by Milly Adams
Jake said, ‘Mr Joe’s opening the old barn again, Phyllie. Mr Andy’s been working on the roof since the wind lifted the tarpaulin and Mrs Whitehead came in and pinned a notice about it on the board. The one in the school corridor by the pegs. She and Mrs Otis were chatting over a cup of tea in the staff room, with the door open. Mrs Otis wished he’d come and work on her roof. Mrs Whitehead laughed, then sort of coughed because Mrs Otis has bought Miss Harvey’s house, and I think Mrs Whitehead is still upset about Miss Harvey dying. Anyway, we can go back to the barn now it’s spring, can’t we, and the roof is done?’
Francois stirred on the rug. Phyllie checked the clock. ‘Good grief, is that the time? You should have been in bed half an hour ago.’
‘But, Phyllie—’
‘No buts. Up you go.’ Jake put the Airfix aeroplane he was building on an old tray up onto the shelf above the pan cupboard, and slouched out of the door, with not a goodnight, or by your leave, and even Francois’ tail was between his legs as he followed.
Miss F said, counting her stitches, her finger flying along the needle, ‘Spring is coming; it really is time the children got back to the old barn, you know. There’s been no ice on the pond for weeks, if that’s what’s been worrying you, or is it Andy and his rudeness? Joe says he’s improving, and after all he’s been working on the roof, for goodness’ sake.’
Phyllie held up the skirt she was hemming for a new evacuee from London who had very few clothes. She said, ‘I’m wondering if Fanny McTravers, who works a few hours behind the bar at the pub, could cope with Ron? It’s too much for Mrs Campion, and not good for the little children.’
Miss F just looked at her. ‘Ah, so we’re not going to discuss the old barn, then? Yes, I have been thinking of Ron, and you’re right, Fanny’s used to dealing with all sorts as a barmaid. She might be just the sort of lass who could cope with him. Her aunt lives with her, and can mind him when Fanny’s working. We’ve simply got to get him away from that ghastly Anderton gang. They’re up to all sorts at Great Mitherton. The public telephone was broken into last week.’
‘Goodnight, anyway, I suppose,’ Jake called from the top of the stairs.
Phyllie laid the dress on the arm of the sofa, and stood, raising her eyebrows at Miss F, who whispered, ‘He is a dear. He actually wants to pummel you for sending him up without answering him.’
‘Coming,’ Phyllie called. Pummel? Was this a dig at her for her behaviour towards Andy? Had Andy told Joe? Had Joe told Miss F at one of the quiz evenings at the pub? He had taken Miss Harvey’s place on the team and had been a surprising fount of knowledge. Well, he should confine his chatting to that, not her behaviour towards his son. She felt herself flushing as she left the room.
The stairs creaked less this week. It was strange how the cold had made them worse. Yes, the weather had lifted, spring was coming, and there was no earthly reason not to resume the after-school activities at the barn. But how could she ever go near the farm again? Shame drenched her, as it did every time she remembered slapping and hitting Andy.
Jake was standing at the window, the oil lamp unlit, the blind up, Francois sitting beside him. She loved that dog, his devotion, his energy, the way he still played as though a puppy, but who was to say how old he was? Together they would look up at the sky, the same sky above his father and her Sammy. She stood next to him, Francois in between them. She turned the ring on her finger. Wonderful Sammy. She dropped her hand, and stroked Francois.
Frankie had telephoned last week. The days were as busy but the nights were much quieter and their mother was getting more rest. They were grateful for the pickle, and the clothes, he had added before, surprisingly, her mother had taken the receiver from him and thanked her for the wool for the knitting circle she had created. They needed more, she added, her voice crisp.
‘Perhaps I can find some. This was from the Bartletts’ attic. Mrs Bartlett knitted,’ Phyllie had said calmly. ‘I’m pleased you are getting more sleep. Take care, Mother.’
‘It’s a bomber’s moon,’ Jake whispered now.
She replied, ‘It’s so bright. One day we’ll call it a hunter’s moon again.’
Which city would be targeted tonight? Perhaps, with the Luftwaffe expected in North Africa, there would be fewer aircraft flying towards Britain? But that would mean British troops would get it. She stopped the thoughts by counting stars because it was all so impossibly difficult and Britain’s efforts seemed to be getting them nowhere. Yes, the invasion by the Germans, which seemed so probable last year, hadn’t happened, but it still could.
She laid her hand on Jake’s shoulder, half expecting him to shrug her off. He didn’t. She said, ‘It will be wonderful when your dad and Sammy get the plumbing business up and running, won’t it?’
He grinned up at her now. ‘Dad said they’ll have to train, but then they’ll live here or in the town. That’d be good, wouldn’t it, Phyllie? We won’t have to leave Miss F, and Mum will like it, and probably my grandparents. I haven’t met them, so I can only guess. Ron will be gone then, back to London, so he won’t be mean to them because they’re bloody Yids, but Bryan will, and Eddie and the gang …’ His enthusiasm faded. ‘I hope the Germans are being kind in Poland.’
She gripped his shoulder. ‘I expect they are. They’re not fighting any more, are they? Try not to worry.’
He said, without turning, ‘The Germans said they don’t like Jews, before the war, though. They hurt Mum’s cousin in Germany.’
‘Well, Krakow isn’t Germany, and people say a lot of things, don’t they? Jake, you and your family are not bloody Yids. I do wish you’d stop saying that.’
‘I think that’s what Mr Andy thinks I am, but he doesn’t say it. I think that Mr Samson thinks it too, but he doesn’t say it either, he just looks and takes ages to serve me, and so does Mrs Wellington when I go with Miss F to her café, with the pickle she’d ordered. Mr Joe’s nice, though, and I’ve missed him and the barn, and the horses. Farms don’t do much, do they, over the winter, but he’ll need all of us children again now the spring is coming.’
Phyllie pulled him to her, Francois pressed against them both. She kissed Jake’s head, fiercely. ‘Yes, he is nice, and I’m sure that’s not why Andy is as he is. After all, he’s grumpy to everyone, and we haven’t seen him much at all over the winter, and only then at a distance, so he might be feeling better. I mean, why would he sort out the roof if he was grumpy?’
‘He did before, and then went grumpy again.’
‘Oh, Jake, sometimes we have to be hopeful. When you think about it, it must hurt to lose your hand, and if that happens, perhaps we lose something else, something inside ourselves. And I think he’s cross because he’s trying to find it. I think in some sort of way, that’s happened to Ron too.’
He pulled away from her. ‘I can’t breathe when you do that, Phyllie.’ His face was red.
She laughed. ‘Say goodnight to your dad and mum.’ He returned to the window, looked up at the sky, and his face said everything.
She tucked him in and kissed his forehead, ‘Sleep well,’ she murmured. The floorboards creaked a little on the landing and the stairs, the cold of the hall flagstones seeped through her thick socks, and she sidestepped to the runner. Her slippers had gone the way of all flesh, and there were none to be had in the shops. In the kitchen, the wireless was still muttering, and Miss F was still knitting. There was, however, a mug of chamomile tea steaming on the table beside the sofa.
Last year they had picked the chamomile that grew in the troughs at the end of the long thin garden and dried it in bunches. They had hung it from the airer that was suspended from the ceiling in front of the Aga. It usually helped her to sleep, but had been failing recently.
Miss F laid down her knitting and took up her own mug. The steam furred her spectacles as it always did. She tutted and removed them, then blew on the liquid and said, ‘It won’t do, it simply won’t. You have avoided the farm as though it contains the plague, an
d what’s more, you have denied the children the pleasure of it. I remind you that there’s a notice at school, basically an invitation from Joe and Andy—’
‘From Joe, not Andy,’ Phyllie shouted. Even she was appalled at her tone of voice.
Miss F banged her mug down on her side table and sat upright, replacing her spectacles. ‘I beg your pardon, young madam.’
The women stared at one another. They had never had a disagreement before and Phyllie felt like a naughty schoolgirl. Well, perhaps she was. Miss F pointed her finger, emphasising each word. ‘I want to know exactly what has happened. You said Andy was unkind to Jake over the pond incident, that’s all. Now, the rest, at once.’
It tumbled out: Ron’s accusations, Andy’s cruel words, and how she had gone to the farm, how she had hit him, again and again. She ended, ‘I hit his stump. Not deliberately, or I don’t think so, but … Jake’s just said he thinks Andy doesn’t like him because he’s a Yid.’
Miss F sat back, her hands in her lap. The only sound was the Aga crackling and the clock ticking. Above them, in the bedroom, Francois yelped, probably in his sleep. At last, the headmistress said, ‘Let me get this straight. Andy was ditching. He saved the boys, he carried the bootless Jake home, he gave them a rollicking, and you too.’
‘He believed Ron,’ Phyllie cried, her hands fisted in her lap. ‘He said Jake couldn’t be trusted and denied him the horses.’
‘So you went and hit him, many times.’
Phyllie dropped her head, unable to meet Miss F’s eyes. Miss F said, ‘Well, I think perhaps there’s a bit of guilt swishing around here, don’t you? Your guilt.’
It was what Phyllie knew only too well to be the truth, and it was what Sammy had written to her too. Get it over with, he’d written. The bloke saved the little idiots – well, the one idiot was Ron. Perhaps Andy was scared for them, or it touched something he was scared of, who knows? We say things we don’t mean when we’re scared. You need to go and see him.
Miss F said, ‘I suspect that the incident struck a nerve in Andy, who used to be such a nice boy. Jake did what he did: he left the scene, seeking help. Perhaps he was angry all over again, but at himself, or perhaps he wanted to prevent Jake from feeling that same anger and guilt? Who knows? I expect he doesn’t. I doubt he’d put his feelings into words, but he might put it into a roof. I thought our Joe was being a bit quiet on the subject, and I can see why now. It’s not every day one’s son gets metaphorically put over a little slip of a girl’s knee. If Joe even knows, of course; it’s not something Andy would shout about, is it?’
There was silence. Both women looked at the Aga, Phyllie drawn by its warmth and familiarity. Miss F continued, ‘One thing of which I am absolutely certain is that there is no prejudice in either of the Bartlett men.’
Again there was silence. ‘Drink your chamomile, my dearest Phyllie. I think, don’t you, that we both love that little boy to distraction, and therefore we are inclined to tear anyone who hurts him limb from limb. We have to assess the situation objectively, however, and you must put aside your own embarrassment and guilt. Further, we must, above all, remember Jake is not ours, he’s on loan. He will go back into the care of his parents, God willing, and we must celebrate that fact, and, until then, do what is best for him.’
To her horror Phyllie saw Miss F’s lips trembling, and her eyes fill with tears, and she felt frightened, much as a child did, when a parent became upset. It wasn’t just Jake she had come to love, she realised. Perhaps that was why she was able to detach from her own mother, and was interested, but not affected, by her. This woman had taken her mother’s place.
She shared with Miss F the plans the men had of moving to Dorset once the war was over. ‘As long as Rachel agrees, so we won’t lose him entirely.’
She reached for her chamomile tea, sipped it. ‘You drink yours, Miss F,’ she said gently.
They talked into the small hours, and at last Phyllie headed up the stairs, accepting that Sammy and Miss F were right, it was high time she faced Andy. It was also time Jake realised that life isn’t necessarily fair and anger is about many things, not just prejudice. Most of all, that love could heal many hurts.
Chapter Fourteen
THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY morning, at ten o’clock, she led the school along the lane, keeping ‘eyes front’ as they passed the pond. They were singing, ‘This Old Man’. Jake was walking with Dan, deep in conversation about the model Hurricane they were working on and the table tennis league that Mrs Otis was mapping out. Ron was just behind her with Bryan, keeping their voices low. Skulduggery in the offing, no doubt, Phyllie thought, glad to have that to concentrate on, rather than the thought of what she must do. Miss F was bringing up the rear, and Mrs Otis held the mid-line position.
They were going to see the lambs that had just been born, and which were kept in the new barn, opposite the old barn. They were corralled with their mothers, or so Joe had said in his phone call. There were some older ones in the field to the left of the lane, chomping their way through the turnip tops. Temporary fencing had been erected, which would be moved back progressively as the tops were cleared, leaving the turnips to be dug up later.
They entered the yard, and Phyllie’s nervousness increased, but Andy was nowhere in sight. It was Joe who waited for them, his trousers tied below the knee to prevent the rats roaring up and taking his goolies, as he delighted in telling anyone who cared to ask. He had his mac tied around his waist with string. She caught Jake’s glance. He straightened, bracing his shoulders, proud of his own ‘working’ mackintosh, which had been washed after the pond episode and was none the worse for it. It, too, was held together with string.
The school children were sorted into groups, and the first went into the new barn, while those that waited went into the old barn to sweep the floor and dust the table tennis table. In the new barn Joe leaned against an upright, while the children gathered at the pens, laughing and pointing at the lambs. He fingered his cigarette, pulled it from behind his ear and began the lambing chat he had promised. ‘You see them tiddlins having a good old go at their mother’s tits. Well, you did too when you was tiddlins, but you won’t remember that. Mayhap you’d need to talk to your teachers about that.’
He looked up at Phyllie and Miss F. Phyllie murmured, ‘Well, thanks so much.’
‘Quite,’ whispered Miss F, but as always, her whisper was clearly audible. The children looked round puzzled, then back at Joe who was laughing quietly as he continued to roll his cigarette between his fingers. Little Clive, from Mrs Otis’s class of seven-year-olds, and before that Spitalfields, called, ‘You smoke that and you’ll set the whole bloody lot alight, then we’ll be having roast lamb.’
Joe pointed. ‘That’d be right, young ’un. You can fiddle with the little rascal, but never more’n that. Never ever light a match near a barn. You got that, all on yer?’
The children had long ago come to terms with the language that floated around willy-nilly, and barely noticed it, just as Phyllie did not. They were nodding their heads, including Ron. Bryan, also looked thoughtful, though he always worked hard at being uninterested. Joe pointed to the older lambs. ‘Them lot of tiddlins need more’n milk, so we give this clover hay that we chaff to short pieces.’ He reached into a bucket and brought out a handful, letting it drop back. ‘That’ll go into that there trough at feeding time. We’ll creep the fencing forward to keep the tiddlins on one side, and their mums t’other. They’re not like our mums, giving us the best and going without themselves, but’ll shove ’emselves forward and guzzle the lot. Survival of the fittest, you might say, eh, Miss F? Reckon we even give ’em a nibble of the linseed cake as a treat. We all like treats, don’t we? I spect we’ve got the ladies from the WI in the big kitchen right now, putting together something to titillate your tiddlin taste buds.’
Miss F nodded, as the children swung round to look at her. ‘But there’s someone else in t’other kitchen I’d like you to meet,’ Joe added. Phyll
ie and Jake snatched a look at one another. Just then, little Sally Taylor from Miss Otis’s class, who had lived in the village since she was born, pointed to a lamb huddled in the corner, with something tied round it. ‘Excuse us, Mr Bartlett, why’s the tiddlin wearing that?’
‘Ah, young Sally, thought you’d a known that. You see, you vacees, you’re helping our own children learn things.’ The evacuees amongst the children grinned at one another, clearly feeling important, and Phyllie could have kissed the man.
Joe said, ‘Now where was I? Ah yes, that tiddlin’s a little orphan Annie, that she is.’ Joe had moved to the corner of the pens, and was pointing. ‘You see, she lost her mum to a fox, or maybe a pack of dogs who don’t know how to behave.’
Jake shot round to Joe. ‘It wasn’t Francois, honest. He’s not allowed out on his own, is he, Phyllie? Is he, Miss F? So you don’t need to shoot him, you don’t.’ She heard the terror in his voice.
She felt a familiar anger stir, because that was down to bloody Andy. Joe leaned forward, and tousled Jake’s dark hair. ‘Course it weren’t, and we all know that, don’t fret. Now, that tiddlin ’asn’t a mum, and that big lump of a lady sheep standing near him, looking as though she’s about to make a decision, has lost her lamb. So we skinned the dead ’un, and put it round the orphan, and we ’ope the mother thinks it’s her own tiddlin, and lets her suckle. P’rhaps a bit like you lot. Well, you don’t wear skins, but these good ladies in the villages look after you until your own mums can, don’t they?’
The children were silent, watching, barely breathing, as the sheep moved nearer to the lamb who was bleating, his little legs fragile and unsteady, his tail going nineteen to the dozen as he made his way towards her. The sheep sniffed, and then butted him away. The children groaned, as did the two women. Joe hushed them. ‘Patience. Give her a chance. Nothing ’appens overnight, do it?’
