Always in my Heart

by Pam Weaver

‘Go on, then, my lovely,’ said Len as the silence between them grew. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Mother was arrested.’

  ‘Arrested?’ cried Ruth. ‘But why?’

  ‘It turned out that the letters were being delivered to a German spy,’ said Florrie. ‘Captain Faversham-Wood was a traitor.’

  Ruth leapt to her feet. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘That’s not true. You’re making it up.’

  Len was on his feet too and Florrie burst into tears. However, he wasn’t getting ready to run, as Florrie had feared. Instead, he spoke in low tones to Ruth. Florrie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but eventually Ruth, stony-faced, sat back down.

  ‘Go on,’ said Len softly. ‘Tell us the rest.’

  Florrie gulped. ‘There was a trial and Mother was found guilty of aiding and abetting the enemy.’ She took another breath. ‘She pleaded her belly, but they said she had known what she was doing and that she condoned Captain Faversham-Wood’s conduct, so she was sent to prison.’

  ‘So now I have a criminal for a mother and a traitor as a father,’ said Ruth bitterly.

  ‘Our mother was totally innocent,’ Florrie retorted.

  ‘What did you mean, “she pleaded her belly”?’ said Ruth.

  ‘She was carrying you,’ said Florrie.

  ‘So I was actually born in prison?’ Ruth squeaked.

  Florrie nodded miserably. ‘It was just before my father came back home.’

  ‘Did he know about me?’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he even knew what day it was. He came back a broken man. He couldn’t stop shaking, and if he heard the slightest noise that was out of the ordinary, he would fling himself under the table or behind a chair.’

  ‘So you had to look after him,’ said Ruth, her voice softening for the very first time. ‘But no thought of me, then.’

  ‘I went to fetch you when you were a week old,’ said Florrie as her mind drifted back. How could she forget that day? She had been part of a small crowd waiting on the pavement outside the prison when the door within the much larger one opened to let them in. It had all seemed so unreal. She’d had to pinch herself to believe that she was really here and that she was on her way to see her mother. Everyone shuffled along in silence, their heads bowed, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

  Then someone had said, ‘This is no place for a young girl like you,’ and Florrie had looked up to see a burly prison officer standing in front of her. ‘Who have you come to see?’

  She’d handed him her permission papers. He’d read them, then given her a long, hard stare. Even now, all these years later, she had no idea if it had been sympathy or contempt in his eyes, but whatever it was, the look he gave her made her feel like shrivelling up and dying. ‘Why would you want to see the likes of her?’

  Instinctively Florrie had lowered her eyes. ‘She’s my mother.’

  ‘Florrie? Florrie, love.’ She was suddenly brought back to the present day and Len was standing in front of her with a glass of water. ‘Are you all right? You looked as if you were about to pass out, my lovely. Shall I call the nurse?’

  Florrie glanced at Ruth again. ‘We shared the same name, you see,’ Florrie said quietly. ‘Florence Lincoln. That’s why you thought I was your mother.’ Taking the glass and a gulp of water, she shook her head at Len. ‘No, I’m fine.’ Refreshed and revived, she turned to Ruth. ‘Sorry. Now, where was I?’

  ‘You collected me from prison but couldn’t keep me.’ Ruth’s tone was a tad accusatory.

  ‘You know, all my life I’ve been made to feel guilty about this,’ said Florrie, slightly irritated. ‘You ask me: how could I have done it? My father was totally useless and everybody hated us. When they saw me coming, people would spit on the ground in front of me. I was pushed over on more than one occasion.’ She held Ruth’s gaze. ‘I had no money and no job – I lost that when my employer read his newspaper. Everybody is so quick to judge. I was sixteen. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you. I couldn’t look after you.’

  Len gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Perhaps we’d better stop now, Florrie, love. I can see that you’re getting upset.’

  ‘I took you to Mrs Andrews,’ said Florrie, ignoring him. ‘She told me she knew a lovely couple who would give you a good home and that they’d keep you from ever knowing the truth. We just wanted you to have a proper chance in life.’ Florrie turned her head, a hurt look on her face.

  Ruth dabbed her eyes. ‘And I did,’ she said, her voice choked with emotion.

  Florrie looked back at her half-sister. ‘Our mother loved you very much,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘It broke her heart to give you up. She said, “I want you to go far away from here, Florrie, and never come back.” She said to me, “I am so sorry for what I’ve done. I was a fool. I was deceived and I was unfaithful, but I promise you I never knew what was in those notes, and I certainly never intended to betray my country.” Then the prison nurse came in and handed me a bundle – you. Mother kissed your little forehead and said, “I want you to call her Ruth, after the Ruth in the Bible. She made a home for herself far away from her own family, and that’s what my baby must do.”’ There was a pregnant pause. Then Florrie said, ‘I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there like a lemon and they took Mother away. I didn’t even get to kiss her goodbye.’

  Ruth’s chin was quivering as she dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘I’ve treated you badly, Florrie, and I’m sorry. Our mother got her wish. I was well looked after, and I loved my parents.’

  ‘Then I’m glad,’ said Florrie, looking up at her. ‘She said she would pray for you every day for the rest of her life.’

  Without breaking her gaze, Ruth reached out and grabbed Florrie’s hand. The two of them squeezed hard, and then Ruth stood and, leaning over, gave her half-sister a hug. Len moved to the window and stood with his back to them. He knew this was a very private moment.

  ‘They found out she was telling the truth in the end,’ said Florrie as Ruth sat back down.

  Ruth gasped, and Len spun round. ‘How?’

  ‘It turned out that the captain didn’t die after all,’ said Florrie. ‘He wrote a memoir, which was published by the Blackshirts in 1934.’

  Ruth took in her breath audibly. ‘Have you seen it?’

  Florrie shook her head. ‘A friend of mine told me about it without realizing it was anything to do with me,’ she said. ‘Apparently, he had been educated here in a public school. He had an accent so English you would never have guessed in a million years that he was of German descent, but whatever we think of him, he was loyal to his own country and decorated for his achievements.’

  ‘So your mother was exonerated,’ said Len, smiling with relief.

  ‘Fat lot of good it did,’ said Florrie bitterly. ‘She was already long gone.’

  Ruth’s face fell. ‘So she died in prison?’

  Florrie looked up at them, surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know? My mother was notorious. You must have heard of her. She was called the English Mata Hari. It was in all the papers. A week after I’d collected you from the prison, she was hanged.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Florrie stared out of the window. Tomorrow, she would be seeing Dr Scott for the last time. He had written to tell her that he was coming by and that he wanted to check up on her. For a second or two, she’d been alarmed, afraid of the cost of his visit, but as a postscript at the bottom of his letter, he’d written, ‘No charge.’

  It was almost time to go home, but after all these months, Florrie didn’t want to go back to London. Although life was quite often disturbed by enemy bombers going over, or the sound of dog fights in the clouds, it was so much better being in the country. Florrie had lost count of the times she heard the sirens in the distance followed by the all-clear, but there were few incidents. If a bomb was dropped, it was usually in a field somewhere. Of course, she realized that in this part of Sussex, they were in the front line as far as the enem
y invasion went, but she still preferred to be here rather than in the capital. The news, wherever it came from, wasn’t good. Portsmouth and Southampton seemed to be bearing the brunt of things, but the RAF had downed eighty-six German planes with only fifteen losses of their own. It was a small crumb of comfort, but she couldn’t get those brave boys out of her mind. Fifteen planes (she was willing to bet that it was probably a lot more) represented at least fifteen families going through hell. But it wasn’t the fear of bombing that made her reluctant to go back to London. She loved Sussex. She loved the clean air and the beauty all around her. Most of all, she loved the people. This was the place to make a completely fresh start.

  With no one around to talk to, she’d resorted to writing long letters to share her thoughts. She started with Len. He was back with his regiment and about to be shipped out to God knows where. Just the thought of him created a hollow feeling in her heart. His letters were wonderful and she read them over and over again. For a man of few words, he always said the right thing. The radio was on in the other room. An American girl, Jo Stafford, was singing a lovely song. Florrie couldn’t catch all the words. ‘To hold you ever so tight . . . and to feel . . . the nearness of you . . .’ Oh, how she longed to be nearer to Len.

  When she’d told her friends what she planned, Doreen had been enthusiastic: ‘Sounds wonderful. Just do it.’ Betty’s comments had been more thoughtful. ‘I’m not keen to stay here much longer myself,’ she’d written. ‘The bombing is getting much worse. I enjoyed looking after the shop up to now, but I want to do my bit as well. I’m thinking of joining the WVS canteen. They do such a valiant job in helping people who have lost absolutely everything and I’d like to be a part of that. Your idea sounds really good, and I know a couple of people who would jump at the chance.’

  Although Florrie didn’t need it, their encouraging comments felt like she’d got their blessing.

  Shirley and Tom were coming up the drive. Florrie grabbed her cardigan and, for the first time in many months, hurried to meet them. The three of them swapped their news, and by the time they’d reached the nursery garden and found a seat, Florrie could hardly contain herself with excitement.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from Mr Mills,’ she said. Her son was preoccupied with a bumblebee that was crawling along the back of the seat. ‘Tom, I want you to listen too. This is important.’

  ‘Do we know a Mr Mills?’ asked Shirley.

  ‘No,’ said Florrie, ‘but he is very keen to run the shop.’

  ‘You mean I don’t have to go back to London to help you?’ cried Shirley.

  Florrie shook her head.

  ‘Oh, Mum, does that mean I could take up that scholarship?’

  Florrie laughed. ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said. ‘Mr Mills has offered me far more than I expected – four hundred and ten pounds – so I’m selling it.’

  Tom froze. Shirley’s jaw dropped. ‘Selling?’ said Shirley. ‘But, Mum, you love that shop. You’re not selling it because of me, surely?’

  ‘No, love,’ said Florrie. ‘I did it for all of us. I enjoy working outdoors, and Tom loves the farm, so it seemed the next logical step. That’s a good price, and as soon as the money is in the bank, I’m going to look for a place around here.’

  Shirley seemed to have lost her voice.

  ‘Near Angmering, if you like,’ said Florrie encouragingly. ‘You’ve made a lot of friends there, haven’t you? If I can get a place with a bit of land, we could keep chickens.’

  ‘And pigs,’ said Tom. ‘I’m good with pigs. Seth says so.’

  Florrie laughed again. ‘Well, maybe one pig.’

  Shirley chewed her bottom lip. Clearly her mother thought that Tom could carry on at the farm, but she wasn’t so sure. Once Mr Oliver was back and he knew Janet was gone, he would be angry. He’d probably blame her and take it out on Tom. Oliver’s Farm wouldn’t be a safe place any more. Yet looking at her mother’s bright smile, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Let her enjoy this moment for now. Explanations could wait a while. Mr Oliver wouldn’t be out for several more weeks.

  ‘Shirley?’ Florrie seemed concerned.

  Shirley gave her mother a big hug. ‘Sounds wonderful,’ she cried. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘Then that’s settled, my darling,’ said Florrie, relaxing. ‘It’s going to happen.’

  August was hot. It should have gone down as a lovely summer, and it would have done had it not been for the constant news of the misfortunes of war. The Battle of Britain was raging overhead, and although everyone did their best to stay cheerful, they all sensed that it would only take one small error of judgement to lose the war. Having already been active in the North, the German Luftwaffe now came across the Channel in droves, bombing large swathes of southern England. Much to the delight of small boys, the battle-scarred remains of Dorniers, Heinkels, Messerschmitts and Junkers littered the countryside and they ran or biked to get to them first before the Home Guard or the local policeman stopped them taking souvenirs. Most of the rest of life carried on as usual. While the brave boys of the RAF struggled to keep the enemy away from Britain’s shores, on Oliver’s Farm it was time to lift the potato crop.

  Until she came to the farm, Shirley had no idea what a labour-intensive job digging up potatoes was. It sounded simple enough – plant them in rows, then, when the time came, put in a fork and shove the potatoes in a bucket. However, with such a large field full of them, it was going to take a lot more than that. During the growing season, she’d weeded the furrows and banked up the plants. A couple of times, she’d been asked to dust the whole crop with DDT to deter pests. Now that it was time to lift them, Seth and Vince had dug a long trench at one end of the field. The plan was to put some of the newly dug potatoes into it, then cover them with straw and another layer of earth. It was by far the best way to store them for a short period until they could get around to bagging them up and putting them into the barn. The rest of the field was earmarked for market.

  On the day they were to do it, Hazel and Marilyn had mustered quite a bit of help from the village. Several schoolchildren and a few young men who were not yet old enough to be called up came along as well. Tom brought the horses up to the field. He was to go along the furrows turning the soil to release the potatoes. Everybody was given an area to work on, and once the potatoes were exposed, they had to put them into their molly. The full mollies were emptied into the cart, and by the time Tom and the horse came down the other side of the furrow, everyone was ready to pick up the next batch. Being so dry made it a lot easier, but it was still back-breaking work.

  Janet and Shirley spent their time putting the potatoes into hessian sacks and weighing them. If all went well, they would be on their way to Covent Garden on the late-afternoon train from Angmering Station.

  Because of Shirley’s careful budgeting, Janet was able to pay each adult the going rate for the work – three shillings a day. The children were paid one and ninepence. No health or unemployment insurance was payable in respect of the children, but Janet had to insure everybody against accident while they worked for her. Seth and Vince were on the normal rate for a farm labourer. They both got three pounds a week.

  There wasn’t a lot of time for conversation, except at lunchtime, when everybody took a half-hour break. They sat in the barn for a little shelter from the sun, and Shirley found herself sitting next to her old teacher. Granny Roberts was going round with the big teapot, but everyone was eating their own sandwiches.

  Marilyn was thrilled to hear that Shirley’s mum had decided to move to the country. ‘There’s a cottage for sale in Clapham,’ she said. ‘It’s on the main road about halfway up the hill.’

  ‘Where’s Clapham?’ Shirley asked.

  ‘It’s not far from Patching Pond,’ said Marilyn. ‘Virtually opposite Patching village.’

  Shirley’s eyes glistened with excitement. ‘Do you know how much it is?’

  Marilyn shook her head. ‘I can’t te
ll you, but most places around here are in the region of two hundred pounds.’

  Two hundred pounds! If her mother got £410 for the shop in London, she’d have plenty to live on until she found her feet. ‘Do you know who owns it?’

  Again Marilyn wasn’t sure, but she promised to find out. ‘Someone told me Janet is moving,’ she said.

  Shirley nodded.

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘She’s not saying.’

  ‘Isn’t Gilbert getting out of prison soon?’

  Shirley was beginning to feel a little awkward. She didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation about Janet. It would be all too easy to let something slip that might be repeated and give Mr Oliver a clue as to where Janet was. ‘He’s due out in October,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Gosh, it’s half past one. I guess we’d better get back to work.’

  ‘It sounds to me as if he’s treated Janet the same way he treated Elizabeth,’ said Marilyn, dusting the straw from her behind.

  Although she was dying to know more, Shirley said nothing.

  When four-thirty came, they were done. Although it had been a long, hard day, everyone had enjoyed themselves, and most of them had caught the sun. The trench was full and the rest of the potatoes were on their way to London. Tom went into the stables to give the horses a good rub-down and some oats as a special treat. Janet and Granny Roberts had arranged for everyone to share a meal on the meadow. While everyone took turns to have a wash in the scullery, Vince put some planks of wood across some old oil drums for a table and Granny Roberts covered it with a white sheet. Everybody sat around on whatever they could find. Some had chairs, but others managed on an old log or an upturned box. One girl had an upside-down bucket with a cushion on the top to protect her bottom from the rim, and the rest sat on blankets spread out on the grass. Some of the mothers came up from the village, bringing with them an array of dishes or plates of food, which were all put on the table. There were few men present – only the young lads and a couple of older men. The rest were at war, but that didn’t stop the working party from having fun after they’d eaten. When the meal was almost finished, Vince got out his fiddle, and Seth played the spoons. Much to everyone’s delight, Gwen sang a couple of songs, and while the women danced with each other, the children played kiss-chase or hide-and-seek.