Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Shush!’ Bess put her hand up. ‘Sorry, but what’s that noise?’ The land girls, in the middle of their supper, put down their knives and forks and listened in silence.

  ‘Sounds like aircraft,’ Laura whispered.

  ‘Yes, low flying aircraft,’ Bess added. Getting up from the table, she ran to the door. Before opening it, she put out the light.

  ‘Not again,’ Mrs Hartley said. Followed by the land girls, Bess ran into the rick-yard where Mr Porter was looking up at the sky. Bess followed his gaze. Advancing toward Foxden were hundreds of German bomber planes. Formation after formation approached the Estate from the east before turning in a broad sweep, like a swarm of locusts, and heading west.

  At first, Foxden’s residents hadn’t braved the cold November night. They had put out their lights and watched from behind their blackout curtains. Now everyone was in the yard.

  ‘They’re heading for Birmingham,’ Mr Porter shouted.

  Bess shook her head. ‘Coventry!’ she said, as the city’s air raid sirens began to wail. ‘We wouldn’t be able to hear Birmingham’s sirens. It’s Coventry,’ she said again.

  Too shocked to speak, they stood and listened to the high-pitched wail of Coventry’s air raid sirens, followed by the rumble of explosives and the rat-a-tat-tat of anti-aircraft guns. Within minutes the first crump of bombs was followed by the second, then the third – and so it went on. Shivering in the bitterly cold mid-November night air, Bess watched the sky above Coventry turn red as wave after wave of German incendiary bombs tore through the city.

  The air strike had happened almost without warning. The sirens were supposed to wail fifteen minutes before the bombing began, to give people time to get to their shelters. That hadn’t been the case tonight.

  Bess feared people wouldn’t have had time to get to a shelter – and if they had, they’d have to face the heartbreak of seeing their homes reduced to rubble, or losing family and friends, as Miss Armstrong and Molly had done. Molly still cried for Mrs McAllister at night. Molly…

  ‘Molly? Has anyone seen Molly?’

  ‘Bess, we’ve got to take shelter in the cellar,’ Mr Porter shouted. ‘There might be stragglers about. If any planes have strayed from the flight path they’ll need to offload their bombs before they return.’

  ‘I’ve got to find Molly.’

  ‘She’s already down there. Now come on!’ he ordered.

  The ferocious and unrelenting bombardment of Coventry carried on through the night. There were so many bombs exploding at the same time that it was impossible to distinguish one explosion from another.

  Bess put her arms round Molly and rocked her. ‘Shush, now,’ she said, as Molly howled. ‘Shush,’ but Molly was inconsolable. It was as if she was back in Arcadia Avenue on the night Mrs McAllister’s house was bombed.

  Molly cried all night and most of the following day, refusing to undress when she went to bed in case the German bombers came back. Miss Armstrong spent the next two days looking after her, as well as Elizabeth. Only when she had put Elizabeth down for the night did she go downstairs to the kitchen and eat something. The rest of the night she spent in the armchair in Molly’s bedroom, in case either of them needed her.

  Work on the Acres was put on hold for a week. Laura drove Bess’s father to Coventry to see if Bill’s parents needed any help, which they didn’t. Their house was so far out of the city centre that, except for a few broken windows, it was still in one piece.

  After telephoning Natalie and Anton Goldman and assuring them that their children, nanny and nurse were safe, Bess helped Mr Porter and Polly to clear the wine cellar. There were two floors – the lower had deep recesses, ideal to store the wine and the upper was large enough to sleep everyone. It had been built in the fourteenth century as a chantry for Benedictine monks to pray for the soul of the first Lord Foxden. Today, with its five-foot thick walls, the cellar’s purpose was to protect the residents of Foxden if the German bombers returned – which could happen, because the Estate was sandwiched between two RAF aerodromes – Bitteswell and Bruntingthorpe.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The week before Christmas a large hamper arrived from the Goldmans, containing three tins of ham, plum puddings, a fruitcake, bags of mixed fruit, chocolate bars, letters for the children – and a card wishing Bess and the residents of Foxden a happy holiday. The card also said that, although they did not celebrate Christmas or exchange gifts, they wanted to show their gratitude in a practical way. Natalie Goldman added: “PS. Dearest Bess, please do not give the children ham. With fondest love, Natalie and Anton Goldman.”

  After placing Natalie and Anton’s card on the mantle shelf, Bess read a card from her sister Margaret. “Dear Bess, It’s all go here. Being an usherette I get to watch the show every night. I’ve learned all the dances and songs. I’m also helping to make the costumes. And guess what? After the first night party at the Prince Albert Club, the girls from the show persuaded me to sing a song with the band. I went down a storm. I wish you’d been there. Must sign off now. Happy Christmas from Bill and me. Love Margaret.” Bess laughed at Margaret’s modern turn of phrase, but shuddered remembering the first night party she had been to at the Albert Club. In her reply, Bess said she too wished she’d have been there – which couldn’t have been further from the truth. She’d have loved to see her sister singing with the band, but she wasn’t ready to return to the Prince Albert Club.

  *

  ‘Timber!’ Polly called as she felled a fir tree.

  ‘You know this is theft, don’t you?’ Laura said, helping Polly to haul the tree onto the back of the horse-drawn cart.

  ‘And you’re aiding and abetting,’ Polly replied, laughing.

  ‘What are we going to do with it now we’ve got it? We don’t have any decorations.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith.’ Polly stepped up onto the wooden seat of the cart. ‘The Foxdens must have tons of decorations. The place would have been wall to wall with them at Christmas and New Year in the Thirties. Think of all the parties they must have thrown before the war.’

  ‘But what if we can’t find them?’

  ‘Then we’ll make some!’ Polly said, flicking on the reins. ‘Walk on.’

  As Polly and Laura turned into the Estate, Annabel was getting out of her car.

  ‘Pip your horn, Annabel!’ Polly shouted. ‘We need helpers to unload the tree.’

  Annabel leant into her car and sounded the horn several times. By the time Polly and Laura had brought the horse and cart to the front of the Hall, Bess and the children were running down the steps.

  ‘Annabel! I didn’t think you were coming up this year,’ Bess shouted above the children’s squeals of excitement.

  ‘I can only stay for a couple of days, but I wouldn’t have missed Christmas at Foxden for the world. Help me, would you, Bess?’ Annabel ran to the back of the car and opened the boot. It was full of food and packages wrapped in coloured paper.

  ‘Annabel, you’re an angel,’ Bess exclaimed. Then, turning to Polly and Laura and seeing the huge fir tree, she asked, ‘What on earth have you two been up to?’

  Trying not to giggle, they looked up at Bess, pretending they didn’t know what she was talking about.

  ‘Children,’ Bess called. ‘Would you help Annabel to unload her car – and please be careful,’ she added, as each child clambered to help.

  ‘Well done, you two,’ Bess said. ‘It wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree.’

  ‘I can’t make all the decorations on my own,’ Annabel said. ‘Hands up who wants to help.’

  ‘Me, me, me,’ everyone shouted, putting their hands in the air.

  ‘We’ll need something to stand the tree in,’ Bess said.

  ‘I’ll go and see Mr Porter. He’s bound to have something suitable.’ Laura disappeared through the main door.

  ‘Can we put it in the window?’ asked Samuel. ‘Then we can see it when we’re outside playing.’

  ‘We can’t ha
ve it on show darling, because of the blackout. Besides, it’s too big to go in the window. We’ll stand it here and tie the top to the banister upstairs. And,’ Bess said, kneeling down so her face was level with the little boy’s, ‘you can put the star on top, how about that?’

  ‘Hooray! I’m going to put the star on top of the tree,’ Samuel said to Polly. ‘I’m going to tell Benjamin.’

  ‘Not tonight, though,’ Polly called after him, but the little boy was so excited he didn’t hear her.

  Until the war there had always been a Christmas tree in the marble hall at Foxden. Bess smiled, remembering New Year’s Eve 1938, when she had been leaving the library and bumped into James. So much had happened - changed - since that night.

  A clanging sound brought Bess back to the present. Laura was carrying an old red fireman’s bucket. ‘Mr Porter said we need to pack soil round the trunk of the tree after we put it in the bucket. And put some heavy stones on top so it doesn’t fall over.’ Polly went upstairs and held the top of the tree while Laura and Bess lifted it into the bucket. ‘Hold on to it, Bess, while I fill the bucket with soil,’ Laura said. ‘And Polly,’ she shouted, ‘tie the top of the tree to the banister, will you?’

  Laura went off to find stones to use as ballast for the bucket, and Bess and Polly joined Annabel and the children. When the decorations were made they would be ready for Christmas. Mr Porter had laid fires in all the fireplaces. A giant fir tree stood in the hall. And Annabel had turned up with enough food to feed a small army.

  When the children were in bed Mrs Hartley arrived with a plate of mince pies, followed by Mr Porter carrying a large jug of mulled wine.

  ‘There is something we must do before we settle down to enjoy ourselves,’ Annabel said. ‘Follow me.’

  After several light-hearted protests, the women trailed outside. At her car, Annabel opened the back door to reveal several large brown paper bags, each containing a number of smaller parcels.

  ‘Let’s get these inside and under the tree before anyone sees us.’

  Speechless, the women stood and stared at Annabel.

  ‘What?’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure Father Christmas would make it this far up the country, what with all the transport disruptions, so I persuaded my parents and some of their friends to help him on his way.’

  Without putting the lights on, the women crept into the hall giggling like naughty children and placed the presents under the Christmas tree.

  ‘I’d like to propose a toast,’ Bess said, when they were back in the sitting room. ‘To Annabel.’

  ‘To Annabel!’

  Christmas morning, after church, Bess’s mother and father and her sisters Ena and Claire walked up to the Hall. The Dudley women went to the kitchen to help Mrs Hartley prepare Christmas dinner. Bess’s father joined Bess and Mr Porter in the music room where Annabel and the Goldman children’s nurse, Ruth were rehearsing the children for the afternoon concert.

  ‘I’m worried what Natalie and Anton would think about their children singing Christmas carols, Ruth,’ Bess said to Nurse Ambler. ‘And I don’t want to offend you or Nanny.’

  Nurse Ambler shook her head. ‘Children singing Christmas songs won’t offend us. We’re evacuees living in a Christian house. We expect it. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair on the other children.’

  ‘Because you’re here you won’t be celebrating Hanukkah this year, will you?’

  ‘Not in the way we would if we were in London, no, but--’

  ‘That’s it!’ Bess said. ‘Rebekah, Benjamin and Samuel can celebrate Hanukkah, by singing songs that are relevant to their faith – and they can teach the village children some of the words. What do you think, Ruth?’

  ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea for the children to sing each other’s songs, especially in these terrible times. We have some lovely children’s songs. I’ll find out which songs the children know best, and write down the words of the chorus so the other children can join in.’

  ‘Thank you, Ruth.’

  ‘My pleasure. Leave it with me.’

  Returning with her father a little later, Bess saw Rebekah Goldman in one corner of the room teaching a little girl from the village the words to a Jewish song called, “Oh Chanukah, Oh Chanukah”, while in the opposite corner David Davies was teaching Benjamin and Samuel Goldman “Good King Wenceslas”. When it came to practising the songs with the piano, the girls sang “Oh Chanukah, Oh Chanukah, Come light the Menorah, Let's have a party, We’ll all dance the Horah” beautifully. When the Goldman boys rehearsed “Good King Wenceslas”, instead of singing, “When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even” they sang, “He turned his breeches inside out, ‘cause he thought he’d weed them”.

  Hearing the revised lyrics, Bess’s father shouted, ‘Stop this nonsense at once!’ Summoning David Davies, he said, ‘At your age you should be setting an example to the younger children, not teaching them rubbish. Now tell them the right words, or I’ll fetch your father.’

  His older brother Jonathan sniggered, but David daren’t move. ‘Sorry, Mr Dudley,’ he said, and began immediately to tell the Goldman boys the correct words.

  ‘I liked the words better before,’ Samuel said. ‘They were funny.’

  ‘They weren’t funny. They were rude,’ his older brother said.

  ‘I don’t care, I liked them,’ he said, and carried on singing the first version.

  When the fuss had died down Bess’s father sought out Mr Porter. ‘Time to come outside for a smoke?’

  ‘I should think so,’ Mr Porter said. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Bess?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll come with you. Get a breath of fresh air.’

  After lighting his own cigarette, Mr Porter offered his cupped hands to Bess’s father. ‘It’s a rum game, this war, Thomas.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Thomas agreed, leaning over and lighting his cigarette.

  ‘But the papers say our boys are putting up a good fight on every front. France, Italy...’

  ‘Then why are the Germans defeating us?’ Bess asked, walking across the yard behind the men.

  ‘The papers only tell us what the government wants us to know,’ her father said.

  ‘Aye, that’s true,’ Mr Porter agreed.

  ‘Haven’t heard from Tom for a couple of weeks. In his last letter he said his regiment was going overseas again in January.’

  ‘I hope he’s well enough to go back to the front,’ Bess said, as much to herself as to her father and Ernest Porter.

  Both men stopped walking. ‘Will he get home before he goes abroad?’

  Bess’s father shook his head. ‘He’s got forty-eight hours’ leave over the New Year, but what with the petrol shortage and public transport being so bad, I shouldn’t think he’ll be able to come home. Lily’s worried to death, of course, we both are. He was lucky to get out of Dunkirk alive, you know.’

  Bess was worried too, but decided not to voice her opinion. ‘Come on, it’s time we were getting back. You two are integral to the success of the concert, so will you both please put on your happy faces? If not for me, for the children.’

  Bess’s father, smiling, said, ‘Of course. But I can’t help worrying about Tom and all the other boys. We seem to be losing ground and Hitler’s gaining it.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be negative, Dad. Anyway, now Mr Churchill’s in charge things will get better, you see if they don’t,’ Bess added, with more conviction than she felt. ‘In the meantime,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘we have a Christmas concert to put on.’ Bess linked her arm through her father’s arm and looked up into his face. ‘You know what Margaret would say? The show must go on!’

  Nodding, he said, ‘I wish she was here to say it.’

  Both men nipped the end of their cigarettes and followed Bess.

  ‘Right,’ she said, entering the music room. ‘Annabel will tell you when to open the curtains, which I think is before and after each child’s party piece. Then
when you’re satisfied that you know what you’re doing – and more importantly, Annabel is satisfied – I’d like you to put the trestle tables up, ready for lunch.’

  ‘Dinner is about to be served, children. Would you please find your name on the table and sit in the chair nearest to it,’ Bess announced. She had made small place settings from leftover scraps of wrapping paper, placing each child strategically next to an adult. There would be less chance of the children playing around and more chance of them eating that way.

  To cheers and applause, Mrs Hartley and Bess’s mother carried in two large chickens, a gift from Low Farm, with homemade sage and onion stuffing from Mrs Hartley’s vegetable and herb garden. ‘We’ll put a bird at either end, Lily,’ Mrs Hartley said. ‘Thomas and Mr Porter are carving.’ Ena and Claire brought dishes of vegetables followed by Laura and Polly carrying large jugs of gravy.

  Lunch was as chaotic as it was fun. And the tongue-in-cheek threat of not opening any presents until they had eaten every scrap of food on their plates worked so well that by the time they’d finished their main course, the children were full. So Bess suggested they leave the Christmas pudding and the fruitcake until teatime and open their Christmas presents.

  Baby Elizabeth, at only six months old, was more interested in the brightly coloured wrapping paper than the teddy bear inside, which she tried to eat - as she did everything within her reach.

  ‘Look at all these toys,’ Bess exclaimed. ‘You must have been very good children for Father Christmas to bring you such lovely toys.’

  The girls had dolls, floppy-eared puppy dogs and coloured ribbons. The boys had bats and balls, hoops and penny whistles. ‘You can go and play outside if you want to, boys,’ Bess said to the Davies brothers, who were now very protective of their new friends from London. ‘But put your outdoor coats on, and your scarves and gloves. And don’t wander off. Stay close to each other, and to the Hall - it’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘Who is Father Christmas?’ Samuel Goldman asked, as Bess wrapped his scarf round his neck.