Shelter

by Sarah Franklin

  It was a new guard at the POW camp, not one that knew her, and he wouldn’t let her past the gate.

  ‘Have a heart! What do you think I’m going to do? I just want to get Seppe for apple picking.’

  The guard leered at the baby and Connie scowled and turned aside. ‘Apple picking? Is that how he got here?’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting!’ If she’d had a clear shot she’d have spat at him, but she might end up gobbing on Joe’s head, and that wouldn’t do. ‘If you won’t let me in, can you at least send someone to find him?’

  ‘What do you think this is – the social club?’ But the guard put his fingers in the corner of his mouth and whistled. A couple of lads playing football nearby with a half-deflated ball ran over. They seemed more interested in Joe than in her.

  ‘Go and find Seppe, the woodcutter, will you? Tell him he’s got company.’

  The lads headed off. They couldn’t have been much older than Connie. She yawned. The sun was warm still and she was baking now after the hike up that hill. Was Joe too hot in his sling? She peered at him but it was impossible to tell.

  A crowd of blokes had gathered the other side of the fence now. You wouldn’t think they were Mussolini’s bad boys, not to look at them all scruffy and crumpled. Some of them must have been in camps for years now. That one at the back was a dead ringer, twenty years younger, for a schoolteacher Connie had once. Couldn’t imagine a less likely looking man of war. Though probably even Mr Purdoe had ended up in the war, or the Home Guard at the very least.

  Still, it was nice to have a moment or two of the company of men who weren’t old enough to be her dad or her grandad. Connie unpacked Joe from the sling, smoothed down her coat a bit so that they could see her. She smiled at the nearest POW, a young-ish-looking lad, but he failed to notice. Connie followed his gaze. He was trying to catch Joe’s eye. Joe’s! Not hers!

  She looked at them all again, this raggle-taggle bunch of men the other side of a chain-link fence, and it plummeted at her. They were all fascinated by Joe, waving and cooing.

  Her eyes prickled with tears. Look at the poor bastards. How long had it been since they’d seen a baby? Maybe some of them had kids at home, and here she was being all mardy about lugging this one up here. Bet half of them would kill for a chance to carry their little tykes around. Connie moved closer to the fence and a dozen fingers reached through the chain-link at Joe. She smiled at them, eased Joe’s hand forward and put it within reach. Joe giggled at these men who were making funny faces at him, crooning to him in what must be Italian.

  She looked again, more closely. They weren’t all cooing. There were a few at the back staring coldly, black armbands pulled over their jacket sleeves.

  The gate clanked. A baker’s van pulled through, two young lads hanging on to the back of it on ramshackle bikes. They let go as the van met the gates and turned back down the hill, waving their caps at the men and pointing at the fatter of the two boys. The men waved back, cheered them.

  ‘Every day, the boys race each other down the hill. The men have bets on who reaches the bottom first.’

  ‘Seppe!’ It was such a relief to hear his voice, to see him in front of her and know that he, at least, didn’t have to be sad. ‘Here – do you want Joe?’ She got it now. Connie lifted Joe away from the fence and waved his hand at the men. ‘Can you tell them I’ll bring him back soon?’

  Seppe looked from Joe, to his campmates and back to Connie. He looked like he wanted to hug her.

  But if he did that she might cry and this life of hers had no room for tears, so she looked away.

  ‘Of course.’ She stroked Joe’s cheek.

  They set off away from the camp.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Seppe was funny. He’d been following her on, no idea where she was taking him but no complaints, neither.

  ‘Amos has decided it’s time to get the apples in, reckons we need a man to help us.’ Seppe’s grin lifted her and she smiled too. ‘I know, I know, but I wasn’t about to tell him that I was better than most men he knew, was I?’

  ‘To be honest’ – hark at him, starting to sound like one of the locals – ‘I am surprised you did not tell him this.’

  ‘Oi!’ She sideswiped him and he kinked out of her way, laughing.

  ‘Careful! I nearly went into that branch.’

  ‘You’re a big boy now – you’d have lived.’

  ‘But Joe …’

  ‘You wouldn’t have dropped him. Not a chance you’d let go of that baby.’ It was one of her surest facts in all the mist of motherhood, rising through as sharply as that branch that had nearly spiked Seppe. Seppe would no more let harm come to Joe than Amos would.

  There was a ladder in the nearest tree by the time they made it back to the cottages. Connie hopped over the wall. ‘Here, give me Joe and watch out for that loose bit.’ She knew that look of Seppe’s. ‘If you can figure out a way to fix this wall without the whole damn thing falling down, I bet Frank and Amos will be all ears.’

  Joyce was laying out a rug on the grass beside a tower of crates lined with old Mercurys. Did anybody ever read that damn paper, or was it only printed so that the Foresters had packing material?

  ‘Is that my Joe back from his walk?’ Joyce reached out her arms in a movement so like the Italians up at the camp that a cloud passed over Connie as she remembered what they didn’t have. She leaned down with Joe, gentler perhaps than usual.

  ‘He can lie here and mind the food.’ Joyce straightened up. ‘Right. Seppe, will you go round ours and give Frank a hand with the other ladder? You can help me move these crates under the trees, our Con.’

  It was good work, apple picking. Frank told Seppe to go with Connie – ‘You’re used to the wench’s cheek’ – and sure enough they found a rhythm quickly, familiar with each other’s pace. Amos didn’t seem to mind how many apples she snuck a bite from since the crates were filling fast.

  Connie watched Frank and Joyce, stretching with one hand, dipping with the other to place the harvested fruit onto the newspaper, years of practice showing in their movements.

  ‘Reckon we can outpace Darby and Joan there?’ She mock rolled her eyes at Seppe’s confusion. ‘Frank and Joyce. Let’s show them we can get the apples down fast, too.’

  She lifted round the ladder, looking for the fullest part of the tree. The ladder swayed and she stepped back to get her balance. Seppe put a hand on her arm.

  ‘There’s no rush. This is not a contest. To be honest, I am happy for this to take all day.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘This is not a job with a quota, Connie. This is Sunday in the sunshine, with a picnic and a baby.’

  The image of the POWs at the camp fence hit her again. They have nowhere to go. But Seppe did have somewhere to go. Why hadn’t she seen this before? Her insides shrivelled with the shame of not having thought beyond her own nose.

  ‘You’re right.’ He stepped back in mock surprise so she walloped him. ‘There’s no rush.’ The idea of not going fast made her head hurt. Life was always fast – wasn’t that the point? But Seppe was right. This here, this Sunday, with grub and company, this wasn’t something to be sped through.

  She grinned, warmed by more than just the sunshine.

  ‘Hold the ladder. I want to see how high I can get.’

  Twenty-Nine

  October

  CONNIE BENT DOWN BESIDE Joe on the forest floor, copper-brown with autumn, and scuffed at the goo on his overalls. She was doing better at looking after him in these last few weeks, she reckoned. She’d finally got the hang of giving him the bottle, and the napkins were less likely to make her gag. He was a funny little thing too, Joe, which helped. She liked him, liked his refusal to do what was expected of him, hadn’t known he’d be a person so quickly.

  ‘What are you up to, little one?’ The baby didn’t answer her. Of course he didn’t. Too busy gazing up at the wavy leaves and cooing.

  Seppe looked up from picking woodchips out of
the fretsaw. He’d been humming his tunes all day, making Joe giggle.

  ‘Just wait until he’s trying to move properly.’ As if he’d heard, Joe grasped towards a pine cone and squawked at her, delighted with himself.

  ‘Crawling? The last thing I need is a crawling baby.’ Connie waved at the baby as she sneezed again. ‘This stupid cold. Can’t seem to shake it.’

  ‘It’s not a cold. It’s from the grasses, the harvest.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘All the men in camp who help the farmers in the fields, they are sneezing and coughing and complaining when they come back at night after cutting down the hay all day. Perhaps it reaches you here in woods, even late in the year. In Italian we call it the febbre da fieno.’

  ‘It’s a right royal pain in the bum, whatever you call it.’ She sneezed again. ‘When will it stop, can you tell me that much?’

  ‘Later in the autumn. When the rains come.’

  ‘Well, that’s peachy.’ Joe was stretching out an arm towards the shine of Seppe’s saw. ‘Come here, you little magpie.’ She hooked an arm under his gut and pulled him away, shutting her ears to his yells. ‘Oof! Right little lump you’ve turned into.’

  Connie pulled the tarp from under the splayed branches of that last oak they’d got down. It snagged on an offcut and bit into her fingers. This lot needed pollarding, but she had to leave it and just concentrate on the felling. Frank would send someone else to sort it out. The sloppy new girls hadn’t got as far as yesterday’s pollarding yet.

  ‘Where are the lumberjills?’ So Seppe had noticed it too.

  ‘Sulking, I reckon.’

  ‘Sulking?’

  ‘You know. Got a right face on them.’ She prodded Seppe and laughed. ‘Have you learned nothing working with me? Thought that’d be a word you had down pat. Sulking. Like this.’ She pouted and he laughed too.

  ‘But you don’t do so much of that, actually. With you, it is more così –’ He mimed an explosion.

  ‘Cheeky sod!’ Connie poked him again, pulling her scariest face. Now they were both laughing. Right on cue, Joe blew a huge raspberry. He could be funny, that one.

  ‘I see. But why are they sulking?’

  ‘Cos all their fancy men have been moved out. The GIs. Given their marching orders, weren’t they? Not a Yank to be seen. Remember I told you I saw that empty barracks? Turns out they were all sent away again a couple of months ago. Wasn’t this huge news in the camp? Thought the lot of you must be like bulls let loose in a field of cows now that the competition’s shipped out to be shot at.’

  ‘The Americans went away? To war?’

  ‘No, out dancing.’ She pulled another face and he pulled one back. Since they’d been bringing Joe out to work with them, Seppe stood up for himself more, she’d noticed. Shame Joe’s presence made her more unsure of herself, not less.

  ‘Where d’you think they went? Buggered off, trucks packed full of that explosive they’ve been stashing in the mine shafts for months.’ She was a bit sketchy about that last bit, to be honest. She’d got it from Joyce, who still popped round most mornings to help out with Joe after Amos went off with the sheep. Connie had been busy checking out her reflection in the kitchen window now she’d got Joe on the bottle and her body had a chance of getting more back to normal. She’d only half paid attention, and it had been niggling her since she saw those gates wide open.

  ‘Lucky bastards.’

  Seppe reeled round on her. ‘No, not lucky, not lucky at all.’ His fists were clenched, his jaw jutting.

  ‘What? At least they’re going somewhere, getting out of this place.’ She’d seen those Pathé newsreels, great squares of them marching in formation, off to face their future.

  Seppe shook his head and muttered something in Italian. ‘You must never, ever think like that about war.’

  ‘What? You can’t tell me it wasn’t exciting, getting dressed up in that uniform, all those girls lining up to kiss you goodbye.’ She started humming Vera Lynn and he glared so fiercely she took a step back.

  ‘That is not war. That is the pictures. War is not sleeping for four nights because when you sleep, you know the enemy will sneak up from the other side and decimate you. War is living in your clothes for weeks until they rub your body so red you wish you could continue the battle naked. War is not knowing where you are, not really, not knowing any of the smells, the sounds in the night, having no idea when it will ever end and if the only ending will be your death. War is not exciting. Not ever. War is fighting against your will for causes you’ve seen bring misery to those you love, and being forced to watch your comrades being torn apart right next to you.’

  She hadn’t seen him so upset, and part of her was ashamed for having made light of it. But she knew what she’d seen, and the GIs she’d met had always been cheery, ready for an adventure.

  ‘It can’t all be like that, can it? Some of it must be fun.’

  Seppe threw her a look of complete contempt and she shrank back. Seppe never treated her like that. He was the one she could always rely on to be on her side.

  ‘I cannot listen to this. Come on, caro.’ He scooped up the baby and marched down the path, back towards the hut.

  ‘Seppe! Wait!’ She sighed, bent down to roll up the tarpaulin. ‘I wasn’t trying to upset you! Don’t get your knickers in a twist!’ But he refused to turn round, pretended he couldn’t hear her when he was barely five feet away.

  Connie heaved up the tarpaulin and kicked at the ferns ahead of her until the cheerfulness of the green gave way to manky brown. It was all very well for Seppe; he’d had his turn out in the wider world. Now she could start to see through the fog and terror of those early baby days, the itch to do something bigger was crawling back and the GIs going off only served to remind her that she was stuck here. She hadn’t meant anything by it.

  Connie turned abruptly down the hill, the saws clanging and clattering in the tarpaulin, and bumped slap bang into Frank.

  ‘Frank! What’s so important that you’ve left the hut at clocking-off time?’

  Frank nodded behind him. There were two of them, a man and a woman, in suits on a Wednesday, and fancy shoes that wouldn’t stand a chance against the forest floor.

  ‘What’s up with them – lost their way?’

  ‘They’re from the Home Timber Production Unit. Here to check on the old-growth quotas, see the oak stands. Some big cheese from the navy demanding more wood to fix ships, and fines if we don’t meet their demands.’

  Her conversation with Seppe about the GIs was still fresh. This was a chance to use that information to cheer up Frank. ‘This is good, isn’t it? If they need more ships it must be to stop Jerry from swarming in here. We’re helping to keep the trees safe, Frank.’ Connie grinned despite herself. Even to her ears she sounded like Amos. It must be rubbing off on her. But Frank didn’t respond, not even with a glimmer of a smile.

  Frank’s silences weren’t like Amos’s or Seppe’s. Connie knew what was in them, and this silence dried her eyes, put her up on her toes. She peered at the officials who’d come to try and tell Frank how to do his job. The woman was holding up her clipboard near her chest like armour. She’d get every last bit of woodchip down her blouse if she hugged the board like that up at the stands.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ She lifted down the tarpaulin and peered down the path.

  ‘Did you see Seppe on your way up?’

  ‘Just got to the hut, he had, chatting away to our Joe.’

  So she was allowed to accompany him. Pride fluttered.

  She barrelled on through the ferns until she could see them.

  ‘Seppe!’ He didn’t move; still got a cob on. Please himself. She’d chivvy him out of it later, when there was time.

  Connie covered the last few steps and dropped the tarpaulin at his feet.

  ‘Put these back in the hut for me? I’m off to go and help Frank sort out this quota nonsense.’ Frank had followed her back down the path, was tapping his
foot waiting for her.

  ‘Hut’s unlocked, lad. You’ll get ’em in all right.’

  ‘And Joe? I wait with him at the hut, or take him home?’

  Joe hadn’t even crossed her mind. The familiar guilt washed in.

  ‘Stay here.’ Amos might tut if Seppe brought Joe home, think she was neglecting her duties. Amos had come through for her, fair play. She owed it to him to not let him down.

  ‘What about your curfew, lad?’

  Didn’t Frank know anything about Seppe? If he had a chance to spend extra time with that baby, he’d grab at it.

  The suits were catching them up. ‘Come on, Frank. We need to get up there before them, check it’s all tidied off.’ Oh, that was a point. She pulled the tarp away from Seppe again and tugged out the fretting blade. ‘Might need to smooth off some of those stumps where the lazy buggers leave them unfinished.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Her heart plummeted. Frank must be dead worried. He never, ever let her decide which job they should do, even when she was right. She scrambled to catch him up; dodgy leg or no dodgy leg, he could put a move on when he wanted to.

  ‘What’s the matter? You know those oaks off by heart, and the quotas.’ She’d seen him at the end of every shift, blackened fingernails checking down the ledger, making sure the day’s tally matched what needed to be sent. And when Frank looked at those numbers, he saw what Connie was only barely starting to cop on to: the parts of the Forest he’d need to bring down in order to hit the numbers. Thirty oaks wasn’t a line on an account book: it was that patch up beyond here, where the trees thinned out towards Ruardean. That’s what made even the stroppiest woodcutter heed Frank: he had the whole thing sussed.

  ‘Aye, well. Might not be enough, might it?’

  He sighed, and in that sigh she heard the forest, relying on Frank to protect it.

  Frank went straight home after the meeting with the bigwigs, sloping off like Amos’s Bess if she’d missed a ewe. He’d held himself small and glanced anywhere but at those interferers in their fancy suits. His limp was worse than ever this evening, seemed he’d scarcely make it over the ridge to the cottages.