by Pam Weaver
‘Be careful of that stuff,’ Lillian cautioned. ‘It’s got a kick like a mule.’ But nobody was listening. Once they’d all charged their glasses, they toasted the birthday girl. Eventually, Stella sat down at the piano and all the old songs came out.
Mellowed by the parsnip wine, Lillian and Pip stood either side of the piano as Stella began to play ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’. They blended their voices and it wasn’t until they’d reached the final notes that they became aware that the rest of the room was hushed and they were the only ones singing. Turning from the assembled crowd, Lillian, Stella and Pip looked at each other in blank surprise.
‘Blimey,’ said Brenda, ‘that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.’
‘You sounded amazing,’ Dorcas said. ‘Just like the Andrews Sisters.’
Stella laughed. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said.
‘No, darling, she’s right,’ said Phyllis. ‘You should listen to what she’s saying. When you sing together, you girls have got real talent.’
CHAPTER 11
Dear Lillian,
I hope this finds you well as it leafs me. Since last munf I have been working 12 hours a day mending roads. We are glad to be doing somefing. Its been a long 2 years. We get good Red X fod parsels. The Canadan ones are best. I has to share our ones between two but we has half a pound of sugar, and chocolates, and condensed milk. The Canadans send us butter, coffee, biscuits and fifty fags.
I often think of you and Flora. I miss you. I hope you are behaveing yoursef. That’s all for now.
Your ever loveing Gordon
It wasn’t much of a letter, and only the fourth she had received from him in the two years he’d been a POW. It was dated May 1942, and the stamp on the front of the envelope said, Stalaag XXB Poland. Lillian reread the words without emotion. She was glad for his sake that he was still alive and that he’d remembered their daughter, but she could have done without him telling her he was thinking of her. She knew now more than ever that she had made a stupid mistake when she’d got pregnant. She loved Flora to pieces, but she should never have married Gordon. She had imagined that he was love’s young dream, but what did she know of life when she was only sixteen? Fifteen when she got pregnant. Back then, it didn’t matter that Gordon was always messing about at school and getting into trouble, but his letter revealed just how uneducated he was, and she resented him for it. Since the country had gone to war, she’d worked at the railway station; she’d met such interesting people on the platform; she’d learned to drive and got her new job. She was a different person altogether now. What on earth had they got in common except Flora? She’d met Stella and made better friends with Pip. She’d also met Woody, and he’d made her realize that there was so much more to life than leaving school, finding a boyfriend and getting married. Given the chance, she’d love to travel, to see a bit of the country, even a bit of the world, but instead she was doomed to be stuck with Gordon for the rest of her life. Well, not if she could help it.
It was great fun driving the van. She had a tight schedule, but she loved the challenge of finding the address and getting her round done as quickly as she could. Ron Knight, the man who had taken over her station duties, seemed a pleasant enough fellow. In fact, Iris Keegan in the station cafe couldn’t speak more highly of him, and Betty Shrimpton had a permanent smile on her face when he was around.
‘They should have given Mr Knight that van-driving job,’ Lillian heard her telling Betty from the ticket office.
‘Quite right, dear,’ said Betty. ‘But it’s nice having him around the station.’
‘It’s all very well putting these young flibbertigibbets in trousers,’ Iris went on, ‘but they haven’t got the strength. When I was her age, I was at home doing what I should be doing: looking after my child.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Betty. ‘I’ve never married. Someone had to stay at home to look after Mother.’
‘Exactly,’ said Iris. ‘Family comes first.’
That’s right, Lillian thought acidly to herself. Put the knife in, why don’t you? You never did like me much, did you, Iris? She was tempted to give the silly old duffer a piece of her mind, but she couldn’t be bothered. Iris was from an altogether different generation, and Lillian had no intention of giving up her hard-won independence for domesticity. Besides . . . there was a war on!
Being in the cab on her own gave Lillian an excellent opportunity to practise her singing. She’d always loved singing, but it had been a bit of a revelation when the rest of the partygoers had been so encouraging. When everyone else had gone home, the three girls had talked about what had happened. ‘If we work really hard,’ Stella had said, ‘we might be good enough to perform in public.’ Perform in public . . . how exciting. Lillian had spent a lot of time thinking about it. Pip had liked the idea too, so they’d all agreed to meet together a couple of times a week to practise. Lillian could well imagine that Stella would be a hard taskmaster, but if they really were good enough, she might even get to perform to the Canadian troops. She smiled to herself as she tried to imagine Woody’s face when she went out on stage.
To her great surprise, Lillian had to deliver a package to the Canadian camp, which was near the village of Goring-by-Sea. The camp was mostly tented, but there were a few Nissen huts. She was stopped by the guard at the entrance, but once she had clearance, she headed straight for the HQ to make her delivery.
As she waited to go inside, the sentry on the door couldn’t resist flirting.
‘Hey, honey, this has made my day,’ he said with a laugh, ‘seeing a gal like you driving the van.’
Lillian gave him a teasing grin. ‘I bet you say that to all the drivers.’
‘Hell, no,’ he quipped. ‘You’re a lot better-looking than the other guy.’
The door opened. Lillian was invited inside; the package was delivered and the docket signed.
On the way out, the guard said, ‘Maybe I’ll see you at the dance on Saturday night?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Lillian. She climbed into the van and turned it round. As she drew level with him again, she wound down the window. ‘By the way, do you know a soldier called Woody?’
‘There’s an awful lot of men here, honey,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘I can’t say I do. Is it important?’
Lillian shrugged. ‘Not really, I suppose, but I was meant to meet him the weekend you all went to Dieppe.’
‘Do you know his proper name?’
Lillian didn’t hesitate. ‘Lemuel Dicken Woods.’
The guard shifted his feet awkwardly. ‘Hang on a minute, ma’am,’ he said, suddenly becoming more formal. ‘I’ll get the adjutant.’
Lillian was about to say, ‘Don’t worry,’ but he’d already gone into the office. A couple of minutes later, he came back outside with another man.
‘You were asking about Woody?’ the other man said.
Lillian nodded.
‘Then I’m sorry to have to tell you Woody was killed.’
Lillian felt the colour drain from her face. ‘Killed?’ she said faintly. ‘What, in France?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said the adjutant. ‘He died shortly before we went to France. You may have heard about it. A plane crashed into a house in the town. Woody was one of the guys billeted there.’
Lillian felt slightly sick. ‘You mean the house near the hospital?’
‘That’s right,’ said the adjutant. ‘Do you know it?’
Tears smarted in her eyes, and Lillian swallowed hard.
‘Are you OK?’ the guard asked. ‘You look kinda pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Lillian, putting her foot on the clutch.
‘Did you know him well?’
Lillian shook her head, anxious to go. ‘But I am sorry to hear that he’s dead.’
She drove from the camp with dignity, but pulled up somewhere along the Goring Road on her way to her next delivery. She looked across the fields. Her hands were trembling.
Woody was dead? It hardly seemed possible that while she was frantically searching for her daughter, he was dying not two hundred yards away. How could he have been so near to her house and she’d not known? Angrily she wiped a tear from the tip of her chin and fished out her handkerchief to blow her nose. Hell and damnation. She’d really liked Woody. How many other lovely people had to die before this bloody war was over?
Stella looked up and down the street, but the house wasn’t there. She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand and frowned. She had copied Samuel and Susan Dennison’s address straight out of the register, so there was no mistake . . . Or was there? The numbers on the houses on this side of the road ended at sixteen. Those on the other side of the street were all odd, but they included number nineteen, so where was number eighteen?
The children hadn’t been at school for well over a week. Normally she would have reported their absence to the school office, who would in turn notify the Education Department at the town hall. If there was no valid reason for the children’s failure to attend school, Mrs Dennison would be in trouble. The only reason Stella hadn’t reported her was that it was so unusual. Mrs Dennison was committed to making sure her children had a good education. Stella was aware that she was one of the few mothers who sat with her children at home helping them to read and do their sums. She was also aware that things weren’t easy for her. The children’s father was abroad fighting for king and country, so apart from the small allowance taken from his army pay, she was the sole breadwinner. Mrs Dennison had several part-time cleaning jobs, which Stella was willing to bet only paid her a pittance, but her children were a credit to her. Polite and well mannered, they were always clean and tidy, though their clothes weren’t new. Stella felt there had to be a cast-iron reason why they were absent from their desks. Was their mother sick? Had the family moved? Anything was possible. People moved around the country to try and find a safer place to live.
She crossed the road and tried the houses there, but with a change of road, they began with number one on the left and number two on the right-hand side.
A chimney sweep pushing a bicycle with his brushes in the large box on the front came by.
‘Excuse me,’ Stella began. He turned his sooty face in her direction. ‘I’m looking for number eighteen.’
He smiled knowingly and revealed tobacco-stained teeth. ‘You needs to go through the twitten,’ he said. ‘Numbers eighteen and twenty are round the back.’
Stella followed his pointing finger, making her way past the high walls of a garden and the side of a house. When she turned the corner, she could see another two houses tucked away out of sight. Remembering the history of Worthing, she recalled how in Victorian times, the haves, anxious not to mix with the lower classes and deal with their squalid living conditions, screened themselves from the have-nots by putting up high walls. It was more a question of out of sight, out of mind. She sighed. Things hadn’t changed much. The houses were in poor condition even now.
Stella walked up the path of number eighteen. It was barely five or six strides to the front door, and judging by the width of the house, it probably only had one room downstairs and two small rooms upstairs. She knocked loudly on the front door and Samuel opened it.
‘Hello, Samuel. Is your mother in?’
At first, the boy gasped in surprise, but with a wide smile he stepped aside to let her in. The door opened into an untidy sitting room. She had hardly got through the door when Mrs Dennison came from the direction of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. From her expression, Stella could see at once that she was embarrassed to have the children’s teacher calling at her home.
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Dennison,’ Stella said. ‘Perhaps I should have waited outside . . .’
Mrs Dennison made an instant recovery. ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘Do come in, miss. Make yourself at home.’ She began plumping up the cushions and removing old newspapers from the sofa. ‘You’ll have some tea? I’ve just made a pot.’
‘I won’t stay long,’ Stella began. Mrs Dennison sniffed loudly and held her head high, and Stella, guessing that she had offended her, added quickly, ‘But I never say no to a nice cup of tea.’ Mrs Dennison smiled and her body language told Stella she’d made the right decision.
It was only as she sat down that Stella noticed that Samuel’s feet were bare. When their mother came through from the kitchen with the tea, Susan followed her. Susan’s feet were bare too.
‘I’ve been wondering why the children aren’t at school,’ said Stella as Mrs Dennison put her best bone-china cup and saucer into her hand.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said Mrs Dennison, ‘but their father came home from the war and he wanted us to all be together.’
Stella nodded. ‘Quite understandable, but—’
‘Just for a bit,’ Mrs Dennison interrupted.
From the room above them, Stella heard the creaking of a bed.
‘So,’ said Stella, sitting back on the sofa in a relaxed way, ‘Mr Dennison is home. How much leave has he got?’
‘He won’t be going back, miss.’ Mrs Dennison turned her head away from Stella’s gaze and cleared her throat. ‘The truth is, he’s not feeling so good these days. Since he got out of the army, he feels let down.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Stella.
And Samuel blurted out, ‘Jerry blew his hand off.’
‘Sam!’ his mother scolded.
Stella stared in disbelief and an awkward silence descended. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Dennison.’ It was a lame and pathetic response, but the revelation had caught her completely by surprise.
Mrs Dennison took a deep breath. ‘That’s why the kids have to stay home, see, on account of their dad.’
They heard a loud thud above them, as if someone had dropped a shoe or something, and a man’s voice called, ‘Nancy.’
Stella chewed her bottom lip uncomfortably. ‘The thing is, Mrs Dennison, they have to go to school, not because I say so but because it’s the law.’
Mrs Dennison gave her a helpless look.
‘If they don’t attend,’ Stella went on, ‘I am duty-bound to report the matter.’ She looked up, alarmed to see tears standing in the woman’s eyes.
‘Please excuse my asking,’ Stella began again, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing that your children don’t appear to have any shoes. I have no wish to embarrass you, but . . .’
‘They like running around without them,’ Mrs Dennison said stiffly.
‘Nance,’ the voice called again.
‘I’ll send them along just as soon as I can get straight,’ said Mrs Dennison, standing up.
Stella rose to her feet. It didn’t take much to work out what was going on. Johnny’s army pay had dropped when he became a POW. If Mr Dennison was no longer capable of fighting, he’d probably been sent home with nothing or very little. It was perfectly possible that he couldn’t get a job. What could he do with only one hand? If only Mrs Dennison would let her help. Stella was sure she could find a pair of secondhand shoes from somewhere. She looked from Samuel’s feet to Susan’s and opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs Dennison got there first.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, miss, I have to go upstairs and help my husband. He can’t do up his bootlaces with only one hand.’
Stella didn’t know what to say. What should she do? What could she do? She didn’t want to embarrass Mrs Dennison any more than she already had. The woman still had her pride, but if something wasn’t done, her children would be condemned to a life of ignorance and poverty, or, worse still, put into care. It worried Stella that the children were barefoot. Was that the real reason they weren’t at school?
‘Nancy!’ The shout from upstairs sounded more urgent and Mrs Dennison turned to go.
‘Before you go, Mrs Dennison,’ Stella said, fishing into her bag and trying to sound businesslike. ‘I’ve brought them some homework. Until Samuel and Susan return, I’m sure that you’ll agree they mustn’t let standards
slip. I would hate for them to fall behind. They are my most talented pupils.’
Mrs Dennison’s expression softened at the compliment. Taking the schoolbooks from Stella, she nodded politely and added, ‘Thank you, miss, and thank you for coming.’
Pip knew she was staring at Flora, but she couldn’t help it. The little girl sat at her kitchen table alongside Georgie, Hazel and Sarah Hollick, a little girl Pip sometimes looked after. The children were painting. There had been a high turnover of canvases. Three vertical strokes in green paint and a blob of red at the top of the page and Flora was finished.
‘What’s that?’ Pip asked.
‘A princess.’
‘What’s the red bit?’
Flora turned with an indignant look and a frown. ‘Her crown.’
‘Of course,’ said Pip with a smile. She put the finished work onto the dresser to dry before handing Flora another sheet of paper. In these days of paper shortages, she had been fortunate to find a whole roll of wallpaper lining-paper at the jumble sale. Damaged at the edges and rather discoloured, it was useless for papering walls but ideal for the children’s paintings.
Flora concentrated on her next creation, which looked remarkably like the first. Sarah finished her painting, and as Pip put it up to dry, she took a minute to wipe a blob of yellow paint from the end of Sarah’s nose. Hazel was still engrossed in her picture, a work so thick with paint it had become a murky grey and the brush was in danger of making a hole in the paper. Georgie was painting the plane crash again. Ever since that fateful night, although he refused to talk about it, what he had seen had surfaced in his artwork and his play. The event had become a little more fanciful each time, but the outcome was more or less the same: a house, a plane, lots of fire and people running away.
‘What’s your picture about, Georgie?’
Georgie shrugged. ‘Can I do another one?’
Pip handed out fresh paper and everyone began again. She stared at Flora once more. Her hair was beginning to grow back, but she couldn’t help noticing there was a little area behind the child’s ear where the curls were missing. The skin was as shiny as a billiard ball and Pip wondered if the hair follicles had been permanently damaged.
