by Annie Groves
‘Tilly and Janet, it’s for both of you,’ Agnes said, handing the girls the telegram. ‘The boy wants to know if there is a reply.’
The two girls looked at each other. They had left their forwarding address with the CO and they silently acknowledged the official Ministry of Defence telegram. A shard of fear stabbed at Olive’s heart. Tilly couldn’t leave like this. It was too soon. It was Christmas! But everybody knew the war didn’t stop for Christmas. When she thought about those who were missing now – George, Ted, Callum, Drew – all the young men who had gone and some would never come back … And what of the young women? They died too.
Tilly’s shoulders slumped now and she looked defeated already as she told Janet in a dull voice, ‘It says, “Report for orders 12.00 hours, 27 December 1943.” ’
‘We’d better get our skates on,’ Janet said, already halfway out of the room, aware that what had been such a wonderful Christmas had turned into a nightmare for Tilly and her mum.
‘Will you write?’ Olive asked as they piled their kitbags into Archie’s car. Olive was staying on at the farm with Agnes and Dulcie. ‘I’ll write every day, let you know how things are, keep you up to date with … everything.’
‘That ship has already sailed, Mum,’ Tilly said in a low voice. ‘We’ll leave it for a while.’ And with the merest flick of her hand, she turned and walked to the car, without giving her mother a hug or even a light peck on the cheek. As the car drove through the farm gates and down the lane, though Olive was still waving, Tilly didn’t look back and she realised her daughter wanted to hurt her as much as she had been hurt herself. And she’d succeeded.
‘Please stay safe, my darling,’ Olive whispered, bitter tears of regret stinging her eyes. ‘God bless you.’
After breakfast, Agnes took Barney and Alice out to show them around the farm, while Olive and Dulcie had a natter and tried to put the world to rights. The younger children hadn’t heard the rumpus last night and the women knew they had suffered enough conflict without adding any more to their little lives.
‘See this tree,’ Agnes said, patting a tall oak that stood in the middle of a field of sainfoin, a valuable crop for feeding the sheep. ‘Darnley’s wife told me that my father planted this tree the day I was born, so it is exactly the same age as me.’
‘Wow,’ Barney said. ‘It looks much older than you, Agnes. Can I climb up it?’
‘Not in those shoes. Olive would have my head on a plate.’
‘I haven’t got any others,’ Barney answered, and then Agnes had an idea.
‘I think there is a spare pair of wellingtons under the stairs,’ she said. ‘They belonged to Jake Darnley but he doesn’t need them where he is.’
‘Why,’ asked Barney ‘where is he?’ Barney loved the freedom of the countryside already.
‘Never you mind where he is,’ Agnes answered. ‘Little children have big ears, you’ll find out if you keep them open.’
‘I’m not a little child,’ Barney said. ‘I’m fifteen now.’
‘As much as that?’ Agnes laughed. She loved having her extended family around her.
Moments later, she heard voices coming from over by the gate and Barney went to explore. In no time at all he was back and his face was red as he had been running.
‘Agnes, come quick! You have to come and see this!’ Barney’s voice rang across the field and Agnes, her heart beating wildly, took Alice’s hand. Something had happened and it didn’t sound good if Barney’s excited commotion was anything to go by.
‘Barney, what’s happened?’ Agnes called but Barney didn’t answer. When she got within sight of the gate, Agnes was shocked to see Mrs Jackson and her two daughters – thirteen-year-old Sonia and fifteen-year-old Marie – standing at the gate.
‘Mrs Jackson, how nice of you to visit. How did you get here? There are no trains running this far.’
‘I know that now, gel,’ said Mrs Jackson, who might have been slight of build, thought Agnes, but there was none so fierce in the way she barged through the farmhouse gate.
‘There’s bombs dropping all over London and, as you were my only son’s intended, I feel it is your duty to give us shelter since our block of flats was damaged in the bombings!’ The speed at which she delivered her little speech was breathtaking and Agnes only caught half of it.
‘You’ve been bombed out? Is anybody hurt?’ Agnes turned now to Marie and Sonia, who stood in a kind of dumb silence, and even though they were head and shoulders taller than their mother they looked as if they were shielded from the outside world by her diminutive presence.
‘You don’t need to know the details. Suffice to say, we can’t live there any longer, and you have all of this.’ It sounded like an accusation coming from Ted’s mother, who had done everything in her power to split up Agnes and Ted from the moment they were introduced. However, Agnes could never find it in her heart to turn anybody away, no matter how mean they had been in the past and she had no intention of doing so now. The only thing she had to sort out was where they were all going to sleep, because, with all her guests, plus Carlos and the land girls, all the rooms were taken up. But she would think of something. What mattered was that they were safe now.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Jackson when she entered the farmhouse to see Olive and Dulcie sitting at the table peeling vegetables, ‘I didn’t know you had company.’ She said it in such a manner, Agnes felt as if Mrs Jackson was really put out.
‘This is Mrs Olive Robbins, my landlady in Article Row, and this is Dulcie James-Thompson, who also used to lodge with us and who married one of ‘The Few’. didn’t you, Dulcie?’ Agnes said proudly, although the others could see she was nervous now.
‘Mrs Jackson, I’m so pleased to meet you at last,’ said Olive, standing up and holding out her hand, putting her own troubles to one side now. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Jackson in a surly voice, looking over at Dulcie, who didn’t seem the least bothered that her beautiful manicure was being spoiled by potato peeling.
Carlo came in from the milking shed. ‘Agnes, can I have a word?’ he asked, politely doffing his cap at the ladies present then edging his way out of the kitchen.
‘I need one of the land girls to come up from the low fields to give me a hand with the milking.’
‘Oh, can I have a go, Uncle Carlo?’ Barney asked excitedly, bursting to do something. Agnes looked a little anxious but Carlo seemed to think it was a great idea.
‘Of course you can help me. I was milking cows when I was half your age on my father’s farm in the Apennine Mountains,’ Carlo told Barney as they made to leave.
‘Will you tell me about your home, Carlo?’ Barney asked with the unsophisticated air of a boy who was genuinely interested. They would have been bitter enemies this time last year, but this did not seem to faze Barney one little bit.
‘Come on, Mr, how-you-say, Nosy Parker,’ Carlo said, and laughed as he ruffled Barney’s hair.
Even though the sun was shining brightly, it was bitterly cold as Sally stepped out of Lime Street Station and saw the devastation that Hitler’s bombs had brought to her home city of Liverpool. As the warm breath left her lips it cascaded into the air in a plume, then dissipated, only to be replaced with another plume as she pulled on the woollen gloves that Olive had knitted a few Christmases ago.
Making her way to the bus stop in St John’s Lane, Sally waited for the bus that would take her to the place she had put off visiting for so long: her mother’s grave. While Alice was with Olive and the rest of the family Sally had decided to come back to Liverpool, just for the day, knowing she could catch a train back later.
It was difficult for Sally not to think of the dreary November day of her mother’s funeral now. In contrast to that heart-breaking, wretched winter’s day five years ago, when she sat by her mother’s grave and felt her world collapse around her, she now knew that things happened for a reason and she was better able to understand.
The frost sparkled on the pavement where nearby office workers from the law courts were huddled in their coats, rushing to get out of the bitterly cold weather and into their nice warm offices. And as gulls vied with pigeons soaring in the frozen sky it was hard to believe there was a war being fought all over the world.
That Liverpool had been through its own battles was evident in the chipped and broken sandstone pillars that had been caught by blast or bombs, and gaping spaces where once there had been houses or shops. Sally recalled her days as a little girl when her father had brought her here to stroll in the wonderful sunny gardens and her heart was sore for the devastation to her city.
The last time she had come back to pay her respects, Sally had chosen to wear the clothes she had worn for her mother’s funeral – a black woollen dress under a three-quarter-length black swing coat – but now she had chosen something completely different: a belted, three-quarter, hounds-tooth-patterned jacket with a wide collar that sat neatly on her slim hips, and covering a navy-blue pencil skirt. She had meticulously teamed the outfit with matching navy-blue shoes, beret and box bag. A pale blue silk scarf knotted at the side of her throat completed her tasteful ensemble and gave her the air of sophistication she hoped for.
She knew her mother, being a sunny kind of woman who was always smiling, would not have favoured sorrowful black on her only daughter, and instead of lamenting the loss of half of Liverpool, as she had last time, Sally took courage from the renovating of great buildings she had seen as she marched briskly and proudly past St George’s Hall towards the bus stop.
Sometimes, while she was so far away in London she could imagine her family was still here awaiting her arrival home, and in the small dark hours when she was unable to accept that her beloved mother was dead, she revelled in their private conversations. Her mum’s words of good advice still carried her today, and Sally knew her mother was the first person she ever told a secret to. The first person she told of Morag’s treachery …
Surprisingly, Sally realised she no longer thought of her friend as being the treacherous, deceitful, duplicitous Morag, who had coaxed her into buying her mourning dress and coat. And she no longer imagined herself as a gullible fool, as she once did.
Bereavement, she knew, had to go through many stages before one could accept the loss. She of all people should have realised that she wouldn’t get away from it. As a trained nurse she had seen the effects many times and told mourners that the grieving process would get easier even when she hadn’t believed it herself.
But now she did believe it. She knew now that Morag had truly been her friend. And if anybody could have comforted her father over the loss of her mother, then Sally would rather it were Morag.
She knew now that her bitterness was a rage because she had lost her mother. It had been so unfair; her mother had been young. She had all those years to go – or so they thought. And, hurting the closest person to her, running away from everything that was familiar, seemed the easiest thing to do – even though it had hurt to leave so much behind. Sally couldn’t believe how clearly she could see things now, how the veil of sorrow had been lifted, believing that Mum, Dad and Morag were all in a better place.
She bitterly regretted cutting off her best friend now that she no longer had the chance to put things right … She needed to be close to her family’s resting place now. And by her family, she knew she meant her whole family – Morag, too.
Holy Trinity Church, in one of Liverpool’s leafier suburbs, was as far away from the bustle of the bombed dockyards and quays as it was possible to be. As she reached the cemetery, whose gates had been taken for salvage no doubt, Sally was taken aback to see a familiar figure standing at the side of Morag’s grave. Callum. Not for the first time, she realised there was somebody else she had neglected for many months.
As she approached the place where Callum was standing with his back to her, a gentle breeze suddenly whispered through the bare trees in the freezing churchyard and wrapped around her shoulders, making Sally feel strangely tranquil.
Taking a long deep breath of icy air, Sally moved quietly along the pathway, past the lopsided headstones and the bomb-chipped angels with the outreaching hands of supplication. Even in repose her loved ones were not immune to this hate-filled war, and she prayed that her mother’s grave would be intact.
Callum had obviously not heard her approach and, wrapped in his navy-blue top coat, with his hands in his pockets he cut a desolate figure. His cap was under his arm as a mark of respect, as he looked down at his sister’s grave, and Sally knew then that he had lost just as much as she had, but he had held it together. He’d had to, otherwise little Alice would have been in an orphanage somewhere and she would just have been a name he might mention if ever she and Callum met one day.
She knew now that she had so much to be grateful to him for. He had organised the funeral of his sister, and of Sally’s father, who was buried with her mother – that must have been such a difficult decision. Morag had been cremated and Callum had buried her remains in a little plot next to Sally’s mother and father. Now he was standing at the spot where they were almost together.
Callum turned and their eyes met for the first time since he had been discharged from the hospital. He had just come back from Italy and he looked tanned, healthy, although a little thinner, and his hair was a lot lighter. At the sight of him Sally’s heart soared. She didn’t intend to show how elated she felt, but as she took in his tall, proud stance and that almost vulnerable smile in his eyes she couldn’t suppress the overwhelming feelings running straight to her heart. As he held open his arms to encircle her she was even more sure of how selfish she had been in her grief.
‘Do you think we could make arrangements to have Morag’s casket put in with Dad?’ Sally asked. ‘I don’t think Mum would want her to be on her own.’
‘Oh, Sally, that would be wonderful – thank you.’
‘The foreigner can sleep in the barn, surely?’ Mrs Jackson said to Agnes, without looking in Carlo’s direction. Agnes was nonplussed: Carlo had been here longer than any of them; this had been his home for the last three years!
‘I do not mind at all,’ Carlo said, being the kind, gentle man he was. Agnes felt a new sensation; it was called indignation. And, if her nature had been a bit more vigorous, she would have told Mrs Jackson exactly what she could do with her orders. But she wasn’t forceful, Mrs Jackson was part of her old life, when Agnes had felt shy and frightened, and Agnes couldn’t bring herself to tell Ted’s mother she had no right to go telling all and sundry where they could and could not sleep.
‘You’ve got a liberty if you do mind!’ Mrs Jackson said, her nostrils flared as if she had a filthy smell up her nose. ‘This is our country and don’t you forget it.’
‘Mrs Jackson, Carlo is a valued member of the farm workers, we take as we find here on the farm …’ Agnes began.
But she could tell Mrs Jackson wasn’t listening when she nodded her head and went straight up the stairs, saying, ‘Right, I’ll just clear his stuff out of the way and I’ll get settled.’
Agnes stared open-mouthed at the woman who had all but taken over the farmhouse without so much as a ‘make-yourself-comfortable-if-you-please’.
‘I don’t think Hitler’s army marched in and invaded Poland as quickly!’ said one of the land girls.
‘I wouldn’t quite believe it either,’ said Agnes, ‘if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes.’
Half an hour later, Agnes was serving thick vegetable soup from a huge cauldron bubbling on the stove into huge bowls and then cutting up warm crusty bread and slathering it all in fresh home-made butter.
‘Do you eat like this every day?’ Dulcie asked, as she secured the
children to the table with leather belts so they wouldn’t fall off the chairs. ‘I really miss the high chairs,’ she smiled, ‘and I’m not feeding them on my knee; they make a right mess.’
‘It’s the way they are brought up,’ said Mrs Jackson, first at the table with her two girls, spoons at the ready. ‘My children didn’t need belts to tie them in; they behaved themselves.’
‘It’s so they don’t fall off the chair,’ Dulcie explained with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and looking now at the two girls who hardly ever opened their mouths, and never spoke above a whisper, she thought: I doubt those two would have the audacity to fall off a chair without their mother’s permission.
‘It’s nice to see you could make it for the Christmas holiday, Mrs Jackson,’ Agnes said quickly before Dulcie took it upon herself to put the older woman in her place.
‘It’s only what my Ted would have wanted,’ Mrs Jackson said. ‘He wouldn’t want to see his mother roaming the streets with nowhere to go when there are perfectly good premises to be had in our own family.’
Agnes stopped ladling soup into more bowls and looked at Mrs Jackson, who seemed quite comfortable with all she surveyed.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, did you say your flat was hit during the bombing raid?’ When she’d first got here, Agnes could have sworn Mrs Jackson had said that it was only the buildings that were damaged, rather than her own flat being hit.
‘Indeed I did,’ said Mrs Jackson, pulling down the close-fitting, brown cloche hat, which she wore at all times, preventing the light of day shining on her steel-coloured hair. She had finished her soup before most of the others had started, hardly giving one mouthful time to go down before she was inserting another.
‘Now,’ she said eventually when she lifted her head up, her bowl clean, ‘is there anything I can do to make myself useful while I’m here?’ Her eyes roamed the spotlessly clean kitchen as if she was ready to do battle.
