“’Twas on a Sunday morning
That I beheld my darling,
She looked so sweet and charming
In every high degree.
She looked so sweet and charming-o
A-wearing of her linen-o.”
Judy leant against a tree.
“Just fancy meeting you!” She touched her frock. “But it’s not linen. This is crêpe de Chine I’d have you know. Practically the last pure silk in the world.”
Nicholas propped himself against another tree.
“Whatever it is, that bright yellow and your red hair against those brown tree-trunks is a refreshment to the eye.”
“Thank you. Don’t you say your piece nicely! And your singing!”
“I’m considered to have a very nice voice. At our works’ concert, at which, as you know, I’m an accompanist, my name is scarcely ever off the announcer’s tongue. ‘Mr. Nick Parsons, our whispering baritone.’ Loud laughter, as they say in Parliament.”
Judy moved a few steps from her tree.
“Talking of voices, can you hear a wheeze? Mr. Jones is out with me.” She raised her voice. “Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones.”
The pug came pushing through some bracken. He wheezed abominably, but was a picture of dog-like bliss. Nicholas snapped his fingers at him.
“Hullo, old man! Bit on the fat side, isn’t he?”
Judy came back to her tree.
“For goodness’ sake don’t say so. Mr. Jones’ food is a very delicate subject.”
“Why?”
“Officially he has nothing that’s suitable for human consumption. Actually he has meat and two veg on the sly almost every day of the week.”
“How does he get it?”
“Oh, you know, the old lady does without a bit and Miss Rose sneaks snippets, and the butcher, who’s an old friend, saves scraps. Even the billetee helps. If I’ve a bit over on my plate in the canteen I usually bring it home for him.”
“Well, who’s grudging the poor old boy his pickings?”
“Our Clara. But not only Mr. Jones, it’s all of us. You wouldn’t believe the things that go on in our house. The underground movement in France is nothing to what we’re up to.”
Nicholas sat down and pulled Mr. Jones to him.
“How?”
“Milk is our chief secret weapon. The milkman, another old friend, sometimes has a bit over, and when he does he’s paid in cash for it so it shan’t show on the books, and then we lock all the doors and put on a guard to watch out for Clara, and we skim ourselves a little cream, or, if there’s enough milk, we’ve been known to make an ounce of butter. To-day for lunch Mrs. Former and Miss Rose and I are having a picnic. We’ve got two sandwiches each of very thinly spread potted meat, at least that’s what Clara thinks, but she doesn’t know how the minds of the subjugated work; we’ve got a cold chicken.”
Nicholas ran a finger up Mr. Jones’ spine.
“But whose house is it?”
“Mrs. Former’s, but she doesn’t have any say, poor old pet. Clara is the managing sort. And I must say she’s too efficient for words, and as for hard work, my day is a life of ease compared to Clara’s!”
“Whose money is it?”
“Mrs. Former’s. Clara has a bit, but it’s being saved for Desmond. But, mind you, when you say money, we hardly ever spend any. Clara sees to that. Poor old Mrs. Former isn’t even allowed to use her clothing coupons.” Nicholas’ fingers moved delicately up Mr. Jones’ back. The dog shuddered with pleasure.
“What’s happening to Clara during the picnic?”
“Feeding Desmond.” Judy scratched some fallen pine needles with her toe. “Did you ever hear that eating an awful lot was a sign of being a lunatic?”
Nicholas stared at her.
“Yes, but Clara doesn’t sound like that.”
“Not her. Desmond. That’s what’s at the back of all this meanness about food. It’s hateful really, nobody ever gets their full ration of anything, or wouldn’t if Miss Rose wasn’t a wonderful pilferer.” She hesitated, obviously considering whether she would say something.
Nicholas smiled up at her.
“Out with it.”
“Well, one day I was passing the kitchen while Desmond was having his lunch. It was frightening. Shovel, shovel. I didn’t know a child of eight could eat so much, and as his plate emptied Clara piled on some more.”
“How peculiar is the kid?”
“Oddly enough, although I’ve been in the house over a week, I’ve only spoken to him once, that morning after I arrived. I must say I thought him very strange indeed.”
Nicholas’ fingers paused at their stroking.
“How ghastly for the wretched Clara.”
Judy sat down by him.
“Awful. It makes me feel such a cad for not liking her.”
“But you can’t?”
Judy picked up a few pine needles and sprinkled them on Mr. Jones’ back.
“No. I believe if I was the sort of person who could be frightened, she’d frighten me. I don’t know why. But there’s something about her.”
Nicholas carefully picked the pine needles off Mr. Jones.
“If I ate nothing but potted meat sandwiches couldn’t I come to the picnic?”
Judy was suddenly conscious of the sunlight through the trees, the smell of bracken, the gay little cries of birds, and the fluttering of the leaves on the tree-tops as a breeze went by. Nicholas had been right when he had said the country round about was lovely. She had been right to come to a factory. How she was liking it! How gay she felt! How gorgeous this Sunday morning was being! It must be the joy of a day outside and the quietness after a week of unending noise.
“I don’t see why not. Mrs. Former and Miss Rose have gone to church. Miss Rose has the picnic-basket, it’s being left in charge of the verger. It’s from him that she’s bought the chicken and his wife cooked it, we didn’t dare have it up at the house. There’s a meadow below the church. We’re meeting there.”
“Aren’t you afraid of Clara taking a walk and spotting you?”
Judy got up laughing.
“Terribly. But subjugated people get so tough, you wouldn’t believe. Come on, it’s time we were moving.”
They heard the picnic-party before they saw them. Miss Rose was singing:
“Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me,
When shall my labours have an end?
Thy joys when shall . . .”
She broke off and raised her voice. “There, Mother dear, isn’t that a lovely bird and so beautifully cooked. I don’t know when I last had a real good eat of chicken.”
The meadow was soft underfoot. Judy and Nicholas made no noise as they walked along. Judy picked up Mr. Jones and drew Nicholas off the path.
“They’re behind that tree. Let’s creep up quietly. I want you to see them as they are and not with their party manners. They really are ducks.”
With her back to the tree-trunk Mrs. Former was sitting on a camp-stool. She was wearing her better black summer dress and an old lady’s hat of black straw with a mauve velvet bow. On her knee lay her hymn and prayer book and her gloves. Miss Rose was on her knees laying out a handful of dock leaves into a square.
“There, that looks nice, doesn’t it? I wish I could have brought a table-cloth, but I didn’t dare, it might have made Clara wonder. You hardly need a cloth for sandwiches. Let alone she thinks we’re having them in the churchyard.” She looked up at her mother. “I’m glad it’s such a lovely day for little Judy. We don’t want her getting pale in that factory.”
Mrs. Former leaned towards Rose.
“Can you see the clock, dear? I think Judy’s late. I hope she has found her way.”
Judy could not bear that, she came forward from behind the tree. She laid a hand on Mrs. Former’s shoulder.
“Here I am.” She put Mr. Jones on the ground and crouched by Miss Rose. “I’ve brought a visitor, I hope you don’t mind.”
Nicholas came forward.
“But he only wants potted meat sandwiches.”
Judy introduced him, he sat down by Mrs. Former’s stool. “I’ve been making friends with Mr. Jones. I hope you are going to spare him a little bit of chicken.”
Mrs. Former was clearly delighted.
“You are fond of dogs, Mr. Parsons? How very nice. My granddaughter-in-law thinks that perhaps we should not allow ourselves the pleasure of a dog in wartime, an extra mouth, you know, but Mr. Jones has never been at all a gross feeder, even when he could have everything of the best, which, of course, he did when my husband was alive because he was a vet, you know.”
“I do hope,” Miss Rose broke in, “that Judy has warned you, Mr. Parsons, that you’ll have to eat with your fingers. We left home meaning to lunch on sandwiches, the chicken has been a great surprise.”
Nicholas gave her one of his best smiles.
“I understand the situation perfectly, but the sandwiches will do for me, I came on that understanding.”
“Nonsense!” Miss Rose eyed the chicken thoughtfully. “I have brought a sharp kitchen knife and this fork to carve it, but as you’re here perhaps you would do it. Gentlemen are so much cleverer at these things. My father would never let Mother or me touch a joint, and as for a ham – he would hardly let us near it!”
Mrs. Former patted Nicholas on the shoulder.
“Yes, you carve. My husband was a beautiful carver.”
Nicholas crawled round the dock-leaf table-cloth and took the knife and fork from Miss Rose.
“Do you know, this picnic is one of the nicest things that’s happened to me since I came to Pinfold. We mustn’t let Judy think it’s often like this, must we?”
Judy looked across the meadow which was shimmering with heat. Below them was a stream singing along, a blue thread between reeds and meadow-sweet. Behind them amongst the trees was the square tower of the church. Overhead, singing its heart out, was a lark, and under the tree a queer, ill-assorted little party gently happy.
“It couldn’t often be like this.” Judy felt she had spoken with more warmth than the occasion seemed to excuse. She explained herself. “I mean, it’s not often such a divine day.”
Nicholas passed Mrs. Former some chicken on a dock leaf.
“Make very good plates these dock leaves do. My mother would approve of them. Amongst other things she’s a pillar of the Women’s Institute. Nobody living can have thought out more ways of using things for other purposes than that for which they were designed than my mother.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” said Miss Rose. “I do like to see people being clever with their fingers. Does she make pretty things with fir cones and that?”
Nicholas and Judy did not dare look at each other for fear they would smile and their smiles be misinterpreted. It was perfectly true that Miss Rose amused them, but they were not laughing at her, but loving her for the simple, unaffected creature that she was.
They finished the chicken down to the last fragment, Mr. Jones having his fair share, when Mrs. Former leant forward and looked pleadingly at Nicholas.
“I do hope you will forgive me, Mr. Parsons. I know gentlemen don’t like being asked questions after a meal, but there is a little business point, at least I think it’s business, on which I would be so glad of your advice. Is there any way in which a small sum of money could be regularly taken from my bank account and sent through the post without my visiting the bank or writing a cheque?”
Nicholas gave himself and Judy a cigarette before he answered.
“From that question you think somebody is taking money from you?”
Mrs. Former gazed at him with the face of a shocked child.
“Oh, dear, no! Who would dream of robbing me? Everybody’s always so kind. No, it’s an old friend. During my husband’s lifetime I always sent her little sums to help her along and he quite agreed that I should. But Clara says now, that with death-duties, I can’t afford a single extravagance, and I dare say that’s true, but, you see, I must help my friend, she relies on it.”
Nicholas moved closer to the old lady so that he did not need to shout.
“But what does your bank manager say? Is he worrying about the overdraft or anything?”
Mrs. Former shook her head.
“I never see him. I should never dare. My husband always said I was silly about business, and I’m sure he was perfectly right. He left everything in the hands of Mr. John, our lawyer, and I’m mercifully well provided for.”
Miss Rose broke in.
“Clara, my niece by marriage, you know, is such a wonderful manager that we leave everything to her. Mother and I are rather stupid about money and it makes Clara cross. You can’t blame her. I expect you’ll think this very silly, Mr. Parsons, but Mother and I are a little afraid of Clara so we do things behind her back. It’s naughty of us, I know, for she is so clever and so good to us, but when she’s angry with Mother, it makes Mother all of a shake.”
Mrs. Former flushed.
“I’m such a silly old woman, and very easily upset since my husband was taken. I haven’t many years to live, Mr. Parsons, and I would like to live them peacefully. If you know of any way by which I might get this money to my friend I should be so grateful.”
Nicholas frowned. He scratched a little hole in the field.
“You can quite easily send money to your friend by a banker’s order. Once that’s fixed up it’s a sum regularly deducted from your account, and it will go on being deducted until you say stop. But if you don’t mind my saying so, however clever your granddaughter may be, you don’t want her to dominate you. Your husband left you provided for so that you should enjoy yourself.”
Mrs. Former looked at Miss Rose as if for encouragement. Miss Rose struggled for words.
“We sound foolish, I know, but I’m afraid we must admit that Clara being so modern and so clever frightens us a little. We should not enjoy ourselves if Clara was angry with us.”
A cloud passed across the sun and threw a shadow over the picnic-party. Judy gave a shiver. Nicholas turned to look at her as if sensing that something was wrong. She got up and straightened her frock.
“Time I moved, a goose has walked over my grave. Come on, Nick, let’s take the chicken carcase to somebody’s dustbin.”
It’s extraordinary, in the middle of a war where the entire nation has become dustbin-minded, how difficult it is to find a secluded dustbin. Nicholas almost gave up the search.
“I feel this must be rather like trying to bury a body. There can’t be any harm in putting the chicken into a dustbin, can there?”
Judy had the carcase wrapped in dock leaves.
“Not to you, but if you were a subjugated race you would get cautious. The very last thing we want is someone saying brightly to Clara, ‘Fancy now, that young lady that’s billeted with you left a chicken carcase in my dustbin’.” She caught at Nicholas’ sleeve. “Look! What do I see outside that door up that turning?”
“And very nice too. As pretty a dustbin as ever I set eyes on, and a good thing too as we’re nearly home.” Trying to look casual they sauntered up the turning. Nicholas looked at the surrounding windows. There was not a face about. He took off the dustbin lid.
“And a very nicely kept dustbin. I think it’s meant for pig food, but our chicken will probably be isolated by the thrifty owner and put in its proper place.”
Judy pulled the dock leaves off the carcase.
“In you go and let’s hope there are no finger-prints.” She felt a pull at her skirt. Turning, she saw Desmond. His eyes were glued to the chicken carcase.
“My mum would boil that for soup.”
Judy looked at him without affection.
“Not this one, she wouldn’t. It’s been left by gipsies and won’t be very nice. It’s going in this dustbin. What are you doing? Having a walk?”
Desmond’s eyes turned to Nicholas.
“Great-grandad was put in a hole in the ground.” Nicholas signalled to Judy to put the lid back on the dustbin. He took Desmond by the hand.
“I shouldn’t worry about that, old man. I dare say your mother’s told you about Paradise, hasn’t she?” Desmond turned his face to the sky.
“Lightning came down once. It was thrown by God and burnt up a tree at Mr. Morris’ farm.”
Judy took Desmond’s other hand.
“This is Mr. Parsons, Desmond. He asked you a question. He said, did your mother tell you about Paradise?”
Desmond, finding himself supported on each side, tried to swing.
“When I swing I’m like a bird, I can fly right away.” Judy winked at Nicholas.
“I think that’s a grand idea. Let’s see how fast he can run, shall we?”
But Desmond was apparently enjoying himself. He clung firmly to them both.
“I’m going to show you something.”
Nicholas looked down at him.
“Where?”
“I got something secret what nobody doesn’t know.”
Judy nodded at Nicholas.
“You see.”
He nodded back at her.
“Let’s see what the young man’s secret is. I feel this is my day in getting to know the family. I’m coming up to the house. I want to meet Desmond’s mother.”
Desmond could apparently hear a conversation even if he could not join in one. He snatched his hands from them.
“I’m going to play. Nobody can’t stop me.”
They had reached the corner of the lane. Desmond skipped off singing to himself. In silence Judy and Nicholas watched him until he was out of sight, then Judy looked at Nicholas.
“What do you think?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I certainly shouldn’t call him like other children. I think he’s what used to be called a changeling. Do you suppose he’ll tell his mother about the chicken?”
Judy laughed.
“I’m so glad you asked that. Shows you’re getting the point of view of the subjugated people. Are you really coming to meet Clara?”
“I certainly am. The more I hear about Mrs. Roal the more she intrigues me.”
Clara was on the lawn sewing. Even at so peaceful a task she looked alert and purposeful. She had chosen a hard green chair on which to sit, and even then did not relax. She sat upright, her fingers flying, her face intent. She raised her head as Judy and Nicholas came towards her. Judy introduced Nicholas.
“We made friends on the train coming down here,” she explained. “He’s in my factory. He’s on experimental work.”
Clara shook hands and told Nicholas where to find some deck-chairs. Nicholas fetched them and turned his to face Clara.
“I crashed in on your grandmother’s picnic.” Clara went on sewing.
“I’m sorry, I wish I’d known, I’d have cut some more sandwiches.”
“It was all right,” said Nicholas cheerfully. “We managed splendidly.”
Clara glanced at Judy.
“Where’re Grandmother and Aunt Rose?”
“Coming, I expect. Nick and I went for a little walk and we met Desmond.”
Clara’s hands paused at their sewing.
“Oh! What was he doing?”
Nicholas noted the pause and, though it did not show in his voice, there was sympathy in his eyes.
“Running around on his own business. I remember myself at that age, don’t you? What terrifically important things one had to do. Does he go to school, Mrs. Roal?”
Clara obviously did not like discussing Desmond.
“No. He’s an unusually highly strung child, brilliant in some things, backward in others. I think he’s better educated alone.” She laid down her work a moment and her voice took on a note of friendliness. “As you’re a friend of Judy’s, will you persuade her for me to get a new billet? This is rather a sad house, my grandfather died quite recently and I lost my husband in an air raid, it’s not the place for a young girl.”
Judy broke in.
“But I don’t want to move, thank you very much. I’m happy here. Nick thinks your grandmother and Miss Rose are pets.”
Again Clara’s fingers hesitated at their work. Her voice was harder.
“But you do see what I mean, Mr. Parsons?”
Nicholas glanced at Judy. She made a face at him.
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know Judy well enough to interfere with her arrangements. This is a perfectly charming old house, and Mrs. and Miss Former seem very fond of her.”
Clara sewed on steadily. When she spoke again it was in an entirely different tone.
“And how’s she doing at the factory? It’s curious work, I should think, after nursing.” She did not wait for an answer but turned to Judy. “What kind of nursing did you do?”
Judy leant back in her chair and put her hands behind her head.
“Well, I started first helping in the holidays; we had evacuated children, nearly all with impetigo. I did chores. Nobody knows what chores can be until they’ve worked under what used to be the matron of a work-house. Later on, when I’d left school, I was promoted. I worked in the wards, we had quite a lot of real nursing to do there, pneumonia and broken limbs, you know what children are.”
Clara was plainly interested.
“What exactly did you do? Just washed the patients, I suppose.”
Judy sighed at her memories.
“There was absolutely nothing that I didn’t wash, and, of course, I had some boiling to do too, all the instruments and syringes and things.”
Clara gave Judy another interested glance.
“Did you give any actual treatment?”
“Oh, yes, I was doing almost everything at one time. Nurses are scarce, you know, and we had epidemics. Thank goodness I didn’t kill anybody.”
Nicholas laughed.
“That’s a comfort. I was wondering whether we were going to unearth the fact that you’d come to work in the factory because of the slaughter you’d committed by giving the kids the wrong medicine.”
Judy turned to him, her eyes twinkling.
“It’s all very well for you to laugh, you’d be surprised what a flap I used to be in. Always thought I should put the temperature down wrong or give a solid meal to a light diet, or inject the wrong thing.”
Clara had stopped sewing.
“Do you mean to say they trusted you with injections?”
“Well, some of the routine ones were simple to give. I was only joking when I said I could have given the wrong ones. I was heavily supervised, believe me. The girls on my group at the factory say things about our forewoman, they think she’s strict, but nobody knows the meaning of the word strict who hasn’t met my matron.”
Nicholas had taken out his cigarette-case. He held it out casually to Clara, then paused. Clara had raised her head and was gazing at Judy, who, quite unconscious that she was being looked at, was staring at the sky. There was something he could not understand in Clara’s expression, something he did not like. He leant towards her.
“Won’t you have a cigarette?”
Mrs. Former and Miss Rose were flustered but pleased to see Nicholas on their lawn. Mr. Jones greeted him as an old friend.
“Well, isn’t this nice!” said Mrs. Former in a fluttery voice. “Have you told Clara that we met?”
Nicholas had got out of his chair. He gently put Mrs. Former into it. He spoke clearly in her ear.
“I told her you kindly shared your picnic with me and that we managed splendidly.”
“I do hope,” Miss Rose broke in, “that you’ll stay to tea, we could manage that, couldn’t we, Clara?”
Clara got up.
“I’ll go and put on the kettle. There isn’t much, but if Mr. Parsons is not very hungry we can manage.” She was turning to go when she saw Desmond coming in at the gate. She raised her voice. “Not out here, Desmond, in the kitchen. Mummy’s just coming.”
Desmond obviously paid no more attention to what his mother had to say than to other people. He came purposefully across the lawn, one hand behind his back. Clara moved towards him. As soon as he was within earshot Desmond raised his voice.
“Chicken soup, chicken soup.”
Miss Rose, Judy and Nicholas exchanged furtive glances. Mrs. Former smiled vaguely.
“What’s the child saying?”
Clara had hold of Desmond. She drew his hand from behind his back and took out of it the chicken carcase.
“That’s dirty, Desmond, you shouldn’t pick up old bones.”
Desmond’s face grew red. He was clearly annoyed at losing his carcase.
“She put it away in a tin. Like they put great-grandfather in the churchyard.”
Judy felt it was time to intervene.
“Desmond found us putting it into a dustbin. We’d – that is, Nicholas and I – had found it on the road. Gipsies, I expect. We thought it ought to be salvaged.”
Mrs. Former never could catch conversation that was not directed towards herself. She nodded at Miss Rose.
“Explain it was a present, dear.”
Nicholas came over to Clara. He roared so that Mrs. Former would hear.
“That’s why we said we managed marvellously. One should always bring gifts to a picnic, you know.”
Clara turned in an annoyed way to Miss Rose.
“Why all this mystery? And how very wasteful to throw away the carcase. What a mercy the child had the sense to bring it home for soup. I’ll put it on to boil now. You must all have been rather hungry to eat an entire bird. It would have been nice, if you could have saved a little, chicken is good for the child. Come along, Desmond.”
Tea over, Nicholas and Judy decided to go to church. Judy put on a light coat and a hat and they strolled off.
“It’s a very good thing,” said Judy, “that I’m taking you to church. You’ve got a great deal on your conscience. Your gift to the picnic indeed!”
Nicholas did not answer that one. He walked along in silence till they came to the public road.
“I’m quite willing to agree that Mrs. Former and Miss Rose are dears, and I know you’re not the sort to be pushed out of a billet to suit somebody else’s convenience, all the same, I wish you’d get out of that house.”
Judy stopped to have a look at some nuts to see if they were ripening.
“Well, I won’t. I’m not a fool, I can see she wants to get rid of me, but she’s not going to. I’ve a feeling that I’m a sort of protection to the old lady and Miss Rose, that if I wasn’t there she really might starve them.”
Nicholas’ face was serious.
“I can’t think what it is, but there’s something I don’t like. It’s not just being mean, lots of people are that, there’s something more to it. You know, she had some purpose in asking you all those questions about nursing.”
“Nonsense, you’re getting imaginative. Why on earth should that interest her?”
“I don’t know, but it did. You were looking at the sky, but I was looking at her and she had the queerest expression.”
“What sort?”
“Wish I knew, something I couldn’t place, but something I didn’t like.”
Judy kicked at a stone that lay in her path.
“All right then, let’s admit it. There’s something about Clara Roal that neither of us like, but let’s admit at the same time there’s something about Judy Rest which is not easily frightened, and there’s certainly something about Judy Rest which is not going to allow her to be frightened out of a house while two defenceless old women live in it. Now, let’s drop the subject and let’s hope we have one of those hymns about angel guards, for after this conversation I feel I need one.”