The Winter Baby

by Sheila Newberry

  Kathleen’s meal was interrupted by a wailing from the Moses basket where Jimmy was supposed to be asleep. She pushed back her chair, ‘Excuse me, the baby’s hungry too!’

  Heather said, ‘We’ll save your pudding for you, Mummy!’

  ‘Some of the first strawberries and cream,’ Jessie enlightened them. ‘If you eat all your dinner, of course!’ she added, glancing at Kitty. ‘A little bit of fat never hurt anyone!’

  *

  Marion was not having anything special to eat over at her mother’s house. She felt a bit uncomfortable in Bert’s presence. When he greeted her, he put his arms round her and hugged her. She was all too aware that, because he was shorter than her, his face lined up with her generous bosom. She gave him a little push away. I hope Mother didn’t notice, she thought, but I reckon she did. I wish I wasn’t suspicious like her, but last night I thought Danny had a guilty air about him. What was he up to over at the Brickyard House? She expelled a sigh. ‘Wilf, don’t play with your food. Eat up.’

  ‘There’s a caterpillar in the lettuce and it’s alive!’ Wilf shuddered.

  Danny leant over and removed the wriggling object with his fork. Then he squashed it. ‘There, eat up as your mother says.’

  ‘You killed it, Daddy.’ Wilf was red in the face. ‘You could have put it outside . . .’

  ‘No he couldn’t, not back on my vegetable garden,’ Mrs Amos said loudly and firmly. ‘You spoil that boy, Marion.’

  ‘Nothin’ wrong with caterpillars,’ Bert put in. ‘They’re nourishment too.’ He sniggered, but no one joined in.

  ‘You can eat them, but I never shall!’ They all looked up in surprise as Wilf actually shouted. He appealed to his father. ‘Can’t we go home?’

  ‘Shush!’ Danny warned him.

  ‘I have something to say first,’ Mrs Amos told them. ‘I have to tell you that Bert and I are selling up. We have been lucky; someone wants to buy the place, but it won’t be as it is now. Businesses are going down the drain all over the country. There’ll be a world war, Bert says, and he knows the signs from his army days.’

  ‘Where will you live, Mother?’ Marion asked anxiously.

  ‘We intend to travel. Enjoy ourselves while we can – go to Australia, which is so far away from Europe it seems unlikely it will be affected by war. There won’t be any money coming your way, Marion, and Danny has already had his inheritance. I can’t say when we’ll be back, so enjoy your last meal in this house!’

  They arrived back at Home Farm still in a state of shock. The girls took Wilf out in the garden with the dog, and Marion and Danny explained to Jessie what had happened. She said, ‘If there is a war, the Commonwealth countries will be fighting alongside Great Britain.’ She put her arms round Marion. ‘I don’t suppose your mother meant to upset you.’

  ‘Yes she did!’ Marion sobbed.

  Danny kept quiet. At least we’re happy and secure here, he thought. And my mother won’t let Marion down.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Despite all their efforts, the pottery was not proving to be a profitable business; in fact by early 1914 they were barely earning enough to cover the cost of running it. Enthusiasm was dwindling as the shelves in the big barn stayed filled with platters, mugs, jugs and preserving pots; the everyday things they had optimistically thought would provide their bread and butter. Chimney pots and garden urns did sell, but not in great quantities.

  Kathleen and the girls seemed unaware that their dream was fading fast, due to the turmoil throughout the world. There was now a united workforce in the British Isles, who were employed in preparations for the inevitable conflict. Women were needed to work in the new munitions factories. London was on full alert and coastal towns were preparing to resist an invasion by sea. People had become complacent over the years following Napoleon’s defeat a hundred years before. The old guns that had been lined up and trained on enemy ships then were still in place, but they were now landmarks rather than viable weapons.

  Small towns like Westerham were also buzzing with activity. The town’s population soared towards the end of the year with the arrival of a battalion from the 2nd West Lancashire Brigade, Royal Field Artillery. The townsfolk wondered if the arrival of their protectors signalled further trouble sooner rather than later.

  Not only was the pottery in trouble; the stables at Home Farm had been visited by officials, for horsepower was vital to the army, despite mechanisation growing rapidly. Teams of shire horses were required urgently to pull the heavy artillery guns; only horses over sixteen years old were exempt. Fortunately, the big carthorse at the pottery was in that category. Riding horses too were needed for the cavalry; there would be further training for their new duties before they were taken to the battlefield. Contracts were given to the owners, with remuneration promised after the war, but many owners worried that their horses would be lost in battle. It would be a struggle for farmers who still relied on horsepower to farm their land, and some of the workforce were already being conscripted to care for the horses overseas. It was becoming clear that women would need to take over the farm work while the men were away.

  At Home Farm, the horses they bred for showing and racing would become warhorses for the cavalry. Only the aged shire horse would remain at the Home Farm stables with the donkey, the Shetland pony, the foals and a couple of brood mares, which Doc would care for.

  Seeing Danny’s distress after he had insisted on loading his horses himself into the army vehicles, the chap in charge asked him, ‘Why don’t you join them? The army are recruiting experienced men like you; you would soon rise up the ranks to sergeant.’

  After the horses were gone and Wilf had been taken off to bed by Daisy, Danny told Marion, Jessie and Doc that he had decided to enlist without waiting for conscription. ‘I have the right qualifications, it seems.’

  It seemed that Marion had come to a decision too: she informed the family that she planned to join the local Red Cross, hoping to train as a Voluntary Aid Detachment at Sevenoaks Hospital. ‘As for Wilf,’ she said confidently, ‘I know he will continue to be cared for at Home Farm. I’ll see him regularly, of course, when I have time off.’

  Danny was as surprised as the rest of them, but he privately accepted that he and Marion were drifting apart. He said quietly, ‘Now we will both be involved in the war. I am proud of you, Marion.’ He suspected they both wished to be rid of their marriage ties.

  They discussed it that night. ‘We should tell Wilf about our decision together,’ Marion said.

  ‘He’s seven years old now, and I believe he will understand,’ Danny agreed.

  They still shared a bed, but Danny accepted that there was an invisible division between them. For some time, he’d maintained the ritual of a goodnight kiss, but this was not reciprocated.

  He said now, ‘I hope we can remain friends for Wilf’s sake, Marion.’

  After a long pause, she said sadly, ‘On good terms, yes, I do hope for that. We must try, anyway.’

  He said quietly, ‘Don’t worry. I will be away and I would never betray my brother regarding Kathleen.’

  *

  Kathleen, worrying about the future, worked as much she could in the pottery. Daisy was always willing to collect Jimmy and take him over to Home Farm when called upon. Wilf, after all, was now at school all day like his cousins.

  When the girls were around, they were eager to help. They were not involved with the potter’s wheel, the pugging machine, the kiln or the process of preparing the clay for moulding small objects, but they enjoyed fashioning simple plates and bowls; these had to dry to a leather-like texture, but while they were still slightly pliable, handles could be applied if necessary. Then the article would be trimmed, sponged and dried. Eventually it would be decorated before or after firing.

  Heather was proving dextrous at making quaint little animal ornaments. Small hands were ideal for the pinch-pot method shown to her by Olga. She poked her thumb and forefinger inside a ball of clay, stretching i
t out on each side to form a hollow and rounding the open end into a plump rump. This was the body of the pig, and a smaller ball of clay was then fashioned into a head and attached with a mixture of clay and water. Features were defined: a snout, tiny black beads for eyes, four sturdy legs with trotters, ears, a curly tail. Heather then marked a slit along the back, turning the pig into a money box as well as a little character, before glazing it or decorating it with paint. She also made ceramic owls, cheeky mice and egg cups.

  ‘Can we make a grasshopper?’ Kitty asked Olga.

  ‘The legs might be difficult to get right,’ Olga smiled. ‘Why a grasshopper, I wonder?’

  ‘Mummy will tell you the story, ’cos Daddy told her. Uncle Danny named one of his horses Grasshopper,’ Kitty said. ‘I’d like to use green paint, it’s my favourite colour!’

  So Kathleen, who was busy ironing at the other side of the kitchen, put down the flat iron and joined them. She had an attentive audience. She had meant to get on while Jimmy was out in his pram with Daisy, who had pedalled over with Wilf on her bicycle carrier.

  Young Dennis tapped on the window. ‘I’ll be over with your elevenses soon!’ Kathleen called back. ‘That boy has got hollow legs.’

  ‘Like the pottery pigs,’ Heather said. Her mother looked at her reprovingly.

  Olga was regarding Heather in a reflective way. Suddenly she said, ‘Your young Heather, she has a definite Latin look. That beautiful apricot-coloured skin, those almost black eyes . . . I would like to paint her, if you permit it?’

  ‘Everyone says she is the image of me,’ Kathleen said, sounding defensive.

  ‘She is small and slight like you, and has inherited your black hair, but at her age she is – how do you say it? Emerging from the chrysalis, eh? Her artistic bent must be encouraged too – who does she take after in that respect?’

  Heather was embarrassed. Why were they discussing her as if she couldn’t hear?

  Kathleen said abruptly, ‘You have made her blush. Heather is herself – as we all are.’ But she couldn’t suppress the image that came to her mind. It was painful but true: Heather had a look of her real father now. A struggling Italian artist, at first he had been kind to Kathleen, protecting her from her mistress’s violence, but he had also destroyed her innocence and she could never forgive him for that.

  ‘If you really want to paint a picture of Heather, you must ask her permission, not mine,’ she said, adding, ‘Now, excuse me.’

  She waited until bedtime to confide in Sam. ‘Oh Sam, I suppose we will have to eventually tell Heather that you adopted her.’

  ‘Shush, Kathleen. She is not ready for that yet. Think how it could upset her.’

  ‘Now I have something else to haunt me . . . If only you were her birth father!’

  ‘Kathleen, it might be better to say nothing at all. Those who know will never divulge it,’ Sam said. He meant the family at Home Farm, of course. ‘Besides, I am her father; I’m the man who raised her, with you.’

  Another secret, Kathleen thought. Why can’t I be free of the past?

  *

  The next morning, a letter came in the post from Min. Her husband was retired from his ministry now, the boys were all grown up and doing well, and the little chapel where Kathleen had found sanctuary ten years before was closed and deserted. The congregation had moved to the new brick-built chapel within the village itself, where they had a proper slate roof over their heads rather than a rattling tin roof. However, the minister and his family would always be remembered by those who had known them.

  Min and Josh were now living in the East End of London, doing voluntary work among the poor parishes there. They had been given the old harmonium as a parting gift from the chapel. ‘I miss her,’ Kathleen sighed. ‘She loved being in the country; it can’t be the same in London . . . I wonder if we will ever see them again.’

  During the lazy, hazy days of that summer, Heather, the proud owner of a bicycle now that she was ten years old, shared her steed with her sister, who had just celebrated her eighth birthday. They took turns standing on the pedals or sitting on the seat. They were aware that life as they knew it was changing; however, some of the activity was puzzling. They could understand why Uncle Danny wanted to join his horses at the training centre, but not why he had to wear a uniform. Auntie Marion’s absence was a puzzle; they had seen her only once, in uniform too, with a red cross on the front. Her blonde hair was restrained in a tight knot. She had hugged Wilf and was obviously trying not to cry.

  ‘Why can’t she stay at home like our mum?’ the girls whispered to each other.

  One day they went further afield on the bicycle without permission. They were curious to see what had happened to the poultry farm after Mrs Amos and Bert had left.

  The old house, mainly timber-built, was no more. The fencing around the property had been reinforced with barbed wire. The girls peered over the new double gate, taking turns to stand on the saddle of the bicycle, kept steady by the other. The gate was obviously locked. A new building had been erected, in the style of the Nissen huts, but much larger. There were bars on the windows and the place appeared deserted, but Kitty gave a shiver. ‘I’m sure someone is spying on us from that window . . .’

  The chickens and their coops were gone – their grandma had benefited from that, as she had been given a dozen pullets at point of lay – and the grounds surrounding the big hut were now covered in grass, on which a few sheep were grazing. There was a big notice: DANGER. KEEP OUT. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY.

  Heather turned the bike around. ‘Come on, Kitty, let’s go home. Don’t you dare tell Mum where we have been!’

  *

  The final crisis came on 28 June 1914, when Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of the dual monarchy of Austria-Hungary, was shot dead in Sarajevo along with his wife Sophie. All over the world there was shock at this terrible event. With Germany supporting them, Austria used the assassination as a chance to crush Serbia. Russia rushed to support Serbia.

  On 1 August 1914, Germany declared war on Russia.

  ‘Lights Out’ was immediately in force. This was necessary because of the threat of attack by German Zeppelin planes at night, on their way to bomb London. No lights must be visible after 10 p.m. However, nothing happened immediately; no bombs rained down.

  Olga promptly travelled back to the East End. The painting of Heather, unfinished, was left on its easel. The pottery was closed for the duration. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said, ‘but I need to be among the dockland families who have not found safe places like our refugees here.’

  The first bombshell was dropped by Sam. He told Kathleen and the girls that Herbie was about to join up, even though he was over forty, and that his wife was taking young Dennis and the dog to her sister’s farm in the West Country. ‘They will be safe there,’ he said. ‘Dennis will help to replace one of the men who has gone to the Front.’ In a quiet voice he added, ‘I am enlisting too. If I don’t do it now, they’ll conscript me anyway. They are digging trenches all over Europe, and I know all about digging clay pits as well as making bricks. I can offer building skills too.’

  ‘What about us?’ Kathleen cried, rocking young Jimmy in her arms, while the girls clung to her skirts. ‘We can’t manage without you.’

  ‘I’m taking you home, Kathleen,’ Sam said solemnly. ‘All of you.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  One month after war was declared, Kathleen, Sam and the three children returned to Home Farm. Mary’s room was available, so the two girls shared a single bed alongside their parents’ double bed. Jimmy, now almost two years old and toddling around, slept on a truckle bed in Wilf’s room, with Daisy looking after them both. Jessie hesitated when she viewed the sleeping arrangements and suggested, ‘Danny and Marion’s room – well, I don’t suppose they’ll mind, as they are away, if you and Sam—’

  ‘Sam will be off shortly.’ Kathleen could hardly believe it still. ‘Danny will be back on leave from time to tim
e, and what about Marion, too? When it comes to it, the girls and I can share the big bed.’

  She was worrying about how they would pay for their keep until Sam was enrolled in the army and began initial training, and then it occurred to her that perhaps she could resume the early mornings at the stables, this time with Doc. After all, their own old carthorse and the buggy pony had joined the other horses, and there were two new nanny goats to milk; fortunately the billy goat had moved to another farm and only came back for a few days when his services were required. She’d ask Doc after she’d mentioned it to Jessie.

  ‘We will discuss later whether it’s best for you to work on the farm or look after the children, Kathleen,’ Jessie said. ‘Not that I’m really sure what is happening. Well, while you make the beds up and put your clothes away, I’ll get on with some cooking. Daisy’s made enough bread to feed an army – oh dear, I shouldn’t have mentioned that when the boys . . .’ She dabbed her eyes with her apron. Oh why did they both have to join up like that? she thought. Conscription was still voluntary and married men were exempt; also those in important roles. Whatever was Sam thinking when he decided to volunteer so quickly?

  ‘Don’t be sad, Grandma. The war will soon be over, Dad reckons,’ Heather said.

  ‘Where’s Bobby?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘I put him on the long lead in the garden until one of you can see to him.’

  Bobby was nibbling something: a postcard with a picture of Sydney harbour. ‘He must have picked it up from the front doormat; it could be from some days ago,’ Jessie sighed as Kitty took the damp card to her. The writing was blurred, but they managed to decipher it. The card was from Mrs Amos, addressed to Mrs Marion Mason.

  Dear Marion,

  I have both good and bad news for you – we were in Sydney hoping to settle there, as the Outback is not my cup of tea, when Bert was rushed to hospital after suffering a stroke. He died the following day. I decided to return to England – the climate in Australia did me no favours. I am in London at the moment seeing to my affairs and changing my will. I plan to stay with you on a temporary basis. I will be arriving shortly.