So on his first morning in Netterfold House, Vinnie found an axe in the garden shed and began to chop some logs. Taking his feelings out on the fire-wood made him feel a little better, although the split logs flew off left and right, which only meant he had to go and pick them up. When he didn’t swing the axe so hard, there was less distance to travel.
The piano music started again, and with the firewood stacked in the shed, Vinnie quietly moved around the house. He soon found the window that was closest to the sound. Nearby were garden beds full of plants that looked like weeds. He knelt and spent a gentle hour working steadily and listening.
This became a two-hour job, with soothing Beethoven and Mozart for company.
‘So here you are, then?’ It was Mrs Greenwood. ‘I came to say there’s a biscuit in the kitchen, and a glass of milk.’
‘Oh, thanks, Mrs Greenwood.’ He could have done without the interruption, but the music stop-ped anyway.
‘And after you’ve eaten, why don’t you go for a walk, Vinnie? Have a look around the village. Maybe catch up with some of your friends.’
***
Now that Vinnie could examine Netterfold properly, he saw that parts of it looked like a picture postcard. There were low cottages and taller houses, some with ivy growing up the walls. It was very beautiful, Vinnie decided; very peaceful.
He walked on. There was nothing much in the main street apart from a group of shops, including a post office. Few cars and lorries moved about. Since petrol had been rationed, it was like that all over Britain.
Four young people his own age came towards him – three boys and one girl. Instantly Vinnie was on his guard. They were some of the locals who’d greeted the bus yesterday, then chanted after him when he walked to his billet with Mrs Greenwood. Freddie Preston led the way, walking chin-first like a boxer lining up for a fight.
There was a rule Vinnie had learned back in London: if you had to face trouble, get in first. He confronted Freddie.
‘You got something to say to us?’
‘Yeah.’ Freddie thrust himself forward. ‘Plenty.’
‘There’s more vaccies than there is of your lot,’ Vinnie warned.
‘Yeah,’ Freddie scoffed. ‘Some of your lot are just this size.’ He demonstrated with a hand at his knee. ‘And the rest are girls.’
Vinnie said, ‘Some pretty fierce girls.’ He was making this up.
Another boy, taller than Freddie, barged forward and snarled, ‘Go back where you came from.’ He pushed Vinnie hard, making him tumble backwards over a low wall, grazing his wrist.
The group walked on, the girl calling back: ‘And don’t even think about coming to our school.’
School, eh? I forgot about that. Vinnie nursed his injured wrist. There was blood showing. He took back what he’d decided about the place being beautiful and peaceful. Beauty was more than how things looked from the outside. And peace was something you made – only with that lot, it wasn’t going to be easy.
***
Netterfold village had a small park with a swing and a roundabout. It was there that Vinnie found Kathleen and Joey.
‘Vinnie!’ Joey jumped off the swing and ran to meet him. ‘We got shouted at.’
‘By a bunch of stupid hooligans.’ Kathleen was red in the face.
‘Never mind,’ Vinnie said. ‘If they come to London, we’ll fix them.’
Joey liked this idea. ‘We’ll get the beefeaters to prong them with pikes, then lock them in the Tower.’
‘What’s your place like, Vinnie?’ Kathleen asked. ‘Your billet?’
‘Not bad,’ Vinnie reported. ‘Nice housekeeper. The lady who owns the place I’ve not, um, seen yet.’
‘Our foster-mother is evil,’ Joey said darkly. ‘First thing she asked was did I wet the bed.’
‘What a demon.’ Vinnie shook his head at the boldness of the woman.
‘Just for that,’ Joey went on, ‘I might start doing it. In earnest. I might stand up on the bedrail and let fly.’
‘Joey!’ Kathleen scolded. To Vinnie she said, ‘He’s missing Mum.’
Dobbs wandered into the park, raised a hand in greeting, then sat on the lowest swing so that his knees came up almost level with his ears. ‘Not too bad so far,’ he volunteered. ‘My foster-mum’s the postmistress, Mrs Hall. It’s just her and her son, Henry, the telegram boy. He’s a bit glum, so Mrs H does all the talking. She’s full of news, so I don’t need to turn on the wireless.’
Vinnie thought, One ogre, one chatterbox and Miss A, who keeps to herself.
‘We’re getting Children’s Hour this afternoon.’ Joey showed the accumulator. ‘That’s what this is for.’
‘School starts on Monday.’ Dobbs’ expression had become gloomy. The rest of their faces fell.
‘Freddie Preston’s mob warned me not to go,’ Vinnie told them. ‘Is that a good enough excuse?’
‘Maybe there’s a different school for us,’ Kathleen suggested.
‘In a place this size?’ Vinnie objected. ‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘There’s one bit of good news,’ Joey announced. ‘The man at the garage said the railway yard’s down that way.’ He pointed. ‘So maybe I can watch trains and engines. I couldn’t do that in London.’
‘Glad somebody’s happy,’ Dobbs said.
‘I didn’t say I was happy. Only said they’ve got trains.’
They mooched about in the park a while longer, comparing notes and trying to cheer each other up. Then hunger drove them back to their billets.
***
Soon it was five o’clock and Joey came downstairs and switched on the wireless. Before long there came the comforting Children’s Hour theme music. Joey smiled. He was among friends, for a short while anyway. Kathleen joined him.
The front door opened and a voice announced for the world to hear, ‘It’s me!’
‘Oh, you’re home early, love,’ Mrs Watney greeted the newcomer, who clumped into the kitchen. They talked loudly, not seeming to care that Joey and Kathleen were trying to listen to the wireless, which was an old one with occasional spits and crackles instead of voices and music.
The new arrival was Dennis. He looked to be about eighteen and wore dark-blue overalls and a railway-worker’s cap. Dennis carried a metal sandwich box and a tea bottle, both of which Mrs Watney took from him. His face and his hands were black with coal-dust. He talked on loudly, ignor-ing Kathleen and Joey: ‘I’m famished, Ma,’ he said. ‘Hope you’ve got something tasty. And lots of it.’
‘You go and wash, son, and your tea will be on the table,’ Mrs Watney told him. Dennis seemed to enjoy his mother’s attention. ‘Is this one of your nights out, Dennis, love?’
‘Yes, Mum. I’ll slip out a bit later. See what’s what.’
‘That’s good, son.’
‘And what have we got here?’ Dennis turned at last to Kathleen and Joey, but asked the question of Mrs Watney. ‘Is this the vaccies, then?’
‘Yes, Kathleen’s the girl, and Joey’s her brother.’ Mrs Watney put on a winning voice. ‘Say hullo, kiddies, to my lovely son, Dennis.’
Kathleen and Joey both greeted Dennis, but he made no reply, except to ask his mother, ‘And what’s that they’ve got on?’
‘I think it’s Children’s Hour, Dennis dear.’
‘Well, I’m not having that kiddiewinks rubbish on while I’m eating my tea,’ Dennis ruled. ‘When I come down again, it goes off. Right?’
‘I expect they’ll have had enough of it by then, love,’ Mrs Watney soothed him.
With that battle won, Dennis left the kitchen. Joey switched off the wireless, and without another word he and Kathleen went for a walk before tea.
‘Can we go and see the railway yard?’ Joey asked once they were outside.
‘If you like.’
***
After having tea in the kitchen that evening, Vinnie went to his bedroom, took out his harmonica and started to play. It was a sweet melody he’d learned from Isaac. Playing that tune, any tune, he thought, is the most cheering-up thing I can do. Close my eyes, and all this disappears. Keep them shut, and carry on playing; then I’m somewhere else, surrounded by my own people.
The tune brought memories of his year with Isaac in the pub, where he’d learned more than just simple tunes, sweet though some of them were. Over those months, Vinnie had found himself becoming more patient, and gentler. It was the music that made him like that, always the music – either as he listened to Isaac at the piano or when he picked out a new piece by himself.
The old lady’s gramophone records did it, too. He’d rage and hate; then with the first chords, he would calm down.
Vinnie played on, vowing not to cry over the tune, although it was sad as well as beautiful. With all those memories contained in the song, it was hard to get through.
Just then, there came a light knock on his bed-room door. It opened and a tall woman stood looking in. Vinnie sprang off the bed. He hid the harmonica behind his back. The woman in the doorway clutched a walking stick with fingers that were gnarled and twisted. She frowned as if there were a mystery to be solved and said, ‘I heard music. Young man, was it you playing that music?’
The woman had to be Miss Armstrong, Vinnie reasoned, the owner of Netterfold House. She was the one who’d taken him in, given him house room, and now he’d annoyed her, playing his harmonica when she wanted to listen to her gramophone records. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘You must never apologise for making music; only for making bad music – which you weren’t. We haven’t met yet, I’m Lila Armstrong. I do hope you are settling in.’
‘I am, thank you, ma’am. And my name’s Vinnie Cartwright.’
‘Yes, I learned that from Mrs Greenwood.’ Miss Armstrong sounded strict, like a teacher, except she had a gleam in her eyes. She asked, ‘Now, before I came in, what were you playing?’
‘Um – this, ma’am.’ Vinnie showed her the har-monica.
‘No, not the instrument.’ Miss Armstrong hid a smile. ‘I mean, what tune?’
‘Oh.’ Vinnie understood. ‘I don’t know its name. I just heard it and liked it.’
‘So you learned to play it?’
‘My friend Isaac taught me to play. Back in London. And now I just hear a tune, then have a go. I don’t know what that one’s called.’
‘If you can play it, you ought to know its name. It was written by Stephen Foster, who called it Beautiful Dreamer.’
‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ Vinnie nodded and remembered the dreams he and Isaac used to share.
‘Your friend taught you well.’ Miss Armstrong lowered herself into his chair. She indicated the bed and Vinnie sat, too; then she gave him a long, enquiring look. ‘I noticed you outside my window this morning.’
‘I was just listening,’ Vinnie said quickly. It sounded like a confession.
‘I must say, that garden bed has never been so thoroughly weeded. Flowers went too, I noticed.’
‘Sorry. I don’t know much about them. Flowers – weeds; weeds – flowers.’
‘You find the music special, then?’
‘Special.’ He nodded agreement. ‘Very special. It’s everything.’
‘Did your friend Isaac come away with you from London? Is he here, in Netterfold?’
Vinnie paused, then said slowly, ‘He’s not here. Because, um— because—’ He struggled to hold back his tears.
‘Ah.’ Miss Armstrong understood. ‘That first air raid, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then one day, perhaps you’ll tell me about Isaac.’
‘I’ll tell you now, ma’am.’ Vinnie spoke in a sudden rush. ‘I’ll tell you now.’ He hadn’t talked to anyone about what had happened. Not a soul. No one had asked him, and he’d gone on since London putting an all-right face on it when it wasn’t all right at all. ‘Isaac,’ he began, and with her eyes Miss Armstrong encouraged him, ‘Isaac was a genius. He could give you any tune you wanted, playing on that old pub piano; beer and fag stains all over it. He could play one minute and make everyone laugh and sing, then next minute give you something so sad and sweet the whole pub went dead quiet. That’s genius. And now it’s gone. He’s gone. Isaac.’ Vinnie took a breath, then whispered, ‘All his music, lost.’
He had more tears in his eyes, and let them fall. Miss Armstrong rested both hands on her walking stick and looked at the floor. She nodded slow agreement. ‘Yes, that is a loss.’
***
Mrs Watney’s bathroom was old-fashioned. The bath had claw feet, and heavy brass taps at one end. The only light came from a small window above the bath. There was no blackout screen on it as there was in their bedroom.
Joey protested, ‘Do I have to take a bath?’
‘Of course you do,’ Kathleen said, ‘but you can have first go at the hot water.’ As she closed the door, Dennis came past on the landing. He said nothing; just glowered as he went past into his bedroom.
‘There’s no bolt on the door.’ Joey watched the hot water running into the bath. ‘We’ll have to whistle Ten Green Bottles so people know we’re in here.’
‘Don’t fill it too much, Joey. Mrs Watney says we can only have four inches.’
‘Who takes a ruler to the bathroom?’ Joey started unbuttoning his shirt.
Kathleen turned off the hot water, ‘In you hop, and don’t take too long.’
‘You’re not staying, are you?’
‘No – now hurry up.’ As Kathleen was about to leave the bathroom, the door suddenly swung open and Dennis stood there. He said nothing, just stood looking.
‘Bathroom’s occupied,’ Kathleen told him.
‘Didn’t know anyone was in here,’ Dennis muttered. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘And be sure to knock first,’ Kathleen reminded him. ‘Knock-knock, the door. From the outside.’
Dennis didn’t like being spoken to like that. ‘It was an accident,’ he said roughly. ‘Accident, plain and simple, that’s what it was. Right?’
‘You knew we were here,’ Kathleen accused him. After the wireless rudeness, she wasn’t in the mood to accept his excuse.
‘Well, you’re taking too long,’ Dennis countered. ‘I been working, see? And I need a shave.’ He pointed to the window. ‘It’s dark soon and there’s no light in here – and besides, it’s me that gets the coal to heat the water. Remember that!’
‘We won’t be long.’ Kathleen turned away to help Joey off with his shirt. Behind her back she heard the bathroom door close with a slam.
‘That’ll teach him,’ Joey whispered.
Kathleen smiled. She had marked out a boundary.
***
At breakfast the next morning, Vinnie felt better than he’d done since leaving London. Even before he sat down at the kitchen table he was bubbling to tell Mrs Greenwood about it. ‘I met Miss Armstrong last night.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ At that moment there came the sound of the gramophone playing a piano solo. Vinnie recognised it as a Jewish piece that Isaac used to play.
Mrs Greenwood put a loaf of bread and mar-garine on the table, then opened the connecting door to the main part of the house. The sound was clearer. ‘There, that’s better,’ Mrs Greenwood said. ‘I like to listen, too.’
For Vinnie, something clicked into place. ‘All that piano music,’ he asked, ‘that’s Miss Armstrong playing? Her own records?’
Mrs Greenwood sliced the bread. ‘She used to be a musician. Famous, she was. Gave concerts all over the world
; then she got arthritis. First one hand went, then the other.’
‘I saw her fingers,’ Vinnie said, ‘all twisted and crooked. She could never play again, not with hands like that.’ Vinnie listened to the music that Miss Armstrong had once played with long, strong fingers. He had told her about his sadness, and now he understood hers.
There came a click at the back door and, without knocking, a girl entered. She looked to be about four years older than Vinnie and half a head taller, with fair hair falling to her shoulders. She was fresh in the face, as if she spent a lot of time out of doors. The girl carried a basket hooked over her arm. ‘Hullo, Mrs G. This is really, really peculiar.’
‘Good morning, Joan,’ Mrs Greenwood returned the greeting. ‘Meet our house guest, Vinnie Cartwright.’
‘Oh, you’re one of that lot.’ Joan looked Vinnie up and down, turned away, then spoke again to Mrs Greenwood: ‘There’s a hundred vaccies in the village. Some rough ones, like gypsies.’
Vinnie took his plate and cup to the sink. ‘There’s only fifteen of us,’ he said. He’d already discounted Ralph DuPreis and his friend, who weren’t really evacuees: they were just up from London, visiting friends in the country.
‘Well, anyway Mrs G,’ Joan said, ‘what about this?’ She took two yellow packets of custard powder from her basket. ‘I found them lying outside.’
‘Found them?’ Puzzled, Mrs Greenwood took the packets.
‘One by the back door, the other on the grass, near the flower beds.’ Joan went on, ‘Who’d throw away custard powder? Whole packets? Not even opened!’
‘It might be poisoned,’ Vinnie suggested. ‘Drop-ped by the Germans.’
‘Well, I’m not eating it,’ Joan said and folded her arms.
‘I’ll talk with Constable Breedon.’ Mrs Greenwood put the two packets on a shelf. ‘Now, Vinnie, if you’d like there are some leaves to rake up.’ Then she became mock stern. ‘But touch not a single flower!’
He grinned. ‘Miss Armstrong already chipped me about that.’
At this, Joan looked at him sharply. ‘Miss Armstrong? You met her?’
Mrs Greenwood said, ‘Joan, you can do the washing up here. And off with you, Vinnie. Don’t go eating any German custard powder.’
Vinnie's War Page 5
