Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  She bent down to the two boys and looked them kindly in the eye, turning her head from one to the other. Smiling to put them at ease, she told them her name. ‘Well then,’ she went on, ‘you must be tired and hungry; shall we go and see what we can find for you to eat?’

  She had no way of knowing if they understood her, but in a clipped polite voice, Thomas said. ‘Thank you, please, miss.’

  Clarissa led the way from the station to where Jimmy was waiting for them with a rickety old cart, a replacement for the trap that had been all but smashed to pieces in the accident. Apollo had been replaced by the most docile of horses that went by the name of Jack. He was a large, bored-looking animal and, unlike Apollo, didn’t scare easily, so his previous owner claimed.

  The two boys took one look at Jack and visibly tensed, the younger emitting a small gasp. ‘They’re city boys,’ Artie said under his breath, ‘more used to cars and trams.’

  ‘A horse and cart is a lot more fun for two young lads,’ Clarissa said brightly, hoping that Jimmy wouldn’t terrify them with one of his notorious grimaces – when he chose to, he had a grimace that could drive rivets through steel.

  She helped Artie lift the boys into place in the cart. When they were all settled, Jimmy ordered the horse to move on and they set off at an unhurried pace. Lavinia and Charles did own a car, but since Jimmy was terrified of it, and Charles could no longer drive, it hadn’t been used in a long time.

  As they progressed slowly along the open country lanes, Jack plodding unhurriedly as if he had all the time in the world, the children spoke quietly in German to each other. Dressed identically in good-quality clothes – shorts, shirts and pullovers, beneath thick overcoats and with polished brown leather shoes on their feet – each carried a small suitcase that bore a manila label with his name written on it. The sight of those suitcases, presumably packed by their anxious parents with clothes and one or two precious things to help them feel at home wherever they ended up, brought a painful lump to Clarissa’s throat. To distract herself, she leant forward to the two boys and suggested they removed their overcoats; it was, after all, a warm day.

  They shook their heads simultaneously and shrank away from her.

  ‘I think they’re scared of losing what little they’ve come with,’ Artie said. ‘I would imagine their parents told them to be careful and wary of anybody trying to take things from them.’

  ‘Poor lambs,’ murmured Clarissa, ‘they must be so confused and upset. I hope they’ll realise before too long that they’re quite safe with me.’

  Artie turned to look at her, his expression serious. ‘They may not appreciate what you and your grandparents are doing for them now, but one day they will. As will their parents. For now you’ll have to make do with my gratitude.’

  ‘I’m only doing what any right-minded person would do.’

  He smiled and took hold of one of her hands. ‘If it hadn’t been for your persuasiveness, I don’t believe your grandparents would have agreed to do this.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said, conscious of the pleasant warmth of his skin. ‘But other host families would have been found for these boys.’

  ‘Maybe so. But I appreciate what you’re doing. Staying in Shillingbury for a protracted length of time wasn’t really part of your plan, was it?’ he continued. ‘It was London where you wanted to be.’

  She smiled. ‘But here I am in Shillingbury, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

  ‘I wish I could stay with you.’

  The colour rose to her face, but before she could respond, he let go of her hand. ‘So I could help you with the boys,’ he said quickly, as though needing to clarify himself.

  ‘Of course,’ she said evenly. ‘When do you start work?’ she asked in an attempt to ease his discomfiture. Instead of working for Reuters as he’d originally planned, the offer of being a European reporter for CBS had come up and Artie had grabbed it without a second thought.

  ‘Sooner than I thought,’ he said, ‘next week. I’ll be based in London initially, and then … and then we’ll see.’

  This was the way a lot of people were now speaking; there was so much uncertainty in the air. Although from what Polly and Artie had shared with her, war with Germany seemed as certain as night followed day. Just recently she’d heard on the wireless that farmers were now required to plough as much grazing pasture as possible to increase home-produced food in case there were shortages of imported food, if war did break out. There was talk also of children being evacuated from London.

  ‘I know it might sound fanciful, but staying in Europe as a reporter is what I believe I’m meant to do,’ Artie said, after a moment’s silence had passed, during which Clarissa had dug around in her handbag for the chocolate she’d brought for the children.

  ‘I understand exactly what you mean,’ she said. ‘It’s why I believe I was meant to come to this country and visit my English grandparents when I did, so that I could do something meaningful with my life.’

  The chocolate bar found, she tore away part of the wrapper, snapped off a couple of pieces and held them out to the boys. They looked unsure, but at Artie’s encouragement, they each took a piece. Within seconds they looked less solemn. But at no stage did Walter let go of his brother’s protective left hand. Passing over the bridge – the scene of the accident, the memory of which still gave Clarissa nightmares – it struck her that maybe Thomas was gaining as much strength and reassurance from holding hands with his little brother as Walter was.

  Lavinia was waiting for them when they reached the house. With her hair tied back in the severe way she often wore it, and her dignified demeanour stiff with apprehension, she did not exactly present a kindly welcome as she stood in the large hallway. She tried to shake hands formally with the two boys and Thomas acquiesced, but Walter was having none of it and hid behind his brother.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to show them up to their room,’ Lavinia said awkwardly to Clarissa, ‘while I ask cook to rustle up something to eat. Mr Bloomberg, please make yourself at home in the drawing room. Charles is in there.’

  Indicating to the boys that they should come with her, Clarissa took them upstairs to the small room next door to hers. Lavinia had said they could have a much larger room at the other end of the house where their noise could be annexed and contained, but Clarissa had said the boys would feel they were more a part of the household if they weren’t effectively isolated.

  The boys stood in the middle of the room, still holding hands, and looked solemnly about them. Clarissa had tried her best to brighten the room to make it feel more cheerful and welcoming. With Lily and Jimmy’s help she had painted over the existing wallpaper and found a rug from another room that was less threadbare than the existing one had been. Lily had revealed a talent for sewing and, after Clarissa had ordered some blue and white cotton gingham, the two of them had made some new curtains to replace the original heavy velvet ones which had produced clouds of dust when taken down. Clarissa had also ordered two new single beds and a chest full of toys from London – a train set, building bricks, a cricket bat and ball, a set of soldiers and a wooden castle with a drawbridge and some books. She had also purchased a pair of desks for the children to sit at – she had pictured them writing home to their parents while looking out of the window at the garden.

  Secretly she had been rather pleased with the changes she had wrought; pleased, too, to have had something positive to do, but now as she watched the boys silently surveying the room with its shabby attempt to make them feel at home, she wondered at her conceit. How arrogant of her to think they would be thrilled with their new surroundings, when all they would want was to be with their parents. The older boy turned his solemn face to her. ‘Thank you, please, miss.’

  ‘I’m afraid it was the best I could do in the circumstances,’ she said, wishing with all her heart she could convey to these forlorn little boy
s that she would do all in her power to lessen the pain of their separation from all that they knew and loved. Moreover, she wanted them to know that they would be well cared for here, she would see to that herself. They would want for nothing … other than their home and parents.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  June 1939, Shillingbury Grange, Suffolk

  The boys had only been with them for a week and already they were picking up English at an impressive speed. The learning process had so far involved a lot of gesticulating on Clarissa’s part, or resorting to sketching on paper. Usually Thomas would pick up the word or phrase first and then explain it to his brother. They were still inseparable but Walter no longer held onto Thomas’s hand in the way he had when they arrived, though he had yet to sleep in his own bed. Lavinia had pulled a face when Clarissa had made the discovery on their first night that Walter was fast asleep in bed with his brother, the pair of them clutching two small teddy bears.

  Today Clarissa was taking them to meet the schoolmistress of the village school, a Mrs Russell. To explain where they were going, Clarissa had drawn a rough picture of children sitting at rows of desks looking up at a blackboard. Neither of the boys had expressed any enthusiasm for the idea, and now, as they approached the centre of the village, passing the blacksmith’s on their left where a man in a leather apron and shirtsleeves was bent over an anvil and swinging a long-handled hammer, the boys slowed their step alongside a stone water trough and pump. They might have been genuinely interested in watching the blacksmith at work, but more likely it was a delaying tactic, just as they had taken forever standing on the bridge over the river and looking out for fish. Hurrying them along, she had tried to explain that they could do that on their return.

  She indicated they move on and shortly came to a garage where a man in overalls was filling a car with petrol. He tipped his cap at Clarissa and smiled at the boys. From there they followed the curve in the road and passed the wheelwright’s, then on towards the baker’s shop where a woman was placing a tray of iced fancies in the window. Next door was the butcher’s and then the post office.

  A little further on and they came to the village green. It was ringed with a higgledy-piggledy assortment of pink and white cottages, some steeply thatched, others with slate-tiled roofs. Their windows were small and diamond-paned and their front doors so low most people would have to stoop to enter. It was a delightfully picturesque scene that Clarissa marvelled at each time she saw it; she loved the sheer quaintness of it. How different it was to what she’d left behind in Boston.

  She indicated to the boys that they had to cross the road and, after passing the church, they walked the short distance up the hill to the school. A mixture of brick and flint with a small playground to the front, the school looked a good deal more inviting than the imposing edifice Clarissa had attended. It wasn’t long since she had left school herself, but as she pushed open the wooden gate, it felt a lifetime ago.

  With Thomas and Walter looking hesitant and lagging behind, she smiled encouragingly at them and held out her hands to them both. They had never taken her hand before, but they did so now. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said, ‘it’ll be all right.’

  Mrs Russell was waiting for them in her office, a room that was about five feet square with no window and a desk pressed against one wall. It seemed to be doubling up as a storeroom as the other walls were covered in shelves laden with books and a whole host of classroom paraphernalia. Mrs Russell was by no means small and when she rose from the chair in front of the desk, she dominated the cramped space, towering over not just Thomas and Walter, but Clarissa too.

  ‘Your reputation goes before you, Miss Allerton,’ she said warmly, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Clarissa, taken aback.

  ‘Not that I indulge in gossip, but in a village of this size word soon goes around when a wealthy American heiress moves in amongst us.’

  Clarissa smiled. ‘I’m half English, let’s not forget that.’

  The woman laughed. ‘I apologise. Well then, tell me about these fine young boys.’

  Clarissa nudged them forward. ‘Thomas is eight years of age and Walter will be six in a month’s time.’

  ‘How much English can you speak?’ Mrs Russell’s question was directed at Thomas and accompanied with a kindly expression to put him at ease.

  ‘A leetle,’ he replied.

  The woman smiled. ‘Enough to understand the question, so that’s an excellent start.’

  ‘I’ve been teaching them a few words of English since they arrived,’ Clarissa said, ‘but obviously the more they mix with other children, the faster they’ll learn.’

  ‘I’m afraid they will have to learn fast. We’re only a very small school here – I just have two other teachers who help me – but I’m sure we’ll manage. I would suggest the eldest boy starts off with his brother in the youngest group. If he’s a bright lad, he’ll soon pick up sufficient English to move in with the older children.’

  It was agreed they would start school the next morning.

  That evening, after Clarissa had said goodnight to the boys, she went downstairs to the drawing room, all set to listen to the usual grumbles from her grandfather.

  His complaints were always the same: how their lives had been turned upside down since Thomas and Walter had arrived, and how everything revolved around them. And not you, Clarissa was always tempted to add. In that respect Charles Upwood had a lot in common with Grandma Ethel.

  But as she took her place in the chair beside her grandfather and picked up a book she was reading, he appeared to have forgotten to make his protest. Progress, she thought, as he remained silently absorbed in the newspaper he was reading. Every day he scrutinised it for news about the situation in Europe; like Artie, he was convinced war was inevitable, that it was time for somebody to stand up to Hitler. He frequently referred to Chamberlain, the prime minister of England, as a fool with about as much backbone as a jellyfish.

  For five minutes the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional rustle of the newspaper, or Charles clearing his throat. Clarissa was quite comfortable with the silence and didn’t in any way find it uncomfortable; time spent with Grandma Ethel had taught her that much.

  Lavinia appeared just then, and remembering Artie’s most recent letter to which she had yet to reply, Clarissa asked her grandmother if she could use her writing desk.

  ‘Of course,’ Lavinia said absently, going over to the wireless to switch it on.

  After fetching her writing things and making herself comfortable at the desk, Clarissa had written no more than Dear Artie, when Lavinia, who seemed more restless than usual, drifted across the room to her. ‘I’m afraid life here must be so very dull for you,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ responded Clarissa, surprised.

  ‘I can’t think why you should want to stay with us.’

  Clarissa put down her pen. ‘Are you saying you’d rather I left?’

  ‘Of course not. But I do wonder at what you’ve got yourself into, marooned here with us and two young boys you don’t know from Adam. Why, you’re not very much older than they are.’

  ‘I’m not a child, far from it,’ asserted Clarissa.

  ‘Even so, it’s hardly what you could have imagined your visit to England would entail.’

  ‘I had an open mind when I arrived, which is something my mother taught me. That, and to follow my instinct.’

  Lavinia frowned, and drawing her cardigan around her shoulders in what Clarissa recognised as one of her numerous and habitual gestures of unease, she said, ‘How like Fran that sounds.’

  Later that night, shortly after she had got into bed and was thinking about the next morning when she would take Thomas and Walter to school, Clarissa heard an unexpected noise through the open window. She could
n’t be sure, but it sounded like some sort of engine. Was it an airplane flying low over the house? But as the noise grew louder, she recognised it as the engine of a motorcycle. She glanced at her alarm clock on the bedside cabinet – it was ten forty-five. Her grandparents had long since gone to bed, so who on earth would be calling on them at this hour?

  She slipped out of bed, found her slippers and pulled on her dressing gown and quietly opened her door. Crossing the landing to the front of the house, she parted the curtains at the window and peered into the moonlit darkness at the driveway below. Sure enough, there was a motorcycle, and standing by the side of it was a tall man. Raising his chin to undo the strap on his helmet, he looked up at the house provoking Clarissa to gasp with amazed recognition. She sped down the stairs to prevent him from yanking on the wrought-iron bell and having its echoing clamour wake the household.

  ‘Ellis, what in the world are you doing here?’ she asked when she had the door unlocked and open.

  ‘I was just passing and thought I’d call in to say hello.’

  ‘Just passing!’ she exclaimed. ‘At this time of night?’

  He tilted his head back and laughed. ‘That’s not exactly the welcome I was hoping for, but I guess it’ll have to do in the circumstances. Any chance of something to eat? I’m starving.’

  Impressing upon him the need to keep quiet, she led the way to the kitchen in the darkness. Once there, she closed the door and switched on the light, its harsh brightness reminding her that she was in her nightclothes. Self-consciously she tightened the belt on her dressing gown.

  Ellis observed her. ‘Don’t worry, your sacred honour is quite safe with me,’ he said with a smirk, ‘so long as you hurry up and give me something to eat, or I may have to resort to eating you!’