It should have been a simple enough route down to Merton from Portman Square—straight through Chelsea and over the bridge, and then on down through Battersea—but there were delays, so Clive had taken another route via the King’s Road. Before they knew it they were crossing Wandsworth Bridge Road, when their Austin Eighteen hit some debris and got a flat tyre.
Eleanor had been too distracted by thoughts of Jack to notice as the roads became less familiar and Clive’s directions more vague, and she felt just as unable to concentrate and reassure him now.
‘Please stop apologising, Clive. These things happen.’
‘My eyesight isn’t what it was, Miss Roy. I am so sorry.’
Clive had tried his hardest to change the tyre, but the weight of the axle was too much for him, and they’d ended up in a garage beneath the railway arches in Wandsworth.
Eleanor held a cotton handkerchief across her mouth as she coughed. The air in the garage was so thick with oil and grease that it had made her quite giddy when she first walked in, and although she’d become accustomed to it, it was still tickling her throat. Despite the discomfort, she thought this would be an ideal place to be stranded in a raid: the beauty of it being a basement within a basement, with the pits the mechanics used to mend cars providing shelter for anyone who sought safety there.
‘It is absolutely fine, Clive, and your worrying is not going to help.’ She did wish he would stop talking so she could work out how they could make up the lost time.
‘I know, Miss Roy, but you’ve got to get to Merton, and what about Mr Steadman?’
‘Don’t you worry about Mr Steadman. You just leave him to me.’
It was proving to be a bit of a struggle balancing the demands of the WAAC with Steadman’s work, and even though she was happy to work longer and harder than she ever had before, she still couldn’t afford to lose an afternoon sitting in a garage.
The mechanic brewed a large pot of tea, and she spent the next few minutes talking with Clive before she noticed they weren’t alone. On the other side of the garage, away from the hulks of the broken cars and vans that floated above the concrete floor, and undetected beneath the drill and screech of the tools, was a group of children. She heard their voices and went to investigate. Eleven lost souls were perched on their suitcases, pale and yawning.
‘Hello,’ she said, stepping over the metal tools and disused parts.
Then she noticed that a woman was with them, who looked up and closed her book. ‘Are you with the bus company?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m not. I’m with…Not to worry, it’s complicated.’ Eleanor had given up explaining to people that she worked for both the Ministry of Food and the Ministry of Information, and it seemed much simpler to mention just one or neither. Besides, the woman already looked quite overwhelmed. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ The woman sighed. ‘We were on a bus to our orphanage in Richmond when it broke down. Now we’ve got to wait for a replacement.’
‘Oh, I do hope it won’t be too long,’ Eleanor said, instantly worried on their behalf.
‘Sorry, who did you say you were?’
‘My name’s Eleanor, Eleanor Roy. We’ve also broken down.’
She offered her hand, and the woman shook it. She was about thirty with alert brown eyes, and chestnut hair that skimmed the collar of her navy coat, and she spoke with a south country accent. ‘Miss Short. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘It’s a real pity,’ Miss Short continued. ‘The children were tired anyway and we’ve been here for more than an hour. They really are getting very hungry.’
Eleanor glanced over to the children again. They were so young, barely more than seven or eight, and they looked exhausted.
‘Is there a shop nearby?’ she asked. ‘I could go and look, if you like.’
‘We’ve been told to stay put. The replacement bus could be here any moment.’
The woman certainly seemed very tense. Eleanor could imagine how stressful it must be to be stranded here with the infants and no way of knowing how long the bus would be.
‘Well, aren’t you a little poppet,’ Eleanor said to a small blonde girl sucking her thumb.
‘Don’t expect her to talk,’ Miss Short said lightly. ‘Her name’s Mary-Ann but she never takes her thumb out.’
Another girl yawned, then two boys at the back, leaning against the mechanics’ bench, began to squabble. Eleanor was hardly surprised that they were getting fidgety with nothing to do. ‘I’ve got some paper and pencils in my bag,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course not,’ said Miss Short. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be able to get them to draw, though.’
Eleanor took out the drawing materials and garden magazines that she was taking to show the artists in Merton, and she held up a magazine in front of the children. ‘Have any of you ever seen a garden like this?’
There were a few shakes of the head. One boy wasn’t even looking, too busy examining the end of his finger, the contents of which he had just retrieved from his nostril.
‘What about planting seeds or helping to water the plants—have any of you ever done that?’ She was choosing her words carefully so that she didn’t mention the word ‘home’.
A couple of nods and yawns, as mostly blank faces looked back at her.
She turned the page to show a picnic scene and there was a little more interest, a couple of heads bobbing up to take a better look.
‘If I give you a pencil and some paper, do you think you could draw me a picture?’ she said to the nearest child. ‘Perhaps somewhere you might like to have a picnic, and the things that you would like to eat.’
She could see that some of them were thinking, eyes darting around rather than just staring vacantly. A few moments passed, the only sound the clank of metal behind them as the mechanics carried on their work, while the reek of oil and grime was overpowering.
‘Tell you what, I’ll go first.’ She laid down her coat and sat on the floor next to them.
As she started to sketch, the children truly took notice. This gave her the idea of drawing something else—she started on an outline of Mary-Ann’s face. The child was sitting just close enough for Eleanor to see her long eyelashes flicker against her cheek.
Eleanor’s sketch was simple, just a charcoal portrait, but it caught their attention and they drew closer as she started on a second work.
‘Can I have a go?’ one of them asked.
With all the children now taking an interest, Eleanor fetched a nature magazine from her bag and some more pencils, just enough to go around. They produced images of bees and flowers, and she took it in turns to praise their efforts and give them some hints, pleased when they became absorbed.
A small boy, who told her his name was Isaac, drew a picture of a woman. Her face was oversized, and the lines of her body were thick and heavy, but he captured real warmth in her eyes.
‘That’s lovely,’ Eleanor commented.
‘It’s my ma,’ he said, proudly holding it up.
Eleanor’s heart ached. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She was beautiful.’
His response was so matter-of-fact that it surprised her, but then she remembered that this was how it was now. The war had affected all of them, and their friends and families—it had become part of their everyday lives.
‘And you are a very clever and brave young man,’ she told him.
Another boy, who had been quietly watching, approached her. ‘Can I have a go?’
‘I’m not sure there’s enough time now,’ Eleanor said, noticing that Clive was waving at her from the other side of the garage. ‘Our car is ready now, so we have to go.’
The boy looked disappointed.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Billy.’
‘Well, Billy, I could come and visit you another day,’ she said without even thinking. ‘What would you like to paint?’
‘My dad’s motorcycle—he’d only just bought it. It was a real beauty.’
‘In that case, I shall bring my best paints so that you can find exactly the right colour.’
She heard Clive honk the Austin’s horn, so she gathered the rest of her materials and said goodbye to the children.
Miss Short walked over with her. ‘Will you really be able to pay us a visit?’
‘I hope so. Would the orphanage allow it?’
‘Yes, of course. The children would love to see you again. That impromptu art class did them the world of good.’
The unexpected encounter had been a tonic for her as well. She had stopped worrying about her deadlines, or that she would ever get to paint as a war artist, and she’d realised that she just needed to stop thinking about Jack leaving and enjoy his company. Compared with the uncertain fate of these poor children, there wasn’t any real problem at all.
Eleanor handed Miss Short a slip of paper. ‘Can you please write your address and phone number? Perhaps if I call first, make sure it’s a good time…’
Miss Short scribbled on the paper and handed it back. ‘No need to call—any time will be a good time.’ She smiled. ‘We’ll see you soon then.’
‘Yes…hopefully.’