But Bonny caught a glimpse of the dance studio through the low windows, saw her reflection looking back at her in a big mirror, and knew she’d never want to go back to Dagenham again.
‘Now I like Bonny to keep wearing her liberty bodice until the end of May,’ Doris said sharply. Arnold had gone out into the garden with Bonny, leaving her alone with Miss Wynter to discuss the more personal aspects. ‘And I always make her wear two pairs of knickers, white ones underneath her navy school ones. I always put Toddilocks on her hair before I roll it up in rags.’
Lydia glanced at her small carriage clock. She was taking Mr and Mrs Phillips back to the station to catch the half-past-five train and it couldn’t come soon enough for her.
She had listened to a litany of instructions, amongst them that Bonny must be made to ‘do big jobs’ every morning before school. How she didn’t like tomatoes, or fat on bacon, and that bottled damsons brought her out in a rash. Doris Phillips was quite the most tedious woman Lydia had ever met. She had absolutely no conversation except about her child.
Lydia just nodded in agreement at everything. She’d heard every detail of the woman’s confinement, about her problems with ‘the change’. Lydia had hoped to find some clue as to where Bonny got her enquiring mind, her vivacious personality and her looks, but now she was convinced the child must be a changeling.
Arnold, to be fair to him, was easier. He had at least asked about Bonny learning to play the piano, and was interested in gardening. But Doris was impossible.
Even the way the woman sat was irritating. Every bone in her body was tense. She’d taken off her coat, but kept her hat on, and had made a great display of crooking her little finger as she drank her tea, of cutting cake into tiny pieces, then eating them one by one as if afraid of actually enjoying them. She set great store by ‘Manners’ too, in fact she’d used the word at least a dozen times.
‘I think we ought to make a move.’ Lydia got up from her armchair and smoothed down her skirt over her hips. ‘I’ll just make you a couple of sandwiches to eat on the train. It’s a long journey home. Shall I fill your flask for you?’
Alone in the kitchen, she hastily made some ham sandwiches. It was the last of her meat ration, but under the circumstances this seemed fair exchange for Bonny. She could see Doris through the window, calling her husband and daughter, her plain, worn face so dejected.
‘Just don’t break down on me,’ Lydia muttered to herself, all too keenly aware that the woman had nothing but the child in her life. ‘Why couldn’t I have picked a kid with a mother like Jack’s?’
It was Arnold who took control at the station. All four of them crossed the footbridge, stopping for a moment to admire the view of the river. It was almost dusk and very cold now the sun had gone.
‘Go home now,’ he said, turning to Lydia, his eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Don’t stand around in the cold with us, it will be easier.’
Doris opened her mouth to protest, but Arnold took her arm firmly.
‘If you’re sure.’ Lydia shot a grateful look at him.
He nodded, holding out his arms to Bonny.
A lump came up in Lydia’s throat as the child hurled herself at him, burying her face in his chest.
‘Be a good girl,’ he said softly, bending over and kissing the top of Bonny’s pixy hood. ‘Write and tell us everything.’
Lydia averted her eyes as Bonny kissed her mother. She saw the naked grief in the woman’s face, but also the coldness in the child’s eyes.
‘I’ll be all right Mummy.’ Bonny’s voice was tactlessly cheerful. ‘I like it here.’
Arnold nodded at Lydia and put his arm round his wife, drawing her close to him.
‘I’ll care for her as if she were my own.’ Lydia felt a little like Judas as she took Bonny’s hand. ‘I wish you a safe journey home.’
As Lydia and Bonny walked back down from the footbridge, she could hear the train coming up the line. But the clickety-clack didn’t quite drown the sound of Doris’s sobs and the low murmur of Arnold’s voice soothing her.
Bonny snuggled down into the soft bed and smiled with delight. Tomorrow Aunt Lydia was taking her to her new school, and in the evening there would be a dancing lesson. Nobody here knew anything about her, or her parents. She could be anyone she wanted to be.
It was a bit embarrassing when Aunt Lydia had told her off for washing her hands and face at the kitchen sink. How was she to know that posh people always used the bathroom? But she’d soon learn all those things if she watched Aunt Lydia. She’d found the place where she belonged.
Chapter Four
Bury St Edmunds, March 1940
‘And what might you be doing?’
Ellie spun round at Miss Gilbert’s voice. She tried to hide the blood stains on her nightdress with her hands.
‘I th’think I’ve s’started,’ she stammered with embarrassment and fear.
It was the middle of the night. Ellie had woken to find herself all sticky. She’d crept down to the kitchen to investigate because she didn’t dare put the light on in the bathroom for fear of waking Miss Gilbert. When she saw the blood she nearly keeled over with shock. Although she suspected this was the thing her mother called ‘her monthly’, Ellie hadn’t expected it to happen to her until she was older.
Miss Gilbert must have crept silently down the stairs, perhaps hoping to find Ellie stealing food or snooping. The woman looked like an escaped inmate from an asylum in her long flannel nightgown, hair loose and straggly and eyes glinting demonically behind her glasses.
‘You filthy girl,’ Miss Gilbert hissed, her mouth pursed in an expression of absolute disgust. ‘It’s just what I’d expect from you.’
Ellie burst into tears. After seven months with the Gilberts she had learnt not to expect kindness from this mean woman, but such inhumanity at a time when she desperately needed her mother was too much to bear. ‘I couldn’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Miss Gilbert turned away from Ellie and went out into the hall. The sound of the broom cupboard opening alarmed Ellie, afraid the woman was going to get a stick to beat her. She backed towards the kitchen door, so scared she almost wet herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered as Miss Gilbert came back in, instinctively putting her arms up to protect herself. Miss Gilbert hadn’t fetched a weapon, though – only an old sheet.
‘Cut this up and make pads,’ she snapped. ‘I shall expect you to wash them when my brother is out of the house. Now get out of my sight you slut.’
Ellie lay awake crying long after Miss Gilbert had gone to bed. She’d had many a night feeling forlorn in this house, but never one quite as bad as this.
It was now March, and although Ellie had asked Mrs Dunwoody to move her to another billet countless times in her first few weeks, when no other suitable place could be found, she’d resigned herself to Miss Gilbert.
Her reasons for this stoic acceptance were mostly because of her mother. Polly had two jobs now: working as a waitress at Lyons Corner House by Trafalgar Square by day and at the Empire in Holborn in the evening. The theatre had closed briefly at the start of the war, but when it reopened, Polly decided to keep both jobs.
When Polly came to Suffolk in November to visit, Ellie intended to tell her the truth about Miss Gilbert and beg to be taken home, but she found she couldn’t. Despite her exhaustion, Polly was jubilant because at last she was making enough money to save towards a better home. Ellie hadn’t the heart to spoil long-term plans which were all for her benefit.
Instead she told her mother about the good things in Suffolk and made out she was happy.
There were many good things. In fact, if she’d been billeted with anyone other than Miss Gilbert, it might have been idyllic. Bury St Edmunds was like a treasure trove, full of interesting places. The surrounding countryside promised to be glorious now that spring was on its way. She’d made friends and the lady at the library liked her and always kept back special boo
ks for her.
But most of all she liked St John’s School. It was small and old with the tiniest playground, but it was bright and cosy with only four classrooms. Even in January, when it was bitterly cold with snow several feet deep, the school had been warm. It smelt of polish and disinfectant and the walls were covered in children’s artwork. There were no more than eighty children, all told. The varying ages and abilities in each class fostered a family atmosphere as older children helped coach younger ones. To Ellie, each day there was like having a new exercise book: clean, blank pages which she wanted to fill with something worthwhile.
Ellie’s teacher, Miss Wilkins, was kind, interesting and patient. Her way of teaching wasn’t to bark out facts, but to stimulate their interest with shared projects, making them find out information for themselves, then encouraging group discussions. In six months Ellie had never seen anyone get the cane. All Miss Wilkins had to do when someone was playing up was tap them on the shoulder, look at the child reproachfully and point towards the door. Somehow Miss Wilkins made the child feel they’d hurt her by being naughty. When they were allowed into the class again they were always subdued.
It was the acting classes twice a week after school, though, which finally sealed Ellie’s determination to put up with Miss Gilbert. Miss Wilkins shared Ellie’s passion for the stage and the productions she directed were as popular with the parents who came to watch them as with the children who took part. Although most of Ellie’s schoolfriends saw these classes just as a pleasant diversion from routine, Ellie saw them as training towards her goal of being an actress.
Now, as Ellie lay in the pitch-dark room feeling dirty and shamed, the bad things in her life heavily outweighed the good ones. Being woken at six-thirty by Miss Gilbert, given two slices of bread and margarine for breakfast, and having to make all the beds and clean the bedrooms before school. Cleaning came easy to Ellie – she’d always helped her mother – but here, instead of praising her for her efforts, Miss Gilbert went behind her, checking for dust. After school Ellie helped Mr Gilbert in the workroom and on Saturdays there was a full day of scrubbing, polishing and window-cleaning.
The winter had been long and bitterly cold. Heavy snow had isolated villages, animals had frozen to death in the fields. Because of coal shortages people went scavenging for wood, often cutting down trees. The black-out intensified the misery still further, and batteries for torches were almost impossible to find.
Because of the bad weather and her two jobs, Polly was unable to come and visit again. Although she wrote at least once a week, her funny and warm letters, full of gossip about neighbours and the shows at the Empire, heightened Ellie’s feeling of loss. Miss Gilbert used the start of rationing in January as a further excuse for meagre meals. Ellie got chaps on her hands and feet and sore places on the inside of her thighs, and night after night lay shivering in her bed because Miss Gilbert wouldn’t give her an extra blanket.
She had come to accept the lack of kindness, the strict regime and the hunger. No one could accuse her of being fat any longer; in fact she was now one of the thinnest girls in her class. But now, faced with this final humiliation, Ellie was at breaking point.
‘Ellie, stay behind please!’ Miss Wilkins said as the children began to file out of the classroom to get their coats.
Miss Wilkins had noticed Ellie’s red-rimmed eyes as soon as she’d come into school that morning. The girl hadn’t sung in assembly, just stood there with her head bowed. Throughout the rest of the day she’d remained silent and unresponsive.
The teacher waited until the last child had left the classroom. Some of them were peering over the glass partition from the hall, wondering what was going on, but Miss Wilkins waved them away.
‘What’s the matter, Ellie?’ she said gently. ‘Something wrong at home?
Ellie hung her head, wanting to blurt it out, but too embarrassed to speak of anything so personal.
‘Missing Mum?’ Miss Wilkins asked. Most of the evacuees had gone home for Christmas and never returned, but Ellie hadn’t been able to go because of her mother’s work. ‘She’ll be down to see you soon now the weather’s improving. I don’t think this phoney war’s going to last much longer though, Ellie. I wouldn’t be surprised if all hell breaks loose soon. You’re much better off here.’
When Ellie didn’t respond in any way, Miss Wilkins was puzzled. Usually she never missed an opportunity to talk about her mother’s latest letter, or the progress of the war.
‘Is it Miss Gilbert?’ The teacher put one finger under Ellie’s chin and lifted it. ‘You can tell me, Ellie.’
Miss Wilkins was forty, with a softness about her that suggested she was once very pretty. Her eyes and hair were a warm brown, her skin still delicate despite many fine lines, and although she favoured severe plain clothes and her hair was restrained in a prim bun, she was a very feminine woman. Her father had been the vicar of St John’s Church and she’d taught at the school since she was twenty-four, her only qualification being the love of children. Fate had deprived her of any of her own; her sweetheart had been killed in Flanders and she’d never met another man who could take his place. But she hadn’t become a sour old maid, despite predictions that she would. She found romance in books, her work at the school fulfilled her and her pupils became her children for a few short years.
From Ellie’s very first day in her class, Miss Wilkins was amused by the girl’s sense of humour. She had asked Ellie if she was comfortable at the Gilberts’.
‘I wouldn’t call it “comfortable”, exactly,’ Ellie replied with a mischievous grin. ‘But at least they haven’t made me sleep in a coffin.’
Miss Wilkins had found the London children were a tough breed. Many of the locals had been appalled at their lack of table manners, their shabby clothes and symptoms of malnutrition. One distracted foster mother claimed she couldn’t get the children into a bed – they’d insisted on sleeping under it, the way they had at home. Yet these children were quick-witted, resourceful and receptive. They soon adjusted to their new life and contributed to the community with their cheerful natures, making some of the local children look very dull in comparison. Ellie, however, had been plump on arrival, with glossy hair and sparkling eyes. Today, faced with her dejected state, Miss Wilkins noticed for the first time how thin Ellie had become, how dull her hair and eyes.
Ellie had a strong personality: she was self-assured, warm-hearted and popular with both children and staff. Time and again Miss Wilkins had seen her entertaining the other children in the playground with tap-dancing, slapstick comedy and song-and-dance routines. She was by far the best actress in the school club too, but now, as Miss Wilkins saw the desolation in the girl’s face, she realised to her horror that Ellie Forester had been acting out a role, fooling everyone into thinking she was content and even happy at the undertakers.
‘Now listen here.’ Seeing that Ellie wasn’t about to talk, Miss Wilkins took a tougher line. ‘Something is very wrong and I insist on knowing about it. If you won’t tell me I’ll go to Mr Gilbert.’
Ellie blanched. Mr Gilbert was a decent sort, quite unlike his sister. They had even established a kind of tentative friendship as she helped him trim coffins out in the workshop. If he were to discover what had happened last night she wouldn’t be able to live with the shame.
There was nothing for it but to take Miss Wilkins into her confidence.
She blurted it out, her fear, embarrassment and shame when Miss Gilbert called her a slut.
‘Oh Ellie.’ Miss Wilkins’s eyes softened with sympathy at Ellie’s whispered explanation, drawing her close and hugging her. She understood completely the girl’s trauma of being unprepared for menstruation. Even with a mother to explain and advise, it was still a source of embarrassment to girls. Her heart went out to Ellie, silently cursing the bitter old maid who’d made her feel so ashamed of her femininity. ‘It’s quite normal, you know, you’ve just started a bit early. Let me explain it all to you.’
Miss Wilkins sat at her desk deep in thought for some time after Ellie had gone home. She was appalled that Miss Gilbert could betray her own sex by humiliating the girl at such a crucial time. Miss Wilkins had explained, reassured and even given Ellie a packet of proper sanitary towels. Yet during their talk she had sensed that this wasn’t an isolated incidence of callousness on Miss Gilbert’s part, but a long and vindictive campaign against the girl.
What should she do?
Miss Wilkins knew there wasn’t an alternative billet in the town. Many of the people had had bad experiences with their first attempt with evacuees and when the children had gone home they’d refused to try again. Now an influx of RAF wives whose husbands were stationed in East Anglia had descended on the town, filling the remaining places. If she asked Mrs Dunwoody to find Ellie a new home it might be miles away in one of the villages, involving a change of school. Ellie had been emphatic she didn’t want that, and neither did Miss Wilkins.
Ellie was the kind of child who made teaching a pleasure. She wasn’t academic, but her enthusiasm and desire to soak up knowledge were delightful. Since arriving in the village she’d all but lost her cockney accent, taking pride in learning to speak correctly. On top of that, Ellie’s acting ability needed nurturing. She was good enough to have a career on the stage.
Miss Wilkins smiled as she remembered back to last September. She’d got the evacuees to tell the class about their parents and homes back in London, in an effort to show the local children a glimpse of city life.
One by one the evacuee children created a picture of big families living in cramped conditions, noisy street markets, eel and pie shops, the docks, pawnbrokers and second-hand clothes shops. Miss Wilkins opened it up as a class discussion, getting the locals to ask questions and indeed to explain to the London children the differences in their lives. Ellie had taken a big role in all this, being far more articulate than many of the others, and her vivid descriptions of her neighbours back home made all the children laugh.
Ellie Page 8
