‘Stand back!’ Ivy told Elsie.
Elsie lifted her dress and took a step backwards, revealing a large puddle beneath her feet.
‘Golly, you could have finished your drink first,’ Ivy remarked when she saw the water.
‘I did,’ Elsie stated.
‘Oh, goodness!’ Ivy replied, looking up at Elsie’s wet dress. ‘Agnes!’
Chapter Nineteen
19th May 1941, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent
An algid breeze rose from the channel, scaling the white chalk cliffs and bringing with it the silence of respite. But for one skylark, singing high in the polished skies above them, Elsie and her baby were entirely alone. She had been determined to escape the suffocation of her confinement but perhaps it had been too soon to leave after all; she was shattered. Her limbs were stodgy and it was an effort to put one leg in front of the other as she pushed the utility pram along the empty lane. Every night since her arrival she had been disturbed by the regular shrieking of the air raid sirens, followed minutes later by the long droning sound of hundreds of Luftwaffe bombers headed towards London.
Nobody at Cliff House had slept these past nights. The floorboards outside her bedroom had groaned with startling regularity as the women of the house scurried to and from the Anderson shelter in the garden. Elsie hated any kind of shelter now and resolutely refused to use them, preferring to take her chances in her own room. Each night she would remove the blackouts and would lie in bed watching the black cavalcades flying towards the capital, scarring the charcoal skies in endless relays until she fell asleep. Sometimes, she would hear the baby crying from the next room and her instincts would tell her to go to the child. But she couldn’t; Elsie had been allowed just the first night with the baby beside her—some kind of warped generosity from Agnes and Kath, before they had removed the cot and placed the baby in Kath’s bedroom, making it clear that Elsie was to have nothing more to do with the child.
Today was the first time that Elsie had spent more than a handful of minutes with her own daughter, and that was because of absolute necessity.
The baby began to cry—probably from the uncomfortableness of the pram. Elsie stopped and carefully picked her up. She placed the baby’s head to her chest and began to rock her gently. Elsie closed her eyes, wishing that things might have been different. ‘I’ll be going tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘And I probably won’t see you again for a while.’ As she spoke, the enormity of her words struck her, catching in her throat.
The baby’s cries subdued and she seemed to stare at Elsie, listening. ‘You’ve got your father’s beautiful grey eyes,’ she said. This wasn’t ever how she had imagined her life to be. Standing there, in the cool sunshine, with France clearly visible across the channel, she considered how significantly her life had changed in the past year. Laurie was over there somewhere, in a prisoner-of-war camp—presumably still alive, and here she was, about to hand over her illegitimate child to his sister. Was she really doing the right thing? It was one thing to hand over the baby and run back off to her welcomingly distracting duties in the WAAF, but what about after the war? A cold shudder ran through her as she tried to envisage the possible scenario of Laurie’s return and an attempt to reignite the dying embers of their marriage.
She set the baby back down and continued to Cliff House. As she did so, she noticed a figure walking towards her. A familiar figure, she thought. She strained her eyes and pushed the pram onwards. Yes, it was Gwen, she was certain of it.
‘Gwen!’ Elsie called.
It seemed to take Gwen an age before the lack of recognition on her face turned to familiarity. ‘Oh, hello,’ she greeted flatly, about to continue past Elsie.
Elsie pulled the pram to a halt and applied the ridiculous brake—a dog lead that ran from the frame to the back wheels. ‘How are you?’ Elsie asked, delighted to see a familiar face.
‘Not so bad,’ Gwen answered, gnawing at a fingernail.
‘How’s the baby?’
Gwen nodded. ‘He’s alright.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At home,’ Gwen replied vaguely. ‘Must get back to him—bye.’
Elsie watched incredulously as Gwen scuttled off past her, finding it odd that she hadn’t even taken a glance inside the pram, never mind asking after the baby.
She pulled her greatcoat as tightly around her midriff as she could manage, then continued, desperate to sit down and rest.
Upon entering the house, Elsie was dismayed to find Ada Potter sitting with Agnes in the sitting room. She was a middle-aged spinster, dry and haggard, employed as the local social worker and welfare officer. Elsie hated her. When the two of them were together, Agnes returned to her old, hard self.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Ada remarked. ‘I’ve just brought your orange juice from the welfare clinic—you’d better have yourself a glass now.’
‘Did you get it done?’ Agnes demanded.
Elsie nodded and fumbled in her handbag. She handed over the birth certificate and watched Agnes and Ada poring over it.
‘Christina Finch,’ Agnes read dispassionately.
‘After my mother,’ Elsie said.
Agnes raised an eyebrow. ‘A German name.’
Then both women looked up simultaneously, sharing a look of dismay.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Ada barked. ‘I knew you should have gone with her, Agnes.’ She threw the certificate to the ground. ‘You’ll have to go back—right now!’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Elsie begged.
‘You’ve said that Lawrence is the father,’ Ada snapped.
Elsie’s tired mind was spinning in confusion. Had she told the registrar that Laurie was the father? She tried to think, but couldn’t make
