Above Us the Sky

by Milly Adams

  ‘And mine. And we need to hide the sugar well, and in several places, so that it can never happen again.’ She sat down at the kitchen table, pointing to another chair. Miss F sat. They each took another sip of the wine. Miss F said, ‘We shouldn’t; the sun’s not over the yardarm.’

  Phyllie shook her head. ‘We need it. What about putting it within Joe’s farmhouse itself, locked up tight? Not even that little load of louts would rampage through Joe and Andy’s home, would they, though they did use the phone at Christmas.’

  ‘It’s a huge house. There are so many nooks and crannies with locks, I think it’s the safest bet. We can but try, and Joe and Andy will keep quiet about it all.’ Miss F sipped again. ‘Oh, Phyllie, the little buggers will get away with it, that’s what grips my knickers. So so clever.’

  ‘We have to get Ron out of their clutches before the situation is irrecoverable,’ Phyllie said, ‘but I don’t know how. I’m worried they’ll find another way to get at Jake, or perhaps he’s just a tool. If there’s no sugar, there’s no need to point the finger at him?’

  Miss F looked again at the photo and murmured, ‘I just don’t know. We stay alert and calm, my dear. We watch and we wait. I’ll talk to Joe. We are to meet at Burley’s pub tonight to celebrate a good harvest.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ Phyllie smiled. ‘This is becoming rather a regular occurrence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ Miss F snapped, colouring. ‘If you’d let me continue I was going to say that I’ll talk to Joe, and then Mrs Symes, explaining everything, so that if it is tried again, they can support us in our defence of Jake, and the past lies perpetrated by these appalling boys.’

  ‘Do we tell Jake about this, and the previous pencil that was found?’

  Miss F now finished the wine, patting her mouth with her handkerchief. ‘We need to think about that. I don’t want to panic him, but I want him to be aware that … Oh, I just don’t know.’

  The two women sat quietly now and then Phyllie remembered the wedding. How could she forget? ‘Some better news,’ she said. ‘In Sammy’s letter, the one I received this morning and which was so delayed, he asks me to arrange the wedding ready for his next leave. I’ve just been to the vicarage and Jack is sorting it out.’

  Miss F rammed her handkerchief back in her pocket, and gripped Phyllie’s hand. ‘My dear, I am not totally stunned by the news, but I am inordinately thrilled.’

  There was just time for Phyllie to cycle over and take what plums the Thompsons had picked to the Preservation Centre. By this time her head was spinning and she knew it had been a mistake to have the elderberry wine and the sickness was back. Heat and Joe’s homemade wine were a terrible mix.

  Jake walked with Phyllie to the field later that afternoon. She, the children and the Guides and Scouts followed the Fordson, which hauled the reaper loaned by the ‘men from the ministry’. Andy drove. The reaper threw up dust and bits as it separated the wheat from the chaff, churning out lengths of straw. This they scooped up and tied into bundles, with Joe cursing at the ‘bloody hopeless wartime string’, which constantly snapped.

  They wedged the bundles upright into stooks, with Jake on one lane and Phyllie on another. The heat beat down, the insects swarmed, the swallows took flight, gliding constantly to and fro, making her feel quite strange, so much so that suddenly the world swam and her legs turned to water, and the blackness threatened to drag her to the ground. Joe caught her as she sank. ‘You all right, lass?’

  He pushed her head down, and poured water from his flask on her neck, soaking her shirt and hair, which she had cut quite short after Sammy left. She felt desperately sick, and fought the blackness.

  Jake came running across into her lane, calling, ‘Phyllie, what’s wrong?’

  Joe squatted beside her, offering his flask to drink from. He waved Jake back to work. ‘Sip it, Phyllie. It’s just a mite hot, and you ain’t got a hat, silly bissom.’

  She sipped, and fought down the nausea. She said, ‘We had a few sips of your elderberry wine, which was a real mistake. Miss F will explain why, Joe, this evening.’ The water was warm, too warm. She couldn’t drink any more. ‘Help me up, Joe.’ Her voice was a whisper. For goodness’ sake, woman, pull yourself together, she told herself.

  He grabbed her arm, and hauled. She stood and her head swam. She swallowed. Lord, she felt so awful.

  Joe called to Peter, Miss Deacon’s nephew. ‘Take this lass back to her house. She needs to cool off, and Phyllie, wear a bloody hat next time. You’re so busy telling the kids and look at you, a right red-faced mess.’

  ‘So kind,’ she muttered, as Peter stood awkwardly by, holding out his hand. She smiled. ‘Really, I’m fine. I will go home, though, to hunt out a hat for tomorrow.’

  The relief on the boy’s face was palpable. She searched for Jake. He was standing in the next lane, watching her, tension in the rigid set of his shoulders. She called, ‘I’m off to find a hat, so come home when the others do.’ Francois was beside him, as always, but even he was hot, panting as though he’d run several miles.

  Jake’s smile was relieved and broad. He waved. She stumbled home, the bits of straw itching. She felt so hot she feared she would sink to the ground again, at any moment. Once home she vomited before crawling to bed, pulling down the blackout blind, and lying in the dark, until at last the nausea eased and she slept. Miss F came back from the Preservation Centre in the early evening and checked on her, but Phyllie waved her away. ‘It was just too hot today, and I will never ever have elderberry wine again as long as I live. I must remember to take my hat, next time.’

  Miss F said, ‘I’ll put mine out for you if you don’t. That’ll make doubly sure you remember to take your own.’

  Phyllie laughed, and then slept.

  The next morning, she woke early, and the nausea caught her again, as she swung herself out of bed. After an hour or so, it faded, but only a bit.

  ‘A hangover,’ she muttered, wondering how people could drink too much on a regular basis. It was the same the next morning, and then the next and it was then she remembered the sickness she had felt last week, and the light-headedness when she had hurried downstairs, having overslept.

  So, it wasn’t the wine or the heat and she remained quite still, thinking, and slowly things began to click into place. She reached for her diary, trying to remain calm, opening it and working her way backwards with shaking fingers. At breakfast she refused the cup of coffee essence that Miss F offered her as a special treat and a cure for lingering hangover-cum-heatstroke. Instead, she sipped cold water and picked at her dried toast. She must look at things practically. She must not panic.

  Jake and Francois had already left for their walk around the village and Jake would later head to the farm, to do whatever was on his agenda for the day. Miss F had dug out a hat for Phyllie. It was a grubby white, with a floppy brim. She tried it on, unable to bear the thought of climbing up the stairs again for her own.

  Miss F looked her up and down, saying, ‘My word, you’re quite the colour of the hat. It’s not something that would rise to a wedding but for grubbing about in a harvest field, I think it’s just about the ticket. And now I must tart myself up, before heading off to overheat in the steam of the Preservation Centre. Keep your hat on, madam, or Joe will have your guts for garters and mine too when he pops round this evening with some wine. No, don’t panic, don’t you remember your brother felt those in London might like a slurp. Jake’s chatting to Dan next door, while they find the eggs for Mr Milford. He’ll be back in a minute. Go and look at yourself in the mirror, see if the hat is just too awful.’ She headed for the stairs, pounding up them.

  Phyllie smiled, and followed her into the hall, risking a look in the hall mirror. She saw the darkness beneath her eyes, and her pallor, which could not have occurred overnight, but which she had failed to notice. It did indeed match the floppy off-white old hat. She pressed her hand to her belly, then let it hang at her side. Oh, Sammy, hurry h
ome.

  The doorbell rang. She snatched off the hat, and opened the front door. It would be the postie, knocking, eager for his drink of mint tea. He stood on the doorstep and held out a letter in a buff envelope. He didn’t smile as usual. She looked at the letter, aware that Miss F had come downstairs, and was calling, ‘Don’t make the doorstep untidy, Willie. Come into the kitchen, for heaven’s sake.’ But Willie was hurrying back along the path, and both women looked after him, confused.

  He was already latching the gate behind him, when Miss F turned to Phyllie who was studying the envelope. It was for Jake, but marked for her attention, as Jake’s guardian. Miss F was beside her now. The letter seemed to weigh an absolute ton, and to suck the air from this dark hallway.

  ‘Shall I?’ Miss F asked, her voice gentle suddenly. Phyllie couldn’t move as she watched Miss F take the letter from the envelope and read it, silently. Phyllie watched the colour leave her face. Miss F now read it aloud. It was a letter from the Navy. Phyllie heard words, some lodged: ‘Leading Seaman Kaplan … Vehement … not returned from patrol. It must be presumed … he had died in … of his duty …’ or some such. Some bloody such. Outside the sun was still shining. How? Why? Some bloody such. No. No. If Isaac, then Sammy. She reached for Miss F, feeling her head swimming, her legs shaking. She felt Miss F’s arm around her, holding her up.

  ‘Now, now, Phyllie’ she said, dropping the letter onto the telephone table.

  Oh God, Jake. He’d be back, any minute.

  Phyllie pushed free and snatched up the envelope from the table, because she could see the corner of another letter. Phyllie saw sloping writing in black ink. It said that Jakub could rest assured that his father had served and died for the good of his adopted country, and in the pursuit of valuable intelligence.

  She heard the awful wailing inside herself, but no, Jake would be back. Any minute. Rest assured? Rest? Assured? How could a child do that? She crunched the letters in her fists. Damn and blast and bugger the bloody war. She fought against tears.

  ‘He’ll be back soon, with Dan.’ Her voice sounded strange as it squeezed past this huge lump in her throat. ‘He will be back, and I must be the one to tell him, Miss F.’

  Miss F wasn’t looking at her, but at the path. She was so still.

  ‘Shall I, while you telephone your mother?’ Miss F said, her lips barely moving, as though they were numb.

  Phyllie turned to stare at the telephone. ‘Why would I telephone my mother?’

  ‘I think that perhaps Sammy’s parents might have contacted her, to pass on news to you. They don’t know our telephone number and they are Sammy’s next of kin, so it is they who would be informed. I’m sad to say that I’m not totally sure your mother would telephone the news to you.’

  ‘No, Sammy will be coming home. Don’t say that.’

  Jake was turning into the gate now, with Francois at his heels, carrying the basket with a few eggs given by Mr Milford, as always. Dan called, as he headed for Miss Deacon’s, ‘See you later, Jake.’

  ‘Don’t say that, not now, Miss F,’ Phyllie said. ‘We need to look after the boy. We really do need to look after him. Jake, Isaac’s boy, Rachel’s too. We need to take care of him. Sammy will be all right. Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s the boy first.’

  She couldn’t stop herself talking, as she watched Jake practising his whistle, his lips pursed, one hand in his dungaree pockets, strolling down the path. He only looked up when Francois stopped dead, his head cocked to one side, looking at the two women; finally his tail drooped, his ears flattened. Jake hesitated, put his hand out to his dog, watching them, puzzled.

  Now, Phyllie was silent as she watched the whistle die on his lips. She watched as he looked at their faces, and then the crumpled letters in Phyllie’s hands. He stared for a long moment, then his face changed, and the light went from his eyes, and he looked as he had done before they came to Little Mitherton. Phyllie lifted her arms to him, her hands still in fists, the letters within them. He ran to her then, into her arms, and only now did she open her hands, and let the letters fall. His sobs were almost silent, though his body heaved, and now Francois came, and sat so close that Phyllie could hear his breathing.

  That day they did not return to the wheatfield, and Miss F did not go to the Preservation Centre. ‘Just for today,’ she said, and for them the world stood still as they sat in the garden, beneath the flowering cherry tree. Though he was now twelve, Jake sat on Phyllie’s lap and wouldn’t move. He just wept until he slept. It was then Miss F took him from Phyllie and kept him on her lap while Phyllie telephoned her brother.

  ‘Darling Phyllie,’ he said, ‘I’m sure we haven’t heard. Mother would have said. Let me talk to her. Hold on. It might be all right. Remember that. It might be.’

  He was gone for a while, but it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered any more, because there was no hope. She knew that. She heard Frankie’s voice as he shouted at someone, really shouted, saying, ‘All right, so you were struggling to find the words to tell her, but I could have helped. Oh, Mother. When did Mrs Williams telephone you? … But that was hours ago.’

  She held the receiver against her ear, opening the front door, because she needed air, so she could breathe. She stared at herself in the hall mirror in the light that streamed in through the front door. She still existed, how extraordinary. She reached up and touched her mouth. She’d never feel his lips again, she knew. He’d never know …

  Amy Jackson came up the path with Mrs Speedie, who called, ‘Is Miss F coming today, Phyllie? We were worried. She’s usually with us by now.’

  Phyllie placed the receiver on the hall side table, and met them on the doorstep. ‘She won’t be able to leave the house today. Jake’s father is dead.’ How could she stay so calm? How could her voice sound so strange? But it still had to squeeze past this great big lump in her throat. Amy blanched, Mrs Speedie reached out, but Phyllie withdrew. No, she must stay strong.

  ‘Sammy?’ Amy asked.

  ‘I’m trying to find out. I’m not his next of kin, you see, so why would anyone tell me?’ She thought it totally reasonable. Of course it was. She was nothing to do with Sammy in anyone else’s eyes. But she was everything. Why didn’t the world know that?

  What did it matter to them that she had grown up with him, breathed the same air, done the same things, climbed the same trees, and loved him, felt him, known him, isn’t that what they said? What did it matter that he’d gone, and was drowned, was wet, pale and lifeless? She stopped. Enough. Why would anyone tell the woman who loved him more than life itself? Why was there no pain? Why was there nothing; not the feel of the floor beneath her feet, nothing to touch her, in the whole world? She needed to die, too. That’s all she needed.

  Amy and Mrs Speedie were nodding, backing down the path. Mrs Speedie said, ‘I’m going for Jack, dearest Phyllie. Go and sit down, do you understand? I’m going for Jack.’ Why was Molly crying? It wasn’t she who had lost a father. It wasn’t she who would now be mother to Jake, and how could she be good enough? Now. She felt her abdomen. Sammy. She heard this scream in her head, but her mouth had not opened. It was still roaring on and over it she heard a strange tinny voice. It was near her.

  She looked at the receiver on the side table. Ah yes, Frankie, Father Francis, who used to be Frankie. She held it to her ear. ‘Phyllie, it’s your mother. I couldn’t phone you earlier. I was trying to collect myself. I didn’t know how to tell you without upsetting you. Mrs Williams received a letter early this morning and rang us from a phone box. Phyllie, I’m so sorry. Francis will telegraph to Mrs Williams immediately with your telephone number, because I failed to give it to her. I just couldn’t think. This will pass. You will get over it, as I did when your father died. There will be someone else for—’

  Phyllie didn’t say goodbye, she merely put the receiver back on the hook, very carefully. Jack Thompson was running down the path now, as though there was a fire. He swept her into his arms, and she almost over
balanced. ‘Oh Phyllie, dearest Phyllie.’

  She wasn’t anyone’s dearest Phyllie any more. She had only been Sammy’s. She wasn’t her brother’s, she had never been her mother’s, her father was dead, and she wasn’t Jack Thompson’s. She let him lead her through to the garden, where he sat with them, as Phyllie lifted Jake from Miss F’s lap and set him on her own again. She needed to look after this child. She had promised Isaac. Always, she had said. But it should be his father, or his mother, and she wasn’t good enough, not any more … She shut her mind.

  They sat with him all night, he in his bed, Francois on the rug at the side, and Phyllie and Miss F in chairs beside him. He cried. They let him, but each placed a hand on his back, or lay on the bed and held him in their arms and spoke words of love, but it wasn’t their love he needed.

  In the morning, as they drank breakfast tea, proper tea as decreed by Miss F, the telephone rang. It was Mrs Williams. She and Phyllie talked, or rather, Mrs Williams talked. Phyllie nodded, but she couldn’t hear, not really. There were words, but the nausea was rising again. Miss F came and took the receiver, and spoke quietly, before hanging up. The front door bell went. Phyllie opened it. It was Ron. He stood there, his hair unbrushed, his knees grubby because he wouldn’t wear dungarees, neither he nor Bryan would, because they were cissy. ‘I’m sorry, miss, about your Sammy. I liked him. He was kind.’

  She stared at him. ‘Then why do you do such mean things, Ron?’

  Ron stared at her, surprised. ‘But that’s different, miss. Jake’s a Yid, and fair game, like me dad says.’

  ‘Go away, Ron.’ She shut the door, and leaned back against it. She couldn’t cry. The pain had come, and it was too deep, and the world too bleak, and she simply didn’t know what to do any more because how could anyone bring a child into this terrible world? How could she? But she must, because the child she was carrying was Sammy’s, and so it was the most precious thing she would ever possess.