by Liz Trenow
‘What would be the point of that? No one would see us.’
‘The newspapers printed photographs of the suffragettes. It was a brilliant way of promoting their cause, and it worked. They got the vote in the end, remember?’
‘You think the local newspaper would take our photographs?’
‘Why not? We’d have to tell them, of course, so they could find us. Your friend Miss Calver would help us with a press release.’
‘My father would hit the roof.’
‘My parents too,’ he said. ‘But isn’t Eli’s hut the important issue here?’
‘We should only do it if he agrees.’
‘Of course. But the point is that while we’re occupying the hut, they can’t destroy it.’
The idea was so bold, so daring, so terrifying. Being chained to a hut in the middle of the woods, with press photographers milling around? Pa would be furious. He might never forgive me. And what might the Blackness do? Could we even get hurt? But Kit was looking at me with bright, expectant eyes. How could I disappoint him?
‘Let’s go and visit Miss Calver and see what she thinks.’ I was secretly beginning to hope she would say the newspapers wouldn’t be interested, so that we could drop the whole idea.
Kit leaned across and put his hand over mine. I squeezed his hand back and we sat there, holding hands, for a long, beautiful moment. Was his touch thrilling, electric, like those novels said? Did it sear my skin? Well, perhaps not, but it certainly made my pulse race, and it felt so right, so perfect, that I wanted it to go on forever.
‘Are you getting cold feet?’ he asked. I was wondering how to respond when Jimmy interrupted.
‘Find treasure now?’ I’d almost forgotten he was there.
‘Go and look again,’ I said.
But Kit was already on his feet. ‘Come on, laddie. Let’s go and find it.’
After some searching we eventually found the small pile of stones, concealed under an tuft of overgrown grass, and dug into the hard, dry earth with the trowel Kit had packed. All that was left, after years beneath the earth, was a broken box and some pieces of rusty metal, but Jimmy seemed perfectly satisfied.
As we were rowing back, I glanced across at Kit and Jimmy in the other boat. My brother had never seemed happier than when he was with Kit. They were sharing a joke and laughing out loud – I felt a little pang of jealousy. Kit was such a mystery. I could still feel the imprint of his hand on mine, but he gave no sign that he wanted to be closer. I hated myself for resenting my brother, but how would I ever get a boyfriend with Jimmy hanging around all the time?
Later, when we got back to the Hall, Kit said, ‘Where’s your parrot, Cap’n?’
Jimmy looked round, checking the jacket and the strap the parrot had been attached to. It was gone – probably lost somewhere on the island. His face crumpled and he looked close to tears. But Kit wasn’t bothered. ‘Not to worry, Jim-boy,’ he said, ruffling his hair. ‘It’ll be happy enough flying around and enjoying its freedom till we find it again.’
‘Miss Molly, Master Jimmy, Master Waddington: treble trouble. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Miss Calver said, opening the door.
‘We need your help,’ Kit said.
‘I’ll do what I can.’ She ushered us inside. ‘Forgive the mess. I’ve been away staying with journo friends in Ipswich. Come through.’
She cleared three chairs and invited us to sit down.
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a rather long, hot and tiresome journey, so I think we deserve a little drink. Lemonade?’ She checked the man-sized wristwatch that swamped her narrow wrist. ‘The sun’s nearly below the yard-arm, after all.’
It was only four o’clock – teatime really – but that didn’t seem to bother her. She returned with the drinks and took a long swig of whisky.
‘Now, how can I help?’
Kit and I glanced at each other. ‘You go first,’ I said.
‘No, you,’ he said, nudging me.
‘Have you heard about our petition?’ I started.
‘Petition? No, I haven’t. But as I said, I’ve been away the past week. What’s it about?’
‘We wanted to get people’s opinion about Eli’s hut,’ I said. ‘Because the church committee has been persuaded that he’d be better off in a council house.’
‘And what does Eli think?’
‘He hates the idea,’ I said.
‘And your father?’ She peered at me over her glasses.
‘He’s opposed to it, but got voted out,’ I said.
‘And how did the petition go?’
‘No one wanted to sign it,’ I said. ‘Because they know who’s behind the plan.’
‘Hmm. Doesn’t surprise me,’ she said, lighting a cigarillo.
I explained about the meeting and the vote, and the file of letters Eli had shown me and Pa. ‘That wretched man,’ Miss Calver spluttered. ‘Everyone knows he’s trouble, but no one’s prepared to stand up to him.’ She poured herself another generous glass of whisky and swigged most of it in a single gulp. ‘So, how can I help?’
‘You mentioned that Blackman and Eli had their differences in the past. Do you know what it was about?’
‘Ah, they go way back. This isn’t the first time Blackman’s tried to get him off that land. Before he even came to live here, just after the war, Henry tried to buy it, planning to build houses there. He knows full well that if you cut down the trees, it would have a wonderful view of the valley.’
‘What happened? Did the church refuse to sell it?’
‘I don’t rightly know, except that Blackman was in cahoots with the previous incumbent, before everything seemed to go very sour and the poor man lost his mind. Eli knows more about it than anyone, so perhaps he threatened to tell. Who knows?’
‘And your own disagreement with Blackman?’
‘A stupid thing, really. Where I park my car is actually common land. I’ve used it forever. But they decided to start charging me for the privilege.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I couldn’t afford the legal fees, so I threatened to go public. In the end we agreed to compromise.’
‘That’s the thing, Miss Calver,’ Kit said now. ‘What do you think would happen if we went public about Eli’s hut?’
As he explained our plan to occupy the hut, she became increasingly animated. ‘My dears, what a simply splendid idea. I’m all ready to join you. My goodness, I love a bit of practical protest,’ she said, rubbing her hands with evident glee. ‘You’ve come to just the right person. We’ll write a stonking press release they won’t be able to ignore.’
She poured herself another generous slosh from the whisky bottle and pulled out, from beneath a mound of papers, a spiral-bound reporter’s notebook and a pencil.
A fluent line of spindly hieroglyphs – shorthand, she called it – spooled out from the end of her pencil across the page as she talked. ‘Protestors in Wormley near Colchester are chaining themselves to a shepherd’s hut – note the present continuous, always makes it sound more urgent – to save the home of an elderly war veteran.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ Kit said, as I quailed at the thought of Pa’s fury. ‘The hut, on church-owned land, has been inhabited by Mr Eli Chadwick . . .’ She looked up. ‘Any idea how old he is?’ I shook my head. She wrote, ‘Check age’ and then continued ‘. . . since tragedy struck the village in December 1940. His cottage was bombed and his wife killed. Now the church committee wants to rehouse him in the new council estate being built on the Colchester road. They say the hut is not fit for year-round occupation.’
‘Eli told Molly they’d have to carry him out in his coffin,’ Kit said.
‘Excellent. Always paint a picture with words. “They’ll have to carry me out in my coffin,” Mr Chadwick says.’ She sucked the end of her pencil. ‘I suppose you’ve checked with Eli that he’s okay with this?’
‘We will, of course. Tomorrow morning.’
‘Then
we can press the Go button. I might even drive into the newspaper offices and drop it in.’ She emptied her glass and plonked it down on the table with a thud. ‘Ooh, we’re going to have such fun. Feels like old times.’
As we walked back down the street, Kit said, ‘Good old Miss Calver. Coming up trumps like that. What do you think, Molly?’
My head was filled with confusion, my loyalties divided. On the one hand, Eli needed our help. On the other, it could all turn out so very badly for my father. But Kit’s enthusiasm was infectious. This was our secret shared plan. Together we would save Eli’s hut, so that he could live out the rest of his years happily in his woodland grove.
‘So long as Eli agrees, we’ll go ahead,’ I said.
When we parted that afternoon, Kit took both of my hands in his and looked into my eyes. ‘You’re a great kid, doing this for Eli,’ he said. ‘And a good mate. Makes me realise how selfish my life has been up to now.’ He let go and turned to leave, touching me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Okay then. See you tomorrow, ten-thirty? It’s going to be amazing, Molly.’
‘Till tomorrow,’ I said, near to tears. I didn’t want to be a great kid or a good mate. I wanted to be his girlfriend.
At home, Pa was nowhere to be found, and Mrs D was anxious.
‘Forgive me, Miss Molly. But has he talked about feeling poorly, lately?’ she asked, shaking flour into the large cream mixing bowl she used for making bread.
‘Only that he’s got a lot on his plate,’ I said. The truth was that my father was looking increasingly worn around the edges, like a frayed scarf. ‘Why do you ask?’
She demurred, peering down at the dough. ‘Well, it’s not really my place . . .’
‘You can tell me.’
‘It’s what the hubby said last night.’ She carried on kneading.
‘Go on.’ What new revelation was this?
‘George heard him, late last evening, in the church. He’d dropped in to replace the candles . . .’
‘Pa often goes over there to pray, of an evening.’
‘This wasn’t praying, my dear. He was . . .’ She stopped her kneading.
‘You can tell me, Miss D.’
‘The word George used was . . . babbling.’
‘Babbling?’ Like a brook? Such a strange word. ‘What about?’
‘None of it really made sense, Hubby said. But there was something about the bank managers and being afraid of the shellings, and the world being out to get him, and someone called Sarah.’
My mother. I felt like crying, but somehow I needed to hold it together to protect my poor father. ‘It’s the shell shock,’ I heard myself saying. ‘He gets these turns from time to time. It will pass. And Sarah is my late mother, by the way. In case you were wondering. We all miss her terribly.’
Mrs D brushed her floury hands on her apron, walked over and took me in her arms. It was the first proper hug I’d had from an adult in months. For a second I resisted. But then the dam in my heart gave way, and I found myself falling against her, sobbing.
‘You poor child,’ she said, stroking my hair. ‘So young, and so much to contend with. But I’m sure it will all settle down for your father before long. Just a few teething problems. Only to be expected, in a new parish and all.’
I longed to believe her.
That evening I showed Jimmy my dragon story. I’d copied it out neatly and stitched it between two pieces of cardboard, on which I’d rather ineptly painted a fierce dragon on the front cover, and a crocodile on the back. Jimmy was utterly delighted with it, insisting that I read the whole thing to him.
But as I turned to go, his face fell. The smile had disappeared and his eyes, normally so bright and cheerful, seemed to droop at the edges. It was usually only when he was unwell that we ever saw him like this. I went to sit down beside him on the bed again and put my arm round him.
‘What’s up, Jimmy?’
‘Eli.’
‘I know. I’m worried too.’
He looked doubtful. ‘His hut?’
‘But we’re doing what we can, all right?’
He shook his head violently, screwing up his face. ‘No, no, no . . .’
He began to sob. It was all I could do not to burst into tears again too. I couldn’t bear to see him so unhappy. With Pa so preoccupied and absent, it felt as though the troubles of the world were resting on my shoulders and everything was falling apart.
I took a breath and pushed down my tears, summoning the most reassuring tone that I could muster. ‘Look, we’re doing our best, Jim. We just have to wait and see.’
19
After that, everything changed.
It started with the weather. Next morning we woke to discover that a curtain of heavy grey cloud now covered the sun, which had shone almost unceasingly for weeks on end. It should have brought relief, but there was still not a single breath of wind. It was swelteringly hot and so humid that the slightest activity brought you out in a sweat.
Mrs D prophesied that a storm was on its way, and it certainly felt as though the world was on hold, just waiting for something to happen. ‘Heaven knows, we need something to clear the air around here.’ She turned to me. ‘Cheer up, Molly. You look like a thundercloud yourself.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t sleep very well.’ I’d lain in bed for hours, thinking about Kit. Our plan had seemed so exciting when we’d been talking about it together, but now it felt as though we were about to step off a cliff into the unknown. Most of all, I worried about Pa. The more I thought about it, the more I was coming to think that occupying the hut was a really bad idea, but having started it, I felt duty-bound to Kit, Miss Calver and Eli to see it through.
‘C’mon, Jimmy, get your shoes on. We’re going to meet Kit and visit Eli,’ I said after breakfast.
When we reached the stile, Kit was already there.
Jimmy ran towards him, holding up his arms, shouting, ‘My friend.’
Kit lifted him in the air and swung him round. ‘You’re looking great, Jim-boy.’
Jealousy welled up in me again, resenting their obvious ease and affection.
As we began walking towards Eli’s hut, I started to sense that something was wrong. There was no smell of wood-smoke, no sound of Eli whistling, no Sarge barking. And when we reached the glade, it seemed that my instincts had been correct. Not only was the hut locked and deserted, but on the door was pinned a piece of paper. We climbed the steps to read it. Typed in large red capitals, it read:
EVICTION NOTICE
WE HEREBY NOTIFY THAT THESE PREMISES
ARE DEEMED UNSUITABLE FOR OCCUPATION AS A DOMESTIC DWELLING
BY ORDER: HENRY BLACKMAN, TREASURER
WORMLEY PARISH MANAGEMENT COMMITTEE
‘Bloody hell,’ Kit said. ‘He’s done it. Already.’
Jimmy tugged at my hand. ‘Done it?’
‘Don’t worry, Jim-boy. We’re going to stop them.’
‘How stop them?’
‘We’re going to lock ourselves inside the hut, to stop them knocking it down,’ Kit said.
‘Can I come?’
‘No, my love,’ I said. ‘It’s not safe for small boys. Anyway, we need to try and find Eli first. Make sure he’s all right.’
Kit was on tiptoe, peering in through one of the windows.
‘What are you doing, Kit?’
‘Seeing whether he’s taken his things.’
It was then that I remembered seeing Eli hiding his key in the arch of the left-hand wheel.
‘No need.’ The key was still there, and the door unlocked easily. As soon as we stepped inside, its warm, smoky smell brought back all the happy times we’d spent there. All of Eli’s possessions were still neatly in place, the bed quilt straightened, the books on their shelves, the kettle on the hob, carefully cut kindling and old newspapers on top of the logs in the basket. It was as though he’d just stepped out for a few moments. Nothing seemed to have been touched, and this made me even more worried than ever.
�
�No fire,’ Jimmy said, peering into the stove. ‘Where Eli?’
‘They said they were moving him to a council house, up on the High Road.’
‘Let’s go and find him,’ Kit said.
I locked the hut and replaced the key carefully, hoping against hope that Eli was safe and would come back soon.
It was a long, sweaty walk up the street to the High Road – at least a mile, and most of it uphill. Then we had to traipse another half-mile to the council houses.
Halfway there, Jimmy began to sniffle. I took his hand and dragged him along, so roughly that he started to stumble. ‘Come on, Jimmy,’ I snapped at him.’ We haven’t got all day. Once we’ve found Eli, we can ask him where he wants to live.’
How I wished, looking back on that moment, that I’d shown more patience, more compassion. What I failed to realise was that Jimmy was as worried and upset as I was – and just as determined to fight for his friend – only he didn’t know how to show it.
The place was still a building site: dusty, bare ground was littered with concrete mixers, bulldozers and other rusting equipment, with no greenery and scarcely a tree or bush within a hundred yards. I couldn’t imagine a greater contrast with the beautiful woodland glade Eli loved so much. Although four of the ten semi-detached houses looked finished, none of them seemed to be occupied. Bare windows stared at us like the blank eyes of empty souls; it made me shiver.
The place was deserted. And Eli was nowhere to be seen.
‘Don’ like it here. Want to go home,’ Jimmy said.
On the way back down the hill, we argued. Kit was all for going ahead with the sit-in, regardless. ‘They’ve issued an eviction notice, Molly. What other proof do you need?’
I insisted that we must wait until we’d found Eli. ‘What if he’s changed his mind, found somewhere else to live? We’d be dragging his name through the newspapers when he’d rather be left alone.’
‘But it’s wrong. Immoral. Didn’t you say so yourself? The Blackness wants the land for himself, to cut down the woodland and sell for more housing. And that’s not enough to demonstrate against?’
