by Milly Adams
Phyllie’s heart sank, but Miss Featherstone said no more, just nodded towards the folder on the table that contained Miss Harvey’s notes on who had gone where.
Phyllie and Jake walked through the village with Francois. It was only six o’clock and few others were about. Phyllie had memorised Miss Featherstone’s directions. They turned left just beyond the Church of St James’s and kept going for half a mile along a track heavily rutted by carts and tractors. They carried milk bottles that needed to be left with Joe Bartlett for sterilisation, and which would be exchanged for two fresh pints.
They passed cow parsley growing in the verges and honeysuckle in the hedgerows. Cobwebs shone in the early sun. Larks flew overhead and the sky was a pale blue. Through a gate they saw a field with cut hay still lying in rows. Work would begin later today, Miss Featherstone had said, after Joe Bartlett and his son Andy had cut down pitchforks donated by the villagers. The vicar, Jack Thompson, had decided it would help to integrate evacuees and village children if they all assisted with the hay-making. ‘What’s more, it’ll give us a chance to keep an eye on our Ron and have a quiet chat,’ Miss Featherstone had murmured for Phyllie’s ears only.
As they walked, Phyllie pondered the idea of Miss Featherstone having any such thing as a quiet chat. Somehow her voice had an extraordinary carrying quality.
The lane, however, was quiet. The whole world was quiet in Dorset, compared to the hum and clatter of London, but was it more peaceful? She ground her teeth at the thought of Ron, and the meanness of the villagers. Was Miss Featherstone right, though? Perhaps it was just uncertainty on their part? Beside her, Jake was talking to Francois. Soon the lane opened into a farmyard and Phyllie saw a large stone house covered in roses.
To the left was a long low building from which came the sound of cows mooing, and on from that an old barn with great holes in its corrugated-iron roof. To the right stood a stable block, with buckets at the entrance, a bridle hanging on an upright, and a new barn nearest the house. Geese rushed across the straw-and-muck-strewn cobbles of the yard, their wings back, squawking at the visitors. Francois bared his teeth and growled, straining at the leash. Phyllie reached down and helped Jake to restrain him. A few chickens and a couple of ducks were pecking at the ground near the stable.
Two sheepdogs rose from the kennels outside the front door and slouched towards them. Behind her some of the WI ladies she’d met the night before cycled into the yard, towing carts in which were large preserving pans. They rang their bicycle bells and Phyllie pulled Jake to the side, into the lee of the long low building from which came the lowing of cows, and the clank of pails. Ah, the milking parlour.
Together they watched the chaos as the geese ran at the women, who fearlessly kicked out with their feet, ringing their bells and laughing, before parking outside one end of the farmhouse. They heaved two pans each from the carts, which clanged together. Miss Deacon and Mrs Speedie waved at Phyllie and then disappeared through a doorway. Had she really thought it was quiet? It was a madhouse.
At that moment Joe Bartlett stepped out of the entrance to the milking parlour, wiping his hands on a towel. ‘That be the dog, then? Miss F said you’d be coming when I popped round last night. Partial to a few rabbits, and really partial to pheasant, she be.’
A blond young man, about Sammy’s age, came out of the front door of the house. He was pale, with his arm in a sling, and a blood-stained dressing on the end of his arm where a wrist and hand should be. He limped across the yard towards them, kicking away the geese. ‘I told you we don’t damn well need another dog, Dad,’ he yelled. ‘He’ll never settle, he’s not a farm dog. It’s best to shoot the bugger. It’ll be kinder in the long run. He’ll chase the sheep; you know he damn well will.’ Under his good arm he carried a shotgun.
The women were back at their carts, unloading more pans. Mrs Speedie, called, ‘Don’t be such a grouch, Andy. Miss F’s been filling us in, and the boy’s been bothered enough. We all feel badly.’
The young man looked from Phyllie to the door through which the women were disappearing. ‘And why do we have to have the bloody WI Preservation Centre setting up in the big kitchen?’
Joe walked to meet him, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and fiddling with it. ‘Because we never use the bugger, Andy lad, and the ladies need it for the war effort, which is important, as you well bloody know. They use the odds and sods of fruit that’d only go to waste. Work their fingers to the bone they do, what with that, the salvage they collect, the kids they look after, the vegetables they grow, so less of your lip. We have a good old kitchen in the snug, which your ma was more’n happy with.’
The two men faced up to one another. Next to Phyllie, Jake stirred and called, ‘I won’t leave him here. You’ll kill him, and he’s had enough of that. He was at Dunkirk, brought back by a soldier who wouldn’t leave him. He should be safe, that’s what he should be, like you are now, Mr Andy. He shouldn’t be listening to all this shouting. Here, look at him. He doesn’t understand English. He’s French. You’re loud and mean and he can tell that. I’m taking him away, back to London, anywhere.’ Francois was cowering against the wall and Jake was down by his side, tears threatening.
Andy Bartlett glared at his father, at Jake and finally at Phyllie, before turning on his heel and limping back across the yard, kicking at a goose. He slammed back into the house.
‘Pay him no mind,’ Joe called to Phyllie and Jake. ‘He’s in a bit of a do. Now, lad, my Mollie’ll take care of him. Born mother she is, ain’t ya, girl?’ The sheepdog sat at his feet, looking up. ‘It’ll be best for the dog, being with his own kind, and my boy will calm. He’s not taken things well.’
Phyllie leaned over Jake, saying softly, ‘We’d better give it a try. Miss Featherstone really thinks it’s better for him.’
‘But why?’ shouted Jake, his arms around Francois’ neck.
Joe was with them now. ‘Ah well, dogs like to be with dogs, it’s a pack thing. What’s more, be painful for her to have him, y’see, tiddlin. Looks a tough old nut, our Miss F, but she lost her Sandy a coupla months ago. Nice little dog she were and Miss F said she’d not ever let herself feel like that again. Give us the rope, lad.’
Jake looked at Phyllie, his large dark eyes full of despair. He seemed too vulnerable for all that was happening, and for all that had happened over the past few years. Her mind raced, but what else could they do? She straightened, facing the old farmer. ‘If you let that boy of yours hurt the dog I will hunt you both down.’
She could hear Miss Featherstone’s voice saying, Enough of the dramatics, but she damn well would. Joe took out a match, scratched it on the wall behind Phyllie, and lit his cigarette, speaking through the smoke. ‘Happen you will, lass.’ He took the rope. Francois went to him. Jake rose and clung to Phyllie’s hand.
Together they walked back, neither speaking.
Phyllie cycled around Little Mitherton, Great Mitherton and Forton, then Swanwick where she saw Mrs de Bere’s mansion, and the convoy of taxis that were already taking her family to safety. She would not allow herself to replicate her mother, and sniff in disdain. All morning she checked on her charges, ironing out problems with the foster parents, which often meant just foster mother as the father was away in the forces.
In Great Mitherton she braked outside Ron’s billet. The Andertons’ devastation of a front garden was not reassuring, with its rusty bikes and toys, and a dog chained to the corner of the house. On her approach the dog strained at the leash, barking and growling. She surely didn’t need to knock, as Mrs Anderton must have been forewarned unless she was deaf, which she wasn’t because the door swung open. A middle-aged woman stood there, in a summer dress with a low neckline and too much make-up, or perhaps Phyllie was becoming like her mother. She was invited into the council house. There was lino on the hall floor, but it was ripped and dangerous. Mrs Anderton said, ‘Yon lad’s in there with my two boys. They get on right well.’
The three
boys were lounging on the settee. One, Bryan, who was bigger than Ron who was tall for his age, looked at her. ‘You’re the one with the Yid for a neighbour, then?’
She frowned and said, ‘We don’t use that term, ever.’
He said, ‘Maybe Great Mitherton does.’ She made a mental note to move Ron the moment she could find another billet, or was this attitude typical, in spite of Miss Featherstone’s fine words? The other Anderton boy, Eddie, was thirteen and at school in Great Mitherton, while Bryan was eleven, and at Little Mitherton. It had been deemed best to separate them, according to the notes. Eddie ran a gang, but this had not been noted. Yes, Ron must be moved.
That afternoon Miss Featherstone and the young vicar, Jack Thompson, gathered up the evacuees and the village children. Phyllie hiked with them to the hay field, singing ‘This Old Man’. All afternoon they turned the hay with the cut-down pitchforks, the evacuees being shown how by the village children, and Miss Featherstone and Phyllie waited to see what happened between Jake and the Anderton crew. After an hour or so Bryan Anderton and Ron rested on their pitchforks, and as Jake came alongside they turned the hay, but flipped it at him as well. Bryan laughed, ‘Grow horns, do you, like the other Yids, like Ron’s dad says?’
Phyllie darted towards them, as Dan moved to stand alongside Jake, but the Reverend Jack Thompson moved even quicker and caught both boys by the ears. ‘I was a boxer before I was a parson. You are eleven years old, with mouths and minds like guttersnipes. It stops here, do you understand? Ron, you will be living elsewhere from now on. I know just the family. You, Bryan, will go back to your mother with Eddie, and Miss Featherstone will talk to you, very soon.’
Eddie flung down his pitchfork and stalked off, his hands deep in his pockets, kicking at the row of hay as he went. Phyllie could cheerfully have put him over her knee, if he hadn’t been too big.
As the vicar marched the two younger boys through the gate, they passed Andy Bartlett arriving with the horse and haycart. He showed no interest in the lads, but why would he, Phyllie thought, his face creasing in pain as he jolted in and out of ruts, heading for the southern side? It was here that the hay had been turned and dried sufficiently, and where the carting had begun yesterday, according to Joe, who waited with two of the farmhands.
The children continued to turn the hay under the leadership of Phyllie and Miss F who took over Ron and Bryan’s shortened pitchforks. Phyllie was impressed that even with her great height, Miss Featherstone never paused, though her back must feel like breaking, even more than hers did. After an hour, the children stopped for water, and Andy Bartlett passed with a full load, heading out of the field. He called down to Phyllie, ‘Bit of a lightweight, your lad. Couldn’t sort that bit of trouble himself, eh?’
Miss Featherstone caught Phyllie’s arm, but she shrugged her off and ran after him, keeping pace with the cart, and calling up, ‘How dare you? No one should have to put up with bigoted rubbish. You didn’t even hear what was said; that he was asked if he had horns, because he’s a Jew. His mother’s lost in Poland, his father’s in a submarine. Proud of yourself, are you?’
Andy shrugged. ‘You know nothing about anything. Now get out of the way of the cart or you’ll end up—’ The cart slipped into and out of a large rut. The man paled; sweat broke on his face. Phyllie saw his bandage was dripping blood. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he finished.
She marched back, ignoring Miss Featherstone’s raised eyebrows, not wanting to hear about unnecessary dramatics, or any such thing. Even though someone was in such pain it didn’t mean they had to be so foul. She worked on alongside the children, moving from one group to another, wanting to do nothing more than lie in a cool dark room. She pretended, though, that it was the best fun she’d had in years.
At last it was time for tea at the village hall and there were bowls for hand washes, and towels, with Mrs Speedie, Miss Deacon and Miss Harvey in attendance.
‘Do you ever stop?’ Phyllie asked. ‘You must have come straight from the jam making.’
‘It’s the end of our jam shift, and the start of this one. Miss F, our WI president, has things worked out to a T.’ They grimaced and then laughed.
At six o’clock, the children were collected and taken home. Phyllie and Jake stayed, to help clear up. Melanie stayed too with Miss Harvey, and Dan, with Miss Deacon. The children dragged the chairs and benches to the side, and then pulled a face when they were handed tea towels. Melanie now asked Jake if he really would grow horns, and he shrugged and said he didn’t understand what Bryan was talking about, not really, but what he wanted to know was how Francois was getting on.
Miss Featherstone called across from the cupboard in which she was stacking plates. ‘Don’t you worry, he’ll be fine. Mr Joe will keep an eye on things.’
‘How can he?’ Jake countered. ‘He’s doing things in the hayfield or somewhere else, while Mr Andy is driving the cart back to the farm. How do we know what he’s doing when he’s at the farm?’
Phyllie waited for the answer, wanting to know it herself. Miss Featherstone tutted. ‘Regular little worry guts, you are, lad. My WI ladies have been there, on shift, all day, and this continues into the evening. They’re better than guard dogs, you mark my words. Besides, young Mr Andy has a good heart. It’s pain that does it, pain and … Oh well, never mind, we must hurry up.’
They arrived back at Myrtle Cottage at nine, exhausted and covered in hay dust and grass, their hands blistered, their faces burned. All Phyllie and Jake wanted was to crash into bed. Jake asked for a glass of water to take up with him. Miss Featherstone nodded, ‘Of course.’
Phyllie sat at the kitchen table, examining her hands, while Jake started to open the corner cupboard door. ‘Not that one,’ Miss Featherstone shouted, rushing across and slamming the door shut. Not before, however, Phyllie saw bags and bags of sugar neatly stacked.
Miss Featherstone was still shouting, ‘That’s nothing to do with you, and is not to be spoken of, do you understand?’ They both nodded, startled and confused. Phyllie stood now, her sore hands forgotten. Miss Featherstone reached into the next cupboard and handed two glasses to Jake. He filled both with water from the tap, and gave one to Phyllie, who took it and sat down again. ‘Goodnight, Miss Featherstone, and you too, Phyllie. Thank you for having me, Miss Featherstone. I expect Francois is happy, with other dogs and the geese.’ His tone was forlorn as he left the room.
Phyllie stared at her glass of water, and then at Miss Featherstone, who was pulling down the blackout blind at the back of the sink. She then busied herself at the sink, her back firmly to the room.
‘I think it’s time we all turned in. It’s been a long day. We will find out in the morning where the vicar has settled Ron,’ the headmistress said.
Phyllie stood up again, feeling like a jack-in-the-box. ‘You’re right, I’m very tired. Thank you, Miss Featherstone, for your kindness.’
She climbed the stairs, and sat on her bed. So much sugar, when it was so scarce. Had her mother been right, was it being given to the WI and was some being pilfered, and by the WI president? After Jake had been in the bathroom, he called goodnight. Phyllie entered the little boxroom and began to pull down the blackout blind while Jake, in his pyjamas, stared out at the night sky. He said, ‘The world is a very strange place, isn’t it, Phyllie?’
She paused, and let the blind roll back up. She slid her arm around his shoulders. ‘Most peculiar, much of the time, Jake, but I suppose we just have to keep going.’ While they looked out at the rapidly darkening sky, they both heard a noise, then saw a movement in the garden. Jake whispered, ‘Do you think it’s a fox? There won’t be more prowling round the farm, will there? I don’t know if Francois knows what to do with a fox.’
Joe Bartlett stepped out of the shadows at the corner of the house and headed for the back door. Both Phyllie and Jake waited, then Jake whispered, ‘Do you think he’s come calling? You know, how men do, or that’s what Mrs Williams used to say about the lady down the ro
ad who had all those men? You know, she’d put that voice on, and squeeze her lips, and say she was no better than she ought to be with all these callers. That lady was young, though. Do old people have callers?’
Phyllie put her finger to her lips. ‘Hush.’
They saw now that Joe held three pheasants on a string. Jake whispered, ‘D’you reckon they’re the black market? You know, the market they talk about in the posters?’
‘Certainly not,’ Phyllie murmured. ‘Pheasants are off ration. Into bed, and I’ll tuck you in.’
Jake shrugged. ‘I’m not a baby.’
She pulled down the blind again, and smiled. ‘I know, but tonight I need someone to tuck in, so be kind.’
Jake grinned and hopped into bed. Phyllie risked a kiss on his forehead. He let her, and as she stood up, he said, ‘I hope Francois is all right.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ She wasn’t but what else could she say?
When she got to the door he murmured, ‘So, when are you going to marry Sammy, Phyllie?’
She laughed quietly. ‘Oh, that was just fun. You know what Sammy’s like.’
Jake raised himself up on his elbow. ‘Oh, I don’t think it was, nor does Melanie, or Dan. We talked about it, and we think Sammy’s eyes looked serious, after he’d kissed you. Didn’t you notice?’
She said, ‘Off to sleep now. I’ll leave the door ajar in case you need me in the night.’
He whispered then, ‘Pheasants are off ration, but sugar is on it. There was such a lot, and it’s a secret cupboard, isn’t it? Is that the black market?’
‘Certainly not,’ Phyllie repeated, ‘and we mustn’t talk about it to anyone. Now off to sleep.’
Once in her own bed across the landing she thought of the sugar. It must be for jam, but why not come out and say it? Surely Miss Featherstone couldn’t be the equivalent of a spiv, not when men were dying to bring the rationed produce across the seas? She ached with tiredness, and a creeping sense of disappointment.
