At Yeomans’ Farm that Christmas Dora had come to a decision. Billy sneezed and streamed with a cold, two farm hands were talking of going to join the territorials, and Sidney worked from dawn to dusk, seven days a week. Old Mrs Yeomans said she could no longer keep the farm accounts due to failing eyesight, and asked Dora if she could take over the record keeping, which Dora saw was in a chaotic state. She therefore went to Billy and said she would give up commercial college to become farm secretary and bookkeeper, and give some assistance on the farm. He grudgingly accepted, even agreeing to pay her a minimum wage.
‘But Dora, you can’t give up your training,’ Mary Goddard protested, but Dora’s mind was made up.
‘I’m not going to see you and Dad working yourselves into the ground,’ she said, ‘and you won’t hear any more about Bailiff’s Cottage from now on. Even he’s got to admit that the Yeomanses can’t manage without the Goddards!’
Even so, Christmas dinner was a subdued affair, with Billy coughing loudly and Pam complaining of continuous backache at six and a half months into pregnancy.
‘Without us, Mum, they’d have had no Christmas fare at all,’ said Dora grimly.
Valerie Pearson had saved up to buy John Richardson a gold tie-pin and matching cufflinks, and shyly presented the little wrapped parcel to him on the day before Christmas Eve when he breezed into Thomas and Gibson’s to see his father. He kissed her on the cheek and said he was overwhelmed by such generosity, but that it was very naughty of her. In his father’s office, he grimaced and said he’d have to rush out to buy a box of chocolates for her.
‘I hope you haven’t been playing fast and loose with that girl,’ said his father with a frown. ‘She’s not a giggling young miss, but a respectable young woman of twenty-seven, a conscientious worker, and I wouldn’t like to see her upset. What have you been up to – flirting? Kissing her?’
‘Only the once, on the “peace in our time” weekend, Dad, when everybody was a bit over-the-moon, and – er, I’d been celebrating the peace treaty at Page’s before I came over. She didn’t make any objection, though of course it didn’t mean anything, and hasn’t happened again – only little pecks on the cheek when I pass through the shop, really quite innocent.’
‘It would only be innocent if you intended to follow it through,’ said Mr Richardson firmly. ‘Are you genuinely fond of Miss Pearson? You could do worse.’
‘Oh, no, Dad, she’s a sweet little thing, but such a mouse! And two years older than I am – and lives with that old dragon of a mother – oh, no, it was never intended to be serious.’
‘Well, show her some respect, then, and as I say, you could fare a lot worse. Otherwise don’t let the poor girl get any wrong ideas about your intentions.’
‘No, of course not, Dad,’ said John sheepishly, because he knew by the unconcealed adoration in her eyes that she already had.
March brought an increase at Yeomans’ Farm; but when Tom Munday sat down beside Eddie Cooper, his old friend irritably cut short his congratulations.
‘Properly worn out, my Mary was, after two nights on the trot without sleep, at the beck and call of Billy’s wife who’s been having backache since before Christmas. She started the proper pains on Tuesday evening, and Billy went to fetch Nurse Howie, who came and said it was early as yet, and she ought to try to get some sleep, then went home again. Old Mrs Yeomans sat with her until about midnight, and then Mary heard a crash and a scream – went into the room to find the old lady nodding, young Mrs Yeomans on the floor, and the chamber pot overturned. My Mary took over, but the silly woman wouldn’t settle, kept saying the baby was coming – but when Nurse Howie came back at around ten on Wednesday morning, she said there hadn’t been much change, but the bowel needed emptying, and she gave her an enema – that’s a pint of soapy water up the back end.’
‘Oh, heck!’ Tom sympathised, trying to keep a straight face. ‘And did it work?’
‘It did. There was stuff all over the bed and on the carpet. Nurse Howie cleared off, and Mary and Dora had it all to clear up. Dora sent her mother off to rest while she took over, and all the time young Mrs Yeomans was hollering that the baby was coming.’
‘And was it?’ asked Tom.
‘Yeah, twelve hours later, after another night of it. Nurse Howie came back that evening, and Sid told her he’d take Billy downstairs for a drink, while my Mary and Dora spent the night waiting on young Mrs Yeomans and the midwife. Dora refused to go to bed while her mother stayed up – and around four o’clock Nurse Howie asked her to telephone for Dr Lupton. He came and said he’d have to use forceps to get it out; they were like a bloody great pair of tongs, Dora said, and Nurse Howie sprayed chloroform onto a square of cotton wool over the woman’s nose and mouth. Lupton pulled it out just after six – a huge great thing, ten pounds on the kitchen scales. Mary made tea and toast for everybody again, and Dora went downstairs to tell Billy it was born – only he was so drunk he couldn’t get out of the armchair. The mother fell fast asleep and didn’t wake up till midday, and the baby hollered until Dora fetched the bottle and teat, and gave it cow’s milk watered down and warmed up. They’re calling it Samuel.’
By which Tom Munday assumed that the child was a boy.
‘Well, thank God for that, Eddie,’ he said, adding musingly, ‘Thank God it didn’t happen with bombs falling all around.’
‘D’you really think it’ll come to that, then?’ Eddie clung to the belief that peace would yet prevail.
‘Well, they’re talking about digging air raid shelters, and getting the kids out of the towns before it happens.’
‘For God’s sake, Tom, we can’t let that tinpot dictator drag us into war, surely?’
‘That tinpot dictator has entered Prague. Whatever he says, Czechoslovakia is an occupied country, and he’s rounding up the Jews there for God only knows what fate.’
‘The bastard.’
For a moment Eddie Cooper’s account of baby Samuel’s birth was set aside while the two old friends contemplated an unthinkable future.
‘Oh, Mother, here’s something to take our minds off this ghastly war talk!’ Rebecca Neville exclaimed over the weekly Everham News. ‘Guess what’s on at the Embassy all next week – the film of Wuthering Heights, with somebody called Laurence Olivier and that exquisite actress Merle Oberon – we just can’t miss it. When are you free? Would Sally like to come?’
‘Is there a matinee performance?’ asked Lady Isabel, looking up from her correspondence.
‘Wednesday.’
‘That’s the Ladies’ Hour, so won’t do.’
‘Let’s go Wednesday evening, then.’
Lady Isabel took off her reading glasses. ‘Look, Becky, I don’t really want to go, it can’t possibly be as good as the book. What a pity Geoffrey Bannister isn’t staying with us.’
‘Oh, Mother! I’ll have to go with somebody else, but who? Dora Goddard will have a male escort – I know, I’ll ask that poor girl in Thomas and Gibson’s, Miss Pearson. It would do her good to get away from her mother – I’ll pop into the shop tomorrow and ask her, and won’t take no for an answer. I’ll take the old girl some flowers to sweeten her up!’
At Yeomans’ Farm the new arrival was still bawling, as Dora wearily remarked, ‘Listen, Mum, I’m taking you out on Wednesday, and Pam can jolly well take care of her baby for a change.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘No, I insist. We’ll look around Page’s and have tea at that little café by the station – and then we’ll go to the Embassy Cinema and see this film that everybody’s talking about. It’ll do you good to dress up and put some of my lipstick on – and scent!’
Mary Goddard could not resist her daughter’s orders, and was both pleased and touched.
‘I’ll wear that flower-patterned dress with the frilly front,’ she said, ‘and treat myself to a shampoo and set. Oh, I’m really looking forward to it!’
It was Dora who answered the knock on the farmhouse door on Tuesday. H
oward Allingham stood there, looking apprehensive but determined.
‘Oh – Dora,’ he said with a shy smile, ‘I’m glad you’ve come to the door, as it’s you I want to see.’
‘Hallo, Howard, how are you?’ she answered in some surprise. ‘I thought you’d gone to – er – theological college.’
‘Not yet, but perhaps September if the – if the news – but I’ve come to ask if you’d like to come to the cinema in Everham tomorrow, to see this film of Wuthering Heights.’
‘Ah, yes, it’s supposed to be very good,’ she said, her mind working quickly. Should she just decline politely without giving a reason – or could she accept in a friendly way, without encouraging him to hope for more than friendship? Yes! She did know of a way.
‘That’s very kind of you, Howard, and as it happens, I’m going to see it tomorrow with my mother who’s been overworking and deserves a break. Would you care to join us?’
Howard’s face was a study. He had been half-expecting a refusal, but was not prepared for this alternative. He decided that it would be better than nothing, so he forced a smile.
‘That would be very nice, Dora, as long as Mrs Goddard doesn’t mind.’
‘Not at all, Howard, she’d be delighted. What time shall we meet?’
A queue had formed outside the Embassy cinema, and Rebecca and Valerie joined it.
‘Oh, Valerie, look, there’s that nice Allingham boy over there – he looks as if he’s waiting for somebody. I wonder who she is?’
Valerie did not answer. Her eyes were elsewhere, and her heart had leapt as she caught sight of John Richardson looking quite the man-about-town in a light grey summer suit and shoes that were almost sandals but not quite. He was not alone; there was a smart young woman at his side, giving a tinkling laugh at something he’d said. Valerie abruptly looked away; she still dreamt that one day, at some future time, he would return her love. And now here he was with another girl. She mustn’t look.
‘Look, there’s Howard, Mother, standing by the door,’ said Dora, waving to him. His eyes brightened at the sight of her, though he politely greeted Mrs Goddard first.
‘We must join the queue, Howard.’
‘No, Dora, we don’t need to, I’ve got three tickets, and we can go straight in,’ he said, offering his arm to her mother and acknowledging their thanks with a smile, refusing payment. I did right to agree to this, he thought, conscious of Mrs Goddard’s welcoming approval, and was further rewarded when they took their seats and Dora sat down between him and her mother.
‘Dora! If you’d told me earlier that you were meeting young Mr Allingham, I wouldn’t have come,’ Mary whispered.
‘Which is why I didn’t tell you, Mother,’ Dora whispered back.
During the interval when the lights went up, giving the enraptured audience a brief respite from the lovers’ torrid passion, Valerie Pearson imagined herself as Merle Oberon, adored by brooding, black-browed Laurence Olivier, looking a little bit like John Richardson. Suddenly these thoughts were interrupted.
‘Why, hello, Valerie! I didn’t realise you were here!’
(Heavens above, it can’t be John Richardson, but it is.)
‘Hello, er, John,’ she said with a shy smile, hoping that the dim light would hide her blushes. Rebecca looked from one to the other in surprise.
‘Valerie! You’ve never said anything to me about a gentleman friend!’ she teased.
‘Yes, er, at Thomas and Gibsons, he’s Mr Richardson’s son,’ faltered Valerie.
‘And I didn’t know that Valerie had such a charming friend,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me? By the way, this is Miss Morcom from Page’s lingerie department.’ Miss Morcom nodded coolly to the two ladies.
‘Yes, er, this is my friend from—’ Valerie hesitated, and Rebecca laughed.
‘I’m your friend Rebecca Neville from Hassett Manor, in case you’ve forgotten,’ she said, gently teasing poor, tongue-tied Valerie. ‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, John – and Miss Morcom. Isn’t the film marvellous? Look, the lights are going down – you must get back to your seats so as not to miss any of it. Perhaps we can arrange to meet again some time.’
John agreed enthusiastically, though Miss Morcom was unsmiling. She had been anticipating an evening to remember – but not if he was going to fall for this tall, elegant creature called Rebecca.
The second half of the film was even more tempestuous than the first, but when it ended, there was still the Gaumont British News to see, introduced by the familiar tune and the town crier ringing his bell. The audience was suddenly gripped by the shaky black and white newsreel film footage showing a long, winding trail of Jewish refugees – men, women and children, some with horse-drawn wagons, others with hand-carts or on foot, fleeing with their possessions from German invaders. Then there were pictures of the signing of the treaty between Herr Hitler and a broadly beaming Signor Mussolini, a ‘pact of steel’ between two Fascist dictators. The loss of Italy as a potential ally was a severe blow, and Howard Allingham confided to Dora and her mother that Mr Chamberlain’s ‘peace in our time’ was now being called ‘appeasement.’ Privately he surmised that theological college would be replaced by military service, and he prayed for the strength and courage to face whatever the future held.
On a warm summer evening in the Tradesmen’s Arms Eddie Cooper waited for his old friend. In the bar the talk was all of air raid shelters being dug, gas masks being issued, and conscription of young single men to swell the numbers of the armed forces. That would apply to Tom’s grandson Paul Storey, thought Eddie, and the two sons of the Rectory; his own grandson Jack Nuttall would be nineteen this year, as would the Seabrook boy.
Tom Munday strode in, his face jubilant. ‘Ernest’s brother-in-law and his family are coming over at last, Eddie! They’ve had a letter from him, saying to expect them any day now. The reason for the delay was because they were expecting another child, and now it’s born, a son, and they’ve called him Benjamin. So we’ll have a baby in the house – and Devora’s dancing for joy. Eddie, old friend, they’ve seen sense, thank God!’
They ordered a couple of pints to celebrate.
A week later in the Munday’s house in Everham there was sudden urgency. A brief official letter had arrived, telling Mr and Mrs Munday to meet a midday train at Liverpool Street Station on the following day, instructing them to wear large labels with their names on. The Pascoes must be coming! They hardly slept that night, and set off early in the morning; from Everham they travelled to Waterloo Station, then by the underground railway to Liverpool Street, where they were amongst a crowd of others wearing labels. Officials scurried around with clipboards, getting ready to team up the arrivals with their families and friends.
The train, when it arrived two hours late, was full of children – sad, weary, bewildered children aged from five to early teens. Officials went amongst them, calling out names.
‘Pascoe! Jonathan and Ayesha Pascoe!’ called a woman’s voice, followed by, ‘Munday! Is Munday here?’
Fifteen-year-old Jonathan and his sister Ayesha, eleven, were brought forward to meet their aunt and uncle. They appeared exhausted, and Ayesha was crying. They spoke in German, of which Ernest and Devora knew only a little.
The inevitable question: ‘Where are your father and mother?’
‘They’ve gone to – to a kind of camp,’ Jonny told them in his hesitant schoolboy’s English. ‘We were walking with them and many neighbours on a long road – and a man came up and took me and Ayesha away from them, and said we must go on a train.’
‘And Mummy and Daddy told us to go with him!’ sobbed Ayesha in German that Ernest and Devora tried to follow. ‘Mummy was holding our baby Benjamin, and crying, but they told us to go with the man, and said Goodbye!’
‘Oh, my God, you poor dear children,’ Ernest muttered under his breath as he and Devora put their arms around the brother and sister, trying to comfort them while fearing that there was no comfo
rt to give. An official passed by the group, still trying to match children with whoever had come to meet them.
‘You’re lucky,’ he told them. ‘This is the last train on the Kindertransport – the last ones out!’
And when they realised that their nephew and niece had been saved by a humanitarian scheme to rescue Jewish children – and that their parents and newly born brother had been taken away to whatever awaited Jews under Hitler’s rule – Ernest and Devora Munday knew for certain that war would be soon. They had no need to hear Mr Chamberlain’s sorrowful announcement on the third day of September.
And Clarence Tomlinson had nobody to meet him when he abruptly left his post in the Diplomatic Service and fled from Vienna, home to his mother in England.
CHAPTER FOUR
1939
Tom Munday sat in the rocking chair that Grace and Rob had given him on his 70th birthday; it was by the window in the living room, and the view of his vegetable garden was the same as it had been last week and last year, and yet everything was now changed. In the mild September sunshine his thoughts were sombre; the newspaper with its shrieking headlines had fallen to the floor, and his granddaughter Doreen was idly dusting the sideboard that was her mother’s pride, handed down from the grandmother she had never known. She picked up the Daily Mail and handed it to Tom.
‘Is there really going to be a war, Granddad?’
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