Above the Bright Blue Sky

by Margaret Thornton

  ‘Jessie and I have been thinking,’ said Ivy Spooner, cautiously. The two of them were always rather in awe of their chairman, as were most of the ladies of the WI. ‘Might it not be better to give them orange juice. I mean…some children are not very partial to tea. It’s…just an idea.’

  ‘Hmm… It seems to me that they should be grateful for whatever they are given.’ Miss Thomson raised her eyebrows behind the wire-framed spectacles which were perched on the end of her nose. ‘When I was a child we were not allowed to pick and choose.’

  Muriel Hollins ignored her, turning to her two helpmates from the WI. ‘Thank you, Ivy, and you too, Jessie. What a splendid idea! Of course kiddies prefer orange juice, don’t they?’

  ‘Think of the expense though,’ muttered Miss Thomson. ‘You will have to make sure it is well diluted then it will go further.’ She sniffed audibly. ‘I don’t suppose children from backgrounds like theirs will know the difference anyway.’

  ‘Never mind the expense,’ broke in Rebecca Tremaine. She was the wife of the man who was generally regarded as the squire, by virtue of the fact that he was the largest landowner in the area. ‘I will be only too pleased to contribute half a dozen bottles of orange squash, or however many you think you well need.’

  ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ Muriel clapped her hands in delight. ‘That is really most generous of you, Mrs Tremaine.’

  ‘You will need tea as well, though,’ that lady reminded her. ‘There will be adults to cater for as well as children. Their schoolteachers and…am I right in supposing there will be mothers, too, and some babies and children under school age?’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite right,’ replied Muriel. ‘But, as I’ve said, we are not sure of the numbers.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Thomas Allbright, one of the churchwardens. ‘All this business of sandwiches and cakes and orange squash and what-have-you…it sounds as though it’s going to be a real old bun feast. But won’t they already have had their dinner or whatever? Won’t they bring sandwiches with ’em, to eat on the train?’

  ‘Mebbe not,’ said his opposite number, Albert Carey. ‘It’s nobbut a hop, skip and a jump from Leeds, is it? Relatively speaking, I mean. They won’t be more than a couple of hours on the train, if that. They’ll not need sandwiches. Of course, the ones from Hull will have further to come; I’ll grant you that…’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your observations,’ said Muriel, ‘but it’s all immaterial. We want to provide a meal, whatever the cirumstances, to make them feel welcome. Yes, they may well have brought their own lunch, or maybe not. You see, it’s doubtful whether any of the evacuees will know where they are going until they actually arrive. They will have no idea whether they are embarking on a long journey or a short one.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Mr Allbright.

  ‘Security reasons.’ Muriel nodded importantly. ‘The fewer people who know the destination the better, just in case important information is leaked and gets into the wrong hands.’

  ‘It sounds a funny sort of how d’you do to me,’ said Mr Carey, scratching his bald head. ‘Very hit and miss. It’s to be hoped the engine driver knows where he’s going.’

  There was a slight ripple of laughter. ‘Oh, I reckon he’ll have inside information, Albert,’ said Archie Tremaine. ‘Now, about the business of accommodating all these children, Mrs Hollins. How do you propose to allocate them?’

  ‘That’s tricky,’ said Muriel. ‘We have been giving it some thought, and we think the best way to do it is to invite people to come to the hall and…well…to choose their own children.’

  A few people nodded, but Miss Foster, the headmistress of the school who, so far, had said very little, spoke up. ‘What about the poor little mites who are left, though? The children at school love to choose sides when they are playing a game, and it’s always the unpopular ones who are left till last. I always feel so sorry for them.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ agreed Jean Bolton, one of the other teachers; and her colleague, Shirley Sylvester, nodded her agreement. ‘It’s the ones you don’t really notice who don’t get picked, or perhaps they can’t run very fast.’

  ‘It’s not something I would advise for housing the evacuees,’ said Miss Foster. ‘On the other hand…I must admit that I can’t think of any other way of doing it.’

  ‘You are right, Miss Foster,’ said the squire. ‘As always, you are right.’ Miss Charity Foster, now nearing her retirement age, had been the headmistress of the village school – now rather more than a village – for as long as most people could remember. She was much respected for her fairness and her genuine love of the children in her care.

  ‘I think we can rely on most of our fellow villagers, however, to be fair and to play the game,’ Archie Tremaine continued. ‘Of course I know the farmers amongst us will choose big strong lads. Well, nobody could blame ’em for that.’

  ‘Now, wait a minute, Archie,’ broke in the rector. ‘I don’t think we can regard the evacuees as unpaid labour, can we? They are supposed to be under our care and protection.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry…’ Archie held up his hands. ‘I think you misunderstand me. You are right, of course, Rector. I only meant…once they have settled in, the older lads might enjoy helping with odd jobs around the farm. Don’t forget that a lot of the farm hands will be called up to serve their country in the armed forces.’

  ‘And they are already sending land girls to the farms,’ said Jessie Campion. ‘The WLA has been reformed.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you… We are getting away from the main issue,’ interrupted Muriel. ‘The allocation of the children…?’

  ‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Archie, rubbing his hands together. ‘Well, my wife and I have been talking things over, haven’t we, Becky? And we know only too well that we have much more room at our place than most other folk. So, what we propose is that we should take the women with the babies and small children, as many of them as we can fit in. As you may know, my wife was a nurse before she married me, and she has brought up our three children; so I think she knows what she’s about.’

  ‘Splendid!’ cried Muriel again. ‘I’m sure we are all very pleased to hear that, Mr Tremaine. Thank you, Mrs Tremaine. We must all try to put our talents to their very best use.’

  The two church wardens volunteered, on behalf of their wives, to take two evacuees each. They were middle-aged couples whose children had grown up and left home. The squire and his wife, also, had two children who had married and moved away, but they had a son as well, Bruce, who would soon be returning to his boarding school.

  ‘And we will, of course, be taking some children ourselves,’ said Muriel. ‘Myself and Jessie and Ivy here; in fact the majority of our members have agreed to do so. That includes your two mothers as well, Joan and Shirley.’ She smiled at the two younger women who were teachers at the school.

  ‘There is a spare bedroom at the schoolhouse,’ said Miss Foster. ‘I realise, though, that it might be rather different for me. I would willingly accommodate two children, but…would it be fair to them? They might not like the idea of living with a teacher, especially the headmistress, and who could blame them?’ She smiled. ‘So…how would it be if I were to have one of the teachers instead? They are sending some teachers with them, aren’t they?’

  ‘We believe so,’ said Muriel. ‘Thank you, Miss Foster. That is an admirable solution…’

  There was a silence during which everyone tried not to look at Miss Amelia Thomson, the only person who had not volunteered to take any evacuees. Eventually, it was Muriel Hollins who glanced at her, a determined look on her face and her eyebrows raised questioningly. Miss Thomson, appearing flustered, dropped her gloves on the floor then stooped to pick them up. Mrs Hollins was still regarding her solemnly, her pencil poised at the ready. ‘Now Miss Thomson,’ she said. ‘What about you? I am sure you must have room for at least one child.’

  Miss Thomson cleared her throat. ‘Daisy lives wit
h me now, you know. She moved in when things became too much for me.’ Daisy was her maid-of-all-work who had been employed by her – some would say slaved for her – ever since she left school at fourteen. Ten years later the young woman was still there, but now ‘lived in’ rather than to-ing and fro-ing each day from her home at the other end of the village. ‘And I have to keep a room vacant for when my sister comes to visit me…’

  Miss Thomson’s words faltered under the steadfast gaze of her opponent. ‘Er…very well, then. Perhaps I might see my way to taking a child. Just one, mind; that’s all I could manage. And…it must be a little girl… Girls are so much easier to cope with,’ she added in an undertone.

  ‘Splendid!’ boomed Muriel, slapping her hand on her thigh. ‘I knew everyone would come up trumps. Thank you, Miss Thomson. Thanks to you all, indeed, for volunteering. And you good people, of course, will be allowed first choice; the pick of the bunch, one might say.’

  Patience frowned a little, but did not say anything. This picking and choosing – and rejecting – sounded rather like the sort of thing that went on every Wednesday in the animal market at the back of the market hall, when cattle and sheep were bought and sold. The children who were coming did not deserve to be treated like that, but she supposed there was no other way but to let people have their choice. She glanced uneasily at her husband, and it was Luke who spoke up.

  ‘I thought we had agreed that there wasn’t to be too much of that sort of thng? They are all God’s children, even though they may not all be blessed with pretty faces or strong limbs. And some of them may be from very unsatisfactory homes… I am sure I do not need to remind you all to treat them kindly and with the respect due to them.’

  Muriel Hollins coughed pointedly. ‘You may be sure we will all do our best, Rector, in these…er…difficult circumstances.’ She did not take kindly to even the slightest criticism, but Patience knew that, under the bossiness and the determination to have her own way, she did have what was termed a ‘heart of gold’. Whereas Patience had never had the same feeling about Miss Amelia Thomson. She was generally regarded as a bitter and parsimonious old maid, and Patience was already beginning to feel sorry for any child unlucky enough to be selected by her. She broke in hurriedly.

  ‘Yes, as you say, Muriel; I am sure we will all do our best…Miss Foster…’ She turned to the headmistress. ‘What are the plans for schooling? We are going to find ourselves – at a rough guess – with double the number of children we have already, aren’t we? And there is no way they will fit into our existing school.’

  The school, which had originally been entirely under the control of St Bartholomew’s church, had been started over a hundred years ago when Middlebeck was still a village, as a one-class school. As the village had expanded and more children had been born it had soon increased to two classes, one for the children up to the age of eight or nine, and the other for those pupils who would remain there until they left at the age of thirteen.

  But now the education of children was starting to be taken more seriously. The Education Act of 1870 had made school attendance for all children compulsory, and since then things had moved on apace. There were now three classes at St Bartholomew’s school, an extension having been built to accommodate the rising numbers; Infants, aged five to seven; Lower Juniors, aged eight and nine; and Upper Juniors, aged ten and eleven. At the age of eleven the children now went either to the senior school at the other end of the town – built when the town expanded, and catering for outlying villages as well as Middlebeck – or, for those who had passed a Scholarship Examination, to the High School further afield.

  St Bartholomew’s School was now aided financially by the Local Education Authority, but it was still the rector of the church and the headmistress who made most of the decisions.

  ‘That is very true, Mrs Fairchild,’ said Miss Foster. ‘Our small school is bursting at the seams already. I have heard that some authorities are proposing part-time education; that would be the local children in the morning and the evacuees in the afternoon, or vice versa. But it’s not something I’m in favour of myself.’

  ‘It would please the kiddies, though, wouldn’t it?’ laughed Albert Carey. ‘Only half a day at school! They’d be tickled pink.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Miss Foster, smiling. ‘They would also be running wild and getting up to all sorts of mischief. They have had quite long enough away from school already. I think we should establish a routine for our own children and our visitors as soon as possible. Routine; that is what is important to help them with the problems that they are sure to face. That’s one thing; another, of course, is love and care…’ She stared into space for a moment before continuing. ‘I have already given this matter some thought. And I suggest that we make more use of the church hall, with the rector’s permission, of course. We could fit two classes in there, with some sort of a partition down the middle.’

  ‘Excellent! I was about to suggest it myself,’ agreed Luke. ‘And the same goes for the Village Institute, perhaps? That is not under my jurisdiction, of course, but maybe you good ladies might allow the school to use it?’ He looked at Muriel and her chums. ‘It’s quite a distance from the school, I know, but we just have to do the best we can.’

  This was agreed upon and there followed a discussion about furniture. Card tables would have to be used as desks for the time being. There should be sufficient chairs, however, and school equipment would have to be shared out fairly, but Luke was sure that a grant from the Education Authority, as well as the Church, would be forthcoming.

  Should the evacuees be taught separately? was a point for discussion. Some, including Miss Thomson, thought that they should. Others were in favour of integration, so that the children could get to know one another, and as this was Miss Foster’s view this was what was decided. It was agreed, though, that as this would require a good deal of organization, the children should be given two extra days holiday. School would recommence on Wednesday, the sixth of September instead of on the Monday.

  Dusk had fallen as they had been discussing plans and partaking of the refreshments that Patience had provided. It was time to light the two standard lamps which stood at either end of the lounge and cast a rosy glow through their pink shades. But before that could be done the blackout curtains must be drawn, because blackout restrictions had been enforced that very day. This was the signal, it seemed, for all the visitors to depart. They all remembered that they had their own arrangements to see to at home. Patience could hear their comments as they put on their hats and coats.

  ‘Confounded nuisance it is! But I left it all to the wife…’

  ‘I got some really strong black cotton material at the market; only sixpence a yard…’

  ‘I’ve covered my landing window with black paper. It makes it gloomy upstairs, but it might not be for long, eh?’

  ‘Goodnight, Patience, dear. Goodnight, Rector…’

  ‘Thank you for the supper. But we’ve done a lot of good work as well, haven’t we?’

  ‘Indeed we have,’ agreed Patience. ‘Thank you all for coming…’

  ‘Goodnight everyone. And God bless you all,’ added Luke.

  He stood at the side of his wife, his arm around her, as she drew the red plush curtains, now lined with black, against the windows. Such a peaceful scene, thought Patience. She never tired of the view from the lounge window, across the village green to the greystone school and the schoolhouse towards which Charity Foster was now making her way. At the top side of the green, marking the end of the little town, stood the church, parts of it dating from the fifteenth century, and the graveyard with its ancient lichened stones. And to her left from where she was standing, the High Street led down through stone-built houses to the shops, the market square, the Village Institute and then to the railway station in the valley. Behind the church, but out of sight from the front of the house, was a rippling stream, a tributary of the river which ran through the dale; and on top of the hill that
rose behind the church tower were the ruins of Middleburgh Castle, standing out black and gaunt against the darkening sky.

  ‘It’s so peaceful. How very tranquil and lovely it all is,’ breathed Patience. ‘I can’t bear to think about what trials and dangers may lie ahead.’

  ‘None of us know, my darling,’ said Luke. ‘But God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble…’ he added quietly. He did not often quote from the Bible, fearing it made him sound solemn and sanctimonious, but Patience knew that was from one of his favourite psalms. ‘But that does not mean that we can stand back and do nothing,’ he went on. He looked heavenwards. ‘I have the feeling that He is going to need all the help He can get, from all of us.’

  Chapter Four

  There was only her mother sitting at the kitchen table when Maisie went downstairs the following morning. She had left the two little ones having a pillow fight, laughing and screaming and bashing one another around the head, as if they hadn’t already caused enough trouble with pillows the day before. The remains of toast and the used cups and plates indicated that Sid and Percy had already gone to work, to Maisie’s great relief. Her mother glanced up, giving a sad and weary smile. One eye was puffed up and her face darkened by a bruise all down one side, and Maisie guessed her body must be bruised as well from the kicking Sid had given her.

  ‘Are you alright, Mum?’ she asked anxiously. ‘They’ve gone, have they, Sid and…Percy?’

  Lily nodded. ‘Aye, they’ve gone… And, yes, I’m all right. As right as I’ll ever be, I suppose.’ Maisie noticed that her mother winced as she reached across the table for the teapot. ‘Here y’ are, love. Have a cup of tea – it’s still quite fresh – and there’s some toast left. An’ I’ll go and get them two terrors out of bed. We’d best be shaping ourselves if you’re to be at school in less than an hour.’

  ‘All of us, Mum; not just me,’ Maisie reminded her. ‘You’re coming an’ all, aren’t you? And our Joanie and Jimmy.’