at Darlinghurst House. She’d begged off though, telling them she wasn’t feeling the best. In truth every time she thought about getting up in front of all those soldiers and the nursing staff to sing she really did feel sick. Their factory manager thought it would be good form for some of his girls to entertain the poor lads recuperating at Darlinghurst House with a bit of sing-song.
Constance, who often sang as she sorted her rivets, was one of the first to be put forward, and how could she say no? Although, when bossy Doris Cosby, their pianist, suggested she sing Vera Lynn’s “The White Cliffs of Dover” solo she had been sorely tempted.
So instead of battling her nerves as she sung about the bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, she’d been balanced on a stool behind the shop counter. She didn’t want to be on her own upstairs and was busying her hands by unpicking a childhood jumper. It had seen better days and could be reused in her and Norma’s sock darning efforts
