by Trisha Merry
I rushed out to find a tiny scratch and a bemused child. ‘I only skidded on a wet patch.’
There was never a dull moment at our house, although the neighbours might take a different view of it all.
With our two new arrivals, Alfie and Gilroy, we rearranged the bedrooms. First we took Paul out of Ronnie and AJ’s room and paired him up in a separate room with Gilroy. Paul and Gilroy were the same age, and if any of our children could cope with Gilroy, it was boisterous Paul, who could always hold his own, though I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Luckily Paul seemed to take this change in his stride.
Meanwhile, Alfie shared Laurel’s room, being the same age, eighteen months, and both still sleeping in cots. This turned out to be an excellent pairing.
Just when we thought we were straight, we were asked to take in a tiny newborn baby on an emergency placement. We were already full, officially, with ten children, but this was an exception because of the circumstances. During the birth, the mother had some kind of medical trauma and was now in intensive care. So we took in this little babe, just a few hours old. She didn’t even have a name yet. We got all the children together in the kitchen to see her for the first time. They all had a ‘gentle’ stroke of her dark hair, as soft as down, and her little fistfuls of fingers fascinated every one of them, even Gilroy for just a moment.
‘This is our emergency baby,’ I said.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Chrissy.
‘She hasn’t got a name yet.’
‘Mergey baby!’ Alfie blurted out, practising the sound of what he thought I’d said. ‘Mergey baby’.
So that’s what we called her from then on.
Paul was due to start at pre-school that week, so we enrolled Gilroy as well and they went bounding in on their first morning, scattering everything and everybody. They loved it from the start, but I don’t think the other children and staff loved them. I had quite a frosty reception when I arrived to fetch them at the end of that first morning, and it went downhill from there. They caused such mayhem that, only two days later, they were both expelled – Paul for a week and Gilroy permanently.
‘We have to think of the other children, Mrs Merry. They were all frightened and some of them were hurt. All the parents were complaining.’
It was a cold winter that year, and we lived in a large draughty house in Sonnington, with no central heating. So we kept a coal fire going all the time through the winter. Mike used to back it up with slack at night, before he went to bed. Then when I got up, early in the morning, I used to go down and give it a couple of pokes to get it going again and put the fireguard back in place when I’d finished, before heating up the bottles for baby Gail and Mergey. When they were ready, I went back upstairs to give them both their first feed of the day. After I’d winded them, changed them and put them back in their cots to play, I went down and made Mike some breakfast. I saw him off to work before going back up to get myself dressed, before anyone else needed me.
On this particular day, as I went out onto the landing again, I noticed an acrid smell, as if something was burning. I remember standing there, torn between going to pick up a crying toddler, or going down to check the fire. But I knew I didn’t have any choice.
The smell was much stronger in the hall, and it was definitely coming from the sitting room, so I turned the door handle and pushed it open, at which point the fire gave a huge WHOOSH and blazed fiercely as it roared up the chimney. I slammed the door shut again and ran back into the hall, where I picked up the phone to dial 999 . . . just as the front door opened. We must have left it on the latch without realising. There, in the open doorway, stood a tall fireman, all kitted up, complete with his helmet, and sporting a sooty smear down one side of his face. I couldn’t believe it. This was surreal. Beyond him, I glimpsed three more firemen on the path outside. I felt quite stupid, standing there with the phone in my hand and my mouth wide open.
‘But I haven’t even rung you yet!’ I exclaimed.
‘No need to now,’ he said with a grin. ‘We’re already here. We just finished checking a false fire alarm that went off across the village when we saw the flames shooting out of your chimney. Boy did it go! So we came straight round.’
He tramped his big boots across the hall and into the sitting room. ‘Ah yes.’ The others all followed him in and they all stood in the room, watching the fire burn.
‘Shouldn’t you be rushing around with hoses and all sorts?’ I asked.
‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment,’ he explained with a reassuring smile. ‘Except watch the fire, keep it safe and make sure it doesn’t blaze outwards.’
‘OK. So, is there anything you want me to do, or shall I just get on?’
‘Are you the only one in the house?’ asked the man in charge.
‘Oh no, no, no.’
‘Is there anybody in the rooms above?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, the bricks will be getting very hot. You’ll need to go and get whoever it is to come down, just in case.’
So up I went, picked up the first baby, Gail, from her cot and carried her downstairs, then stood like a fool in the hall, wondering what to do with her while I went back for the next one. ‘Can you take her?’ I asked, and passed baby Gail into his arms.
‘Please be careful not to knock her head,’ I said.
He looked rather incongruous, standing there in full fire-fighting gear, cradling a baby. ‘What about your neighbours?’ he suggested. ‘Could they help?’
‘Oh yes.’ So we both went round to knock on their door. Luckily she was already up and about, but somewhat surprised when she saw me standing there with a fireman at half past eight in the morning.
‘Mrs Clark,’ I began. ‘We’ve got a chimney fire blazing away in our house and I need to get the kids out.’
‘Here you are,’ said the chief fireman with a cheery smile as he plonked Gail into her reticent arms.
‘Could you look after her for a few minutes, and be careful not to knock her head, while I go back for the next one?’ I said.
‘Oh, OK,’ she agreed, holding baby Gail rather awkwardly, while giving the fireman a smile.
Of course, I realised, she and her husband had never had any children . . . but no time to worry about that. We rushed back into my house, where I went up and brought down the next one, Mergey, and handed her to the fireman, who looked rather bemused to see another, even smaller baby.
Up I went again, and this time came down with toddlers Laurel in one arm and Alfie and his elephant in the other.
Now the fireman looked at me in disbelief, as I turned to go up for the fourth time.
‘How many kids have you got up there?
‘Only seven more.’
His mouth dropped open.
‘I’d better go and get them. I’ll go round and wake them all up and most of them will be able to clamber or walk down the stairs with me this time.’
‘I’ll come up and help you carry some of them down, just to make sure they don’t touch any of the walls.’ He looked worried now. ‘The bricks get burning hot and they could start an internal fire.’
Now he tells me!
Once the children were all safely round next door, with two of the firemen and Mrs Clark minding them, I phoned Mike and he came back from work. He went straight round and rescued the children, by now all desperately hungry and climbing the walls . . . along with Mrs Clark herself, I should think.
So back they all came, with great curiosity.
‘Will the house burn down?’ asked Gilroy. ‘I hope so.’ He sniggered. ‘Our bedrooms will be burnt to ashes.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ admonished Chrissy. ‘You always exaggerate!’
‘Ooh,’ said Daisy when they went through the hall to the playroom. She held her nose. ‘I don’t like the smell.’
‘No, sweetheart,’ I reassured her. ‘It will go soon.’
‘What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’ asked Mike, prising the spa
rkly object from AJ’s fist.
‘I found it on the floor,’ said AJ. Mike and I exchanged glances, knowing that was unlikely.
‘It’s a ring,’ I exclaimed. ‘You do not take things from other people’s houses. I’ll have to take you round later to give it back to Mrs Clark and say you’re sorry.’
Mike fed, dressed and entertained them all for the rest of the morning, with a bit of help from me, in between making our visitors mugs of tea and coffee, and getting them to help me pull all the upstairs furniture away from the walls.
The firemen were still there at lunchtime, so I rustled up some plates of sandwiches, which they wolfed down like gannets. Paul and Ronnie came into the kitchen while they were sat there, eating.
‘Can I try your helmet on?’ Ronnie asked one of them.
‘Me too!’ clamoured Paul. ‘I want to be a fireman.’
One of the men put his helmet on Paul’s head and it fell right down over his eyes. He walked round bumping into things, which made everyone laugh, including him.
The firemen finally left at about two, when they were sure the fire was out and it was safe for us all to get back to normal.
‘It was so funny,’ I told Mike that evening. ‘You should have seen that fireman’s face when I kept on bringing babies and children down.’
‘Did you tell them why we have so many children?’
‘Oh no. I forgot to mention it.’
A few weeks after the chimney fire, Mrs Clark moved out of her house.
‘Did you know she was going?’ Mike asked me.
‘No, she never said a thing.’
‘Do you think it was something to do with us?’ he grinned.
I laughed.
‘I wonder who we’ll have as neighbours next,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I sighed. ‘Whoever it is, I hope they like children!’
The following morning, a shiny black Rover car pulled into the drive next door. I held my breath and craned my neck as I stood with a baby in each arm, looking out of an upstairs window to try and catch sight of the new people, but I couldn’t see much. A middle-aged couple, the man with grey hair and the woman wearing a head-scarf, walked swiftly to the front door and closed it behind them. There was nobody else with them.
About ten minutes later, while I sat on the window-seat, feeding Mergey, a huge lorry arrived with a classy name written on the side and three men in green overalls climbed out. Whoever these new people are, I thought, they certainly aren’t doing this move on a shoestring.
Throughout the day there were comings and goings next door, but I was too busy with the kids’ food, laundry and playtimes to look.
Lizzie had finished her studies now and was applying for full-time jobs, so she was able to come and help out with the children for more hours during the week, which was a brilliant support. She made such a difference and I hated to think of how I would manage when she had to leave, which probably wouldn’t be long.
Early that evening, while Lizzie was supervising the children’s teatime, I nipped next door with a casserole I’d cooked up for the new people.
The door opened and a rather serious-looking woman gave me a curious look.
‘Hello?’ she said in her cut-glass accent. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Trisha and I live next door.’ I smiled. ‘Welcome to Sonnington.’ I held out the dish. ‘I thought you might like a chicken casserole, to save you cooking on your first night. You must be exhausted.’
‘Quite tired, yes.’ She nodded, with only a hint of a smile. ‘Very thoughtful of you, my dear.’ She took the casserole from me and put it down on the tiled floor of her porch. ‘Which side are you from?’ she asked, looking at the houses on either side of hers.
‘That one,’ I said, pointing.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The one with the untidy orchard?’ It wasn’t the best start to a neighbourly relationship.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I nodded. ‘We have a lot of children, and they love playing in the orchard.’
‘Oh, I hope they won’t be too noisy.’
‘I don’t expect so. They’re just normal children, and the orchard is a long way back from the houses.’
‘Well, thank you, Mrs . . .’
‘Merry, Trisha Merry, and my husband is called Mike.’
‘I hope you’ll excuse me if I get back to unpacking boxes, Mrs Merry?’
‘Yes, of course. Do you want any help?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, a little too abruptly, then picked up the casserole dish and held it out a little way in front of her, as if it were infectious. ‘Most kind of you. Goodbye.’
‘I hope you’ll like living here,’ I said as I turned to go.
‘Well, that depends,’ was her parting shot.
8
Disturbing the Doves
Paul was the stoic of the family, even at a very young age. Quite the little toughie. If he cut himself or grazed his knee, he never made a sound, no matter how much it hurt. He would sit with his lips wavering but clamped together, without complaint.
One morning, when all the children were playing outside, I called them into the kitchen for a drink and a piece of fruit. They came running in as usual, all except for Paul. Oh well, I thought, perhaps he doesn’t want to stop what he’s doing; though I couldn’t remember him turning down a drink or a snack before.
I looked out of the window, down the garden and I couldn’t see him, but I saw one of the giant tractor tyres swinging, so I assumed he’d just finished playing with that and had gone off to one of the camps, beyond the large shed.
The children ran off out again, and I thought no more about it. But when I called them in for lunch a couple of hours later, and Paul still didn’t appear, I started to get worried. Really worried. He was only three and a half. The garden was surrounded and the gate at the side was bolted, so he couldn’t have escaped. What on earth had happened to him?
‘Has anyone seen Paul?’ I asked all the other kids.
There were blank faces and shaking heads all around the table, so I walked over to the window again. It was an eerie sight to see that same tractor tyre swinging, turning and twisting all on its own. None of the other tyres were moving. It wasn’t even windy. What could be causing it? And where was Paul?
‘I’m just popping down the garden to see if I can find him,’ I said to the children.
‘Can we come with you?’ asked Ronnie.
‘Yes, if you want to.’
So all the boots went on again and off we all trooped, with me in the lead, hurrying towards the swinging tractor tyre.
‘Paul,’ I called as I approached it. ‘Where are you?’
I heard a muffled sound, but couldn’t make out what it was.
‘Paul?’ I called again, just as I reached the tyre and tried to stop it moving. I held on to it and, as it slowed down, I was able to see something move inside.
‘I can’t get out,’ the muffled voice wailed. ‘Help! I stuck.’
I reached in and tried to get my hands round him. He felt all hot and sticky, but he was stuck so deep under the heavy rubber lips of the tyre, which had closed in over him, that it was very difficult to lift him; and the tyre kept moving away from me.
‘Ronnie, Chrissy, AJ – the tyre keeps slipping away from me. Can you all go round to the other side and push it towards me to stop it?’ They were the only three tall enough to do this, so I hoped it would help.
Thank goodness it did. They held the tyre steady, and I was finally able, with all my strength, to lever poor Paul out of the bottom of his dark rubber prison. As I pulled him free, all the children shouted and cheered, then somebody clapped and the others all joined in.
‘I couldn’t get out,’ said Paul. ‘I stuck,’ he announced to the other children, as if it was a badge of courage. He was so hot and sweaty that his ginger hair was plastered to his head and his face was bright red.
‘Poor Pauly,’ I said, lifting the wet wisps of his hair to get some air to his s
kin, then I pulled off his stripey jumper and put him down on the ground to walk around in his vest and shorts. ‘That will cool you down.’
‘I shouted,’ he said, biting his lips to make sure he didn’t cry. ‘I shouted and shouted.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never heard you. But we got you out in the end.’
He just gave a solemn nod then ran indoors with the others, as if nothing had happened.
I never noticed any noise from the garden. I suppose there was so much space outside that the sound didn’t reach the house. Or maybe I was just used to it. And the kids’ behaviour (apart from Gilroy’s) was never bad at home, because they were all outside running off their energy, so they only came in for food or sleep through the warmer months. And in the winter we had our big playroom, with masses to do. As far as I was concerned, the kids were a joy.
I used to think up new playthings we could make. One day I bought lots of saucepans and lids in a jumble sale for them to clatter and bang. Then the children helped me put rice or dried peas or even nuts and bolts inside empty plastic containers, stuck together for them to shake.
I joined in with them one afternoon, to make an impromptu orchestra. There we all were, banging and shaking things, playing in this band and making ‘music’ when Mike came home.
‘Bloody hell, Trish!’ he shouted as he came round the corner of the house. ‘Can’t you hear the noise?’
I stopped and listened to the others . . . and he was right. I had to admit, it was an awful racket. So perhaps we were a bit noisy sometimes.
Not long after our new neighbours moved in, the husband threw back a ball over the fence, and then another. And half an hour later, the wife came round to our front door with a third.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Merry,’ she began. ‘But would you mind please making sure your children stop throwing balls into our garden. They break off the delicate petals and new buds of our roses.’
‘Well, I’ll have a word with them,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll tell the kids to throw them the other way.’
