Chapter 1
January 1942
In the Yorkshire Dales village of Silverdale, the day always began at cock-crow – or at least, it began when one might have expected the cock to crow. Fowl of any kind were scarce in these days of wartime shortages, especially right after Christmas. But Bobby Bancroft found her trusty alarm clock to be a perfectly adequate substitute when it woke her that morning at five a.m.
It was the Monday following her Christmas holiday, and just as miserable as the first day back at work always felt. As much as Bobby loved her job as a country reporter forThe Tykemagazine, the return to the daily grind felt like such a depressing contrast to the gaiety of the Christmas and New Year festivities. The tree had been returned to the garden, the visitors gone, the coloured streamers confined to the cellar for another year, and on the chill winter nights, the blackout felt longer and deeper than ever before. With the weather, too, cold and dismal, it seemed as though all the colour and warmth had been stripped from the world.
Nevertheless, Bobby pushed herself out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her as she prepared to fetch water from the old iron pump that served Cow House Cottage, where she lived with her father. She had a chore to do in the village before work and had risen an hour earlier than usual, which meant that her dad was still snoring in his bed.
A recent fall of snow had turned into slush, which had frozen solid overnight, and Bobby gripped the wall of the cow house as she slid her way over the ice to the pump. It wouldn’t be safe toride her old bike with its failing brakes in these conditions. She would have to walk to the village to drop off her parcels.
Her hands were numb and her arms aching from the stiff pump by the time she returned to the house with her bucket of water. There were shards of ice in it, and the shock of splashing it on her face soon woke her fully.
While she brushed her hair, Bobby smiled at the picture that now occupied pride of place on her bedside table. It had been her Christmas present from her fiancé Charlie: a photograph he’d had taken after getting his wings, looking proud and handsome in his RAF uniform. He had given an identical picture to his brother and sister-in-law, Reg and Mary, which was now on the mantelpiece across the way at Moorside Farm. Since the farmhouse parlour was also the office forThe Tyke, that meant Bobby could now gaze at him while she worked. She wondered that Reg had ever given his consent for such a distracting photograph to be displayed.
It had been a joyful Christmas, with Charlie home on leave for perhaps the last time in a long time, Bobby’s twin sister Lilian back for an unexpected but welcome visit, and Florence and Jess Parry – the two little evacuees Reg and Mary were hosting – infusing the season with joy the way only children can. With her loved ones around her, Bobby had almost been able to shut out thoughts of the frightening things they would all have to face in 1942.
Almost… but not quite. The future had been there all the time, hovering on the edges of her consciousness like the proverbial ghost at the feast. She hadn’t been entirely able to silence her worry about Charlie’s imminent posting to a new base where he would be joining the fight for real, or unmarried Lilian’s as yet unannounced pregnancy.
And there was the war – always the war. After more than two years of fighting, there still seemed to be no end in sight. Nodecisive battle that would allow them to at least begin to hope for an Allied victory. Would 1942 be the year the tide would turn? And if it did, in whose favour would it go? As grim as the first day back at work after Christmas always felt, Bobby was grateful to at least have something to take her mind off things now Charlie and Lilian had returned to their respective posts with the Air Force and Navy.
‘Don’t be sad, darling,’ Charlie had murmured when she clung to him as he said goodbye, dampening his RAF tunic with tears.
‘But it could be so long until you’re next home on leave,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll miss you to pieces, Charlie.’
‘Ah, but when I am next home, it’ll be for our wedding.’ He pressed a kiss on top of her hair. ‘Having that to look forward to ought to make being apart easier to bear, don’t you think?’
Bobby hadn’t answered. She had just let out a deep sigh and held him tighter, wishing she could keep him with her. This goodbye hadn’t felt like any of the others. This time, she had known she was really waving him off into danger.
After dressing, Bobby scribbled a note to her dad to remind him she had an errand to run before work and would see him for breakfast at Moorside Farm, or at supper if they missed one another. Then she stepped out into the cold, her pixie hood fastened tight around her ears and a pile of parcels in her shopping basket.
She had spent much of the Christmas holiday helping Mary make up parcels of food for the Red Cross to send out to servicemen who were prisoners overseas. She had enjoyed feeling as though a little of her time off work was being used to help the war effort, and had reflected pleasurably on how the men who received each parcel would feel. It must be a comfort to have a taste of home, and know you hadn’t been forgotten.
The villagers had generously donated what they could spare. Each parcel contained an assortment of tins and packets –cheese, biscuits, pilchards, condensed milk, cocoa, chocolate, honey, cigarettes – and sometimes a paperback book too. These were the last four packages, which Bobby had promised Mary she would drop off at the church that morning for members of the Women’s Voluntary Service to collect and take to an official Red Cross centre.
It was a treacherous walk into the village. Bobby looked like she was attempting the Palais Glide as she slid over the old packhorse bridge and stepped gingerly in the direction of Silverdale, with only the thin light of her blackout torch to light the way. The usually pretty village looked the very soul of January that morning as a watery sun started to rise: grey and bleak, with puddles of dirty slush bleeding on to the roads. A raw, sleet-dappled wind blew down from the high fells that surrounded the village.
St Peter’s Church had been kept unlocked so that parcels could be left there. As precious as rationed foods were these days, the villagers were honest folk and patriotic in their quiet, pragmatic way, so there was no worry that anything would be taken. Even Silverdale’s local poacher and rogue-of-all-trades, Pete Dixon, wouldn’t have stooped so low as to steal food from a church.
Bobby left her parcels with the others, said a brief prayer to wish them Godspeed and hurried back towards home, conscious there was now only half an hour until she was expected to start work. Charlie’s brother Reg, editor ofThe Tyke, would no doubt be very sarcastic if she was late after such a long holiday – even though it was for a noble cause.
She was cautiously crossing the packhorse bridge once more when she heard hurrying footsteps. She turned to find little flame-haired Gil Capstick, Silverdale’s sub-postmaster, not far behind her.
‘I’ve chased you halfway from t’ village, Miss,’ he panted. ‘I’ve your post here. Did you not hear me calling?’
‘Sorry, Gil. I didn’t, otherwise I’d have waited,’ Bobby said. ‘I don’t suppose I’d have heard much with my hat tied on tight enough to stop the blood flowing.’
She smiled, but there was no answering smile from Gil. The lad’s freckled, honest face, almost always split by a wide grin, was creased with worry. Bobby wondered what was troubling him.
‘Anyhow, you’ve no need to go all the way down to the farm,’ she went on. ‘I can take our post back with me.’
‘It’s only for you, Miss. No one else has got owt this morning.’
Bobby frowned at his tone. He sounded as anxious as he looked.
‘Gil, what is it?’ she asked.
‘I’d not have come down with it so early, to be honest – not while it were icy. But when I noticed… well, see for yourself.’
