Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  ‘It still leaves you with the problem of paying off the bank,’ Henry rallied, ever the lawyer.

  Clarissa was ahead of him. Well ahead. ‘I’ve spoken to a very helpful and understanding man at the bank,’ she said, ‘and whatever is owed I shall personally deal with. The taxman will have to wait until after the war.’

  With nothing more to be said on the matter, Henry saw himself out and Clarissa went to find Mrs Cook.

  ‘Glory be, you look tired!’ the woman exclaimed when she saw Clarissa. She pulled out a chair and made her sit down at the table. ‘What you need, my girl, is a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘How did it go with Mr Willet?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already, but I had the satisfaction of surprising him fairly and squarely.’

  ‘Good for you. Ah, here’s Leon. I swear that lad knows the precise moment when I put the betsy on the stove.’

  Leon had had his Enemy Alien status downgraded to Friendly Alien and was now working as a civilian at the airfield, putting his engineering training to good use as a mechanic. He still managed to fit in time to help with what was now a scaled-back kitchen garden. The evening of the dance, when Clarissa had met William, and when she’d seen Leon post something, it had been a letter in which he’d offered his services to the war effort as an engineer. He had not expected to be put to work at the Shillingbury airfield, but was pleased he was. The same day he started work there, Lily responded to a new call for women to do their bit and went to work in an ammunition factory in the Midlands. Now and then she would send a card telling them about the friends she had made, and how hard and tiring the work was. The romance between Leon and Lily that Clarissa had hoped for had got no further than Leon walking Lily home after the dance the night William had walked Clarissa home, but secretly Clarissa still had hopes for them.

  In the middle of November, the day before Shillingbury Grange was to be requisitioned, Skylark Cottage became Clarissa’s new home, along with those for whom she now felt wholly responsible – Thomas and Walter, Leon and Mrs Cook. The cottage was as cramped as she had anticipated, but with no regrets about the decision she had made, and though heavily pregnant, she set about the task of turning it into a home. Leaving Leon and the boys to clip back the unruly hedges and tame the wild garden that had been left to its own devices, she and Mrs Cook scrubbed the bare and dusty wooden floorboards and cleaned the walls. Grimy and unloved as it was, it did have running water and electricity, unlike some of the surrounding cottages on Colonel Brook’s estate.

  To Mrs Cook’s delight, the blackleaded range Clarissa had installed in the kitchen was a vast improvement on the one they had left behind. In no time, their combined efforts removed all last traces of the dismal sense of neglect Clarissa had encountered when she’d first seen the half-timbered thatched cottage. Colonel Brook hadn’t wanted her to see it, claiming it was much too shabby for her to live in, but Clarissa had fallen in love with its name, and insisted it would be perfect for her needs. In her mind’s eye she had pictured her unborn child – William’s child – growing up there, playing amongst the apple trees in the long grass with Thomas and Walter.

  It was just before Christmas when Clarissa, bringing in the filled log basket, experienced the first sign that her baby had decided it was time to make its appearance. The sudden sharp pain in her lower back was considerable and made her cry out. When it passed, she took a deep breath and smiled to herself, pleased to have her suspicions confirmed – she had woken early that morning with the strongest feeling that today would be the day, and so had spent every hour she could getting as many jobs done while she was still able.

  Knowing that labour could be a long-drawn-out affair, Clarissa placed the log basket to one side of the hearth and calmly got down on her hands and knees to make a fire. She crumpled old newspaper into balls, placed them on top of a few logs and added a generous amount of dried kindling. She put a match to it and watched the flames take hold. Just as they did, a bolt of pain shot through her and another cry escaped her lips unbidden. She waited for it to pass before going through to the kitchen to wash her hands. Drying them, she wondered what she should do. She was alone in the house – Leon was at work, the boys were at the vicarage rehearsing for the Christmas Eve carol concert and Mrs Cook was at a WI meeting.

  No need to worry yet, she decided; plenty of time before she had to involve anybody else. Both Dr Rutherford and the midwife had explained at length that first babies were never in a hurry to arrive; they always took their time. She made herself a mug of hot blackcurrant juice and braced herself as another all-consuming bolt of pain made it feel as though her spine was being wrenched from her body.

  When the pain had passed, she took the mug through to the sitting room to sit by the fire. She switched on the wireless and once she had lowered herself into her favourite armchair and was comfortable, she picked up the knitting she was part way through. Knitting kept her busy, kept her mind from straying to the fear that the world was hell-bent on destroying itself. In this instance, it kept her mind from dwelling on the inevitability of the next painful contraction.

  Many an evening she and Mrs Cook had sat here either side of the fire knitting and planning for when the baby arrived. Mrs Cook was convinced it would be a girl, but Clarissa was sure it was a boy – a boy who would look just like William; a boy who would always remind her of the man who’d swept her off her feet.

  The decision to marry William had been one of the easiest of her life. There had been no hesitation in her response when, during a picnic one sunny afternoon during a weekend of leave, he had got down on one knee and proposed to her, producing a ring to put on her finger. Every ounce of her being knew it was meant to be.

  Full of fun, William hadn’t taken anything too seriously, other than his love for her and his determination to play his part in fighting the Germans. Thomas and Walter had warmed to him immediately and had loved to hear about the missions he flew. Not once did they fear he would take Clarissa away from them, as they had with Henry. Perhaps that was because William remained stationed at the airfield and only stayed at Shillingbury Grange on his rare time off. Clarissa would never forget the first time they made love in her bedroom while doing their best not to make any noises that would alert the rest of the household as to what they were doing. At one stage they had both got a fit of the giggles and had to bury their faces in the pillow.

  Naively she had believed the strength of their love for each other would put an impenetrable shield around the two of them and keep them safe from the war. How utterly absurd that now seemed. Her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, she longed for William to be here with her, to know he was about to become a father. But her sadness was held in check by a wave of pain so tremendously powerful she let out a loud and agonising cry.

  She forced herself to breathe through the pain the way the midwife had explained to her, and just as the worst was over and she began to relax, she heard a knock at the front door.

  Hauling herself out of the armchair, she went to see who it was.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  December 1943, Skylark Cottage, Shillingbury

  The sight of a bearded, but vaguely familiar man standing on the doorstep in the half-light of a cold and damp winter’s afternoon briefly threw Clarissa off balance, and it took her a moment to register fully who it was. ‘Artie!’ she cried. ‘What a surprise!’

  ‘A good one, I hope,’ he said with a smile.

  She ushered him inside, ‘Oh, it’s the best, the absolute best!’ And such was her joy at seeing him after all this time, she threw her arms around him. He hugged her back and kissed her on the cheek, his lips icy-cold against her warm skin.

  ‘But how did you know where to find me?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t had a chance to write and tell you my new address.’

  ‘I was told by
a guard in the gatehouse at Shillingbury Grange where to find you. Things have obviously changed round here.’ Artie’s gaze took in the large bump that filled the space between them. ‘Especially you.’

  She smiled shyly. ‘Come on through to the sitting room, I have a fire going nicely in there.’

  They’d made it as far as the doorway when she suddenly grimaced and almost fell to her knees with the pain. She struggled to breathe. ‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ she gasped, ‘but your arrival may well coincide with the arrival of my baby.’

  ‘Oh, jeez! Really?’

  Her uncontainable groan told him the answer to his question. He held her firmly and guided her towards the sofa. ‘What’s best for you,’ he asked, ‘lying down or sitting?’

  She shook her head and trying not to let the excruciating pain of the contractions panic her – they were definitely getting stronger and more painful – she ignored the sofa and occupied her mind and body with the task of putting one foot in front of the other and walking over towards the window, counting as she did so. She then turned around and did the same back towards Artie, who had now removed his hat, coat and scarf.

  ‘What can I do?’ he asked. ‘Have you called the doctor?’

  ‘I was waiting,’ she murmured, the worst of the pain ebbing away.

  ‘What for?’

  She let out a long breath, relishing the heady relief of the contraction tailing off. ‘For things to progress,’ she murmured.

  He looked at her incredulously. ‘I’m no expert, but I’d say they’ve progressed far enough. Give me the number and I’ll ring the doctor. Or shall I get you to the nearest hospital?’

  ‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘There’s no hurry. Truly there isn’t.’

  His expression doubtful, he gently lowered her to the sofa. Kneeling on the floor beside her, he stroked her cheek. ‘How about some hot water? That’s always needed; I’ve seen it in the movies.’

  Smiling, she closed her eyes at his touch, abruptly tired. ‘It’s exhausting being in labour,’ she said quietly. ‘They don’t tell you that.’ She opened her eyes. ‘It’s wonderful to see you. It’s been too long since you last visited.’

  He carried on stroking her cheek until the next contraction seized hold of her. ‘Take my hand,’ he told her, ‘squeeze it as hard as you can. That’s it, harder still. Go on, you can do it.’

  When again the pain had passed, he said, ‘I’m not taking no for an answer now, you have to give me the telephone number for the doctor, or the midwife.’

  She was just telling him where it was written down when a voice called out to her. It was Mrs Cook.

  ‘Saints alive!’ the woman declared after no more than a cursory look at Clarissa. ‘The baby’s on it’s way, isn’t it? Had I known, I would have hurried back sooner. Now then, who might you be, young man?’

  ‘This is Artie,’ Clarissa said.

  Mrs Cook gave him an appraising stare. ‘Is it indeed? Well now, Artie, it’s very nice to make your acquaintance, but if you’d like to make yourself useful, there’s a number for the doctor by the telephone on the hallstand. You do that while I get our mother-to-be upstairs to where she should be. And when you’ve made the phone call, you can find your way to the kitchen and heat up some water. Got that?’

  ‘He’s not a child, Mrs Cook,’ said Clarissa, smiling at Artie.

  ‘I’m just making sure, that’s all. Can you stand?’

  ‘Of course I can. I keep saying that there really isn’t any hurry, these things take forever and—’

  She was silenced by another contraction. By the time it had passed, Artie had phoned the doctor and was on his way to the kitchen as instructed.

  ‘Seems like a decent enough young man,’ Mrs Cook said when they’d made it to the top of the stairs, ‘even if he is an American.’

  ‘He’s a very decent man,’ Clarissa said, ‘so you be nice to him.’

  By the time Mrs Cook had her in bed, another contraction held Clarissa in its grasp. She didn’t hold back from letting out an almighty scream.

  ‘You shout and scream as much as you want,’ Mrs Cook encouraged her, ‘it’ll do you a power of good. That’s it; you’re doing splendidly. Just keep thinking that before the evening’s out you’ll be saying hello to your baby.’

  It was less than an hour later when Clarissa said her first hello to her son. The midwife arrived just in time to perform the delivery, and declared mother and baby to be in rude health before hurrying off to deal with another arrival. ‘It’s this war,’ she said, gathering up her things, ‘it’s brought on a rush of marriages and babies. I’ve never been busier!’

  Mrs Cook gave Artie permission to sit with Clarissa while she went downstairs to make some tea.

  On their own, the swaddled baby sleeping peacefully in Clarissa’s arms, Artie looked intently at him and then at her. ‘Does he look very much like his father?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t tell. He’s too scrunched up to know. But … but I hope he does,’ she added quietly, thinking how much William would have enjoyed this moment, how he would have held his newborn son with such loving pride.

  Artie smiled. ‘How does it feel to be a mother?’

  ‘Scary,’ she said, willing back tears of sadness. ‘But magical. I don’t ever want to forget this moment.’

  ‘You won’t. And nor will I. Have you decided what you’re going to call him?’

  ‘I know exactly what I’ll call him – Nicholas William Dallimore. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds a fine name,’ said Artie. ‘He’s going to be a lucky boy having such an amazing mother. I hope I’ll get the chance to remind him of that in years to come.’ He leant forward and kissed Clarissa tenderly on the forehead. ‘You know that if there’s anything I can ever do to help you and Nicholas, you have only to ask. Never forget that.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said softly, again holding back the tears that William wasn’t here. Then more briskly she said: ‘You look very distinguished with your beard. But you’ve lost too much weight. There’s nothing of you. Has it been very awful in Italy?’

  He ran his hand over his beard and looked at her gravely. ‘The worst part was when I was in Naples in October, after Italy declared war on Germany; the German soldiers did unspeakable things to those who they viewed as betrayers. You hear about barbarism, but when you actually see it with your own eyes, it makes you lose hope for mankind, it makes …’ He paused and blinked hard. Then swallowed. ‘Let’s not talk about that now.’

  As if in agreement, the bundle in Clarissa’s arms gave a small start and a snuffle, but didn’t wake. Beyond the room came the sound of hurried feet clattering on the wooden staircase. A light knock at the open door followed, and then two faces peered in. ‘Can we see him, please?’ whispered Walter. ‘Mrs Cook said we could if we were very quiet.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clarissa said. ‘Come on in. And look who else is here.’

  The boys’ faces lit up. ‘Uncle Artie!’ they both cried out excitedly, forgetting all about keeping quiet.

  They went to him and hugged him hard. Then, remembering the baby, they clustered round the bed. ‘He’s very small,’ observed Thomas seriously. ‘Is he meant to be like that, all wrinkly like a raisin?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ answered Mrs Cook as she came in with Leon behind her carrying a tray of tea things. ‘I dare say you looked just as small and wrinkly when you were born.’

  Both boys laughed, and, dismissing the idea as nonsense, they eyed the tray hungrily.

  Leon put the tray down on the dressing table. ‘It’s better I leave now, I think,’ he said solemnly, politely averting his gaze from looking at Clarissa in bed.

  ‘Please don’t go, Leon,’ Clarissa said, ‘stay and have a cup of tea with us. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  ‘You can give me a hand passing these cups of t
ea round,’ said Mrs Cook, ‘as well as keep any thieving little hands clear of them biscuits I made this morning.’

  With everyone gathered around her, and all looking so pleased and happy for her, Clarissa suddenly found she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer and they streamed freely down her cheeks.

  Walter looked at her, concerned. ‘Are you sad because William isn’t here?’ he asked with surprising insight.

  ‘Yes and no,’ she managed to say, stroking the top of his head. ‘I do wish William was here, but at the same time I know I’m lucky to have you all in my life.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  December 1943, Skylark Cottage, Shillingbury

  Christmas was going to be different in every way this year.

  Last year Clarissa had been looking forward to William spending the day with her, along with Charles and Lavinia and Leon and the boys. This time there would be no William and no Charles and Lavinia. But her sadness was assuaged by the delight of having Nicholas, who was proving to be such an easy baby and never failed to make her smile, even when he woke in the night. There were times when she wondered what sort of world he’d been born into, and whether he would only ever know a world at war, but then he would nuzzle up to her and nothing else mattered.

  With extended leave, Artie was staying with them at Skylark Cottage until the New Year. Leon had kindly offered to share his room with him, but Artie had insisted he sleep on the sofa, not wanting to put anybody out. He was the perfect house guest and gained Mrs Cook’s adoration by helping with anything that needed doing, like peeling the potatoes, or ensuring the blackout curtains were in place at night.

  At a time when rationing was challenging even Mrs Cook’s ability to conjure edible and nutritious meals from next to nothing, the delivery of two large Christmas parcels all the way from America, one from Betty and one from Effie, had them crowded around the kitchen table as they excitedly unwrapped the thoughtful treats: tins of peaches, cake, and ham, stem ginger, packets of chocolate and prettily wrapped bars of rose-scented soap. ‘Luxury soap,’ enthused Mrs Cook dreamily, holding a bar to her nose. ‘When was the last time we had anything so extravagant?’