Hope at Holly Cottage

by Tania Crosse

  Deborah Franfield failed to suppress her proud smile, and Anna realised the good lady was trying to encourage her with talk of happier events. She indeed felt pleased for them. Fleetingly.

  ‘Is that Dr Franfield junior?’ she asked, vaguely remembering the handsome young man who had once stood at the bottom of her and Carrie’s beds in the maternity home.

  ‘Yes. The sad part is that immediately after the honeymoon, they’re going straight off to Germany for three years so that Edwin can do his National Service. He was able to defer it while he did his medical training, but they’ve caught up with him now. And it’ll be three years instead of two because he’ll go in as a medical officer on a short commission. But at least they’ll be in married quarters together. We’ll miss them both terribly, though.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Anna answered mechanically. But not as much as I’ll miss Queenie.

  ‘And I’ve had to get a long-term locum,’ William grimaced. ‘Still, seems a good chap I’ve taken on.’

  And so the day went on. So much to do. To arrange. As well as care for Charlie. Ethel appeared in the afternoon. Mabel had gone to Dingles as soon as she had read the telegram. Ethel had managed to get the afternoon off and the following day so that she could stay with Anna overnight. Other people came and went. Shaking their heads. Couldn’t believe Queenie had gone. There was no word from Carrie, and William didn’t return again in the evening as promised.

  ‘Probably on an emergency,’ Ethel decided, wisely nodding her head.

  It wasn’t until that night that Anna’s frail hold on herself snapped. The glass bubble in which she had existed all day, watching everything going on around her as if this was all a dream and she wasn’t part of it, suddenly shattered. And she wept and howled her grief in Ethel’s arms until there were no more tears to shed, and her heart and soul lay empty and withered in her breast.

  She moved through each day, trying to remember all the things she must do. Feed the hens. Bring in some water. Get dressed.

  ‘Bickit, Mummy?’

  What? Oh, Charlie. I’m sorry. ‘Here you are, darling.’ Forgetting he had already had two biscuits that morning.

  The undertaker came the next day and she thanked God Ethel was there. It was Ethel who arranged things with him while Anna sat in the chair, her face pale and her eyes like mud. Later, with gentle understanding, the vicar asked what he could say about Queenie during the service, but he could drag little from the girl who sat like a hollow shell in the chair, while her friend who had opened the door to him had to fill in what she knew of Queenie Witherspoon.

  ‘So where are you going to live?’ Olive asked her the day after Ethel had left.

  Another night with scarcely any sleep, drifting into the shadows. Dark smudges beneath her eyes. Food sticking in her throat. Her limbs not wanting to move. Oh, she just wanted to sit in a chair and sink beneath the waves that washed over her.

  Olive’s insistent gaze drew her attention. What had she said? Oh, yes. She shook her head.

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Well, you’re obviously going to have to move from here. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a home. Clifford, well, you know. I’m sure Gladys and her sisters would have had you if they’d still been living next door, but their new house is so small.’ She paused, working her lips. ‘What about the place Queenie was offered? Perhaps you could have that. We could go to the Duchy’s offices—’

  ‘I couldn’t afford it. Not on my own.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Well, you’ll have to find somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve got a month. I’ll start looking after … after the funeral.’

  ‘All right.’ Olive was satisfied, for now, at least. ‘And I’m happy to help you. But, Anna, you must pull yourself together. For Charlie’s sake.’

  Charlie. Oh, God, where was he? Anna snatched at her breath, then almost collapsed with relief. Of course. Taking his afternoon nap. Safe in his cot. Yes, Charlie must come first, no matter what.

  The postman came the next day, offering his condolences, since he had heard in Princetown that Queenie had died. Who’d have thought it, eh? Anna thanked him, though his sympathies opened up the raw wound again. She took the post, several envelopes, which was unusual. All sympathy cards with such kind and well-meant words that Anna wanted to cry again. But she mustn’t, though her throat ached with the need of tears. Charlie. Every time he asked for Queenie, she must smile and think of some way to distract him. Even though it twisted the knife in her ribs.

  Nothing from Carrie yet. But she expected she would come to the funeral.

  But what was this? A London postmark, and, yes, it was Frankie’s writing. Oh, how she had longed to hear from her. To know that she was all right after the way she had turned up on their doorstep in such a state back in the spring. But now Anna felt she couldn’t stomach someone else’s problems. She was in the black depths of despair, and only Charlie, with his winning smile and his new game of bending over like a length of rubber and grinning at her backwards and upside down as he pushed his head between his legs, could pluck her from her misery.

  She left the washing-up that was piling up in the tapless sink. What did it matter now Queenie was dead? She herded the goats past the vegetables and into the front part of the garden. It was more like a field, really. It was no wonder Queenie had scoffed at the idea of a little patch of ground at the house she’d been offered. Was it that letter and the state Queenie had got herself into over it that had caused her heart attack? But what did it matter? Wouldn’t bring her back, would it?

  Anna somewhat absently played ball with Charlie in the field, and then he decided that Wilma and Dolly were more fun. They didn’t seem to mind him too much. Anna used to be worried that they might hurt him, but not anymore. It was as if they appreciated that he was a baby. They weren’t giving milk recently. Needed the services of a billy again. But what was the point now?

  Anna sat down on the long grass. Frankie’s letter was in her pocket, and perhaps she had the strength to read it. And when she thought of poor Frankie’s face and the bruises she had seen before, she felt ashamed that she hadn’t read the letter at once.

  My dear Anna and you, too, Queenie.

  Oh. Anna thumped the paper down on her lap. Out in the sunshine, watching Charlie’s antics, she had felt more relaxed, as if she could imagine … She gritted her teeth, steeling herself to read on.

  I’m so sorry I haven’t written for so long, but it isn’t always easy. And I’m sorry for descending on you like that as well. But you were both so kind and really helped me. And do you know what? You were right! I took your advice. I spoke to Lady Prue and she made arrangements for me to see a specialist in Harley Street. It wasn’t very pleasant but he couldn’t find anything wrong with me. He said specifically to Gilbert that it was just a matter of time and we both had to be patient. The only thing he found was that I’m a bit anaemic and he’s given me some pills. Said it might make all the difference, so we’re keeping our fingers crossed. And as for our marriage, it’s made it so much better again. As if we’ve made a fresh start. Gilbert’s never hit me again, and it’s all down to you, Anna, so thank you so much!

  I still think we should keep our friendship a secret, though. I could see things going bad again if Gilbert found out. He’d be furious, and I do want to keep on seeing you. We’re driving down on Monday. I’ll try to make some excuse to go into Tavistock on my own on Thursday and meet you at the same place for lunch, if that’s OK. And please bring dear little Charlie with you. But don’t worry if I don’t turn up. It’ll only mean I couldn’t get away. We’ll be down for a couple of weeks and I’ll try to get in contact in some other way.

  So, hopefully, until next Thursday, and thank you again for everything,

  All my love

  Frankie

  Anna sat back with a little breath of relief. She had fully expected a tale of woe, her mind conjuring up a sorry picture of Frankie, battered and bruised with purple marks
all over her. But things seemed to be looking up. She was so pleased for her, and the thought cheered her up somewhat.

  Monday. The funeral was Tuesday. And on Thursday, she and Charlie would catch the bus into Tavistock. She would have to break the news to Frankie, of course, that Queenie had died, but Frankie hardly knew her. She had only met her the once, so perhaps that would make it easier. Not just for Frankie, but for herself.

  She looked up as Charlie ran towards her, his cheeks pink from chasing Wilma who had picked up his ball and made off with it. Charlie stood in front of her, his mouth in a cross pout, and pointed fiercely at the frolicking goat.

  ‘’Eenie!’ he demanded. ‘Ball!’

  Anna shut her eyes. When it came to taking anything from Wilma, Queenie was the only one who could do so, and Charlie knew it. Anna bit on her lip, but couldn’t stop herself from bursting into tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ethel and Mabel were the last mourners to leave. Everyone else was long gone, but Anna’s dear friend and her mum had stayed as late as they could. But they had to catch the bus down to Tavistock, clamber up the steep hill to Tavistock North Station and then take the train down across the Bere Peninsula and eventually to the station at Ford.

  ‘I just wishes us ’ad room in our ’ouse for you an’ Charlie,’ Mabel declared for the second time as she collected her handbag. ‘But we’m packed in like blooming sardines as it is.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s a very kind thought, though, thank you,’ Anna answered, jiggling a tired Charlie in her arms. She’d been hiding behind a mask of politeness during the wake, a reaction against the agonising torment of the funeral service and the burial itself. She felt cross with herself that this sensation of detachment extended to Mabel as well, but she supposed it was her way of coping.

  If she was honest, she was rather pleased that the chaotic little house in Ford was already bursting at the seams. It would save her the embarrassment of having to decline any offer of a home with the Shallafords. She loved them dearly, but she was used to the calm if humble surroundings of Holly Cottage, and the wild, savage beauty of the open moor. She couldn’t imagine bringing up Charlie in the claustrophobic maze of backstreets, or the dingy, nicotine-stained rooms at Number Sixteen. And she was sure the choking fug of cigarette smoke would be bad for Charlie. She had noticed more than ever the sharp, stinging odour of cigarettes that radiated from Mabel. Even as she gave Anna a goodbye hug and began to walk down the short lane to the road, she was already fumbling in her bag for her packet of Player’s Bachelor Tipped.

  ‘An’ I just wishes Bert an’ me was married an’ you could live wi’ us,’ Ethel chimed in as she and Anna went to stand together on the threshold.

  ‘Yes, that’d be lovely,’ Anna agreed, although in truth she wasn’t sure about playing day and night gooseberry to a newly wed couple, either. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere. We’ve got a few weeks yet. Olive’s been asking around for me. And Deborah Franfield, the doctor’s wife, she’s keeping her eyes open in Tavistock for me, as well.’

  ‘Well, you knows where us is. Bye-bye, Charlie. Be good for Mummy. See you soon, Anna. Take care.’

  Ethel kissed Charlie on the cheek, and in trying to copy her, the little chap only succeeded in blowing a raspberry which made both girls laugh instead of saying what might have been a tearful farewell. Anna watched Ethel catch Mabel up and then they both waved as they turned the corner of the lodge and were gone.

  ‘Just you and me now, Charlie,’ Anna whispered, and as she closed the door, it really felt as if she was closing the door on her old, contented life. And she truly didn’t know what would happen next.

  Half an hour later, she had settled Charlie down for the night, and when she came back into the kitchen, the silence struck her like walking into a brick wall. After all the people who had crammed into the cottage, it suddenly seemed horribly quiet. The large church of St Michael and All Angels in Princetown had been almost full, for over her lifetime Queenie had been well known and loved by all. So many faces that Anna didn’t recognise had come to pay their respects, but only those who had been particularly close to her came to the graveside and back to Holly Cottage. Olive, of course, the Crow sisters, the lady from Bolt’s, four members of the extensive Cribbett family, the postman, the woman from the farm up the hill behind them, and even Clifford had all squeezed into the kitchen.

  Now a deathly stillness hung in the cottage, and Anna flung open the door to let the warm, summer evening flow inside. There were still remnants of the wake to clear away, the odd used cup she had missed, crumbs on the floor. But when all was done, that vile emptiness enshrouded her again, setting her stomach churning, and for once, she wished vehemently that she had a radio or a record player like Carrie’s. It was odd, that. She hadn’t heard a word from Carrie. She had expected her to come to the funeral, but perhaps she had gone on holiday and received neither the telegram nor the short note Anna had sent her. It was the summer and the holiday season, after all. Perhaps Carrie, Jeffery and the baby had gone to stay with Carrie’s parents in Surrey. Yes, that was probably it.

  Anna shut away the goats and the hens for the night and then sat down outside the front door on the old bench she had so often shared with Queenie, watching the evening fade and listening to the world gradually silencing into night, a blackbird winging home to its nest. All so familiar. The world would go on, even if Queenie was no longer in it. A half-moon floated upwards into the deepening velvet of a clear sky, its silver glimmer reflecting the myriad stars that were scattered across its indigo eternity. Was Queenie’s soul up there somewhere, smiling down benignly on her? She hoped so.

  Anna shivered and pulled her cardigan more tightly around her. She realised she must have been sitting there for a couple of hours, not wanting to face the loneliness of the night. It must be nearing the witching hour, as Queenie always called it, and Anna reluctantly went inside. Still she didn’t want to go to bed, and she read for half an hour in the dim lamplight. But the words were dancing up and down on the page, and she kept going over the same line again and again. She really should go to bed.

  She slid between the cool sheets and closed her eyes, images of the day chasing each other round in her head, a little like a jumbled Pathé News at the pictures. The faces of those who had come to the funeral, the vicar’s solemn words, the cheap wooden coffin, since, though Deborah Franfield had given it another name, this was a pauper’s burial. Anna had insisted the undertakers drape over the ugly box the pretty patchwork quilt that Queenie herself had made. Anna couldn’t afford flowers from the florist, but had made a posy from the garden, roses from Queenie’s two bushes by the front door, sprigs of lavender, the last tall spray of deep-blue delphinium. It had been placed at the head of the coffin during the ceremony, and then had been put aside as Queenie was lowered into her eternal resting place. Anna had glanced up, and through her tear-blurred vision, caught Deborah’s encouraging half smile. Despite the arrival of her daughter and new grandchild from America, and her son’s imminent marriage, the good lady had found the time to catch the bus up to Princetown for the funeral, though she hadn’t come back to the cottage. Queenie’s cottage. And now Anna’s. But not for much longer.

  She turned over. Heard an owl hoot. Somewhere a fox barked eerily into the night. Oh, Queenie. She tried to conjure up other pictures in her mind. Charlie as a tiny baby. Or playing with the goats. But Queenie’s face kept floating back, smiling, laughing. Cold and still. Anna’s silent tears soaked into the pillow. Still awake. A pigeon cooed. At once, a blackbird answered, the loud shrill of tweeting sparrows. The window became a lighter square in the gloom. Dawn was breaking, and lulled by nature’s chorus, Anna finally slept. But not for long.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Oh, dear. Anna dragged herself awake, her head thudding with a headache. She crawled out of bed in a daze to start the new day. Moving mechanically, her muscles aching. At least the sun was shining again, the sky a pale
, duck-egg blue that would deepen as the hours passed. Things to do. Clinging to the daily routine. Household chores, the goats, the hens. Charlie. Thank God for Charlie.

  She sat him on the potty, for this weather was ideal for potty-training. ‘Oh, Charlie, what are we going to do?’ she sighed, so tired that she couldn’t think straight. And then she noticed that Charlie had indeed performed into the potty.

  ‘Oh, good boy!’ She stood him up, pulled up his new pants and hugged him. He was such a good little fellow, apt to be cheeky and, it had to be said, with his father’s charm. It made Anna think of Frankie’s letter. Gilbert seemed to be over his anger, and she was so pleased for them both.

  ‘We’re going to Tavistock tomorrow,’ she told Charlie, who blinked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘We can look for a new home.’

  But what could she afford? A room in someone’s house with a gas ring in the corner? Sharing a bathroom with strangers? Nowhere for Charlie to play when he was used to having the field to run in, or the entire moor when she took him for a walk? And would anyone take her in, an unmarried mother with a young child – even if she pretended she was a widow? Oh, Queenie. Why did it all have to end?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thursday dawned bright and clear once more, promising another glorious day. After a week virtually without sleep, Anna had finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept well, feeling much better when she woke up. There was so much to do before they caught the bus down to Tavistock. The goats would have to remain locked in their pen while they were out, as would the hens, but the goat shed and the coop would both need their daily clean. Indoors, Anna had let the washing-up pile up, and she felt she must see to that, too.

  By the time Anna got to the café in Tavistock, it was gone half past twelve and she only just managed to get a table. She even had to fold down the pushchair as much as it could go and stow it in the corner behind her, the place was so crowded. She sat Charlie on her lap, and hoped Frankie would indeed be able to get away.