by Pam Weaver
‘But how can I?’ said Shirley. ‘I don’t know where you’re going.’
‘Write to the shop,’ said Florrie. ‘As soon as I have my address, I’ll let Auntie Betty know.’ She had a second thought. ‘But you’d better not write on the postcard if you’re unhappy. The people you’re staying with might read it.’
‘How can I let you know, then?’
It was a conundrum until Tom, who had been watching his goldfish, said, ‘Can I put a kiss on Shirley’s card for you, Mum?’
‘That’s it!’ cried Florrie. ‘Put one kiss each on the card if everything is all right, but add a few more if you are being badly treated. If you’re unhappy, I shall know by the number of kisses.’
And so it was agreed.
Shirley didn’t take a toy. ‘I’m too old for baby things,’ she insisted, so Florrie gave her a pretty writing set from the shop.
‘You can write down everything that happens,’ Florrie told her. ‘When we get together again, I shall want to know all about it.’ Her daughter looked less than enthusiastic, so she added, ‘Or you could write one of those stories you’re always telling Tom.’
‘I like the one about the Birthday Thief,’ he said. ‘That one has rats and things in it.’
Saturday came all too soon. Tom was in his school clothes and short trousers. Shirley wore her Sunday-best clothes, a blue and white polka-dot dress with three buttons down the front and a gathered skirt. She didn’t like it much because it had a tie belt round the waist and she thought it looked babyish, but there was no persuading her mother. ‘You look really sweet,’ said Florrie, so Shirley had no choice.
They said their goodbyes at home. ‘Be a good lad,’ Florrie told Tom. ‘Try and do what you’re told and listen to Shirley.’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Just for a split second, although he didn’t look at her, Tom returned her hug. It was a precious moment for Florrie. Her son had never been one for hugs and kisses.
‘Look after your brother,’ Florrie told Shirley, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Be a good girl and don’t do anything to make me ashamed.’
Shirley frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’
Florrie patted her face. ‘You’re a pretty girl. Don’t believe everything the boys tell you.’
The road leading to the school was choked with children of all ages. They weren’t all from Hallsville School. Some wore smart gaberdine mackintoshes, some had school blazers, while others were dressed either in their Sunday best or ordinary clothes that were patched and worn. The only thing they had in common was that they all carried the dreaded gas masks in cardboard boxes slung over their shoulders and a small suitcase with everything they owned inside. As they approached the school gates and the fleet of waiting coaches, some ladies from the WI checked the luggage label threaded through their buttonhole against the names on a long list they held on a clipboard.
‘You two, bus five,’ a woman told Shirley and Tom.
Everyone was putting on a jolly face, but some of the much smaller children were already crying. Mothers waiting in silence on the other side of the school railings dabbed their eyes and waved their handkerchiefs as the children boarded the coaches.
Tom and Shirley sat together, and their teacher, Miss Lloyd, checked their names against her register. Shirley felt a bit miserable without their mother there to wave them off, but all at once she spotted Auntie Doreen waving and calling their names. As the coach moved off, she blew them kisses and walked briskly beside it until she could no longer keep up. By the time they’d reached the end of the road, everyone was lost to view, and for a few moments the coach fell silent.
Then Miss Lloyd stood up at the front of the coach. ‘I want you all to enjoy your trip,’ she said. ‘It won’t be the same as the trip to Southend you had last week, but I’m pleased to tell you this coach is going to a place right near the sea.’ An excited murmur ran along the coach as she added, ‘We’re off to a place called Worthing.’
‘Where’s that?’ Penny Forge whispered across the aisle to Shirley.
Shirley shrugged. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘We shall stop on the way for a toilet break,’ Miss Lloyd went on, ‘and we shall arrive in Worthing at around one o’clock.’
It’s a long way, then, Shirley thought to herself.
Gradually the noise level in the coach grew louder and before long they were singing songs. Tom didn’t join in, of course, but unlike the day they’d gone to Southend, he didn’t seem upset by the racket. He wasn’t even bothered about having a story. He was enjoying the view from the coach window. Shirley pressed her head against the back of her seat. Worthing. It had a nice ring to it. She sighed. If only Mum was coming too.
‘They looked fine,’ Doreen reassured Florrie. ‘They were both smiling and waving – well, Shirley was, but Tom looked happy enough.’
They were sitting in Florrie’s little sitting room having a cup of tea while they waited for the car to come. Betty had one ear on the shop door, in case of a customer, and disappeared every time the bell rang.
Florrie felt terrible. Her chest hurt, and she’d been coughing a lot this morning. Doreen said it was because she was upset about the children going, and she was probably right. It might be true that every other mother in Canning Town was going through the same thing, but that didn’t help. They didn’t have TB to cope with as well. They didn’t have to leave everything familiar behind and go to Lord knows where . . . Florrie checked herself. She mustn’t do this. Whatever happened, she must not allow herself to give in to self-pity. No good would come of it. That was a downward path that led nowhere. No, she had to think of the more positive things. She had a lot to be grateful for. Good friends like Doreen and Betty, for a start. Plenty of people with the disease were ostracized by their nearest and dearest. Even though the treatments were much better nowadays, there was still a bit of stigma attached to getting TB. No. Florrie had a lot to be thankful for. She had a lovely shop that would bring in an income to take care of the expenses. Even being part of the government scheme was a blessing. All she had to do was get well again and keep as cheerful as possible. Nobody liked someone who never stopped complaining, she told herself crossly, so no more tears.
She was wearing a pink and blue striped dress with short sleeves. There were little buttons down the front, and the dress had a small belt at the waist. Under a white lace Peter Pan collar, the stripes went in the opposite direction, straight across the shoulders rather than vertically like the rest of it.
The person Dr Scott had asked to take her to the sanatorium arrived at around eleven o’clock and then it was a mad dash to get her into the car. He was a very nice man, thoughtful and kind. He made her lie down on the back seat, and put her suitcase in the boot. There was hardly time to say goodbye to Doreen and Betty before she was on her way. Probably just as well, Florrie thought as they headed away from the docks and out of London. Long-drawn-out goodbyes were always painful.
‘My name’s Neil,’ said the driver. ‘Neil Woodfield.’
‘Florrie Jenkins,’ said Florrie. She didn’t feel like talking. Her chest felt tight and she was close to the dreaded tears.
It was only when they’d been travelling for about twenty minutes that it occurred to her she didn’t even know where the sanatorium was. ‘Where are we going exactly?’
The traffic was slow going because the roads were choked with coaches full of children. Every time they had passed one, Florrie had leaned up on her elbow to see if she could spot Tom and Shirley.
‘To the sanatorium at Godalming,’ said Mr Woodfield. ‘They say it’s the best in the country. You’re lucky to be going there.’ He paused for a second, and she knew he’d embarrassed himself. ‘Well, you’re not lucky because you’re ill, but you know what I mean.’
Florrie smiled.
‘They’ve got everything there,’ the driver went on. ‘Iron lungs and all.’
Florrie felt her heart sink. Iron lungs . . . Don’t say she was going to need one
of those as well. The thought had never crossed her mind before. Dear God, this was a living nightmare.
CHAPTER 5
When the coaches pulled into Worthing almost an hour later than expected, they found themselves in Christchurch Road outside the Baptist church. They were ushered into the hall on the side of the building, where the local WI ladies and members of the church had laid on a feast of sandwiches and cakes.
By this time, everyone was starving, but they behaved in an orderly fashion, first lining up for the toilets and then sitting patiently at the trestle tables. Before coming to the table herself, Shirley had helped some of the smaller children to pull up their knickers and wash their hands. She was happy to do it. It kept her mind off things. Surprisingly, nobody cried for his or her mummy, probably because what awaited them on the white tablecloths looked so inviting. Miss Lloyd managed to keep everyone at bay until the minister had said grace and then they all tucked in. The ladies went round with a choice of Corona fruit squashes in a jug, lemonade or dandelion and burdock. The adults drank tea poured from an enormous teapot.
Just as the last of the home-made cakes were being passed round, people started coming into the hall to collect the children. One by one and occasionally in twos, they were peeled away from the main group. Shirley couldn’t help noticing that the younger children, in particular the prettier ones, went first. A couple of times someone asked her to go with them, but when she insisted that Tom be allowed to come with her, they shook their heads and asked someone else. By four o’clock, there were only about eight children left.
‘Now, I don’t want any of you to be upset,’ said Miss Lloyd with a bright smile. ‘We knew this was going to happen so we are off to a lovely village called Angmering, which is not very far from here, and I have arranged for the rest of you to be billeted there.’
Having thanked the tea ladies, she bustled them back onto one of the coaches and they set off once again. Nobody spoke. There was an air of despondency in the coach, especially as there had been no sign of the sea so far. Two disappointments in one day was almost too much to bear. Once they’d left the suburbs, they motored past what seemed like miles and miles of glasshouses until eventually they turned right and found themselves in a pretty little village. Once again they were met by a reception committee at the village hall, and several people who were going to take the children in were already waiting. Adults and children were quickly paired off, until only Shirley and Tom were left. Tom seemed confused and agitated. Shirley felt tearful, but she had to keep strong for the sake of her brother. It was beginning to look as if nobody wanted them. What would happen if they had nowhere to go? Would the coach driver take them back to London, and if he did, who would look after them? There was nobody living at the shop. Mum had gone to the country.
Tom was getting agitated, so as they sat close together Shirley picked up the thread of his favourite story and told him the next instalment.
‘You remember I told you there was a fair on the field,’ she began.
Tom’s eyes lit up. ‘With a magician.’
‘That’s right,’ said Shirley. ‘The magician did a few tricks with cards, but he dropped most of them on the table. Then he held up a red tube so that everyone could see it was empty, and a chicken stuck its head out of the end of his coat sleeve.’
Tom laughed. ‘Then Elsie told him it was her birthday.’
‘That’s right,’ said Shirley. She was distracted by the woman in charge of the village hall as she drew Miss Lloyd to one side with an animated whisper.
‘But she mustn’t tell him her name,’ said Tom, ‘or he’ll steal it.’
The door banged and Miss Lloyd jumped as a man came into the hall. He was wearing patched-up clothes and holding a battered hat with a greasy headband in his hands. Two buttons were missing from his jacket, but he had made some sort of an effort: his hair was slicked down with Brylcreem, although his weather-beaten face was badly in need of a shave.
Tom snatched at Shirley’s arm. ‘Is that him?’ he said anxiously. ‘Is that the Birthday Thief?’
‘The Birthday Thief is only a story,’ said Shirley. ‘I made it up.’
All the same, it was a little disconcerting. As he walked into the hall, the man’s gumboots deposited bits of straw and mud on the swept floor, much to the disapproval of the lady from the village.
‘Mr Oliver,’ she said, looking down her nose at him. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
‘Only two left?’ said Mr Oliver, looking Shirley and Tom up and down. ‘I’ll take ’em.’
The lady shook her head. ‘Oh no, you won’t, Mr Oliver. If you had wanted evacuees, you should have told me before. You have to be vetted.’
‘You know me well enough, Mrs Dyer,’ he said, giving her a brown-toothed smile. ‘We’ve been neighbours long enough.’
‘I’m supposed to inspect the rooms,’ she said haughtily. ‘I have no idea if your rooms will be suitable.’
‘Then come and have a look,’ he challenged. ‘Them looks hale and hearty, and I could do with some help around the farm.’
‘These children have to be in school,’ said Miss Lloyd stiffly. ‘They’re not unpaid workers.’
‘I knows that,’ said Mr Oliver, ‘but round ’ere, on the farm, everybody mucks in together.’
‘Like I said,’ Mrs Dyer repeated, ‘I haven’t checked—’
‘Who else is goin’ to take ’em?’ said Mr Oliver, looking around. ‘I don’t see nobody. If you don’t like it, tough. It seems to me beggars can’t be choosers.’
Shirley could hardly believe her ears. They were being bartered like the cargo on one of the ships in the docks. She glanced at Tom, but he seemed impassive. Perhaps he didn’t understand what was going on.
Mrs Dyer opened the main doors of the hall and looked helplessly up the street. It was deserted. ‘He’s right,’ she whispered to Miss Lloyd. ‘Nobody else is coming.’ She drew a little closer. ‘What about your aunt?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Miss Lloyd, shaking her head vigorously. ‘She’s old. She couldn’t cope with boisterous youngsters.’
‘The girl looks capable,’ said Mrs Dyer. ‘Perhaps your aunt would like to train her as a maid.’
‘No,’ Miss Lloyd said stonily. ‘I can’t take them. I just can’t.’
‘Then it looks as if we have no choice,’ Mrs Dyer said stiffly.
The two women looked behind them to where Mr Oliver waited. He was cleaning his ear with his finger.
‘Is he married?’ Miss Lloyd whispered. ‘I wouldn’t want Shirley . . .’
‘He got married quite recently, I believe,’ said Mrs Dyer confidentially. ‘I hear his wife is pregnant.’
Miss Lloyd wrinkled her nose. ‘Then I suppose you’re right. We have no choice.’
They separated.
‘Very well, Mr Oliver,’ said Mrs Dyer. ‘But before we leave the children in your care, Miss Lloyd and I shall come to your farm to inspect the room right now.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘You got a car? Only I’s on foot.’
‘No, I haven’t, Mr Oliver,’ said Mrs Dyer.
‘What about the coach?’
‘The driver has gone back to Worthing,’ said Miss Lloyd. ‘I’m staying in Angmering with my aunt tonight.’
‘Then us shall have to walk.’
‘Walk?’ said Miss Lloyd faintly. ‘How far is it?’
‘A mile, give or take,’ said Mr Oliver. ‘Nice evening like this, it’ll do you good, lady.’
Miss Lloyd gave him a withering stare.
Mrs Dyer locked up the hall and they set off. When they reached the centre of the village, they went up the hill past the Lamb Inn. Although they were all tired, it didn’t take long to go along Dappers Lane and reach a small cluster of houses on Swillage Lane; from there, they turned right. It was very quiet. Apart from the occasional birdsong, the only sound was their own footsteps on the rough path. Before long, they came to a gate, and beyond it, a rather run-
down farmhouse.
A plethora of chickens ran around the yard, and at the side of the house, a mangy-looking dog came out of its kennel and ran towards them barking furiously. For one ghastly second it looked as if it was going to attack them, but fortunately it was attached to a lead, which in turn was looped onto a chain. As they came through the gate, the dog flung itself at them. Mrs Dyer cried out in shocked surprise, but before the dog could make any physical contact with her, its whole body was wrenched backwards as it reached the end of the chain. The dog quickly regained its footing and continued to snarl and bark angrily from a safe distance.
‘What a vicious animal,’ cried Mrs Dyer as she recovered her composure.
‘A good watchdog, that,’ said Mr Oliver, rolling up his sleeve to reveal some old bite-mark scars. ‘Don’t touch ’e and you’ll be fine.’
‘But with children . . .’ Mrs Dyer began.
Mr Oliver turned to Shirley and Tom. ‘You’m old enough to understand, ench you? He’s only doing his job.’
Miss Lloyd whispered, ‘I’m really not sure about this.’
‘Perhaps just for tonight?’ said Mrs Dyer faintly.
Shirley glanced at Tom. It seemed that they didn’t get a say in the matter.
‘Come on in, then,’ said Mr Oliver. ‘I’ll show ’e the room.’
The women went inside, but Shirley stopped in her tracks and looked around. Surely they weren’t going to make her stay in this awful place? The dog was a danger, one of the scrawny chickens had almost all of the feathers missing from its bottom, a cat with its leg in the air washed itself by a dilapidated shed, and beyond the yard, she could see some cows grazing in a muddy field. The farm could have been idyllic but for the fact that the whole place was mucky and unpleasant and showing signs of prolonged neglect. Even the yard had a peculiar smell about it. Perhaps that was normal on a farm, but Shirley wasn’t sure. Mr Oliver hadn’t been rude or anything, but she, for one, didn’t want to stay here. What should she do? What could she do? She turned to her brother, and to her surprise, he was smiling.
