Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  She stood up. ‘Well, that’s not good enough. I repeat, there’s a war on, they’re far from home. We need somewhere safe for them to play, so I’ll take that as a yes.’

  He stood up too, thrusting back the chair. It teetered and fell.

  She insisted, ‘I’ll be back early tomorrow to work on the roof. I’m sure you have a tarpaulin, and I’m sure I can manage with Joe’s help to put it up. Miss F will take the bottom of the ladders. See you then.’ She tiptoed to the door, and shoved her feet into her boots. The socks had gathered into uncomfortable folds but she wasn’t going to undermine her exit by faffing about. She left, almost bumping into Joe in the porch. He was grinning, and gripped her shoulder so hard it hurt. ‘Thank you, lass. Feisty little thing, ain’t you? Let’s see what ’appens.’

  She rode away, her feet hurting as the socks bunched even more. Owls hooted as she wondered how anyone could not get feisty, when there was a war on. For goodness’ sake, the child she lived with was making a notebook about the nation’s culture in case it was destroyed. Feisty? Why not?

  Miss F and Phyllie arrived at seven in the morning, with a cart full of brushes and pails. They had not brought Jake or Francois, who were being looked after by Mrs Symes, in case there was a scene. The first thing that they saw and heard was the tarpaulin almost fixed, with Joe and Andy working together.

  Andy shouted, ‘That’s about it, Dad.’ He clambered down the ladder, saw Phyllie, and grunted, ‘One day this war will be over and you’ll go home and take your bossy mouth with you. You just make sure those children are careful of the pond as they walk to us, and no fannying about on farm property; the stables, the milking parlour, even the fields are out of bounds. Can you get that through your head?’

  He didn’t wait for her to reply, but strode to the stables, where Destiny waited, already harnessed into the cart. He began to load his ditching gear into the wagon while his father helped Old Stan with the milking. The whole village worked hard on the barn all week, and by the next Saturday it was functional. It was here that the Christmas carol concert rehearsals started after school on the Monday. If only Sammy and Isaac could be here for it, but some never saw their men at all, so rare was leave, so there was no cause for complaint.

  As the children arrived they saw that a table tennis table had been set up. Joe appeared with four bats, and some balls. He winked at Phyllie. ‘A certain person remembered there was one up in the attic, so thanks, lass, and pass that on to our own ganglin’ Hitler, will you? I think we’re on the mend, don’t you?’

  She hoped so, and then life would be easier for absolutely everyone, but somehow she doubted it. Things weren’t mended that quickly, but she didn’t share that with Joe.

  As they walked home after the first rehearsal – Mrs F bringing up the rear and Phyllie leading at the front – the children started to sing ‘Tipperary’. As she listened Phyllie heard one voice rise steadily above the rest. It was pure and true. She turned around, astonished. She hadn’t heard anyone singing like that in rehearsals. At the back of the column Miss F was pointing to Ron, who walked just in front of her with Bryan. Phyllie turned back, even more astonished, and continued on into the village, dropping off the children at their homes. Ron and Bryan, of course, had been playing table tennis, uninterested in stupid carols.

  As they reached Mrs Campion’s house, three-year-old Rosie Campion banged at the front-room window, and then waved. Phyllie said, ‘That singing was lovely, Ron.’ He coloured.

  Bryan hooted. ‘Only big girl’s blouses sing carols, you daft idiot. You want to be one of ’em, do you?’

  Phyllie snapped. ‘Bryan, what about the singers who are entertaining the troops, or singing on the radio? They’re not big girl’s blouses, are they?’

  Bryan kicked out at Ron. ‘But he ain’t good, he’s just loud.’

  Phyllie could have kicked him back, only harder, as Ron sloped into the house, head down, shoulders hunched, with Rosie still banging on the window. Miss F said, ‘I’ll take this young man home, Phyllie. You have some sneaky thinking to do, my girl, if you want that particular soloist.’

  She and Miss F discussed it later while Jake put the finishing touches to a paper-chain. As he tested its sticking strength, holding it up, tugging it slightly, he said, ‘If my mum could come I’d want her to be proud of me, and see me doing something special. I’ve been thinking – what if Ron’s mum isn’t coming for Christmas because she hasn’t got the money for a ticket?’ He dug in his pocket. ‘I’ve got sixpence from my pocket money that Dad sent for you to put into a post office savings account, Phyllie. Mrs Cummins can have that. If she comes it might stop Ron being so angry.’

  The sixpence sat in the palm of his hand. The two women looked at it.

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ said Miss F.

  Phyllie said, ‘Pop that back in your pocket. I will sort this out, and if we need your money, I’ll ask you. How about that? Mrs Cummins could stay at the vicarage with the other mothers. The attic rooms are almost ready.’

  The next day Phyllie talked to Ron when he took a break from playing table tennis. ‘Is your mother coming for Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I’m sure she’d like to. Have you even mentioned it in your letters?’

  He shrugged. ‘Where’d she get the money for the train? So no, course I ain’t asked her.’ Phyllie felt pure anger at herself. She had suggested that the parents should be invited, and had organised accommodation, but not for a moment had she thought through the practicalities. It was amazing Jake who had done that.

  Andy entered the barn, coming towards the table. He had a few more ping-pong balls cupped in his hand. ‘I thought I might show your hooligans the finer points of the game.’ The children who were playing stopped. She thanked him, surprised. Bryan said, ‘I’ll play you.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘No, I think I’ll use Ron, if that’s all right.’

  Ron coloured again. Phyllie left them to it, pleased, incredibly pleased, at Andy’s efforts. That evening she wrote to Mrs Cummins, enclosing the train fare, which Miss F knew by heart, saying, ‘It’s just like railway timetables; I always remember them. Queer, isn’t it?’

  Jake nodded until Phyllie kicked him under the table.

  Within days she heard the postie, Willie Carslake, who nipped in for a quick cuppa as usual, slurping it as she tore the envelope open. It had been addressed in an untutored hand. It was from Mrs Cummins, wanting more money, to buy a present for the lad. Also, she said, the fare had gone up. She wrote, But once I have this extra, miss, nothing will keep me from my boy.

  Phyllie replied, giving details of the train to catch to be in time for the concert. Ron would be singing a solo, she explained, because his voice was so glorious. She enclosed the extra money. If that didn’t persuade Mrs Cummins she didn’t know what would. She also explained that other mothers would be on the train, and that she would have her own room at the vicarage, on the top floor, with a fire in the grate. She felt it best not to mention that the attic rooms had been servants’ quarters.

  She carried the good news to Ron at break time, suggesting he might like to surprise his mother, by taking part in the carol service as a soloist. He shoved his hands in his pockets as Bryan nudged him. ‘Oh, what a little angel, singing in the choir.’

  ‘Step away, Bryan, let Ron make up his own mind. He’s big enough and old enough to do what he wants, and perhaps he wants to please his mother,’ Phyllie insisted. The children were playing tag all around them, while the sky threatened snow. Would it be a white Christmas? And where would Sammy be?

  Ron looked at her. ‘How do you know she’s coming?’

  ‘She wrote to me asking the time of the concert, because she doesn’t want to miss it.’

  Ron looked up at the sky too. Phyllie could almost see the cogs moving in his mind, and then up came the question, to be answered as she had rehearsed. ‘How did she know where to write?’

  ‘All the parents have the address of the headmist
ress of the school so she knew it would find me.’

  On Christmas Eve the train arrived with its full complement, bar one. Mrs Cummins was not amongst the disembarking passengers, though Phyllie’s mother was. Phyllie directed everyone to Joe’s cart, and then ran up and down the platform checking the carriages. No. She ran out and checked with the other mothers, some of whom were sitting in the cart, on straw bales. Others would walk alongside. No. They had not seen Mrs Cummins at the station.

  Phyllie’s mother was standing by the cart, tapping her foot. Not a good sign, Phyllie thought. ‘Mum, so sorry to keep you waiting. How lovely to see you. Merry Christmas!’

  Her mother allowed herself to be held, and pecked her daughter’s cheek. She wore her usual lavender water, but looked exhausted and had lost weight. Phyllie smiled encouragingly. ‘Let’s get home. There’s room on the cart or we can walk. It’s not far.’ She could see her own breath as she spoke. ‘We must hurry, Joe. The children are in the church, getting ready. I’ll drop Mother at home, where there’s a cup of tea on the go. Oh, looks like we’re walking.’

  She ran to catch up with her mother, who was walking quickly ahead of her. ‘The government’s extra Christmas ration of tea and sugar for us all has made it special, hasn’t it, Mum?’ Phyllie took her case.

  ‘That’s twice you used the word “home”,’ her mother said. ‘You have a perfectly good home in Ealing. It’s upsetting to your family if you forget your roots, Phyllis.’

  They plodded on in silence, keeping to the edge as the cart overtook them. They were not alone, other mothers followed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Each of them held presents for their children.

  Phyllie took her mother’s arm. ‘I never forget about you, Mum,’ she said. ‘I ring a lot, don’t I? Miss F’s at the church, with the carol singers. If you’d prefer, you can come up there with me, but a cuppa is waiting …’ She paused. ‘Waiting at the house, where there’s an Aga so you can warm up. There are some scones, too, with honey. Joe Bartlett has given us a small pat of butter for you. You need to rest, Mum. You look very tired.’

  ‘Extra butter? Good heavens, we don’t get that in London.’

  Finally they reached her mother’s choice: the house. Phyllie opened the back door, which was unlocked, as usual. Her mother sat down at the kitchen table, her hat and coat still on, and her gloves, refusing all food, but agreeing to a cup of tea. Phyllie drew a deep breath. ‘I have to go and check on the children at the church, and then nip off to the station to meet someone who missed that train. She’ll be on the next, I’m sure.’ She wasn’t sure at all. ‘The concert starts in an hour. I’ll pick you up, or send someone. Afterwards we’re having a party at the children’s barn. It’s a bit of a walk in the dark but we’re all used to the dark, aren’t we? I’m so glad you’re here. You must have something to eat at the party; you will feel restored.’

  Her mother smiled as she lifted her teacup. ‘It is good to be here, and to have some quiet.’

  Phyllie grinned with relief, and said, ‘Enjoy your tea.’ With that, she was gone.

  At the church the children were having their costumes adjusted by competent Mrs Symes, and fingers-and-thumbs Miss F. The children were restless. Tea towels and old sheets had been cut up to make shepherd outfits. Ron was to sing a solo of ‘Silent Night’ and his eyes were fixed on Phyllie. ‘Is she here yet?’

  ‘I’m going to the station to meet her. She wrote and promised, didn’t she? She’s been saving, for this.’ For this is what Mrs Cummins had promised to say when she arrived.

  ‘So you said.’

  Phyllie checked her watch. She’d have to run to meet the train.

  By the time she arrived at the station the train was drawing out. Phyllie rushed onto the platform, but there was no one waiting. Mr Hill, the station master, shook his head. ‘I checked the carriages, Phyllie,’ he said. ‘She bain’t come.’

  Phyllie stood, feeling desperate, because it wouldn’t be her heart that broke, and she’d thought she’d been so damned clever. Mr Hill patted her shoulder. ‘If she comes in on the next one I’ll tell her where to meet you. If she comes after the concert, I’ll phone Joe. He don’t like using the phone but farmers need one. He’ll come from the farm for her, but you’d best get back up there and flannel the lad with some tale or other, and besides, you don’t want to miss the concert.’

  She ran all the way back to the church, and slipped in. She’d worn her best dress, which wasn’t saying much, and with all the running about the seams of her stockings were probably all over the place. Her court shoes had rubbed her heels, and her feet were frozen. The church was full, and the candles flickered in the windows, all of which had been fixed with blackout material. The children’s choir stood on the altar step, clustered around a manger, singing ‘Away in a Manger’.

  Even from here, Ron’s voice rose like the angel he wasn’t, but perhaps could be. Phyllie felt such anger, such shame, because she had tricked him. She hadn’t meant to, but she had. She saw him looking at her, and then beyond, searching. She nodded, knowing it was a lie, and hating herself. But this boy had a right to shine, he damn well had.

  She could barely see through the mist in her eyes.

  The applause at the end of the concert was prolonged and the parents came to hug their children. Ron wove his way towards her, searching, always searching. Taking hold of his shoulders, she said, ‘She missed that train, but she’ll be here for the party. Mr Hill is phoning Joe when she comes in.’

  The church was emptying past them, mothers from London, a few fathers, all clutching their children’s hands as though they’d never let them go, their faces full of happiness and relief. Dan’s parents had both come, and they walked with Dan and Jake, Dan’s father, in his Royal Navy padre’s uniform, was holding Jake’s hand, and Dan’s mother was holding her son’s. Francois was at Jake’s heels.

  Phyllie gripped Ron tighter, turned him, and walked with him, seeing the braced shoulders, the jutting chin, and she felt something other than irritation for this lad. Perhaps it was admiration, or maybe just pity? They walked together, in the long column, with Jake and Francois way ahead, but not the Andertons, because Bryan had not sung. Mrs Anderton had said they might meet them at the party, which they probably would, Phyllie thought, as there was free food and tea.

  She and Ron didn’t talk, they just walked, but as they entered the freshly swept farmyard, she said, ‘A friend of mine said to look up at the sky and when we’re not with the people we love, we know they’re under the same sky, so distance doesn’t matter.’

  He looked up. ‘The stars are bright, ain’t they, miss? But she’ll be here, any minute, won’t she, like she said she would?’ Then he saw Bryan with his parents and said, ‘And like you bloody said she would.’ He slouched across. The old Ron was back, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  The party began with fiddlers from both villages playing. Some children ran amock, some danced with their mothers. All the children, village and evacuee, looked unnaturally smart and tidy. The Girl Guides had earned their badges by sewing dresses for the girls from old skirts provided by the women of the village. Mrs Thomas, who had five daughters in the WAAF, had dug out summer skirts from a trunk in the attic. In the far corner of the barn lay the children’s discarded costumes.

  Discarded? It was then Phyllie nearly died, because she’d forgotten all about her mother, and it was as though the invasion had begun, such was her panic. Miss F waved at her from the wood burner, with her mother safely beside her. ‘Thank you, God,’ Phyllie murmured. ‘And you too, Miss F.’

  A voice behind her said, ‘Talking to yourself now, Miss Saunders? Whatever next?’

  It was Andy, in a suit, as were some of the other men, most of them elderly, and their suits even older. He stood beside her, his cuff hiding his stump. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that we are almost the only young single people left in the world, or in this world anyway?’ There was not a touch of bitterness in his voice, onl
y amusement. She kept her eyes front to hide her surprise. She said, ‘Always. Always it occurs to me, but that’s just the way it is, isn’t it? And besides, we’re too busy to notice, or I am.’

  She stopped. Oh Lord, he’d think she was having a dig. She said, ‘So are you, of course. I didn’t mean …’ She petered into silence. He was looking at the dancers, and then at Francois, sitting by Miss F who had linked arms with Phyllie’s mother. They were chatting to the vicar.

  He said, ‘Oh, so this is one thing the amazing Francois can’t do, then? I see he’s sitting it out.’

  She laughed, and realised he was too. Had he been drinking? His father’s elderberry wine was terribly strong.

  The fiddlers were playing some sort of a waltz now. He said, ‘Should we keep the youngsters end up, and strut about a bit?’ He moved to stand in front of her, his hand out. She took it. It was rough from his farm work. Yes, he must have had a snifter of wine, surely?

  ‘What dance is it?’ she queried as she moved with him into the fray of adults and twirling children.

  He laughed, his head thrown back, his mousy hair freshly washed. ‘Who knows? We must just keep moving or we’ll be mown down.’ She assumed the waltz position but didn’t know how to hold his non-existent hand. ‘I’d rest it on top of the end of my arm, if I were you. It’s better than staring at it as though it’s a puzzle that would stump the whole world.’

  Stump? Had he said it deliberately? She looked at his face then. He was grinning. ‘What are you made of, then, Miss Saunders? Can you summon up a quickstep? I took lessons at grammar school and can lead.’

  They were off, carving a path through the melee. She felt the tension in his body, and knew that beneath the repartee he was as nervous as hell. Over by the fiddlers Joe was watching, as tense as his son. She smiled, because this young man was trying, and that was a damn sight more than he’d done for a while. Joe smiled back now, and nodded. The fiddlers somehow settled into a rhythm and soon others were finding their way to a quickstep. Even Joe dragged Miss F onto the floor, by which time the children were heading to the table tennis end of the room, under the watchful eye of Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon.