by Lilian Harry
‘Oh, I knows how many to have in,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘These is just spares, see.’
Alison and Hughie walked on through the village. You could walk all the way along to the other end and come out on the main road, climbing the hill back to the ridge. From here the road was so steep that it seemed almost to stand up on end as you approached it, and Hughie screwed his face up in dismay. Alison took his hand and encouraged him.
‘I expect this is the hill Jack and Jill fell down, don’t you? You can just imagine them rolling all the way down to the bottom, bumpity-bumpity-bump. They wouldn’t have much water left by the time they got there, would they!’
They climbed slowly, pausing every few minutes to look at something in the hedgerow or on the high banks, listening to the roar of aircraft engines only a mile or two away, and wondering what the local people thought of this intrusion into their tranquillity. It must have been so quiet and peaceful here, in these leafy lanes with only the sheep and ponies to roam the empty moorland; now, with the airfield spread over such a vast area, with all the huts and hangars and other buildings sprawled over the grassland, with the planes themselves taking off and landing at all times of day or night, and the airmen thronging the pubs and inns, the villagers must feel as if they’d been suddenly transported to the middle of a city. And they were just as much at risk, she thought. Safe though this part might once have been – and she knew that people had trekked out from Plymouth every night, to sleep in barns or sheds or even under hedges, rather than stay in the threatened city – the fact that there was an airfield there was bound to attract the Germans’ attention.
The sun seemed particularly bright this morning, she thought as they reached the top at last, and the air especially fresh. There had been a light shower of rain during the night and the autumn reds and golds of the trees along the edge of the narrow road glowed like the colours of a rich tapestry. There were blackberries, swollen by rain and ripened by the sun, growing in the hedge, and Alison picked a few and gave some to Hughie, wishing as they ate that she had brought a basket. As she paused, she realised that there was someone on the other side of the hedge and a moment later, a round, pretty face peeped through the branches and a voice, warm with the local Devon accent, said, ‘Hello! I didn’t know there was anyone there. Be you picking too?’
‘Only a handful,’ Alison said. ‘I was just thinking how nice it would be to take some home, but I didn’t bring anything to carry them in. My husband loves blackberry and apple pie.’
‘You can have some of mine if you like,’ the girl offered. ‘I’ve got plenty.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t take yours! I only live a few minutes’ walk away, anyway. I can come back later.’
The girl disappeared and a few seconds later Alison saw her coming through the gate from the field. They walked to meet each other, and Alison looked at the basket she held over her arm. It was almost filled with gleaming black fruit.
‘We’m going to make jam,’ the girl said. ‘And bottle some, too. You can’t let good food go to waste these days.’ She smiled at Hughie. ‘Do you like blackberries, my handsome? It looks as if you do!’
Alison looked down and laughed. Hughie’s face was smeared with purple juice. ‘He loves all sorts of fruit, but we don’t get much these days unless it’s home-grown. I ought to make jam too – I made quite a lot last year. Would it be all right to pick some?’
The girl nodded cheerfully. She looked a year or two younger than Alison, small and plump, with dark hair curling round her rosy cheeks, and brown eyes that flashed. ‘Course it’s all right. They’m free for all.’ She gave Alison a curious glance. ‘Have you just come to live here, then? Are you evacuated?’
‘No, my husband’s a pilot on the airfield. We’re renting a cottage just along the road. You’re local, aren’t you?’
‘Lived here all my life, in one of the farm cottages.’ She indicated along the lane. ‘My name’s May. May Pretty – john.’
‘What a lovely name,’ Alison said, and held out her hand. ‘I’m Alison Knight, and this is Hughie.’
May looked at her own hand, stained with blackberry juice, and laughed again. ‘I’m too sticky to shake hands! Why don’t you come home along of me, and I’ll lend you a basket for some blackberries. You can meet Mother too. She’ll be waiting to start the jam.’
‘Oh yes, I’d like that.’ They turned and began to walk along the lane, with Hughie capering along in front of them. Two aircraft flew over and they both looked up at them. Alison could see that neither was the familiar Spitfire or Hurricane, and remembered that Andrew had told her some of the newer Hawker Typhoons were arriving today and wondered if he were already up in one, trying it out. The squadron had been in two minds about the new planes, eager to try something new yet reluctant to let their beloved Spitfires go, and she knew he would be in the air at the very first opportunity.
‘The airfield must have made a big difference to this area,’ she remarked, trying to turn her mind away from the spurt of anxiety she always felt when she knew he was ‘up’. ‘Do you notice the noise much?’
‘We did to start with. We’m used to it now.’ May shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘’Tis war, isn’t it? At least we’ve not been bombed out of house and home, like they poor souls in Plymouth. Terrible what’s happened there, it is – terrible.’
‘I know.’ They walked in silence for a moment or two, then Alison said, ‘Don’t you have to go away, for war work?’
May shook her head. ‘No, because I’ve got parents to look after, see. Father worked on the farm till he had an accident and hurt his back, and Mother can’t look after him on her own, and Grandpa lives with us too so I’ve got exemption. But I do as much as I can for the war effort. I do some sewing for the Marine barracks down Plymouth, and I help collect sphagnum moss and lambswool for field dressings. ’Tis good for healing wounds, sphagnum moss.’
‘Is it?’ Alison wasn’t even sure what sphagnum moss was. ‘I don’t think we have it in Lincolnshire, where I come from.’
‘Lincolnshire?’ May opened her eyes wide. ‘That’s right over on the other side of the country! Is it very different from round here?’
‘Very different,’ Alison said. ‘Not nearly so hilly, for a start, and we don’t have your moorland. But it’s pretty in its own way.’ She looked around, taking in the wide views down to Cornwall, with the tall chimney stacks of the mines standing out like pillars against the sky. ‘It’s beautiful here, though. I just wish it hadn’t been a war that had brought us here.’
May gave her a sympathetic glance. ‘It must be a worry for you, knowing your man’s up there in the sky, fighting. Makes my heart turn over, it do, whenever there’s an alert.’
‘Yes, it does mine as well. But we have to get used to it, don’t we. And at least our men come home at night.’ She paused, leaving the words if they’re lucky unspoken. ‘Not like soldiers and sailors, away all the time.’
May nodded. ‘I’ve got two cousins in the Navy. We never know where they be.’ They arrived at a cottage with a garden in front of it filled with vegetables and flowers, and May laid her hand on the gate. ‘Here we are. It’ll be nice for Mother and Father to see someone new.’
The cottage was set back a little from the road, with a garden in front of it. At the back, the valley sloped down towards the village, although Alison could see a few fruit trees behind it and guessed there was a garden there too. No doubt every inch of it was productive, and she thought of the garden at her own cottage – the only part that seemed neglected – and made up her mind to do something about it as soon as possible.
She followed her new friend to the door. The path was paved with grey local stone and the plants on either side spilled over in profusion. Even though it was now autumn, there was still plenty of colour from the yellow poppies and dahlias that still grew amongst neat rows of newly sown winter vegetables. Along one edge there were soft fruit bushes and two apple trees, with red and golden fruits lit lik
e lanterns, leaned towards each other over the gate itself.
‘Who looks after all this?’ she asked.
‘My dad’s an invalid, so Grandpa does a lot.’ May nodded towards the cottage wall and Alison realised that there was an old man sitting there on a bench, a gnarled stick at his side. She paused and he narrowed his eyes and peered out through a network of wrinkles. He looked as if he had been lovingly carved from a piece of old oak.
‘Who be this, then, maid?’ His voice was surprisingly deep and gravelly, like the sound of a horse tramping over shingle.
‘’Tis a lady from the airfield, Grandpa, and this is her little boy, Hughie. Her husband’s a pilot.’ May showed him the basket of blackberries. ‘Look at all these.’
He nodded with approval. ‘Ah, good pickings. You want to get in as many as you can before the end of the month, mind. Devil spits on ’em then. Be there many sloes, did you see?’
‘Yes, there’s a good crop. I’ll go out for them next. Is Mother in?’ She turned to go through the low doorway, and Alison smiled at the old man and followed her into the cottage, blinking in the dim light.
The front door led straight into the living room, which was larger than she had expected, with stone-built walls and a large inglenook fireplace. Beyond that she glimpsed a kitchen, with a cooking range and a deep white sink. A large dresser stood along one wall, its shelves brightened by an array of coloured crockery, and a jug of chrysanthemums stood on the wide windowsill beside a pie which was gently steaming through a hole in its golden crust, as if it had just been taken from the oven.
A comfortably built woman was preparing vegetables at the sink, and as she turned, Alison saw that she was an almost exact replica of May, as round and rosy as an apple but with white curls instead of dark. The same smile beamed out, and Alison felt instantly at home.
‘My dear soul!’ May’s mother exclaimed, wiping her hands on her flowery apron as she bustled through. ‘You didn’t tell me you were bringing visitors, May. Come you in, my dear, and sit down. I’ll make a cup of tea. And I dare say this young man would like a glass of milk, wouldn’t you, my handsome?’
‘Oh no,’ Alison protested. ‘I don’t want to take your rations. But I’d like a cup of water, if that’s all right.’
‘Well, you couldn’t do better than our water,’ Mrs Prettyjohn declared. ‘Fresh from our own well, it be. But why don’t you have a drop of good milk, from our own cow? You look as if you could do with some building up, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Oh, I can’t resist milk,’ Alison said, laughing. ‘Especially the milk you have here. It’s so rich – no wonder you have such wonderful cream.’
‘And we still make our own,’ the countrywoman nodded, pouring milk from a large blue and white striped jug. ‘You must take some back with you.’ She handed Alison a brimming cup and took a plate from the dresser. ‘I’ve just this minute taken a few rock cakes out of the oven. Here you are, young man, you can take these outside and share them with May’s Grandpa. I dare say he’ll find something interesting to show you. I’ll carry the milk, in case you spill it.’ Hughie glanced at Alison, who nodded at him, then followed her out to the garden. Coming back, she said, ‘I heard young May here tell her Grandpa that you’re from the airfield. You’ll be living in Coombe Cottage, I reckon. I heard as someone had taken it on.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I thought there might be more of us wives renting houses in the village, but I haven’t met anyone else yet. Most of the pilots aren’t married, of course. They’re all so young …’ Her voice faded as she thought of the boys, no more than eighteen or twenty, who made up most of the squadron. So many had been killed already, without ever having the chance to marry. And there were frighteningly few of those who were older, like Andrew and Tubby, who had been in the RAF before the war began.
‘There, you’m cold!’ Mrs Prettyjohn exclaimed. ‘’Tis coming in out of the sun. Come and sit near the fire, do.’
‘No, really. I’m not cold – just a goose walking over my grave.’ Alison sipped her milk. ‘May told me you’re going to make jam with the blackberries.’
‘That’s right. I expect you know the Government lets us have extra sugar for jam. I’ve made a lot already this summer.’ She opened the dresser door. ‘There you are – strawberry, raspberry and gooseberry on that shelf and plum and greengage on that one. And there’s the bottled fruit as well. That should see us right through the winter.’
‘It looks lovely.’ Alison thought of her own cupboards, almost empty but for a few tins and jars from the village shop. ‘I couldn’t get much fruit to bottle this year. I could still make some jam, though, if I can get the sugar.’
‘Of course you could, my dear. ’Tis too late for the soft fruits, but you can pick some blackberries, like our May here. They go best with a few apples, mind, to help the jam set. We’ll let you have a few off our tree, there’s plenty to spare. And take a pot of raspberry jam home with you.’ She took one from the cupboard and set it on the table.
Alison gazed at her helplessly. ‘You’re so kind. But I can’t take your jam. I really can’t.’
‘Bless you, my dear, ’tis only a pot of jam. Of course you can take it.’ Mrs Prettyjohn paused and looked at her seriously. ‘’Tis little enough to do, my dear, when your man’s fighting for us all. You take it, and welcome.’
‘Thank you.’ Alison felt her eyes mist with tears. She looked at the pot of jam, gleaming with ruby colour. Outside, she could hear Hughie’s piping chatter and the deeper tones of the old man. She realised suddenly how lonely she had felt for the past few days, so far away from all she knew, and leaned her head on her hand.
Mrs Prettyjohn looked at her with understanding. Her voice was as soft and warm as a buttered scone. ‘That’s all right, my dear. You’m welcome whenever you want to drop by. There’s always someone here.’ There was a sudden banging on the ceiling above their heads and she looked up. ‘That’s my hubby, that is. I dare say he wants to know who’s down here. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind popping up to say hello later on. He do love to see a visitor.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Alison said a little nervously. She hadn’t had much experience of sick people, and had no idea how ill May’s father might be. Still, she couldn’t refuse, not after May and her mother had been so kind.
‘He’m all right in himself,’ Mrs Prettyjohn said, as if reading her mind. ‘But he fell off a haycart, see, and broke his back. Paralysed from the waist down, he be, but there’s nothing wrong with his head. We’d like to get him downstairs so he can be more part of the family, like, but if we put a bed down here there won’t be any room for the rest of us! So us has to ask visitors to go upstairs to give him a bit of company.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll go,’ Alison said, feeling slightly ashamed of her reluctance. She set down her cup and made to stand up.
‘Oh, no need to go right away,’ Mrs Prettyjohn said, gesturing to her to sit down again. ‘Plenty of time to see he another day. You’ll be wanting to get home for your dinner. Do your man come home for his?’
‘No, he stays in the mess. But you’re right, I should go – you’re getting your own meal ready.’ She got up and hesitated. ‘Will you be making your jam this afternoon?’
‘We will. You come along too if you like, maid, and you can help. Then, if you like to pick some of your own fruit, our May can come and help you – that’s if you’d like her to. Us don’t want to push in.’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t be!’ Alison turned to the girl. ‘Would you do that, May? Or would it be taking up too much of your time? I know you’ve got your job as well.’
‘Oh, I can find the time,’ the dark-haired girl said, smiling. ‘But you need to make sure you can get your sugar first. And you’ll need to get it soon, because the blackberries will be over by the end of the month.’
‘I know – the Devil spits on them!’ Alison moved towards the door. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you, and thank you for the milk. I’ll b
e back this afternoon.’ She ducked out into the sunshine, and found Hughie with the old man, clearing leaves from the path and heaping them in a corner of the garden. ‘Come on, Hughie, we’ve got to go now. Say thank you. We’ll see you again soon, Mr Prettyjohn.’
The bent figure straightened. ‘And welcome you’ll be, whenever you like to call,’ he said. ‘We’m happy to see you, maid, and the liddle tacker, too.’ He nodded, and once again she felt the tears prick her eyes.
Walking back along the lane, she felt as if the sun had suddenly grown warmer. I hadn’t realised how lonely I felt, she thought. Even though Andrew’s home most evenings, and he often brings some of the others with him, I’ve had no friends to pass the days with. And I haven’t even been into another house here until today.
She looked at the hedgerows, with their thick clusters of black, juicy berries. I’ll go along to the shop as soon as they open after lunch, she thought, and ask about sugar. And I’ll take a basket with me when I go back to the cottage this afternoon. At the very least, I can make a blackberry pudding for Andrew’s dinner tonight.
The low thrum of an aircraft engine sounded in her ears and she looked up to see the two Typhoons coming in to land. Well, if one had been Andrew, he was safe for the moment. And as she opened the gate to her own tiny front garden, she felt a little surge of relief lift her heart.
She hoped that the other one had been Tubby.
‘Home-made jam!’ Andrew said a few days later, gazing at the little row of jars, filled with purple preserves. ‘That’s marvellous, darling. And a blackberry and apple pie as well. What a clever wife I’ve got!’
His words were cheerful enough, but there was an odd, brittle edge to his voice and Alison gave him a curious glance, aware at once that something had happened on the airfield. Briefly, she wondered whether to ask him, but dismissed the idea. Andrew would tell her in his own time, if he meant to tell her at all. She knew that there were some things that he would never tell her – things he couldn’t tell her – and she remembered Tubby’s words about secrets.
