by Milly Adams
Steve shook his head. ‘I know, I’m an idiot. There’s just something not right, something …’ He trailed away. ‘I’ll go and bang on their door again, I need to speak to her, I’ve just got a feeling about it. If she was really called I think I’d know, and I’d accept it, but it’s all wrong.’
The flames were dying and black soot was staining the brickwork. Poor buggers, thought Steve as he heard the wife sobbing. He said to Terry, ‘They dodged the bombs, and got smacked by a bloody candle. There’s no sense in any of it.’
‘That about sums it up, all of it,’ muttered Terry, as the hoses died on the heels of the flames. ‘But getting back to you, you have to make sense of it, so go and see them again, and again, until you do. Or shut up and just accept it. What about her friends on the canal?’
‘They’re as confused as me, they think there’s something … But they say they could be quite wrong. They’re going to try and see her again.’
At Howard House, Joe rode Maisie around the schooling ring but he couldn’t concentrate because he’d never got to teach Sylvia to draw a kingfisher easily, and now he wouldn’t because she were somewhere else, behind a wall, loving God more than the girls and more than him. She hadn’t even waited to say hello, but had written a note, saying she was glad he was safe, and to make something good of his life.
He called to Auntie Pamela, ‘I don’t want to ride any more; I just want to go to my room.’
Auntie Pamela came to him and held Maisie’s bridle. ‘That’s all right, but you’ll have to put away the tack and rub her down first. It’s a shame, though, it’s such a lovely day for celebrating the end of the war.’
Joe shrugged. ‘I don’t care about the war, I just want to go to my room and get the kingfisher really right. Then I can send it, and she might miss the cut enough to come out of the convent, then I can see her and tell her she was someone I thought of when I was in the dark because she watched the kingfishers, the otters, and the whole world, really.’ Suddenly he was crying, because she was one of the girls and he loved them all, and it wasn’t the same, nothing was, and she hadn’t said hello, and she hadn’t said goodbye.
Sylvia rose at 5.40 on May 21st at St Cecilia’s Convent attached to St Cecilia’s Orphanage and church, dressed in her black dress, placed her short white cotton veil on her head, and fixed it in place. She was here, Joe was safe, and her God was with her, just as He always had been, but now there would be no one else, as there had been before. It was what she’d promised.
After meditation there was the first Mass in the beautiful chapel. The windows streamed early summer light on to the marble floor, staining it blue, red and green. She knelt, sat, stood and knelt. She breathed in the incense, she listened to the Latin, which was truly beautiful and God given. At 7.30 there was breakfast. She couldn’t eat, and there was no need to speak because talking was as bad as eating. If she talked she thought, and she mustn’t think, because she loved God with so much of her being, but not with all. There were others she loved more.
She knelt, stood, sat, for second Mass and at 9.00 helped in the laundry. It always made her think of the steerers’ wives boiling their clothes, wringing them out. Of course, they – the girls – hadn’t done it often enough. She could smell the soda, feel the hot wet clothes as she and Verity wrung them out between them. She could feel the wind from the cut, and see the kingfisher diving and creating barely a ripple to break the surface. Did Joe still have her drawing? She mustn’t think, the pain was too much. He was safe.
At 10.30 there were elevenses. She couldn’t take more than a mouthful of tea.
She dug in the garden because it was spring and she must dig up the roots of the dandelions as Mrs Holmes and Joe had done before they had moved to Howard House. Did they still? But no, it would be Henry and Thomas. Would Howard House become an hotel? Would the girls marry their men? Would Steve … ? She stared at the worm squirming in the earth, and lifted it out, and watched it contracting and elongating on the palm of her hand. It seemed to grow too big, then too small, so small. So very tiny, just as she wanted to be tiny, and then to disappear.
At 11.45 it was Examen and with the other postulants she used prayer to reflect on the events so far today to detect God’s presence and discern His direction for her. So, why are you making me think of the cut, or am I forcing myself past You to reach them? To reach Joe, Steve and her beloved girls?
She rose for lunch at noon. She sat with Harriet, and two of the new postulants. The other three were to wait on the Mother Superior, the sisters, the novices and the postulants. They all ate but she couldn’t, because she must continue to disappear. She lifted the glass of water, merely taking a sip. They all talked, she did not, because with words came thoughts.
At 12.30 there was the Midday Office, and the hour was sanctified with prayer, psalms, hymns, readings … She felt the blessed blackness grow, the breath ease from her, the nothingness envelop her and the coldness of the floor flood her. It was over.
Sister Augustine sat opposite her old friend, the Mother Superior. They smiled at one another. ‘She’s in the sickbay?’ Mother Superior sat with her hands hidden by her sleeves, like a muff.
Sister Augustine nodded. ‘She shouldn’t be here. When she arrived I knew that really, in my heart, but she was so determined, I thought we should allow her to enter as a postulant, to show her that God needs her life to be with those she loves. She has a determined sense of obligation, a need to sacrifice, but God doesn’t expect that, as you and I know. She has spoken just now, as I held water to her lips, of how she had made a deal, of all things, Mother Superior, with God, and promised she would serve Him if Joe was safe. I explained that God does not require such sacrifice, He doesn’t make deals, He just loves, and that she is already deserving of that love. I gather that memories of Harriet have been reinforcing her need to sacrifice. They made a promise, which was reinforced at the reunion. I should have guessed when I saw Harriet with her.’
Mother Superior’s smile was strained. ‘We need to talk to Harriet, with compassion, but firmly. But to return to our dear postulant, Sylvia: her response to your words?’
‘Relief, and doubt. I think that your wisdom is needed at the bedside because she is so malnourished, so fearful that the boy, Joseph, will be in jeopardy if she reneges. She’s a dear little thing, and was a shining light at the orphanage. She loves another shining light, our Steve Bates. Do you remember? A bit of a pickle, but with a wonderfully good heart. He was her fiancé, and I believe still is in his heart, as he calls weekly, as do the two girls from the canal. There is much love for her so she would be released from her postulancy into good hands, but still be under His care, because of course He is all that’s good in the world.’
The Mother Superior was already rising. Sister Augustine followed her out, and they walked in perfect companionship along the dark corridor. Mother Superior stopped by a window overlooking the playground of the orphanage. She said, ‘We do all we can but the life of a child in an institution might perhaps lead to a fear of a personal relationship. This is not recognised by the child, and the mind plays tricks to prevent that commitment, such as forcing oneself to accept a role which is, in fact, not called for. I feel that frequently there is a fear that those they love will leave, and then what? Or, as you say, she genuinely fears retribution on the child if she does not follow her imagined obligation. It’s all rather complicated, but then life is. Either way, I will talk, listen, and decide, but, my dear, I am sure with your experience, you understand exactly what is necessary.’
Sister Augustine looked out at the orphanage, feeling sad. ‘It’s never enough.’
‘Ah, my dear, but often it is, because there is love here, when otherwise there would be none, except God’s, and how is that to be known?’
The Marigold girls received a tannoy message when they returned from Tyseley in early June. It was from Steve, telling them that Sister Augustine had contacted him. Sylvia had spent time addressing her concerns
about her future and had made a decision to return to the outside world. The Mother Superior would not permit this until her three friends were able to receive her at the door. The girls telephoned Steve at the fire station and said early the following morning they would meet him at the convent, because it was already dark, and they must first release Maudie from the butty.
‘Where will she go?’ Steve asked.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, she’ll skip to Timmo’s pair, which will suit them both because Trev has left to train as a lorry driver, and Timmo is set to head for Limehouse tomorrow.’
They brought Sylvia home to Bull’s Bridge Depot the next day, with Steve stuck like glue to her side. He had taken leave, and would travel with them on the pair.
‘Just as Tom did,’ Sylvia said, looking thin, pale and wan.
As they headed through the depot gates they were checked off the clipboard, and then walked through the chaos of the yard, with the men tipping their foreheads at Sylvia, as though she’d been off for the day.
She walked along the lay-by, breathing in the smell of the cut, the soda from the women’s boilers, the cooking of the lunch. She waved at Ma Porter, who smiled, and Ma Ambrose and Ma Wise, and everyone else. They merely said, ‘’Ow do, lass.’ It resonated, it warmed and it made her feel stronger.
Steve gripped her hand. ‘I’m never going to let you go again.’
She knew he wouldn’t and she knew that she wanted to be with him. She wasn’t scared any more. She hadn’t even known she was until the Mother Superior had soothed her forehead, her face filled with God’s love, and explained so many things.
Polly and Verity, who had waited with Steve, had hugged her before Steve could get near her, saying to him, ‘We love her too, Steve. You must wait. For us it’s all for one, and one for all, isn’t it, dearest Sylv?’
The words were music, they sang to Sylvia as the three of them clung together. Verity whispered, ‘We will always be together, do you understand? You, Steve, the boys and us. We are family. Mrs B and Rogers have been pulling their hair out, they are quite bald, darling.’
Sylvia had laughed but she couldn’t really hear it. She was back, she was a good person. She was able to love God and all these people. She felt at peace. Then Steve had been allowed to approach. He had held her as though she was porcelain, and whispered into her hair, ‘I will always love you, always.’
She whispered, ‘I couldn’t tell you, any of you.’ She looked at the others. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to pay, as I thought then, for Joe’s life because I wouldn’t have been able to leave you.’
Verity had said, ‘Well, that’s sorted, and Joe says that when you come again to Howard House he will show you how to draw a proper kingfisher, so with that promise to look forward to, let’s get on, we have orders to deliver.’
Now she stood by Marigold and Horizon just as Timmo and Maudie passed on Venus and Shortwood, travelling abreast to the east. They hooted, each standing at their tiller. Sylvia waved, and called, ‘I’m back, I’m home.’ It was only a whisper, though, one that drifted on the wind as she felt she also drifted.
Timmo hooted again and all the narrowboats moored along the lay-by hooted too. Polly laughed, leapt on to the counter, and hooted back with Bet’s hunting horn. ‘Yes, Sylv,’ she called. ‘Everyone’s happy because Maudie’s with Timmo, and you’re back with us, at last.’
Sylvia felt the lay-by beneath her feet, and stepped up on to her butty, Horizon. She stood, feeling the movement. She balanced. She stepped forward and ran her hands along the cabin roof. Pup barked and leapt from Marigold’s roof to hers in one bound, then sat, eye to eye with Sylvia. Sylvia whispered, ‘I miss Dog, but I love you.’ They looked at one another for just a moment and it seemed as though Pup nodded.
Sylvia lifted her head to the wind, and the sun. The sky was blue and the cut rippled as a pair went past. Sylvia knew that she really was home.
Chapter 29
August 1946 at Howard House Hotel
The bustle in the kitchen was escalating into near hysteria as Mrs B and Rogers held open the door for Dobbo and his wife so they could carry the two-tier wedding cake out unhindered and up the stairs. It was destined for the marquee on the front lawn. ‘You are to lay down your lives rather than let this cake fall to the ground, is that quite clear?’ she instructed Henry, as he and Thomas followed them out of the kitchen carrying bottles of champagne cooling in buckets of ice from the ice house.
Mrs B called, ‘Never you mind issuing orders, just concentrate on getting those bottles to the marquee too.’ As the four of them climbed the steps to the yard, she blessed Dobbo for resurrecting the ice house in the cold of winter.
Still standing at the door to the boot hall, Mrs B turned and surveyed the kitchen. The table was heaped with food acquired with saved-up coupons, as austerity bit deep. Well, there were debts to repay and a country to rebuild and their survival, then and now, was worth it and she’d deal with anyone who grumbled and grizzled.
In the scullery the girls from the village were ferreting out the tea towels with which to cover the pork pies, sandwiches, ham vol-au-vent cases, the … ‘Oh,’ sighed Mrs B. ‘There’ll just have to be enough. Come along, girls, or you’ll miss the show.’
Myrtle laughed as she rushed out with the tea towels piled high in her arms. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t call a triple wedding a show, Mrs B, but I suppose it is. Even though, I suppose, it’s a double and single wedding really. One Catholic, two Protestant. It’s all so exciting, with the Howard Hotel about to open an’ all. Come on, Sally, quick. Got the confetti?’ They laid the tea towels over the food while beside her Rogers pulled at his starched collar. ‘It really is most extraordinarily stiff, my dear.’
Mrs B kissed his cheek. ‘Ah, but our Sylvia doesn’t get wed every day, and you looked so proud escorting her down the aisle of the church. Though I have to say, the incense got in my tubes, and didn’t half make me cough. Now it’s just Polly and Verity in the Hall chapel, then the hordes will need feeding. I’m right worried there won’t be enough.’
Rogers slipped his arm around her. ‘You know there will, and I bet that the guests slip a bit of food on to the table too. We just need to make sure that it’s brought through from the kitchen to the marquee before they actually leave the chapel. You’ve––?’
‘Yes, don’t you fret, Dobbo and Sarah have got that all set up.’ She dragged her notepad from her pocket, checking her list. ‘Dougie is at the bottom of the drive, with the dog cart, waiting to bring anyone up who can’t struggle over the gravel if they’ve come by bus. The nuns just somehow glided up after Sylvia and Steve’s ceremony. I don’t know how they do it.’
There was a clatter of feet on the steps down from the yard, and a yelp. ‘Oh sorry, Pup.’
Pamela and Joyce ran into the kitchen, and almost screeched to a halt at the side of Mrs B. ‘Come on, all of you. Round Two is about to start; the chapel bells are about to be rung, our lovely girls are lurking in the entrance, the boys are standing in front of the altar with Joe propping up Saul, and Steve patting Tom’s back, though so damned hard I reckon he’s in danger of being sick. I feel that’s not necessarily the job of a best man, but who am I to judge. Just hope they’ve checked they have the rings.’ Joyce was wearing a hat of gauze and feathers she and Mrs B had dug out of the attic and remade, and the feathers were dancing like berserkers.
She beckoned the two girls who were just putting the final coverings over the food. They all hurried up the steps, heading past the stables which now housed several ponies for St Cecilia’s Orphanage children who came to stay several times a year, taking up the smartened attic bedrooms.
The chapel nestled behind the stables in amongst a copse of silver birches and had been ignored and unused for too long, Sylvia had decided when she and Steve joined them at Howard House at the end of 1945. She had explained to Lord and Lady Clement that a house of God, of whatever persuasion, should not be allowed to fall into disrepair, or, in fact
, disuse.
Henry had said, with a slight salute, ‘Fair point, Captain. Will get on to it right away.’
Mrs B nudged Pamela now, as they all began to walk along the crazy paving path towards the chapel door, saying, ‘Oh, do you remember how Henry passed on the task to Steve and Dobbo to sort out, which you sniffed at, so he, with appalling grace, also got sawing and painting, while Thomas took the bulk of the gardening on his shoulders?’
Joyce and Pamela were laughing, and as they slowed, puffing and panting, Joyce added, ‘Thomas has found gardening help from those who came looking for work on demob, and the vegetables have become quite a money earner at the market. He thinks he’s some sort of tycoon, I believe. Poor Jacob will be roped in as a middleman if he’s not careful, to flog them in Covent Garden or some swish hotel. That’s if there’s any left, because Mrs B gets first dibs.’
Pamela murmured, ‘Perhaps we should turn some of the pasture over to more vegetables, if Jacob does think he can do something with them. And there are still the pigs in the copses, of course.’
‘My word, do I hear the makings of another tycoon to my left?’ Joyce said, nudging her.
They neared the chapel steps hearing Harry, Steve’s friend, playing the Wedding March. The three ‘aunties’ had decorated the entrance at dawn this morning, scared that it might rain in the night, leaving everything bedraggled. The parachute silk strips all three of them had cut and sewn fluttered in the soft breeze, anchored and looped to short poles banged in by Granfer. Bunches of roses and lavender were tied to the posts.
Mrs B slowed before they climbed the step into the foyer. ‘Do you think Granfer will stay on, now Lettie has passed on?’
Pamela sighed. ‘I do so hope he does. Joe and Saul would be thrilled, and then there is only one family that Maudie and Timmo have to visit when they can get away from the cut.’
Sylvia waited in the foyer, fingering her wedding ring, running ‘Mrs Bates’ through her mind, smiling, smiling and unable to stop. The day was balmy, the sound of a distant harvester hung in the air, which then became drowned by Harry’s organ. She watched the three women approaching, laughing at something. She slipped from the lobby to meet them. She too wore elegantly fashioned parachute silk, and had removed her wedding veil, for now she was to be the matron of honour to her two friends, who had just been her bridesmaids.
