The Girls in Blue Page 4

  ‘Mad as a blooming hatter,’ Rita muttered beneath her breath.

  Miranda raised a warning finger to her lips. ‘Shh. She’ll hear you.’

  Carrying a large china jug and a plate of cakes, Maggie backed out of the cupboard and laid her finds on the table. ‘My special homemade lemonade and the rock cakes I baked this morning,’ she said proudly. ‘Miranda, dear. Find some tumblers, will you? I can never remember where Annie keeps them. In fact, I’ll swear she changes the contents of the cupboards just to confuse me and to underline the fact that this is her domain and not mine.’

  Miranda knew exactly where to find the glasses. They had been on the same shelf for as long as she could remember, but she realised that this was a mere detail as far as her grandmother was concerned. Granny’s mind was always somewhere else when it came to domestic matters. She poured the lemonade and gave a glass to Rita before sipping hers. It was delicious, but it was common knowledge in the family that the only effort Maggie put into her homemade potion was to pour hot water onto Eiffel Tower lemonade crystals and mix. It did not take a culinary genius but the end result was refreshing and delicious. The rock cakes were another matter.

  ‘Do have one,’ Maggie said, offering the plate to Rita. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  Rita took one. ‘Ta,’ she said, eyeing it doubtfully.

  Miranda could not let the side down and she bit into hers, giving Rita an encouraging smile as she chewed and swallowed the sawdust-dry offering.

  ‘I can’t say that cooking is my forte,’ Maggie said modestly. ‘But everyone loves my rock cakes, although it’s difficult with rationing, but we manage somehow. Unfortunately the ham joint was the last of poor Percy. I don’t think I can face keeping a pig again; it’s too traumatic when one has to send the poor thing to the abattoir. I grew to love that grumpy old fellow.’

  Rita choked and reached for the lemonade.

  ‘Won’t you have one, Granny?’ Miranda proffered the plate, knowing that her grandmother would refuse, but unable to resist the temptation to tease her just a little.

  ‘No, dear. I’m not at all hungry.’ Maggie cocked her head on one side, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps outside the back door. ‘That will be your grandfather, Miranda. Now whatever you do, don’t mention Dunkirk.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s only just recovering, darling. Like a mad fool he forgot that he’s no longer a young man and insisted on accompanying Colonel Winterton in his motor cruiser when he risked life and limb to save those poor souls stranded on the beaches. I begged him not to go but he wouldn’t listen to me.’

  ‘Cor blimey.’ Rita’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t say so.’

  ‘I do say so, Rita. They were foolhardy but extremely brave, and they saved the lives of sixteen men. Sadly the colonel suffered a heart attack soon after they got back to England and he died. It was a sad end to a courageous venture, so please don’t say anything. Your grandfather doesn’t like to talk about it.’

  Miranda nodded vigorously. She had never thought of her grandfather in the light of being anything other than a slightly eccentric but lovable old man. Now suddenly she was seeing him as something of a hero. ‘I wouldn’t have mentioned it anyway, but I’m glad you told me.’ She looked round and smiled as her grandfather strode into the kitchen. He stopped suddenly, staring from one to the other with a bemused expression on his leonine features.

  ‘Miranda? You weren’t due until tomorrow.’ He crossed the floor and gave her a hug.

  ‘I’m afraid we got it wrong, George,’ Maggie said with a rueful smile. ‘Apparently we mistook the date and the poor girl was left waiting at the station with no one to meet her.’

  ‘I could have sworn it was tomorrow. Never mind, you’re here now and I see you’ve brought a friend with you.’ He released Miranda and turned to Rita, holding out his hand. ‘And you are?’

  Rita glanced anxiously at Miranda. ‘I really ought to be going now.’

  ‘He won’t bite,’ Miranda whispered. ‘Shake hands. It’s the done thing.’ She turned to her grandfather. ‘This is Rita Platt, Grandpa. She came from London on the same train as me, but there wasn’t anyone to meet her either.’

  ‘How do you do, Rita?’

  Somewhat reluctantly, Rita shook his hand. ‘How do, mister?’

  ‘We have to get in touch with the woman who’s to take her in,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘Who is she, dear? I forgot to ask her name.’

  ‘Mrs Proffitt. Hilda Proffitt of Belle View Road. Me mum used to char for her when the old girl lived in London. It was all arranged.’

  ‘Proffitt,’ Maggie said, frowning. ‘Hilda Proffitt ran the flower club.’

  ‘Ran?’ George raised his bushy eyebrows so that they merged with his mop of wild grey hair. ‘Do you mean that the poor lady is dead?’

  Chapter Three

  A SHARP INTAKE of breath from Rita made them all turn to look at her. She shook her head. ‘That settles it. I’m off to London on the first train.’

  ‘There’s no need to panic, my dear,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘The last I heard she was in hospital after having had a stroke.’ She smiled at Rita who was staring at her open-mouthed. ‘However, she might be feeling better by now, so come with me and we’ll make a few phone calls. You mustn’t worry. We’ll soon sort this out.’ She put her arm around Rita’s shoulders. ‘George, look after Miranda. Perhaps she’d like to help you in your laboratory until Annie has time to make us something for lunch.’

  ‘I’m going to need more potatoes, Maggie,’ he said plaintively. ‘I can’t find any in the outhouse, and I’m hungry. What time is lunch?’ He sniffed the air. ‘What’s that awful smell?’

  ‘Burnt ham, dear. I’m afraid the last piece of Percy was cremated.’ Maggie held up her hands. ‘Not my fault, I assure you. Anyway, I sent Annie to get the girls’ luggage, but she shouldn’t be long. She’ll rustle something up when she gets back. In the meantime a rock cake will tide you over. I made them this morning.’ Maggie ushered Rita out of the room without giving him a chance to protest.

  He took a cake and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘I do miss poor old Percy. He came in very handy on baking day. It’s fortunate that Annie is a good cook or we would all be thin as laths and Percy would have expired from apoplexy.’

  ‘Oh, Grandpa,’ Miranda said, chuckling. ‘That’s very wicked. You know that Granny tries her hardest.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very trying for all of us. I’d been looking forward to a nice piece of boiled ham.’

  ‘At least the hens are laying well, and Annie makes a lovely omelette. I’d offer to help but cooking isn’t my strong point.’

  He grinned. ‘You take after your grandmother in that.’

  ‘I know, but I haven’t had much chance to practise. Maman does all the cooking at home, or rather she did.’ Miranda struggled against an overwhelming surge of emotion. She had tried not to think about the dangerous path that her mother had chosen to follow, but it was proving hard to keep up the pretence that all was well and that this was just another summer holiday by the sea. She took a deep breath. ‘Will you show me what you’re doing in the laboratory?’

  ‘Of course I will, and I must get Elzevir to pick up a fresh supply of potatoes from the farm. At least they aren’t on ration, not yet anyway.’ He made for the doorway. ‘I wonder if the hens will eat cake.’

  Miranda followed him out into the yard and round to the stable block, which now served the dual purpose of garage and workshop, or laboratory as her grandfather preferred to call it. He opened the double doors and went inside, beckoning Miranda to follow him.

  She hesitated in the doorway, taking in her surroundings with a degree of curiosity. This was all new. The last time she had been in this part of the stables it had been the disused tack room, but now it seemed to have been adapted for a completely different purpose. She watched with interest as her grandfather took his place at a bench littered with flasks, retorts, glass and rubber tubing and a coupl
e of Bunsen burners. There was a pervading odour of gas mixed with an unfamiliar smell of something akin to alcohol or methylated spirits, she could not decide which. The floor was ankle deep in screwed up pieces of paper, potato peelings and pencil shavings. She walked the length of the workbench, trailing her fingers in the film of dust and wondering how he managed to work in such conditions. The area was lit by a single bare bulb and a little natural light, which had to struggle through windows caked with grime and festooned with a net curtain of cobwebs.

  While her grandfather busied himself with what looked like a large chemistry set, Miranda explored the part of the coach house that was now used to garage the ageing Bentley. Parked next to it and hidden beneath dust sheets was her Uncle Jack’s yellow and black roadster, Chloe. She lifted the covers and ran her fingers over the glossy surface of the bonnet. Poor Chloe, she thought, how undignified for the old girl to be laid up like an invalid while Uncle Jack was away fighting for his country. It seemed a shame to see his pride and joy mothballed and suffering from neglect.

  Miranda closed her eyes as she recalled the heady days before Jack had joined the RAF. He had given up his much hated job in the City and had come home, spending the summer in an alcoholic haze after partying until dawn while he waited for a place in pilot training school. She was only too well aware that her father disapproved of his younger brother’s playboy lifestyle, and although her mother admitted a soft spot for Jack, she made no secret of the fact that she thought it high time he settled down and behaved like a responsible adult.

  Miranda had never forgotten a conversation she had overheard as a child. Her mother had been taking tea with a friend and they had been chatting while Miranda was supposed to be doing her homework. ‘Jack was an afterthought,’ Jeanne had said in hushed tones, which had made Miranda prick up her ears. ‘Ronnie says that Jack has always been an embarrassment,’ her mother had continued in a disapproving tone. ‘He was a menopausal surprise and his sister Eileen’s nose was put out of joint when he arrived on the scene. After all, the poor child had been the centre of attention for twelve years and then suddenly she has a baby brother to steal the limelight. No wonder she married the first man who proposed to her. I think living with that boring civil servant in Nairobi was preferable to returning to England and playing second fiddle to Jack. In fact I’m certain that Ronnie only went to Sandhurst in order to get away from his mad family.’

  Her friend had jerked her head in Miranda’s direction. ‘Little pitchers have big ears, Jeanne.’

  Miranda had attempted to melt into the background but her mother had turned on her, frowning. ‘Don’t you dare repeat a word of this when you visit your grandparents in the summer. Anyway, shouldn’t you be doing your homework, or something?’

  Miranda sighed. She adored her mother, but as a child she had sometimes felt she was in the way, especially when her father came home on leave. She had often felt excluded by her parents’ need to reestablish their relationship. If she had had a brother or sister things might have been different: she would have had an ally in the household, someone to play with or even to squabble with when she was younger. As an adolescent she had found herself relegated to the position of being seen but not heard. She was the token well-behaved, neatly dressed, perfectly mannered daughter, who sat silently in the back seat of the car during family outings which almost inevitably turned into romantic dates for the reunited lovers. Left to her own devices, Miranda had learned to be patient and wait for her presence to be remembered or even noticed.

  With Uncle Jack it was different. He had always treated her like a chum, but then Jack had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He had been engaged more times than Miranda could remember, and had had his heart broken each time a relationship ended, or so he said, but he seemed to bounce back quickly enough. When he was not chasing some bit of fluff, as he called his lady friends, or suffering from a dreadful hangover, he had occasionally taken Miranda out for a spin in Chloe. It had been exhilarating to speed through the quiet Dorset lanes with the wind taking her breath away and whipping her hair into a tangled mass. Jack always drove much too fast, accelerating when he came to a humpback bridge and making Chloe fly through the air, coming down with a bump that made Miranda laugh and protest that they had left her stomach behind. She smiled to herself as she polished the nearside headlamp with a corner of the dust sheet. Those days before the war had been filled with innocent fun but it now seemed like a childhood dream.

  It would be lovely, she thought, if Jack had leave while she was at Highcliffe. Perhaps he knew Raif Carstairs; maybe they were good friends. He might even invite him to the house and then she could thank him properly for coming to their rescue. Granny would realise then that Raif was a thoroughly respectable person and not one of her fifth columnists who, according to her, were even worse than gypsies.

  A clatter of metal on concrete from the far end of the room brought her down to earth, and she looked round to see her grandfather bending down to retrieve the fallen object. She knew by the intense look of concentration on his face that he had forgotten her presence and she replaced the dust sheet. ‘Bye bye, Chloe,’ she whispered. ‘See you soon, old girl.’

  She went to see if she could help her grandfather to find whatever it was he had dropped.

  ‘You still here, Miranda?’ he said, smiling vaguely. ‘I thought you’d gone out to make sure that the sea was still there.’

  ‘Grandpa, you’ve made the same terrible joke every time I’ve come for a visit since I was six or seven.’

  ‘Have I? Well, I expect I have. Old people are inclined to repeat themselves, and I forget that you’re a young lady now and not a little girl.’ He gave a grunt of satisfaction as he spotted the paring knife down by his feet and he bent over to pick it up. He selected a large potato from the sack propped up at his side and began peeling it.

  ‘What are you doing with all these potatoes? I thought we were going to have them for dinner tonight.’

  ‘This is an experiment, my dear. If it works, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t, the final result is going to keep us warm in the winter.’

  Mystified, Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m working on a method of turning potatoes into ethyl alcohol, and then hopefully into benzene. If I can convert the coke boiler to use benzene instead of solid fuel, we’ll be able to keep the central heating going during the cold weather and be patriotic at the same time.’

  ‘You’re so clever, Grandpa.’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t invent the process, my dear, and if it were for consumption it would be totally illegal. In fact, I am skating on thin ice as far as the law is concerned, but if I can find a way to manufacture large quantities of the stuff it would help the war effort. As it is I don’t want anyone to find out or they might get the wrong idea. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And there’s always the possibility that this may not work. I’m a doctor and a soldier by profession, not an engineer or a chemist. But if I do succeed, then I’ll pass my findings on to the Ministry. Until then it must remain a closely guarded secret. Now, if you want to help me in my project you can tell Annie that I want her brother to bring me fresh supplies.’

  ‘Supplies of what, Grandpa?’

  He tapped the side of his nose, winking. ‘Potatoes. Elzevir will know what I mean.’ He paused, cocking his head on one side. ‘If I’m not mistaken those dulcet tones are Annie’s and she’s calling you. Go now and tell her that I’m starving to death and would be most obliged if she could knock up an omelette or a sandwich. Anything other than rock cakes.’

  Miranda reached up and kissed his whiskery cheeks. ‘I love you, Grandpa.’

  He blinked and a dull flush suffused his face. ‘And I love you, precious. Now off you go and don’t let Annie boss you around too much.’

  Almost as the words left his mouth the outer door was wrenched open and Annie stamped into the building. ‘I’ve been c
alling you, miss. Have you got cloth ears or something?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you,’ Miranda said truthfully. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’d better come quick. You too, sir. She’s off on one of her wild schemes again. It’ll be worse than her plans for growing watercress in the bathtub.’

  ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea, Maggie.’ George ran his hand through his mop of unruly grey hair, leaving it standing on end so that he looked even more like Miranda’s idea of a mad professor. If her grandfather was puzzled, then so was she. Why her grandmother had taken it into her head to ask Rita to stay with them at Highcliffe was baffling everyone, including Annie whose bottom lip was sticking out so far she could have balanced a half-crown on it. Rita had her head down and was apparently studying her feet. Miranda stared from one bemused face to the other not daring to say a word. Granny might be easy-going but she would not appreciate her decision being challenged by anyone. Miranda could only hope that this would be one of the rare occasions when Grandpa put his foot down, but her heart sank as she saw his expression change subtly even though he was smiling. Granny was used to getting her own way and woe betide anyone who dared to challenge her authority. A quick glance at her grandmother’s set jaw and the determined tilt of her chin was enough to convince Miranda that this battle of wills had already been won.

  ‘George, darling, it’s just a temporary arrangement. I’ve told Rita that she can stay with us until Mrs Proffitt gets out of hospital. It seems the least we can do for the poor child.’

  This last remark brought Rita’s head up with a jerk. ‘Don’t talk about me as if I wasn’t here, and I ain’t a kid; I can look after meself. If the old girl’s still in hospital after a stroke the chances are she’s not going to get well enough to take me in. So if you’ll run me to the station, guv, I’ll get the next train back to London.’