Jenny's War

by Dickinson, Margaret

  ‘You sit with me,’ Miss Chisholm said softly. ‘I shall be staying for a day or two until you’re all settled. So come along, dry those tears and we’ll find you someone nice to stay with.’

  ‘I want to go with Bobby,’ Jenny wailed one last time, even though, as she watched the train carrying her friend move out of the station, she knew it was hopeless.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Miss Chisholm said, surprisingly kindly. ‘But it’ll be all right, I promise.’

  But even the powerful Miss Chisholm, who ruled her class with a rod of iron – or rather a wooden cane, if necessary – was no match for the billeting officers with their badge of governmental authority.

  They hadn’t been on the train many minutes, it seemed to Jenny, before it shuddered to a stop and the guard walked down the down the platform shouting, ‘Ravensfleet, Ravensfleet. Next stop Lynthorpe.’

  Miss Chisholm was suddenly galvanized into action. ‘This is it. This is our stop. Hurry, children, collect your belongings. I must tell them in the next carriage.’ She lifted her own suitcase down from the rack and opened the door.

  ‘Don’t leave us!’ Jenny screamed.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m just here on the platform. I’m not far away.’

  Seeing that the school parties were alighting, the guard came to help and lifted the smaller children down.

  ‘Where’s Miss Jones?’ Jenny heard Miss Chisholm ask. ‘My colleague?’

  The guard pointed. ‘Two carriages further along, miss. Now, come along, you lot. Get back from the edge of the platform, there’s good kids.’

  ‘Doesn’t he talk funny,’ one boy said.

  Jenny stood feeling lost and lonely. She shivered again. The afternoon sun was dropping low in the sky and there was a chill in the air on the draughty platform. And there was something else too. The air smelt funny. Sort of salty.

  Miss Chisholm hurried back to the children standing huddled together. ‘Miss Jones and her party are going on to Lynthorpe, but this is our stop. Now—’ she looked around her – ‘I wonder who’s here to meet us.’

  As if on cue, a small, thin man, with a receding hairline and wearing spectacles, came hurrying along the platform towards them.

  ‘You must be the party from London.’ He held out his hand to Miss Chisholm. ‘I’m Mr Tomkins, the billeting officer for Ravensfleet. Now, come along, we have refreshments waiting for you in the school. Of course, it’s still closed for the summer holidays at the moment so you’ll be bedded down there for the night. And then in the morning we’ll start getting you all sorted out.’ He beamed round at the children. ‘Welcome to Ravensfleet. I hope you’ll be happy with us. We’re all anxious to make you feel at home.’

  Twenty-three solemn little faces with mistrustful eyes stared back at him. He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Come along, then. Follow me.’

  They trooped after him out of the station and along the street walking two by two, though Jenny still walked beside Miss Chisholm. Along the narrow street, through a market square and round another corner until they came to a school building.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mr Tomkins said cheerfully. ‘Come along in. The good ladies of the town have got a meal ready for you.’

  The children trooped into a large classroom where trestle tables had been set with knives, forks and spoons. Several women at one end of the room ceased their chatter and turned to stare at the newcomers. One rotund woman came towards them with a beaming smile. ‘Now then, my little loves, you come and sit yarsens down and we’ll get you summat to eat.’

  The children shuffled uneasily and stared at her, but said nothing. They weren’t exactly sure what the woman had said. Her way of speaking was so very different to their own.

  ‘That would be most welcome,’ Miss Chisholm said politely. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Dorn’t mention it, duck. We’ve all got to do our bit till this lot’s over. Sit ya down.’

  Within minutes, enamel bowls of mashed potato and vegetables with a little meat had been placed in front of each child.’

  ‘What, no chips?’ Billy said.

  ‘Now, Billy,’ Miss Chisholm remonstrated gently. She knew the boy’s diet consisted mainly of chips from the local shop. She doubted he ever had a proper meal. ‘Just try it, there’s a good boy.’

  She smiled at him, knowing that if Billy would lead the way the other children would follow. She glanced at Jenny beside her. The child, though still with a tear-streaked, grubby face, had lifted her fork and was trying the food in front of her. She chewed it and then nodded across the table at Billy. ‘It’s nice, Billy. Give it a try.’

  Billy Harrington wrinkled his nose but did as she suggested. After a moment, he, too, nodded. ‘’S’all right, is this. Ta very much, missis.’

  The large lady, who seemed to be in charge of the others, laughed and nodded, her several chins wobbling. ‘Ya welcome, duck, I’m sure.’

  When they’d finished eating, Mr Tomkins stood at the end of the room. ‘It’s too late now to get you to your billets, so your foster parents will come for you in the morning. You’ll stay here tonight. We have mattresses and blankets for you to sleep on the floor and Mrs Clark’ – he gestured towards the large friendly woman – ‘is the caretaker at this school. She’ll show you where the toilets and washbasins are. Perhaps’ – he looked towards Miss Chisholm for her help – ‘some of the older boys would help Mrs Clark move the trestle tables out of the way. Then in the morning . . .’

  His words were lost as Billy leapt up from his seat and began directing his classmates to move the forms they’d been sitting on and to fold up the tables. There was a lot of noise – chatter and scraping of furniture – but soon Mrs Clark, still beaming, led them to the next room where there was a pile of straw mattresses and grey blankets.

  ‘The girls will sleep in here and the boys in the other room. Now, lads, tek a mattress and a blanket each.’

  It took an hour or more before the children began to settle down, tiredness and the emotion of the day catching up with them. Jenny lay on the scratchy straw palliasse, snuggling beneath the coarse blanket and clutching Bert tightly. She lay there listening to the sounds of the other sleeping children and her heavy eyelids began to close. It had been a long and traumatic day for all of them, but for no one more so than Jenny, who’d not only left the only home she knew, but also had been dragged away from her friend. ‘I wonder where Bobby is now’ was her last thought as she fell into a troubled sleep.

  Heavy-eyed and feeling as if she’d only been asleep for a few minutes, Jenny woke to the sound of Miss Chisholm’s voice and her clapping hands. ‘Rise and shine. Come along, children. Time to get up.’

  The children washed hurriedly in the school’s cloakroom and Mrs Clark and two other ladies served them porridge and a drink of weak tea on the tables the boys had set up again. When they’d all finished, the long trestle tables were set to one side of the hall and the children stood in rows facing Mr Tomkins. The three ladies, who had served breakfast, went down the line handing a paper bag to each child.

  ‘These are provisions for you to give to your foster mother,’ Mrs Clark explained. Inside each bag was a tin of meat, a bottle of milk, some biscuits and a bar of chocolate. One or two of the children grinned cheekily; the bar of chocolate would never reach their foster parents. Mrs Clark, intercepting some of the glances between the children, merely smiled to herself and made no attempt to remind them that the goodies were not for them. Poor little mites, she was thinking.

  When all the bags had been handed out, Mr Tomkins cleared his throat. ‘Now, children, you are to be billeted with people in the town. We’ll try to keep families together where possible, so if you’d stand in rows on either side of the hall, the people who’ve volunteered to take you in will be here at ten o’clock and will make their choices.’

  ‘You mean we’re going to be picked?’ Billy piped up. ‘Like at the Battersea Dogs Home when folks choose a stray?’

  Mr Tomkins blinked. �
�Er, well, not quite like that, I hope. You’ll find that the local farmers will want strong lads like you, young man,’ he added with a smile. ‘And the girls will be able to help in the house. Now, I’m sure you’ll all be good children and grateful to the people who are going to take you into their homes.’

  ‘Huh!’ Billy muttered, so that only those closest to him could hear. ‘Sounds like cheap labour for ’em to me. Bed and board and a lot of hard work, that’s what we’re in for.’

  ‘But you’ll be going to school too, of course,’ Mr Tomkins went on a little nervously. He and his wife had no children and confronted with these raggedy, solemn-faced youngsters, poor Mr Tomkins was out of his depth. He turned towards Miss Chisholm. ‘Will you be staying to take your own class?’

  ‘Only for a day or so to see them settled in. We have to return home. Not all the children in our school have been evacuated and those left behind still need teaching.’

  Mr Tomkins nodded. ‘I just wondered. I’ve been told we’re to expect a further batch of children tomorrow, so the school won’t be able to cope with such a number all attending at the same time. We’ll have to work out some sort of rota for attendance.’

  At his words, Jenny pushed her way to the front. ‘Another train coming tomorrow? Will it be Bobby’s train, Miss? Will Bobby be coming here?’

  Miss Chisholm looked down at the grubby little girl with pity. Gently, she said, ‘I don’t expect so, Jenny. Bobby and the rest will already have arrived wherever they’re going.’

  Jenny’s face fell.

  The children stood waiting, not knowing quite what was expected of them and wondering what was going to happen next.

  Five

  At three minute past ten the first of the locals arrived. A farmer followed by his wife strode into the hall and down the length of the lines of children. Billy was the first to be picked.

  ‘You look a good, strong lad.’ The farmer smiled. ‘A’ ya coming to work for me? You’ll be well fed.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘My missis is a good cook and there’ll be plenty of food on my farm, no matter what shortages are going to happen. What d’ya say, lad?’

  Billy blinked. He couldn’t understand every word the man had said. The farmer’s accent was unfamiliar, but he caught the gist of the man’s meaning. ‘Just me?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah well, now, I could do wi’ two, ’cos one of my lads ses he’ll be volunteering for the army if there is a war. And if there isn’t, well, you lot’ll all be going back home, won’t you? So no harm done, eh?’

  He seemed a chatty, friendly man, dressed in sturdy hobnailed boots, corduroy trousers with his shirtsleeves rolled up under a black, unbuttoned waistcoat. His cap, which he’d removed on entering the room, was now twirling between his work-callused fingers. Behind him his plump wife with brown curly hair, liberally flecked with grey, smiled kindly. Billy took a step towards him, emboldened to ask, ‘You won’t beat us, will yer, mister?’

  A silence fell over the room as the man and the young boy regarded each other. Billy saw a friendly man, jovial at the moment, but the boy’s eyes had alighted on the wide leather belt around the man’s waist. The farmer saw a tall lad, too thin for his height. Good food and a healthy, outdoor life would soon build the youngster up, he thought. But the boy’s question had startled him and now he looked closer he could see that though the lad gave an outward show of bravado, there was something in his eyes that belied the swagger. There was a fear and an experience of things that a youngster of his age should not have known.

  Miss Chisholm held her breath and Mr Tomkins frowned. She was about to step forward when the farmer held out his hand and said, more gently now, ‘Me name’s Joe Warren of Purslane Farm, young ’un, and this is my wife, Peggy. And no, I don’t beat my workers or guests in my home. In fact, I don’t reckon I’ve ever beaten anyone in me life, not even me own lads. Mebbe the odd smack on the back of the legs when they was young. Scallywags, they were, at times.’ He’d seen Billy’s gaze on his belt and now Joe forced a laugh as he touched it and added, ‘But this is just to hold me trousers up.’

  The tension in the room eased and one or two children giggled nervously. They’d never have dared to voice such a question, yet it had been in the back of some of their minds. Just how were these strangers going to treat them?

  Now, without any hesitation, Billy put his hand into the farmer’s and said, ‘Billy Harrington. I’d be pleased to come with yer, guv’nor.’

  Miss Chisholm sighed with relief. Billy was a ringleader amongst his peers and if he led the way with his polite acceptance of the man’s offer, then others would follow his example.

  ‘A’ ya got a brother to come wi’ ya?’ Joe Warren asked.

  Billy blinked, trying to work out what the man had asked. ‘No, I’ve no brothers or sisters. There’s only – only Dad and me. Me muvver’s dead.’

  Joe nodded. ‘I’m sorry, lad. Yar dad’ll likely miss ya.’

  Billy shrugged dismissively and the farmer could see that whatever the father was feeling, the son certainly wasn’t going to miss his home. Joe turned and raised his eyebrows to his wife. She gave a little nod and moved forward. ‘We can take two, Joe.’ Peggy Warren spoke in a soft, gentle voice. ‘Perhaps Billy would like a friend – someone he knows – to come along with him.’

  ‘My best friend’s Frankie Mills.’ Billy pointed to a boy standing at the back of the group of children. ‘But he’s lame, guv’nor. He had polio when he was little and he has to wear a leg iron.’ He beckoned to the boy. ‘Come and meet Mr Warren, Frankie.’

  The farmer looked down doubtfully as the children parted to let Frankie through to the front. He limped forward, his leg iron clanking on the wooden floor. Peggy touched her husband’s arm and whispered, ‘We’ll take him, Joe. We’ll look after him. There’ll be little jobs he can do. Best to let friends stay together. They’ll likely settle better.’

  ‘Aye, aye, you’re right, Peg. We’ll look after ’em both. Come along, you two. Let’s get you home.’

  He put his arm around Billy’s shoulders and held out his hand to Frankie. He glanced across the room at Mr Tomkins, who was busily writing down the details of the first placement on his clipboard. ‘Thank’ee, Mester Tomkins.’

  Mr Tomkins looked up and nodded. ‘I’ll be along in a day or so to see how things are.’

  ‘You’ll be welcome any time, Mr Tomkins, but you’ve no need to worry about these two. They’ll be fine with me and the missis.’

  Lucky Billy, Jenny thought, as she watched the two boys leaving with the farmer and his wife. Bet I don’t get anyone as nice as them.

  More folk were coming into the hall and moving down the lines of children. More choices were made and soon there were only three left without a billet. Jenny was one of them. She was standing alone now. The other children had moved away from the girl whose coat still reeked of vomit, whose hair was lank and greasy and who kept scratching her head every so often.

  The other two were picked and led away and now there was only Jenny left. Mr Tomkins conferred with Miss Chisholm in whispers, but Jenny’s sharp ears picked up every word.

  ‘I’ve only one place left for yesterday’s arrivals,’ Mr Tomkins said. ‘The two Miss Listers,’ he glanced worriedly at Jenny, ‘but I don’t think . . .’

  ‘She’s a good child really, given a bit of understanding. Nothing that a good bath and a change of clothes won’t sort out.’

  ‘Mm.’ Mr Tomkins was still doubtful. ‘Well, it’ll just have to do. There’s nowhere else at the moment and with another batch due tomorrow . . .’

  The three of them walked along the street. Jenny slipped her hand into Miss Chisholm’s. It wasn’t something she’d normally do. You just didn’t hold your teacher’s hand, but the girl couldn’t remember ever feeling so fearful. She’d never felt so lost and alone in her life; not even when she’d been shut in her bedroom for hours on end away from her mother and whatever ‘uncle’ was visiting. She’d always known
that Aunty Elsie and Bobby were just next door. But now . . .

  ‘Here we are.’ Mr Tomkins stopped in front of a small cottage with a thatched roof. The door opened straight on to the road and white net curtains veiled the front windows. Dark green ivy covered most of the wall. It was very quiet, with no sign of life except for a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from one of the chimneys. They seemed to wait an age before anyone came in answer to his knock. Then they heard a shuffling behind the door and it creaked a little way open.

  ‘We don’t use this door, Mr Tomkins. Please go round to the back. My sister is waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lister. Of course. I do beg your pardon.’

  The door closed and Mr Tomkins cast his eyes heavenwards before gesturing them to follow him down the side of the house, through a dilapidated gate and into a backyard, beyond which was a small, badly overgrown garden, the flowers choked with weeds.

  ‘What a shame!’ Miss Chisholm murmured.

  ‘The Miss Listers are too old now to manage gardening.’

  ‘Are you sure they’ll be able to manage a child?’

  Doubt crossed Mr Tomkins’s face. ‘I hope so. They want to “do their bit”, as they’ve put it. They lost two nephews – young men who were very dear to them – in the last war and they’re appalled that it’s all going to start again. They do have a young girl living with them – a maid. No doubt she’ll look after, er – ’ He consulted his clipboard.

  ‘Jenny Mercer,’ Miss Chisholm reminded him.

  ‘Yes, yes, quite so. I’m sure she’ll be all right and my wife, Mabel, will call in often just to see . . . And you’ll be staying for a day or two, you said, so . . .’

  They had arrived at the back door and an elderly woman stood there dressed from head to toe in black. She stooped a little and her small face was covered with lines and wrinkles. Her white hair was a wispy cloud around her head. She did not smile a welcome, but held the door open for them to step inside.

  They crowded into the small sitting room, the three visitors and the two Miss Listers. It was dingy and uninviting, the only natural lighting coming from one of the small front windows.