‘So, this is the girl you want us to house,’ the elder of the two women – the one who had opened the back door and ushered them in – began. They saw now the other sister for the first time. She was taller than her sister, thin and straight-backed. Her grey hair was scraped back from her face into a bun. She, too, was dressed completely in black.
‘Yes, Miss Lister.’ Mr Tomkins almost bowed with respect. ‘Her name is Jenny Mercer and she’s – er – ’ Again he consulted his clipboard. ‘Ten years old.’
The taller of the two sisters – Miss Agnes – looked the girl up and down. ‘Rather young. We were hoping for someone older, Mr Tomkins. Someone who could help Christine about the house.’ She sniffed. ‘This child is going to be more of a hindrance than a help.’
‘Jenny’s a very willing girl,’ Miss Chisholm put in. ‘I’m sure she’ll help with whatever jobs she can.’
Jenny was growing more anxious by the minute. She didn’t like the look of these two old women. The house was dingy, the room cluttered with ornaments and the horsehair sofa, she knew, would scratch the back of her bare legs.
She tugged on Miss Chisholm’s hand. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I don’t like—’
‘Hush, Jenny, there’s a dear.’
Mr Tomkins cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there are no other billets left. If you could just—’
‘I see,’ Miss Agnes said primly, her mouth pursed. Although the younger of the two sisters, she now seemed to speak for both of them. ‘We’ve been given the dregs. The child no one else wants, have we?’
‘Miss Agnes—’ the hapless man began, but the woman’s tirade was not finished yet. She held up her hand. ‘My sister and I take it very personally, Mr Tomkins, that you did not see fit to choose a more suitable evacuee for us to welcome into our home. I doubt this little – ’ she paused, searching for the appropriate word – ‘urchin even knows the meaning of the word “gentility”. Still, perhaps whilst she is with us, we may be able to instil into her a modicum of respectability. Never let it be said that the Miss Listers shirk what they know to be their duty, however – ’ again there was a pause – ‘arduous that duty might be.’
Jenny didn’t understand all the words the woman was using, but she felt the animosity, the disgust in the woman’s tone and in her manner.
‘Miss Chisholm – ’ Again she tugged at her teacher’s hand. ‘Please . . .’
Miss Chisholm bent down and whispered in the girl’s ear. ‘Now, you must be a good girl and do exactly what you’re told. I’ll come again in the morning and see how you are. I promise.’
And that was all that the teacher could offer. She was helpless to question Mr Tomkins’s authority, though once outside, she promised herself silently, he would certainly hear her thoughts on the suitability of handing over a city streetwise kid into the care – if it could be called that – of two prim spinsters.
Once Mr Tomkins and her teacher had gone, Jenny felt bereft of all that had once been familiar. She’d been plunged into an alien world. In her own environment, she was a feisty, spirited little girl, who would fight her own corner with her fists if necessary. But here, she was lost. She had no idea how to behave or what was expected of her.
For the first time in her short life, Jenny was afraid of another human being. No one had ever made her feel like this before. Not her mother nor any of the ‘uncles’ who had passed through her life. But as she stood in front of this tall, thin, imposing woman who was backed by her witch-like, wispy-haired sister, Jenny began to shake with fear.
Six
Jenny felt a little better when Miss Agnes pulled on a cord at the side of the fireplace and a young girl came scurrying into the room. She was round faced with shiny red cheeks. She wore a spotless white apron and a mob cap. When she entered the room she bobbed a curtsy. Jenny stared in astonishment. Who were these ‘Miss Listers’? Royalty?
‘Christine, this is our evacuee. Take charge of the bag of provisions she’s been given.’ The old woman’s eyes gleamed for a brief moment. ‘They’ll come in very handy. Now, take her into the kitchen and fetch the tin bath out of the shed.’
The maid’s eyes widened. ‘The bath, Miss Agnes? But it isn’t Friday.’
‘I know that, but the girl needs a bath. And a bath she’s going to have. And mind you wash her hair – thoroughly.’ Miss Agnes glanced down at Jenny’s straggly locks with distaste. ‘You, girl,’ she went on, addressing Jenny directly for the first time. ‘Go with Christine and mind you do as she tells you.’ She turned back to her maid. ‘You can give her something to eat – when she has bathed.’
In the kitchen, Jenny watched with mounting horror as Christine tugged the zinc bath into place on the hearthrug in front of the range. Then, taking up a jug, the maid began to draw water from a tap at the side of the range and tip it into the bath.
‘I’m not getting in there,’ Jenny muttered.
‘Won’t hurt ya,’ the girl smiled, ‘we’ll get you looking all clean an’ pretty and then . . .’ she paused, watching as Jenny scratched vigorously at her head.
‘’A you got nits?’ Christine asked bluntly. She set down the jug on the hearth. ‘Come here. Let’s have a look.’
‘Nah . . .’ Jenny moved backwards until she was pressed up against the dresser. Christine, strong from her daily work, grabbed the younger girl by the shoulders and turned her round. Still holding Jenny fast with her left hand, she parted the child’s hair at the nape of her neck. There was a moment’s silence before Christine released her hold suddenly and leapt back. ‘Ugh! You dirty little tyke. You have got nits.’
Jenny turned slowly to look at her, noting the expression of horror on the maid’s face. Jenny grinned happily, suddenly seeing her way out of this austere and miserable household. The red-cheeked country girl might like it here, but the city child most certainly did not. ‘Oh aye, I often get ’em. Half my class at school have got ’em.’
Christine’s mouth dropped open. ‘You mean – you mean, all those kids that’ve come here, they’ve all got nits?’
Jenny pretended to think, wrinkling her forehead. ‘Not all of ’em, but a few.’
‘Ugh!’ Christine said again and pulled a face. Then she pointed her finger at Jenny. ‘Stay there and don’t move. I’ll have to fetch Miss Agnes.’ She left the kitchen but not many seconds had passed before she returned, both the Miss Listers following her. They stood facing Jenny, accusing and disgusted. ‘Is this right? Have you got head lice?’
Deliberately now, Jenny scratched her head.
‘Stop that at once. Turn round and bend forward.’
Jenny stopped scratching and stared at the woman. ‘What you gonna do? Hit me?’
‘Of course not, child. I – I just want to see for myself.’
‘Oh Agnes, dear. D’you think you should?’ Miss Lister said, her voice quavering. ‘Ought we to get Dr Bennet to look at her?’
‘There’s nothing the matter with her that a good bathing and hair washing won’t put right, Hetty. But her hair’s too long. It needs cutting short.’
‘You ain’t touching my hair,’ Jenny shouted, growing red in the face.
‘If you want to stay in this house, then—’
‘I don’t want to stay here. I don’t like it and I don’t like you. None of you.’
‘Now, now, I won’t have such rudeness—’ Agnes began but Jenny opened her mouth and screamed, the sound rending the air and startling the elderly women and even making Christine jump.
Hetty clutched her sister’s arm. ‘Send her back, Agnes. We can’t cope with her. Send her back to Mr Tomkins. He’ll have to find her somewhere else.’
Miss Agnes seemed to ponder for a brief moment before saying loudly above the noise Jenny was still making: ‘Christine, fetch her suitcase from the sitting room and take her round to Mr Tomkins’s house. I’m afraid my sister’s right. We cannot cope with such a child. As billeting officer, he should have known better.’
Jenny stopped sc
reaming abruptly now that she had got her way. She stood staring at the two women whilst Christine fetched her case and held it out towards her, distaste written on her face. ‘Here, you can carry it yarsen. Come on, I’ll take you back.’ She turned to her mistress. ‘I’ll try not to be long, Miss Agnes.’
The woman merely nodded, not caring for once what time the girl took just so long as she got this dirty little urchin out of their home.
‘She’s got head lice, Mrs Tomkins,’ Christine explained when her loud knocking on the door of the Tomkins’s home was answered. ‘And when Miss Agnes said she’d have to have her hair cut off, she threw a right old tantrum, I can tell you.’
‘Oh dear. What are we to do? Mr Tomkins isn’t in and I understand there’s no other place for her at the moment. And we’re expecting more children to arrive some time today. My husband’s out now trying to find billets for them.’ Mabel Tomkins bit her lip and then sighed. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it. We’ll just have to have her here for the time being.’ She forced a smile at the young girl, trying not to show revulsion at the stained coat and the greasy hair that evidently housed creepy crawlies. ‘Come along in, dear.’ She reached out her hand to take Jenny’s case but the child held on to it.
‘Are you goin’ ter make me ’ave a bath?’
‘It would be best, dear. We ought to try to – to try to get rid of your – er – of what’s troubling you.’
Jenny scowled.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Christine said, backing away thankfully.
Mabel sighed as she was left alone with the child, wishing heartily that her husband would hurry home.
The argument raged for the rest of the morning. Whilst Mabel Tomkins gave her milk and biscuits and began to prepare lunch, the child flatly refused even to wash her face. She sat at the table, drinking the milk and leaving a white ‘moustache’ on her upper lip. She munched on the biscuits and scratched her head often. Mabel shuddered inwardly, but tried to keep a bright smile on her face. She avoided broaching the delicate subject of the girl’s hygiene. She was waiting until her husband came home.
‘Hello.’ Len Tomkins stopped in surprise as he entered the back door and saw Jenny sitting at the kitchen table. ‘What’re you doing here?’
Mabel, her eyes anxious, beckoned him towards the door leading further into the house.
‘You needn’t whisper. I know what you’re goin’ ter say,’ Jenny piped up. ‘Them ’orrible old women say I’ve got head lice and they don’t want me staying wiv ’em.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mr Tomkins glanced helplessly at his wife. ‘I haven’t another place for her. I’m already having a job finding billets for the next lot of arrivals. I’m sorry, love, but we’ll just have to keep her here for a day or two until—’
Jenny sprang up from the table. ‘I ain’t having a bath or my hair washed.’
Len held out his hand, palm outwards, placatingly. ‘No – no, all right.’
‘But—’ Mabel began, but Len shook his head. ‘I’ll find her somewhere,’ he promised and then lowered his voice, ‘And they can deal with the – er – problem.’
Behind her glass of milk, Jenny smiled.
Seven
Two days passed before Len had an idea. Two days that passed so slowly for Mabel. The child ate heartily – that was no problem. But getting her to wash even just her face was a battleground. ‘I don’t reckon even an army drill sergeant could deal with this one.’
‘Maybe we should send her to the front,’ Len joked. ‘She’d likely repel the enemy better than our lads.’
Mabel couldn’t see the funny side but glared at him as she delivered her ultimatum. ‘You’d better find a place for that child and be quick about it. How I’m ever going to fumigate that bed after she’s gone – the whole room, if it comes to that – I just don’t know. Maybe even the whole house. Ugh!’ She shuddered.
‘Mabel, love, don’t be so hard on the poor kid. It’s not her fault.’
‘What sort of parents has she got? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘According to Miss Chisholm—’
Mabel looked puzzled.
‘Her teacher,’ Len explained. ‘She’s only got a mother and – well – not to put too fine a point on it, the child has to put up with a succession of “uncles”, if you get my meaning.’
Mabel stared at him, appalled, before saying, ‘Well, it’s still no reason for her to be so dirty.’ But her tone had softened and she was beginning to understand her husband’s reasoning. It wasn’t the poor child’s fault. She sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better resign ourselves to keeping her, then. But if we do, Len, somehow we’re going to get her into a bath.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said slowly. ‘I saw Miles Thornton on Sunday. He and his family had listened to Mr Chamberlain’s declaration of war on the wireless.’
‘Him at Ravensfleet Manor? Charlotte’s husband?’
‘The very same.’
‘And?’
‘He and Charlotte are offering to take an evacuee.’
‘Why didn’t you say so before? Let’s get her bag packed and on her way.’
‘Whoa, there. Hold your horses, love,’ Len laughed. ‘We ought to think this through. This is the manor we’re talking about. Miles Thornton became the local “squire” when he came here in – when was it?’
Mabel wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. ‘It must be twelve or thirteen years ago.’ Her expression softened. ‘Do you remember when they arrived? How little Georgie – he must have been about six – marched up the aisle of the church and announced to the congregation who he was.’ She was smiling fondly now. ‘ “I’m Georgie,” he said. “I’m six and we’ve come to live at the manor.” I’ll never forget it. Such an adorable little boy. A blond, blue-eyed little cherub. We all fell in love with him and Charlotte most of all. She adored him. Still does.’
Len nodded and his voice was husky. ‘Yes, and he’s grown into a fine young man and now’ – he paused and met his wife’s gaze – ‘he’s in the RAF. And it’ll be in the hands of young men like him that our salvation lies.’
Mabel wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Poor Charlotte and poor Miles. What if all Miles’s boys go to war? Philip and Ben too.’ Philip, the eldest Thornton boy, was a solicitor with a law firm in London. Ben, the middle son, now ran the Ravensfleet estate and, in particular, Home Farm. ‘What if—?’
‘Don’t, Mabel. Don’t even think about it.’ There was a pause before Len cleared his throat and said more briskly, ‘But I think Miles and Charlotte are looking for something to take their minds off what their sons might do.’
‘They’re not Charlotte’s sons, though, are they?’ Mabel murmured.
Miles Thornton had been a widower with three young sons when he’d bought the Ravensfleet estate and moved into the manor thirteen years earlier. Two years later he’d married Charlotte Crawford, the only child of an embittered man who resented her for being a daughter and not the son he’d craved.
‘But she loves them all like they’re her own,’ Mabel said softly now. ‘And they’re all she’s likely to have. After eleven years of marriage, there’s still no sign of a child. I don’t suppose there ever will be now.’
Len sighed. ‘Aye, poor lass, tied for years to that miserable tyrant of a father, but at least she’s found happiness with Miles.’
‘But we all know that they’d love more children.’
Len laughed. ‘And Miles has made no secret of the fact that he’s always longed for a daughter. Ironic, isn’t it, that old man Crawford made poor Charlotte’s life a misery because she wasn’t a boy and then Miles, with his three sons, wanted a daughter. Well, now he can have one. Jenny Mercer.’
Mabel gave a wry laugh. ‘I don’t think she’s exactly what he had in mind.’
‘I’m going to telephone him anyway. They don’t have to have her.’
Mabel closed her eyes as if in fervent prayer. ‘Oh, but please God, they do.’
‘I’ve grown up with Charlotte. I can’t do that to her. I’ll have one more go to get Jenny to have a bath before they collect her.’
‘You’ll have to be quick about it. They’re coming for her straight away. Can’t wait, by the sound of the excitement in Miles’s voice.’
Mabel pulled a face. ‘Maybe they won’t be so keen when they see her. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do.’
The Tomkinses had a proper bathroom, not just a zinc bath in front of the fire on a Friday night. Mabel filled the bath with warm water and then went downstairs.
‘Jenny,’ she began, ‘you’re going to stay with some lovely people at a big house with a big garden where you’ll be able to play. They’re coming to pick you up very soon. Now, don’t you think it would be nice if you looked your best?’
Jenny, guessing what was coming, put on her most innocent look. ‘You’ve sponged me coat. It doesn’t smell any more.’
‘But your hair would look so much prettier if you washed it and—’ Mabel got no further as Jenny opened her mouth and began to scream. ‘I ain’t ’aving a barf.’ Then she picked up the unfinished bowl of cereal and threw it on the floor. The bowl smashed, the cereal and milk spilling on to the tiles.
Len poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘They’re here. Can’t you stop her making that awful noise?’ He glanced at the mess on the floor, then at the child. Above the noise he shouted. ‘You mentioned a bath, I suppose?’
Mabel nodded helplessly and, as Len disappeared to answer the knock at the front door, Jenny shot after him. As he opened the door, she pushed past him and between the two people standing there. She ran out of the gate and into the road. She paused briefly to shout over her shoulder. ‘I ain’t stayin’ here no longer. I’m going ’ome. I’d sooner face old ’Itler’s bombs than stay here anuvver minute.’
Jenny's War Page 4
