Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  Phyllie said, above the music, ‘Thank you for making this barn work as a play area.’

  He replied, ‘You’d have come after me with a chopper, wouldn’t you, if I hadn’t?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, a saw.’

  He laughed again, and she joined in, but her feet were sore from all the running and her eyes were continually on the door, but why? The last train from London had arrived a good hour ago. False hope was better than none, she supposed. Andy said, ‘Dad phoned Hill at the station before he came here. Ron’s mother wasn’t on the train. I should have said. I forgot.’

  Around they spun, and it was so strange to be in a man’s arms and suddenly she longed, absolutely longed, for Sammy with a physical pain. She remembered the ring then. It was still at the jeweller’s. How could she have forgotten it? But on the other hand, how could she have remembered with all that was going on? Sammy wouldn’t mind, and at least she wouldn’t have to face her mother with the news, because if there was tight-lipped disapproval she might well have responded.

  The music drew to a close and the dancers wandered from the floor towards the homemade wine being served along the rear wall. Her mother caught up with them, standing between them and the bar. This woman knew all about tactics, Phyllie thought. ‘Phyllie, dear, introduce me to your friend.’

  Phyllie did so. Andy shook hands. Mrs Saunders said, ‘Miss Featherstone said you and your father run the farm, this farm. It seems very large?’

  Andy nodded. ‘Well, yes, it is, or at least it’s middle of the road really. Mixed farming.’

  Mrs Saunders was smiling. ‘You own it, or are you tenant farmers?’

  Phyllie sighed, wondering why her mother didn’t just put up a sign declaring that she was interviewing for a son-in-law of status and means. Jake interrupted then, with Francois at his heels. ‘You do dance well, Phyllie. I bet Sammy does too, because he does everything well, doesn’t he? She’s got a ring now, Mrs Saunders, haven’t you, Phyllie? It’s being enlarged so it will fit. They’re getting married.’

  The smile on Mrs Saunders face changed to a rictus grimace. Andy was staring at Phyllie. ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t guess.’

  He looked from Phyllie to her mother, and then Jake, after which he blundered away through the crowds. Her mother said, ‘You’re a fool, Phyllis. How could you, after all I’ve said? You could have been secure, looked after.’ She turned on her heel, but hissed over her shoulder, ‘There is one train home tomorrow, Christmas Day, at dawn. I will be on it.’

  Jake had run back to the table tennis, unaware of the displeasure he had caused. Phyllie weaved her way outside, and stood in the cold. Snow was falling. Andy was standing there.

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ she said. ‘We were dancing. I thought perhaps we were becoming friends, two against the tide of marrieds and elderly.’

  He stared over at the farmhouse, the snow settling on the roof, and on his hair and eyelashes, and the shoulders of his suit. ‘He’s serving?’

  ‘A submariner.’

  ‘Ah.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve nabbed yourself a hero. How very sensible.’ He limped away to the house, went inside and slammed the door.

  She rubbed her arms, her lacy cardigan hopelessly inadequate, but there was to be no escape. The barn door whacked open and Ron slouched out. He stood before her, his lips a tight line. ‘You said she’d be here. It was a trick, to make me sing in your poxy bloody choir.’ Bryan was beside him now. Their breath smelled of alcohol.

  ‘What have you been drinking?’ she almost shouted, looking back towards the barn.

  Bryan sneered. ‘Never mind that. You lied, tricked him. Course she can’t come, she’s got no money. She never said she was coming, did she?’

  Phyllie waited for a moment. How could she say that his mother had taken the money, asked for more, and still not come? She said slowly, ‘I think we should contact your mother. I have the number at the local pub. I think perhaps there’s been a raid and—’

  ‘We did ring the pub. It’s the one she always uses so I know the number,’ Ron burst out. ‘We sneaked in and used the Bartletts’ telephone, and she said she didn’t know nothing about it, and if she had she’d have done everything she could to be here.’ Phyllie stared at this boy, his fierce scowl, his vivid blue eyes full of tears, his lips that were pressed hard together, his hands gripped into fists. How do you tell a son his mother would take money, and spend it on, well, what? How do you let him think that she’d do that, rather than come to hear his glorious, wonderful voice, and see her son at Christmas?’

  She just shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Ron. You’re right, I did so want you to shine tonight, to show people your amazing talent, and the boy you are. I’m just so—’

  The door was opening again. ‘That’s not true.’ Jake stood there, behind Bryan, the door ajar. Snow was falling heavily.

  She tried to reach him. ‘No, Jake.’

  He sidestepped her. ‘It’s not true. She sent your mum money – twice – and your mum promised she’d come. It’s in her letter. I saw it.’

  Bryan hit him so hard he fell, then he reached down, gripping Jake’s shirt, his fist up to strike again. ‘Typical Yid, all you know is how to lie.’

  The barn door opened fully and Francois was out, barking. Phyllie was reaching for Bryan as Joe roared out next, along with a burst of music from the fiddlers. Francois leapt at Bryan. Phyllie dragged the dog off, Joe pulling Bryan away from Jake. Ron just stood there, staring at Phyllie, tears streaming down his face. ‘Bryan’s right,’ he shouted. ‘He’s a bloody liar, just like you.’ He was pointing to Jake, then at Phyllie.

  Miss F was out next, shutting the door behind her. ‘It’s a pantomime, isn’t it? A complete pantomime on Christmas Eve; how delightful.’ She came to stand beside Ron. ‘There’s obviously been a grave mis-understanding, and of course your mother would have come if she could. You were the star of the evening, and you must remember that, my dear Ron. Now your Mrs Campion is bringing the younger children away from the jelly; they’ve had too much anyway, and she will be taking you home, after the vicar has praised you publicly. She’s had the most marvellous time, listening to her foster child taking centre stage.’

  Joe was holding Bryan in an arm lock. The boy whinged, ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Certainly not, Bryan,’ Miss F continued. ‘I haven’t finished speaking to Ron. We’d like you to stay on at the party, Ron. Our star should, because there’s still lots of food to eat, and like I said, the vicar so wanted to praise.’

  She turned to Bryan, as Ron stood as though undecided. ‘You, however, Bryan, have a mother who is to take you home because you have struck another person. This I will never allow. Mrs Symes is right this minute suggesting, nay insisting, that Eddie trots on home with you both. Jake, up you get, no need to make a meal of the shiner you’ll have for Christmas Day, but first you three will all shake hands. This will then be forgotten. I insist.’

  They did shake hands, but Ron leaned forward. ‘I’ll get you, Jake. See if I don’t. My mother wouldn’t lie, and she’s not a thief, so I’ll get you. Not yet, but one day.’

  Phyllie watched the Andertons leave, and Miss F escort Ron back into the old barn. Jake leaned against her, crying quietly, his nose was bleeding and his lip was split and already swelling. ‘I’m sorry, Phyllie. I made it worse.’

  She held his head against her, her reply fierce. ‘You never, ever make anything worse, lovely boy. You are my sunshine, you and Francois. We are a team. One that is waiting for our men to come home, and we will be strong while we wait, won’t we? We’ll also go on doing what we think is right.’

  He stopped crying then, and whispered, ‘Your mother is going home early.’ His smile was mischievous. Phyllie crouched down next to him, stroking Francois. ‘I know. I don’t think she really wanted to come. I think she’s just tired, and worried, and she doesn’t really know what to say or think.’

  He put his arms round her neck. ‘I do love y
ou, Phyllie.’

  She wouldn’t cry, but her voice shook as she said, ‘Oh, Jakub Kaplan, I love you, and Francois too, both of you, so much. Now, we have a party to join again.’

  Phyllie had never felt less like tripping the light fantastic but needs must; though as midnight came around she drew the line at dancing the can-can. Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon called her a spoilsport and linked arms with her as the music began. She was about to break free when she saw her mother’s face, pinched in disapproval, then looked at her friends. What on earth was the harm? She remained in the WI line-up, and even the pinching of her shoes and the blisters on her heels didn’t spoil the fun.

  The party closed with ‘Jerusalem’, and the words filled her with emotion, just as they did at the opening of each WI monthly meeting. She sang loudly, hoping their combined voices would soar to the heavens, and that Sammy could somehow hear them. I love you, my darling love, my friend, my everything, were her thoughts: I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In England’s green and pleasant land.

  Would Ron ever sing for them again? She had to make sure that he did. And would Britain remain unconquered? They must all fight on, whatever the cost, as Churchill said. Just as long as that cost wasn’t Sammy. But everyone must say that. She looked across at Mrs Symes, who had lost her pilot husband, and saw that though she smiled, the smile did not meet her eyes. She looked at her mother, and her heart ached at the tiredness in her face, the slumped shoulders, but somehow there was no way to reach her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday 25 January 1941, Little Mitherton

  IN MISS F’S kitchen Jake grinned as Francois nudged him. ‘No, you can’t come, not when I’m going to the horses, you know that, silly boy.’ He snatched up his old mackintosh from the back door, glad that Miss F and Phyllie had put hooks there when the real cold snap came. It meant it would be warm on this freezing-cold morning. His gumboots were on the doormat, brought in from the back porch to warm up by Phyllie, when she went out to feed the hens. He wore two pairs of socks anyway.

  They’d called the new hen, which had arrived on Wednesday, Tobruk, because the British and Australians had taken Tobruk from the Italians. It made Jake happy because it meant the war might be over soon. If it was, his dad would come home, and maybe his mother, and the bombing in London would finish. Mrs Saunders and Father Francis were all right, though, and Jake didn’t quite know how he felt about that. Of course he didn’t want them dead, but he didn’t want that horrid old lady back here either, because she had whispered that there was no point in wishing him a merry Christmas just before she left, and worse, she had told Phyllie that she must never let herself down in public again because that’s not how she had brought her up. She had kissed her cheek, though, and patted her shoulder. It had made Phyllie cry.

  Or at least, she had cried after Mrs Saunders caught the first train on Christmas Day morning, in her bedroom. She had been crying again when her brother had telephoned to say their mother had reached home safely. Jake had answered the telephone, and Father Francis had been kind and embarrassed and said that his mother sometimes said things she didn’t mean, and then wished she hadn’t. People did that when they were worried and very tired, he said, and were stuck in a habit. He didn’t say what the habit was, though.

  Jake had not known what to reply so he had passed the receiver over to Phyllie who had come downstairs. He wanted to tell Father Francis that Phyllie had been crying, but he expected that Phyllie wouldn’t want him to sneak. But if her brother knew he could say a prayer or something to cheer her up. It was frightening when grown-ups cried, even if they thought you couldn’t hear. His mother had cried before she’d gone back to Poland.

  He heaved on the mackintosh, and concentrated on that, because he didn’t want to think about his mother. He thought about the hen instead. It was a plump fluffy one, though when you picked it up it felt as bony as they all did. They had taken it in because the evacuated mother and her two little girls who had come in November to escape the bombing in London had gone to Cumbria when their daddy was hurt in the desert. But he didn’t want to think of that either.

  Miss F had found the old mackintosh in her attic after Christmas. It was one that had been found in a school cupboard years ago. At the Christmas party Joe had said he could help with Destiny and Doris, after Andy said he thought he had a gift. They needed someone to clean the tack, too, and to groom them and if he did that well, he could do more. Miss F seemed to have lots of things up there in the attic and had said she collected them ‘in case’. He’d asked, ‘In case of what?’

  She’d said, ‘In case of a wretched little hooligan in need of one. And here are some trousers. Shorts are not suitable for cold weather.’ She’d rubbed his hair and kissed the top of his head. He quite liked it, though he wouldn’t if she did it outside the house.

  The doormat prickled through his socks as he did up the buttons of the mackintosh. There was no belt, but it made him feel like a real horseman to have a piece of string round his waist, like Joe. He tied it in a tight bow. Tim Morton came to the stables too. He was fifteen and had come from the Channel Islands before the Germans got there, or was it after? Jake couldn’t remember. Anyway, he’d got out, and lived in Great Mitherton in Mrs Fuller’s house. Mrs Fuller had taken in some other evacuees from Bristol and London just before Christmas. Now, though, Great Mitherton was as bunged full as Little Mitherton, Miss F said, so evacuees were being sent to the other villages.

  Tim had told Jake, as they had mixed the bran mash one freezing morning in early January, that it hadn’t been exciting, it was just horrible, and his pony and his mum and dad were still there. Or he thought they were.

  Jake patted his pockets, checking for his gloves. When she found the mackintosh, Miss F had also found two pairs of long baggy trousers. He didn’t like to wear them, though he did. She had found gloves on elastic, too, which she tried to persuade him to thread through his sleeves and wear. They were for little kids, he’d protested, and for once he had refused. Phyllie had laughed, and cut the elastic, but put it into the sewing box, ‘just in case’.

  He pulled on his boots, tucking in his trousers, while Francois whined and pawed at them as Miss F came from the scullery. Jake hushed him, ‘No, you have to stay here, by the Aga. Don’t be daft. You don’t want to be mashed up beneath Destiny’s hooves, does he, Miss F? Go to your rug.’

  Francois, head down, made his way to the ancient wool rug in front of the Aga. Phyllie opened the back door now, banging it into Jake and shoving him off the doormat. ‘Sorry.’ She stood there, her boots dripping, the open door letting in the cold.

  Miss F shooed her out. ‘In the back porch with you, Phyllie Saunders, if you please, as you very well know.’

  Phyllie did as she was told, raising her eyebrows at Jake as he passed her on his way out. ‘Remember, do not go on the pond.’

  Jake pulled his balaclava over his head. ‘I won’t forget. Anyway, you tell us every day at school.’

  ‘Andy will clip your ears if he finds you on it.’

  ‘I told you I won’t, so I won’t.’

  Behind him, Phyllie started to close the door and he heard Miss F’s bark of laughter. ‘He’s right you know, you do go on, and on, and on. Your brother phoned again, to thank us for the provisions and clothes and to hope that you are feeling less upset about your mother.’

  Mums shouldn’t make you cry, Jake thought. Not unless they walloped you for doing something bad. Then they expected you to. The snow crunched under his feet as he walked through the village. There was no point in setting off any earlier because it was too dark. In the spring and summer he would have to, because farmwork wasn’t ruled by the clock, but by the daylight, Joe had said. Andy hadn’t said anything because he was back to being really grumpy after the party. He didn’t come and play table tennis in the old barn any more, and he’d said that if Jake brought the damned dog, he’d shoot it. Jake was
n’t sure if he really truly would, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

  Smoke was trailing from the chimneys of the houses in the village. Dan lived next to the post office with Miss Deacon and usually he and Jake did everything together, but horses brought his friend up in hives. Jake slapped his arms to keep warm; his breath billowed in clouds before his face. He didn’t like balaclavas because they made him itch, but it was better than freezing. Did his dad’s breath freeze in the submarine? When would he see him again? He was busy, all the men were busy, but he would get leave at some stage, his dad had said. He had thought it would be in January, but it wasn’t going to be now. His dad said this happened in a war.

  He slipped and slid on the road. It was icy beneath the snow, but Joe’s tractor had been along, and the tyre ridges gave him some grip. It was cold in Poland, really cold. His mum would have a fire, though, in his grandma’s house. Surely she would. It wasn’t as though she was outside, working in this, like Joe.

  He turned left, and headed up the lane towards the farm. He loved the horses: the smell of them, the feel of their coats, their strength and their huffs. Yes, the huffs were special, and their lips were soft and fluttery on his hand, and their eyes were kind. He often wondered why he liked them so much and that’s why, or he thought it was. But it was something else as well.

  Over to the left he could hear the neighing of one of them, carried on the wind. He recognised it as Destiny, and smiled. It meant that Mr Andy had already started on the ditching around Haydock Field, where the wheat had been last year, and which this year grew kale. Joe said you had to grow different things to stop the soil getting sick. Jake liked farming. It was interesting, and sensible, and magical. You put in a seed and then something really different grew. He was near the pond now and could hear the wind in the rushes – the few that grew this side – and see them moving. It had become light, but then it did in the time it took to reach this point. The ducks were in the hide, and Joe fed them every day, because they were his babies, Miss F said.