Chapter 17

17

brOWNSEA ISLAND – JULY 1998

Rebekah tried hard to stay nestled in the delicious dream she'd been having. The details were already flying away like a will-o'-the-wisp, something she could sense and almost see but was unable to grasp fully. There was joy and comfort and a delicious sensation of coming home, and of rest and the feeling that all her happy nerve strings were being strummed and plucked by the skilful fingers of a harpist. She could smell coffee and hear the sounds of someone moving about and then the other nerves all electrified and jumped into action: she was not alone.

She opened her eyes wide and found herself staring unexpectedly at a blank wall she didn't recognise. Spinning over in the bed, under the voluminously fluffy, duck-down quilt, she saw where she was, and her dreams and memories became one. She had not dreamt the wonderful night she'd just spent in this cottage, in this bed, with Paul. Her new lover. She chuckled and then gasped as Paul came around the corner from the kitchen, carrying two mugs of tea and wearing – nothing.

Last night, she'd barely taken the time to think about how he looked naked. The urgency with which she had decided she needed to take him to bed had shocked her almost as much as it had him. And what had followed was a night of divine sex and whisperings in the dark.

She sat up and pulled the sheet up to cover her a little, feeling ever so slightly more self-conscious of her nakedness than Paul did, obviously.

‘Good morning, my lovely,' he said as he put the tea mugs on the little bedside table and sat down beside her, reaching in for a kiss. He gently lifted his forefinger to her brow and brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, before stroking her cheek, her neck, her collarbone and then her breast. She shivered and sighed, closing her eyes and waiting for more, but he stopped and reached for her hand instead. When she opened her eyes, she gave him a look that she hoped encouraged him to keep going.

‘But I'll make you late for work, Rebekah. I don't want to get you into trouble,' he whispered, kissing her neck, her ear, her cheek. She glanced at the clock. It was 8a.m. already. She groaned. The boat of other staff would be arriving at half past eight, and she really needed to be out of here and up in her own cottage by then if she wanted to avoid them knowing exactly what she'd been doing last night before she'd had chance to consider it fully herself.

‘You're right. I really don't want to be here when the others arrive. They could almost see me in bed through that front window if they were looking for me from the boat.'

Paul sat in the bed beside her, and as they drank their tea he held her hand tenderly and stroked her with his thumb.

‘Coming here last night was the best decision I've ever made in my life,' he said and leant across to kiss her on the head.

‘I actually think the best decision you've ever made was lying down in the heather last Friday afternoon and falling asleep there so that you became marooned on my island and I had to rescue you from the killer midges in the middle of the night. Not exactly a best decision in the traditional sense, I give you that, but it had a magnificent outcome.' She laughed, and he laughed with her.

‘I have food for breakfast, but I think we slept too late for that,' he said sadly.

‘We did. But I have a morning break around 11a.m. I could come and see you then, if you're happy to wait and call it brunch?' she said, looking to him hopefully.

‘Brunch with you would be perfect. I'll be waiting.'

After she'd dressed and had risked one last long, amazingly wonderful kiss, just inside the door of the cottage, she put on her walking shoes and scampered up to Rose Cottage feeling as sprightly and excited as the red squirrels always seemed. Everything looked fresh and the weekend ahead was now full of thrilling possibilities. She opened the front door and went to run upstairs for a quick shower and change into her ranger's uniform, when she caught sight of the ticket and note on her table where she'd left them the night before. Ben. She had to face Ben today, and she was going to have to be firm. But his sweetness, she knew, was going to make it difficult. Rip off the sticking plaster fast , she told herself. It was the only way.

At the island reception, all was normal for a busy Friday morning in summer: the staff and volunteers all arrived on the first boat from Sandbanks, and shortly afterwards, the Island Maid arrived from the quay, full to the brim with happy day-trippers. There were families with children – all tucking into their sandwiches before they'd even got off the boat – couples wearing serious walking gear who were obviously intent on covering every inch of the island in one day, and seniors who wanted a gentle stroll, a look in the visitors' centre and a lovely lunch in the café in the shadow of the castle.

Rebekah busied herself at one of the ticket stations, giving every new arrival a beaming smile and a warm Brownsea Island greeting.

‘Hi! Welcome! Have you been to the island before?' she asked as she got the till ready to take the fee.

‘No, first time today for us, and we're hoping to see our first red squirrels.'

‘Ah, lovely, well you're going to have a wonderful day. And are you members of the National Trust?' Rebekah recorded their membership number and gave them a receipt for the ferry ride, handing the visitors a map of the island and a ferry timetable.

‘There's a perfect place to spot the squirrels just along the path before you get to the church, but they might be a bit shy today – we have a lot of visitors for the play, you see, and they don't like too much company. Plenty of places for picnicking wherever you like,' she said with a nod to the big picnic bag the gentleman carried over one shoulder, ‘and one of our volunteers will be taking walking tours on the hour between ten and three, from just in front of the visitor's centre around the corner.'

‘All sounds wonderful – thank you.' The couple beamed as they made their way through reception and Rebekah greeted the next family.

‘Hi! Welcome! Have you been to the island before?'

Once the whole boatload of visitors had been welcomed, Rebekah left the other staff while she went to start her ranger rounds, checking in first at the hides beside the lagoon. There were already a number of birdwatchers taking up positions and she watched as a kingfisher swooped from a low tree branch across the edge of the lagoon to snap up a dragonfly. Next job was a hike out to Maryland where she needed to check on the number of rhododendrons and meet a representative from the Dorset Wildlife Trust who was bringing over some workers next week to continue clearing the area.

By the time that was done, it was 10.40a.m. and she still had a solid half an hour's walk to get back to the cottage by the quay. She set off at a brisk pace and then, when she knew nobody was around and she wouldn't cause any alarm, broke into a trot, laughing at herself and the urgency of getting back in time for her brunch date. Just as she passed the visitors' centre, she saw the 11a.m. walking tour setting off, and realised that one of the ticket staff was leading the tour and not Ben, who was the volunteer rostered on for today. She thought for a moment about stopping to ask if anyone knew where he was, but decided to leave it for later. She ducked into the small staff lunchroom and explained to her team that she'd be having her break with a friend who'd made a surprise visit to the Customs House Cottage.

‘Not a surprise to us, Bek,' said Luke with a wink. ‘The fellows on the Island Maid let us know – they brought him here last night?' he continued as she felt her jaw hanging open. Of course. They would have been watching – and they'd brought his groceries over earlier – and they must have seen them kiss on the quay when Paul arrived. So, not such a well-kept secret after all. Everyone who worked on the island probably knew by now that Rebekah had spent the night in the Custom House Cottage with a man named Paul, who'd come down from London yesterday. She couldn't think of anything to say – and asked herself if there was anything she needed to say anyway. She just nodded and turned to leave.

‘Shame for poor Ben, though,' Luke continued, and Rebekah stopped in the doorway, looking over her shoulder.

‘Ben?' she asked.

‘Poor lad'll be beaten up over it I 'spect. Still, your choice, Bek,' he said in his thick Dorset accent, and in every way made her feel as though she had deliberately chosen to break the heart of someone whom she had never intended to encourage.

‘Where is he, by the way?' she asked. ‘Wasn't he rostered on today?'

‘Called in sick. Probably just 'ad a few too many down the Lord Nelson last night,' he said in a way that Rebekah knew was probably meant to reassure her that she wasn't to blame, though it had the opposite effect.

She just nodded curtly in reply and went off to find Paul, rapping the door twice and then opening it and going straight in.

‘I'm so sorry I'm late,' she said, noticing it was now twenty past eleven. ‘Sometimes, things on this island just don't go to plan in the usual way you might expect for some other jobs,' she explained.

‘That's okay. I put it down to island time,' he said with smile. ‘I've warmed some pastries, and also made up some hollandaise sauce. Do you like eggs Benedict?' he asked as he switched on the coffee machine and poured two glasses of orange juice.

‘Oh, yum! Sounds like a feast, and yes, please, I love eggs Benedict, but I only have half an hour to spare,' she said, anxious that she might spoil his plans.

‘That's okay. The time-consuming part is done. Carry these things to the table, would you, and I'll poach the eggs. Help yourself to a pastry.'

‘Mmm, delicious – thank you,' Rebekah said as she wiped her mouth and swallowed the last of the delicious cup of coffee he'd made her. ‘So, what are your plans for the rest of the weekend? You did say you have something else to do over at the pottery?'

‘My plans are to spend every single moment possible with you,' he said, with a smile that shone from his eyes and made her sigh. ‘But I do need to go to the pottery as well. They've discovered an old filing cabinet in a storage room that no one realised was there. They think it could have been hidden behind their archive shelving since the war. It looks to be some staff records, but some of the names don't tie up with any others we've found so far,' he explained.

‘That sounds interesting. I'll be busy here now until around five o'clock, so you could go over this afternoon on the half-past-twelve boat and come back on the half-past-four one, if that would be long enough? That way, we can be as free as we like all day tomorrow, until the play in the evening of course,' Rebekah said.

‘Sounds perfect. That should be plenty of time. And I already know what I'd like us to do tomorrow,' he said and grinned.

She questioned him with her frown.

‘Can we spend the day at Corfe Castle – I mean in the castle itself, not just the village?' he asked and she had to laugh at his almost schoolboy eagerness to see the ruins.

‘That's a great idea. You have your car here, I assume?'

‘Yes, I left it parked in one of the staff spaces at the pottery – very convenient.'

‘That's fixed then. I'll see you tonight,' she said and kissed him goodbye as though it was something she'd been doing for decades, rather than hours.

By the end of their Saturday morning exploring the old castle, and after a bracing afternoon walk from the perfectly horseshoe-shaped bay of Lulworth Cove and across the cliffs to Durdle Door and back again, it seemed Paul was falling head over heels in love with Dorset.

‘This place is just magical, Rebekah,' he cried as he stood on the clifftop admiring the gorgeously turquoise waters that crashed relentlessly below the white limestone cliff face. ‘I can't believe I've never explored around here before. There is so much more to see!'

‘Exploring the world does that to you, I've found,' she said as they started walking again. ‘It's a bit like reading; you think that if you read all the books – you know, all the great works of literature, all those ones on the big lists – then you can tick that off: job done, books read. But it's not like that at all because every book you read opens up another world of books and authors to discover. Travel and exploring is the same, for me; you go to see a place so you can say "been there, done that", and all that happens is you discover at least another ten places there are to see with every new discovery. It's infuriating and wonderful, all at once,' she said and laughed.

‘So, tell me: where else do you want to go? What else do you want to see?' he asked her.

‘Oh, everywhere. I've only really discovered a small part of Dorset while I've been in England and there is so much more – fishing coves in Cornwall, Dartmoor in Devon, and the Peak District in Yorkshire is stunning, so I hear, and that's just a few spots in England. And then there is all of Europe too – Paris, Venice, Barcelona, Switzerland. I only just dipped my toes into everything that Queensland had to offer before I left and came here, but I did get to see some of the best National Parks – rainforests and reefs and wide, sandy beaches that go on forever,' she said wistfully.

‘I should like to see Australia,' he said.

‘I'd love to show you, Paul. I know you'd love it.'

That evening, back on the island, after they'd covered themselves in mozzie repellent and taken umbrellas in case of an evening shower, they took their seats on camp chairs and unpacked a picnic of cheese, grapes, crackers and a chilled bottle of Champagne to enjoy as they watched the play which, as usual for B.O.A.T., was brilliantly performed and delivered. In the interval, Rebekah saw a few of the other island staff and chastised herself for only now remembering that Ben would have been hoping to see her. She saw him in the distance and paused to summon the courage to do what she knew she must.

‘Ben!' she called and watched his face light up when he saw her walking towards him. ‘I'm glad you're feeling better – I heard you were a bit under the weather yesterday?' she asked and saw him flinch. ‘Thank you for the ticket. It was very kind of you, but I actually already had one and I'm here with a friend. Well, more than a friend, really,' she said making sure to wave in the direction of Paul who had his head stuck in the programme as he sipped a glass of wine. ‘I wasn't able to get in touch to let you know, and so I gave the ticket to Luke – who was glad of it. I hope that was all right?' She realised that she hadn't given him a chance to object, but it was done. The poor guy did look crestfallen, but this was one of those occasions when it was better to be firm and fast. It wasn't fair for him to think he had a chance, and she wished now she'd realised earlier that his gifts and attention were about more than mere friendship.

‘Who is he, then, Rebekah?' Ben asked pointedly, frowning in Paul's direction. ‘I've never seen him before, and I've known you for over two years now.' The comment hit like the barbed tail of a stingray and knocked Rebekah's confidence down several pegs.

‘He's a friend from London,' she said, realising as soon as the words left her lips that Ben knew full well that she had exactly zero friends in London. ‘I haven't known him long, Ben, but his name is Paul. He's a historian working at Poole Pottery, and he and I have become close. Very close,' she said, hoping that would be the end of it.

‘So, he's a boyfriend then?'

Heck, would he not let it go? Who did Ben think he was anyway: her big brother? Her protector?

‘I know it's none of my business, Rebekah,' he said as if he'd just read her mind, ‘but the thing is, I like you. I like you a lot. And I thought… I had hoped…' He stopped and waved his hand dismissively and took a deep breath, looking up to her with a tight smile. ‘It doesn't matter. I just hope he makes you happy,' Ben said and walked away. As she watched him go, she couldn't help think of Farmer Oak and wonder whether she'd just waved security and stability goodbye for the sake of fun and excitement that was more thrilling than any she'd known before.

She walked back to Paul and sat down, taking the refilled Champagne glass he offered her.

‘Who was your friend?' he asked casually, and the word made Rebekah think deeply. She mulled it over for a few moments before she answered.

‘He's one of the volunteers here on the island and he's been bringing me presents – he brought the mussels we ate last Friday night – and I haven't realised until very recently that he thought we could be more than friends. But I don't know him. Not really. I've known him to speak to for two years, but I don't fully know him, not like I know you,' she said, frowning as she tried to understand it herself just as she was explaining it.

‘Oh, you mean in the biblical sense?' he said with a wink and an actual nudge in her ribs, making her laugh at herself.

‘No! I mean in the friend sense. I've only known you a week, Paul – with a very unwelcome gap in the middle – but it feels as if we've been friends forever, doesn't it?' she asked him, turning to look him full in the face.

‘Yes. Yes, it does,' he said carefully, taking a sip of his Champagne and reaching out for her with his spare hand. ‘I can't really remember a time when I didn't know you were here, to be honest. And I want you to be my friend, always.' She leant in to kiss him and then he added, whispering wickedly into her lips, ‘With some extra delicious benefits.'

On Sunday morning, they lay in bed facing one another and trying to make plans. Paul had to get back to London that afternoon for his regular rehearsal, and he had a solid week of work ahead of him, as well as mid-week rehearsals for his concert in Westminster next Saturday night. And Rebekah would be doing what she did day in and day out on the island home that she considered her own slice of paradise. But first, this morning, Paul had to spend another hour in the pottery collecting things before he left.

By the time they'd finished breakfast, there was a plan: Rebekah would go with him to the quay, wait while he finished at the pottery, then she'd take him on a walk through the old town to show him the back streets of the quay, the old church of St James's, Market Street, and the Guildhall. They would have a walk in the park, and lunch on the quay, before he drove back to London, and she fetched some groceries and went back to the island.

An hour later, she was relaxing in a chair in the Poole Pottery offices, while Paul was sorting through some files he'd just hauled up from the basement storage room. He was wrangling them into a briefcase when he groaned aloud.

‘What's the matter?' Rebekah asked him.

‘I've left some behind. These are some extra personnel files we found from the war years and they were in alphabetical order but I've only got A to N here. There must be more, looking at the number there are here, though many of these names are unfamiliar. I haven't seen them on any other lists of Poole Pottery staff, but I need to look into them, all the same.'

‘I'll go back down and fetch them if you like – I've nothing to do and you're busy,' she said and kissed him on the head before she trotted down the stairs. She paused in the corridor to look again at the mesmerising face of the beautiful Margaret Symonds in the old photograph that she'd been fascinated with the weekend before. She was a stunning woman, with curly, fair hair and eyes that stared straight into the lens of the camera with the boldness of a supermodel. There was something so familiar in Margaret's looks, too.

Rebekah found the storeroom, and the filing cabinet Paul had mostly emptied. At the back of the bottom drawer, there were a few more suspension hangers and in them she found folders that were labelled with surnames from Osmington to Young. These were the missing ones. She pulled them from the drawer and fanned them out as she walked up the stairs and then something caught her eye that stopped her dead. One of the files was labelled:

Symonds, Margaret – B.O.A.C.

Rebekah knelt on the floor right where she was in the middle of the corridor and opened the file. Inside was a copy of the same photograph that was on the wall just a few feet away, and papers relating to the employment of Margaret as a seawoman working for BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation.

Margaret had lived in Ballard Road, which Rebekah knew was only a few metres away from where she stood right now. The details said she was a seawoman employed to operate a launch, carry out sundry driving duties, and there was a red rubber stamp with the letters OSA on the bottom of the page, dated March 1941.

Rebekah gathered up the papers and took them up to Paul.

‘I've just found something really interesting here,' she said, kneeling on the floor beside him and putting the other folders down.

‘Oh, great thanks – you've got the rest of the alphabet.'

‘Yes, but like you said, I don't think they are all pottery personnel. Remember that photo we were looking at of that gorgeous girl in the corridor downstairs – the black and white wartime picture?'

Paul nodded. ‘Marion or someone, wasn't it?'

‘Margaret – Margaret Symonds. Well, here's her file, and she didn't work for the pottery; she worked for the flying boats.'

‘That is interesting – I thought all those papers were held with British Airways. They shouldn't still be here. Let's have a look.'

‘She was a local girl – very local. Do you know what "OSA" stands for?' she asked him, holding out the paper with the rubber stamp to show him.

‘Goodness gracious, do I ever!' he said and carefully took the folder from Rebekah's hands, as if he were taking a precious and delicate artefact. ‘It stands for Official Secrets Act,' he explained. ‘This woman was involved with some very sensitive information during the war,' he said, scanning the document and noting the date, ‘and right here in Poole, so it seems.'

‘Wow! I never knew Poole had anything much at all going on in the war – apart from the refugees they had on the island, of course. I've heard about that bit of history, and the fact that Maryland Village was used as a decoy for air raids.'

Paul flicked over a few more papers and then an envelope fell from the folder and into Rebekah's lap beneath him where she knelt on the floor.

‘Oh, sorry, I dropped something,' he said as Rebekah picked it up. She read the inscription on the front and frowned up at him. Rebekah showed him the envelope and he read the inscription out loud.

‘Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor, care of RAAF 461 Squadron, RAF Hamworthy, Poole.' He flipped it over and read the back. ‘To be given to Flight Lieutenant Taylor in the event of the death of Peggy Symonds of 11 Ballard Road, Poole. Peggy? Who's Peggy Symonds? Isn't this the file of Margaret… oh wait… of course,' he said, slapping his forehead with his palm. He looked up to explain to Rebekah what he'd just realised and saw that she'd gone such a pale shade that she was almost grey.

‘What is it?' he asked, putting down the folder and cupping her cheek. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Peggy Symonds. Aunty Pig,' she said and laughed. ‘This is unbelievable, Paul. Peggy Symonds was the name of my neighbour in Brisbane, the one who taught me all about Poole, and the harbour and Brownsea Island. Peggy grew up here. But why is this letter in this person Margaret's folder? What did Margaret have to do with Peggy? Was Margaret a sister to Peggy, do you think?'

‘No, I don't think that at all. I think that Margaret is Peggy. It's a strange thing with old names, and particularly from that era. People were named something quite formal-sounding, like Margaret, for instance, but were always known as a more relaxed nickname. Peggy is a common short name for Margaret. It probably started with Maggie, Meggie, then Meg which easily becomes Peg, Peggy,' he said and then realised she was not listening to a word he said.

‘Peggy – my old, kind, spinster aunty Peggy – worked on the flying boats in this harbour, and signed the Official Secrets Act? She was involved in top-secret activities during the war? That can't be right. She was just a simple woman, who loved to bake, and care for other people's children, and feed the birds,' she said, incredulity in every word.

‘People can have all kinds of dark histories. You'd never imagine some of the stories I've uncovered.' He paused before going on, his thumb tucked under the seal of the letter.

‘Wait a minute,' she said, sorting through the file for the photo of Margaret again. She studied it carefully. ‘Yes, I can see it now – this is Peggy! My Aunty Peggy, when she was young and very beautiful. Wow. And so, who on earth was this Flight Lieutenant Darrell Taylor?' asked Rebekah.

‘Shall we find out?' he asked, ready to rip open the letter, the secrets within having been sealed for over fifty years.