by Milly Adams
The boys stopped work and nodded to one another. Phyllie said, ‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him.’
Jake shook his head. ‘Oh, Phyllie, he’s waiting to get us on side and then he will.’
In October he did. She accepted, and felt completely happy, with his arms around her.
In December, just before Christmas, Jack performed the wedding service for Phyllie and Andy, with Ron singing the solo. Joe gave her away, in spite of the fact that her brother and mother had arrived unexpectedly, with half an hour to spare, clearly expecting Father Francis to fulfil this role. Instead, they had been firmly led by Jake, acting as usher, to the front pew, on the bride’s side. They joined Sammy’s parents, who had written a fulsome acceptance and had brought linen with them as a gift. Mrs Saunders brought a hat for Phyllie to wear, as she was only wearing a suit. Phyllie wore it for half an hour, but it didn’t look right, and spoilt the photographs, Mrs Williams said, who had no idea Mrs Saunders had brought it.
In the second pew on the bride’s side, sat Phyllie’s real family: Miss F, Charlie, Jake and Ron, with Dan alongside, and Miss Deacon, Mrs Symes and Mrs Speedie. Joe led the groom’s contingent, which comprised an aunt and uncle, a million cousins and half the village. The other half of the village sat on Phyllie’s side. Ron’s solo, ‘O for the Wings of a Dove’, brought tears to the eyes of more than one person. As she left the church Phyllie threw the bouquet of late-winter roses, and myrtle for remembrance. Joe caught it and tossed it to Miss F. The three boys nudged one another and laughed.
Her mother and brother had asked to be booked into a guesthouse in town. At their reception in the village hall, and catered for by the WI, she explained to her mother that a taxi would call for them at the end of the reception to transfer them to their accommodation. Her mother, wearing a brown felt hat, and looking old and tired, said, ‘Well, at least you have finally married, and to a respectable young man. I presume you will stop teaching now that you do not need the money?’ Father Francis winced at his mother’s side, but said nothing.
Phyllie jiggled Charlie, who was restless, while she tried to think of a reply, but she had no need, for Andy gripped her hand, and said, ‘Sammy was a fine young man who loved and provided handsomely for your daughter. He sacrificed his life for his country, and if either of you wish to continue to see us, then you will acknowledge that and never disparage him in front of us or his daughter Charlie again. We value your presence in our family, so I do hope that you feel you can accept what I say, on behalf of Phyllie and myself. Phyllie has opted to continue working. Even if it is for only three days a week. She is the most wonderful teacher, and loved by her pupils.’
Phyllie squeezed his hand, even harder than he was gripping hers. It was not how Sammy would have said it, but it was what he would have said. She still wore Sammy’s engagement ring, but her wedding ring was Andy’s. She loved them both, but differently and always would.
After the chicken casserole, the speeches were delivered, short and sweet, which Joe said would be almost the only thing that was sweet this afternoon, to a roar of laughter. Later, the cardboard wedding cake was lifted from around the small sponge cake, which was rather dry, but at least it was a cake in these times of increased rationing. As the fiddlers grouped together and began to play, Phyllie and Andy danced the first waltz together, and his arms were strong around her. She held his hook, feeling his calloused hand on her back.
Sister Newton was there, and had turned out to be fifty and the motherly type, but Andy said he had wanted to spark a reaction.
When the waltz was almost over, Miss F and Joe joined them on the floor. Miss F had whispered as she had caught Joe’s bouquet that she and Joe would be following them down the aisle. Consequently, the whole village had heard the news and cheered the old ’uns, now. Phyllie and Andy left the floor, and thanked Mrs Symes who was guarding Charlie’s pram. They pushed it out into the village. Jake, Ron and Francois joined them while Dan stayed to dance with Monica, a new evacuee who had arrived from the Midlands. Together they strolled back to the farm, where they all now lived.
In September 1944 French tanks had led the Allies into Paris and Ron received a letter from his mother. He brought it through to Phyllie and Andy, who was having his breakfast in the small kitchen after returning the cows to the field after milking. ‘It’s from my mum.’ His astonishment was clear. He laid the other envelopes on the table for Andy. They looked like bills. Jake was with him, looking concerned because he knew, just as well as Phyllie and Andy, what the newspapers were saying.
Phyllie exchanged a look with Andy, who continued to sop up his egg with a piece of bread. She knew from the muscle working under his chin that it was the envelope they feared, because the government was releasing some of the prisoners who had been interned as a risk to the state, and though Mr Cummins had been found guilty of grievous bodily harm, he was also a member of the BUF.
It was Saturday, there was no school for Phyllie or the boys, but there was ploughing to be done and she still couldn’t get over how big and strong these young lads had become, and closer than any brothers. Ron read the letter in silence while Phyllie continued to feed Tommy, her new baby, who sat in the high chair and clearly liked the porridge. There was another letter enclosed, in an envelope with a crown stamped on the back. He read this, and then wordlessly passed it to Andy, who wiped his hand on his trousers and took it.
Phyllie laid a hand on his shoulders, and read it with him as Tommy mithered for more food. She held out the bowl to Jake, who took it and continued to feed him, looking from the letter to Ron, his worried scowl in place.
Sir,
I am directed by the Secretary of State to inform you that the Restriction Order made against you under Regulation 18A of the Defence (General) Regulations 1939, has now been revoked.
I am, sir, your obedient servant.
‘Mum says now Dad’s back, I can go home because he can give me a good bashing if I give her any gip.’
Andy coughed slightly, and returned the letter. ‘I’m sorry; we should have told you he wasn’t in the army.’
Ron shook his head and looked straight at Jake. ‘I’m not daft, you know. I knew other children got letters when their dads were in North Africa but I never did. I asked Jake when I was ready to know.’
Phyllie went to him, put her arm round him, and led him to the table. ‘Do you want to go home?’
Ron looked at the table, and played with some crumbs that lay on the oilcloth. ‘That’s not my home any more. This is. I just want to stay.’ Jake handed Tommy’s bowl to Andy, and went to stand with Ron. ‘He can, can’t he? He’s fifteen with a mind of his own, so why does he have to do what they tell him?’
Tommy was crying for his food and Charlie was whimpering, picking up on the atmosphere. While Andy hoisted Charlie onto his lap, he handed the bowl back to Phyllie who resumed feeding Tommy. She said, ‘What do you think, Andy? What’s the best way of handling this?’
He kissed the top of Charlie’s head and said, ‘Well, they are his legal parents, but we’ll write to them, and if you write a note too, Ron, let’s see what happens. We all want you to stay. You are our son, just as much as Jake.’
That night, in bed, Phyllie lay in Andy’s arms, and they decided that the only thing that would work with Mr and Mrs Cummins was money. They wrote, offering £200 if they would leave Ron in their keeping, to learn a trade as a farmer, though payment must never be mentioned to their boy. A reply was received, one to Ron, one to Mr and Mrs Bartlett. To Ron they said that they would miss him, but that they had a few more questions for his foster parents, after which they’d decide.
Andy and Phyllie’s letter contained a demand for another £100.
This Phyllie and Andy had worked into their original equation. They sent it, knowing that this would be an expense that would pop up from time to time, because people like the Cummins always wanted more. Andy held her gently, and kissed her forehead the night after they had posted that le
tter. Within the week, they had an agreement. They told the boys immediately that Ron was their son for as long as he wished.
The boys flung themselves out of the house, to harness the horses. Andy said, ‘The lad’s worth every penny they get out of us, and more. I love them both, so much.’
Phyllie leaned against him. It was what Sammy would have said. They didn’t have to worry about any extra expense for long because the V1 rocket campaign waged by a dying Nazi state hit the Cummins’ local pub and killed Ron’s parents. Ron barely grieved; instead, he seemed relieved.
As summer ended, Andy was on a trip to London and heard the news of the liberation of Majdanek concentration camp by Russian forces. He was pale when he arrived home, and though he smiled, Phyllie knew instantly that there was something very wrong.
The moment the boys left for the old barn, which they now helped to supervise, Andy told her the news. She said, ‘Shall I speak to Jack Thompson? He might know what’s best to do. I don’t know whether we should shield Jake from this or be honest. It’s so appalling I can’t believe it can be true.’
Andy just shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I simply don’t. All I do know is that if it is true, darling, what other camps are going to be discovered as the Allies advance?’
Phyllie cycled to the vicarage, where she had talked to Jack and Sylvia about whether to shield Jake from this news, but as Jack said, ‘We can’t know that he won’t see this somewhere else. Perhaps to maintain trust, it should come from you and Andy.’
That evening, when Ron was saying goodnight to his favourite, Doris, as he always did, Phyllie and Andy talked to Jake about the discovery. He said little, but every so often came to one or other of them, and laid his head on their shoulder and whispered, ‘She could still be safe?’
‘Yes,’ they had decided to say. ‘We must hope.’
On 1 December 1944, Miss F and Joe married. They lived in Myrtle Cottage, though Joe still cycled to the farm for early-morning and late-afternoon milking, and everything in between. As Christmas approached there was no more news about Jake’s relatives: his mother, Uncle Otto and Aunt Rosa Kaplan. Had they survived? Well, the war wasn’t over yet, and every conversation about them seemed to end with, ‘there is still hope’.
On Christmas morning, Miss F and Phyllie cooked in the big farm kitchen while the men continued the chores and Mr and Mrs Williams played with Charlie and Tommy in the sitting room. As usual Frankie and Mrs Saunders were unable to be with them, but had sent presents for all four of the children, with an affectionate card, written by Phyllie’s mother, which pleased everyone, especially Phyllie.
As they prepared the vegetables, Miss F decided they needed more sprouts. Phyllie groaned. ‘It means putting my boots on and slogging out to the vegetable patch.’
‘Don’t be dramatic,’ Miss F said. The two women laughed. Phyllie had suggested at Miss F’s wedding that now she was Mrs Bartlett, she should be called Audrey, her first name. Somehow it hadn’t worked, and everyone had reverted within the week to Miss F, except Joe, who tended to call her ‘the old bat’.
The track to the vegetable patch was muddy and across the field she saw the gulls following the ploughs, and her men creating straight furrows. Her heart was full of love and gratitude.
She looked up at the sky. ‘Not bad, eh, Sammy?’ Sometimes she wondered what her life would have been like with the love of her life, and knew that he and Isaac would have built a business of which to be proud. But she had been the most fortunate of women, because her life contained the memory of one splendid man and the actuality of another. Could one have two great loves? Well, yes, was the answer. She picked the sprouts from the stalks, with cold fingers, throwing them into the basket.
At midday lunch was served, but before Andy carved, he tapped his fork against his glass for silence. Phyllie looked around the table at their ever-expanding family. As Andy talked of their hopes for the New Year and their gratitude for the past year, she smiled at Miss F and Joe. They sat between Tommy in his high chair, and Charlie, who was perched up on a cushion. Tommy was a mixture of Andy and her, though Charlie grew more like Sammy every day. Phyllie exchanged a look with Ron who was checking that Charlie wasn’t slipping off the cushion, proud of this handsome young man in a way she had never thought possible on Waterloo Station all those years ago.
Across from her sat Mr and Mrs Williams, Sammy’s parents. Next to them Jake was holding his glass, looking at Andy. He was as tall, handsome, and a carbon copy of his father. He was her Jake, her lovely Jake. His father would have been so proud.
Miss F smiled at her, reaching across the table. Phyllie squeezed her hand. ‘We’re both so lucky,’ Phyllie whispered, as the others toasted the company of family and friends. ‘And surely the war is almost over.’
‘We are indeed lucky, dearest Phyllie, and pray God it is the end, soon,’ whispered Miss F, as only she could. Everyone heard, and everyone laughed, as they always did.
Andy said, his glass raised high, ‘To absent friends.’
Dear Reader,
I do hope you enjoyed Above Us the Sky because I absolutely loved writing it.
But why place Phillie and the children within the orbit of the WI? Well, the WI has been a tower of strength in our villages since its arrival in Britain in 1915. I love my own WI’s low-key hilarity, and sense of community, and could see Phyllie amongst us.
But what about Sammy’s world? My husband, Dick, was a cold war submariner, and from time to time has let slip chilling incidents from those years. Ah ha! I thought. When I explored their wartime experiences, what I found was salutary. The Second World War losses in the silent service were immense, the toll on health and mental well-being desperately high. Here were ordinary young men doing extraordinary things. They lived on a knife-edge for every minute of every patrol, whether on the surface or submerged. Life was immensely uncomfortable, stressful and dangerous. The ocean is unforgiving at the best of times and, in addition, faults occur in machinery and escape is nigh impossible if things go wrong.
But despite my research, I couldn’t help asking myself, Can I get this right? Can I properly imagine it? Then Dick and I had the good fortune to find HMS Ocelot, one of his submarines, at Chatham Dockyard Museum. Long gone are the days when, as electrical officer, he swung himself through the hatches on the run. Instead we clambered through, and along, as he explained the minutiae of a submariner’s life in this dark, tiny, fragile capsule. It brought back much for him, and for a long time after he was very thoughtful. For me – it broke my heart.
I think I got the sense of Sammy’s world. I hope so, because it remains with me, still.
Lots of love
Interview with Milly
1. What made you want to become a writer?
I wanted to be a star, actually, but have had to accept I have no talent. But I can talk for England and tend to embellish, though my family say I fib. Clearly I was destined to be a writer.
2. Describe your writing routine and where you like to write.
Generally, I get the germ of an idea, then I research, after which I plan in detail, chapter by chapter. Throughout this stage I am out and about, having fun. Then I settle down to write at the dining room table, with the television on for company. And for as long as it takes, even breathing is a nuisance. Though I love the phone going, and emails pinging in, as I do believe in distraction.
3. What themes are you interested in when you’re writing?
I like to write about the balance of power in relationships, set in a social and political context.
4. Where do you get your inspiration from?
That’s the million dollar question. It just comes. I suppose I’m naturally curious and notice things. Though others would say I’m nosy. I can live with that.
5. How do you manage to get inside the heads of your characters in order to portray them truthfully?
Research. I need to understand their world, actually swim amongst it, until I have captured the es
sence of it, then I can be them.
6. Do you base your characters on real people? And if not, where does the inspiration come from?
No, I don’t base my characters on real people. On the whole I try to empathise. For me, I can imagine myself as a person in any given situation. This is why I felt I should be a star.
7. What aspect of writing do you enjoy most? (i.e. plot, character development)
Character development and plot creation go hand in hand for me. Creating a plausible character living a plausible life is challenging and enjoyable. I feel it is because usually it is the only thing I can control. Perhaps I’m a megalomaniac or a dictator in the making?
8. What advice would you give aspiring writers?
To learn the ropes. So attend a reputable class, and, in addition, support literary festivals, and conferences like the Winchester Writers’ Conference. At these you can hear established writers talking about their work. You also need powers of endurance and a hide like a rhino to endure the rejections.
9. What is your favourite book of all time and why?
I think Little Women possibly. Little Women showed me that I’d rather be Jo, the independent soul, than any of the other sisters. But there are so many wonderful books out there.
10. If you could be a character in a book, or live in the world of a book who or where would you be?
Oh crikey. Would I be a pole dancer? No, on balance I think I’d be a lady who lunches in expensive but casual restaurants in Florence, New York, and London, whilst being deep into espionage – she’d save the world on a daily basis. Importantly, she’d be someone who never ever puts on a pound in weight, has her hair done every morning, and is utterly adored by George Clooney.
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