Rosie

by Lesley Pearse

  As Heather sat beside the tin bath washing Rosie, she was reminded poignantly of her mother, and all she had taught her. She could remember being bathed like this herself, her hair washed, then rolled up in rags, and being made to clean her teeth with a little salt. Heather’s clothes had been just as shabby as Rosie’s and she’d often gone without shoes too, but her mother had instilled in her the need for hygiene, and that was one thing which was badly lacking in this household.

  Heather lit the oil lamp before taking her turn in the tub. Rosie was sitting on a chair wearing a too short tattered nightdress. Her damp hair looked so beautiful in the lamp light, spring-like coils of burnished copper bouncing on her thin shoulders and framing her pink and white face. As Heather washed herself she became aware that the little girl was looking curiously at her.

  ‘Will I get those big things?’ Rosie said at length.

  Heather giggled. ‘Of course you will, luv, all girls do when they get to thirteen or fourteen.’

  ‘Why?’

  Such a question saddened Heather: it showed just how much Rosie had been deprived of by losing her mother.

  ‘They’re for feeding your baby when you get married.’ ‘

  What, like cow’s udders?’

  As Heather had never seen a cow before today, and that only from the truck, her knowledge of their anatomy was limited. But as milk came from them she assumed they did serve the same purpose. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. They fill up with milk after you ‘ave a baby. Up till then they are just like mine. Ain’t you ever seen a mother feeding her baby?’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘What’s the hair for on your tummy, then?’

  Heather didn’t know the answer to that and said so. ‘It just comes around the time you get breasts, it’s all part of turning into a woman.’

  Rosie was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Why do Dad and the boys have those dangly things then? We haven’t got those.’

  Heather blushed. At Rosie’s age all she’d known was that Thomas’s thingy was called his ‘Johnny’ and hers had been called her ‘Millie’. She certainly hadn’t had any idea why they were different, or what they were for. She had eventually found out from girls at the laundry during the war, and most of that seemed very rude. It didn’t seem right to try and explain any of it to someone so young, certainly not on her first night.

  ‘They’re connected with ‘aving babies,’ she said. ‘But you are too young for me to explain any of that just now. I’ve got a book in my bag for you. Let me get me nightie on and this water chucked out, then we’ll look at it.’

  Rosie was still awake long after Heather had blown out the candle and fallen asleep beside her in the double bed. The window was wide open and a full moon was shining right into the room. She wished it was bright enough to read some more of the lovely book.

  She was really glad her dad had brought Heather back with him. She was lovely. Funny, chatty and kind, even if she couldn’t read. She hoped very much that Seth and Norman wouldn’t upset her, and that Dad wouldn’t get into one of his tempers and frighten her.

  Three months later on a warm September evening, Rosie was up in the hayloft in the barn at Shank’s farm in Burtle with all the other young children from the surrounding villages. She felt like a princess in the new apple green dress with puffed sleeves and smocking across the bodice that Heather had made her. She had no intention of getting into any rough games which might spoil it.

  It was the Burtle Harvest Home, an annual night for celebrating the crops that had been safely gathered in. Everyone was here, even the very old people. It was a time to talk and laugh with old friends, to eat, drink and be merry, and for the younger, single ones it was an opportunity to look for romance. But this year it was a double celebration, as the war was finally over, most of the men were home again and everyone was looking forward to lasting peace.

  The decorations this year were the best that anyone remembered: boughs of greenery, garlands of Michaelmas daisies, goldenrod and chrysanthemums nailed to the wooden walls, paper streamers and bunting swathed across the rafters. The long trestle tables of fast disappearing food were festooned along the front with swags of more greenery and orange ribbons.

  Most of the men had already drunk a good deal of cider from the barrels set up outside, and now they were ready to join the women for dancing. The music was supplied by the Burtle silver band, and Jack Dunkie played his accordion whenever the bandsmen went for refreshments. The light from dozens of hurricane lamps fixed up high out of harm’s way spilled a warm golden glow over the whole scene, and Rosie felt so happy she thought she might burst.

  Ever since Heather had arrived back in June, Rosie’s life had taken a sharp upturn. It began with the pleasure of coming home from school to find Heather there in the kitchen with everything bright and clean, and good smells coming from the oven. She would get up in the morning to find a cooked breakfast rather than just a slice of bread and marge, her school dress had the buttons sewn on, and clean white darned socks were waiting to be put on. But gradually it had become far more than just a feeling of comfort and being relieved of the heavier chores. Heather had become mother, big sister and friend all rolled into one.

  She had changed everything. The kitchen was whitewashed, bright new curtains hung at the windows. The back yard was pretty now because Heather refused to allow the men to bring any junk in there. She swept it daily and encouraged Rosie to plant some flowers in an old sink by the back door. Norman had rallied round and painted the old wooden settle. You couldn’t even smell the privy any longer because Heather had found some special stuff to put down it. The may trees at the front of the cottage had been cut back to let more light into the parlour, and there was always a jam jar of wild flowers on the kitchen table. Once Rosie had slept in the same sheets for months before they were washed; now they were changed every Saturday morning without fail.

  Cole didn’t go down to the Crown so often, but sat outside on warm nights with his pipe and a pint of cider, while Heather sewed or knitted. Once school had broken up for the summer holidays, he often took time off from working when it was hot and took them all down to Weston-super-Mare or Brean for the day in the truck. Heather would pack a picnic, and even Seth and Norman stopped sneering and swanking long enough to paddle, swim or play football on the beach.

  But it was the long days alone with Heather, when Cole and the boys were out dealing in scrap, that Rosie enjoyed most. Heather made all the chores fun. She loved to wash, lighting the fire under the boiler out in the shed early in the morning long before Rosie got up, tossing in sheets and pillowcases, shirts and underwear with absolute delight. Her arms were so strong, she could hook out the steaming washing as though it weighed nothing, then feed it through the mangle, singing as she worked. When she rinsed it in the tin bath under the pump, she would splash water at Rosie with childlike glee.

  They made pastry and cakes together, listened to ‘Children’s Hour’ on the wireless, played cat’s cradle or card games, and Heather made a rag doll for Rosie, looping thick yellow wool for hair and painting eyes on to big white cotton-covered buttons.

  Rosie found it mystifying that Heather couldn’t read or write properly when she had so many other skills. She had tried to teach her a bit, but Heather formed letters back-to-front and she still couldn’t recognize any words that were longer than three letters. But it didn’t seem to matter much. Rosie read out recipes from magazines, she could add up a row of figures for Heather, and her learning took a great leap forward through the encouragement of an appreciative audience.

  Sometimes Cole brought home sacks of old clothes picked up in his capacity as rag-and-bone man in Bristol. Before Heather came these sacks had just piled up in the outhouse until he had enough to sell on to a rags dealer, but Heather went through them meticulously, sorting out those items which could be used. Buttons were removed and stored in jam jars, buckles in another. Skirts of good cotton dresses were unpicked, washed and ironed ready to be made into something new
for Rosie. Men’s shirts had the collars turned as work shirts for Cole and the boys.

  They made jam together from raspberries and blackcurrants, and bottled gooseberries. Heather got Cole to teach her how to rub saltpetre on rabbit skins so they could sell them and she even overcame her fear of eels and helped the men with the skinning when they got a big load one night.

  But perhaps the best thing of all to happen was Seth getting his call-up papers, and finally leaving back in August to become a gunner with the Royal Artillery at Larkhill. Almost the moment he’d left, a new lightness and gaiety seemed to sweep through the house. Heather was released from the burden of Seth’s sullen antagonism, and his endless wet sheets. Rosie no longer had to hide her few toys and books to ensure he didn’t maliciously destroy them as he had so often done in the past, or flinch when he walked in the room.

  Norman had always been overshadowed by his older brother, so much so that until now he had no identity of his own. Now he began to talk and laugh more, willingly helping with chores that once he would have sneered at.

  But Rosie noticed even more remarkable changes in her father. He rarely flew into a temper these days. He seemed content to just be with his family and was far more interested in both Norman and her. He was happy, Rosie decided, and she felt Heather was entirely responsible for that.

  Looking down into the barn from her vantage point at the edge of the hayloft, Rosie saw that Cole was dancing with Heather again. He had always been a much sought-after partner at these parties because he enjoyed dancing and he was light on his feet, but it was the first time Rosie remembered him choosing the same partner over and over again. Heather’s face was flushed and she looked almost pretty with her yellow hair flowing loose over her shoulders. She had made herself a new dress for tonight – blue and white check with a low neck – and she looked like a milkmaid.

  ‘Is your dad going to marry Heather?’

  Rosie looked round in surprise to find that the unexpected question came from Florrie Langford, a girl two years older than herself who thought she was a cut above the other children who lived out on the moors. Florrie lived in Catcott village and her father ran the post office. With her ringlets and big satin hair ribbons, she always looked a real madam. Tonight she wore a blue velvet party dress, not a handmade cotton one like Rosie’s.

  ‘I dunno.’ Such a thought had never entered Rosie’s head before. Marriage wasn’t a subject that ever came up in May Cottage.

  ‘Well, he can’t marry her, can he?’ Florrie looked down at Cole swirling Heather round and her lips curled in scorn. ‘He’s still married. His wife ran off with another man, didn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rosie felt an unpleasant prickle in her spine. ‘My mum was killed in London two years ago.’

  Florrie gave her a scathing look. ‘Your mum might have been. But she wasn’t Mrs Parker, was she? She was just one of his women. Seth and Norman are only your half-brothers.’

  This was news to Rosie. She didn’t understand what Florrie was getting at, but she sensed it was intended to rattle her. ‘So what if they are?’ she said defiantly. ‘And if you’s know so much already, why bother to ask if my dad’s going to marry Heather?’

  ‘Because my mum thinks it’s a disgrace the way he carries on with women.’

  It had often been said that Rosie was as hot-headed as her brothers and father. She didn’t stop to think about her new dress, or that Heather had said she was to try and be ladylike tonight. She just sprang up and threw herself at Florrie, knocking her down on to the hayloft floor, then she leapt on top of her and pummelled the girl with her fists.

  Florrie screamed as if she was being murdered and all the other children gathered round.

  ‘Your mum is a fat, lazy old cow,’ Rosie said, pinning Florrie down beneath her, suddenly aware that she had only seconds to make her point before a grown-up intervened. ‘And your dad is so scared of mine that he shits himself every time he has to deliver letters at our house. Don’t you ever say anything about me or my family again or I’ll make you sorry.’

  Fortunately for Rosie it was Norman who came rushing up the ladder to see what was going on. ‘Let her up, Rosie,’ he said, barely able to hide his amusement. He turned to Florrie, who was struggling to get up. ‘And you’d better keep your mouth shut in future, fancy-pants, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Norman’s remark suggested he had a good idea what had sparked off the fight. He took Rosie’s hand, dusting the straw off her dress and hair. ‘You’d better come down where I can keep an eye on you,’ he said. There was a touch of approval in his dark eyes.

  Once in the barn, with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a jam tart in the other, Rosie told Norman what Florrie had said. ‘Is it true?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Norman muttered. ‘Thass right, me and Seth ain’t got the same mum as you. I thought you knew that!’

  ‘Did your mum really run off with another man?’ Rosie found that hard to swallow. All women liked Cole, even if they were a bit scared of him too.

  ‘Yeah, so they say.’ Norman looked embarrassed now. ‘But Dad was glad to see the back of her, and don’t go talking about that stuff to anyone else or I’ll give you a belting.’

  As the night wore on Rosie watched Cole and Heather with new eyes. They were dancing slowly now, looking into each other’s eyes and smiling at one another. She hoped they were falling in love. That way Heather would stay for ever.

  Norman was so drunk when it was time to go home that Cole dumped him in the back of the open truck and said he could sleep there. The glasses of cider Rosie had sneakily drunk when no one was looking must have caught up with her too, for she didn’t remember getting home, and had only a vague memory of her father carrying her upstairs in his arms.

  The rooster’s crowing woke Rosie, and she got up sleepily to pee in the chamber pot. It was only then that she saw she had slept in the bed alone. She crawled back in, wondering where Heather might be, and she was nearly asleep again when she heard a rocking sound.

  It was gentle and rhythmic, almost like someone rocking a cradle. It appeared to be coming from across the landing and her father’s room. She strained her ears to listen, and identified the noise as her father’s headboard banging on the wall.

  Above this sound was something else too, a grunting, heavy breathing which made her feel very uncomfortable. She knew instinctively what was going on. Heather was in bed with her father, and they were doing that thing that made babies.

  Yet her overriding feeling was of puzzlement rather than horror. Heather had often spoken in shocked tones about girls having babies before they were married, so why was she doing it herself now? On top of that Heather had said on more than one occasion that her ideal man would be like her lost brother Thomas. She said he was gentle, sensitive towards women and children and he liked to paint and draw. Cole Parker was not remotely like that!

  But as Rosie slipped back into sleep she allowed herself to imagine a baby in the house. It would be lovely, she decided, and that way Heather would never go back to London.

  Chapter Two

  Seven years later, 1952

  Thomas Farley sat down on the stile, dropped his stick, jacket and haversack down beside him, and pushed his hat on to the back of his head. He hoped it wasn’t much further to Catcott; it was so hot and his leg was giving him gyp.

  Flapping the front of his shirt to cool himself, he looked around. He had never been to Somerset before and it was very different from what he had expected. The man who gave him directions from Bridgwater station had pointed out that this part of the country was the Levels, a vast area of moors prone to flooding, but that just a few miles away the flatness gave way to rolling hills and woodlands. Thomas thought that the seemingly endless miles of flower-studded moorland looked very beautiful now in the June sunshine, but he guessed that in winter it would be a bleak, windswept place.

  He was puzzled as to why Heather had chosen to come and work here. Gir
ls born and bred in the East End of London, used to shops, cinemas, markets and throngs of people, didn’t adjust well to the country. Bridgwater, some five miles back down the road, was one of the dreariest towns Thomas had ever seen, and he doubted Catcott was more than a handful of cottages.

  A middle-aged woman came waddling down the road towards him, the only person he’d seen over the last two miles. Thomas pulled himself up on his stick and limped towards her.

  ‘Is it much further to Catcott?’ he asked, forcing himself to smile. She had a sullen, sallow face, with a few dark hairs bristling on her chin. Her print dress was stained red down the front: he thought perhaps she’d been picking strawberries, although she wasn’t carrying any.

  ‘A coupla miles yet,’ she said, staring at his stick. ‘You looking for some place in particular?’

  Her rolling accent was far more pleasant than her appearance. It reminded Thomas of Sam Gurney from back in the camp in Burma. Sam had come from the West Country and often at night he told the other men tales about the farming community he’d grown up in. Sam had never got to see his home again.

  ‘May Cottage,’ Thomas said. ‘Would you know that?’

  She smiled, showing two blackened stumps of teeth.

  ‘Thass Cole Parker’s place I reckons you means. You’ll knows when thee’s there by the heap of junk round it.’

  As Thomas walked on, he sensed that the woman was watching him speculatively. People always did.

  Thomas Farley was only thirty, but three years in a Japanese POW camp had aged him prematurely, and he had shrunk a couple of inches from his original six foot. He’d put on some weight to his emaciated body since the end of the war, but his face remained haggard. When he looked in a mirror now, he could see no resemblance whatsoever to the burly eighteen-year-old who couldn’t wait for his basic training to be over so he could be sent out to fight. He’d become an entirely different man.