A Christmas Candle

by Katie Flynn

  ‘I can see my boy has had a wonderful time and is tired out,’ Eleanor said gaily, picking Chrissie up and giving him a hug before turning to her daughter. ‘Are you going to give me a hand with bathing and bedtime? Or would you rather help Mrs Faversham – Auntie Bess, I mean – with any little jobs she might need doing?’ She turned to the farmer’s wife. ‘He usually has a light meal at about five o’clock and I put him to bed at six.’ She smiled winningly. ‘A boiled egg would be nice.’

  Chrissie, Eve saw, really was tired, for he had cuddled into his mother’s arms, nuzzling into her neck, but at the mention of a boiled egg he gave his train-whistle shriek and tried to struggle free of Eleanor’s grip.

  ‘Mabel said I might pick out an egg myself,’ he said crossly. ‘She said I could go into that barn place and choose any egg I liked.’

  Mabel sighed and looked guilty. ‘I forgot,’ she said, holding out her hand to the small and now tear-streaked Chrissie. ‘But you were going to have the egg for breakfast, not for tea, remember?’

  To Eve’s considerable surprise, Chrissie calmed down at once.

  ‘Eggy for breakfast,’ he agreed, nodding vigorously. ‘Now Chrissie would like bread and jam and jelly.’

  The farmer’s wife laughed and held out a hand, then led Chrissie into a large pantry. ‘Which jam would you like?’ she said, pointing to row after row of jars, each with the name of its contents written neatly on a small white label. ‘We haven’t any jelly, but you can have a piece of plum pie instead.’

  Eve wondered how Chrissie would take the suggestion, but was not given time to find out. Mabel seized her hand and tugged her across the kitchen and the small dark hall and up a great many stairs. At the top of the second flight she flung open a door and pulled Eve into a long attic room with a sloping ceiling and tiny windows set deeply in the thatch. Eve stared around her. There were four beds in the long room, three of them made up with bright coverlets and clean starched sheets. She turned a puzzled face to Mabel.

  ‘If this is your bedroom, why are there so many beds?’ she enquired. ‘At home I have a room of my own and Chrissie sleeps in a cot in Nanny Burton’s room. The maids don’t live in; they come each morning and go home each evening.’

  Mabel’s eyes rounded. ‘Maids?’ she echoed, then shrugged. ‘Oh well, it takes all sorts. The beds that are made up are where me and the land girls sleep, and the other’s for my mum if ever she has time to visit.’ She sat herself down on the end of one of the beds and patted the space beside her. ‘Look, Eve, what I’m going to tell you is a secret, get it? I’m trusting you not to say a word to anyone. How old are you? Nearly ten? Well, I reckon that’s old enough to understand how important it is not to repeat a word. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eve breathed, tremendously proud that Mabel was going to confide in her. ‘How old are you, Mabel?’

  ‘Twelve, going on thirteen,’ Mabel said briefly, and Eve tucked away in the corner of her mind the phrase ‘going on thirteen’, because it made Mabel sound older than her actual years. But Mabel was speaking again and Eve listened intently. Whatever it was this wonderful new friend was about to tell her she would keep the secret as long as she lived, and she could scarcely do so if she didn’t listen with all her might and main.

  ‘Auntie Bess is a really nice woman, but my mum says it’s clear that she and Uncle Reg are short of money,’ Mabel began. ‘When they heard a rumour that children from the cities were being evacuated to the countryside they knew that because they have so much room they would be expected to take some in and not be paid to do so, or not very much at any rate. So Auntie Bess placed an advertisement saying she had a beautiful farmhouse deep in the country and would take paying guests. Do you see?’

  ‘Well, not entirely,’ Eve confessed. ‘What’s the difference between advertising for lodgers and taking in evacuees?’

  Mabel heaved a sigh. ‘She wanted people like you and me, children whose parents would pay a fair price for their meals and so on. Well, apart from the two land girls, who work on the farm and sleep in here with me. So you see? We’re not really evacuees, but we have to pretend to be like everyone else, or people might say Auntie Bess was cheating, and that wouldn’t be fair.’ She looked enquiringly at Eve. ‘Will your mum be staying here with you and Chrissie or does she have a job somewhere else?’

  Eve shrugged. ‘I think she had a job once, because that was where she met my daddy,’ she said, having given the matter some thought. ‘And once, when we visited Daddy in his office in London and his secretary had left early, he asked Mummy to type a letter for him. She sat down and did so and honestly, Mabel, her fingers just flew across those keys. Daddy laughed and said she’d not lost her touch, so I suppose she could get a job if she wanted one.’

  ‘But I expect she doesn’t want one,’ Mabel said. She looked thoughtfully at the younger girl. ‘I wonder how long it will be before you move on? She was really upset over the bathroom, wasn’t she?’

  Eve sighed and looked round wistfully at the room in which she and Mabel stood. The ceiling sloped on one side almost to the floor, and the view through the thatch-framed windows still showed the green and gold of summer. ‘Don’t say that. It’s lovely here. Surely she won’t want to move?’

  It was Mabel’s turn to shrug. ‘Well, it did seem to me that she wasn’t the sort of lady to help stack the wheat or take the tea out to the harvesters. But maybe I’m wrong. After all, she wanted a safe place for you to stay and you can’t get much safer than this.’ She cocked her head on one side in a listening attitude. ‘I hear the grandfather clock in the hall striking the hour. Are you hungry? It’ll be a grand tea because Auntie Bess is never mingy and always feeds us well. She keeps warning everyone about this rationing thing they say is coming but I can’t see that it’s made much difference so far.’ She turned to head for the stairs, smiling at Eve over her shoulder as she did so. ‘I didn’t tell you, because it won’t affect you, but Miriam, one of the land girls, snores, so I always try to be asleep before she gets into her stride. But Auntie Bess has put you and your mum and Chrissie in the best front bedroom, and even Miriam’s snores won’t penetrate that far.’

  The tea was as wonderful as Mabel had predicted. And the land girls, bronzed from the sun and full of chatter about their work, took pains to include both Eve and her mother in their conversation.

  Uncle Reg was a small man, dwarfed by his wife. He had thin greying hair, very pale blue eyes and a quiet voice. He only spoke twice, once to acknowledge his wife’s introduction to the Armstrongs, and the other when he bade Chrissie goodnight. But he had a charming smile which transformed his otherwise rather dour features, and when one of the land girls made a joke his face lit up with amusement and Eve found herself liking him despite his quietness.

  Chrissie had been put to bed some time previously and must, Eve thought, be very tired indeed since he did not attempt to lure his mother up to their room with requests for a drink of water, his favourite teddy or the worn old blanket, known as his num-num, which he liked to have wrapped around his shoulders at bedtime no matter how warm the weather.

  As soon as the meal was over and it was growing dusk outside, everyone settled down to their various tasks. The land girls cleared the table and washed up then went into the dining room to write their letters home, or so Mabel informed Eve, and Mr Faversham, heaving a deep sigh, crossed to his desk, got out a large ledger and began to enter figures in it. Mrs Faversham produced a tapestry bag from which she pulled a quantity of knitting and Mrs Armstrong, having found a pile of very old magazines, began to leaf through them with a discontented expression on her face. Presently she turned to their hostess.

  ‘Mrs Faversham, I promised my husband to let him know when we had settled in at Drake’s Farm. I don’t know whether he’s at sea at present, but if so I can leave a message with the number he has given me. May I use your telephone?’

  Mrs Faversham stared. ‘Bless my soul, we’ve no call for a telephone here,’ she ex
claimed. ‘But there’s a box in the village, right outside the post office. There’s a bicycle the land girls use in the big barn, if you’d like to speak to your husband from there. Do you have change?’

  Eve waited for a grumble which did not come. To be sure her mother heaved a sigh, but then her face brightened. ‘Is there a cinema in the village, or a library?’

  ‘Oh aye, there’s both,’ their hostess said. ‘Cinema once a month in the village hall, library open whenever Miss Maple decides she can spare the time, ’cos it’s in her back room.’ She grinned widely. ‘There bain’t much choice of reading matter, but you’ll have books of your own, no doubt. I takes Woman’s Own and Reg there has the Farmer’s Weekly. Have you read Lorna Doone? That’s a book I like so well I bought meself a copy. I’ll lend you that wi’ pleasure, for ’tis a grand tale and set in this very county. Then tomorrow mebbe you can ride into the village and telephone Plymouth. We bain’t usually so quiet,’ she added apologetically, glancing around the room. ‘We makes our own butter and cheese, to say nothing of cream, but I kept this evening clear, thinking you might be tired and not want to be working.’

  Eve, sitting cross-legged on the rag hearthrug, looked up into her mother’s face, expecting an indignant response, but instead of disclaiming any intention of working on any evening, her mother got slowly to her feet and smiled sweetly at the older woman.

  ‘It’s not dark yet, though dusk is falling,’ she remarked. ‘I think I’ll take up your suggestion. If Eve will show me the way to the village …’

  ‘Oh, Mummy! I don’t know the way to the village,’ Eve said hastily. ‘Mabel does though, I’m sure.’

  Mabel, who had been covering pages of an exercise book with neat handwriting, looked up quickly and laughed. ‘You can’t miss it, and it’s perfectly safe if you go the back way, the way Eve came,’ she said cheerfully. ‘When you reach the end of the lane turn right, and keep on for about a mile. Honestly, Mrs Armstrong, you can’t get lost. And of course the telephone kiosk is bright red so you can’t miss that either. You’ll be fine, honest you will. I’m writing my war diary, otherwise I’d come with you. It’s a nice walk, honestly, Mrs Armstrong.’

  The older woman looked undecided for a moment. ‘Well, if I get lost I shall know who to blame,’ she said at last, giving Mabel a roguish look. She crossed the kitchen, went into the small hall and took her coat from its hook, gesturing to Eve to follow suit. Eve did so, but ventured to suggest that her mother would be fine on her own.

  ‘What if Chrissie wakes?’ she asked hopefully. ‘He might cry for one of us.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. Once he goes off he never wakes until morning,’ Mrs Armstrong said untruthfully. ‘Don’t you want to accompany your mama? It will do you good to get some exercise.’ As she spoke she slipped Eve’s school mac round her daughter’s shoulders, and Eve gave way to the inevitable. Reluctantly, she followed her mother into the farmyard, afraid the older woman would find fault with everything on their walk and thus spoil her own pleasure in this magical place. But on this occasion at least she was spared.

  ‘We’ll go the long way round, not down that nasty muddy lane,’ Mrs Armstrong said as soon as they were out of earshot of the farm. ‘I don’t mean to wreck my only decent pair of shoes. There isn’t a pavement this way either, but at least the road is tarmac and quite respectable. Come along, Eve. I really must tell Daddy we can’t possibly spend more than a couple of days here; he must find us somewhere else. I’m sure he never realised there was neither a bathroom nor a WC at Drake’s Farm. Once I tell him he’ll start looking for alternative accommodation, and the sooner the better. Step out, Eve; don’t dawdle.’

  Eve obeyed, and they were soon in the village. Eve looked around her: there was a village green, and a sizeable pond through which a tiny stream chuckled and gurgled its way, Eve assumed, to the sea.

  It was an attractive place. The green was surrounded by thatched cottages with whitewashed cob walls. All the front doors were identical, but outside one a plum tree flourished and another boasted an apple tree still heavily laden with fruit. Eve would have liked a closer look, for she had noticed a fat tabby cat curled up on one doorstep and sweet-smelling pinks on either side of another short path, but Mrs Armstrong hurried on. All the front gardens surrounding the green were well tended, making Eve think of gossiping women exchanging the latest news whilst they worked on their plots. One of the cottages had a bow window displaying various commodities, and she saw the red Post Office sign on the door frame. So this was their destination! She had a sudden urge to produce her Saturday sixpence, go into the shop and spend lavishly, but then realised that at this time of day the sign on the door must mean what it said, which was ‘Closed’.

  Eve was about to point out the Post Office sign to her mother when Eleanor Armstrong grabbed her arm to steer her towards a shiny red kiosk. Here, they both knew, was housed the public telephone. Eve would have followed her mother into the booth but Eleanor shushed her away, so she sat on the post office wall and waited with what patience she could muster. For a miracle her mother managed to get hold of her husband at the very first attempt, and from that moment on Eleanor simply complained about everything. The farm was too small, the lack of a bathroom and lavatory unbelievable in this day and age. The tea had been far too lavish for Chris’s delicate stomach; the animals were certain to bring fleas and filth into every room in the house. Eleanor had closed the door behind her so that Eve should not hear her end of the conversation, but the spring on the door no longer worked and every word she uttered could be clearly heard by her daughter. Eve felt her face grow hot with humiliation. It simply wasn’t true. The farm was lovely, the galvanised tin bath which hung on the scullery wall plenty big enough for a weekly bath, and the food nicer than anything the Armstrong children had ever tasted before. And then, when it sounded as though Mr Armstrong had actually been getting cross with his wife, Eleanor had played her trump card. She had told Daddy about the arrangement Mabel’s mother had made for her daughter, and pointed out that whilst Eve and Chrissie stayed safely at the farm she herself could be doing useful war work, for her secretarial skills must be needed by someone.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be proud of me if I joined one of the services as my contribution to the war effort?’ she said hopefully. ‘And I can drive, which many women can’t. Oh, Bill, if I have to spend more than two or three days at Drake’s Farm I’ll go mad, honest to God I will. Please say I can leave Mrs Faversham to take care of the children and come back to civilisation. I promise you I’ll visit them whenever I’m not working to make sure they’re all right, but I can’t stagnate in that dreadful place! I wouldn’t dream of bringing them to Plymouth if you honestly think it will be targeted by the Luftwaffe, but out at Drake’s Farm they’ll be safe as houses. If the Favershams are willing I’ll start looking for lodgings tomorrow. Do you agree?’

  Mumble, mumble, mumble went the telephone. But though Eve could not hear her father’s side of the conversation she knew very well how it would end. Her mother would dump them at Drake’s Farm, trusting the Favershams to look after them, and would rush down to Plymouth where all the things that mattered to her could doubtless be found in abundance. Eleanor Armstrong adored the cinema and the theatre and loved the admiration which was usually her lot, for she was a very pretty woman. And presently, when Eleanor finally said goodbye to her husband and replaced the receiver, Eve’s delight was almost as great as her mother’s. With or without Mrs Armstrong, it looked as though she and Chrissie would remain at Drake’s Farm, which was all that mattered.

  There was a small mirror in the telephone kiosk, and after she put the receiver down Eleanor checked her appearance in the spotted glass, even going to the length of producing a comb from the pocket of her coat and tidying her hair. Then she emerged from the box and took Eve’s hand. They walked for a moment in silence before Eleanor turned to her daughter.

  ‘I hadn’t realised the door to the box didn’t close. You must have heard j
ust about every word,’ she said. To Eve’s relief she did not sound angry. ‘How would you feel if I joined Daddy in Plymouth and left you and Chrissie at the farm? You see, I’ve never lived anywhere so primitive, and when I realised that that girl Mabel’s mother – is her name Mabel? – has got herself a job instead of staying here I thought I might follow suit. How would you feel about that? You’d have to be responsible for Chrissie, but I dare say he’d behave himself better if I wasn’t around to give him his own way all the time. I’d come and visit you often, of course, so we could see how it was working out.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Well, miss? Why so silent? You’re usually all too happy to give your opinion, especially when Daddy’s around to take your part. If you don’t like the idea we could look for somewhere different, I suppose, but it would be a great help if you were prepared to stay at Drake’s Farm without me.’

  To Eve’s amazement there was actually a note of pleading in her mother’s voice, and she couldn’t help giving a little smile. For once, she and her mother were in complete accord; Eleanor wanted to exchange the primitive farmhouse for something quite different, and all Eve wanted was to remain at Drake’s Farm for as long as she possibly could. The only snag, in fact, would be Chrissie. Eve did not relish the prospect of being in charge of such a self-willed little boy, but perhaps Eleanor was right and he would not be so naughty once he was away from his mummy. She thought back to his behaviour that afternoon. He had responded well to Mabel’s threats and promises, and in any case, once school started he would be the responsibility of someone else. She looked up into her mother’s face and read hope there.

  ‘Well?’ Eleanor said impatiently. ‘Do you want me to look for another place, one on a bus route perhaps, with a proper bathroom and an indoor WC?’ Once again her voice sharpened. ‘Would that suit Madam better?’

  ‘No,’ Eve said quickly. ‘I won’t leave the farm and nor will Chrissie. The Favershams don’t mind no bathroom, so why should we? You can tell Daddy me and Chrissie want to stay right where we are.’