A Cargo For Cora

Part of the fun in doing covert runs for the war effort was never knowing what the next call would bring!

CORA hated evenings when Stan wasn’t there. She couldn’t settle; the armchair was lumpy and the cushions overstuffed and misshapen.

She’d far rather be out with him, handling one of their fleet of classic cars on the darkened roads, but the growing mound of her pregnancy made getting behind the wheel a struggle and Stan had insisted, care and concern shading his eyes, that he would be running the night trips solo from now on.

The clock began to strike the hour, a pretty little melody, then the first of nine chimes, which was quickly overtaken by the shrill ring of the phone.

Laying down her knitting, the layette only half finished, Cora moved slowly to the hallway and lifted the receiver.

“Good evening. Sorry to disturb you at this late hour.” The voice was deep, dark and clearly military. “Could I speak with Mr Madden, please?”

“I’m sorry,” Cora said in her usual calm tone. “He’s not available this evening.”

From the moment war broke out, Stan, a skilled mechanic and driver, had been in demand to jumpstart troop transports or ferry dignitaries to yet another round of secret talks.

Others might call it the phoney war, but here on the Sussex coast the threat was very real. Night after night the sirens sounded and the drone of planes was overhead.

Cora had become almost as good as Stan at identifying them by their engine noise. Two important targets lay close by their house; the huge gas works in the harbour and Shoreham airport just across the river.

But it was Stan’s collection of big and beautiful Buicks, Packards and the tiny little Lanchester that had caught official attention, useful for running discreet errands with no hint of any military involvement.

Cora loved the excitement and the secrecy.

She had learned to drive long ago and could handle any one of the big beasts efficiently.