Orphans of War

by Leah Fleming

  And that was why Maddy was going to be packed off to Madame Drysdale’s Dance Academy in Scarperton to take a ballet class.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ she moaned to Aunt Plum. ‘I’ll be hopeless and it’s a long way on my own. Why can’t Gloria come too?’

  ‘The Battys don’t have the money to pay for classes, darling, and bus fares,’ she replied.

  ‘But we could pay for her…Please. I just can’t face going on my own.’ Maddy whined just enough times for Grandma to consent.

  ‘Just for a term, mind, to see if it suits, but if you miss classes they will stop for both of you.’

  She’d gone with Aunt Plum to visit the Battys and were shown into the front room that smelled of damp and soot and must. Gloria was out and they’d sipped tea politely, and Aunt Plum explained the scheme to Mrs Batty who nodded and smiled and said, ‘How kind to think of her…especially after the unfortunate episode.’

  Aunt Plum soon put her at ease with a wave of her hand and left it up to Maddy to tell Gloria this very afternoon, but she’d forgotten to tell her. Why?

  As she sat up in the chilly tree loft she felt strangely distant from everything going on around her. Nothing was real any more. She just couldn’t be bothered to tell her and watch the look of delight beam over Gloria’s face.

  Gloria would shine in the class and she would be dull. She was as pretty as Maddy was plain. An owl hooted from across the fields and she knew it was time to head down. She was being mean to Gloria and now she realised why. It was because of her spoiling Christmas with the wrong news, misleading her and lulling her into safety.

  Maddy wanted to punish her friend a little while longer and then she recalled what Gloria had told her in confidence about her own mother being a harlot, as it said in the Bible. She must look it up in the dictionary in the study. Gloria’s mother had given her up and run away; her own parents had no choice. It wasn’t their fault or Gloria’s fault. It just was. It was war.

  Don’t be mean, she thought as she made her way back to the warmth of the Old Vic, so she could walk back with Gloria and tell her the news then. It was the least she could do. But she was not going to speak to Greg Byrne ever again.

  Plum rushed down to the Vic as soon as she heard the news that Enid had turned up safe, having been picked up trying to thumb a lift with her ‘boyfriend’, who was now on a charge of abducting a minor. She arrived to a scene of total chaos. From high up the wall, there were a pair of legs dangling from the upper casement window.

  ‘Get down at once, Enid Cartwright! Stop making an exhibition of yourself,’ shouted Avis Blunt. ‘I don’t know why they bothered to bring you back, you brazen huzzy!’

  ‘What’s going on, Gregory?’ Plum turned to the young man staring up at the drama.

  ‘The silly cow says she’s going to jump out of the window if they don’t let her see Alf. She won’t be sent away to no home either.’

  ‘Cook’s left me to see to the pastry in the oven,’ said Miss Blunt. ‘You must deal with this now…Let her jump, for all we care. There’ll be more for us if she does. I’m sick of her tantrums.’ Avis turned back to the girl, wagging her finger. ‘It’ll be bread and no jam for you until you see sense, my girl. I never had this trouble with my prep school boys. My nerves can’t stand any more of the likes of you. Don’t scratch the paintwork!’

  Plum was tired and in no mood for this drama. What with Maddy being difficult and moody, Mother-in-law off her food and being a martyred Minnie, Ilse giving her notice as she wanted to help in the local hospital, and the parcel of supplies to deliver, her head was throbbing.

  Plum looked up at the gangling girl with her plump legs and ankle socks, her hair pinned up in a straggly Victory Roll, trying to look older than she really was. How did you reason with a defiant girl of that age? Call her bluff, she thought.

  ‘If you’re going to jump, Enid, do get on with it. Matron and I haven’t time to stand here gawping at your dramatics. It’s starting to rain.’ Deliberately she turned her back and began to walk away, trembling at her own words. What if the silly girl did jump and she was accused of incitement to suicide?

  ‘I’m not going to no home…I was coming back any roads…It’s not fair, I ain’t done nothing wrong,’ Enid shouted, but the voice was wobbly and tearful.

  Plum turned to see her half in and out of the window. ‘Oh, Greg, can you talk some sense into her?’ she sighed.

  ‘Who said anything about another home?’ he shouted up at her.

  The would-be delinquent paused at this different tack. ‘Shut yer mouth, Byrne. It’s none of yer bloody business what I do!’

  ‘Why should you be treated any different from the rest of us? What’ve you done to help out but moan and whine and skive off?’ he replied.

  ‘I went to school, don’t I? I never asked to come to this dump. I done me chores but I’m not a kid, am I? I just want to do what the other girls in the village get up to…yer only young once, Alf says. There’s nothing else to do in these hills. It’s all don’ts in this place: don’t show a light; don’t leave a gate open; don’t make a din; mind your manners and sit at the table. They think we’re rubbish kids,’ she called out to her audience.

  ‘From where I’m standing, that’s just what you deserve,’ Greg yelled. ‘You can’t just run off and expect everyone to welcome you back with open arms. You let Mrs Plum down.’

  ‘Hark at ’im. You’d be off down that road like a flash if there weren’t a fancy car for you to fiddle with. You’ve gone soft, teacher’s pet. I know your game. I’m not a kid, I’ll be working soon and then no one can stop me and Alf being together.’

  It was too much to stand by and let the boy try to bring her down. Plum was blazing mad as the rain poured down on them but now was not the time to show it. How had she ever got talked into this job?

  ‘From where I’m standing, Enid, all I can see is next week’s washing and a big baby making an exhibition of herself. I hope Alf isn’t peering down his binoculars, seeing you in your glory; not very glamorous or grown up to get everyone worried and searching for you, and now your boyfriend’s in the glasshouse because of you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Enid said.

  ‘Well, we do, young lady. Some boyfriend! And you don’t even care what happens to him? Still,’ she paused trying a different tack, ‘if you fall we’ll have to pick up the pieces and send for the undertaker to measure you up. So if you’re going to jump, do it quickly before all these lovely American magazines in my bag get soaked. We’ve had another parcel from over the water full of tinned fruit and goodies. We’ll share out yours with the others, if that’s all right. You’ll not be around to worry and Alf will find another girlfriend in your place,’ she said, hoping this might tempt the disobedient young pup into behaving.

  ‘What magazines?’ Enid’s sturdy legs were edging back over the window sill.

  ‘Oh, just Moviegoers, that sort of stuff, but I can send them for salvage…or I can send for the constable again and then you really will be in trouble. It’s your shout,’ Plum coaxed, sensing a shift in the wind.

  ‘Keep yer hair on! I’m coming down. It’s just not fair.’ Enid wriggled back through the window, to everyone’s relief.

  ‘That was good, miss,’ laughed Greg.

  ‘Sometimes the carrot works better than the stick…And what’s this about you running away too? I thought you were starting work at Brigg’s Garage?’

  ‘No fear, miss. I know when I’m well off, and so does she, up there shouting the odds,’ Greg smiled, seeing Plum’s anxious look. ‘Take no notice. It was hard at first for all of us to settle, what with the village lads calling us names, but once we’d bloodied their noses on the way home from school a time or two, we’re sort of all one gang now, miss.’

  Plum smiled, knowing a few of the matrons of Sowerthwaite had turned their noses up at some of the latest arrivals, especially young mothers in curlers, smoking fags on the doorsteps of their billets, hanging about looking b
ored. The town was full of newcomers unused to country ways. There’d been gossip about some of the young mothers complaining about there being no chip vans, dance halls or public houses, and giving lip to their betters. Perhaps if the locals knew just what some of these families had been through, they’d not be so quick to condemn.

  Even Enid had chosen to run back here and take her punishment, sensing they’d be fair with her, the crafty little minx. It was a good sign when runaways returned to the fold like naughty puppies. Enid knew when she was well off too, however much she protested.

  If only Maddy was that easy to settle. It was hard to get through the tough little shell she had grown in the past months. Her fears and worries were hidden deep behind a ‘don’t bother me’ mask. Perhaps if they made sure her eyesight was secure, and straightened out the squint, it would give her confidence for when she started her new school.

  If Plum had learned anything from working with these young girls it was that appearance mattered. How easy to forget how she’d agonised over spots on her own face and whether her nose was too straight. Poor Maddy had to wear those awful specs and the patch. She pretended not to care but she must be the butt of teasing and worse. How could they have left it so long? The girl was never going to be pretty so they must make the best of what she’d got.

  8

  Greg was in big trouble. It was not as if he meant to steal the soldier’s motor bike. It was just there and he couldn’t resist. He’d ridden it enough times across the battery field as a reward for doing errands and stuff. He liked going up there and watching them scanning the skies for enemy aircraft, oiling their machinery and playing football. It was one of those days when The Rug was on the warpath, nag, nagging, bending their ears with her petty rules and regulations: ‘Wash your hands’; inspections behind the ears. He’d had years of this sort of rubbish and thought that a quick lick and a promise would pass muster, but not with Miss Blunt.

  ‘Byrne, you are old enough to set an example but I can grow potatoes behind your ears so go and wash them again!’

  Would he hell! Greg scarpered out of the back door and up the hill. There were times lately when he just needed to be on his own. All that fussing just pissed him off. When was he going to grow up proper? He was stuck in between a kid and a lad. There was a war going on and he wasn’t in it. Real danger was coming, and all that old trout fussed on about was a few crusts behind his lugs. That was when he saw Barry’s bike, mud splattered but begging to be started up. He knew which wires to cross to ignite the engine if the key wasn’t there–he’d learned that at the previous hostel–but he was in luck as the key had been left for anyone to steal.

  Barry was hiding behind some rocks canoodling with his latest girl from the town. He was a smooth operator. Greg had seen him chatting the girls up, necking with them in the fields. They were going at each other hammer and tongs so Barry wouldn’t miss his bike for a few minutes. Greg could blow out on the tracks, scare a few sheep, rattle his bones. It would be brilliant!

  Heading into the wind he drove like the devil, up the track winding across the main road. No one was around and he didn’t care. Once he got up some speed it was as if it sparked an engine in his own head…Go, go, go!

  How was he to know there was a milk lorry coming round the bend that swerved to avoid him? It crashed into him, knocking milk cans everywhere, milk spilling onto the road. Greg went flying and landed on his bum, dazed but unharmed. The lorry driver went berserk and cuffed him round the ears good and proper. The bike was a mess and he had to push it down the road. His new corduroy trousers were all torn and bloodied. Barry was nowhere to be seen but all hell broke loose at the Old Vic on his return.

  He was up before the coppers for a caution, and the biggest humiliation of all was when he was put back in short trousers, floppy grey ones, cut-offs that barely reached his knees like a kid, but he’d only himself to blame.

  ‘If you behave like a tearaway you’ll be treated like one,’ screamed Miss Blunt.

  Mrs Plum went with him to the police station, where the sergeant gave him a right dressing-down, saying something about wasting precious petrol that men had died in ships to bring to this country. He was wasting precious milk that the children of England will be deprived of and taking a bike without permission so a soldier at his duty was put at risk.

  You’d think he’d started a fifth column of collaborators, waiting to sabotage the Yorkshire Dales, the way the sergeant went on and on. He saw poor Mrs Plum blushing with embarrassment as he was told off and was put under orders to behave himself or else.

  He didn’t care about the rest but he felt mean to have caused her bother. She didn’t need to tell him he’d let her down. Her face said it all. It was The Rug who seemed to take pleasure in his disgrace, picking on him. Bad enough to be grounded, confined to the barracks for the foreseeable future. The gang thought he was a hero. But he just wished it would all go away.

  Maddy brought him books to read and there was an especially good one that caught his interest. It was all about how boys hid in the wild woods and lived rough. Now that was something he fancied doing.

  He felt stupid in his short pants, his legs were growing like twigs, all bones and hinges. If only Miss Blunt would keep off his back–but she kept on sticking a needle in until he was ready to explode.

  If she were a man he’d have clobbered her, but only a coward would slap a woman down. She was like all the past billet tyrants rolled into one, with her piggy eyes and roly-poly shape, the way her wig shifted when she got worked up.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off that wig. It made him laugh, taking his mind off her sarcasm. He knew it was only time before he’d take his revenge.

  Maddy felt sorry for Greg. He just couldn’t do anything right, and she overheard the meeting in the drawing room when Miss Blunt complained about his sullen insolence.

  ‘In my book boys like that need breaking down. Byrne has too much spirit for a boy of the lower orders. He needs a taste of the birch, not a caution.’

  ‘Gregory just got carried away,’ said Plum in his defence. ‘He’s at that awkward stage, neither fish nor fowl. The in-between years can be trying but no real harm was done.’

  ‘I must say, Mrs Belfield, you take all this very lightly. I’m not used to such indulgence by my clients,’ said Miss Blunt.

  ‘In my experience, I just feel the more we punish, the less response we get,’ Plum replied. ‘My puppies, for instance—’

  She was interrupted. ‘With respect, madam, this is a lad, not a pup.’

  ‘I don’t know…at this age there’s not much difference, but breaking the spirit is never a good idea,’ Plum defended her charge again.

  ‘He’ll have to be moved on. I’ll not stand for much more. The others see him as a hero with his Victory Tree HQ. He sets a very bad example.’ Miss Blunt was not letting go.

  ‘Do you want me to have a word?’ said Plum.

  ‘You Belfields must do as you see fit,’ came the guarded reply.

  Maddy knew she must warn Greg to ease up on his campaign. Time to score some gold stars for himself, instead of black marks. Without him in the hostel it would be a very boring place and he was one of her special friends there. He’d taught her to ride her bike and she just liked him.

  Rushing over to the Old Vic as soon as she could, Maddy spied them all having a troop review under the Victory Tree HQ, a line of troops for kit inspection. It was a war game they all played, a bit like being in the Boy Scouts, parading with pitchforks and spades as if they were guns, taking turns to spot planes in the trees. Greg was up the tree with the binoculars, but no sooner had she arrived than Miss Blunt came huffing and puffing up the steps behind her.

  ‘Just stop these silly games…I want you all back inside at once. When you’ve done all your chores, you can play out but not before. And where is Byrne? If that toerag’s skived off again…No one must take notice of a ruffian like that. He’s the scum of the earth and he’ll be ending up in gaol
before long.’

  The warden was facing them with her back to the tree, and Gloria, Sid and the troop were standing back. Everyone’s eyes were trying not to look up as a fishing rod with a hook on the end slowly dangled down over Miss Blunt’s head. Maddy gasped. The line was heading down silently towards Miss Blunt, down towards the thatch of rust-coloured hair. Slowly, slowly it descended as Greg, hiding in the branches, aimed for the crown as she droned on. She made to move, but the thatch lifted itself off neatly and swung in the air.

  Once dislodged, it wriggled in the breeze like a wounded animal, dangling, exposing the fluff of her bare skull for all to see.

  For a second, no one spoke, being too shocked, but Miss Blunt felt the jerk and then the draught, turning round to watch the wig disappearing from her grasp up the tree. She was speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

  ‘Byrne!’ she screamed, shaking her fist into the tree. Maddy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, sensing Greg’s triumph was going to be his undoing.

  ‘This time you’ve gone too far,’ said Mrs Plum, tearing a strip off the culprit standing before her. ‘You might think it funny and clever, but what you did was wrong. Miss Blunt wears a wig for a good reason, to cover a disability, just as Maddy must wear a patch to cover hers, but to defy her in such a way–I’m ashamed of you! I trusted you and you let me down again. I stood surety for your last stupid prank. This time I have to inform the billeting officer to find you another hostel. I have no choice. Oh, Gregory! What do you say for yourself?’ she sighed.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Plum.’ He looked suddenly smaller and lost in a short pants.

  ‘Sorry isn’t enough. You owe Miss Blunt an apology. Thoughtlessness is one thing. Cruelty is another. I won’t have behaviour like this at the Vic. I just can’t believe you’d be so stupid. And don’t stand there looking as if you don’t care because I can see through your act.’