by Milly Adams
She collected Francois, who strained on the lead initially to get to Jake, but walked to heel on command. He would only go if Jake called him. Basically, the dog deserved a medal and she crouched next to him, pulling his ears, whispering, ‘A marrow bone for you, if only we had one. Now, what shall we do this afternoon, a walk? We’ll take the lot of Class A, shall we? Then their mothers can continue with jam making and they can run off even more energy.’
Joe was calling all the children to him now, as the sheep grazed the meadow on the other side of the stream.
‘You’ve all been mighty nosy about the goings-on at the pond, ain’t you?’ The children nodded. ‘Any ideas?’ Joe asked. A cluster of hands shot up.
‘We asked, you wouldn’t say.’
‘Something for the ducks? They’re your babies, Miss F says.’
‘A sort of fence?’
‘It looks like a path.’
Joe held up his hand. The chatter died out. ‘Mr Andy has something to tell you.’
Andy stepped forward, the dogs at his heel. Phyllie was interested, because he had turned against them after his accident. He did seem to be healing in every way. He said, ‘What I want you to do is to go back to your homes and change into your swimmers. I know you all have them because I put in a secret request to the Guides, who got going on them during the winter. After two of you went through the ice it seemed it was high time you all learned to swim. The “pathway” is a boardwalk. It’s not for the ducks, as your teacher suggested, unless they choose to share it with you, but it’s a sort of jetty to walk along. It is from this that you will enter the water, either down the ladder or by jumping in from it. You will not enter via the bank, which will ruin it.’ He looked across at Phyllie, his face unreadable.
The children were grinning at one another. Andy continued, ‘We village children all learned in the pond. We have done for years and years until, in fact, the jetty collapsed five years ago. Some of the Scouts and Guides can swim, some can’t. Those that can will be in the water, helping. Those that can’t will also be in the water, like you, learning. You see, what you have to understand is that water can kill, but it can also be fun, be a great form of exercise, it can just be … well, nice.’
He was looking at her again. ‘Off you go now, get those costumes. You too, Miss Saunders. Miss F says you have one. We need all hands to the pump.’
Phyllie stood, aghast. She didn’t enjoy swimming, and would like it even less in front of everyone. The water looked cold. How dare Miss F …? Andy turned his attention to Ron and Jake. ‘The most important thing to learn, though, is that if someone says that you must not do something, there is usually a good reason. I will see you in fifteen minutes.’
When they all returned, they had their costumes on under their clothes. Phyllie removed her skirt and blouse, self-conscious and embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this man. Andy gathered them all together. He was in his trunks too, and it was only now they all realised the extent of his wounds: deep welts, burns, a chunk out of his upper arm, one out of his thigh. Phyllie felt a surge of guilt and compassion, but only until he bawled at her to get along the jetty with the youngest children, and into the water, rather than stand like a stuffed dummy.
She did so, clambering down the wooden ladder the Scouts had built on the end of the jetty, gasping at the cold, but trying to look as though she was enjoying every second. She managed half an hour before, shivering, she led the sevenand eight-year-olds out.
‘Leaving us so soon, Miss Saunders?’ Andy called as she dripped her way along the jetty, herding the children and shuddering with cold.
‘I rather feel I am, Mr Andy,’ she retorted through chattering teeth. ‘The children have had quite enough. I will come back to help from the jetty once I’ve restored some feeling to my body, if you don’t mind.’
‘Children have had enough, my Aunt Fanny,’ she heard him hoot. ‘You’re a really good swimmer, and teacher. You did well.’ She grabbed her towel from the pile, and dried herself, hearing his laugh, and not minding suddenly. Indeed, she was laughing in reply and feeling young for the first time in a long while.
She helped the children to dry themselves, listening to their excited chatter as they talked of floating and of allowing their faces to go into the water. She heard their boasts of how they had used their arms and legs to propel themselves along.
As they ran about playing tag, she watched the swimming lessons from the bank. Some children seemed to sink like stones, while others took to it effortlessly. It seemed connected to confidence as much as anything else. Bryan was ducking and diving immediately, clearly already a swimmer, Jake was pretty much middle of the road, while Ron clung to one of the uprights of the jetty. Within fifteen minutes he was clambering back onto the boardwalk refusing to return, slouching off, dressing, searching for his plimsolls in the pile, then picking up another pair by their laces, and throwing them high up in the air, and into the pond. ‘Here’s your plimsolls, Jakey boy,’ he yelled.
Phyllie was stunned. He ran past, calling to Bryan that he was going back to the McTravers dump, he’d had enough of fannying about like a bloody two-year-old. Phyllie started after him, calling, ‘Ron, come back this minute.’ He didn’t even bother to turn around and she couldn’t leave the children to chase after him. She returned to see Bryan heaving himself up on the jetty. It was at that point that Andy looked across at Phyllie. He was nodding, grimly, then returned to his teaching. Bryan dragged on his clothes, but this time Phyllie guarded the plimsolls. Bryan just looked at her and laughed, as he followed Ron.
The swimming lessons continued for another hour, during which time Andy remained in the water and Phyllie allowed herself to be aware of his strength, and his patience. She heard him laugh again and again, as he cheered the children on to greater efforts. When each session ended she moved amongst the children helping until finally the last of the swimmers was out. They were talking and laughing, and wondering when they could come again. ‘Please, miss, when?’ She didn’t know, but would find out.
It was then she saw Jake shivering on the jetty, still in his trunks, about to jump in. She called, ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I need my plimsolls,’ he said. ‘I think I can dive for them.’
Robert, one of the Scouts, shouted, ‘No need, tiddlin. Andy’s already on the case.’
Phyllie saw Andy swimming towards the point where Jake’s plimsolls had sunk. She watched as he dived until he found them, swishing them in the water until they were mud free. He tossed them onto the jetty, where Jake was waiting, dressed now, but barefoot.
‘Thank you, Mr Andy,’ Jake called, untying the wet laces, dragging on his plimsolls, his head down because although there had been much laughter, Jake had taken care to stay well away from this man.
When his laces were tied, he stood by Phyllie’s side, reaching for her hand, squeezing it, just once, and whispering, ‘That was kind, and it was for me.’ He said nothing about Ron’s behaviour, and seemed these days to accept it with something close to pity. Dan joined them, and the two boys talked of how cold the water seemed when you first got in.
Soon even the Guides and Scouts were dry, and Andy was dragging on his trousers. The children began to line up in front of Phyllie. She did a head count and realised she was missing one. It was Jake. She spun round. Francois stood up, catching her concern, but Jake was back at the jetty. Andy was now squatting at his side, talking intently. Jake stepped back, half shaking his head, and then he pointed to Phyllie. Andy stood up, nodding at him.
Jake took off around the pond, full of suppressed excitement, pulling her to one side, whispering, ‘He’s asked me to help with the horses because Doris and Destiny have missed me. He said Thomas can’t manage, really he can’t. He said that I’m clearly totally trustworthy.’
Phyllie looked down into his face, whispering in her turn, ‘Did he apologise?’
He grinned. ‘I think perhaps he did. He said he wished it hadn’t happen
ed, that perhaps he’d been a bit quick to judge. What do you think, Phyllie?’
The children were restless in the line-up. She waved them to order. ‘What do you want to do?’
He laughed. ‘You know what I want, and it’s just the most perfect thing, because I can tell Dad I’m working with the horses, and I can tell him that water isn’t scary, and that will help him feel safer, won’t it? It’s not always dark and frightening, is it?’
‘Off you go then, but hurry. This lot are champing at the bit to get home for their tea.’
He ran back to Andy, who was waiting, looking out over the sheep in the meadow, and soon there could be cows in the corn, she thought. Jake was right, it all was the most perfect thing.
In July, on the first Friday, as the wheat was beginning to ripen and the blackcurrants, redcurrants and gooseberries were still going strong, she and Jake caught the first bus after school. They were going into Bestminster, to meet their men. They ran to the guesthouse where Isaac and Sammy would be waiting, if their train had been on time.
There they were, at the gate, in their uniforms, looking like two peas in a pod but so tired and old. Jake streaked ahead of Phyllie who for a moment felt shy, hesitant and frightened by the change. Then Sammy smiled at her, and it was the same wonderful smile, and she was running again, into his arms, into the smell of the submarine, the diesel, the … well, everything. He was kissing her face, her neck and then her lips, his hands on either side of her face, his eyes open. ‘You are so lovely,’ he breathed.
Jake was dragging at Isaac. ‘Come on, Miss F is waiting with supper.’
Isaac laughed at Phyllie. ‘Hello, and let’s get going I think is the greeting.’
The men tossed the usual small canvas bags over their shoulders. Sammy put his arm around Phyllie’s waist, hugging her to him. She said, ‘Miss F hasn’t room for you to stay, I’m sorry, I thought you realised, so perhaps you should leave the bags at the guesthouse.’
He bent and kissed her lips, ‘What a worry guts you still are. I know that. We’ve just got a few things for you.’
They caught the bus back to the village, where Miss F had pheasant pie ready but before they sat, Isaac and Jake took Francois out for a run, or the dog would never have settled. As he went Isaac grinned at Sammy and nodded at his bag. ‘Don’t take all the credit, all the lads leaned on Cookie, remember. They were all prepared to do without, including the captain.’
Sammy laughed. ‘As if I would. Go and stretch the mutt’s legs.’
‘He’s not a mutt, Sammy,’ Jake yelled through the back door. ‘He’s un chien.’
His father laughed. ‘Show off; come on, you.’
Isaac was shutting the door behind them, when Phyllie heard Jake ask, ‘Have you heard from Mum or Uncle Otto?
Phyllie didn’t hear the answer, and Sammy was no help, as he dug around in his bag, coming up with packet after packet of sugar. ‘Twenty-five pounds of sugar for the use of, well, jam. With the compliments of all aboard Vehement, but I need to take some jam back with me. Phyllie says you’ve made “sugarless” in the Aga. As well as honey, and a bit of sugar, I think that needs salt, Cookie says. Well, there’s some salt here, too. So, we’ll have a few jars out of your pantry, and you can slip this into your new hiding place, Miss F. It will make up the shortfall. How’s that for a fair exchange?’
Miss F kissed him on the cheek. ‘Christmas has come early, and, my dear Sammy, you and Mr Kaplan will make simply splendid plumbers. I will stack up the jobs in readiness.’ Phyllie gripped his hand, and wondered how she could possibly love this man more than she already did, but he had just shown her that it was possible.
After tea and as evening came it was hard to say farewell, and so they didn’t. Isaac slept on cushions in Jake’s room, which, he said in the morning, Francois had thought a wonderful idea, and had crept under the blanket with him. Sammy slept on the sofa in the kitchen and Phyllie lay awake upstairs, wishing the war was over, and that they were in their own house, with a child in the boxroom. Then they would lie together, their arms around one another, listening to the birds singing, and she would feel his lips on hers … All that day, as the village went to church, they had held hands, or hugged, even when watching Jake swimming in the pond with Isaac. As the afternoon wore on, she led Sammy off into the woods, where she showed him the tree where she and Jake had found the mistletoe. He kissed her as though it was still there.
She and Jake led them to the school, where the Home Guard marched in the playground, with a great clatter of boots, none of them in time, before walking to the Preservation Centre at the farm. Although they were quick to shut the door behind them, Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon flapped tea towels, shouting, ‘Wasps!’ Mrs Speedie’s hair was escaping from the other tea towel she had tied around her hair, the air was full of the sweet smell of jam, and was as hot as a brothel in Egypt, Sammy whispered to Phyllie when they left. She slapped him, asking when he’d been in such a place. He’d pretended to be hurt, but was laughing so much he could hardly speak. Isaac raised his eyebrows at Jake and said, ‘There are some strange people in this world.’
Jake dragged his dad into the old barn, where many of the children were playing. ‘This is Dan, and Dan, this is my dad.’ He was so proud as Isaac joined Dan and four others, who were playing darts, while Phyllie and Sammy chatted their way around the room until they reached the table tennis area. Ron and Bryan were playing, and Sammy said, ‘I’m rusty, who’s going to get me back into the swing of it.’
The two boys looked at one another. Bryan said, ‘I’d wipe the floor with you. Ron, why don’t you give him a whirl?’ He sat on one of the bales of straw that Joe had brought in to demarcate the areas, lounging back as though he owned the place. Ron and Sammy played, and some of Sammy’s shots were wild. He kept asking Ron to show him how to get it right, and slowly he improved, until they had a decent game. By this time lots of the children were watching and Sammy was only narrowly beaten.
He shook Ron’s hand. ‘You’re a good player; a good teacher too, isn’t he, Miss Saunders?’ She agreed, loving this man more than life itself, and what’s more, clearly he’d be the most wonderful father, if this short time with Ron was anything to go by. Ron grinned, wiping his hands down his pullover.
Sammy said, ‘I’d like one of those pullovers. Bet your mum got it for you.’
Ron’s grin grew even broader. Sammy tossed the ping-pong ball at Bryan, who dropped it. The others laughed. Bryan scowled.
‘Better luck next time,’ Sammy said. ‘You can’t have too much practice, you know.’
They all walked along the lane, and Jake pointed out Mr Joe and Mr Andy in the potato field way beyond the allotments. They were leading the hoeing teams between the furrows. Some of the WI members were in the allotments, sitting on small stools and picking redcurrants. ‘It’s been a bad year; uncertain weather has led to poor soft fruit. We’re hoping for better things next year,’ Phyllie explained.
Jake ran ahead with Francois, and waited for them to catch up. ‘We use milking stools to pick the currants for the jam, or it kills your back. Phyllie makes a fuss because she says she’s taller than we children and has more back to ache.’
She chased him, hand in hand with Sammy, and they stopped, panting, by the gate to the potato field. They all leaned on it, resting their elbows, watching the line of Scouts, Guides and children hoeing. She wanted to be closer to Sammy, squeezed up against him, so that there was no space between them, and never ever would be.
Jake said, ‘The WI jam makers have to do a course – sort of going back to school – because it has to be good. Some of the ladies were cross because they said their jam was already good but Mrs Symes has done the course, so she tells everyone what’s what, and now there are no wasps or hairs. I think they look funny in their tea towels, but they flick your legs with one if you laugh. It stings.’
‘Bit like our captain,’ Isaac murmured, winking at Phyllie.
‘Is it really? Reall
y, Dad?’
‘You should see him,’ Sammy joined in. ‘But Cookie’s the worst. Anyone gets in his way and then he comes and flicks us all.’
Jake was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. He took a deep breath, and said, out of nowhere, ‘How do you escape when a ship is hunting you, Dad?’
Isaac looked at Sammy, and then said, ‘We’ve a great captain, haven’t we, Sammy? He gets us out of lots of fun and games because he knows all the tricks.’
They were walking along again, Jake holding his father’s hand. ‘What tricks?’
‘Ah,’ Sammy said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling.’
‘But tell me then,’ Jake insisted.
‘One thing that he’s good at, or lucky at, is finding the layers. You see water isn’t just water, it forms layers like rock does. The salt content and the temperature differ, and it disturbs what their hydrophones hear. All we have to do is to find a different layer and it’s like being in a cave. We still have to be quiet, but their Asdic, which is coming down like signals, gets bounced off at a different angle.’
Jake and Phyllie were listening carefully, and Jake said, ‘So he’s lucky, your captain?’
Isaac said, stooping to pick a buttercup, holding it beneath his son’s chin. ‘Very lucky, so we’re lucky too. Look, Jake, Sammy and I are like everyone else, we’re all doing our bit, like the village, and the WI, and you children. You’ve been brave and lucky, because you’ve moved from your houses and ended up in a different, but happy place. And what’s more, I can tell you like butter.’
Phyllie watched Jake. He had the same shaped face as his father, with fine cheekbones and full lips, and the same habit of frowning so that two lines dug deep between his eyebrows. He was doing so now, and said, ‘It’s not brave but it is lucky because I feel as though I’m at home, with Phyllie and Miss F. Francois does too, and he’s in a strange place, stranger than for all of us really. Yes, I do like butter, but we don’t get much with rationing because Mr Joe is very strict, and we don’t have “any bloody favours”.’
