by Rosie James
‘Well, I’ll tell you what we could do,’ Ada said. ‘Why don’t you choose one of the short stories you’ve already written – or make up another one – and we’ll send it off to a publisher. How does that sound?’
Alice’s eyes widened. ‘What – you mean a real publisher? Someone who would print it and put it in the shops? Oh Mama!’
‘Now, don’t get carried away, Alice,’ Ada said, smiling. ‘I’ve noticed that there is a small publishing house near the centre of town, and all we would ask them to do is to read your story, and give you their opinion. Tell you where you might have gone wrong. It’s not very likely that they would publish it straightaway,’ she added gently, ‘ because it takes time to learn how to be successful. But they would be professional people who understand what people want to read, and they would tell you where you might have gone wrong. See? And that would be a start, wouldn’t it? But ambition is the main thing you need, Alice, and you’ve got that, haven’t you? You’ve always wanted to be the second Jane Austen!’
Alice’s heart quickened as she imagined a glittering future for herself in the book world. ‘I’ve already got a new idea for a story,’ she declared, ‘I’ve just thought of it! And I’m going to start writing it as soon as I get home from school!’ She turned to her mother. ‘But will you read it first, before we send it off to the publishers, Mama…to make sure I haven’t made any mistakes?’
Ada took Alice’s hand and squeezed it. ‘No, I won’t read it first,’ she said, ‘because it would have to be all your own work – nothing of mine. If you make a mistake it won’t matter. Everyone makes mistakes. All you need is determination to succeed and persistence, and you’ve got all that, Alice. I know you have.’ And after a moment, Ada added,‘Never give up on your dreams, Alice. Always tell yourself that one day they could come true.’
Thoroughly wide awake, her imagination darting all over the place with heroes and heroines and blighted love lives, Alice went back to her original question about her parents.
‘You know…you know you and Papa?’ she said. ‘Did you and Papa really love each other, at once, straightaway I mean? Did you know that you were meant for each other?’
Ada turned her head and looked at Alice. ‘Yes, Alice, we really did.’ She paused. ‘I know we did,’ she added quietly.
Alice was in an enquiring mood. ‘Do you think that the professor loves Mrs. Carmichael as much as you loved Papa?’ she asked. ‘He’s so often away at the Infirmary, Mrs. Carmichael must be awfully lonely sometimes, mustn’t she?’
‘Loneliness is something everyone has to put up with at times,’ Ada said. ‘It’s not the worst thing in the world.’ She paused. ‘Now then – where had we got to with Jane Austen?’
At once, Alice began reading, stumbling only very occasionally with a difficult word, and Ada, only half-listening, thought of Stanley, and what might have been. There might even have been a brother or sister for Alice. If God had intended it.
Presently, aware that Alice was getting tired, she said gently, ‘I think that we’ll let that be the last chapter tonight, Alice. Well done – you read beautifully.’ She turned to switch off the small bedside lamp. ‘Good night, Alice, God bless you.’
‘God bless you, Mama,’ Alice replied, snuggling down contentedly. Then, yawning, ‘Which bedroom do they sleep in – is it the one underneath ours…the professor and Mrs. Carmichael, I mean?’
‘Oh I really don’t know. Go to sleep, Alice,’ Ada said.
But Ada did know. The professor and Helena occupied the main bedroom, the one with its own dressing room, immediately beneath this one. And Ada imagined them, perhaps even now, lying there together…such a handsome couple, he tall and strong, so utterly, completely masculine…and Helena – slim, perfect, beautiful. Beautiful for him.
The Fiction Editor, Allbright Publishing,
St. James’s Square, Bristol. – 13th December 1930
Dear Sir,
My name is Alice Watts and I am ten years old – well, nearly eleven, actually – and I have great pleasure in sending you a short story which I have written, in the hope that you may agree to publish it. It is about five hundred words long.
I have been writing short stories all my life, and one day I hope to attempt something much larger, perhaps like Jane Austen, or one of the Brontë sisters. I know it will take a long time, but I am prepared to work hard and not to give up on my dream.
I wish everyone at your publishing house a very happy Christmas.
I hope you are well.
Yours faithfully,
Alice Watts (Miss)
Alice put the letter in the envelope, hoping that she had said the right thing. “There’s no need for me to advise you on letter-writing,” Ada had said earlier, “because you have had plenty of practice already.” All Ada had done was to give Alice the address of the publishing house, and to explain that to find an approximate word count for her story she should multiply the number across the top by the number down the side.
As Alice stuck the postage stamp on the envelope, she wondered briefly whether she should have put “yours truly” or “yours sincerely” – but, after all, this was a business letter, and she knew that “yours faithfully” was how it was done in business.
Dear Miss Alice Watts
Thank you so very much for sending us a copy of your short story, which my colleagues and I thoroughly enjoyed reading.
I hope it will not depress you too much that we cannot agree to publish it on this occasion, simply because we feel that a little more work needs to be done on it. We would suggest that you employ far more dialogue in the story, showing us, rather than telling us, what you wish to convey. You write in a very impressive, grown- up way, Miss Watts, and all your characters are charming. Let them speak for themselves!
We urge you not to give up on your dream, and hope to hear from you again in the future.
We are returning your story, with many thanks, and hope that you, too, have a very happy Christmas.
Yours faithfully
John Elliott – Fiction Editor, Allbright Publishing.
Chapter Five
1941
It was nearly the end of September, and already the three girls felt as if they had never known any other life. It was proving to be far more hectic than any of them had imagined it might be, the days long and hard and tiring, but strangely – muckily – satisfying, and certainly never boring. Alice had to admit that on many a day at the office she would look at her watch, longing for home time. But here on the farm she was aware that they were part of a never-ending cycle of events, of growing and yielding, of cultivating and harvesting, everything full of its own purpose and importance. And being part of it was making her feel important – as if her hours and days were being used to their full and vital value.
Part of the reason that they all felt so relaxed was that Farmer Foulkes could sometimes be a more affable character than they’d imagined at first. He seemed quite pleased with how they’d buckled down to do whatever was asked of them – which included feeding the livestock, mucking out the pigs, helping Mabel clean up the huge chicken run and spread fresh straw, scrubbing down the yards, and Fay, who was certainly the strongest of the three girls, had even been taught how to hold the plough and follow the huge horse as it tugged her along the furrows to make the land ready for the next round of sowing. Thankfully, digging the dratted potatoes had eventually come to an end, and although it had taken a long time the girls had made a good job of it, quickly learning how to avoid damaging the vegetables. Alice, at last, had helped Mabel collect the eggs – though, that, too, had been a long and back-breaking task…there were a lot of birds, and by the time they’d finished her hands were red and prickling from rummaging around in the spiky straw. After which she would help to put each precious egg into the crates, which were then stacked, ready to be collected by one of the lorries that arrived each day at the farm entrance to transport all the produce on to wherever it was needed in the area –
near and far.
The meal together as they sat with the family each evening had quickly become something they all looked forward to. Well, they always seemed to be hungry! Roger was always good company and was clearly enjoying having females around him. Alice noticed that he always made sure he was sitting next to Fay at the long table, and that they occasionally shared a quick, private joke.
It also amazed Alice how much she, herself, was able to eat – because her appetite had never been particularly large. But somehow she, and Fay and Eve, managed to clear their plates each time. And the atmosphere was usually congenial – with, happily, no more digestive emissions from Farmer Foulkes to embarrass Eve. He even seemed to like teasing the girls now and then, if he was in a specially good mood.
‘Now, you girls – you look out for they geese as you d’go by,’ he said one evening, wiping his mouth vigorously with his napkin. ‘They can be nasty critters, and one flap of a wing can break yer arm if you’re not careful!’
Mabel shushed him quickly. ‘Don’t be daft, Walt,’ she said. She smiled at the girls. ‘Don’t listen to ’im. They birds are as good’s gold… startin’ to fatten up nicely in time for our Christmas dinner!’
Eve tried not to shudder at that…she had seen the geese in their pen beyond the chicken run and thought what beautiful creatures they were. Killing them seemed utterly heartless to her. But Alice had no such qualms…a goose – more than one – had always been on the table at Christmas with the Carmichaels. Everyone sitting around together, the professor wielding the carving knife with all the precision and dexterity he must use in his daily work.
After a second, Eve said tentatively –
‘Do you think I could take Tess out for a walk, Mrs. Foulkes?’ It would be lovely for it to be just her and the dog roaming the fields together. ‘You know – perhaps when we’re not too busy?’
The farmer sniggered. ‘Take you out for a walk more loike it!’ he said. ‘Th’animal’s not used to walkin’ anywhere…Tessie’s job is to run around after the cows! Not like your townie dogs who prance along on th’end of a lead with their noses stuck up in th’air!’
Alice cut in quickly. ‘D’you have a dog at home, Evie?’ she said, and Eve shook her head.
‘No – ’fraid not. I would love one – but my parents are allergic to them, you see. And to cats,’ she added sadly. She glanced across at Mabel. ‘What about the other dogs…the Jack Russells?’ she said. ‘Would they come for a walk with me?’ Although the sheepdog was allowed to live in the kitchen, Tam and Tom were always outside in their shed, which was warm and dry and where their food and water was, or they’d be just wandering around sniffing at everything. But surely they’d like to go for a nice walk with someone for a change?
‘Probably not, dear,’ Mabel said kindly. ‘They’re a bit scatty, those too – well, they’re always on the hunt, see, for rats. They’re ratters. That’s what they’re ’ere for – and they do a good job of it, too. Always half a dozen bodies to clear up each mornin’,’ she added gratefully.
‘Rats!’ Eve said, clearly horrified. ‘Rats? I didn’t know there were any rats!’
But rats were not unfamiliar to Alice. When they’d lived in Hotwells, the animals were more common than the cats and dogs which roamed the streets. And Ada had told her once that her mother – the grandmother who Alice had never known – had actually killed one herself when she’d been trapped in a room with one, with no way out. Had crushed and crushed it against a door and the wall until it died. Which had sounded brutal to Alice when she’d been told about it, but Ada had explained that a cornered rat was a vicious creature and that self-preservation was the first instinct in that situation.
Walter Foulkes sniggered a second time. ‘Where there’s animals and their food about there’s always rats,’ he said, as if the fact pleased him. ‘You be careful one don’t run over yer foot and bite yer toe off!’
Alice decided that it was time someone changed the subject. She cleared her throat. ‘We were wondering if we could have the day off on Sunday, Mr. Foulkes,’ she said. ‘We’d like to go home and see our folks – and to bring back one or two things we could do with.’ Most evenings the girls liked to change out of their uniforms into their dresses, but they’d all agreed that they’d soon need some extra clothes – especially as the weather would be closing in soon.
Mabel didn’t bother for her husband to reply. ‘A’course you should have a day off,’ she said firmly. It hadn’t escaped their notice that the girls hadn’t mentioned the subject at all since they’d arrived. That they’d seemed to enjoy turning their hands to everything asked of them, never grumbling, not even when it was wet and mucky after it had rained. ‘It’s about time you did…you been workin’ very hard, all of you, haven’t they, Walter?’
‘Yeah, well, no complaints. So far,’ Walter said. ‘Though they still gotta learn how to milk they cows…you keep puttin’ off showin’ ’em, Mabel. ’ S’about time they did.’
‘Yes, well – I will show them…next week,’ Mabel said.
Alice returned to the subject of their day off. ‘We have walked to the village once or twice, on Saturday afternoons,’ she went on, ‘to post letters to our families…but it would be very nice to see them all again, and to catch up with their news.’ They’d also sussed out the one and only shop – outside which was the village’s solitary, ancient petrol pump – and as Mabel had said, the shop did seem to stock a huge variety of things. On the shelves there were cigarettes and tobacco, bacon and ham and eggs and other available tinned food stuffs, household goods, cleaning materials, brooms and dusters and a stack of plain white cups and saucers and plates. There were most of the bathroom essentials – even a small supply of rather dusty, nameless lipsticks (which Fay had picked up and discarded straightaway). And in the far corner of the shop there was a dark little booth which housed the post office – only open three days a week – where they’d bought stamps and writing paper and envelopes. And also, if anyone needed their shoes repaired, a little man arrived on Mondays to pick them up, returning them the following week.
‘The big problem is going to be transport,’ Fay said now. ‘Did you say the charabanc goes to Bristol on Sundays, Mrs. Foulkes?’
‘Yes, it goes at ten from the war memorial,’ Mabel said, ‘but I’m not sure what time it gets back.’ She turned to Roger. Could you find out, Rog?’
‘I don’t think it’s very wise to count on that old banger,’ Roger said at once. ‘The bally thing breaks down all the time.’ He leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes and giving the matter some serious thought. Then – ‘I could take the girls in the pick-up, couldn’t I…two could sit alongside me, and the other one would have to make do in the back…it’d be a bit uncomfortable, that’s the only thing. But at least they’d be sure of getting there. And back. We could sort out the time arrangements.’
The pick-up was the Morris van, usually with a long trailer behind, which had tarpaulin on two sides. The van was driven, most days, down the long drive to take all the produce from the farm – the milk churns, eggs, bedding straw, potatoes and other root vegetables. And sometimes the occasional pig or goat on its way to be slaughtered. Although Farmer Foulkes was a pretty good shot with his gun to kill off rabbits or rats, slaughtering his animals was something he never did, preferring to leave that to others. Everything, apart from the animals of course, was always left stacked carefully by the roadside, ready to be collected by the appropriate person, or persons, for onward transportation. It didn’t matter if the lorries were late arriving because the produce was always perfectly safe, nothing ever stolen. And the same principle applied everywhere, because no one bothered to lock up when they left their farms or houses. Theft of any kind was virtually non-existent. Roger was the only one who could drive, and he had to make the journey from the farm to the entrance many times each morning to take everything down the long lane.
Now, the farmer looked up sharply. ‘Wha’ you want to go into Bris
tol for?’ he demanded of Roger. He didn’t like the idea of the pick-up using some of their precious petrol for gadding about.
Roger folded his arms and looked straight at his father. ‘I told you before, Dad – I need a new part for the tractor – and I’ve got a mate in the town who I know will have one to sell me.’
‘Huh – on a Sunday?’ the farmer said. ‘Ain’t no shops open on a Sunday!’
Roger raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Trust me, Dad – he’ll sell me one on a Sunday.’ He looked around at the three girls in turn. ‘So – we’ll be killing four birds with one stone, won’t we.’ He couldn’t help smiling at his own little joke, and was rewarded by Fay throwing her head back and laughing.
Eve spoke. ‘But I don’t live in Bristol, so will we be able to go to Bath as well, Roger?’ she said. ‘Will it be much out of your way?’ She hesitated. ‘We did seem to be driving for hundreds of miles when we were brought here. I didn’t know where I was.’
‘That was probably because there were so many drop-offs before us,’ Fay said. ‘But I don’t suppose it was hundreds of miles.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Eve,’ Roger said, smiling across at the girl. ‘I know a good enough route that’ll take in Bath on the way to Bristol. And it shouldn’t be more than an hour, all told.’
Walter Foulkes shuffled in his chair, clearly not too happy at this proposed arrangement, but Mabel spoke up, as usual.
‘Well – good, then, that’s settled,’ she said, getting up to clear the pudding dishes. ‘And if I were you, I’d make an early start on Sunday – well, you’re used to early starts now, aren’t you, luvvers, say 9 o’clock? And then on the way back p’raps not too late ’ome, because Monday’s are always busy, aren’t they?’ She looked down at the girls. ‘It’ll be lovely for you to see your families, luvvers. They must be missin’ you,’ she added.
