by Milly Adams
The broadcaster was telling them that there had been yet another sortie over German-occupied territory in Europe. He ended by saying that Roosevelt had vowed in New York to do everything in America’s power to crush Hitler and the Nazi forces.
Miss F sniffed, and turned off the wireless. ‘Fine words butter no parsnips, any more than they butter my toast.’
Phyllie smiled. ‘You are obsessed with butter.’
Miss F tossed her head. ‘Thank heavens we have Churchill. He just stands there, a far better version of Canute, forcing the tide back, or at least, to begin to turn. There are no jackboots here yet, and I do think we’d fight on the beaches if they had the nerve to try. People told Winston it was impossible to hang on, but he’s as cunning as the rest of them, and he’s damned well doing it.’ She was knitting something khaki.
‘Another balaclava?’ Phyllie asked.
Miss F held it up. ‘Well, it’s not socks, is it? I suppose next it will be baby bootees, for young Master or Mistress Saunders.’ She looked over her knitting at Phyllie. ‘Joe brought round a pheasant while you were putting Jake to bed. He thought you could do with some meat. It’s his answer to everything. He told me, of course, but I already knew.’ She jabbed her needles at Phyllie. ‘He’s not the only eagle eyes in the village. We’ve just been waiting for you to let us know, and it’s high time you visited the doctor. It’s in the face, you know, always in the face.’
She started counting her stitches.
Phyllie felt relief take her over. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Nothing to do with us – the whys and wherefores, that is – and as long as the wretched school board don’t hear about it, we can’t see the problem. The good ladies of the WI are in support. Of course, it’s not ideal. A husband is a good idea on these occasions, though I gather they are next to useless most of the time. Of course, one doesn’t want to encourage others to follow, willy-nilly, so I wonder if we should say that you have been married on the quiet. What do you think? Just for the children’s sake. Or no. We should be honest.’
Clearly the great and the good at the WI had been chewing over the Phyllie situation, and from the great goodness of their hearts were circling the wagons to protect her. Suddenly Phyllie was crying, which was something she usually left for the darkness of her bedroom when she couldn’t sleep, or woke after dreaming about him, and the water, and the fish. She had explained a gentler version of the dreams about fish that nibbled Sammy deep down in the ocean to Jake, some weeks ago, in case he was having them. She had insisted that they were normal, as Mrs Symes had said. He had shrugged her off, but there had been some vestige of relief in his eyes.
Now she told Miss F of the phone call, of Jake believing she was leaving him. Miss F grimaced. ‘We can only show him every day, in every way, that though you might have gone for a little break, he could have chosen to be with you or await your return, here, with me. We must tell him of the baby, choose our moment or this could be another worry. He might think there is no room for him in your heart.’
Two days later, in the early morning, Sammy’s mother phoned. ‘Phyllie, cariad, your brother wrote and I have taken time to think things through, so muddled have I been and so tearful I could hardly speak. Now Bill and I have decided what is for the best, so I am telephoning you. Frankie wrote of your news, and that perhaps it is not suitable for you to come to term in the presbytery. Bill and I would like you to come to us. We will then adopt our Sammy’s child, to leave you free to pursue your life, with no one the wiser.’ She spoke so quickly that she was tripping over her words, and the tone was high-pitched and breathless. She waited.
Phyllie laid her forehead against the coolness of the mirror. Her breath fugged the glass. ‘No.’ She was shouting, she knew that, her breath fugging the mirror more and more. She straightened. ‘No.’ This time her voice wasn’t loud, but it was low and dangerous. ‘No, this is our child – Sammy’s and mine. He loved me, Mrs Williams; you must know he did, and I loved him. No, not loved, but love. I still love him and I always will, and our child. We will stay here, together. I could never ever give her away. Miss F says I can stay as a teacher and therefore I can earn a living. I can’t hand her over, of course not, but you will always be my family and her grandparents.’
Jake clumped down the stairs for breakfast, and now she saw him, staring at her. She waved for him to wait. He fled through the doorway into the kitchen. ‘Wait, Jake,’ she cried, flinging the receiver back on the hook. She ran through the hall, and into the kitchen. Miss F was staring at her, then at the back door through which Jake had rushed.
Together they followed him, in their slippers, the morning dew soaking through them. They caught him up by the hedge, grabbing his arm. Phyllie made him face her. ‘Yes, I’m having a baby, but I keep telling you, I’m not going anywhere, you are still my child, until your mother comes. You are quite safe, you always will be, whatever happens. I love you, Jake, I’ve told you before and I’ll go on telling you. You are my family, just as this child will be. I’ve been clumsy. I was going to choose my moment. I’m so—’
He was shaking his head. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Look at the evacuees, they’re not the same as the real children.’
Miss F tried then: ‘But they’re evacuees, as you say, and you are not like that. You are Phyllie’s child, just as much as if you were born to her. She promised your father, and what’s more, she wants you, and will not let you go, never, ever, unless it is to your mother. You are her life, you are mine. That’s right, isn’t it, Phyllie?’
Phyllie felt the nausea rising. She said, ‘Absolutely. Really, absolutely.’ She rushed inside to be sick. When she staggered downstairs, Jake was gone, but to the horses. Miss F had phoned and checked that he had arrived. She had told Joe the facts, all of them. He would keep a bleedin’ eye, he said.
On Tuesday of the next week, Phyllie was called into Miss F’s study. A man stood there, in a suit with a starched high-wing collar, his briefcase on the chair reserved for visitors. He was holding his homburg.
Miss F said, ‘Phyllie, would you please go home and fetch your in loco parentis letter and the guardianship documents that you and Isaac Kaplan agreed upon. Mr Grimes would like to examine them.’
Phyllie ran down the road, until she was flagged down by Miss Deacon. ‘Walk don’t run, for goodness’ sake, girl; you’ll do the babe an injury.’ Phyllie walked quickly, dashed into the house, found the paperwork and hurried back. Her hands were shaking, and her breath was coming in short bursts as she handed over the papers.
Mr Grimes was sitting now, one leg crossed over the other. A file rested on his knee. He was about forty, with his hair greying at the temples. He pursed his lips, and read through the documents twice. He handed them back to Phyllie, saying, ‘Shouldn’t you be sitting down, in your condition? I must warn you both that we have had a complaint from an anonymous source who has alerted us to the fact that you, as an unmarried mother, are teaching at Little Mitherton School. It has been decided that this must stop, forthwith. It is not the example we expect from those in positions of authority. You must find other employment, within a month.’
He opened the file, and then closed it again. Miss F sat motionless, her eyes never leaving his face. Phyllie continued to stand. He looked at the file, not at either of them, as he continued. ‘As for Jakub Kaplan, I can see no grounds for removing him from your care, at this precise moment, especially as you live with Miss Featherstone. I was taught by her, and it was an experience without parallel.’
He rose, shook Miss F’s hand, and Phyllie’s. ‘I’m sorry, I know that you are an exemplary teacher. What’s more, young Jakub is a fortunate child.’
Phyllie shook her head. ‘No, he’s not. His mother is somewhere in Poland. God knows exactly where, if indeed she is still alive. We have heard nothing. His father is lost under the sea with the father of my child, and I, well, I could do better. No, he’s not fortunate. Neither of us are.’
Mr Grimes couldn’
t meet her eyes. He made for the door, opened it, then turned back and said, ‘I beg to differ. He has you, and he has Miss F. Between you, you will manage to pull the chestnuts from the fire. My deepest regrets, Miss Saunders. Truly. You will, of course, work out your notice, which will give you a little more time. Incidentally, you might let your minds stray to the older Anderton boy, nasty piece of work as I remember, with a very big mouth, who asked to remain anonymous. But then, I haven’t actually given his first name.’
Miss F and Phyllie looked at one another when he left. Miss F said, ‘Well, thank you, Eddie. Perhaps this is the end now. Joe has seen him a few times, sniffing around the yard and barns, clearly looking for the rest of the sugar, so the phone call could be payback. Let’s hope so.’
By 3 November Phyllie was without a job. On 10 November she received a letter from her brother. Forty pounds in cash fell onto her lap. His note said that he was thinking of her. She bundled it up, and returned it, though some money would undoubtedly have helped her sleep at night. She just didn’t know what to think of her family, didn’t know what to think of herself.
On the following Monday she received a letter from the war office that stated: I am directed to enclose a certified true copy of a will executed by the late No 4024511, Leading Seaman Samuel Frederick Williams of the Royal Submarine Service, in which you are named as chief beneficiary.
The will explained that she was to inherit the property in Downley, near High Wycombe, that Sammy had in turn inherited from his godfather. In addition there were shares to the value of £1,000. The solicitor’s letter explained that following probate he would be happy to expedite the sale of the house. She had also inherited half the Ealing house, the share that had been bequeathed to Leading Seaman Samuel Frederick Williams by his paternal grandfather. If she so wished, she could request Mr and Mrs Williams to, in essence, buy her out.
The decision wasn’t hard. She instructed that the Ealing house situation should remain as it was, for his parents’ peace of mind. In due course, on their death, she would require 50 per cent of the sale proceeds because they would bequeath their share as they wished. She also received a similar letter from the War Office for Jake. She explained to Jake that he was to receive his father’s naval savings, which would be put into deposit for his future, plus the sum of £400, which was in his father’s private savings account.
She posted the letter giving her instructions, and visited Dr Nicholls’ surgery, thinking how Sammy’s arrangement helped with the practicalities beyond measure. Having received the all-clear for moderate exercise, she cycled around collecting salvage, and then began to clear up the remains of the runner beans in the allotment. That night she slept, her heart full of love for the man who had protected her, yet again, even from beyond the grave.
By mid-December she was just over six months’ pregnant, and was completing on the purchase of a small cottage close to the church in Little Mitherton for her and Jake. It had three bedrooms, and a small orchard at the bottom of the cottage garden. Jake had slouched round it, refusing to react, and then rushed off to the horses, and probably to meet Ron and Bryan. As he left he’d yelled, ‘It’s your house, do what you like. What do I care?’
‘It’s our house, Jake,’ she had called after him. ‘Ours.’
His time-keeping was becoming lax, Andy said, when she was on duty at the old barn later that day, wrapped up against the cold, listening to the children who missed her, so much, they said. Andy waited as they told of the new teacher, an elderly woman called Mrs Gentle. She was gentle, the children whispered, but rather deaf so they had to shout. They ran off, to play tag.
She turned to Andy, ‘Lax time-keeping? I’m so sorry. I suspected as much, but short of sticking by his side day and night, I’m not sure what to do about it.’ The baby was kicking. She straightened, torn between love for this baby, distress for Jake, and the heavy guilt of the telephone call, which had shaken his trust in her.
Andy said, dodging young Sandra who was ‘it’ and chasing the others. ‘You’re blooming, you know, Phyllie. Once we sort out Jake, things will settle down for you and you can stop whipping yourself. How are the dreams? Any better this week?’
‘Yes, the dreams—’ She stopped.
He said, ‘I didn’t mention to you, last week, that I used to think about Mum, about what was happening to her down in the ground. Bloody awful it was. Stupid really.’ He had a woollen hat pulled down over his ears.
She nodded, looking at him more closely, and asked, ‘And dreaming they are still alive? You had those too?’
‘It stops,’ he said, nodding. ‘Dad said it was all part of it. I expect it happened with Miss F. She and Miss Harvey, you know, survived the first war just for her to take a dive in this. The upside is that perhaps now she’s gone there’s room in Miss F’s life for someone else. I suppose that’s how it works.’
She smiled. ‘Your dad’s round there with another pheasant this evening, I noticed.’
He winked. ‘So I gather. Well, well.’
Phyllie thought yet again how strange it was that they seemed to be friends now. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but perhaps through a history of loss.
‘Good that the German bombers are busier and busier on the Russian front,’ Andy said. ‘Gives the cities a breathing space. Good too that the Americans are in after Pearl Harbor.’ He lifted his stump. ‘I’m wondering if I should get a hook? It would help to have it, but somehow it means – well, it means I haven’t got a hand. I really haven’t.’
Bertie was passing, ‘You should, Mr Andy. You’d be like Hook in Peter Pan, but you’d have to get a crocodile.’
The children laughed.
Dan said, ‘Get it to swallow a clock so you can hear it coming. Like Asdic.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, miss.’
The boys moved away.
Andy said, ‘It will get better, Phyllie.’ Then he left too, to do what he had to do.
She joined the children in setting up their indoor skittles, which had been donated by the Bestminster skittle team now the grown-ups had taken over the pub skittle alley for their Christmas league.
On Christmas Day, over the tender goose and roast potatoes, Miss F said, ‘I wonder if you and Jake would consider continuing to live here, with me, Phyllie. I know your dear little cottage is ready, but you could let it, and the income will mean you don’t have to dip into your shares. I hear that you asked Joe if you could clean for him. You are worth more than that, isn’t she, Jake?’
Jake shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Last year’s paper-chains were looped across the ceiling and the small Christmas tree was festooned with painted baubles. Miss F and Phyllie wore paper hats. Jake did not.
Phyllie studied her sprouts, rather than Jake’s face, which was full of resentment, and perhaps hate. She should eat but she suddenly had no appetite.
‘Rubbish, silly boy,’ Miss F snapped. ‘Before you ask, no, it’s Christmas Day and you are not going out with Bryan and Ron.’
‘I’m not a Christian, I’m not anything, so what difference does it make to me?’ He didn’t look at either woman, and it was this inability to face them that made them feel that they had not lost him entirely, that he could be regained. The baby kicked then, and Phyllie smiled as she put her hand on her belly. Jake saw and stared past her, the muscles working in his jaw. She said, ‘I hope you like your bicycle, Jake. It’s from us both, to say we love you.’
He shrugged. ‘You can afford it.’
Phyllie shook her head, avoiding Miss F’s furious eyes. ‘Just, but I need to keep enough money for you and the baby. Who knows what we might all need in the future? We’d love to stay with you, Miss F, if you are sure it is all right. You must tell us the moment you want your house to yourself.’
‘Why on earth would I want that? I love you both, as though you were my own. In fact, daft old thing that I am, I feel that’s what you are. Absolutely my own family and I wouldn’t know what to do if all was peace and quiet. I love you both
, quite without end, just as you, Phyllie, love our Jake.’ Miss F laughed. ‘Besides, I need Jake here, to keep me young.’
Phyllie reached across and held Miss F’s hand. ‘You know it is the same for me.’ She felt almost at peace because here, in Myrtle Cottage, was unconditional love, and at last she accepted the situation with her own family, without pain.
Meanwhile Jake was poking his goose around the plate, finally flinging his knife and fork down, slumping back, his arms crossed. ‘I’m bored, and I hope my mum comes back, because then I can go with her and it won’t matter what you two have decided.’
‘Then we’d keep in touch, because we couldn’t bear not to see you,’ Phyllie said. The two women exchanged a look. They were used to this, but there seemed not to be the great rage there once was, it was more like a habit, as though he was going through the motions.
In the afternoon, the two women sat in their usual places as Jake played cards. Phyllie dozed; the dreams were not so stark, and the loss not so sharp, and inside her Sammy’s baby was growing, and around her were friends she had never dreamed would become so. When she woke the Aga was grumbling, and Miss F was snoring. The small baby bonnet she was knitting was in her lap and there was no sign of Jake, though Francois was sitting just inside the back door, whining quietly. Did he need to go out for a pee, or had Jake gone, when he’d been told ‘no’? She checked the clock. It was three in the afternoon.
Phyllie eased herself off the sofa, pulled the dress she called a tent down over her bump, and waddled, for that’s what it felt like, to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Jake?’ No reply. Well, so often there wasn’t. She slogged up the stairs, her back aching. His room was empty and she felt the familiar worry spurt. As she eased her way back down the stairs, there was a furious banging at the front door. Miss F called from the kitchen, ‘What? Er, what?’
Phyllie yelled, ‘I’ll get it. Jake’s gone, I do hope …’ She felt her way through the darkened hallway and was at the front door as the banging began again. It was Andy, his face smoke blackened, gripping Jake by his shoulder. Behind them, stood Percy Pringle, the village policeman, his helmet at a slight angle, as it always was.
