Sons and Daughters

by Margaret Dickinson

  Georgie hugged her close, holding her for what seemed like a long moment. Charlotte pulled back and looked up into his eyes. His smile was still there, but to her sharp, observant eye it looked forced. The brightness, the sparkle of mischief that had always been in his blue eyes, was gone.

  ‘My dear – what is it?’ she whispered.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?’

  ‘Nor your father. Not where his boys are concerned.’ She linked her arm through his and led him towards the stairs. ‘Come up to my studio. No one will bother us there. We can snatch a few minutes alone. The children are still at their lessons. But keep your voice down. If Jenny hears you . . .’ As they began to mount the stairs, she asked, ‘Are you hungry? I could ask Wilkins to bring a tray up.’

  ‘A whisky would be nice.’

  Whisky, she thought, suddenly very concerned. It was two in the afternoon. But she made no comment, except to say, ‘You go on up. I’ll just find Wilkins.’

  She joined him in her studio; he was sitting on the wide window seat staring down at the garden below.

  ‘How’s it all going, then?’ he wanted to know. ‘With all these kids?’

  She had the distinct feeling that he was leaping in first, before she could ask him awkward questions.

  Charlotte crossed the room which was once more neat and reasonably tidy for an artist’s studio. Little trace of Jenny’s first experiments remained, but one corner of the room had now been set out for the child. A little table with paints, brushes and paper of her own, kept her confined to her ‘painting room’ as she called it. When Miles had suggested setting something up for her in the playroom, Charlotte herself had said she could share her studio. ‘Keep all the mess in one place,’ she’d said smiling.

  ‘Fine,’ Charlotte said now in answer to Georgie’s question as she took a seat beside him. ‘We have a nice teacher who comes in every day. A young woman whose fiancé is in the army. They have lessons and then play out in the garden, if it’s fine, before going home. Miles loves those sessions. He never misses them. And then he takes some of the ones who live the farthest away home in the farm cart. And they love that!’

  ‘It sounds idyllic,’ Georgie murmured wistfully.

  ‘Not really. A lot of the evacuees are still homesick. But we’re doing our best.’

  ‘And Jenny? What about her?’

  ‘She’s settling in better now, though it’s taken a while. We still get the odd tantrum, but Miles spends a lot of time with her.’

  Georgie smiled pensively. ‘The daughter he never had, eh?’

  Charlotte couldn’t answer. Her throat was too full of tears. Though it was never spoken of, never referred to, except by her father almost every time he saw her, Charlotte still lamented the lack of their own child in their lives.

  She turned her thoughts away from her own sadness and said softly, ‘So, my darling, how are things with you?’

  He took a moment to answer. ‘You’ll have been following the news.’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘You know all about Dunkirk. And I expect you have heard about Mr Churchill’s speech that the Battle of France is over and – and the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Everyone’s getting jittery about a possible invasion. We’re not – we’re not exactly at our strongest at the moment, Charlotte. It has to be said. Though I wouldn’t say it to just anyone.’ He looked across at her and held her gaze. Softly, he said, ‘The RAF chaps are in for a pretty tough time. We’re the only ones to defend our shores at the moment. You – you understand what I’m saying, don’t you?’

  Wordlessly, she nodded.

  ‘If – if anything happens to me, look after Dad, won’t you?’

  Huskily, she murmured, ‘Of course. You know I will.’ But silently she thought, But who will look after me if I lose my golden boy?

  Georgie forced a smile, held out his hand to her and, with his glass of whisky in the other, said, ‘And now, let’s go and find that little scamp.’

  Jenny positively glowed at Georgie’s unstinting praise of the picture she had painted just for him. ‘I must hang it up in my room at once, alongside Charlotte’s.’

  Later that day, the four of them stood back to admire Jenny’s painting of the beach hanging beside the painting Charlotte had done years earlier of the village school. It had hung on Georgie’s bedroom wall ever since.

  Miles put his arm round Charlotte’s shoulder and, glancing down at her, winked. ‘Do you know, my dear, I think you have a rival for your talent. You’ll have to watch out. Felix will be coming to take Jenny’s pictures back to London.’

  Solemnly – and quite seriously – Charlotte said, ‘There’s real talent there, if only it can be nurtured.’

  ‘Then we must make sure it is,’ Miles said softly.

  Their words passed over the child’s head. She was still basking in Georgie’s approval.

  There was a tap on the bedroom door and Wilkins’s face appeared.

  ‘Excuse me, sir – madam. Master Philip has arrived home.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Charlotte said, injecting what she hoped was as much pleasure as she had genuinely felt at Georgie’s arrival. But Jenny made no such effort. Her smile disappeared to be replaced by a glower.

  Noticing, Georgie took her hand. ‘Come along, let’s go and greet him. And Ben will be home soon too. Then we can all have a lovely family dinner, because you’re part of our family now, aren’t you, Jen?’

  The child looked up at him, smiling, and with adoration in her eyes.

  Watching them, Miles felt his heart turn over.

  Ben was later arriving home from his work than normal. Charlotte had to hold dinner back by half an hour, much to Mrs Beddows’s consternation. He came into the room solemn faced and avoiding his father’s eyes.

  Charlotte’s heart leapt in her breast. Something was wrong – she could see it in his manner and written on his face.

  And so could Miles. ‘What is it, son? Bad news?’

  Several young men from the district – though no one close as yet – had been reported killed or missing since Dunkirk. Miles feared the worst.

  ‘Let’s have dinner.’ Ben smiled thinly. ‘I’m sure Mrs Beddows is in a flap already.’

  ‘Tell us now,’ Charlotte said. ‘Another few minutes won’t matter.’

  Ben sighed. ‘I’m sorry – I know you think I shouldn’t, but – but I’ve volunteered for the army.’ Now he met his father’s gaze. ‘I know I could probably get out of it, but I can’t sit around here whilst others are – are going. My conscience won’t let me.’

  Charlotte gasped and sat down suddenly, her hand to her breast, her eyes wide and fearful. ‘Oh, Ben, no.’

  She felt Philip’s eyes on her, his mouth twisting in a sardonic smile. He moved and put his arm about his brother’s shoulders, but his gaze was on Charlotte’s face.

  No one else in the room had spoken. Miles and Georgie seemed to have been turned to stone by Ben’s announcement. Jenny, wide-eyed, stood watching them all.

  ‘I wonder,’ Philip drawled, ‘if I shall get the same reaction. As it happens, I’ve volunteered too. The army. That’s what I’ve come home to tell you all.’ Now he smacked Ben on the back. ‘You’ve rather stolen my thunder, old boy.’

  With a supreme effort, Charlotte jumped to her feet and clasped her hands, staring at them both. ‘Why? Why? How could you do this to us? Isn’t it enough that Georgie—?’ she stopped, realizing that she was in danger of betraying the very emotions she fought so hard to keep hidden.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Philip said softly. ‘Georgie.’

  That was all he said, but no one in the room, except perhaps Jenny, misunderstood the meaning behind his words.

  It was Georgie who broke the tension. He crossed the room in a few strides to slap his brothers on the back. ‘Congratulations. Old Hitler doesn’t stand a snowball in hell’s chance with all three Thornton boys after him.’

  Charlotte moved to Miles�
�s side. She looked up into his face. He was grey with sadness and his strong shoulders seemed to sag. It seemed to her that he had aged ten years in a matter of seconds. But, true to his nature, he said no word of censure. He merely stretched out his hand – a hand that trembled a little – to congratulate his boys. And to wish them well.

  But only Charlotte knew the dreadful fear that was in his heart, for it took root in her own and she knew she’d never know another moment’s peace until this war was over.

  Fifty-Eight

  Osbert had plenty to say about Philip’s foolish action.

  ‘What on earth is he thinking of?’ He thumped his stick angrily. ‘Send him to see me,’ he demanded imperiously. ‘I’ll talk some sense into him.’

  ‘It’s done now, Father,’ Charlotte said heavily. ‘And I don’t think it can be undone.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Osbert growled.

  But even Osbert Crawford was no match for His Majesty’s Services and so now there was only Jenny left at home to brighten their day and take their minds off their boys. But thoughts of them were never very far away.

  ‘How many more are going to go?’ Charlotte worried.

  ‘Too many.’ Miles paused then, trying to turn their thoughts to other matters, although everything they discussed seemed to be connected to the war in one way or another. ‘Tommy Warren has gone. Had you heard? The army, I think.’

  ‘How’s he managed that?’ Charlotte asked in surprise. ‘Surely he’s classed as being in a reserved occupation, isn’t he?’

  Miles shrugged. ‘Well, Ben was, too, but he managed it. I don’t quite know what they’ve done.’ Then he asked, ‘What about the workers on Buckthorn Farm? Are you coping?’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘At the moment, yes, but I think Eddie is beginning to feel frustrated that he can’t go.’

  ‘Tell him there are countless soldiers who would give their eye teeth to swap places with him. He’s doing a valuable job and shouldn’t feel guilty.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘I will.’

  ‘It’s a pity Ben and Tommy couldn’t see it that way,’ he muttered, frowning. Then he sighed, trying to bring his thoughts back to the hole in the workforce that Ben’s departure would leave. ‘We’ve got land army girls coming to Home Farm. I’ll see if Joe needs anyone. What about one or two for Buckthorn Farm?’

  ‘Mm, I’ll talk it over with Eddie.’

  Georgie made the most of his leave. No one else except Charlotte seemed to notice the haunted look deep in his eyes. If they did, they said nothing. Like Georgie himself, everyone put on a brave face and laughed and joked as if all was right with the world instead of acknowledging that perhaps their country was facing its darkest hour.

  Georgie spent most of his time with Jenny, teaching her to ride the second-hand bicycle that Miles had bought for her, even sitting her in the saddle on a docile pony and leading her along the quiet lanes. He took her to the seashore to see if the samphire was ready for picking.

  ‘We’ll take some home,’ he told her, ‘and Mrs Beddows will show you how to cook it.’ He laughed. ‘She’s quite the expert since Charlotte first showed me where to pick it and . . .’ There was a catch in his voice as he remembered his happy childhood. As Georgie had no memories of his own mother, Charlotte had filled that void for him at least. And he knew she looked upon him as her own son, her special boy. He realized now, how desperately worried both she and his father must be about him. And now his two brothers had joined up too.

  He stood up suddenly and glanced around. ‘Come on, Jen,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Time to go home, the tide’s coming in.’

  When they arrived back at the manor, it was to find that an urgent message awaited him. All leave had been cancelled and Georgie had to return to camp immediately.

  As he bade everyone farewell in the hallway, he shook his father’s hand, clapped his two brothers on the back and picked Jenny up and swung her round. But he saved his special bear hug for Charlotte, whispering close to her ear, ‘Look after yourself, dearest Charlotte.’

  And then he was gone, running down the steps, his kit bag bumping against his legs, out to where Brewster waited to drive him to the station.

  Over the following weeks, the war news was no better. Britain now fought on alone and, as Mr Churchill had called it, the Battle of Britain was being fought by the RAF over the south of England. And whilst Georgie was in the thick of the fighting, Philip and Ben completed their basic training and awaited a posting.

  They both came home on a week’s leave and Charlotte tried to make their time at home very special. She planned their favourite meals – as far as rations would allow – and made a determined effort to heal the rift between herself and Philip. But she couldn’t prevent Georgie being never far from her thoughts. Ben went back to the life he loved – working on Home Farm – whilst he waited, but Philip didn’t want to involve himself in anything. He whiled away the days reading or just sitting staring into space, preferring to be alone rather than in company.

  Jenny stood in front of him as he sat on the terrace one sunny August morning reading the newspaper. She regarded him solemnly for several moments before Philip became aware of her silent presence. He frowned over the top of the paper. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Georgie’s not here.’

  ‘No-o,’ Philip said carefully. The child was stating the obvious, he thought, so why – ?

  ‘And Charlotte’s gone to see that grumpy old man.’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘And the mister’s busy, so – ’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Will you read to me?’ She held out the book. ‘It’s the one Georgie gived me.’

  ‘Did he now?’ He could see the battered copy of The Wind in the Willows in the child’s hands. It had always been a favourite – one he remembered his mother reading to him . . .

  Before he knew quite how it was happening, Jenny had tweaked the newspaper from his grasp and dropped it on the floor. Then she handed him the book and clambered on to his knee.

  ‘We’ve got to Chapter Eight where Mr Toad’s just been put in a dinjun.’

  ‘A dungeon,’ Philip said mildly.

  ‘That’s what I said – a dinjun.’ With Bert clutched under one arm, she put her thumb in her mouth, curled up on his lap and, resting her head against his shoulder, waited for him to begin.

  Half an hour later, that was how Charlotte, returning from Buckthorn Farm, found them.

  ‘He was reading to her,’ she told an incredulous Miles. ‘There she was, sitting on his knee, and he was reading to her. And doing all the funny voices just like Georgie does.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Miles murmured. ‘You know, Philip hasn’t always had this – this prickly side to his nature. When he was young – ’ He stopped, afraid he would cause Charlotte pain, but she finished his sentence for him.

  ‘When his mother was alive, you mean?’

  Slowly, Miles nodded.

  For the remaining days of his leave, Jenny monopolized Philip.

  ‘Georgie’s not here,’ she told him candidly, ‘so you’ll have to do.’

  Hearing it, Charlotte held her breath, expecting a bad-tempered outburst from her stepson. But to her amazement, Philip only laughed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s no bad thing to be second-in-command. So, Jenny, what do you want to do today?’

  Charlotte turned away, shaking her head in wonderment. I must be dreaming, she thought.

  Charlotte’s thoughts were never far away from her beloved Georgie in his Hurricane. And though they tried not to speak of it too often, Miles’s preoccupied air told her that his thoughts, too, were often in the skies over the Channel. Philip and Ben had both gone and there was only Jenny to take their minds off their worries.

  Charlotte went as often as she could to Lincoln to see her mother, aunt and uncle, but still there was no evading the talk of war that seemed to dominate everyone’s thoughts. As she arrived home from one such visit in early September, Miles gre
eted her. He was distraught.

  Seeing his ravaged face, Charlotte’s knew in an instant that it was the news she’d dreaded the most.

  Georgie.

  He held opened the front door as she climbed the steps on trembling legs. She reached out to him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The worst possible.’ His voice was deep and thick with emotion. ‘Georgie’s missing. One of his pals telephoned. He was seen going down over the coast of France. There is a chance – a slim one – but . . .’

  Charlotte was dying inside. Her ‘golden boy’ lost. Missing – presumed killed. That was the heartbreaking official wording they would receive in a day or so.

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ she began, clinging to any vestige of hope, but the bleak, defeated look in Miles’s eyes told her she was clutching at straws.

  ‘Don’t tell Jenny,’ he pleaded hoarsely. ‘It’ll break her heart. She idolizes him.’

  Her throat too full of tears to speak, Charlotte nodded as Miles turned away towards his study. She let him go, aware that he needed some time alone. Slowly she climbed the stairs towards her studio to seek her own solitary consolation. But it was not to be found; Jenny sat in her own little corner daubing a piece of paper with yellow ochre and dots of green.

  ‘I’m painting another picture for Georgie,’ she said brightly. ‘He’ll be home again soon. That’s samphire, that is. We picked it together – me an’ Georgie.’

  Charlotte had never known what it felt like to have her heart broken.

  But in that moment, she knew.

  ‘Where is she? I can’t find her.’

  Miles burst into the morning room where Charlotte was patiently darning a sock. Make do and mend was the order of the day now.

  She raised her eyes, pausing in her work but not flying into a panic straight away. ‘Isn’t she outside with the others?’

  ‘No. They’re clamouring to be taken home. Miss Parker too.’

  Miss Parker was the teacher who came every day to the manor.