by Ruby Jackson
Knowing it would please her, Grace looked at her hands, and then gently touched the blouse. ‘Softest material I ever touched, Mrs Love. He must love you very much.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ said Mrs Love, trying to hide just how much she appreciated Grace’s reaction, ‘but I want you to know that her ladyship won’t allow no bullying, so you tell me if it happens again.’
‘Good night, Mrs Love,’ said Grace quietly as she left the room.
SIXTEEN
The news that Jack had been in England took Grace’s mind off her suspicions for a day or so. Lady Alice would have told him where she was – if he had asked, of course. There had been no letter for such a long time that it was almost as if Jack thought what had happened between them was something that had happened to another person in another place. Grace, who had been physically tired, having spent over eight hours ploughing and who should have immediately fallen into a deep and restoring sleep, lay in bed – it seemed for hours – listening to gentle snores and murmurs, and wondering about Jack. Could she ask Lady Alice if he had visited or planned to visit Harry? She decided that she could not.
She was surprised, too, to find that her body remembered Jack. Oh, how sweet their loving had been. She turned over to hide her face in the pillow as tears coursed down her cheeks. For Jack, it had not been loving; it had been … No, she could not bear to name what it had been. She tried to drive all memory of him from her mind and surely then her body would forget, too.
She forced her mind to focus on the contents of her box. Was it not enough to know the names of her parents and her grandparents? At last, after all the sad years of being made to feel worthless by her sister, she knew, not only the name of her mother but what she looked like; she could hold in her hand a watch that had belonged to her mother and to her grandmother before that. Margaret Hardy went through a legal marriage ceremony with John Paterson. Even Margaret’s parents, righteous upstanding people that they were, thought the marriage valid.
But Grace had gone to a school where illegitimate children were mocked by their peers, where any child in an unusual situation was judged to be, in some way, wanting. At least that slur had rarely been cast on her in Dartford, for Sam had dealt with it on the rare occasions when it had. If anyone had been unpleasant, it had been Megan. Megan, who, for all those miserable years, had held on to the beautiful watch and, more importantly, the papers, and who had never once mentioned them to a little girl desperate for some stability.
No, she could not sleep. She had to look at some of the old photographs and perhaps read a letter or two.
She slipped out of bed, listened for a moment to the other soft sounds of exhausted sleep, then crept across the occasionally creaking wooden floor to retrieve her precious box from the drawer. It was much too late to think that natural light might allow her to read the letters, and so she crept as quietly as she could to the door, praying that it would open silently. Once out of the bedroom, Grace tiptoed to the bathroom, opened the door as quietly as possible and slipped inside. Praying silently but fervently that none of the land girls would need to visit this surprisingly modern room, she closed the door and turned on the recently installed electric light.
Did it cost the Whitefields an absolute fortune to run? She did not know, but decided that it probably did and, therefore, she would read only a few letters. She sat on the solid oak lavatory seat and looked through the photographs, hoping to see a small Grace, but there were no pictures of children. She decided that the photographs were mostly of Megan and her family and, therefore, would be of no interest or importance to her.
‘But we have the same father.’ The realisation came to her that relatives on the Paterson side were her relatives too and so decided to study the photographs later.
Letters. Letters could hold clues. She looked at one or two and wondered why they had been kept, for there was nothing of any importance in them. None, so far, had shed any light on Grace’s personal story
As the cold seeped into her bones, Grace wondered what on earth she was doing, sitting on a lavatory seat instead of sleeping in her bed. She had almost decided to return to the land-girls’ room when she picked up a letter and saw several words pop out at her.
‘She’s had a bairn, Gert, a lass. Well, much good he’ll do either of them. He’s following crops in England. Somerset, Kent, anywhere there’s a crop, and she goes with him. He’s that stupid, he doesn’t realise that cousins of ours …
That was all there was on that piece of fragile paper, but it was more than enough to destroy any hope Grace had had of blessed sleep that night.
‘I’m the child,’ Grace said to herself, ‘and Gert, who was obviously still alive, is Megan’s mother.’ She felt sick and closed the box with a crash that could have wakened a light sleeper. She realised that she was very, very cold; but what was from the temperature of the room and what from what she had read? She did not know. No records of a divorce. That makes me illegitimate. Like a very old and stiff woman, Grace stood up, turned off the light and went back to the large bedroom. The relaxed comforting sounds that her friends made assured Grace that they were sound asleep. Quietly, she put the box away before seeking the comfort of her own bed. As she lay there, it was not of herself that she was thinking but of her mother. How she must have loved John Paterson to give up so much to follow him all over the country.
Her last coherent thought before sleep finally claimed her was: if Megan had lived, would she ever have told me?
That thought was still in her head next morning when she threw cold water on her face in an attempt to feel awake and refreshed.
She looked out and was surprised to see a light covering of snow all around the house. Her first feeling was that it was so lovely. Her little world was white and pure, not a print of bird, or animal or even barn cat spoiled the snowy blanket. More awake, she found herself annoyed, for it was almost April and she wanted to look out at flowers in the garden and blossoms promising autumn fruits on the trees.
The others were awake, and grumpy and sleepy in equal measure. They washed and dressed as quickly as they could, grabbed Wellington boots and coats and hurried down to the large, heated kitchen for their first refreshing cup of tea. There was no conversation, only a flutter of subdued thanks to Mrs Love as they hurried out to their various chores.
They were still quiet when they returned for the generous breakfast that Mrs Love had ready for them, but, as their healthy young appetites were appeased, the chattering began.
‘Eva is learn new song,’ announced Katia.
The land girls had quickly realised that Eva’s voice was something more than merely pleasant; that it was, in fact, something out of the ordinary. She sang in Polish as she worked, and sometimes in Italian, a language she did not speak but which she had begun to study before the war. They also knew that, had there been no invasion of Poland, she would have been studying music at a very famous conservatoire in Krakow. Even Connie listened to her, although, unlike the rest of the household, she did not congratulate her.
‘Which English songs, Eva?’ Grace asked. ‘Folk songs, opera, love songs like “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree”?’
‘Much more important,’ said Katia sternly. ‘She is not learned all words yet, but it is song of Potato Pete.’
Even Mrs Love laughed. ‘Well done, Eva; you are very patriotic. I shall choose something from the Potato Pete cookbook for supper when you have learned the words.’
Since home-grown carrots and potatoes were in plentiful supply, Potato Pete and Dr Carrot had been introduced to encourage the British housewife to use them in different ways. Mrs Love had already tried ‘curried carrots’ as a change from plain boiled carrots but with mixed success.
‘Don’t cook carrots or potatoes for breakfast, Mrs Love, please,’ begged Liz. ‘Your porridge is just perfect.’
‘There’s a recipe for carrot jam, Liz. How about porridge with a big spoon of that?’
‘Time for work, gi
rls,’ said Grace. ‘Mrs Love is teasing, Liz. Aren’t you, Mrs Love?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
As Grace walked out with the others to see what Hazel would say about the unexpected late snowfall, she reflected on how much easier her own relationship was with Mrs Love. Tension that seemed to have dogged them in Grace’s early days at Whitefields had melted away as easily as some of this light snowfall. Whatever had caused either thaw, she was glad of it.
Since Grace, Liz, Susie and Katia were working in overgrown meadows far from the house, they carried sandwiches, fruit and water, to sustain them during the day, and so did not return to the house until the early evening, when darkness was already beginning to fall.
‘With any luck, the bathroom will be free,’ said Grace. ‘Liz is smallest, Katia. Shall we let her have the first hot bath?’
‘I’d kill for a cup of tea,’ said Liz, and was taken aback by the shocked gasp from Katia.
‘She doesn’t mean it literally, Katia,’ said Susie with a laugh. ‘What would you call it, Grace?’
‘Don’t know if it has a special name, Susie. An expression, I suppose. It’s just an expression, Katia.’
Katia relaxed and began to laugh. ‘Oh, we have expressions too in Polish but, since you are not knowing my language, I can’t tell them. Come on, I am like Liz, killing for a cup of tea.’
They were the last workers back to the house and the first pot of tea had been emptied, but Mrs Love was in the process of brewing another one.
‘And there’s a nice moist slice of cake there for anyone who wants it. And, Liz, there’s a letter for you, a postcard for Susie and Beth –’ she looked round at the assembled girls – ‘when she gets here. Nothing for you, I’m afraid, Katia. Grace, you have two letters, and a postcard – lovely picture of a cottage in the Lake District.’
‘Sorry, Katia,’ said Grace, as she picked up her post. Liz was already reading her letter with evident pleasure.
Two letters, and she recognised the writing. In an effort to calm her heart rate, she looked at the postcard, which was indeed of a very lovely thatched cottage. She turned it over.
Dear Grace,
Thank you for writing. No, I’m not here but wouldn’t it be nice? One day.
Hope you’re well,
Love, Daisy
Despite the unpleasant knowledge that was constantly invading her thoughts, Grace smiled. Daisy had remembered that they had often spoken of having a walking holiday when they were older. Now they were older and the opportunity had passed.
She looked at the letters. They were from Jack but there was no number to tell her which had been written first. ‘I’ll take these upstairs, if you don’t mind, Mrs Love?’
‘Best take a cup of tea with you and a bit of this cake.’
‘I’ll be back in a tick,’ she promised, as she did as she was bid.
Once in her room, she made a guess, based on the condition of the envelope, and opened one. It had been written more than five months before.
Dear Grace,
Today was a good day. I received two letters from you, written weeks apart. I suppose they follow me all over the country and I try not to be bad-tempered because making sure that letters do eventually arrive must be very close to the bottom of a long list of ‘urgent things to do’. Of course, those of us who wait for the letters want our needs to be at the top of the list. I don’t think you can quite understand the joy that even a few lines of communication bring but it really is like being with [there was a large blot of ink there, as if Jack had thought hard about what he wanted to say before he had written] a friend.
I hope that I may be given a week’s leave soon. I haven’t celebrated Christmas at home since before the war. It’s full-on here though and every journey I make is ‘really’ necessary and that is rewarding in itself. If you see him, or if you write to Harry, give him my love and tell him I will try to see him if I am given leave. If he’s strong enough to travel, I’ll ask him to come home with me.
Jack
Grace read it through again, realising that she should have assured Jack that she did, as often as possible, see Harry. She reread it. Once more, she was disappointed. The beginning was promising. Receiving letters from her had made it ‘a good day’. That was nice. But the content of her letter had certainly not made this ‘a good day’ for her. Perhaps, if she was used to receiving lots of letters, she might have some idea of what Jack was actually feeling. She recalled the letters in her box. Each one was written by someone completely at ease. That was it. There was a definite tenseness about Jack’s writing. She wondered if he even wanted to write to her. Surely, he did not feel that, because of what had happened between them, he was obliged to write to her? That really would be impossible to bear.
Gently, she opened the second letter. It had been written less than a week after the first one.
My dear Grace,
Today I have witnessed hell. Believe me, it is impossible to overestimate or accept what brutality man is capable of inflicting on his fellow man and I find it absolutely impossible to understand. Your smiling face swims before me and I focus on your lovely eyes, your nose – such a sweet little nose, Grace – and your soft red kissable lips. Sometimes you are so real that I put out my hand to hold you and the image dissolves, melts away. Your image is all that is beautiful here in this madness but, every minute of every day, I am glad that I have had the strength to follow the only path that is right for me. I cause none of this: I try, with every fibre of my being, to alleviate suffering, but, obviously, if I were fully trained, I could help more. The doctors are more than human as they operate in conditions I could never have imagined before coming here. How any injured man comes out alive, I do not know, but each one is a testament to their dedication. I will get through this war and I will finish my studies.
Too late for lilacs, Grace. Maybe next spring,
Jack
If he was able to see her face then his last letter had certainly made it possible for her to see, not his face, but the appalling scenes he was witnessing. The work on this huge estate was hard, the hours were long, but Lady Alice and Mrs Love made sure that home life – and it had become their home – was safe and secure with every physical need fulfilled.
She became aware of the water gurgling out of the huge, claw-footed bath in the cavernous bathroom next door and wondered, for a moment, if Liz had remembered how little water they were allowed to use these days. She wondered how Jack, and the men like him, washed. Surely, for the medical teams, cleanliness was especially important.
She looked up from the letters, having decided not to dwell on their contents, and into her head jumped the recently read letter that proved, once and for all, that she was illegitimate. If the ‘bairn’ in the letter to Gert was herself, then the letter had been written sometime in 1921, and Gert Paterson, Megan’s mother and her father’s first or only legal wife, had been very much alive.
‘It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,’ said Grace to herself. She shook her head, closed her eyes, opened them again and looked straight ahead. ‘I can live with this,’ she said. ‘My lovely mother did not know that the man she loved was already married. There is no shame attached.’
She straightened her spine and went back downstairs.
‘Grace, we are just kill for cup of tea and nice cake from Mrs Love. Is with carrots and Eva was singing Potato Pete song.’
‘What a lot of nonsense.’ Connie had obviously returned to the house after Grace and the others and was now sitting with them, a half-eaten slice of a moist, dark-brown cake on a plate in front of her.
Grace moved to the window and looked out. She saw the vast back lawns that had been transformed into vegetable plots, the summer houses, closed for the duration, the tennis courts that had received the same brutal if necessary treatment as the lawns.
The great estate was spread out as far as the eye could see. Its magnificent gardens were gone, replaced by mile after mile of crops. She strai
ghtened her back and smiled. What was it Katia had said when she arrived?
‘Look, Eva, this is England. Thanks God.’
‘You’re so right, Katia, this is England, thanks God.’
SEVENTEEN
Late spring 1942
The train seemed to crawl across England. Grace tried not to fret, tried reading her book, but, today, Sir Walter Scott failed to capture her attention.
‘Keep moving, keep moving,’ she begged, as, once again, with a gentle hiss of steam and a slight shuddering, the train coasted to a halt. Like the majority of the passengers, Grace turned again to the window. Nothing. A field, beyond which lay another field. The view from the other side, somewhat restricted by the number of people in the packed corridor, seemed to be exactly the same. The great monster of a train, now more lamb than lion, had stopped miles from anywhere.
Passengers, inured to the difficulties of wartime travel, grumbled to themselves, sat down – those who had seats – and prepared to wait.
‘Hope it’s not ruddy Jerry,’ said the thin woman across the carriage from Grace. ‘Won’t bomb us in daylight, will he?’
Personally, she doubted if she would ever again enter a train without reliving the raid that had killed the friendly soldiers who had saved her life by throwing themselves on top of her. What should she say? ‘There haven’t been so many daylight raids recently’? Or, ‘No’, ‘Yes’, ‘Maybe’? Or, ‘We would hear a plane, so don’t worry’? Grace imagined that she heard strafing planes almost every time she looked up into the sky. That would go away, eventually.
‘Perhaps it’s out of coal,’ she said at last.
She sincerely hoped this last was unlikely, although coal, mined in Britain for hundreds of years, seemed to be in short supply Or was it the men to mine it who were hard to find?
She smiled, and said, ‘Probably something on the line,’ as if she knew what she was talking about. ‘Cows do wander. I’m in the Land Army and the stories I could tell you about where even pigs get to.’
