She made up her mind. Though it wasn’t her night for visiting the vicarage, she’d try her luck and see if the curate was in.
She hadn’t seen Mr Carlton for two weeks.
When she arrived, Mr Fairweather answered her knock.
He looked bemused. ‘Is it Monday already?’
Sandra assured him it wasn’t. ‘I haven’t come for a lesson. I’m here to ask if Mr Carlton would read a letter I’ve received.’
‘In that case you’d better come in.’ He stood aside. ‘Go through to the dining room. I’ll tell him you’re here. I’ll be in the sitting room, there’s a programme I want to listen to.’
Sandra smiled. Waiting in the dining room, she felt like a small child who wasn’t to be trusted left alone.
Mr Carlton’s face lit up as he came into the dining room.
‘Miss Hudson, w-what a welcome surprise. I heard you’d been sent down Rookdale way to work on a farm. How was it? Oh… sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Please, sit down.’
She sat on the wing-backed chair. The curate sat opposite. He seemed oddly flustered. His usual well-groomed hair was mussed, and his features were soft, as though he’d just awoken.
‘I hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘Not at all. Mr Fairweather told me you’d received a letter. Is it from your bother?’
‘No. My friend in South Shields. I couldn’t wait till Monday. I hope I’m not disturbing yi’.’
‘We were just listening to In Town Tonight on the wireless. One of Mr Fairweather’s favourite programmes – goodness knows why. I’m afraid I dozed.’
Sandra brought the envelope out from a pocket and handed it over to the curate.
Olive’s letter, as Mr Carlton read it, with all the goings on in her life and her sense of humour, was a tonic.
The letter ended:
Of course you and your friend from the village can come. Me and Tommy are delighted. Hopefully I can wangle a day off work. I’ll expect you late morning, all being well. I’ve got plenty of spare beds now the family have gone, more’s the pity! Silly lass, you don’t have to ask. Tell your friend she’ll be very welcome. I’m looking forward to hearing all about country life.
Your good and loving friend,
Olive xxx
‘A good friend, indeed.’ The curate folded the letter and handed it back. His brow furrowed as he scrutinised her. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ As soon as the words were spoken, she regretted the defensiveness in her tone.
‘You just seem rather quieter than your normal self.’
‘In other words, I talk too much.’ She grinned.
‘That’s more like you.’
The seriousness took hold again. ‘I…’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘I witnessed an accident. An aeroplane crash near the farm.’
‘Yes, I heard. News of the sort travels fast. He was an instructor based at the airfield. He was out on a training flight. It was a miracle he wasn’t killed, by all accounts.’
‘D’you know what happened to him?’ She realised she had a feeling of lack of completion about the whole affair.
‘Only that he was in a bad way and taken to a Newcastle hospital.’
‘So, you don’t know if he survived or not?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
They sat in meditative silence for a while, the atmosphere calming. Sandra felt that Mr Carlton seemed to have this aura of inner peace about him, as if everything in life would sort itself out.
He leant forward, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
She decided she could trust him.
She stood and moved to the chair next to him. He seemed startled, and there was a tension about him, as though their proximity made him nervous – and the feeling was mutual. As their eyes met, Sandra forgot what she’d meant to say.
‘Ahem!’ Mr Carlton sat up straight and the moment passed.
‘Since the crash I haven’t been myself,’ she admitted.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ His soft tone was encouraging and she knew he was the only person she could talk to.
So, she did – about how there had been no one else there to help, how she stayed calm throughout, how thoughts of Alfie’s safety had plagued her then and since.
As she spoke the curate nodded as though every word was of vital importance and Sandra experienced a sense of self-assurance she’d never known before.
She finished, ‘I went to pieces after the accident.’
‘You’ve found something out about yourself you didn’t know before.’
‘I did?’
‘You can be relied on to cope in a crisis.’
‘I’m not coping now. I feel terrible about my grumbles when there’s folk far worse off.’
‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I hear the same thing. This is your problem. Worrying about other people’s predicaments won’t help. You’re in delayed shock. And who wouldn’t be? You didn’t know what you were going to find in that aeroplane. It was your responsibility to keep the airman alive till help came. No wonder you went to pieces afterwards. I’m used to all kinds of troubles but I hope I never have to meet a life or death situation such as that.’ His words rang with sincerity and were comforting. ‘On top of everything else, it brought out all the fears about your brother that you’d buried and didn’t want to think about.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I think you’re allowed to go off the rails for a while.’
‘I feel better already, thank you.’ She realised she really did.
She darted a look at him and, seeing the set of his firm jaw, her fingers tingled with an impulse to touch his soft skin. Shocked, Sandra looked hastily away and concentrated on the marble fireplace.
The weight that had been dragging her down had lifted. How did he know so much? Did the clergy get trained to give such sound advice? But she knew in her heart that the curate was genuine and wouldn’t have needed to be taught sympathy or understanding.
‘My pleasure, Miss Hudson. In my experience it’s better to share worries. It takes courage to do that.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’ It was wonderful to voice her fears to someone so considerate. She rose to go.
‘You’re leaving so soon?’ He stood too.
She was conscious of his lanky frame towering above hers and, looking up, she saw something she couldn’t quite discern in his eyes.
‘I’ve wasted enough of your time.’
His gaze held hers, then he appeared to collect himself. ‘But of course, you’ll be tired after work.’
‘Yes.’ In truth she wanted to stay and gaze into those appealing brown eyes.
But he was a clergyman, for goodness’ sake.
17
Frieda
The train, billowing steam, chugged over the bridge. Looking out of the window, Frieda saw a street below with plentiful shops and teeming with people going about their everyday lives. But for Frieda this was no ordinary day; she was overcome by a mix of nervous excitement and dread: the excitement of attempting a new venture, dread of the unknown.
‘Are you all right?’ Sandra asked. ‘You’ve gone pale.’
‘I feel nauseous.’
‘We’re nearly there. Hopefully you’ll feel better when we get off the train and you get some fresh air.’
Frieda wasn’t lying; the apprehension churning in her stomach made her want to vomit. It served a purpose, though, because she could use this excuse to avoid eating over the next couple of days. The idea of being cooped up in a stranger’s house, her every move, especially at mealtimes, being watched, was terrifying. Her fraught mind tried to recall why she’d put herself in this disagreeable position. Because she felt pressured, she remembered. Everyone had agreed – Aunty Doris, the curate, Mr Nichol even – that a holiday would do her good.
‘This might be just what you need, love,’ Aunty Doris had told her, smiling with delight. ‘A breath o
f sea air to stimulate your appetite.’
The thought that this outing might be the first step to putting normality back in her life clinched the matter. And so, wanting to please her aunt, and Antonio, Frieda had agreed to make this trip.
The thought of Antonio diverted Frieda’s mind for a time. Over the past weeks she’d spent break time with him in the tack room and she never tired of seeing him.
He’d told her in his endearing accent, ‘You are only person understands me.’
And her heart ached for him.
His handsome face had creased into a small frown as he explained, ‘I tell you only. You are same as me. I too miss family and wanna go to my home. I hope for you to come and meet them some day.’
He’d looked so sad and dejected that Frieda was tempted to kiss him but she’d resisted as it wasn’t done for girls to take the lead in these matters.
‘Nearly there now.’ Sandra’s enthusiastic voice interrupted Frieda’s thoughts. Sandra stood and hauled their luggage down from the rack. She placed the suitcase at Frieda’s feet. ‘I can’t wait to see Olive. Honestly, Frieda you’ll love her. She’s a card.’
‘Card?’
‘Means witty… eccentric.’
The train lurched, causing Sandra to unbalance. In high spirits, she laughed.
Sandra was a good and honest person, and true friend. Someone Mama would approve of, Frieda knew.
As she stood up Frieda decided to make the most of the visit. But when she opened the carriage door and stepped onto the steam-filled platform – where shrill whistles blew, bustling porters pushed trolleys filled with suitcases, and servicemen looked frantically for relatives – despite her good intentions, she was engulfed by anxiety.
Sandra led Frieda down a busy street where they found a bus stop and climbed aboard a trolley bus. It was heaving with people, and the pair of them had to stand in the aisle. As the trolley made its way up the hill and through the town, Frieda saw evidence of bomb damage – a gap in a row of houses, buildings reduced to a shell with roofs, windows, walls missing – and she was overcome by horror at what the townspeople must have to go through. She realised how lucky she was to be living in the countryside.
When the trolley stopped and they alighted, Sandra led the way over a busy main road, up past a row of terraced houses. She stopped at a house with a little forecourt surrounded by a low brick wall and a front door with gleaming brasses.
‘Here we are. This is Olive’s house.’
She banged the knocker. Frieda’s nerves, as she waited at the front door, got the better of her. She didn’t know what to expect.
Sandra eyed her friend standing beside her at Olive’s front door. The poor lass looked scared stiff, and no wonder, coming to a strange place when she’d hardly stepped foot out of the village since she came to this country – and that, according to Frieda, had been only to the little market town of Hexham.
A moment of indecision washed over Sandra; she hoped she’d done the right thing bringing Frieda here.
The door opened and Olive stood there. Seeing her friend’s wide, welcoming smile, Sandra relaxed. Olive would work her magic and soon put Frieda at her ease.
‘Lass, hello! It’s good to see yi’. Let’s have a look. My, how bonny you are with your tanned complexion. And your hair’s all glossy and shining. Country life’s doing you the power of good.’ She turned to the girl who stood next to Sandra. ‘You must be Frieda. Welcome! Make yourself at home. If there’s anything you need just shout. Lordy, where’s me manners, come in the both of yi’.’
Sandra smiled affectionately as she followed her friend up the stairway. With her plump face, rosy cheeks and wearing the obligatory apron, Olive never changed. But a hint of uncertainty lurked in Olive’s eyes and Sandra hoped nothing was wrong.
‘I’ve managed to get some skirt of lamb,’ Olive gabbled, ‘and made a casserole, then it’s a nice, filling jam roly-poly pudding for afters.’ She led the way into the kitchen-living room.
The aroma of delicious food mingling with the smell of furniture polish that Sandra associated with Olive’s house comforted her and she was so pleased she’d decided to bring Frieda.
Olive’s face radiating happiness, she told the pair of them, ‘I’m putting you, Sandra, in Kenneth’s room. Frieda, you’re upstairs in the attic. I wish I could say you’d get a nice view but all you can see is rows of rooftops. Do you want to see your room?’
‘Yes please.’ Frieda’s voice was barely audible.
Olive took her visitor upstairs and then returned alone. She eased down beside Sandra on the couch. ‘I’ve left the lass to herself for a while. Me and me big mouth. I think she’s overwhelmed. Tommy told me after we read the letter yi’ sent us not to overpower her with me chatter.’ She looked stricken. ‘D’yi’ think I have? Poor lass, after all she’s been through, she doesn’t need me to put me foot in it.’
Sandra squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Olive, you didn’t. You spoke naturally and that’s the best way to be. Frieda will detect it if you’re overanxious around her.’
‘She’s got a good friend in you, Sandra, and, no doubt, she’s poured out all her troubles.’
‘Not really. I only know the basics but there’s a curate at the local church who I suspect Frieda has confided in. She thinks highly of him.’ Sandra, lost in thought for a moment, imagined Mr Carlton’s dear face, his glistening brown eyes gleaming with sincerity.
‘I’m pleased you told us about Frieda’s eating problem.’ Olive’s voice broke into Sandra’s thoughts. ‘I’ve never heard the like. I hope I didn’t upset the lass by talking about all that food. It’s a failing o’ mine because I do like to see folk enjoy their grub. Which reminds us, I’m sorry, hinny, but I’ve only got a few hours off then I must go to work. The canteen’s short-staffed and I’ve to help with the dinners and tidyin’ up but I might be able to get off early.’
‘That’s fine by me, Olive. It’s kind of you to have visitors when you’re so busy working.’
‘You’re not a visitor. You’re family. Anyway, help yourself to food – it’s all in the cooker, the plates are warmin’, the table’s set. Anything left over I’ll give to Tommy tonight for his tea. He’s always starved.’ That look of uncertainty clouded her eyes. ‘Poor man, he’s worried to death because it’s been over seven weeks since we’ve had a letter from our Kenneth. Though his letters do take some time arrivin’, it’s never this long.’
Ahh, so she was right. Olive did have a worry on her mind. Feeling inadequate, she put her arm around Olive’s shoulders. ‘I don’t know how you cope; you must be out of your mind with worry too.’
Olive’s chin worked and her eyes swam with tears.
In the silence, Sandra reflected that men like Alf and Kenneth were doing a dangerous job; their luck could run out at any time. She couldn’t bear the thought of what Olive must be going through.
Olive sniffed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. ‘Tell you what,’ she said over-brightly, ‘why not show your friend the sights of South Shields this afternoon? It’s a pity I can’t come with you, but before you can turn around twice, I’ll be home.’
Dinner was a lonely affair. Sandra sat at the table with places set for two. She’d been up to see Frieda in the attic room under the eaves where she found her friend lying on her bed.
‘I just need to lie down for a while. I still feel queasy.’
‘Can I make you up a plate of dinner and you can eat it later?’
‘I couldn’t face a big meal, thank you.’ She looked abashed. ‘I’ve brought cream crackers. I’ll eat them later.’
What could Sandra do? She decided for the next two days she’d abide by the lass’s wishes. But it was heart-breaking that she couldn’t help in some way.
Later, after Frieda had appeared and had eaten some crackers thinly covered with margarine, the pair of them set off to explore the town.
They took the trolley from the bottom of the street
to South Marine Park, by the beach. Frieda was entranced by the Victorian bandstand where they were thrilled to find that a colliery band was playing. People sat in rows of metal chairs in the late afternoon sun. In a rare moment of nostalgia, Sandra wondered if her parents had trodden the same path and listened to music in the bandstand. She felt a pang of sadness for her loss.
They walked for a while along the promenade where blue horizon met with glittering waters and golden sands stretched for miles.
‘Are those rolls of barbed wire?’ Frieda asked, looking out over the sands.
‘It’s to prevent invasion from the sea,’ Sandra said.
They went for a cup of tea in a small and cosy seaside café. Frieda refused anything to eat and Sandra worried because the lass hadn’t had a substantial meal all day. But she wasn’t the lass’s keeper and it wasn’t her place to interfere.
Afterwards, back at Olive’s, their host was bustling about making tea. She told the two friends, ‘I’m always starved after the fresh sea air. I’ve saved eggs so that you can have one each and I’ve made some of me home-made fruit scones. Only I’d no dried fruit to put in them.’ She hit her forehead with a hand. ‘How daft can you get? How can they be fruit scones?’ She cackled, but stopped when she caught Sandra’s warning eye.
‘Course, after such a big dinner yi’ mightn’t be hungry. It’s your choice.’
That evening, when Tommy arrived home from working at the docks, Olive introduced her husband to Frieda.
‘It’s a pleasure, pet, to meet yi’.’
As the pair of them chatted, Olive took Sandra to one side and said under her breath, ‘Don’t mention Kenneth because the silly sod is worried to death about the lad.’
‘How are you coping, Olive?’
‘I just go on believin’ what Tommy usually says, that no news is good news…’ But her eyes told a different story.
Later, when they all were sitting around the table, Frieda ate the egg and managed half a slice of bread but refused the scone.
Olive raised her eyes at Sandra, sympathy written all over her face. In return, Sandra gave a slight there’s nothing we can do shrug of the shoulders.
The Outcast Girls: A completely heartbreaking and gripping World War 2 historical novel Page 16
