A Home in the Country

by Sheelagh Mawe

  Dedicated to the thousands of individuals who spent part, or most, of their childhood in foster homes. Hey, you survived!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Just as a daily traveller on a familiar highway may occasionally find it necessary, due perhaps to roadworks or an accident, to make a detour in order to arrive safely at their destination, so too are there unexpected events that interrupt the course of a life, some causing a mere ripple, others a disruption so complete that a return to what went before is no longer possible.

  And many times, some of the most extraordinary detours one encounters in life begin to take shape under such ordinary circumstances that it is only with hindsight that one can pinpoint their beginning.

  Certainly, such was the case for my brother, James, and myself when, many years – better make that decades – after the fact, we attempted to reconstruct our first knowledge of the impending detour sprawling ahead in our young lives – a subject which, without ever quite knowing why, we had always avoided. The only clear memory we could agree upon was one that took place on an unusually sunny afternoon at our home in England. The year was 1940 …

  ONE

  … And we were sitting at the tea table silently watching our mother’s hands busy among the teacups. The ritual was always the same: first a little milk was poured into each cup, then a carefully measured teaspoon of sugar – it was, after all, rationed – and then the tea.

  The thing that set that particular teatime apart from all the others in our joint memory was the fact that Mummy had been talking. More to the point, she had been talking in a quick and unusually breathless manner whereas, normally, she remained silent and preoccupied until her task was complete and the full cups carefully passed around the table.

  She began by saying that she had the most marvellous news ever for us. ‘It’s your turn now to be refugees,’ she beamed, ‘and you are going to be evacuated all the way to America! Isn’t that exciting?’

  James and I exchanged glances.

  Not pausing for our response, or even to catch her breath, Mummy hurried on to say, ‘It will only be for a little while, darlings. Just until this wretched war is over and England back the way it was before that wicked man, Hitler, started dropping his disgusting bombs all over the place.’

  From the way she looked at us, with smiling eyes and raised eyebrows, we knew she expected us to be thrilled at this news but actually, we were a bit suspicious. That was because we’d heard her talk in just such a breathless manner before – though never at teatime – and had noticed that things said at such times, all things that promised amazing results for lucky little children, almost always turned out to be rather unpleasant.

  Certainly, the first day of school for each of us had been too awful for words. Same with rushing to our dug-out air raid shelter at the bottom of the garden in the middle of the night when the sirens started their ghastly wailing and the bombs began to fall. And what about all the excitement every time we had to visit the doctor? Take medicine? Be inoculated? We couldn’t remember a single event ever bringing the expected magical results, nor worth the sweeties we were promised if we were good sports and didn’t cry.

  Another puzzling thing our mother seemed to have quite forgotten in her excitement that particular day was that whenever there had been talk in the past of our being evacuated, she had always said that the very idea of little children being separated from their parents and packed off to live with complete strangers, goodness only knew where, simply appalled her.

  ‘You only have to look at all the poor little Londoners evacuated to this village to see what a disastrous idea it is,’ she had said. ‘Otherwise why are they running away in droves, all of them trying to find their way back to London?’

  ‘Where is America?’ James asked, somewhat tentatively.

  ‘I should have thought at age six, James, you’d know where America is,’ Daddy growled from his chair by the wireless where he’d gone to sit, teacup and evening paper in hand, in readiness for the sound of Big Ben’s chimes announcing the six o’clock news from the BBC. ‘It’s a country on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes!’ Mummy agreed quickly, worried, as always, that Daddy would fly into one of his rages because we children didn’t know things he thought we should. ‘And what an exciting and wonderful country it is!’

  Unlike most children of that era whose earliest lessons consisted of nursery rhymes and good manners, ours had had more to do with learning to be very careful of what was said in the presence of our father. He had a violent temper and when he lost it he shouted obscene swear words – words Mummy warned us never, under any circumstances, to repeat – and hit any one of us that got in his way.

  It will come, then, as no surprise to learn that neither James nor I liked our father at all although we knew it was expected of us. Sister Theresa, my kindergarten teacher at the convent school James and I attended, had once become very angry – livid, actually – when, after telling the class it was their duty to love our Father in heaven, I had replied that I’d try although I didn’t like the one at home one bit. Sister was deeply shocked at my words and said I must pray and ask God to forgive me for saying such a wicked thing.

  Mummy elaborated further. ‘America is a huge and very beautiful country!’

  ‘Bigger than England?’ James asked.

  ‘Good gracious me, yes. Much bigger. And the best part about it is that it’s far, far away. Too far for that wicked Hitler to drop his nasty bombs.’

  ‘How will we get there, then?’ James asked. ‘We won’t have enough petrol will we?’

  Mummy laughed. ‘You don’t need cars or even trains or buses to go to America, silly. To go to America you get on a lovely big ship – bigger than twenty houses put together, I should say – and you stay on it for about a week while it goes all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Just imagine that! My goodness, won’t that be fun?’

  Again, would it? The more excited Mummy became, the more dubious I felt and I asked, ‘Where will you be, then?’

  On a deep breath that almost wavered, Mummy answered, ‘Well, you see, darling, mummies and daddies aren’t allowed to travel just now – because of the war, you know – just children. And, of course, your father must stay to go to business and I must stay to look after him. My goodness, someone must, mustn’t they? And your pets! Whatever would become of them if I went away, too?’

  I hadn’t liked the sound of any of it. Not in the least. The very thought of going away and leaving Mummy alone with Daddy made my throat feel tight. It was one of the reasons I hated going to school. I worried he’d call her names and hit her if I wasn’t there to pull on his legs and shout at him to stop.

  But at least I only went to school half a day and could look after her the rest of the time. But if I went far away on a big ship to America then heaven only knew what might happen.

  I remembered something else that had struck me as very odd at the time, which was that the very morning of which I’m speaking, I’d had my bottom soundly spanked for unlatching the garden gate and crossing the lane to the other side. I reasoned that if I wasn’t even allowed to
go outside the garden by myself, then how on earth could they expect me to go far, far away to America?

  When Mummy found me outside the gate that morning she’d said, ‘What a naughty, disobedient little girl you are! You know perfectly well you’re not allowed to go outside the garden alone. Whatever got into you?’

  ‘I only went to pick the daisies growing in the hedge opposite,’ I’d sobbed. ‘You always say you like daisies best of all the flowers. And … I did look both ways,’ I added by way of compensating for my naughtiness.

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you, darling,’ Mummy conceded. ‘But doing exactly as you’re told is the best, and most thoughtful, thing of all. Especially now there’s a war on. What if the air raid sirens had gone off and I couldn’t find you? I’m sorry, darling, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit in the corner until you’re quite sure you remember that.’

  It was useless – unthinkable, actually – to contradict one’s parents in those days and if Mummy said going to live in America by ourselves was an exciting and wonderful thing and we were very lucky, then that was that. But I did feel I should remind her that I was still only five, something I didn’t readily admit to at the time.

  ‘Actually,’ I’d begun, ‘I don’t think I should like to go to America without you, thank you, Mummy. You see, I rather think I’m a bit too … um … small. I mean … I might get lost!’

  Once I’d said it, I’d begun to feel somewhat ashamed of myself and my head sank so low it was nearly in my teacup.

  I heard the sound of Daddy turning a page of the newspaper, heard Mummy give a big sigh, and then James unwittingly came to my rescue saying, ‘I like the bit about the big ship, but how on earth will we manage over there by ourselves? Sarah can’t even tie her shoelaces properly yet.’

  Both parents started talking at once.

  Mummy said, ‘Oh, darlings … how silly of me. I didn’t mean you’d be going to America all by yourselves.’

  Daddy said, ‘Good God, I should say not! You won’t be by yourselves on the ship or in America. There will be people to look after you every single minute.’

  Looking at me very sternly over the top of both his glasses and the newspaper, he’d added, ‘And of course you must go. You don’t realize your extreme good fortune. Every child in England would like to go to America just now. Besides, it’s your duty. It will be your way of helping the war effort.’

  Mummy agreed. ‘Yes, and a jolly useful way it will be, too. And as Daddy just told you, you won’t be alone. Some very kind, very brave ladies are going to escort you and take care of you and all the other lucky little children who will be travelling with you. Children your own age for the most part, I expect. And then, when you get off the ship in New York—’

  ‘I thought you said we got off in America,’ James interrupted.

  ‘I did, darling. You will. New York is a big city at the very edge of America. It has lots of huge, tall buildings so high they seem to scrape the sky; that’s what people call them, skyscrapers. Wait till you see!’

  ‘Is everything in America big, then?’ James wondered.

  ‘Yes, darling. Huge. Now, when you get off the ship your escort will take you to a hostel. A hostel is rather like a hotel. That is … well, it’s a big house with lots of rooms called dormitories just for children. And that’s where you will stay until foster parents can be found for you and then—’

  ‘What are foster parents?’ James asked.

  Mummy sighed. ‘Darling, please. You really must stop interrupting. I was just getting to that. Foster parents are … well, they’re temporary parents. Dear, kind people who will look after you and pretend to be your mother and father until—’

  What? A pretend mother? I tumbled out of my chair to throw myself at Mummy and tell her I didn’t need a pretend mother, thank you very much. I said, ‘Why would I when I have my very own proper one?’

  Mummy gave me a quick, reassuring hug. ‘And always will. But now back to your chair, please, darling. You haven’t finished your bread and butter. You didn’t fold your napkin. And you didn’t ask to be excused, did you?’

  Reluctantly I got back in my chair while Mummy went on talking. ‘By the time you arrive I’m quite sure a lovely home will have been found for you. Perhaps, if you’re very lucky, a home in the country. Think of that! No more hateful air raid sirens getting you out of bed to run to that nasty, damp old shelter – elbows off the table please, James. No more smelly old gas masks to trundle with you everywhere you go. No more bombs crashing down. No more rationing. All the eggs and milk and meat and vegetables growing children need. And sweeties galore! Just like here before the war!’

  Strangely, I wasn’t that interested in the sweeties just at that moment because such an awful thought had popped into my head that I interrupted Mummy, even though I knew it was rude. ‘But Mummy, what if the war goes on forever and ever?’ I asked.

  ‘Impossible,’ Daddy snorted.

  Mummy agreed. ‘No fear of that. Our Mr Churchill simply wouldn’t put up with it. You’ll see, it will all be over in a few months. Perhaps a year at the very outside. Just until we do away with that wicked man, Hitler, and England is safe again.’

  I remember I started to cry then, which was upsetting in itself as I had prided myself on having outgrown such a babyish habit. But really, it seemed perfectly obvious to me that if England wasn’t safe for children then it couldn’t possibly be safe for adults either.

  ‘But what if a bomb falls on you or the Germans come while we’re away? We might never find you,’ I sobbed. ‘Then whatever should we do?’

  Mummy told me not to worry. ‘Leave that up to your father and me,’ she said. ‘We know what’s best and we’ll be quite safe, you’ll see. Meantime, you are to be a good girl and finish your tea. And for heaven’s sake, smile please. Nobody likes long, weepy faces.’

  But by then I’d had quite enough of trying to be good and more than enough of adult logic, thank you. Raising my voice to maximum volume, I shouted, ‘I hate being little! And I hate being made to go on a ridiculous journey to America! Why can’t you understand that if you’ll be quite safe here, then so should we? I don’t want to be a refugee! And I don’t want a pretend mother either! Most of all, I hate bloody old Hitler! I shan’t go!’

  I stopped, both pleased and horrified at the shocked expressions on both parents’ faces. And then I started crying all over again, every bit as shocked as they, and I left my chair once again to throw myself at Mummy.

  ‘I didn’t mean all of it,’ I choked between sobs, ‘and I do want to be good and do as I’m told. It’s just that I don’t think sending us to America while this beastly war is going on is a good idea. How do you know our ship won’t be torpedoed and sunk like the ones we hear about on the news? And how do you know we won’t be captured by the Germans and sent to a prison camp? Or starved? Or that the foster parents you spoke of will be truly kind? I think it would be so much better, and safer, if we all just stayed happily together here in England and be blowed with bloody old Hitler and his stupid bombs.’

  Mummy stroked my hair and told me I was her good, brave little girl. ‘We must all do things we’d rather not when there’s a war on,’ she consoled. ‘After all, drastic times require drastic measures. And, you’ll see, parents really do know what’s best for their children. What we want for you is a safe and carefree childhood and heaven knows it simply isn’t possible in England at the moment.’

  Once James and I had resurrected the memory of that long-ago teatime, it became increasingly easy to remember, in surprising detail, what followed and, once started, we seemed unable to stop. For one thing, the carefully structured routines of our household changed abruptly as Mummy busied herself with all the criteria necessary for our departure. Some meals were delayed or bypassed altogether, while items on her grocery list were forgotten, and bath and bedtime were often late. Much more interesting from James’ and my point of view, however, were the days we were kept home
from school altogether in order to accompany our parents on necessary journeys to the Foreign Office in London for the all-important passports.

  While those journeys were eagerly looked forward to by us children, they were a great worry to our parents since London was no longer considered a safe place to visit. Mummy, in particular, worried about air raids, while Daddy obsessed over having enough petrol for the journey and getting home before dark because of the blackout and not being allowed to use the car headlights.

  On one ghastly occasion it did get dark before we got home and Daddy started getting all worked up about it, shouting that it was all Mummy’s fault. Sitting behind him in the back seat of the car, I saw one of his hands let go of the steering wheel and bunch itself into a fist, ready to punch the side of her face, when a full moon came out from behind a cloud and he could see quite well.

  ‘Thank you, moon!’ Mummy exclaimed, before going on to explain to James and me that the moon we were looking at was the very same moon that shone in America and every time she saw it while we were away, she would blow it kisses for us, and when we saw it we could blow it kisses for her and Daddy and that way we wouldn’t seem so very far apart after all.

  Daddy stopped his shouting at those words but James and I, while dimly understanding they were meant to cheer us up, wished she hadn’t said anything at all. For rather than comforting us, they made us want to ask, ‘How far is far away?’

  London most definitely was not the nice, exciting place James and I remembered from our few pre-war visits. The first time we drove in we were all quite horrified at what we saw. Over and over Daddy said, ‘Good God!’ and ‘Bloody outsiders!’ While between gasps and moans, Mummy said, ‘Blast those Germans! Look what they’ve done. Now do you see why it’s best for you to go to America, darlings? Look, so many houses quite gone, all reduced to rubble. And look at the sand bags! And the queues! Why, they must stretch for miles. Fancy having to wait for hours on end for a wretched potato or a measly ounce of tea. Just think how lucky we are to live in the country with our own little bit of garden to grow a few spuds and keep the odd chicken.’