by Milly Adams
Joe sighed, and came to Phyllie. ‘God has spoken.’ He scooped Charlotte from her arms. ‘Don’t you be fretting, lass, I’ve picked up so many young ’uns, she’s safe with me.’
Phyllie said, ‘But the others were animals, Joe.’ He ignored her, and placed Charlie into the bas-sinette that stood on a stand by the bed. It was as though he was born to it. ‘Farmers are good with tiddlins; you just remember that, and forget any other nonsense I talk.’
He fled from the room; yes, that was the only way of describing it. Phyllie looked down at Charlotte. ‘Do you think he’ll ever actually ask her, Charlotte, or are we going to have to do something about it ourselves?’
Mrs Otis and Miss F managed together until Phyllie was back on her feet, then Phyllie took Charlotte in with her, snug in her pram in the staff room, with Francois on guard. The three women worked well together and all the while the secret had to be kept or the authorities would be round. Every weekend, and often in the evening, she would push the pram, which used to be Andy’s, to the farm to perform her duty at the old barn. April turned to May, by which time the hawthorn was a white cloud, and the wheat was growing, the oats too. The children worked with the Scouts and Guides to earth up the potatoes, and Joe scared off the official who dared to suggest another try with the land girls. As these months went by Ron, Jake and Dan grew thick as thieves, and the horses had never gleamed as they now did. Dan had grown to enjoy them too, with not a sign of his hives. Even Charlotte was feeding every four hours, and sleeping contentedly.
Life had achieved a pattern, and all was calm.
Chapter Twenty-Two
June 1942, Little Mitherton
MISS F AND Phyllie stayed glued to the News at Nine, the boys chatted together, up in the attic, into which Jake had moved his bed to be with Ron. Francois slept on the rug between them. The good news was that the blitz over British cities had eased, along with the pulverising of Malta from the air, but now they heard the calm voice of the BBC newsreader explaining that Rommel was still pushing the allies back in the Libyan desert, which Ron worried about, sure his father was in danger.
Phyllie lifted Charlie onto her shoulder, and rubbed her back, hoping that all the wind escaped and she would settle better than she had last night. ‘We can either tell him the truth – that his father is safe and it has all been a lie – or share his concern and leave the illusion in place.’
Miss F had decided in the early days of her recovery that in order to listen to the nine o’clock news she needed a good ‘belt’ of Joe’s homemade elderberry wine. She sipped thoughtfully. ‘For illusion, read lie, but it must be the “comfort” option, and Joe agrees.’
Charlie burped. ‘Quite, Charlie.’ Phyllie laughed. ‘There does seem to be a great deal of “Joe says” or “Joe agrees” these days. Well, of course I totally agree too, and when you think about it, Miss F, it’s too early to upset the apple cart again, when Ron’s settling into the boy he always could be. Andy thinks so too, though I only say that because he has more to do with them than either of us in many ways. They basically live there after school, and are becoming real horsemen. They even handled the hay carts. Weren’t they marvellous, Miss F?’ Phyllie felt again the flush of pride that she had experienced when Jake and Ron had each driven a cart into the field as a surprise two weeks ago. She added, ‘They’ve really missed him while he’s been away having a more advanced hook fitted. That one he got from the local place just didn’t fit properly, did it?’
Charlie burped again. Miss F raised her glass to the baby. ‘My thoughts entirely, Charlie; Andy says, eh? But yes, the boys were marvellous. So, we’re agreed, we say nothing. When is Andy back?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, apparently he promised the boys that he’d try to make it for sports day.’
Miss F switched off the wireless, and settled down to the timetable of the school sports day that would take place tomorrow, rain or shine. Phyllie kissed her daughter, and heaved herself up from the sofa, saying, ‘Time for the pair of us to get some sleep, before two o’clock comes and it’s the usual wake-up call.’
She held Charlie out for Miss F’s hug and kiss, before reclaiming her daughter and heading for the door. It was then Miss F said, ‘Remember that the ghastly Grimes might turn up, complete with homburg. One of the children is quite likely to mention that you are teaching, though the parents are determined to do a flanking movement every time he gets within speaking range.’
The day dawned dry and warm. The sky was blue, the birds were noisy and busy, and in the field adjoining the mown meadow the adolescent lambs clipped the grass. Soon they would be washed, ready for shearing. The last two evenings the older children had been out marking up the field for the races. The women of the village had donated clothes for the dressing-up relay race, and by eleven o’clock, were out in support. The children had made paper Union Jacks, and stuck them onto sticks, and those not participating in a particular race would line the track, and cheer on the others.
Younger unmarried women between the ages of twenty and thirty were liable for call-up now, so the supporters were mums, or men and women of a certain age. Some mothers had managed to come down from London for the day, or even to stay over. Ron’s mother could not come, yet again, but he seemed untroubled and he, Jake and Dan, along with the rest of the class, rushed around, organising the piles of clothing at either end of the track. They then checked the precious hard-boiled eggs for the egg and spoon race. Phyllie ‘unofficially’ organised the children, with the help of Miss F, Mrs Otis and Mrs Whitehead, who had decided that retirement didn’t suit, and had been taken back on by Mr Grimes as an occasional teacher. Mrs Symes, Mrs Speedie and Miss Deacon had taken a break from jam making for the day, to prepare lunch.
There was no Bryan at sports day. He had gone to a distant aunt, and his family had followed soon after. Eddie was in a borstal where the discipline would do him a great deal of good, Constable Pringle had informed them grimly.
Joe stood near the starting line with Phyllie and Francois, guarding Charlie’s pram. At eleven thirty Andy arrived, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his new hook gleaming, and Phyllie was relieved to see him laughing as she said to Joe, ‘Look, he’s made it, and his sleeves are rolled up. That’s new.’
‘Aye, he’s getting there,’ Joe murmured, waggling his fingers at Charlotte.
Joe and Phyllie watched Miss F ticking off the names for the first race, and lining them up. Joe added, ‘Though it seems to me that them boys of yours ’ave done him as much good as he has done them. Mark you, getting away can make a difference. I reckon being at the unit for a bit’ll have put the cap on getting his bonce around things. Or perhaps ’e’ll have got his arms around a pretty nurse, which’ll do ’im a sight more good.’
Phyllie took the clipboard Miss F had just brought, shouting as only she could, ‘Phyllie, take over, there’s a good girl. I can see that ghastly little man Grimes traipsing across the field. Avoid him, at all costs. I’m off to head him away from all of this.’
Phyllie saw him now, wearing the same suit and hat. She left Joe with Francois and Charlie, and hurried towards the children gathered in their class groups at the side of the track. Some were sitting cross-legged on the rugs, others were chatting in groups, their shorts and white tops pristine; a day in a hay meadow would soon put paid to that. She called out the names for the race; the children collected their spoons while Ron, Jake and Dan, with another two girls from their class, laid the hard-boiled eggs in the spoons. She grinned as she heard them warn, ‘Try not to drop them; Mrs Symes wants them for sandwiches. If you do drop them, you might get Miss F’s finger.’ The look of horror on the children’s faces told the story.
Phyllie then melted into the group of chattering women lining up alongside the track. She said, ‘Any minute now we’ll have them teetering along, scared to death in case they drop the egg. Loud cheers, ladies, please.’
They laughed, but one said, looking over Phyllie’s shoulder, shading her eyes against
the sun, ‘Watch Mr Grimes, he has a nose like a beagle. He’s heading this way.’
Phyllie moved swiftly through the women, who closed ranks behind her, and found herself next to Andy who had taken over Francois and the pram from Joe, and was rocking it. She felt ridiculously pleased to see him. ‘Has she been crying? I’m so sorry, Andy.’
He said, ‘Hello to you too, Phyllie. Yes, I had a good time, and my hook is much more comfortable now, thank you.’
She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just trying to avoid the wretched Mr Grimes.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not a problem.’ She tucked herself next to him, on the side away from Grimes, watching Charlie sleeping, but peering round Andy frequently. Mr Grimes was being successfully rounded up by Miss F and led firmly to the starting line where the WI committee surrounded him, although corralled him might be a better description. ‘It’s ridiculous that I can’t be in evidence and cheer on the children in case he puts two and two together.’
‘You don’t have to be down there, Phyllie. They can see you here, and for all that man knows we’re parents cheering on our children. Nice dress you’re wearing.’
‘Mrs Symes made it from some old cotton curtains. I should be draped in a window somewhere.’
‘Roses become you, or so someone once sang, didn’t they?’
She looked down at the big pink cabbage roses that festooned her. They were summery and cheerful. Children appreciated cheerful, and so did adults, it seemed from the smile on Andy’s face. She grinned back. Had he missed her, as she realised she had missed him? She said, ‘You once mentioned that we seemed like the only young people in the village, and today, I think you’re quite right.’ She crossed her arms, and laughed, in tune with him. ‘Was it really worth it, were they kind to you?’ What did she mean by that? Their arms touched, she stayed put.
He rocked the pram again as the cheering for the egg and spoon race startled Charlie. ‘Very very kind, and yes, the hook is lighter, and the curve not so extreme. It makes it easier.’
Francois was looking from the noise of the cheering to her. ‘Go on, then, daft dog. Go and find Jake,’ she said. Very kind? What did that mean? She clapped. ‘Well done, Sandra.’
Her class collected up the eggs and spoons for the next heat, running down the lanes to the starting line. Mrs Symes and Jack Thompson collected up the finishing tape. ‘Look at the boys,’ Andy said, pointing while he used the hook to rock the pram. ‘Thick as thieves.’
She nudged him. ‘Please don’t say that.’
Andy roared, and Charlie threw her arms open, woke, stared, then rammed her fist in her mouth and slept again. ‘Phew, that was a close one,’ he said.
‘I take my life four hours at a time.’ Phyllie was watching the line-up, and saw her two boys and Dan doing Mrs Otis’s bidding with Francois at their heels. ‘Who would have thought it?’ she murmured. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job with them, Andy. What do you mean “very very kind”, by the way?’
She shut her mouth but it was too late. He looked down at her. ‘I’ll answer the first one, and then the second. The boys are not just my doing. The whole village has shared in the care of these two lads, but you and Miss F have borne the brunt. The second answer: the doctor was kind; he took more time than was strictly necessary, I would say, and Sister Newton took great care of me. Her home is not too far from here, and when she next comes home, she will probably visit. I said we might well send her back with eggs. Not these, though.’ He nodded towards the egg and spoon race, which was just coming to an end.
They clapped.
‘Oh,’ Phyllie said, feeling as though the day was flat, but only momentarily because Sandra rushed up. ‘I’m in the final, miss.’
Phyllie crouched down. ‘You ran so fast. I think we’ll be able to put your name up on the board as the winner of the first heat, and who knows, run like the wind and we might have you as the all-round winner.’
Sandra pulled at her white ankle socks, which were now smeared with grass stains. ‘Thank you, miss.’ She rushed back to the group that clustered around Miss F. But if Miss F was there, alone, where was Mr Grimes? She peered round Andy again, and there he was, just a pace or two away, waving as though he was flagging her down. She gripped Andy’s arm. He detached himself, and slipped his arm around her instead, pulling her close. ‘Mr Grimes, I believe,’ he called. ‘Are you enjoying sports day?’
Mr Grimes didn’t smile back, but looked only at Phyllie. ‘Miss Saunders, we’ve met before, have we not?’
‘Yes, indeed we have, as you well know.’
‘And this is the cause of all the problems, is it?’ He peered into the pram.
‘She’s not an it and certainly not a problem; she’s a delight,’ Andy said, before Phyllie could speak.
Mr Grimes nodded. ‘Yes, children are very precious, of course.’ His glasses were black-framed, and she couldn’t remember if he’d been wearing any last time. He continued, ‘Which is why we have to keep an eye on the common good.’
He seemed embarrassed, and Phyllie found herself feeling sorry for him. After all, she was the pariah; an unmarried mother and therefore a disgrace. In the warmth of this village, and amongst these people, she had forgotten the real world. She could find no words.
Mr Grimes looked from one to another, and then at Phyllie’s hand. ‘I see you are engaged?’ He was pointing to Sammy’s ring.
She said, ‘It’s Sammy’s, Charlie’s father. He’s dead.’
Mr Grimes shook his head. ‘Oh no, I think not. I think this engagement, for all that anyone knows or would feel they must report, is current, do you not agree?’ He looked from Phyllie to Andy, then cast his hand around in an expansive gesture. ‘Amazingly, Miss Saunders, one is given ears with which to hear and one does listen. The common good is always at the forefront where children are concerned, as I have just said, and one does not want more than one in a borstal, does one? One wants children to continue to be reclaimed, especially in a world in which tomorrow is uncertain, and our culture threatened. Who knows where the jackboot will tread next?’
Phyllie couldn’t look at Andy, not after what Mr Grimes had said, but she stole a glance all the same and he smiled down at her. Who knew what the future would bring?
The children were cheering the next race. Mr Grimes turned to watch, but only for a moment. He continued, looking closely at Phyllie, ‘Foundations have to be built to withstand whatever might come. I think good work is being carried out here at Little Mitherton School, don’t you? I gather that Mrs Whitehead is only part-time, and I wonder if you would be prepared to be her “other half”, officially.’ He tilted his hat at them, as Phyllie nodded.
‘I’d love that.’
‘Do you know, I think she might not continue for too long, so you might consider full-time in due course?’ Phyllie nodded again. Mr Grimes smiled. ‘I fear I won’t have time to stay for sandwiches but before I leave, may I wish you both the very greatest happiness possible, for you and your expanding family.’ His gimlet eyes were on Ron and Jake who were running towards them.
Ron was shouting, ‘We’re in the final, Phyllie.’
And Jake yelled, ‘Andy, Andy, you’re back in time. I knew you would be.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
IN JULY 1942 Andy invited Phyllie to walk in the woods as he had heard a nightingale. She was welcome to bring Charlie, he said, but Miss F insisted on babysitting. They walked the woods for two hours on a balmy evening, but heard no nightingale. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they talked of the beauty of the evening, the development of the boys, the plans for Charlie’s christening in August.
‘Will you ask your mother and brother?’ he asked carefully.
She smiled. ‘I’ll ask but they’re probably busy. I’ll also ask Mr and Mrs Williams. They have a right to be there.’
The village came to the christening. Her mother and brother could not: too busy, her mother had said on the telephone. ‘Forgive us, but you can imagine ho
w turbulent it is here. So many in jeopardy and crisis.’
‘Indeed,’ Phyllie had said. ‘We will think of you.’
Her mother had sounded surprised. ‘How nice. And how is … er?’
‘Charlotte, or Charlie as we call her.’
‘Phyllis, I remembered her name. I just wasn’t sure which to call her. You received our letter, with some money after her birth?’
‘Thank you. I have bought nappies, which are so hard to find. I did write. And now I have to go. I have to write to Sammy’s parents. Perhaps we will see you soon.’
‘That would be nice,’ her mother had said.
Phyllie had no idea if she meant it, but it didn’t matter.
In August Jack Thompson christened Charlotte Williams with Mr and Mrs Williams in the front pew, and the godparents in attendance. Miss F was a godmother. Miss Deacon and Mrs Speedie had tossed a coin to be the second, and it was heads. So it was Mrs Speedie. The godfather was Andy. Miss F had suggested it because Phyllie would never be able to choose between Ron and Jake. She had explained the situation to Andy, who had taken her hand and said as they stood outside the old barn, ‘I would rather it was because you trusted me to love and support your daughter.’ He had kissed her then. He was not Sammy, but it was as lovely. She had kissed him back, and then again.
In September they were a couple, but only after they’d asked Jake and Ron how they would feel if they walked out together. The two boys had laughed. ‘We thought you would, but you’ve taken long enough. Andy is like a dad to us, like a dad to Charlie,’ Jake had said. ‘Sammy will like to think that Charlie is looked after by him. He’ll know you haven’t forgotten him, because I can see you haven’t.’
Ron said, as he polished Desmond’s bridle, ‘I think Sammy will like Andy to look after you. And I think that once you are married, Miss F and Joe will get hitched too. We think, don’t we, Jake, that they’re waiting to see you happy before they make a move. They love you, Phyllie.’
