by Milly Adams
Soon the Home Guard would be back out, marching along their patrol routes, their old muskets, shotguns, and even broom handles, on their shoulders, scanning the skies for parachutists. No one knew what was going to happen, no one knew if the RAF was going to beat back ‘the buggers’ and stop them from bombing. All they knew was that London had been bombed and it would surely get worse so perhaps her mother and brother would leave the city. It didn’t matter where they went, as long as they were safe.
Miss Featherstone and the vicar took the seven-year-olds on up to the playing fields where the vicar had devised a French cricket match, with tea afterwards. No doubt Marmite sandwiches would be on the agenda, made by his wife Sylvia. She got completely up Phyllie’s nose because she seemed so perfect, but Phyllie suspected she was also a lovely person.
The older children changed into old shorts and shirts, or frocks, in the school cloakroom, and stuffed the remains of their lunchtime sandwiches in their pockets, as so few had eaten then. Miss Deacon and Mrs Speedie then took half the older children to Great Mitherton and it was Phyllie’s task to take the others to the harvest field. Francois stayed in the staffroom during the day, and so he accompanied them now, walking on his rope, sticking closely to Jake’s side. Everyone would return home grubby and hopefully too tired to do anything but sleep, having been reassured by a perfectly normal non-threatening day. Their grief was another matter. It would take time.
The wheatfield looked as though it had been shaved, she thought, as she stood by the open gate, waving the children through. ‘Head towards Mr Bartlett please,’ she called out. Andy and Joe were standing by the cart. Joe had his usual cigarette behind his ear. It was always so bent that Phyllie could never understand why the tobacco didn’t fall out. Once all the children were through the gateway she headed after them. A stack of sacks was piled beside Joe. Andy had moved and was stroking Doris’s head, talking quietly to the horse. He frowned at the sight of Francois. Joe nodded and smiled at her, but Andy did not.
His bandages were off, she saw, and replaced by a sort of leather sock, and he had discarded the sling. Rooks were scattered all over the field, pecking, and soon there would be little hands at it too. The air was full of wheat dust, the sky was clear, though a few white clouds fluffed above the woods. There were still some stooks that hadn’t been gathered in, and a couple that had burst from their string. Perhaps they’d be carted today?
Joe gathered the children around him. ‘You have nimble fingers, not like my great mitts,’ he said. ‘We need to glean the fields, pick up as many of them grains that’s ’ad the ruddy nerve to drop from the harvester, and pick ’em up before them damned birds get ’em. We all got to do our bit, ain’t we? Even you, young Francois.’
The children nodded. Andy muttered, ‘For pity’s sake, bringing a bloody dog?’
Joe hadn’t finished. ‘You see, we’re here and your little friend Melanie ain’t, so we got to do our best to make sure we feed ourselves until we get that bugger Hitler on the run.’
Phyllie along with everyone else had learned to ignore Andy, and she merely wondered how many of the children would return home with a whole new vocabulary, courtesy of Joe. She started to smile, then stopped. Would they return home? What the hell was going to happen? Where would the bombers go next? Would Hitler come? She found herself checking the skies, then shook her head slightly, and returned her attention to the children. As she did so she saw Andy quartering the sky too, and for once she felt glad he was amongst them, acting as though he was on guard.
She walked with Joe and the children along the bottom of the field, dropping two off at the end of each shaved row. One was to hold the sack while the other stooped and gleaned, and then they would change places. They worked hard, because Miss Featherstone had half a bar of chocolate she had secreted from before the war, and offered it as a prize to the duo who collected the most. When the children were about a quarter of the way up their rows, Joe and Andy replaced their half-full sacks with empty ones. They then hoisted the grain onto their shoulders, and headed for the cart, while Phyllie kept score, noticing that Andy was managing quite well with one hand. He saw her looking, and scowled.
As he drew near she said, ‘If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.’
She carried more sacks to the children. The rooks were flying, squawking, ahead of the gleaners, many of whom were straightening their backs, their hands on their hips. Joe and Andy brought round a water bucket. They dipped in an enamel mug and handed it to the children in turn who gulped it, then bent to the task again.
‘Who’s winning, miss?’ Ron called.
She told them it was a close-run thing, but actually Ron and Bryan were in the lead, just. It was then she saw vapour trails as several planes whirled and dived way over to the east, perhaps near Bournemouth – or was it Weymouth? Wherever it was it was just another dogfight. Were the Luftwaffe protecting bombers heading for London again or perhaps a port, an air base, even Bristol? Who knew what they would do next? How could you get used to something like this, but one did. It was extraordinary.
She answered Ron, who wanted to do a pee. ‘Go to the hedge, no one will look.’
Rosemary Linton, who sat near Jake in class, and was working close to Phyllie said, ‘Life’s not fair, miss. I get stung when I do a tiddle and he just has to waggle it about.’
‘As you say, life’s not fair, but it was ever thus.’ It was what Miss Featherstone said about a great many things, a great many times. Phyllie laughed, and dragged her hand through her hair. She had forgotten her sunhat, yet again.
One of the planes was trailing smoke and she couldn’t bear to look, so she walked back towards the cart to collect another sack for Bryan who was further along their furrow than the rest. At the cart she checked the sky again and it had cleared. They’d be there one minute, and gone the next, perhaps because they were flying so fast. Hang on, there was another one, or no, it was two; one was damaged, and hurtling towards the ground, way over to the south, on a line with them. A parachute floated from the damaged plane; it was just a speck. The plane crashed. Smoke rose.
‘Let him land safely,’ she murmured. ‘Theirs or ours, it doesn’t matter. They’re all young men.’ She followed the canopy speck as it floated to the ground, then she heard a sound, an engine roaring, far distant, but roaring. She peered through the shimmering heat of the late afternoon, and there it was, the sun flashing off a dot that was hurtling low over the distant fields, skimming the woods way over to the east near Dorchester, heading towards them. Did he think he was still being chased? Why didn’t he turn round and look behind him? Or was he trying to land? But he was too fast. She saw the sun flash across the black cross, and stepped back against the cart, frozen.
Andy shouted, ‘Luftwaffe. Run to the cart.’ He was racing as fast as his gammy leg would allow towards the children. ‘Run to the cart, now. Now.’ The children hesitated, turned to one another. ‘Now,’ Andy bawled. They dropped the sacks, and took off, heading to Phyllie and the cart. ‘Come on,’ she shouted, running towards them, pushing them on, snatching a look. It was closer, casting a speeding shadow on the gentle hill in its path. Jake screamed, ‘Francois.’
Francois was chasing round in hysterical circles. Joe was at the horses’ heads, calming them, ‘Come on, Doris. Keep quiet now; you too, Destiny.’
Jake was trying to catch Francois. Andy rushed and grabbed him, swinging him in the direction of the cart, yelling, ‘I’ll get him, get under the cart, or into the ditch the other side of it. Run. Run. Kids, run like the bloody clappers.’
There was a rattle of machine-gun fire, someone screamed. The children were almost at the cart, Phyllie following, Andy was somewhere behind. ‘Quick,’ she screamed, grabbing Rosemary and shoving her under the cart. Ron? Where was he? He’d been doing a pee. She spun round, and there he was, running towards her from the left. She ran to him, grabbing his hand, ‘Come on.’
Andy roared, ‘Hurry up, you stupid bloody woman;
he’s much faster than you, so let him go.’ She did. Ron roared on, and dived beneath the cart. The breath was heaving in her chest, her gumboots were rubbing and she almost fell as she leapt a furrow, and all the time there was the noise of the engine, louder, louder. Another burst of gunfire. Andy was approaching from the other direction, dragging Francois at the end of the rope. He stumbled, recovered, kept going.
The horses were panicked, Andy reached them, thrusting Francois’ lead at his father, taking the bridles. ‘Get under, Dad.’ His mouth was moving, but Phyllie couldn’t hear what else he said over the noise. She turned, and threw herself beneath the cart with the children, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She watched the spurts of earth as the bullets hit the ground in a long trail, the fast-moving shadow of the plane skimming the stubble. But the pilot was firing on a line a good hundred yards from the cart. The children were silent, sweaty, dust-covered. She held the nearest to her. Some lay on others. She saw that her arm was round Ron. She said, ‘It’ll be fine. He’s not firing at us. He’s just in a paddy, that’s all, or showing off.’
He grinned at her, fear and excitement visibly vying with one another. ‘Got a big bloody temper then, ain’t he, miss?’
She laughed, but it was high-pitched. The plane flew on, and away. It was over almost as soon as it had begun.
Andy called, ‘You can come out now. Wasn’t trying to hit us, just be a bloody nuisance.’
Bryan sniggered. ‘Need a cuddle do you, Ron?’
The grin vanished from Ron’s face, and he shrugged away from Phyllie’s arm. ‘Leave off, I’m not a bloody baby like the Yid,’ he said.
They crawled out from the cart, the dry earth catching in their throat. As they dusted themselves off, most of them were shaking. Suddenly, though, the children burst into laughter, and talked, slapping one another on the back. Joe nodded at her. ‘You all right, lass?’ No, she bloody wasn’t, and she could have burst into tears.
Then Andy yelled, ‘Kids, come with me. Bring a sack each. He’s set the straw alight.’
All over the field, in the path of the bullets, were small smouldering fires, and some of the stooks were ablaze. The horses were prancing again as the wind got up and carried the smoke to them. Andy shouted at her, as she grabbed a sack. ‘Stay with the horses; do something useful, can’t you? Jake, keep that damn dog under control, don’t let him free again.’ She saw that Francois was straining at the lead and yelping at the fires.
She ran to the horses, reached up, and tried to grab Doris’s bridle. The mare tossed free, and bared her teeth, the harness jangling, her great hooves pawing the ground. Phyllie froze. The horses were huge, and she’d never had anything to do with them. Now Destiny was tossing her great head up and down, and both were pulling forward, dragging the creaking cart. Then Jake was with her, Francois by his side.
He handed her the lead, and murmured to the horses, holding up a piece of bread in the forefinger and thumb of each of his hands; crusts from his sandwiches. ‘Quietly now, it’s only Phyllie. You’ll like her. She’s everyone’s mum. She can be your mum, too. This is for the sparrows really, but you can have it, if you’re good girls.’
‘They’ll bite your fingers,’ Phyllie said. ‘You should use the flat of your hand.’
He laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Doris? And what about you, Destiny? You won’t hurt me, will you, girls? I can’t reach with the flat of my hand unless you put your heads right down.’ The horses reached down now, nuzzling his flat hand. On and on he talked, fearlessly standing between their heads, stroking their necks as they ate the bread.
Andy yelled, ‘Give us a hand here, Phyllie – as you’re next to useless there.’
He was holding out a sack, but was he smiling? She ran forwards, stumbling over the clods of earth, righting herself, snatching the sack. Yes, he was. He said, ‘That lad’s got a way with him. He’ll make a horseman.’
‘Like you?’ she replied, smiling in return.
‘Like I was.’ His scowl was back.
‘You still can be. You’re alive, aren’t you?’ She swung on her heel. At least he was alive, so could create a way forward.
The Home Guard was hurrying into the field now, broom handles and ancient guns at the ready. They’d just been warned by telephone that the Focke Wulf had shot down a Spitfire, and was heading their way. ‘Our pilot’s safe,’ the sergeant called to the children. ‘Don’t worry now, the Home Guard’s here. Stay alert, men.’ The children cheered.
It’s a damned circus, Phyllie thought, as Joe shouted, ‘Just get your arses over here and put out these fires. I’ve another field of wheat over yonder and I don’t want it being burned off. Strange the bugger didn’t fire into that.’
Phyllie looked into the distance, over to where the first plane had gone down. Smoke still stained the air. Perhaps the German pilot really had just been showing off after all, because he clearly had no intention of killing children or burning off a field. War was such a strange thing.
Joe and Andy made the children finish the gleaning, and it was good discipline and in a way showed that though it hadn’t been a strictly normal day, in a way it was. Their job was to soldier on.
Later, after tea laid on trestle tables in the farmyard, Joe awarded Ron and Bryan the half bar of chocolate. The other children clapped half-heartedly and the two boys split it down the middle and scoffed it there and then. Well, Phyllie supposed, most of them would have done that, or would they? Perhaps some would have shared? They walked back as the day cooled into evening, and she dropped them off at their various houses, making a point of saying to Ron, ‘Well done. You did a good job today.’
He and Bryan exchanged a look, and shrugged. She left them at Ron’s gateway because Bryan had said his brother was picking him up from Mrs Campion’s. As she did so she thought she heard Bryan mutter, ‘You see, I said them great clods we put in would make all the difference.’ But she couldn’t be sure.
Late that evening she, Miss Featherstone and Jake pottered in the kitchen. Phyllie and Jake smelled of smoke, and were dirty and dishevelled but none of them was able to settle. The events of the last few days came back, again and again. What’s more, the doormat had been empty of letters when they trooped in, and Jake and Phyllie had exchanged a look. Now she said, ‘Letters must be difficult to sort with so many servicemen sending them.’
Jake said, ‘That’s what you always say.’
‘The authorities have written to your dad, remember, saying where you are. But it will take a while to track him down.’
‘You say that too.’
‘I will chase them again.’
‘You haven’t said that before.’
While Jake had a bath, the women made cocoa, and Jake returned to the kitchen to drink it. Then Miss Featherstone chased them both upstairs. Phyllie had her lukewarm bath quickly as the two inches they had decided on didn’t exactly encourage a good soak. She called goodnight to Miss Featherstone and looked in on Jake, who was almost asleep. She kissed his hair. Tomorrow she would wash it, to rid it of the lingering smoke, and she would find the name of someone higher up in the educational system who she could write to.
He said, ‘No letter.’
‘Don’t dwell on it. Perhaps it will come tomorrow. It will be all right, I’m sure.’
‘No you’re not,’ he said.
‘Yes, I am,’ she insisted. ‘Because whatever happens we have one another until your dad comes back, and anyway, one day your Uncle Otto will get here. That will be exciting. Remember, way back, after your mum went, your dad said that Otto had reached Holland, and would be trying to make his escape from there, with your Aunt Rosa. One day he will come, and your mother, we hope.’
‘But they might not, any of them. People do die, Phyllie. Look at Melanie and Miss Harvey. Think of that parachute today. He could have died.’ He sounded so grown up, and Phyllie knew that the time for platitudes was over.
She said, ‘Even if that happens, we will go on, together, with Fran
cois, like we did today, like Mr Churchill has said.’
He smiled, and touched her face. ‘Goodnight, Phyllie. I think Francois remembered Dunkirk and the bombs today, and Mr Andy saved him. Perhaps inside he’s nice.’
She kissed his forehead and left, standing on the landing. It was then she heard the sobbing from Miss Featherstone’s room. Phyllie waited, unsure. She knocked, and entered. Miss Featherstone was sitting on her bed, the photograph of her and Miss Harvey as young teachers on her lap. Miss Featherstone looked up.
‘She was my dearest friend. We taught together. We knew one another’s fiancés; we were together when we each in our turn heard of the news of their deaths in the Somme. We drove ambulances together, then, in France. My heart is breaking.’ She was sobbing all the while.
Phyllie sat beside her and took her in her arms, saying, ‘Oh, Miss Featherstone, I’m so very sorry.’
She stayed with her until all was quiet, and then she tiptoed to the door. Miss Featherstone called, ‘For goodness’ sake, girl, call me Miss F, as all my friends do.’
Phyllie headed to her own bed. She felt she wouldn’t sleep because her heart was too heavy, but she did.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday 10 September 1940, Little Mitherton
PHYLLIE STRETCHED IN bed, shoving the feather pillow back against the oak headboard and staring at the rustic beams. She must remove the cobwebs, but not today. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table: it was 6 a.m. Their neighbour’s cockerel was crowing to greet the dawn. All normal here, then; but far from normal in London.
For the last three evenings she and Miss F had listened to the news on the wireless, hearing of the bombing of the city. Each night she had dreamed of Frankie and her mother, and woken in a sweat, rushing to the phone, which had not been answered until last evening. They were safe. She had told her mother that she must evacuate and join her. Her brother had taken over. ‘Yes, she should, Phyllie. But she won’t. I’ve even suggested Wales. Please come, and try to persuade her.’ The line had crackled. He had said, ‘We must go to the shelter.’ And then he had hung up.
